Long Flight Home

by Lainie Anderson

  It was Benny, my friend.

  ‘Speak up, man!’ the Colonel cried excitedly.

  Benny cleared his throat.

  There once was a man called Day,

  Who was handsome in his own way.

  He met a Miss Week,

  Kissed her pretty white cheek,

  And she swooned, or so they all say.

  Biffy rapped his knuckles twice on the table in appreciation, and Benny grinned sheepishly.

  ‘So you’re a limerick man,’ the Colonel said, smoothing his moustache. ‘Unconventional, sir, but nicely played! Now—Biffy?’

  ‘Not so much as a single line, I’m sorry to say. Got a head full of air race. Same as Wally here, I suspect.’ Biffy smiled at me and nodded.

  I looked at my hands in my lap. He had no idea.

  ‘And how about you, Dad?’ Biffy said. ‘Come on, out with it.’

  The Colonel seized his newspaper and sat upright in his chair, clearing his throat loudly.

  One Day the more, one Week the less,

  But let time not complain,

  There’ll soon be Days enough

  To make a Week again.

  His whole body shook as he laughed.

  Mrs Borton smiled and patted the Colonel’s arm. Biffy applauded, leaning across toward me and Benny: ‘Dad can be rather obscure on occasion, but if the newlyweds have seven children they’ll make a week. Get it chaps?’

  ‘Ahhh!’ Benny said. We clapped, too.

  ‘Bravo, Dad,’ Biffy said, shaking his head in admiration. ‘You’re in fine fettle this morning.’

  I picked up my cutlery as the door opened and Captain Smith strode in looking miffed.

  ‘Well, that went well,’ he said sarcastically, dropping roughly into his seat. He glanced at me and Benny. ‘Morning, men.’

  He rested his elbows on the table, rubbing his forehead with his fingers.

  I quietly returned my knife and fork to the plate, waiting. Benny’s stomach grumbled.

  Sunlight streamed into the room from the large French windows. I could see out to where I’d trimmed the yew hedge yesterday.

  ‘More bad news, old chap?’ Biffy asked.

  ‘I’m afraid so,’ the Captain said. ‘The Australian Imperial Force has got wind that we’ve arrived in Britain.’ He looked across at me and Benny. ‘You two have been ordered to appear at headquarters in London tomorrow afternoon. They want to check your papers are in order. And they want to see me separately.’

  Papers? I had no papers from India—none of us did. And nothing to prove that the Acting Sergeant’s stripes on my sleeve were legitimate from my stint with the Brits on the North West Frontier. I could just picture some furious brass hat in the AIF tearing strips off me, not to mention the three stripes I’d stitched on by candlelight in a tent in Risalpur.

  A knot twisted in my guts. That’s all I needed—to be sent home in disgrace.

  ‘Bah!’ said Biffy. ‘You’ll square things in no time, old chap.’

  I always envied Biffy’s optimism. Made me wonder if he’d ever been told ‘No’.

  ‘Please begin, everyone,’ said Mrs Borton, scooping the dog off her lap and pulling her chair to the table.

  I picked up my knife and fork, and hesitated before asking, ‘How’d it go yesterday, Captain?’

  He took a long sip of his tea. ‘First of all, from now on lads, it’s Ross. I know we’re still in uniform, but the fighting’s over and the squadron’s long gone. Ross is fine.’

  ‘Okay … Ross,’ I said, feeling slightly stupid. I glanced across at the Colonel, but his head was buried again in the Post.

  ‘Sure, Ross!’ Benny said through a mouthful of egg.

  ‘Thanks, fellas,’ Ross said. ‘And I’m sorry to say yesterday’s trip to London was rather challenging on a number of fronts.’

  The Royal Aero Club, responsible for administering all air races in Britain, had confirmed what we’d anticipated: Biffy was ruled out of the race on account of not being Australian.

  Worse, the RAC had confirmed five teams were already entered and set to depart for Australia within weeks.

  The final blow had come after a courtesy visit to the offices of Handley Page, where Biffy and Ross had been unable to convince the aviation managers to hand over a new machine for the race.

  Ross reached into a jacket pocket and pulled out a small leather notebook, placing it open on the table so Biffy, Benny and I could see it.

  ‘Right, you two,’ he said, pointing at the list. ‘Here’s tomorrow’s mission. After you’ve sorted your papers with the AIF, you’re to visit the Chevrons Club. I want you to find out everything you can about these five pilots and their machines. We need to size up the competition.’

  The Chevrons Club was for petty and non-commissioned officers from Britain and allied nations, and popular with Flying Corps NCOs. Which was all well and good, providing the AIF let me keep my stripes. Without my Sergeant’s insignia, I wasn’t an NCO and I wouldn’t be getting into the club.

  But Ross was in no mood for a debate, so I shut my mouth.

  Biffy lit a cigarette, settled back into his seat and nodded to the open notebook on the table. ‘Right, who are we up against?’

  ‘First on the list, Captain Cedric Howell in a Martinsyde A1 biplane,’ Ross said. ‘Two-man team. Rolls-Royce Falcon engine, 275 horsepower. One of the fastest single-engined aircraft in the war.’

  ‘Cedric Howell is an Adelaide boy,’ I said.

  ‘Cedric Howell is also a jolly good pilot,’ Biffy said. ‘Flew with the Royal Flying Corps over France and Italy during the war. Claimed nineteen victories. Single-handedly took on a formation of fifteen enemy machines and brought down five of them. Quite remarkable.’

  ‘Howell will be a tough adversary, no doubt about it,’ Ross said, scratching his chin. ‘How about the Martinsyde machine? You blokes worked on Tinsydes during the war—how would you rate them for long flights?’

  ‘Good stamina,’ Benny said. ‘Absolutely reliable.’

  ‘Right-o,’ Ross said. ‘Second, we have Captain George Matthews in another two-seater biplane: the Sopwith Wallaby. Rolls-Royce Eagle VIII engine, 350 horsepower.’

  Benny whistled. ‘Lordy—350 horsepower is one big engine.’

  ‘Matthews is another South Australian,’ Ross said. ‘I met him a couple of times with the Light Horse at Gallipoli. Last I heard he was with the AFC in France.’

  Biffy exhaled. ‘The chaps at the Royal Aero Club say he’s been working at Sopwith with good old Harry Hawker since the war.’

  ‘Oh gosh,’ Mrs Borton said suddenly, looking up from her crossword. ‘We all adore dear Harry Hawker.’

  Australian airman Harry Hawker had become famous for crashing his Sopwith into heavy seas during the race across the Atlantic Ocean just three months earlier. He and his co-pilot were missing for a week, with all hope lost, when suddenly they turned up alive in the Outer Hebrides. They’d been pulled out of the water by an old tramp steamer bound for Scotland, with no radio on board to wire the news. Hundreds of thousands turned out to welcome Hawker home to London’s Kings Cross Station—cries of ‘coo-ee’ apparently rang out like air-raid sirens. Within weeks the race was won by two Brits: John Alcock and Arthur Whitten Brown.

  ‘Poor old Alcock and Brown,’ Biffy said. ‘I imagine their victory was almost an anti-climax after all the Hawker hoo-ha.’

  ‘It was, rather,’ the Colonel said. ‘But they got their knighthoods. And I’d wager King George has something similar in mind for the winners of the air race to Australia.’

  ‘Imagine being that famous,’ I said.

  ‘Not sure if I’d like it,’ Benny said, smearing butter on a slice of toast.

  ‘Right, gentlemen,’ Ross said impatiently, smacking a hand on the tabletop. ‘Next up is a four-man team led by Lieutenant Valdemar Rendle and Captain Hubert Wilkins. Blackburn Kangaroo. Rolls-Royce twin-engine Falcon, 250 horsepower.’

  ‘Wilkins!’ I said. ‘Another Sout
h Australian. Might as well call it the South Australian air race. Do you know him, Ross? He’s from up bush, too, isn’t he?’

  ‘Only know what I’ve heard. He was one of our official war photographers. Won an MC for rescuing wounded soldiers.’

  ‘Incredible young man, by all accounts,’ Biffy said. ‘Got a bar to his MC for taking charge of an American unit that lost its officers during the Battle of the Hindenburg Line.’

  ‘Pretty sure he hasn’t got his wings though,’ Ross said. ‘You lads know anything about Rendle or the Blackburn Kangaroo?’

  ‘No, sorry,’ I said.

  ‘Nope,’ Benny said, taking a bite of his toast.

  ‘Lieutenant Roger Douglas,’ Ross said. ‘Two-man team in the Alliance Endeavour. Single 450-horsepower Napier-Lion engine.’

  He looked at Benny and I.

  ‘Nothing,’ I said.

  Benny shook his head. ‘Four hundred and fifty horsepower! Strewth, that’s a monster.’

  The Colonel spoke up. ‘Alliance had an aircraft entered in the race across the Atlantic. Withdrew for unknown reasons.’

  ‘It’s an amphibious aircraft,’ Biffy said. ‘Enclosed cabin. Solid reputation for long-distance flying.’

  ‘Interesting,’ Ross said. ‘The ability to land on water will be a definite advantage. Okay, finally there’s a Lieutenant Raymond Parer, but no aircraft confirmed as yet.’

  ‘Never heard of him,’ I said.

  ‘Me neither,’ said Ross. ‘That’s it for the Australian competitors. Bit of a motley crowd. We’ve got four-man teams in bombers and two-man teams in single-engine biplanes. We’ve even got a seaplane. This race is sounding like something out of Jules Verne. They’ve all been at liberty to take off for Darwin since the eighth of September, so we can expect any one of them to start soon.’

  ‘Pity we don’t have a plane, then,’ said Benny.

  ‘Yes,’ said Ross. ‘And we have another fly in the ointment, by the name of Etienne Poulet.’

  ‘Etienne Poulet?’ I said. ‘I remember reading about him before the war—he was famous for looping the loop. But he’s French!’

  Ross leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms. ‘Etienne Poulet is indeed a Frenchman. Apparently he’s planning to fly from Paris to Melbourne in a week or two.’

  ‘In what?’ I asked.

  ‘In a Caudron,’ said Ross. ‘He’s crossing the planet in a Caudron biplane pulled along by two 80-horsepower engines.’

  ‘One hundred and sixty horses!’ scoffed Biffy. ‘That’s out-and-out madness!’

  ‘Maybe,’ Ross said, ‘maybe not. They’ve said he’s ineligible for the ten thousand pound prize, but we’re told the Australian government is offering every assistance, including arranging fuel and landing places.’

  ‘What?!’ I said.

  ‘You’re kidding!’ said Benny.

  The Colonel looked up from his paper. ‘Poulet is quite the chap. Means “chicken” in English, and the man is anything but.’

  The newspapers had been filled with tales of Poulet’s exploits for months. He had a swag of French aviation records and had test flown more than a thousand planes during the war. He’d also been a mate of the great French airman Jules Védrines, who’d spent the war flying spies in and out of enemy territory. After the Armistice, Védrines had landed his plane in spectacular fashion on the roof of the Galleries Lafayette department store in Paris. He died in a crash soon after—while planning a flight from Paris to Melbourne no less. Poulet was now determined to carry out the flight in his friend’s honour and raise funds for Védrines’s grieving widow and children.

  ‘Well, well,’ Biffy said.

  ‘Poulet might not be eligible for the money,’ said Ross, ‘but it sounds like he’s certainly capable of stealing the glory.’

  Biffy crushed his cigarette in a bronze ashtray and rose from his chair. ‘Qui n’avance pas, recule,’ he said. ‘Who does not move forward, recedes. Onwards to London, chaps.’

  Benny and I stood on the pavement outside AIF headquarters. We’d caught the train up from Kent and were waiting for our appointment. It was ten months since the Armistice, but there was still no shortage of slouch hats on the streets. There hadn’t been enough ships to get everyone straight home. Australian lads filled their days with vocational training or lectures or lurking among the Delilahs in the streets south of Westminster.

  We were ten minutes early, so we leaned against the wall, smoking nervous cigarettes and chatting with a couple of amputee corporals. They used to be wheat farmers south of Perth.

  ‘They reckon Bram Stoker lived around here,’ said one of the corporals. He pointed with the stump of his arm. ‘Down that way.’

  Benny was watching a couple of women hurrying past, their long skirts swishing. There was rain on the way. ‘Who’s Bram Stoker?’ he asked.

  ‘He wrote Dracula,’ I said.

  ‘Ahh. Never did get round to reading that.’

  An old bloke with a black satchel yelled, ‘Daily Mail! Get yer Daily Mail!’

  I drew on my smoke. ‘Hey Benny, I’ve been meaning to say thanks for getting me out of a hole this morning.’

  He cocked an eyebrow. ‘What hole?’

  ‘You know, the Colonel’s little poetry competition.’

  ‘Jesus! Don’t remind me.’

  ‘Least you managed to string a few words together. I sat there like a bloody mute.’

  ‘Yeah, well the Colonel’s not getting another verse out of me. Unless you think Mrs Borton would appreciate “The Old Man from Devizes”.’

  I laughed. ‘Whose balls were two different sizes!’

  Benny mimicked the Colonel’s blue-blood accent: ‘One it was small, And no use at all, The other was huge and won prizes.’

  One of the corporals guffawed so loud he startled the newspaper seller.

  We stood watching the passing cars and carriages, listening to the occasional whistle of barges over on the Thames and the corporals trying to memorise Benny’s limerick. The wind was picking up and a Union Jack flapped noisily overhead.

  An Austin pulled up alongside us and I was shocked to see Biffy’s chauffer Tom at the wheel.

  ‘Eh?’ said Benny, startled. ‘What’s Tom doing here?’

  The rear door opened and out sprang Biffy in full military uniform. Benny and I stepped forward in surprise while the corporals snapped to attention.

  ‘Not too late am I, chaps?’ asked Biffy, looking at his watch.

  ‘Um, no, sir,’ I said. ‘Not at all.’

  The corporals exchanged a glance. They’d probably never seen a monocled British brigadier-general.

  ‘Jolly good,’ said Biffy. ‘Follow me.’

  We quickly crushed our cigarettes underfoot and turned to follow him inside. Benny slapped one of the amputee lads on the back: ‘Good luck, Corporal Devizes,’ he said.

  We were led down the centre of a vast hall filled with desks, scores of busy office women stopping to stare as the Brigadier-General marched past, his footfalls echoing on the timber floor.

  As we were ushered into a tiny office, my stomach churned. Behind the desk was an Australian major with a handlebar moustache, round-rimmed glasses and a large frown.

  Biffy didn’t even give him time to stand.

  ‘Morning, Major,’ he said. ‘Acting Sergeant Shiers and Sergeant Bennett have travelled from India to Britain on attachment to the Royal Air Force at my urgent request. They were under my command in Palestine and their service records are impeccable. The AIF should be damned proud of them, as I am. I consider it entirely unnecessary to apply to India for their documents. They’ll give you the particulars.’

  When the Major opened his mouth to speak, Biffy said, ‘Good chap.’ Then he turned to nod at me and Benny. ‘Gentlemen, I will be waiting in the car.’

  With that I was Acting Sergeant Shiers. No questions asked. And in half an hour our paperwork was signed and we were back in the Austin, with Biffy insisting Tom drive the long way to the Ch
evrons Club to give his guests a good look at Whitehall and Buckingham Palace and Westminster.

  ‘I’ve left Ross at my club,’ he said. ‘He’s making a telephone call to Vickers Aviation. With any luck he’s secured an appointment for this afternoon.’

  I sat beside that powerful man in the back seat, as he pointed out squirrels and told us about the 13-tonne bell named Big Ben, and felt a bit overwhelmed.

  ‘Sir,’ I said, clearing my throat, ‘I want to thank you.’

  ‘No need for thanks, Wally,’ he said with a wave of his hand. ‘It was nothing.’

  Maybe to him.

  Chapter 11

  At the Chevrons Club, the first beer didn’t touch the sides.

  ‘Thank Christ,’ said Benny. ‘Same again, Sergeant Shiers?’

  ‘Don’t mind if I do, Sergeant Bennett.’

  I leaned back against the bar. Men were gathered in quiet groups around the six snooker tables. Lots of Brits of course. A few Canadians with their brass maple-leaf badges at the collar, South Africans with their springboks and Australians with the rising sun. Just boys, most of them. The older blokes—men my age—were either back home or dead, pushing up poppies in Flanders Fields. All these young blokes had filled their shoes in the final stages of the war.

  Benny handed me a beer and leaned an elbow on the bar. ‘So, I take it we’re not talking about the package that arrived from Narrandera yesterday?’

  I sipped my drink. ‘Nothing to talk about.’

  I avoided his eye, trying to sound casual.

  ‘Shit, Wal. Did she …?’

  ‘Nah, all good.’

  ‘Bloody women, eh?’

  ‘And what would you know about women, Benny?’ I teased him, trying to shift the attention.

  He laughed. ‘Mate, I sold some of the first Hupmobiles in country Victoria. There’s more than one way to test independent suspension.’ He turned to look out over the tables. ‘Now, Sergeant, ready to do a recco?’

  We took our beers and casually walked between the tables, listening out for anyone mentioning aircraft or the Flying Corps. Rain was rapping on the windows. The room was gloomy except for six pools of light cast by shades hanging low over the green baizes. We discounted a group of South Africans, and a few Australian infantrymen discussing the trenches at Verdun. Three other Australians were sucking on big cigars in the back corner. One of them caught my eye and winked as he curled his mouth around his stogie. ‘Too young, too silly,’ Benny muttered. ‘These blokes might be better game.’