Long Flight Home

by Lainie Anderson

  Benny and I squeezed in along the fuselage to take up our positions. Ross and that bloody Jonah Keith were already hunkered down near the tail-plane to do the same. I covered my head with a spare bit of tarp, trying to wipe some of the dust from the angry bites and sores on my hands, and as the night turned pitch black I felt the sand start to bank against my boots.

  There was a time I’d have played the Helena game, beating back the dread, boredom or loneliness with happy memories of her.

  Now I played the game of cursing Keith, even though I knew it was dangerous and nothing good would come of it.

  My stoush with Keith had blown up quicker than the Ramadie storm. It had started in Rome, five days earlier.

  Ross received a telegram from Prime Minister Billy Hughes, saying the entire nation hoped an Australian crew would be first home, but urging us not to do anything foolhardy. It was almost exactly the same telegram Hughes had sent a month earlier to Matthews in Cologne, except for one little detail: he’d started referring to the race as a flight from ‘Europe to Australia’.

  ‘That’s interesting,’ I said, peering at the telegram in Keith’s hands. ‘Before now, the Australian government has always referred to the race starting in England.’ I pointed at the words. ‘See how Billy Hughes has started talking about Europe?’

  ‘So?’ said Keith, folding his arms and turning to stare at me so intensely I almost took a step back.

  I looked across at Benny for moral support, but he’d returned to unscrewing the cowling from his port engine.

  ‘Well …’ I pointed back at the telegram. ‘It means they think Poulet’s probably going to win, don’t you think? He left from Europe.’

  Keith raised his eyebrows and kept his voice low and slow, like he was talking to a child. ‘Well then, it’s our job to make sure Poulet doesn’t win. No?’

  ‘Yes. Of course.’ I rubbed my eye. It was after midnight. ‘I didn’t mean …’

  ‘Sounds like you’ve written us off.’ He folded the telegram very precisely and put it in his pocket. ‘Don’t know if I’d want you on my Cricket XI.’

  I couldn’t tell if he was serious or having a lend of me. He was impossible to read.

  I shook my head. ‘It’s not like that at all …’

  ‘Good.’ He cut me off, swatted me away like an annoying bug, and stared at me for a second longer before stepping up into the front cockpit to get his cylinder of maps.

  I must have replayed that conversation a thousand times in my head since then, in the long days and hours on the Vimy when we couldn’t see the earth for heavy mist or driving rain, or were getting thrown around and dropped thousands of feet in the air. Every jolt reminded me of the Jonah’s words—questioning my loyalty after everything I’d done for Ross. After everything I’d given up.

  On Crete I was in no mood for taking his lip. Bed bugs got me good and proper. I was itching all over, tired and cranky. I was also spooked at the idea of flying hundreds of miles over deep, dark Mediterranean waters to North Africa.

  That was when Benny and I hatched a plan: we’d inflate our four spare wheel inner tubes, to use as life rafts if we pitched into the Med.

  Ross thought it was a great lark. Keith rolled his eyes.

  ‘Inflatable tyres won’t save us from sharks if we go down,’ he said, scratching at a red welt on his neck. The beg bugs had spared no one. ‘And when we increase altitude and the air pressure drops, those inner tubes are going to start inflating again.’

  I told Benny to ignore him, and shoved the inner tubes at our feet in the cockpit. ‘They’ve all got valves,’ I said. ‘If they inflate, we’ll just open them up and let the air right out. What’s the problem?’

  But as Ross took us above 6,000 ft to pass over the mountain range running the length of Crete, we must have hit some critical point in altitude because the four inner tubes started inflating so quickly I thought they might lift us out of the cockpit. And they got so fat so fast we couldn’t reach the valves. Panic set in until Benny grabbed his jack knife and punctured them all before they could do any damage.

  I spent the rest of the flight to Egypt scratching at the bites on my hands, desperate to come up with just one line of my poem for Helena but unable to think of anything but the superior look on Keith’s face when he found out about the shredded bits of rubber at our feet.

  Cairo was the worst.

  We landed to a heroes’ welcome; a huge mob of our old RAF mates crowding in around the plane, cheering and shouting hellos as the engines shut off.

  Ross stood in the front cockpit, giving Marmaduke II his customary pat for helping us to a safe landing, before shouting, ‘Well, aren’t you ugly bastards a sight for sore eyes?’

  If there was a roof he would have raised it.

  Jeez I felt proud, standing up there in my cockpit, returning to Cairo in the Vimy with one of Australia’s finest airmen. We were triumphant at the end of stage one. Exhausted and elated and ready to celebrate. We bantered with the blokes below as we peeled off our flying suits, then climbed down to shake hands and be thumped on the back by the gathered crowd. For the first time, it felt like we were really in a race and excitement was building—hell, we might even catch that bloody Poulet.

  In the middle of all that, Keith pushed through and tapped me on the shoulder and announced: ‘Shiers, your engine’s sick.’

  The noise died and it felt like everyone was staring at me—the mechanic standing between the legendary Ross Smith and victory in the Great Air Race from England to Australia.

  I looked back at Keith, weighing up my words while I rubbed an angry bite on my wrist. I knew the engine was running too hot. We all did. That’s what our temperature gauges were for. Ross had throttled her back not long after we hit the African coast, letting Benny’s engine get us across the desert to Cairo.

  ‘I’m aware of that,’ I said, dropping my gaze and looking back at the plane. ‘I’ll have a look at it now.’

  Someone yelled out, ‘Plenty of us lads here to give you a hand, Wal!’ And I was grateful for that. But we had the Vimy routine down pat, so Ross told them to keep the beers cold and we’d catch up later.

  Turned out it was a crack in the induction pipe. Worse, the pipe was aluminium and impossible to fix. Jonah had cursed us again.

  ‘Think, lads!’ Ross ran his hands through his hair. Looked like he was close to tearing it out. For the past two hours he’d sent telegrams to everyone he could think of from England to India. He’d paced around the Vimy, sprinting off to make a call or send a telegram every time he’d thought of another possible remedy. No luck. There wasn’t a spare on any aerodrome in Egypt, despite the small fleet of Vimy bombers stationed out there since the war. Vickers said it would be two weeks before the part arrived from Weybridge. Rolls-Royce said we’d need a new engine and that might take a month.

  ‘There must be some other way,’ Ross said. ‘Something we haven’t thought of.’

  I looked at Benny, racking my brains for an idea. He was standing in the aft cockpit, tapping the shifting spanner in his hand while he thought.

  ‘Isn’t there some way to plug that crack?’ said Ross.

  Benny shook his head. ‘Runs too hot. She’d burn.’

  Ross clasped his hands behind his neck. ‘What about wrapping something around it?’

  Keith looked doubtful. ‘That’d burn too, wouldn’t it?’

  ‘Shit!’ Ross kicked a wheel, hard, his boot thwacking against the rubber.

  ‘Wait a minute,’ I said. ‘You might be onto something there, Ross.’

  He turned to me, still fuming, waiting to hear what I had to say.

  ‘What about a poultice that wrapped around the pipe and plugged the crack without burning?’ I called up to Benny. ‘Mate, hand me the chewing gum from the emergency rations.’

  ‘Is that the Wrigley’s from Weybridge,’ said Keith, frowning and folding his arms as Benny handed me down a small brown cardboard box.

  I didn’t answer that.
Didn’t look at him.

  ‘Not sure where it came from, Keith,’ said Benny, climbing out of the cockpit. ‘Good thing it’s here, though, eh?’

  I rested the box on the lower wing of the plane and folded back the top to reveal two neat rows of gum in thin, white packs reading ‘Wrigley’s Spearmint, the perfect gum’.

  ‘Over the top with Wrigley’s,’ Benny said, mimicking the war ad.

  I took a pack of five strips and handed it to him. ‘Chew these Benny,’ I said. ‘All of them.’

  Then I took a second pack, pulling out a few strips and letting the white paper sheaths and silver tinfoil fall to the floor as I shoved the gum into my mouth.

  As the gum softened, the sharp spearmint taste took me back to my early training days in Egypt, sitting in Bobby’s shade among all the hot, patient Walers, reading one of Helena’s first letters and chewing the gum she’d sent me.

  ‘Ross?’ I held out the half empty pack.

  He took the gum warily. ‘What are you thinking, Wal?’

  ‘Create a poultice.’ I spat out the gum and held out my hand to take Benny’s, too, before pressing the sticky ball into a pad. ‘Wrap it around the pipe. Seal it with tape and shellac.’ I looked at the engine uncertainly. ‘It’s a bit of a long shot.’

  ‘Indeed,’ said Keith.

  Fighting the desire to flatten him, I looked directly at Ross. ‘We’ll know if it’s worked in the morning.’

  Benny took another pack and started peeling back the layers of paper and tinfoil. Little piles of rubbish were collecting at our feet. ‘How much do you reckon, Wal?’ he asked. ‘’Bout the size of a golf ball?’

  ‘Yeah, about that.’

  Ross leaned in to grab another pack. ‘It’s not like we have any better ideas,’ he said, chewing furiously with his mouth open.

  Across the aerodrome two Bristols came in to land, their engines roaring as they taxied past us to a waiting group of air mechanics.

  ‘That’s a sound I miss,’ said Ross, spitting a ball of wet gum onto the palm of his hand before placing it on a piece of discarded tinfoil on the wing of the plane.

  I held out some gum to Keith. ‘How about you, Keith?’

  ‘I don’t eat chewing gum,’ he said. ‘Can’t stand the stuff.’

  ‘Right, good work lads,’ Ross said, oblivious to his brother. He checked his watch. ‘Lord, it’s past 6 o’clock. I need to chase up that fuel delivery in case we can actually fly out of here tomorrow.’ He thumped Keith’s shoulder. ‘Then I’ll treat you to Shepheard’s Hotel, Keith. Need to send some telegrams back to England.’

  Off in the distance I heard the call to prayer. The vast sky was turning pink. We’d need to organise some spotlights.

  ‘Jesus, Wal,’ said Benny as we watched the brothers depart across the airfield. ‘What’s going on with Keith?’

  ‘Nothing,’ I said, holding out my hand. ‘Your gum, sir?’

  He frowned. ‘Nothing? Doesn’t look like nothing. Watch yourself, Wal.’

  I combined the gum into a two-inch ball, rolling it between my palms. ‘Yeah.’ I sighed, looking at all the wrappers strewn at my feet. ‘He’s just so bloody …’

  ‘I know, mate,’ Benny said. ‘I know. Did you hear him telling me to stop standing up in our cockpit because I’m slowing down the plane?’ He rolled his eyes.

  Benny washed down the aluminium induction pipe while I pressed the gum out flat and cut it into long thin strips, keeping it moist with lots of spit. Then I wound the strips around and around the cracked pipe, being careful to smooth over any bubbles and holes and cracks with a wet thumb.

  Working under spotlights set up around the aircraft, and in a mobile workshop pulled up alongside, we finished the job with layers of ignition tape and thin coats of quick-drying black shellac. Then we left it to dry, and walked out into the cool, smoky night to see if any RAF mates were still awake to shout us a drink.

  I breathed in the familiar smell of grilled chicken as we settled onto low stools beside our RAF mate, Taff. The cafe was just outside the base, and had become a favourite haunt when we were modifying the Handley Page for the flight to India. Despite the year’s absence, nothing had changed when we walked through the heavy wooden door. The yellow walls were grimy, brass star lanterns hung from the ceiling and a faded blue-and-white striped curtain led back to the kitchen. Two white-haired Egyptian blokes hadn’t moved since I was last there—they were still drinking coffee and arguing over backgammon in the corner.

  A hunched woman in a black dress and a navy apron emerged from the back with a tray carrying three long-neck beers and hand-painted glasses. She gave me her usual toothy grin when she saw me, and I was just wondering if she knew I’d been missing for 12 months when she leaned across and took my hand in both of hers.

  ‘Ahlan wa sahlan,’ she said.

  ‘Ahlan bīk,’ I said, nodding. ‘Hello old friend.’

  She held my hand a moment longer, rubbing my palm with her bony fingers as she looked into my eyes and chatted away. I couldn’t understand another word she said, but I got the feeling she was happy I was alive. She’d have seen lots of airmen come and go these past years of the war.

  ‘The other blokes gave up,’ said Taff, glancing at his watch. It was well after midnight. ‘Said they’ll see you in the morning.’ He picked up a bottle and filled our glasses with frothy beer. ‘We just heard the news earlier about your two boys. Dreadful business, eh?’

  And that’s how we heard air race competitors Roger Douglas and James Ross were dead.

  Their Alliance Endeavour had taken off from Hounslow a day after us on the 13th of November and crashed into an orchard a few minutes later. An official inquiry was under way. That’s all the newspaper report said.

  ‘Jesus,’ said Benny. ‘Poor Dodger.’

  ‘He had a new fiancée too,’ I said. ‘Poor girl.’

  I’d met Roger ‘Dodger’ Douglas briefly at the Air Ministry meeting, and thought he seemed shy behind his big smile. I told him Endeavour was a clever name for his plane, like Captain Cook’s ship, and he winked and said the Australian press were fond of it, too. Douglas had survived Gallipoli, Pozières and Polygon Wood before joining the Flying Corps, winning the Military Cross and the Distinguished Conduct Medal in the process. If a man like that could crash out so quickly, what hope was there for a bloke like me?

  We all fell silent, remembering two more fallen airmen. Pondering life and death. I wondered about Dodger’s final thoughts as he hurtled toward the earth. I wondered what mine would be. Would I be sad or angry? Grateful for times past, or bitter about moments that would never be?

  I could hear someone singing in the kitchen.

  The old woman reappeared with two small plates of chopped grilled chicken with tomato and cucumber. I realised the only thing I’d eaten all day was a corned beef sandwich somewhere over the Mediterranean, just as we flew over that pair of warships sweeping for mines.

  ‘Bugger it,’ said Benny under his breath. ‘Let’s enjoy this.’ He rubbed his brow and smiled weakly at Taff. ‘So, how are you, Taffy?’

  Ron ‘Taff’ Pepper had served with the RAF’s No. 111 Squadron during the war. We worked alongside those blokes a lot. Played a lot of cricket against them, too. Taff was the only man I knew who’d lost his wife at the Front. She was a hospital nurse, killed in a bomb blast. The night Taff heard, we all gathered outside his tent to keep him company in his grief. No one spoke. No one tried to go inside to see him. There was nothing anyone could say to make it better. When it came time to leave, we put packs of cigarettes by the door as a token of sympathy. There were 126 packets when he woke up the next morning.

  ‘I’m doing fine,’ Taff said. ‘Better for seeing you two safe and well.’ He took a sip of his beer. ‘They say you’ve got to be crazy to fly from London to Cairo.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Benny said. ‘You’ve got to be pretty good at ducking Wal’s breakfast, too.’

  I grinned sheepishly at Taff and toyed with my b
eer glass, rubbing my thumb over the gold detail. ‘What do you reckon happened to Douglas, Benny?’ I asked. ‘Too much weight?’

  ‘Who knows, Wal,’ Benny said wearily, stretching out his legs beside the table. ‘Plenty of Alliance aircraft have flown perfectly well over long distances.’ He rubbed an eye. ‘Taff, I’m losing track of the days. Did you say Douglas left Hounslow on the 13th of November?’

  Taff nodded grimly and we all shook our heads, staring into our beers.

  Plenty of pilots avoided flying on the 13th if they could help it—Ross included. Might sound odd that some of the bravest men on the planet could be so superstitious, but these blokes were all about calculating risk. If something as simple as a lucky leather cap or a toy black cat could increase your sense of calm and help you concentrate at the controls, why wouldn’t you trust in its charms? I’d heard about experienced pilots during the war who wouldn’t fly unless their plane was painted with a particular name or mascot. The Red Baron never flew without his lucky scarf and jacket. Held good for him—until the day our boys shot him down.

  ‘Yep,’ Benny sighed. ‘Maybe it was just bad luck.’

  I gulped my beer and poured another. ‘Plenty of that around.’

  There was a tired edge to Benny’s voice. ‘What?’ He stared at me over the rim of his beer. ‘What are you on about, Wal?’

  Lots of blokes thought it was bad luck to even talk about bad luck.

  ‘Nothing mate. Sorry.’ I shook my head to drive out the demons, and raised my glass. I wasn’t wasting tonight on the Jonah. ‘To Lieutenant Roger Douglas.’

  ‘To Lieutenant James Ross,’ said Benny, raising his glass.

  Then the three of us recited the words of an old No. 1 Squadron poem I hadn’t heard since Palestine.

  There let me be beside the river;

  There will I rest for e’er and ever,

  There will I be in one hundred years from now,

  One hundred years from now,

  Hundred years from now,