Long Flight Home

by Lainie Anderson

  Every inch of me was stiff and screaming, but the sun on my face felt good so I wriggled around to kneel up on my bench for a look outside. It was a wondrous sight: the Vimy’s tiny shadow dancing across towering, puffy cloud formations under the widest, bluest sky. I considered waking Benny—seemed wrong not to share something so beautiful. But then Keith stretched his arms in the cockpit ahead and must have sensed me out the corner of his eye, because he turned to give me the quickest smile and nod. He bent back over his work, and I pictured him studying his Admiralty compass and calculating the speed and the wind drift. He was marking tiny lines at 15-minute intervals on the map to determine our likely flight path.

  Ross was unmoving, as solid and resolute as tiny Marmaduke II, screwed onto the fuselage behind him.

  Mist began to engulf us and I noticed large bits of ice suddenly whipping off the propeller blades and crashing against the wire shields positioned either side of the front cockpit to protect Ross and Keith. The semi-circular shields were only a foot or so high but Jack Alcock said they were lifesavers in icy weather. Watching those Smith boys bent to the task, mist swirling and ice crashing around their ears, I felt pride and gratitude swell in my chest.

  The Vimy lurched again, and I hunkered back down in the fuselage just as the plane dropped 10 ft. For five minutes we were tossed around like an empty bottle on an angry sea. I covered my ears to deafen the racket of engines, the heave of straining wood, the scream of struts and the slosh-slosh-slosh of petrol. I promised God I’d be a better man if everything just held together to get us down. I lifted my elbow and retched what was left of my stomach down my jacket, wondering if I’d live to clean it up. I was freezing and hot and suffocating. Couldn’t breathe. I tried to rest my head but it kept banging against the fucking shifting spanner.

  Boom.

  Boom.

  Boom.

  ‘Wally!’

  For the first time in months I heard Helena’s voice, clear as day. Like she was sitting right there in the cockpit with me. ‘Wally!’ My eyes snapped open, but my goggles had iced over again. I wondered if it was like this under a frozen river, daylight so close, so far.

  I pressed my chin into my chest, and shut my eyes to block her out. She wouldn’t go. ‘Wally!’ Helena—in a wedding dress. In a chapel. Alone.

  What had I done to her?

  I’d put her second. After everything I’d promised, after all the months and weeks and days she’d waited, I’d stayed away. I hurt the only girl I’d ever loved.

  I pictured her face, confused and sad as she read my letter. The look of hurt as she explained to her Mum that I wasn’t coming home. Sweetly, patiently enduring Mrs Alford’s sympathy, but desperate to be alone. Folding a wedding dress that she’d been making since 1915, putting it in a drawer to stay hidden, along with her sadness and shame.

  Why had I never pictured that look of hurt?

  My head banged against the shifting spanner and I let out a sob as I retched down my side.

  Bang. Fool.

  Bang. Fool.

  Bang. Fool.

  Fool! You think Ross Smith’s going to give a damn about you when this is all over? If it’s ever over. If you live.

  At the end of the day, there’s only ever family. Mum told you to always remember that. But you don’t have a family because you gave it up.

  You don’t deserve Helena. You never deserved her.

  I don’t know how long I sat like that, ashamed and hating myself with a fury more fierce than the storm over France. Then someone shook me roughly by the shoulder and I heard a distant voice. ‘Wally!’ And it was Benny and the Vimy was banking and I scrubbed at my goggles and stretched up to see the plane swooping into a wide spiral through a gap in the clouds. Far below was farmland and a small town blanketed in snow. Benny was gesturing triumphantly: you beauty Ross and Keith!

  He pointed at his wrist to show me his watch. Three o’clock. We’d been in the air for six hours. I felt like I’d aged 60 years.

  When we got beneath the storm clouds, we headed away from the town over pretty countryside for maybe 40 miles, and in the distance I saw aircraft hangars in a sea of white. It was supposed to be Rome. That’s where Ross had told the press blokes we were headed. But it sure didn’t look like Rome. Did it even snow there?

  Who the hell cared where it was, because we weren’t falling, we were landing. I wasn’t going to die. And I had an idea that just might get my girl back.

  Chapter 17

  LYONS, FRANCE, NOVEMBER 12TH 1919

  The airfield was coming up fast. We sat facing one another in the tiny cockpit, knees knocking, and tried to brace ourselves against the impact. When the Vimy’s wheels hit the snow, we were hurled forward and my shoulder smashed the rim of the cockpit just as the propellers hurled a wave of white over the plane. We came to a stop and I sat there for a second, coughing and trying to work out if anything was broken. Then Benny was laughing and slapping the side of my knee and my ears were ringing.

  ‘Bloody hell!’ He was yelling. ‘Bloody hell! What a lousy few hours!’ He pulled up his goggles and started shovelling snow out of the cockpit with his mitts.

  ‘How would you know?’ I said, easing my screaming joints into a standing position. ‘You slept through most of it!’

  ‘You lads right?’ Ross shouted as he and Keith stood and eased themselves out of the front cockpit.

  ‘Yes, Captain!’ I yelled out of habit.

  The hot engines stank, hissing and sizzling in the cold, wet air. It was mid-afternoon and gloomy with twilight.

  I hoisted myself up to sit on top of the fuselage, and noticed half a dozen blokes in the distance, approaching from the airfield hangar. ‘Hey Benny, d’ya hear the racket in the starboard engine?’

  ‘You reckon it’s the exhaust manifold?’

  ‘Yep. Day bloody one.’

  Only one of us could climb out of the cockpit at a time. I left Benny trying to regain the use of his limbs and dropped down from the plane into snow a foot deep. After rubbing the blood back into my legs, I walked stiffly over to Ross and Keith standing near the front of the plane.

  ‘Wal! Good to see you,’ said Ross, wincing as he reached out to pat my shoulder. ‘Sorry, mate. That was unpleasant.’

  ‘Wasn’t too bad in the back,’ I lied, noticing an ache in my chest as I wiped frozen porridge from my flying suit. ‘I didn’t know it snowed in Rome.’

  Keith raised an eyebrow. ‘Rome be buggered, Wal, we’re in Lyons.’

  ‘Ah, that makes more sense,’ I said, looking across the open fields.

  I stepped toward the starboard wing. ‘Just going to take a look at my engine.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Keith, eyeing the engine warily. ‘Something’s not right.’

  ‘You think Wal doesn’t know that?’ Ross said impatiently, removing his flying cap. His hair was wet with sweat. He looked bone-weary, like he’d been in the fight of his life.

  ‘Found a spare manifold!’ yelled Benny from the back cockpit. ‘In here if we need it.’

  Ross groaned as he tried to move his head from side to side. ‘Never flown in anything like that.’ He rubbed his right shoulder. ‘Jesus, what a silly ass.’

  Keith glared at him. ‘Enough now. We’re fine. The Vimy’s fine.’

  Ross glared back. ‘I realise that,’ he hissed. ‘I landed the damn thing.’

  Across the snow I could hear French voices as the men got closer. I hauled my stiff bones onto the starboard wing, careful not to slip on ice and snow or touch the hot engine, and examined the manifold on the side of the cowling. ‘Yep, she’s cracked alright.’

  ‘Dammit,’ said Ross. ‘Day bloody one. Vickers needs to know about that.’

  ‘Can you fix it?’ Keith asked.

  ‘Of course he can bloody fix it,’ Ross snapped. He turned, wincing with the effort. ‘Benny! Where are the tarps? They’re not up in the front cockpit where they’re supposed to be.’

  There was silence for a second or two
.

  ‘Benny!’ Ross roared.

  ‘Sorry, Ross, they’re back here,’ called Benny, his voice muffled inside the fuselage.

  ‘Get ’em out,’ said Ross. ‘These cockpits need to be covered before it snows again.’ He clapped his hands to keep warm. ‘We’ll worry about the manifold in the morning. Too bloody cold now. Be getting dark soon, too.’

  I looked at the two brothers. Their eyes were thin slits in red welted skin.

  Out of nowhere I pictured my brother Jack. I’d seen him look exactly the same once, the time he took on six-foot Davey McArdle in Broken Hill. Jack lost two weeks’ pay at the mine for fighting, and his terrified kids thought he looked like a monster. He’d still said it was worth it. ‘Only fools pick on people who are different,’ he’d said, ‘and cowards watch while they do it. I couldn’t let it stand.’ I’d never admired him more.

  I eased myself off the wing of the plane and stood beside Ross. ‘You took your goggles off,’ I said.

  ‘Yeah, they kept freezing over,’ he said, dabbing at his raw eyes. ‘Gauges froze. Food froze. Everything bloody froze.’ He winced again as he put his hands on his head and stretched his back. ‘It’s got to get easier,’ he said, almost to himself.

  Not since the war had I seen men look so crushed.

  ‘Bonjour,’ Keith called, striding out to greet the French blokes, shaking hands and introducing them to Ross. I couldn’t make out what they were saying, but there was a lot of gesturing and astonishment when Ross said something about flying from London. I don’t think they could believe it.

  ‘Benny,’ I called. ‘Let’s get the water out of the radiators before it freezes.’

  I could hear Ross and Keith using scrappy French and a lot of English to ask if a delivery of fuel was possible before daylight. Benny and I drained the scalding, spitting water before covering the engines with tarps. It was getting dark by then, so Ross organised for us to sleep in a hangar while he and Keith caught a lift into Lyons to send cables back to England and find themselves a place to stay.

  From the air we’d seen an impressive town nearby, with a huge cathedral on a hill and a winding river. But that was the closest Benny and I would get to it. Back in Weybridge, Ross had spelt out the rules: us mechanics were in charge of keeping the machine running and the plane safely guarded; he and Keith were in charge of refilling the petrol and oil tanks, dealing with local inhabitants, sending communications back to England and resting up so they could concentrate in the air. If anyone was going to sleep rough with an empty stomach, it was us mechanics.

  ‘I’ll bring you something to eat in the morning, chaps,’ Ross said as he and Keith peeled off their flying suits. In his uniform Ross looked almost like his old self.

  True to his word, he arrived at 7 am carrying a long thin loaf of bread under his arm and some sticky cheese wrapped in paper. They’d both had a wash and a good tidy up. Their eyes looked better, too, but their faces were red raw and they were both unshaven. Benny and I had spent the night in our uniforms, curled up in old tarps. I was unwashed and starving, but I’d had a decent rest. After the war I could sleep anywhere.

  ‘Where’s the fuel?’ asked Keith without saying hello.

  Benny shook his head, sniffing warily at the cheese. ‘Jesus, this Frog cheese smells like a dead man’s feet.’

  ‘Fuel should be here by now,’ said Ross. ‘Where the devil is it? Keith, take care of that, will you?’

  ‘Right,’ said Keith. ‘I’ll see if I can get a lift back into town.’ And he was off, striding toward a couple of young blokes in the hangar.

  Benny and I got to work repairing the manifold while Ross went to ask for some hot water to refill the radiators. An hour or so later, there was still no sign of Keith, no petrol and no hot water. Mist was swirling and snow was threatening, reducing the horizon to a flat grey gloom across the airfield. A dozen French mechanics were hanging around at the front of the hangar, chatting and laughing as they watched us work.

  Benny nodded toward them and spoke in a low voice: ‘Wonder if they’re playing funny buggers to buy Poulet some more time.’ He continued muttering as he secured the engine cowling. ‘So much for Australians dying in their tens of thousands to save the French.’

  ‘Nah, Benny,’ I said. ‘You’ve heard Ross and Keith’s lousy French. I’m sure they just don’t understand what we need. Ross’ll sort it.’

  But I did wonder if he was right.

  Poulet’s Caudron G4 biplane was most likely built in Lyons. Lots of the big French aviation companies moved their headquarters out of Paris when the Germans looked like taking over the capital at the start of the war. Poulet’s hero Jules Védrines, the French aviator who’d lost his life while planning to fly around the world, had died not far from here. There could well be deep sympathies for both men. And who could blame these people for wanting a Frenchman to win the first race across the world? For as long as I’d been reading about aviation, the French had been winning races and breaking records.

  I didn’t say any of that to Benny. But I did remind him that more than a million French lads had died in the war alongside our boys. It was only fair to say that.

  A battered French army lorry rolled up with Keith glowering in the passenger seat.

  ‘I’ve got the fuel,’ he called. ‘Three hundred lousy gallons.’

  ‘Damn it!’ said Ross. ‘We’ll need double that if we’re going to make Rome.’

  Benny and I unloaded nearly 80 four-gallon cans off the back of the lorry and stacked them beside Ross. He in turn handed each can up to Keith, who stood on the lower wing to pour the fuel into the tanks between our two cockpits. All fuel was poured through a leather chamois and funnel, to stop water getting into the tanks. Ross had a rule that only he or Keith could pour the fuel, to ensure he knew exactly what was going into the tanks.

  A while later, Benny and I were tying down our tools and rearranging our cockpit when we suddenly heard Keith raising his voice. ‘Is this some kind of joke?’ he said angrily, glaring down from the wing. ‘That’s not enough!’

  A young French bloke with a mop of dark hair and a lopsided grin was standing beside Ross with a small jug of hot water.

  ‘Sorry, Buck,’ said Ross. ‘I should have made myself clearer.’ He turned to the Frenchman, speaking very slowly. ‘We need 24 … deux quatre—’ Ross held up two fingers as he spoke, followed by four fingers, ‘—litres of hot water for the radiators. I think the French word for more is “plus”.’ He smiled at the young man. ‘We need plus.’

  ‘Plus!’ yelled Keith, pointing at one engine and then the other. ‘Plus! Pour radiators. Pour engines. Seal voo play. Plus!’

  ‘Jesus, Buck, your French is worse than mine,’ said Ross. It’s s’il vous plaît. So much for that Queen’s College education.’ He held up another fuel can for Keith, waiting to receive an empty in return.

  The young Frenchman placed the jug carefully on the wing beside Keith and hurried off. In a few minutes he was back. Holding another small jug of hot water.

  ‘Oh dear,’ muttered Ross.

  ‘You stupid bloody fool!’ roared Keith. ‘What does a man need to do to get some fucking hot water around here?’

  The Frenchman started gabbling something like ‘razor’, pointing from the jug to his cheek and then to Ross’s cheek.

  ‘Shave,’ said Ross. ‘He thinks we want to shave.’

  ‘I don’t want to bloody shave,’ yelled Keith, shaking his head and waving his arms furiously at the two engines. ‘I want to fill the fucking radiators and fly out of this forsaken fucking country. Plus! Plus!’

  ‘Calm down, Buck,’ said Ross. ‘It’s not their fault our French is so bad.’

  I jumped down from the back cockpit and grabbed two of the empty four-gallon fuel cans at Ross’s feet. ‘Benny,’ I said, ‘grab some more empty tins.’

  I walked over to the young Frenchman, held out a can and said ‘plus’ like Keith had said it. The lad smiled his lopsided grin and nod
ded excitedly, emptying the two small jugs onto the snow as he led the way and chatted in French like we were old friends. I enjoyed the sound of their language, the way the words rose up and fell all the time like waves. While he filled our tins, Benny and I searched around and found a large blow lamp. A couple of Frenchmen helped us get it set up, and brought us strong black coffee to drink while we waited for the water to heat. By 10 o’clock we’d refilled the radiators and were heading into the sun to Italy.

  OVER FRANCE, NOVEMBER 13TH 1919

  There was a young girl from Narrandera

  I’d decided to write a poem. Maybe have it cabled to Helena. A poem so loving and clever, I’d win her back forever.

  But from the French Alps to the Mediterranean coast, I got stuck on seven words.

  I wrote them, and then I crossed them out. Over and over and over.

  Chewing on my pencil, agonising over the next line, panicking that it wasn’t just a matter of application like Colonel Borton had said. Not for a bloke like me, anyway.

  Not far from the sea, Benny carefully placed his Kodak camera at his feet, took the pencil and notebook from my hands and scrawled across the page …

  There was a young girl from Narrandera

  Whose boyfriend was quite the philanderer

  Underneath he wrote …

  Get better at writing limericks or find new girl!

  WATCH BELOW!!

  He underlined everything three times, then handed back my notepad and damp pencil stub.

  And the view of the French countryside was worth watching. Golden stone villages carved into hillsides. Dark, winding rivers lined with green. Neat slabs of forest and farmland rolling toward the blue Mediterranean. Its beauty made my heart hurt for my brother, buried somewhere in a French grave I’d probably never see. I’d never even cried for Bill. Barely thought about him now. My favourite brother. What did that say about me?

  Ross started dropping altitude as we approached the coast, and when we got a bit lower I began to notice the white country roads and village streets speckled with people looking up at us as we flew over. Keith had told us he was setting a compass course for Nice, before heading north-east around the coast into Italy.