Long Flight Home

by Lainie Anderson

  We stood watching as two sergeants—an Australian and a Canadian—worked artfully through the colours, and just as the Canadian potted the black ball to win we heard him mention the Avro 504.

  ‘You beauty,’ said Benny under his breath, before chalking his name on the board. ‘G’day—the name’s Benny!’

  Ralph Heffernan was an air mechanic from Nova Scotia. Friendly bloke with a wide gap between his front teeth. He’d spent the war with the Royal Flying Corps in Folkestone, not far from London. Turned out he knew Sergeant Thomas Kay, the mechanic on the Sopwith Wallaby entered in the race.

  ‘Kay just got his wings, actually,’ said Ralph, lining up a long shot on a red ball. ‘He’s assistant pilot and navigator, as well as mechanic on the Sopwith.’

  I raised my eyebrows at Benny. Kay’s skills left us for dead. ‘Handy bloke to have around,’ I said.

  Ralph took his shot. Balls scattered in all directions. ‘Handy at the bar, too. Kay can slam down four pints in under sixty seconds.’

  I noticed the three young Australian blokes wandering over with their cigars.

  ‘Can I play the winner?’ asked the lad who’d winked at me earlier. He was gaunt and gangly, no more than 21. His two mates looked the same age. One was big. Arms like Christmas hams.

  ‘Sorry, mate,’ I said. ‘I’m next. You need to put your name on the board.’

  He walked over and chalked his name: ‘Snowy’.

  Benny moved slowly around the table. ‘Hey, Wal, remember that Yorkshireman at the Calcutta barracks? Used to stand on his head and drink a pint with no hands?’

  ‘I remember you trying to copy the trick and nearly opening your neck on broken glass,’ I said.

  ‘Yeah,’ he said, grinning to himself while he sized up his next shot. ‘So why are you still in Blighty, Ralph?’

  ‘Stayed on in the Special Reserve while I get my wings,’ said the Canadian. ‘A buddy and I are using our demob payouts to buy a couple of Avro biplanes and ship ’em back to Halifax.’

  ‘Benny, go the pink,’ I said.

  ‘Yeah, hurry up!’ said the gangly kid, Snowy. He was cheerful enough, but his two mates let out rude grunts of laughter.

  Benny stopped and leaned against his cue, staring at the young bloke. ‘You right, son?’ he asked.

  ‘Sorry, boss,’ Snowy said brightly. ‘No offence.’

  Benny turned his attention back to the table, and I walked over to chat to Ralph. ‘How much they asking for one of those Avro biplanes?’

  ‘Forty quid.’

  ‘You’re kidding!’ Benny said, before smacking the pink ball into the corner pocket.

  ‘Forty quid?!’ I said. ‘For a two-seater biplane? Including the engine? I could buy five Avros and still have change!’

  ‘The Aeroplane magazine’s full of ads,’ Ralph said. ‘You two would be mad not to buy a couple and ship ’em back.’

  Benny took aim at a red ball near the middle pocket. ‘Nah,’ he said. ‘The only plane we need is a twin-engined bomber.’

  ‘Why d’you need a bomber?’ It was the Snowy kid again.

  Benny turned around, startled.

  Snowy was still all smiles.

  ‘Ummm,’ Benny said, ‘I’m having a chat with my friends here, mate. That alright with you?’

  Snowy sipped his beer. ‘Yeah, course. But I thought I heard you talking about that air race to Australia.’

  Benny blinked. ‘And?’

  ‘Well, we reckon it’s all bullshit.’

  ‘What’s all bullshit?’

  ‘The race. Pilots were ready to start back in June, but here we are three months later and no one’s left the ground.’

  ‘Know all about it, do you? Your hands look too clean to be a mechanic, and I’m sure you’re not expecting us to think you’re a pilot.’ Benny rolled his eyes and returned to his shot.

  Snowy took a long pull on his cigar. ‘I’m not a pilot,’ he said, through a cloud of blue smoke. ‘But a good friend of mine is. Charles Kingsford Smith. You’ve probably heard of him.’

  Benny didn’t look up. ‘Nope,’ he said, and drove the red into the pocket.

  ‘I’ve heard of him,’ said Ralph. ‘Is he in the race?’

  ‘Not any more,’ said Snowy. ‘Because the Australian government keeps delaying the start date and introducing new rules.’

  ‘What new rules?’ asked Benny.

  ‘Navigation, for one. Kingy’s been dumped from the Blackburn crew because he doesn’t have navigation experience.’

  Benny looked at me and back to the kid. He was losing his patience. ‘It’s a race over eleven thousand miles, not a bleedin’ egg-and-spoon race. You need rules. How old’s this Charles Kingsford Smith, anyway?’

  Snowy jutted his jaw and narrowed his eyes. ‘He’s 22 and won the Military Cross over in France. So you can fuck off with your egg-and-spoon races.’

  A couple of heads turned at the nearest snooker table.

  ‘Look, Snowy,’ I said, ‘sorry about your mate. But it’s got nothing to do with us, okay?’

  ‘Well, that’s what I’ve been trying to figure out,’ he said. ‘Haven’t you blokes just arrived from India?’

  Benny stepped forward, frowning. ‘Yeah. And?’

  ‘Well, word is the government’s been holding up the race on purpose. They don’t want it to start until some bomber pilot gets back from Calcutta.’

  Benny’s voice was like steel. ‘And?’

  ‘And, so, who’s your pilot?’

  I looked from Benny to the kid. ‘Captain Ross Smith,’ I said.

  ‘Yeah,’ said Snowy, turning to smirk at his mates. ‘Ross Smith. That’s the one.’

  Christmas Hams piped up. ‘You’re the reason they’ve delayed the bloody race!’

  ‘Christ, I’ve heard everything now,’ said Benny.

  A crowd was forming and I was suddenly aware I could only hear rain.

  ‘Snowy,’ I said. ‘When exactly did they delay the race?’

  Christmas Hams sneered. ‘June!’ He had a neck like a bull. ‘Way back in June. Crews were wanting to fly out and they were told no one could leave London until September the 8th.’

  Snowy pointed his cigar at me. ‘Our mate Kingy’s on the bones of his arse after waiting around for months on no pay. So they changed the rules and he’s lost his plane and a chance at the prize money.’

  Someone in the crowd spoke up: ‘Yeah and don’t forget Bert Hinkler! He had his name down ages ago, and he’s been forced out, too.’

  ‘What?’ I said. I looked at Benny, blindsided. What the hell was going on?

  ‘See?’ said Snowy, with a cocky grin. ‘I reckon the British Air Ministry and the Australian government have been planning this all along. Sounds like they’re clearing the field for your bloke, Ross Smith. They’ve backed in their own horse.’

  ‘This is bullshit,’ Benny said, shaking his head in disbelief. ‘They’re hardly clearing the field. There’s five pilots with their names down to compete!’

  ‘Just so long as one of them beats that bloody Frenchman,’ yelled someone from the back.

  Everyone laughed—me included, and mostly with relief. My heart was thumping.

  Snowy sucked at his cigar and appealed to the crowd. ‘So we think it’s okay for Ross Smith to get special treatment?’

  ‘What special treatment?’ asked Benny, exasperated.

  ‘Brass hat treatment.’ Snowy curled his lip into a sneer. ‘Does the name Brigadier-General Borton mean anything to you?’

  ‘We were in India with him. How is that an advantage?’

  ‘You were scouting fucking airfields all the way down to Australia! Of course that’s an advantage!’

  Benny was stopped in his tracks for an instant. He looked at me, a flicker of doubt on his face.

  ‘Mate,’ he said at last, drawing a deep breath. ‘We—have—no—advantage. We don’t even have a fucking plane!’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Snowy. ‘But you’ll get a plane because Ross
Smith is the chosen one. And then you’ve got the inside run all the way home.’

  Christmas Hams folded his beefy arms. ‘The Australian government gave Ross Smith all the time in the world to map out his route and get back here to the starting line. I’d say that gives you fellas a pretty decent advantage.’

  The crowd murmured its agreement and Snowy threw his hands in the air, shouting: ‘I’d say Ross Smith has rigged the England to Australia Air Race!’

  Benny lay his cue on the table and walked to within inches of Snowy. The room fell silent again. ‘If the name Ross Smith comes out of your mouth one more time, I’ll put my fist in it.’

  I watched Christmas Hams, shifting my weight in case I had to jump in. ‘Come on, fellas,’ I said quietly. ‘Anyone swings a punch and we’re all banned.’

  Benny kept eyeballing Snowy. A vein bulged in his neck. ‘Belting my old mate here would be worth it.’ But then he shrugged and turned away. ‘Now, whose shot is it?’

  ‘Fuck you,’ Snowy said. ‘I know what I know.’

  ‘Actually, you don’t know shit, buddy.’ It was Ralph, the Canadian.

  Snowy scoffed at him. ‘Fuck you too.’

  Ralph stayed calm. ‘If you’d read anything about the race, you’d know they delayed the start while they got permission to fly through countries along the route. No point in flying all the way to Siam and then getting shot out of the air.’

  ‘Like you’d know, Gappy,’ said Christmas Hams.

  Ralph ignored him. ‘That diplomatic stuff takes ages. And then there’s the fuel and oil. That all needs to be shipped along the route for the crews when they land.’

  Snowy shook his head. ‘Rigged!’

  ‘Mate,’ I said, ‘Ralph’s right. The countries beyond India are nothing but jungle. Believe me—we’ve just come back from there.’

  The crowd watched intently.

  ‘It’s not like flying from London to Manchester,’ I said. ‘There are no airfields, or Royal Air Force chaps standing by to refuel your plane. It’s jungle! Not a white man for thousands of miles! There are no landing strips—they need to be cleared. There are no fuel supplies—they need to be delivered.’ I pointed at the window. ‘And you see that rain? That’s nothing! The monsoons in the Far East run from June to September. You try to fly through them and you’ll die. That’s a pretty good reason to delay an air race.’

  ‘Monsoon?’ Snowy snorted. ‘A monsoon wouldn’t stop Kingy!’

  ‘Oh yeah?’ said Ralph. ‘Why don’t you ask your mate Charles Kingsford Smith why he was really dumped by Blackburn? I’ve heard it’s got something to do with the planes he crashed for insurance money.’

  Benny looked at Snowy. ‘Hah!’ he grunted. ‘Sounds like your mate should’ve stuck to his egg and spoon.’

  The crowd started laughing. Snowy laughed too, and then made like he was moving to shake Benny’s hand. Only he dropped his shoulder and lunged. Benny was too quick. He dodged sideways and slung a sharp right hook to the jaw as the kid passed.

  A roar went up across the snooker room. Snowy went down like a shot kangaroo.

  The duty manager pushed through the crowd. ‘Gentlemen! Gentlemen! What’s going on here?’

  Benny shrugged. ‘Poor bloke must have tripped. You right there, son?’ he asked, helping Snowy up. ‘Oopsadaisy.’

  Snowy’s mates dragged him off to a corner as men returned to their games, boisterous now after the dust-up.

  ‘Jesus, Benny, nice hook,’ I said. ‘Didn’t know you could box.’

  ‘Second runner-up, Victorian schoolboy championships 1908.’ He rubbed his knuckles. ‘I need a beer.’

  One or two men slapped Benny on the back as we returned to the bar. ‘Good luck with the race, you blokes,’ someone said.

  We shouted Ralph a beer and settled into three tub chairs. ‘So,’ Benny said as we raised our glasses, ‘who’s this Charles Kingsford Smith?’

  ‘You blokes might not want to hear this,’ Ralph said, ‘but everyone seems to love him. He lost two toes in a dogfight over France and ended up in Britain as a flight instructor. Some call him brave, some call him reckless, but the boys over at Eastchurch called him King Dick, on account of his speed at bedding women.’

  Benny snorted into his beer.

  ‘Brass hats hated him though,’ Ralph added. ‘Always had him in their sights for doing some crazy stunt over the airfield or playing his banjo at all hours. He was big on poaching, too. Shot his game from the air before landing to collect it.’

  ‘Is it true about the insurance money?’ I asked.

  ‘That’s how the story goes. He and a mate have been barnstorming for ready cash and their planes were going down like flies.’

  Ralph had a training session at Hendon early the next morning, so he finished his beer and shook our hands. ‘Be safe, fellas,’ he said. ‘That’s one helluva long flight.’

  Benny lit himself a smoke and flexed his right hand.

  ‘So what do you reckon?’ I asked.

  ‘Christ,’ he said, running the other hand over his face. ‘No way. We were there that night in Calcutta when Ross learned about the race. We were there!’ He took a long swig of his beer and looked straight at me. ‘It’s the fucking Captain, Wal!’

  ‘Yeah,’ I said, letting out a deep breath. ‘But the other pilots think we’re cheats before we’ve even got off the ground.’

  ‘What a mess,’ said Benny, clenching his jaw.

  I leaned back in my chair, rifling through my pockets to find my cigarettes. ‘Do we tell him?’

  ‘I’ve been asking myself that too,’ Benny said. ‘You know what he’d say: you can’t plan a defence if you don’t know your enemy.’

  Benny had decided to tell Ross in the car that night on the drive home to Kent, but changed his mind when he sensed the mood in the back of the Austin.

  Ross had not had a good afternoon. He hadn’t even succeeded in arranging a sit-down with Vickers to ask for an aircraft. He’d called from Biffy’s club to arrange an appointment and they’d given him a flat ‘No’ on the phone. Said they’d received enquiries from a number of experienced Australian pilots in recent months and the answer hadn’t changed. So he and Biffy had spent the next few hours drowning their sorrows in whisky, and mapping out Plan C. By the time we were out of London I could hear all three of them snoring on the back seat while I kept Tom company at the front.

  So we told him the following morning, sitting under the verandah.

  Ross stared from Benny to me and back at Benny, like he was hoping the news might change if he waited long enough. It was the first time in two years I’d seen him speechless. Confused. Wounded. Mortified, now that I think about it. And so young. I’d never stopped to consider our ages before that moment. I was 29, senior to him by three years.

  Without a word, he got up and walked across the lawn toward the lake. Just before he was out of earshot I heard him say, ‘How did I not see that coming?’

  I’m sure he found it doubly insulting because he’d volunteered to help Biffy provide a briefing to all the other race competitors on everything we’d learned about the route between Cairo and Timor.

  Two days later we were in London again, Benny and me sitting at the back of a room filled with officials from the British Air Ministry, the Royal Aero Club and the Australian government.

  We got to see some of our air race competitors, too. Cedric Howell was there with his mechanic. George Matthews and Ralph’s mate, Thomas Kay. Valdemar Rendle. Roger Douglas.

  Ross and Biffy’s debrief was gratefully received. They outlined things like terrain and weather conditions, approximate flight distances and fuel requirements, where best to land along the route and the names of key officials on the ground who’d offered assistance in various countries, some under British control, some not. Afterwards the pilots all agreed not to race until mid October, to allow more time for landing sites and fuel supplies to be organised.

  When the official proceedings were over, Ross asked
for a few minutes alone with the competing crews.

  ‘Now, gentlemen,’ he said when the brass hats had filed out, ‘I’ve heard some allegations since returning to England that seriously reflect on my character. Claims have been made that the race is rigged in my favour—that the start was delayed to allow me to do a full recco of the route and get back here to compete.

  ‘I’m not suggesting any of you are responsible for these claims—I have no doubt they were made by lesser men than you. But I want to state that I’m no cheat. Until very recently, before the race was even announced, it was my intention to fly from India down to Australia, to ensure my good friend Brigadier-General Borton became the first man to fly the entire route east from Great Britain to Australia. Not very patriotic, eh, giving the honour to a Tommy? But it’s the truth.

  ‘Make no mistake. Now that I’m here, I plan to enter the race and I plan to win—for my brother Colin buried in France, for the dozens of good friends I’ve lost, for the five out of eleven lads from my cricket team who’ll never see Adelaide again. Every one of those boys will be with me in the cockpit, flying home to Australia, and by God they won’t see me cheating.’

  Around the room, men nodded and murmured.

  ‘Now,’ said Ross, looking at the group and folding his arms, ‘don’t suppose any of you know where I can get my hands on a half-decent aircraft?’

  Chapter 12

  A young boy came tearing over the gate and I stepped back, startled. Ross and Benny laughed and the Colonel waved his walking cane like he was warding off an animal. ‘That’s quite enough, young man!’

  ‘Sorry, mister,’ the kid said, big blue eyes staring out of a dirty face. ‘Playin’ hide ‘n’ seek.’ His dark hair was cropped so close you could see patches of scalp.

  ‘Oi, Robbie,’ a woman called. ‘Yer s’posed to be ’elpin’, luv. Watch yer sister.’