Long Flight Home

by Lainie Anderson

  Chapter 6

  PALESTINE, 1917

  It was barely light when I reached the beach. I closed my eyes, hoping the salty sea air would take me back to the white sands of Adelaide. But a gull cried overhead, and gulls don’t sound the same north of the equator. They sound exotic, sort of mournful. Australian gulls squawk. And I had a pang of homesickness for squawking gulls, and my big brother Jack, and the smell of gum trees, and Helena, and her mum’s house clean as a whistle, and everything about life before the war.

  It was a relief to find the beach deserted. I’d barely slept—tossed and turned for hours until one of the other blokes in the tent finally told me to piss off out of there and let him get some rest before sun-up. So I pulled on my shorts and shoved the letters in my pocket, praying the news would be different when I read them again.

  It was July 1917 and we’d advanced into Palestine. We’d set up near a town called Deir el Belah, knocking together an ingenious little aerodrome, with the tents and hangars mostly camouflaged from the air by trees and bushes. The city of Gaza was just a few miles up the coast, and the town of Beersheba was 30 miles inland. Both were fortified by the Turks and their main defensive line ran between the two. Our pilots were charged with taking aerial photos of the entire 30-mile Ottoman line so detailed maps could be drawn up ahead of a planned British ground offensive. Bastard Hun pilots were charged with stopping the recco missions of course, and their planes were still superior to ours. A number of our boys had been shot down and killed. Weighed heavily on all of us.

  I walked down to the water’s edge and gave my face a splash. Felt good. Then I retreated a little way up the beach and took a seat in the sand, pulling out the envelopes and holding them side by side: Fred’s scratchy fist beside Helena’s beautiful flowing script.

  Fred first, I decided. Poor old Freddy Houdini. What a mess. He had gonorrhoea: the dreaded red plague. A month and a half in hospital with daily washouts up his old fella, then straight back into the trenches.

  I stared out at the blue of the Mediterranean. Here I was on a quiet beach, out of harm’s way, enjoying the war most days, if I was honest—especially now I was working on aircraft engines and in the thick of it at the aerodrome. The guilt nagged at me.

  I re-read Fred’s last few pitiful lines:

  … I had to tell someone, Wal. Sorry. The other blokes in the battalion can’t stand me. They reckon I’m a slacker. I didn’t choose to get trench fever or gassed. I certainly didn’t sign up for bastard VD. I shouldn’t have gone absent without leave for those few days—I know that now. Would break Mum’s heart if she found out. But everybody does it. Well, everyone with any sense. I don’t think I’m going to get through this, Wal. I can’t imagine ever getting home. I can’t tell Helena. Can’t even bring myself to write to them. Could you do it for me Wal? Say you’ve received a note and all is fine. Tell them I’m busy and paper is scarce in the trenches. Tell them I’ve seen a bit of England and the countryside is beautiful, Mum will like that. Tell them I love them. But promise you won’t say anything about the clap, Wal. It would kill Mum to know how pathetic I am. And if I don’t make it home take good care of them. Please. I’d do anything to be sitting beside the Bidgee river right now. If I try hard I can picture every gum tree at Yabby Flat. Sorry to sound so pathetic. Hope this finds you well, old mate. Think of you often, my old chum Walter Custard. Goodbye.

  I looked at the page for a long time afterwards, wondering what to do, where Fred might be now. Whether it was too late. The letter was written a month back. Anything could have happened.

  I opened Helena’s envelope, the faint smell of lavender making me smile. She’d have been smiling too, when she pressed the flowers between the folds of paper.

  May 30th 1917

  My darling Wally,

  We’ve just received your letter about finally joining the men at No. 1 Squadron. We’re so proud of you, my love, and all you’ve achieved in this dreadful war. Your work sounds wonderfully important and we’re so happy you’re safe, for the most part, in the aerodromes well behind the front line. These machines really are making a difference in the war effort, aren’t they?

  I was hoping to tell you some news of Fred but I’m afraid there’s still nothing. It’s been months now. We did finally get official confirmation that he’d had mild trench fever. Why they’d write to tell us he’d been wounded in action, with no other details, is beyond me. You can imagine we were out of our minds at the possibilities of that. I suppose mild trench fever was good news in the circumstances. Mother’s worried sick as you might expect and it’s all I can do not to fret, too. I tell her we’d hear news if things were dire. That’s true, isn’t it, Wal? If something bad happened to him we’d receive word, wouldn’t we? But there’s no point dwelling on it, as I tell Mother constantly. Especially when there’s not a thing we can do except keep up our letters to him, sending him our love and strength to stay safe.

  There’s talk of another vote on conscription. The committee is regrouping, Marg Little says there’s a meeting next week. I can’t believe anyone can vote ‘No’ when tens of thousands of you are already over there in desperate need of reinforcements. But it’s getting harder to convince people in the street when we hear so many stories of death and defeat. And many feel that our boys are simply cannon fodder too, of course. I can’t help being worried about the impact of a second vote on the town. It got very fierce last time, almost tore the district apart. Everyone knows someone who’s died. Others have sons or brothers or friends who’ve spent three Christmases away and they can’t bear the thought of another year apart. That all makes some people feel more strongly in favour of conscription, and it has the opposite effect on others. My feeling is that we simply can’t sit on our hands and expect to win this war. Not enough men are stepping forward to do what’s right, so I can’t see a way forward to victory without conscription.

  Oh, I’m rather maudlin today, aren’t I, Wal? I’m sorry about that. I had meant to write and talk about lovely things to cheer you up over there. It’s just all so maddening. You know one of the arguments against conscription is that men are needed at home to do the work that women cannot? And that’s despite what we’ve seen in England. I even read that women are working in the British aircraft and ammunition factories now—they probably helped to build the planes being flown by your boys. Australian women are perfectly capable of working in offices and factories and driving farm machinery. Australian men just don’t want us to!

  I promise to stop now! Here’s something I know will make you smile. Shirley brought dear little Hazel over for a visit the other day. You probably don’t remember Hazel—she was just a tiny thing at your farewell lunch. She’s two now and quite delightful. Such a joy to Mother. I was doing some baking and she was desperate to help, but before I could pop her up on a chair she’d reached up and pulled at a half-empty bag of flour and upended it all over herself. She near raised the roof howling from the fright, but my she did look funny. Just like a little white ghost. Mother had to sit down, she was laughing so much. It was just the tonic we needed. I took Hazel outside and gave her a good shake and a wipe down under the tank tap, and she sat very quietly on Shirley’s lap after that, waiting for a biscuit to come out of the oven. Dear little thing. To think this horrible war has been going her entire lifetime.

  I’ll go now, Wally. The train’s due and I’m rostered on with Marg to rattle the Red Cross tin on the platform. Wish you could see me in my uniform. I think I look rather fine.

  Love you I do.

  P.S. Did I tell you that two of the swallow chicks survived? They’re well out of the nest now. Makes me happy when I see the family swooping around out back. Can’t wait to create our own little nest.

  A gull cried mournfully and I put my head in my hands, knowing I needed to get back.

  I stood to leave and noticed another bloke just up the beach. He was standing perfectly still at the water’s edge, his undershirt in his left hand. He was taller
than me but scrawny—looked like he needed a good steak. Sandy hair, thin on top. I’d met him briefly earlier in the year with some Light Horse boys passing through Kantara. Ross Smith was his name. He’d been a lieutenant then.

  ‘Morning, sir!’ I called out as I quickly walked past. I wasn’t supposed to be alone on the beach and I wasn’t in the mood for a reprimand.

  He turned. ‘Ah, hello there. Thought the beach was empty.’

  I nodded and smiled, kept on my way. ‘Sir.’

  ‘I know you,’ he said. I stopped, took a breath. Here we go.

  But he walked up the beach to shake my hand. ‘Shiers, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, sir. Wally Shiers. We met once at Kantara. You were with Johnno and Alf from Broken Hill.’

  ‘That’s it! When did you move across?’

  ‘Joined the squadron in March. Been on transports mainly. Finally just got remustered to fitter a few weeks back.’

  ‘Good for you. I can’t tell a spark plug from an oil filter.’

  We laughed and both looked out to sea. I wondered if he felt the same longing to dive in and keep swimming.

  ‘Beautiful, isn’t it?’ he said. ‘Almost makes you forget why we’re here.’

  I cleared my throat in agreement.

  ‘I’ll walk back with you,’ he said, pulling on his shirt. There was a tattoo of a butterfly on his upper left arm. I wondered why he had it.

  I let him lead the way along the narrow track through the scrubby dunes. Up ahead we saw four recco machines roar into the sky and head east. It was always east.

  ‘Shiers, am I right in thinking you’re a South Australian too?’ he said over his shoulder.

  ‘Yes, sir, born in Adelaide, but I worked on the North Mine in Broken Hill for a few years.’

  ‘Ah, that’s it.’

  ‘You’re from up that way too, aren’t you?’

  ‘Sort of. As a kid I grew up on Mutooroo, a big sheep station right on the border with New South Wales, not far out of Broken Hill. But I did all of my schooling down in Adelaide. My brothers and I boarded at Queen’s.’

  From the way he spoke, I’d already guessed he’d gone to a good school. He was posh, but not posh, if you know what I mean. Hint of a Scottish accent. The Broken Hill boys told me he’d started out as a regular soldier but earned a commission at Gallipoli. Born leader but not cocky, they’d said. Great bloke.

  ‘Remind me, Shiers,’ he said, stopping to turn, ‘didn’t you know someone working on the conscription campaign in Australia?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  I was surprised he remembered so much of our brief conversation back in Kantara—we couldn’t have talked for more than five minutes. But he was the type of bloke who gave you his full attention, took everything in, made you feel like there was no one else he’d rather be talking to. ‘I was just reading a letter from her actually,’ I said. ‘Looks like there’ll be another vote soon.’

  He nodded. ‘My brother Keith is working as a scrutineer for the Australian government in London—making sure the soldiers vote.’ He turned away to continue walking. ‘I hope that miserable lot back home help us out with a “Yes” vote this time,’ he said, his voice low. ‘They can’t sit on their hands and expect us to win this war.’

  ‘That’s funny, sir,’ I said. ‘My friend Helena wrote exactly those words.’

  ‘Ha!’ he said. ‘Clever girl, your friend. Pretty too?’

  I laughed. ‘Yes, sir. So you’re a pilot now?’

  ‘C’mon, Shiers, no one says “sir” around here unless they’re talking to the CO. But yes, as a matter of fact I just returned from pilot training this morning. Finally got my wings.’

  That explained why I hadn’t seen him in the workshop these past months. ‘Congratulations. What rank are you now?’

  ‘Still lieutenant. Hoping to make captain one day. And thanks, I am rather bucked,’ he said.

  We’d reached the edge of camp and he turned to shake my hand. ‘Great chatting again, Shiers. See you over at the workshops after breakfast. Say hello to that clever girl of yours.’

  He headed in the direction of the officers’ mess, but then he turned and called, ‘Have you been up for a stunt yet, Shiers?’

  I shook my head. ‘No, sir!’

  ‘We’ll go up some time!’

  I waved and jogged across to the mess for breakfast with the other mechanics. Then I wolfed down my sausage and eggs so I had time to write three very brief letters before we had to fall in and march across to work.

  The first letter was to Freddy Houdini, telling him to keep his chin up and not lose hope. I told him plenty of blokes said you hadn’t served in the AIF unless you’d spent a night in a brothel and caught the clap. I promised I’d write to Helena and that his secrets were safe with me.

  The second was to Helena, telling her that I’d heard from Fred and he was fine but exhausted like all the poor devils in France. I told her I’d met a new pilot, Lieutenant Ross Smith, who’d already made a name for himself in the Light Horse, and how amazed I was that he remembered me. I said he’d promised to take me up for a stunt. Just before I sealed the envelope I added that she was wonderful, and I couldn’t wait until the war ended.

  And finally I wrote to my younger brother Dick with the 10th Battalion in France. I told him my future brother-in-law was doing it tough and if there was any way he could make contact I’d appreciate it, being so far away as I was. I gave him Fred’s details with the 55th and hoped for the best.

  Later that morning I was grinding a couple of valves in a mobile workshop when Lieutenant Smith found me. ‘Shiers, I’m going on a quick flight to check the ailerons on No. 6775. The BE2e is hardly the most exciting aircraft, but if you’re working on these machines you really need to have the experience of flying in one. Do you have time to come along?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ I said, quickly tidying up around the lathe, putting the valves to one side and jumping off the side of the lorry. Every fitter, or ‘engine-man’, was assigned to a particular aircraft, and one of the lieutenants had flown mine to Cairo for a few days so I was less pressed than usual.

  We walked to the plane and he handed me a leather coat, helmet and goggles. ‘You’ll be surprised how cold it gets up there,’ he said. ‘Have you got a handkerchief for the oil?’

  I nodded, excitement growing now as I clumsily tried to manouevre my arms into the heavy leather. Benny was watching and came up behind me to casually lift the coat by the shoulders so my arms could slip in. He thumped me on the back and said, ‘Have fun, mate. Try not to lose your breakfast.’

  Lieutenant Smith nodded to my rigger friend Ando, who was standing by to turn the propeller. ‘Right lads, let’s go.’ He hoisted himself into the rear cockpit and I stepped up onto a wing to climb into the front observer’s seat. I’d sat in a BE2e inside a hangar before, but still felt the thrill of settling in. The observer’s cockpit was basically a lacquered timber box, less than three feet by three feet, with padded leather lining around the opening rim and a leather cushioned seat with a wicker back. There were no controls or instruments in front of me, only a couple of thin copper pipes coming out of the front timber panel and passing along the sides of the cockpit to the instrument panel in the pilot’s cockpit a few feet behind me. The upper wing of the biplane was directly above, and straight ahead was the engine with its four-blade propeller. I slipped my arms through the leather shoulder straps on the back of my seat and pulled the goggles over my leather helmet.

  ‘Contact!’ yelled Ando.

  ‘Contact!’ yelled the Lieutenant.

  The R.A.F 1A engine roared to life and I was whacked by the prop’s backdraught. And even though I’d marvelled at the deafening, grunting power of those eight cylinders a hundred times before, knowing they were about to lift me off the ground was something else. I grinned at Benny and Ando as the plane taxied forward. Lieutenant Smith gunned the engine, and we quickly picked up speed from a bouncing canter to a gallop to a smooth clip. I curled
my fingers around the sides of my seat and took a deep breath, noticing for the first time the engine oil spitting onto my goggles and face. And then, with the weirdest feeling of my stomach being sucked backwards and down, we lifted off the ground. I wiped the goggles with my handkerchief and strained forward to see the ground dropping away and our shadow bouncing across the earth. The engine eased to a droning roar and all around me the wires whistled. The fierce vibrations of the engine took a bit of getting used to, especially knowing you were sitting in little more than a wooden coffin lined with lacquered fabric. But it was smooth and fast. Faster than anything I’d been in. Faster than anything on earth.

  With the machine climbing steadily, the Lieutenant turned us west toward Egypt. We passed over a Light Horse camp with its perfect rows of white bell tents and lines of tethered Walers, low enough for me to make out Westy and a few of the other lads. To my right, the sparkling blue Mediterranean ran to the horizon, dotted with tiny fishing boats, patrol vessels and hulking transport ships. Fringing the coast was a patchwork of crops bisected by dirt roads linking tiny walled villages and larger towns, and out to the left the Sinai Desert dunes began and never ended. Everything looked so clean. So perfect. So peaceful. I wished my brothers could have seen it. It was probably the greatest gift I ever received in my life.

  When we reached 5,000 ft, the Lieutenant did a series of banks and turns and dives to test the ailerons. I could see why so many observers became pilots. The urge to take the controls and test myself against the machine grew with every sweep of my stomach. It wasn’t until we were nearly back over the aerodrome that I realised we were home.

  ‘Well, Shiers, what did you think?’ the Lieutenant shouted when we’d alighted. He’d taken off his leather helmet and his thin sandy hair was sticking out at all angles.