Long Flight Home

by Lainie Anderson

  When a single Handley Page bomber arrived from Britain, its 100-ft wingspan dwarfing every other aircraft on the Eastern Front, it was Captain Smith who flew her. He started the final campaign of the war in Palestine, General Allenby’s Battle of Armageddon, by dropping sixteen 112-pound bombs from the guts of that giant Handley Page, right onto El Afule. The Turks never recovered.

  He was fearless, yes, but never reckless. I’ve never known a man so methodical. Often we’d see him sitting in the shade with his head in some manual, or writing letters—he was always writing home to his Mater, as he called her. He had a lot to write home about. Barely a week went by when he wasn’t mentioned in despatches or awarded some new decoration.

  He was the most decent man I ever met, but he wasn’t above the thrill of killing. He joked that downing Fritz was good sport, but it was much more personal than that, especially after his brother Colin died—you could tell by the way he cursed any Hun who fled a fight in the air.

  He flew Colonel Lawrence sometimes too, the bloke who became famous later as Lawrence of Arabia. I met Colonel Lawrence a few times—was surprised to find him as short as me. Apparently he had a handshake like a wet fish, but he was clearly brave, or mad, or both. Anyway, even Colonel Lawrence admired Captain Smith—he wrote in his famous book how they were eating breakfast one morning at his desert camp, and between mouthfuls the Captain started up his plane and shot down Germans. He was always doing things like that. Made flying and fighting and killing look as easy as eating porridge. After the war, every man I met from the Flying Corps said his proudest memory was knowing Captain Smith. Got to the stage I could hardly bear the sadness of it all.

  Some people don’t believe in luck. I do. A bloke can improve his odds with hard work, but every now and then you need the dice to roll your way. In May 1918, one of the better air mechanics in the squadron was forced out of action for four weeks with a bad case of ‘eruption face’, a nasty skin rash that affected lots of blokes in the desert and forced them into hospital isolation. Joe Bull’s angry blisters coincided with the formation of a special British air detachment, called ‘X Flight, RAF’, formed to work in the desert with Colonel Lawrence and his Arabs. They were getting hammered by Hun planes at that point, so the idea was to offer air support while they advanced on key Turkish positions from out east. A couple of British officers were selected for the job and No. 1 Squadron was asked to provide the ground crew.

  Captain Smith knew Colonel Lawrence quite well by that stage, and he recommended Benny as well as me and two other lads.

  What a bloody adventure. We went as far as we could by ship up the north-eastern arm of the Red Sea, and then loaded our tools onto camels and trekked 70 miles out into the rocky desert hills near a place called Ma’an in southern Palestine. That’s where Colonel Lawrence’s mate Prince Feisal had his camp at the time. As our camel train came over a rise at sunset, we saw all the tents stretched out across the desert plain—sky and sand the colour of burnt orange and thousands of Bedouin fighters in robes and headgear all rising as one to watch as we entered camp.

  Made me glad I’d never sighted one of those angry Senussi Arabs on patrol with the Light Horse. ‘Keep to yourselves until the machines arrive in the morning, lads,’ one of the British officers had warned us. ‘Our new friends will warm to us when their aircraft arrive.’

  He was spot on. You’ve never seen anything like it when those BE12a machines landed out of the sky. Chanting, dancing, waving silver daggers, firing shotguns. They called the planes ‘Tiyaras’—apparently it meant ‘female flying things’. And they couldn’t get enough of them. We’d be trying to work, checking the spark plugs or the fuel lines and there’d be a hundred of them crowded around, furiously discussing each move we made. I never could understand a word they said, but I liked their strength, their resolve. Always watching, sizing things up.

  Anyway, it was a short-lived mission. The BE12a was designed for reconnaissance, not combat, so even I could have told the Brits they’d be of little practical use. The powers that be soon realised it made more sense to patrol the skies with No. 1 Squadron’s aggressive Bristol Fighters flying out of Ramleh. So after a month or so we packed up and headed home. The officers reckon it did the trick in impressing the Arabs, though. It helped convince them they were on the winning side.

  Did the trick for me and Benny, too—we became known as two of the squadron’s top mechanics. ‘There’s nothing you two can’t fix with a screwdriver and a shoelace,’ one of the British officers said, and he told the COs as much when we got back. So when the giant Handley Page bomber arrived from England, Captain Smith had me and Benny assigned to it.

  ‘Shiers!’ the batman yelled, struggling to be heard over the roar of a Bristol Fighter starting up nearby. When I looked down he cupped his hands over his mouth and yelled ‘Telegram!’ and waved his thumb toward the HQ tent.

  Shit. That could only be bad news. I jumped out of the lorry tray—we needed to get up high to work on the twin engines of the gigantic Handley Page—and ran across the airfield. I stretched my neck and shoulders as I went, tired and stiff from a shift that started well before sun-up. I looked up at the lightening sky, wondering how far north the Turks had been driven by now.

  The news had to be about Fred. No Shiers would pay for a telegram, no matter how bad it was. I took off my hat as I walked inside the HQ tent, and smiled my thanks as the sheet of paper was handed to me.

  It was the first telegram I’d ever received. FRED SHOT ARM LEG CHEST. ALIVE. HELENA.

  So there it was. Fred had finally been cured of VD after another five lousy months in hospital, and now he’d gone and collected three bullets. At least this would get him home without a dishonourable discharge. At least he wasn’t dead.

  There was nothing I could do for either of them, and there was too much going on to think about it, so I jogged back to the hangar, stopping at the airfield to let Captain Smith rumble by in his Bristol Fighter. He gave me a thumbs up as he passed and I stood there for a few moments watching as he charged along the dirt to lift off. Funny how war can be the making of some men, and the undoing of others.

  I wondered how many more airfields there’d be before it all ended and I could go home to Helena.

  It was September 1918 now and we’d been at Ramleh aerodrome for the past four months, preparing for General Allenby’s autumn assault to finally drive the Turks out of Palestine. Allenby was a genius at bluff and diversion. I’d hate to have played him at cards. He had dummy camps created to hide the build-up of thousands of troops on one section of the front. He even used fake horses made of canvas. Dozens of tractors dragged huge wooden logs in the dirt to stir up massive columns of dust and create the illusion of cavalry movements.

  The Flying Corps’ main job for most of the year had been photography, bombing work and aerial combat, to drive the Hun out of the skies. For eight days before the offensive started, not a single German machine crossed the British lines to see what the ground forces were up to.

  And then, two nights earlier, Captain Smith had started the campaign in the Handley Page, bombing the central telephone exchange and railway station at El Afule to destroy Turkish communications. The Handley Page was built to be ‘a bloody paralyser of an aeroplane’ and that’s exactly what it was. I’ll never forget the night it took off under a full moon to bring on Armageddon.

  ‘Oi, Shiers!’ yelled Benny from beside the Handley Page. ‘Could use a hand over here!’

  I saluted as I ran. ‘Yes, Sergeant!’

  It was Sergeant Jim Bennett now. He’d been promoted in March, even mentioned in despatches by General Allenby for ‘distinguished and gallant services and devotion to duty’. We razzed him a lot about that, but there wasn’t a mechanic in the squadron who wasn’t proud of him.

  ‘Everything alright, mate?’ he asked as I climbed into the lorry tray beside him.

  ‘Fred’s in a bad way,’ I said. ‘Three gunshot wounds. Helena and her mum’ll be beside thems
elves.’

  ‘Bugger,’ he said. ‘But he’ll be in good hands back in Blighty, Wal. Think of the nurses fussing over him. Won’t be long and he’ll be home.’

  Within an hour we got word from a recco crew that a massive column of Turks was trying to retreat through the narrow Wadi Fara gorge toward the Jordan River. Our boys had bombed escape routes front and back, leaving the entire Turkish 7th Army trapped. They were sitting ducks, thousands and thousands of them. Motor transports, teams of horses and wagons, gun carriages. And no Hun air support.

  As fast as we could get one plane checked and refuelled and reloaded with 112-pound bombs and machine-gun ammo, another one landed. And every time a plane took off, someone would yell ‘this is for Jacko’ … ‘for Bluey’ … ‘for Jimmy’ … ‘for the boys at Gallipoli’ … ‘for Beersheba, you bastards!’ There wasn’t a man in the squadron who hadn’t lost a brother or cousin or friend in the war, and we all tasted vengeance that day. We ran between aircraft like our lives depended on it, loaded bombs in double time, didn’t catch breath for fear of missing the action.

  Early that evening, when all the planes were back on the airstrip, Benny and I and the other lads were making our way to the mess to grab a quick meal when I noticed Captain Smith and Lieutenant Sutherland around the side of a hangar.

  The sky was turning a great smear of pink and we were all elated, knowing the day was a turning point. I told the lads I’d catch them up and jogged off to congratulate Captain Smith. Benny tried to grab my arm and pull me back, but he was too late.

  Lieutenant Sutherland was leaning against the side of the hangar. The Captain had his back to me, hands on his hips. As I got closer I caught Lieutenant Sutherland’s words.

  ‘Did you see their faces?’ he said. ‘Did you see it all?’ He was taking deep breaths as he spoke, snot running from his nose. To my horror I thought he might be weeping. ‘All the blood? All the panicked horses running straight off the cliffs, legs flailing, all those legs? Did you see the white flags? That wasn’t war, Smith … it was sheer butchery.’

  He doubled over and threw up.

  For a second I stood rooted to the spot, too shocked to speak. Too close to back away. And as Lieutenant Sutherland wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, he saw me and turned his head away.

  I cleared my throat. ‘Everything okay, Captain? Can I fetch the Lieutenant some water?’

  He didn’t turn to face me. His voice was icy. ‘If I wanted water, First Class Air Mechanic Shiers, I’d ask for it.’

  As I turned away, I heard the sound of retching and Captain Smith muttering: ‘Buck up, old son. It’s the big show. This is how we end it.’

  When I caught up with the other lads, Benny must have noticed my mortified look. ‘Don’t take it to heart, Wal,’ he said quietly. ‘Been a long day. The pilots have been ordered to go back and finish the job tomorrow.’

  They reckon the dead stretched for miles and miles. Thousands of Turks and horses, shredded and minced by two days of relentless bombing and strafing by our boys and the Brits.

  Once the job was done, pilots were ordered not to fly back over the area—top brass didn’t want them seeing what they’d done and going soft on the enemy.

  Every night since joining the Flying Corps, I’d sat with the other mechanics after dinner, thinking up ways to make the machines more efficient. Talking about how aviation had changed war forever. How it would change the world. That night, no one said a word.

  Within eight weeks, the Turks had surrendered and the war was over in Europe.

  Chapter 8

  ADELAIDE, 1968

  You get thrown into war when you enlist. It’s immediate and intense. Moving on afterwards isn’t nearly so straightforward, because there’s no set routine, no one issuing orders. It makes war a hard habit to break. Maybe that’s why I went to India with Ross and Benny—so I didn’t have to start thinking for myself.

  CALCUTTA, 1919

  I found two empty leather armchairs near the back of the room, waved across the sea of white heads at Benny and took a seat. A young Indian waiter in a crisp white uniform presented a generous tumbler of whisky on a silver tray. ‘Chivas Regal, sir,’ he said. ‘Compliments of Brigadier-General Borton. Enjoy your evening at the Bengal Club.’

  I returned his bow awkwardly in my seat as I took the glass and relaxed back against the soft leather, tugging at the collar of my uniform. A rattan ceiling fan circled slowly above me. The air was thick with sweet cigar smoke and warm leather, and somewhere a string quartet played something classical and complicated. I moved slightly in my armchair and the waiter suddenly reappeared with a shallow box of neatly arranged cigarettes, cigarillos and cigars. I took my time, trying to guess the most expensive cigarillo, thinking Benny should hurry up so he could have one too.

  A tall elderly Sikh with a magnificent turban and white suit appeared at the waiter’s elbow, gently taking the cigar box and dismissing the younger man with a tiny nod.

  ‘May I suggest the Indian Trichinopoly Cigarillo, sir, for a slight taste of cinnamon and chocolate.’ The Sikh opened a palm to the top corner of the box. ‘It is very popular among the gentlemen.’

  I’d worked with Sikhs on the North West Frontier. Their discipline fascinated me—the work ethic, the honesty, the humility. Big strapping lads, though. You wouldn’t mess with them.

  I selected a cigarillo and leaned forward to let him light it for me. ‘Thank you, sir,’ I said. He gave me a respectful nod, like I was the richest bloke in the club.

  The room was quite incredible. I wished Helena could have seen it. A vivid tiger skin lay on the timber floorboards near my feet. A stuffed peacock was hung on the white wall behind me—a spectacular fan of shimmering feathers. On other walls were framed photographs of fine India buildings and the Delhi Durbar of 1911. King George V and Queen Mary sat crowned and robed under the shade of a tiny dais, surrounded by tens of thousands of subjects and Indian troops in full military get-up. I wondered if they felt like I did when a crowd of 300,000 watched us land on the Calcutta racecourse: fascinated by the sheer mass of people, but bloody terrified by it, too.

  The bar was teak—everything was teak really, or leather or rattan or stuffed. Along one side of the room, huge white shuttered doors opened to a terrace lined with potted palms, with tall bamboo torches lighting the lawn beyond. Everywhere, men in black evening suits were clustered in small groups, smoking, murmuring, debating. I remember feeling so in awe of it all, and so utterly out of place, and wishing I knew how I was going to get home.

  Benny threw himself down into the armchair beside me. ‘That’s quite enough questions about Captain Smith for one day,’ he said. ‘Jesus, they can’t get enough of him, can they?’

  The young waiter reappeared with a Chivas for Benny. ‘Thanks, mate!’ Benny said, before leaning over to chink our glasses. ‘Here’s to us, Wal, and our amazing bloody adventure—it’s been good while it lasted.’

  It had lasted nine months, ever since the war ended in Palestine and we’d flown a giant Handley Page out of Cairo to Baghdad and onwards to Delhi and Calcutta.

  Major-General Salmond, who’d commanded the British flying forces in the Middle East during the war, had wanted to inspect his men further east and establish air routes for Empire. Captain Smith and his RAF mate Brigadier-General Amyas ‘Biffy’ Borton were only too happy to do the flying. They became the first pilots to fly from Cairo to Calcutta. Eventually, they hoped to fly the Handley Page all the way home to Australia.

  By the war’s end, Benny and I had clocked up scores of hours working on Rolls-Royce Eagle VIIIs—the twin engines that powered the Handley Page. No one in Palestine knew more than we did, so Captain Smith had asked us along to keep the big bus in the air. We’d done that and more, travelling by ship all the way from Calcutta down to Timor in the Dutch East Indies, scouting possible landing strips for the rest of the route home. In the process, General Borton and the Captain had almost died in an explosion aboard the fu
el-laden Indian mail ship Sphinx. But when we returned to Calcutta to collect the Handley Page, we learnt she’d been seconded for a new war against the Afghans on the North West Frontier. The three of us Aussies were sent up there for a few weeks, too, helping out the Brits in No. 31 Squadron with their little fleet of Bristol Fighters.

  We survived another war, but the monster Handley Page didn’t. Some silly bugger had her out in a storm, crashing her into a mountain and destroying our plan of flying her on to Australia.

  So by August 1919 we were back in Calcutta, with no wings and no hope of arriving in Australia as conquering airmen. The evening at the Bengal Club was General Borton’s way of saying ‘bad luck chaps and farewell’. He was headed home to England in the coming days and we were waiting to board the first ship back to Sydney.

  ‘Can’t believe it’s all over,’ said Benny, idly tearing at a palm frond until he remembered where he was.

  ‘Is the Captain still smarting about losing his Handley Page?’ I asked.

  ‘Yeah,’ said Benny. ‘And losing the chance to fly Biffy down to Australia in time for the Melbourne Cup.’

  General Borton had taken us all to the Viceroy’s Cup when we first landed in Calcutta. Back then it was one of the biggest horse races in the world. Captain Smith even got to know the Viceroy. He wanted to return the favour and take the General along to the big race in Melbourne.

  Benny looked across at me. ‘Be good to get home though, eh Wal? What’s it been for you now—four years?’

  I twirled the whisky in the bottom of my glass. ‘I’m not really sure where home is, Benny.’

  He leaned across and thumped my leg. ‘Mate—we’ve been over this a thousand times. Since the war ended, the mail service has gone to shit. I’ve only had a couple of letters from my sisters since Christmas, and they write every bloody week.’