Long Flight Home

by Lainie Anderson

  He was a young Catholic priest from the Queensland bush, and had served with the boys in Gallipoli. During the evacuation in December 1915, the last soldiers were ordered to wear socks and old rags on their feet so the Turks wouldn’t hear them leaving. The padre told the men their fallen mates wouldn’t hear them leaving either, and could sleep on in peace. It helped a lot of blokes to cope, that did.

  By October 1916 I was serving with the 1st Double Squadron near the Suez Canal. Us Double Squadron blokes had been deemed ‘surplus to requirements’ in the main Light Horse units, and had the job of guarding the canal while most of the Anzac Mounted Division pushed east to drive the Turks out of Palestine. Most of the Australian force was long gone from Egypt to the Western Front, after a brief stint recuperating from Gallipoli. Poor bastards.

  Our camp had been hit by yet another blinding Sinai sandstorm earlier that day and the lads were restless and resentful after rebuilding their tents and retrieving a mob of horses that had taken flight with the dust.

  As the padre’s orange silhouette grew faint in the distance, a soothing calm descended, like it always did in his wake.

  I’d been out with my mate Westy in the lorry all day, collecting supplies from Kantara, and it was well after dark when we finished the final run and were making our way to the mess tent.

  ‘Y-Y-Y-You religious, Wal?’ asked Westy. I could tell he was weary from a day at the wheel. Westy was a driver like me, and only ever stammered when he was tired. He’d been an apprentice tram driver back in Melbourne. Loved a chat. Loved his tucker. Loved the Saints footy team. I liked him a lot.

  ‘Me, religious? Not right now, I’m not—I’m starving. Bet we’ve missed out on chops.’

  I was right, too. A tin of bully beef and a lump of bread was the only food in the offing.

  ‘Never been religious, really,’ I said, taking a seat at an empty table. ‘Mum was Irish Catholic but Dad wanted us kids raised C of E. Neither of them had much heart for it, though.’

  I didn’t mention my brother Bill. Didn’t trust myself to talk about it to anyone yet—about how he’d died in a shitty trench at Pozières and left a wife and four littlies. What kind of God turns a blind eye to the Somme?

  Westy pushed the corned beef around his plate, mopping up the oil with his bread and licking his lips like it was the best thing he’d ever tasted. ‘D-D-D-Dad says football is the only religion a m-m-m-man needs, especially when Saint Kilda are winning,’ he said. ‘M-M-Mum likes church though—says it’s the only time of the week she gets to sit d-d-d-down.’

  ‘S-S-S-Sounds like s-s-someone needs b-b-b-bedtime.’ The taunt came from a neighbouring table, and a few men sniggered.

  I gave Westy a look that said ‘ignore them’, but he was staring at his plate. I knew how much he hated his stutter for the weakness it implied. Cruel that a stammer could still define a bloke who’d taken out three snipers at Gallipoli.

  ‘My mum was the same,’ I said. Westy didn’t have any brothers or sisters, and he was fascinated that I’d grown up in a house with 12 kids. I launched into a yarn about the sleepy lizard us boys kept leaving around the house one summer to scare the wits out of our sisters. Then Mum got sick of the screaming and threatened to chop its head off with her meat cleaver. I told him about us sleeping four to a bed, two up and two down, and the night Bill farted 23 times under the covers before Mum got out the meat cleaver again. My voice caught when I mentioned Bill, but I forced myself to smile. He was four years older than me—my favourite from the minute I could focus.

  ‘Mum was a trooper, really,’ I said. ‘And always busy, like a top that won’t stop spinning. But you could take any friend into the house and she’d bring out the biscuit barrel and ask “How’s your ma?” and “Watcha up to now?” like she had all the time in the world.’

  Westy laughed his throaty laugh. ‘What I wouldn’t do for a b-b-b-biscuit barrel right now,’ he said, shoving the last bit of bread in his mouth. ‘G-G-God I miss jam drops.’

  ‘Cream sponge,’ I said, picturing Helena with a smudge of flour on her forehead. ‘And Mum’s raisin walnut biscuits, fresh out of the oven—heaven on a plate.’

  We walked outside, pausing briefly in the doorway to light our pipes, and wandered back to the tent in silence. I had a head full of Mum: how she always demanded your first kiss in the morning and your last kiss at night; how she called me her ‘Angel Walter’ because I came along four months after the first baby Walter died at the age of two, and I was his spitting image; how I spent the day of her funeral trying not to cry in front of the others, but still bawled when I saw her face all ghostly white in the casket. I was in my early teens then, and remember Dad putting his arm across my shoulders. It was the only time he ever did that.

  The family moorings came a bit loose when we lost Mum, but I guess that’s just how it is when you’re settling into a new kind of normal. I’d moved up to Broken Hill after that, lived with my oldest brother, Jack, and his new missus, Ellen, until they had so many nippers they couldn’t spare the room.

  Jack helped me get a foot in the door at the North Mine and later I did some schooling to become an electrician. I joined the Barrier Boys’ Brigade and won a footy premiership with them, and a swag of medals in gymnastics. Some called it progress when those cadet corps and brigades were phased out. Wouldn’t have become half the man I am without the Barrier Boys.

  Westy and I reached the tent and settled down to finish our pipes beside the dying fire, just as the other boys were turning in.

  ‘Hey Wally,’ called Bruce from inside the tent, ‘Y’hear they’re recruiting for the Australian Flying Corps? You’re always on about planes.’

  ‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘We heard that from the lads down at Kantara today. I’m thinking about putting my hand up. There’s gotta be jobs in aviation after the war.’

  ‘They’re after a different breed of man than you.’ Copping’s voice came out of the darkness; we could just make out the glow of his cigarette as he walked past our tent. ‘They want elite Light Horse recruits, not just blokes making up the numbers.’

  I started to call out after him, but what do you say to that? When you know every man within 20 feet is listening, judging? I took a deep breath and said, ‘I can but try, Sergeant. I can but try.’

  Westy looked fit to kill. ‘Does that b-b-b-bastard ever let up?’ he muttered.

  ‘Water off a duck’s back, Westy,’ I said, wiping a hand across my face to hide the embarrassment. I cursed myself for sounding so keen before I weighed up my chances.

  A voice from inside the tent said: ‘Honestly, what the bloody hell would Copping know about the Flying Corps?’

  ‘Yeah,’ piped in Westy. ‘He still thinks c-c-cars are a p-p-p-assing fad.’

  The recruiting officer scanned my AIF papers. ‘We’re not a big outfit yet, Shiers,’ he said. ‘So I’ll be frank. I’m not taking on many lower ranks today. What do you think you’d bring to the Flying Corps?

  I toyed nervously with the slouch hat in my hands. ‘I’m a bit of a jack of all trades, sir. Been doing mainly signalling and driving work just lately, but figured you might need some extra mechanics for those planes?’

  ‘I see. Any formal training?’

  ‘Formal? Ah, no, sir.’ I watched him jot something down in his note book. Black mark probably. ‘But I’ve been messing about with water pumps and engines ever since I got my first job back in Adelaide. Being mechanical is being methodical—that’s what Mr Frazer taught me in the market gardens.’

  ‘Mr Frazer was correct,’ the recruiting officer murmured, putting down his pen and taking another look at my forms. ‘I see you’ve been promoted to driver. You must know a thing or two about engines, and a number of Light Horse officers speak highly of your ability to fix just about anything that’s broken. For every man we put into the air, there’s nine men on the ground, Shiers—methodical workmen who keep our planes flying and our pilots alive. And the Barrier Boys, eh? Heard only good things. Wh
at took you to Broken Hill?’

  ‘My oldest brother was working up there on the North Mine, sir, helped me get a start. Eventually got my electrical tickets.’

  ‘Close family,’ he said, making another note in his book.

  Then he asked about other jobs I’d held down before the war. Wanted to know where I’d been to school, what sports I’d played. More notes went into his book and I felt my confidence rising. By the time he asked what I knew about aircraft, I was really quite enjoying myself. Of course, I only knew what I’d read in papers and magazines, but that was true of most blokes back then. Christ—the Wright brothers had only made the first powered flight 13 years earlier. My own brothers and I climbed onto the roof when we heard, sat staring at the sky and dreaming of flying to England. I told the recruiter bits and pieces that I knew—about hot air balloons being used to spy on the enemy in the American Civil War, about the magician Harry Houdini being one of the first men to fly in Australia, and the fact we were the only country in the British Empire to demand its own separate Flying Corps in the war.

  Eventually the recruiter held up both hands. ‘Follow me,’ he said, throwing down his pen.

  He led me outside to a dusty Triumph Model H, its rear wheel belt sagging in the dirt.

  ‘You’ve got 60 minutes to get this machine purring,’ he said. ‘Tools and spares are in that box.’ And then he turned on his heel and headed back inside his tent.

  An hour later, I was testing the engine a final time and thinking how best to clean the grease from my hands, when the recruiting officer reappeared.

  ‘Mr Frazer certainly did make you methodical, Shiers,’ he said.

  I grinned. ‘Best service she’s had in Egypt, sir,’ I said.

  ‘Only service she’s had in Egypt, Shiers,’ he said. ‘You’ll find your way around an aircraft engine in no time. When we shipped out of Melbourne in March, most of us had barely swung a propeller. We’re all learning on the job.’

  I grabbed a fistful of sand at my feet to scrub the worst of the grease from my hands. ‘Thank you, sir,’ I said. ‘Do you mind if I ask a favour? Can you show me around that two-seater?’

  ‘The old BE2?’ he asked. ‘Dog of a plane—no match for the Fokker or the Aviatik. No guts when it’s climbing. Slow in the air. Decent for reconnaissance and photography but impossible to intercept the enemy. “Fokker fodder”, they call it.’

  It was the most beautiful, perfectly formed object I’d ever seen. I ran a hand along the smooth wooden blade of the propeller, goosebumps forming on my arms, and walked slowly around the wing to the rear pilot’s cockpit and down the fuselage. It smelt of engine oil and wood and lacquer heating in the sun. It felt solid and powerful under my palm. Alive somehow. Waiting.

  ‘I read about a British general who tied his plane to a tree after landing, just like his horses,’ I said, almost to myself.

  The recruiter smiled. ‘It’s remarkable, the number of men who mention horses the first time they get up close to a plane. And it generally bears out that a man who can handle a horse seems to instinctively know how to work with an aircraft. It’s no accident that we’re recruiting cavalrymen from the Light Horse.’

  And you know, it really was like walking around a horse and feeling the urge to run your hand from its head down its back. The nose, the tail, the sheer energy of a machine that could defy gravity and propel a man into the clouds. Horse power.

  Back at camp, the blokes took one look at me and knew I’d got in.

  ‘You b-b-b-bloody b-b-b-beauty Wal,’ said Westy. They all threw their hats in the air and started clapping and hollering. Even Copping offered a begrudging nod of respect.

  The following morning, with my kit bag over my shoulder, I caught a lift to Kantara for Flying Corps training. I had the back of the lorry to myself, and it was one of those rare moments in war when a man gets a few hours alone, to think about where he’s been and where he’s going.

  After an hour on the road I suddenly panicked that I didn’t have my enlistment papers and pay book. As I frantically rifled through my bag I thought about Helena on the Sydney wharf. She’d have a good laugh if I’d lost them.

  Mrs Alford’s two knitted brown balaclavas fell out of the bag, and finally I found my papers where I left them—bundled with a little pile of Helena’s letters, tied with twine. I felt a rush of affection for both women, untied the loop knot and opened the most recent envelope.

  September 6th, 1916

  My darling Wally,

  Fruit block first! I’ve double-checked with John and he says it’s no trouble at all to keep an eye on it now that Fred’s away. He’s got a fencing mate who owes him a favour so they’re going to fence it off and get some goats in there to keep the weeds down until you’re ready to put trees in. Aren’t my brothers lovely?

  I’ve been seeing quite a bit of John of late—we’re working together on the Conscription Committee. I’m not liking our chances of a ‘Yes’ vote, I’m sorry to say. Can you believe they’re calling it the ‘Blood Vote’ now? I had a half hour ‘debate’ with Mrs Allen in the middle of East Street the other day, she’s adamant her sons shouldn’t be forced to fight a war on the other side of the world. Missing the point somewhat, don’t you think? I just can’t fathom that people living happily and safely home here can turn their backs on those of you fighting for our freedom. I’m not going to start on that again, Wally, because it makes me too upset. We’re doing everything we can to get it passed in New South Wales at least.

  It’s so quiet here now with Fred gone—I miss his Flight magazines strewn about the place and the smell of his cigarettes on the front verandah. It’s quite maudlin some days really, but we do our best to keep busy and our spirits high. Fred would be in France by now—we’re hoping for a letter any day to hear he’s safe and settling in as well as can be expected. The stories from the Somme are frightful aren’t they? Those poor men. We’re worried sick that’s where Fred will end up. Mother’s got fingers of fury knitting balaclavas and socks to keep you both warm over the northern winter. I keep reminding her that you’re in a desert and you’ve only got one head—but she insisted I post another balaclava anyway. You know you can just share them with the other boys. She’d love that, bless her.

  We saw dear young Alec Smart yesterday, the butcher’s son. Poor fellow had half his leg and right hand blown off at Gallipoli. He sat there in a corner of the shop, staring into space while his father told us how lucky he was. He didn’t look lucky—he looked lost. Mother came straight home to bake him a sponge to cheer him up. If only it were so easy. Promise me you’ll try to stay out of harm’s way, Wally. And I don’t mean to sound melancholy. It’s just such a shock sometimes, seeing these boys who went away so full of adventure, now back home and so broken.

  Mother and I are forever thinking up ways to raise money for the Red Cross. The oven seems to be on night and day for trading tables, and Mother’s always out back scolding the chickens for not laying fast enough. I don’t tell her how frustrated I feel sometimes, with everyone over there in the thick of it and me home here baking cakes and selling patriotic buttons to ‘do my bit’. But you know I raised 20 pounds last week, just selling the latest patriotic buttons door to door. It’s quite the craze to collect them. Who’d have thought something as insignificant as a button could help the war effort? Go little buttons!

  Well I best run to catch the post before the YMCA meeting. We’re planning a picnic down by First Beach to raise funds for the families who’ve lost loved ones.

  Love you I do,

  Helena

  P.S. I forgot to mention the swallows nesting in the creeping rose out by the back door. Three chicks have finally hatched—they’re ever so cute, but noisy! If I stand on a chair I can see their little upturned faces squawking for their mother, but the adult birds get so frantic I daren’t do it too often.

  Stay safe, my darling.

  I sat for a good long while staring out the back of the lorry, watching the dust ri
sing in its wake to a rich blue sky.

  Helena hadn’t known about my brother Bill’s death when she wrote that letter. It sometimes took six weeks for post to get from her to me, so our news was always overlapping at sea.

  Bill in a grave. If he even had a grave. I wondered about my other brothers at the Front, Dick and Arthur and Alfred, and if they were still alive. And now Freddy Houdini was over there too. They’d all been condemned to serve in France and here I was, on my way to a new job, waving back to cheeky kids splashing around in irrigation channels.

  Don’t think I didn’t know how lucky I was. Made me crook in the guts sometimes.

  I wondered if Mum was watching over us all and whether Bill was with her now. And I thought about that time she was tucking us boys into bed, and I’d asked her why we didn’t go to church on Sunday like all the other families.

  ‘A good soul doesn’t need a church pew to prove it,’ she’d said dismissively, avoiding my eye. But just as she was about to close the door behind her, she came back in and sat on the side of the bed.

  ‘Listen to me, boys,’ she said, reaching out to touch my cheek and looking one by one at me and Bill and Alfred and Arthur, with the quilt tight against our chins. ‘All my life I’ve had people telling me to believe in God. I’ve always thought it was more important to make sure God believes in me.’

  Chapter 5

  EGYPT, 1917

  I scooped a mouthful of beans, self-consciously wiping the sauce from my chin, and took another look around the mess tent.

  ‘I can’t believe this isn’t the officer’s mess,’ I said, nodding at the two blokes playing cards in the small lounge area to the side. I could smell meat roasting, bread baking.

  ‘Yeah,’ said Ando, a chatty aircraft rigger who was showing me around. ‘The ranks all chip in for a decent mess. It’s a Flying Corps thing. Our tent’s almost as good as the officers’. Except for the quality of the booze.’