Long Flight Home

by Lainie Anderson

‘That’s a very good question,’ Ross said. ‘The Prime Minister’s attempt to take the pressure off Captain Matthews is honourable. None of us wants to see foolhardy flying leading to injury or death.’

  George Matthews and his Sopwith Wallaby had been snowbound near Cologne for weeks now. The alternate route had turned out to be a disaster for him.

  ‘However,’ Ross continued. ‘I believe—and I know George Matthews would agree with me—that we have an obligation to the aircraft companies sponsoring us to show the potential of these planes. We also have an opportunity to show the world that timely air travel across the planet is now possible due to advances made during the war.’

  ‘So the thirty-day time limit should stand?’ asked the reporter.

  ‘That’s a question for the Australian government,’ said Ross. ‘But in my opinion, thirty days is achievable.’

  ‘Do you think Matthews should be disqualified,’ another reporter asked, ‘for flying over former enemy territory against the express orders of the Air Ministry?’

  ‘No,’ said Ross. ‘Where’s the sport in beating someone through disqualification?’

  ‘Captain Smith,’ began another, raising his arm, ‘do you reckon you can survive the Blazing Trail?’

  Eleven British aviators had died attempting to deliver aircraft to Egypt since the war. Our old mate Colonel Lawrence of Arabia was one of the lucky ones to survive a crash. He was on his way back to Cairo when his plane crashed in Rome a few months earlier, killing the pilot and observer and leaving Lawrence with concussion, a broken collarbone and badly bruised ribs. The route had become so littered with crashed, burning machines it was now known as the Blazing Trail and an inquiry had been set up. It wasn’t lost on Ross, me or Benny—and many others in aviation—that Biffy’s successful 1918 flight from London to Cairo in the Handley Page had probably made the route look far safer than it really was.

  Ross scoffed. ‘I think it was Captain Douglas who said he’d rather fly six times around the world than six months against the Hun.’ He looked at me and Benny and Keith. ‘We’ve all stared down death. We know the risks. We’re as confident as we can be of success.’

  Another reporter, in a grey flat cap, shot up his hand. ‘Just before he took off, Captain Matthews told us he was carrying a repeating rifle so that any hostility on the part of savages could be answered with a suitable argument. Will you carry a weapon, Captain Smith?’

  ‘My Webley & Scott pistol is never far from my side,’ Ross said. ‘But if we can cope with a British press pack, I’m sure we’ll have no trouble with a few savages.’

  The pressmen laughed again.

  It was odd standing beside him at times like this. On one hand, you wouldn’t want to be anywhere else, but on the other you were very aware of being a lesser man—you were no Ross Smith, and never would be. Keith must have felt it too. The older, junior brother. Yet there was no envy, no resentment that I could detect. Nothing but mutual respect, and a greater bond than I shared with any of my brothers. I admired Keith for that.

  ‘But really,’ asked the reporter with the black trilby, ‘is there any aircraft in the world capable of the eleven thousand-mile journey to Australia? Let alone in thirty days?’

  ‘If the weather doesn’t work against us, we’ll get there in thirty days,’ said Ross flatly. ‘But you’re correct. Everything will need to go to plan. And it’s not just the weather. The racecourses in the Far East are dangerously short for landing a plane of this size. And apparently the Suda Bay aerodrome on Crete is presently flooded, so there goes the easiest route across the Mediterranean. We’ll take advice on that from our RAF friends in Italy.’

  Ross glanced at his brother and Keith stepped forward. ‘That’s it for now, gentlemen. We’ve got quite a lot to finalise before take-off in the next few days. Thank you for your time.’

  ‘Yes, thank you, chaps,’ said Ross. ‘But it would be remiss not to mention the men and women of Vickers Aviation. They are a credit to Great Britain and it has been extremely gratifying to observe their work.’ He rubbed his hands together. ‘But Keith’s right, we best get back to it. There’s a certain Frenchman who’s getting a bit ahead of himself.’

  I removed a pair of overalls from the back of the chair and sat down, my nose wrinkling at the faint smell of engine oil and feet in Benny’s tiny hostel room. A bare hanging light bulb was just bright enough to show a faded picture of King George V hung over a perfectly made bed. A small wooden table was empty except for some personal documents and a notebook stacked neatly beneath two pencils.

  ‘God, Benny, you’re like an old woman,’ I said, glancing into the open cupboard at his polished army boots beside a little tower of washed and paired socks.

  ‘If you’re looking for God, he’s down the hallway in room 214. I think the Queen of Cairo scared him off.’ Benny was kneeling on the floor, rifling through a fat kit bag. He flicked a postcard at me and it flew under the desk.

  ‘Ah yes,’ I said. ‘The Queen of Cairo.’ It was Benny’s favourite bare-breasted beauty from the Wasser, dark hair flowing down her back. ‘Good to see that shawl is still keeping her knees warm.’

  I rested the postcard on my knee and lit myself a cigarette, looking around for an old teacup or saucer to use as an ashtray.

  ‘By the wastepaper basket,’ said Benny, pointing to a chipped white enamel mug on the floor by the door. ‘Don’t make a mess.’

  I sucked on my cigarette, remembering rowdy days off with mates in Cairo. The museum. The mummies. The zoo. The cheap beer that made your guts churn for 24 hours afterwards. ‘Seems like years ago,’ I said.

  ‘Yeah,’ said Benny. ‘Years ago and yesterday.’ He took back the Queen of Cairo and placed her with a neat stack of exotic cards on the bed. ‘This is the pile I’m not giving Joan.’

  We’d weighed the Vimy earlier that day with a full fuel load, as well as our spare parts and tools wired to the inside of the fuselage. She’d still come up too heavy for Ross’s liking, so he’d asked for the 100-pound radio to be removed from his cockpit and told us to ship home everything but our uniforms and flying gear.

  ‘Old Keith’s a funny one, isn’t he?’ said Benny, continuing to pull odds and ends out of his kit bag and line them up neatly on the bed, ‘Trying to tell us we couldn’t take the bloody chewing gum?’

  ‘I know,’ I said. ‘How’d it go again?’ I adopted Keith’s low, plummy voice. “‘I do not chew gum!’’’

  ‘Ha!’ Benny shook his head. ‘Notice he didn’t have a problem with the weight of his new camera.’

  Two boxes had arrived that morning. One was from Kodak Ltd—they’d just announced a •1,000 photography competition as part of the race, and were sending every competitor a new box camera and film. I’d borrowed a mate’s camera a few times during the war, and Benny had his own box at one stage before sand got through it. So we both fancied ourselves as possible contenders for the •1,000 prize. And we both loved all the free stuff we were getting.

  The second box was 100 sticks of spearmint chewing gum sent to every crew by William Wrigley Jr, the American businessman who’d made his gum famous by supplying the British and her allies during the war. Rex Pierson said he’d read somewhere that Wrigley had once sent a free pack of gum to every name in every telephone book in America.

  Benny and I were in charge of finding storage spots for everything on the plane, so when Keith wasn’t around we fished out the bag of emergency rations and shoved the gum in with the Bovril beef extract, Bourneville chocolate, bully beef and biscuits. We had some fishing line and a few hooks in there, too. Ross said they might come in handy if we got stranded like Robinson Crusoe.

  ‘Mate,’ I said, reaching across the bed and picking up a small yellow bowl with tiny white and blue flowers. ‘Where did you find all this stuff?’

  ‘Rasilpur,’ Benny said. ‘You know—that one-toothed bloke with a stall near the RAF barracks. You mended his table that time.’ He took the bowl out of my hand and returned
it gently to the bed. ‘I’ll give that to Joanie.’

  I ran my hand over the little red book of photographs from Genoa. We’d stopped in Italy on the voyage from India, and both bought a copy. There must have been a dozen souvenir spoons lined up on the bed. Letters from Benny’s parents and sisters. A silk purse. A napkin from the Chevrons Club. Matchboxes. A pheasant feather from the Colonel’s shoot. A tiny porcelain doll. A painted tile from Italy.

  ‘Where’d you get the South African collar badge?’ I asked, pointing to the brass springbok.

  ‘At the Chevrons Club that night. A bloke at the bar was selling them for two bob apiece. Good, eh?’

  ‘Hmm,’ I said, flicking through the Genoa souvenir book. I glanced across at him, still kneeling on the floor. We’d all just had haircuts and the short back and sides made him look thinner in the face; younger than his 25 years. ‘So what’s happening with Joan?’

  ‘Dunno,’ he said, without looking up. ‘We both know there’s no point making any promises.’

  ‘Yeah,’ I said, exhaling a cloud of blue smoke. ‘Does Joan want you to come back to England?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘Would she move to Australia?’

  ‘Yeah, maybe.’

  There was a knock at the door. Biffy was on the telephone and wanted a quick word.

  ‘I’ll go,’ I said, pointing to the stack of cards. ‘I’m sure there’s room on the Vimy for Miss Cairo.’

  I strode down the hall to the hostel manager’s office, thinking of the last time I saw Biffy. He and the Colonel were standing to attention in the drive at Cheveney, saluting as we drove off to inspect the Vimy.

  ‘G’day, sir,’ I said.

  ‘Good evening, Wal,’ he said, and I felt a little pang of sadness, or affection maybe. ‘I’m afraid I’ve been called away up north to inspect one or two RAF bases. Might miss the big departure.’

  ‘That’s okay,’ I said. ‘Thanks for everything, sir.’

  ‘Now, Wal, I’m damn glad Ross has got you and Benny in his corner. Keep your wits about you. Err on the side of caution after India. I couldn’t be more proud of you all.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  ‘Dad and Laura have become quite attached to you, Wal. Fine work you’ve done at Cheveney.’

  ‘I received a letter and some photographs the other day from Mrs Borton. Please thank her for me.’

  ‘Jolly good, old chap. You must come back and see us one day. You …’

  He cleared his throat and neither of us said anything for a second or two. ‘Now, if you don’t mind, I’ll need a quick word with Benny.’

  ‘Of course,’ I said. ‘I’ll just go get him. Goodbye, sir.’

  ‘Good luck, lad. Godspeed.’

  I rested the receiver on the desk and ran back down the hall.

  ‘Is he wishing us good luck?’ asked Benny, surprised that Biffy wanted a chat with him, too.

  I shook my head, feeling a tightening in my chest. ‘I think he’s saying goodbye.’

  Chapter 16

  ADELAIDE, 1968

  I pause for a minute, like I always do, right before the race. ‘The 12th of November 1919 was the most important day of my life, boys,’ I say, reaching out for the scotch that Delvene’s poured for me—like she always does, right before the race. ‘It was a year and one day after the Armistice, so the first day of no more looking back at the war. It was the day we took off for home. And it was the day I decided there was more to life than being Ross Smith’s mechanic.’

  OVER FRANCE, NOVEMBER 12TH, 1919

  Boom.

  Boom.

  Boom.

  The plane shuddered and dropped 20 ft, and I snapped awake, smashing my head against the side of the cockpit. Maybe I’d blacked out when Ross started climbing to escape the stormfront over France. I ached to my bones with cold. I couldn’t feel my feet at all, and the roar of the engine and the sickly stench of dope and petrol made my head hurt.

  I scratched at the ice on my goggles with my leather mitt, already hating the useless padded flipper, but my stomach heaved so I rushed to get my head outside the cockpit before spewing porridge and chocolate and coffee. I don’t know where it went.

  Emptying my guts made me feel better. I pushed my goggles up and squinted ahead at Ross and Keith, grey shadows in the swirling snowcloud. Ice had started forming on the rear edges of the wings and there was a little white lump of ice on the fuselage just behind Ross and Keith. Marmaduke II. The freezing gale felt like tiny shards of glass cutting my eyeballs and skin. Then the plane lurched to port and I fell back into the fuselage across Benny and vomited again, mostly water this time. I groped around and settled back on my own side of the cockpit, bashing my head against the shifting spanner I’d fastened with wire into the corner.

  Benny moved his knees over as I eased myself down, rubbing my head with the stupid mitt. The space was originally designed for one bloke standing to man a machine gun. The opening wasn’t much wider than a 44-gallon drum, really, and we were perched on two eight-inch wooden bench seats built opposite each other along the walls of the fuselage. There were fuel tanks between our aft cockpit and the Smith brothers up the front, and there was a thick sheet of plywood between us and the tanks. The plywood had a square of leather padding where we could lean our heads, and we sat facing each another with knees knocking. Sometimes when the plane shuddered I was sure I could hear the sound of sloshing petrol. It terrified me.

  I squeezed Benny’s knee to say sorry for landing on him and for the vomit everywhere. It was a year since we’d flown from Cairo down to India, and I’d forgotten how miserable it was not to be able to talk, our voices drowned out by the roaring engines and squealing bracing wires. I’d forgotten how much I hated bloody airsickness, too, and I’d never had it as bad as this.

  But then, I’d never been at this kind of altitude before. I reckoned we were getting close to 9,000 ft now, maybe more. Benny was lucky. The higher we got, the more he slept. I was cursed by always being half-awake, obsessed with how crook I felt, certain I’d never feel well again, praying it would end.

  We’d designed our cockpit so we could both slump down out of the gale when the weather was really bad, with one of us curled up against the front plywood with its leather padding, and the other stretching his legs toward the tail of the plane. Benny was slumped with his head and shoulder against the front plywood, his arms folded across his chest and his legs sort of twisted and stretched out toward the tail. The bits of his body under the opening of the cockpit were covered with an inch of snow and ice. The fur collar of his new flying suit already looked matted and frozen.

  I’d only seen snow for the first time a day or two back. It was great fun then. I hit Benny fair in the back of his head with a snowball bigger than a fist, and when he caught me he stuffed half the snow in Weybridge down the back of my shirt.

  I hated snow now. Cursed the stuff. I hunched myself into a ball and wedged my mitts between my legs, jamming my toes against Benny’s bench opposite and leaning against the front plywood to brace my body against the lurching and shuddering and falling of the plane.

  Boom.

  Boom.

  Boom.

  The engines roared their perfect tune. Thank Christ. Thank Christ for Rolls-Royce engines.

  The plane lurched again and my guts lurched with it. I threw up over myself. It was only thin bile now and it felt warm on my chin before it froze. I didn’t wipe it off. I didn’t care. I couldn’t think straight.

  Mum came into my head and I felt a pain deep inside my chest. I forced her away again. Not now, Mum.

  Tried to sleep.

  I came to with brilliant sunshine pouring into the cockpit. We’d got above the clouds so the ride was smoother, but it was still achingly cold.

  Must have been dreaming about Keith because he was in my head, now. Funny old Keith. He was the most British Australian I’d ever met, yet I’d never seen him so happy as when he was leaving Britain. Laughing. Joking with th
e press blokes. Even turned his camera on them from the cockpit. Benny said Keith must have had one too many cups of coffee, but I reckon he was just chipper to get away, like the rest of us. I wondered if he and Ross had made a pact to be happy for the press photographers, so their Mum would have those final memories if anything happened on the flight home. Ross was the kind of man who’d think of something like that.

  We got a personal message from the heir to the throne, Prince Albert, wishing us good fortune on our ‘sporting attempt’. Mum would have been tickled pink. And a copy of The Times newspaper was stowed for special air delivery to Governor-General Ferguson in Melbourne.

  Then there was the official weather report: ‘Totally unfit for flying.’

  Ross had warned us it might say that. He also said he’d ignore it. Matthews had taken off weeks ago now, and we’d all had a gutful of hearing about ‘plucky Poulet’ and his handy head start.

  Apart from the press, there wasn’t a big crowd to see us depart. Rex Pierson was there, and a few of the Vickers blokes. Keith Murdoch. Some RAF men and Royal Aero Club officials who stuck the five seals on the Vimy. Our spirits were high when we finally took off at 9.05. Ross rose above the fog to 2,000 ft and we circled three times over Hounslow to make sure the engines were running smoothly, then he set a compass course for Folkstone and the English Channel. Biffy had asked us to look out for Cheveney, and by rights we should have passed close by, but it was too cloudy over Kent and we missed it. Near the coast the view cleared and we waved farewell to Britain and her magnificent white cliffs as we headed across the choppy waters of the Channel. We weren’t far off the coast of France when we saw it—a towering bank of angry storm cloud that looked as solid as the Great Dividing Range.

  I inched up my goggles to squint at my watch, taking deep breaths to try to quell the airsickness. Quarter past twelve. We’d been in the air for just over three hours. I looked across at Benny, still slumped and twisted. I hoped he hadn’t frozen to death on day one. That would make him really cranky.