Years from now,
From now,
Now.
In Ramadie, our luck blew away in the night. The whirling winds died down sometime in the early hours, and as dawn lightened the eastern sky we could finally survey the damage. It wasn’t good. The Vimy was buried up to her wings in sand. The aileron control wires were broken or stretched. The Jonah had struck again.
‘Dig, men!’ The CO’s deep voice boomed across the desert as his Indian regiment worked furiously to unearth the plane. ‘Dig!’
All morning I kept to myself. Head down, methodically replacing the aileron wires while Benny assessed the engines for any signs of sand or damage. I was exhausted, like everyone else, and I’d scratched the top off an insect bite near the corner of my eye.
I tried to be polite. But on the inside, I was seething. I’d only ever loathed one man more than I loathed the Jonah right now: that bastard Sergeant Copping. I silently dared Keith to have a go at me; to tell me I wasn’t securing the wires tight enough. I’d tell him exactly what I thought of him. I’d knock his bloody block off. I’d throttle him right then and there.
‘Wal!’ It was Benny, standing next to me on the wing. ‘Christ, mate, didn’t you hear me calling you?’
The digging was close to being finished and Ross and Keith were about to start refuelling the plane.
‘You right, lads?’ asked Ross, looking up at us. ‘Where are we with those control wires?’
‘Almost done, Ross.’ I smiled through gritted teeth until he turned back to his fuel cans.
‘Have you done this wire, Wal?’ asked Benny.
‘Yep,’ I said, not looking at him.
‘You sure?’
‘Yes!’ I’d knock Benny’s block off, too, if he wasn’t bloody careful.
Ross glanced up again.
Benny dropped his voice almost to a whisper. ‘Wal, mate, this wire is frayed. If we go up in the air with it like this and hit more rain, she’ll snap.’
‘What?’ I tensed my shoulders, clenched my fists.
‘Hey, Ross!’ Benny was calling across to the boss. Oh Christ.
Ross turned, rubbing his brow with the back of his wrist. ‘What now?’
Benny put a hand on my shoulder. ‘We’ll be back in a bit—just going to get some more wire.’ Then he turned to me and hissed, ‘You, with me.’
I followed him around the side of the workshop. The sun seemed brighter here, beating down on my stinging face. I put up a hand to shield my eyes.
‘Right,’ said Benny, folding his arms across his chest. His greasy hair was on end. He hadn’t shaved, his face was blistered below the line of his goggles. ‘Out with it before you fucking kill us all.’
‘It’s nothing,’ I said, holding his gaze for a moment before looking away. In the distance, kids were playing in the bombed ruins of a stone hut.
Benny rubbed his chin, looking a hundred years old. ‘Bullshit. I know when a bloke’s scrapping for a fight.’
‘It’s nothing. Really.’ I rubbed at the sore near my eye, then forced myself to stop. ‘I’m just sick of Keith.’
He frowned. Shifted his weight. ‘So that’s what this is about?’
Kids’ sing-song voices drifted across the desert. Benny watched them, sucking at the inside of his cheek. ‘Now listen,’ he said, turning back to face me. ‘You’re my best mate, Wal, so I’m going to give you some free advice. Whatever’s going on inside that head of yours, it has to stop …’
I started to apologise for missing the frayed aileron wire and he raised a hand. ‘I’m not talking about that. You’re on the way to saying something, or doing something that can’t be undone. Keith will hate you. Ross won’t forgive you. You won’t forgive yourself.’
‘He keeps running me down.’ I scratched at a bite on the back of my hand. ‘The Billy Hughes telegram. The spare inner tubes. Remember the chewing gum?’
‘Wal, for Christ’s sake!’ He had his hands on his hips again. ‘Okay, he did think the chewing gum was a stupid idea …’
‘Exactly!’
‘But when it worked and you fixed the induction pipe, what did he say, Wal?’
I folded my arms, scowling.
His voice was raised. ‘What did he say, Wal?’
‘He said it was a job well done.’
‘No!’ Benny’s eyes were bulging. ‘He said you were one of the cleverest bastards he’d ever met. And then what did he say?’
I stared at him.
‘What else did he say, Wal?’
‘He said the two of us deserved a promotion when we got to Australia. But then he …’
Benny threw his hands in the air. ‘Yes, he said we deserve a fucking promotion! So what are you on about?’
I pressed a closed fist into my eye socket, trying to calm the angry bite. Almost whispered. ‘He’s a Jonah, Benny. I’m sure of it.’
He stared at the sand and shook his head. Then he leaned his shoulder against the shed. ‘Mate, you’re exhausted.’ He let out a long sigh. ‘We’re all exhausted. But have you ever stopped to think maybe Keith’s bringing us good luck, like Marmaduke?’
‘I’m serious!’ I said. ‘We’ve almost crashed a dozen times. We get bogged everywhere we fucking land. It won’t stop raining when we’re in the air. Look at us!’
‘Yes, look at us, Wal! We haven’t crashed. We’re on the way to India, nearly halfway home. We’re starting to make up ground on Poulet. And you’re too fucking miserable to enjoy it.’
I slumped against the shed wall beside him. Every inch of me was screaming for sleep. The bug bite near my eye was throbbing.
A child squealed with delight in the distance. The CO boomed an order about stacking empty fuel cans onto the tray of the lorry.
‘You’re right,’ I sighed. ‘Y’bastard.’
He rested a hand on my shoulder. ‘Enjoy it, mate. We’re gonna be home soon.’ He turned to stare at the sky. ‘Well—home or dead.’
Chapter 19
BANDAR ABBAS, NOVEMBER 24TH 1919
Ross pushed the pith helmet off his forehead and cupped his hands around his eyes, staring into the blinding desert.
‘Both hacked to pieces, I’m afraid,’ the British Consul said. I looked across at Benny, who was busy checking wires on the port wing. He made his usual face of mock terror as the British Consul continued, ‘We never did find Lieutenant Harris’s left foot. Why the blazes they’d want a left foot is anyone’s guess.’
I turned and peered east, too, wondering if Ross was searching for Poulet’s Caudron in the blue above, or the marauding tribes in the yellow below.
An ambulance vehicle was parked off to the left on an otherwise empty, flat horizon. A big cross was painted on the side of the vehicle’s canvas tarp. Blue sky. White tarp. Red cross. It made for a striking picture, but there was something not right about it, too. The vehicle didn’t belong. It shouldn’t be there.
I forced myself to stop fretting about the flight ahead and concentrate on the aileron wires of the starboard wing, using the tips of my fingers to feel for fraying.
Two Persian kids stood in the shade of the barracks, snotty-nosed, wiry-haired. One had his arms crossed, the other had a leg tucked up like a flamingo. They’d been standing there, perfectly still, for more than two hours, four eyes following every move Ross made. Eyes were always following Ross. He never seemed to notice.
We were in Bandar Abbas on the Persian Gulf. Poulet had passed through a fortnight earlier. After flying around the northern coast of the Mediterranean, he’d finally dropped south onto the same route as us.
So now we knew exactly where he was.
We also knew he had a two-week lead. And we knew he’d already crossed this dangerous, desolate part of the planet and arrived safely in Karachi 730 miles further east. I glanced back to the desert and imagined a group of bearded tribesmen on camelback, dark robes flowing and daggers at the ready, watching the tiny French Caudron buzzing through the cloudless sky. I prayed that we’d pass overh
ead, too, and not crash into a desert canyon in a ball of flames so high it would draw marauding tribes from afar.
‘Take this, Captain,’ the British Consul said, offering Ross a piece of paper. ‘It’s a message commanding the tribal chiefs to grant you safe passage.’ He stared east, too, smoothing down his moustache before slapping Ross on the back.
From my spot on the wing, I glanced down at the document before Ross folded it and put it in his pocket. It was handwritten in something like Arabic. Farsi, maybe. The British Consul’s seal was in the bottom left corner.
‘Thank you, Mr MunGavin,’ Ross said. ‘I appreciate it.’ They’d met earlier in the year on our flight down to Calcutta in the Handley Page. Got on well. Last night they’d chatted over dinner about the Paris talks, Colonel Lawrence and the British and French carve-up of Mesopotamia.
The British Consul took his leave. Ross and Keith watched him go.
‘Do you think his piece of paper is going to save us?’ Keith asked quietly.
Ross shook his head. ‘No. He’s just doing what’s in his power to do.’
They turned back to the map spread out on the wing. Keith ran a palm over the expanse of brown. ‘Are you sure there’s not one spot to land between here and Karachi?’
‘No,’ said Ross. ‘It’s all clay ridges and canyons and cliffs dropping into the gulf.’
‘So if we ditch, and survive, we’ve got to show the murderous tribes a handwritten letter?’
‘Yes.’ Ross smiled. ‘Well, that and my pistol.’ He wiped his brow with the back of his hand. ‘The trick is to get the engines as perfect as they can be before take-off, so we remain in the air. Focus on what you can control. All else is folly.’
Keith cocked his head to one side, scratching his shoulder. ‘Where’d you hear that?’
‘I just made it up.’ Ross looked up at me and Benny. ‘Lads, let’s give those engines one final check, to be on the safe side. And Wal, grab me a couple of packs of that Wrigley’s, would you?’
Before we took off, he walked over to the two boys in the shade, crouched down to shake their hands and gave them each some chewing gum.
DELHI, NOVEMBER 26TH 1919
The woman’s voice startled me. It was soft and suggestive. Very British. Out of place on the sweaty Delhi aerodrome.
‘Thank heavens you’re back, Ross. It’s been so dull!’
Then a man. ‘Don’t you have coolies to do that work for you?’
I poked my head out of the aft cockpit, where I’d been searching for my spare packet of cigarettes.
There were three of them, smiling up at Ross from the side of the Vimy. They’d turned up unannounced, with their white linen outfits and straw hats and tight buttoned collars. Their father must have been important enough for the guards to let them through the gate.
It was about 11 in the morning and Ross and I had just finished refuelling the plane. Keith was meeting with a RAF observer who had some new maps for the route to Burma, and Benny was over in the workshop.
Ross jumped down, apologising for not shaking hands as he wiped his palms on his filthy overalls, and introduced them to me as I climbed down, too. Peter, Dora and Viola Fairweather. Peter had the square jaw and straight back of a wealthy young man. His sisters didn’t look like sisters. The older one, Viola, was short and thick-waisted with wire-rimmed glasses. The other one, Dora, was all white teeth and blue eyes, with wispy blonde hair falling to her shoulders beneath a wide-brimmed boater. Seemed like they’d become quite chummy with Ross when we were here at Christmas in the Handley Page.
Ross stank of petrol. So did I. It suited me fine, but he hated it. Not the work—he relished getting his hands dirty—but if there was a choice between a laundered shirt and overalls he’d always choose to be presentable, especially in mixed company. He’d be annoyed at having to greet them like this, for sure, but his guests wouldn’t know it. The guards who let them through the gate were in for a quiet word, though.
‘Captain Smith …’ It was the older sister this time, Viola.
‘Oh, Viola,’ said Dora, ‘can’t you just call him Ross?’
Viola turned to her sister. ‘I can call the Captain whatever I want.’ She turned back to Ross. ‘Has anyone made the Phileas Fogg connection?’
‘Viola!’ said Dora, flicking a strand of hair from her face. There were small freckles on her nose. ‘What a daft question.’
Ross smiled. ‘I wish I had Phileas Fogg’s London bank account, Miss Fairweather.’
‘Do call me Viola.’
Dora rolled her eyes. ‘Well, he might if you called him Ross.’
Peter grunted. ‘Oh shut up, you two.’
My stomach rumbled. It had been hours since breakfast in the RAF mess. I glanced at all the empty fuel tins that needed carrying back to the lorry.
Ross bent to wipe his hands again on the legs of his overalls. ‘I wish I had Phileas Fogg’s deadline, too. He had the luxury of getting around the world in 80 days. We’ve only got 30 days to get to Australia.’
Viola smiled, adjusting her glasses on her nose. ‘You see?’ she said to Dora. ‘I just knew there was a Jules Verne feel to it all!’
Ross rubbed his forehead with the back of his hand. It made his hair stick out at the side.
Dora clasped her hands together beneath her chin. She was wearing short white gloves. ‘I do hope you get to meet Captain Poulet, Ross,’ she said.
‘Now there’s a curious chap,’ said Peter. ‘Larger than life. Quite the hero. Quite the …’
‘Quite handsome!’ giggled Dora.
Ross raised an eyebrow. He spoke slowly, and I thought there was an edge to his voice. ‘Well, let’s hope I get to meet him sometime very soon.’
A hawk screeched in tall trees by the fence. I swatted away a fly before jumping down from the aft cockpit. ‘Captain,’ I said, trying to sound enthusiastic, ‘would you like me to show your guests around the Vimy?’
‘What a fine idea, Shiers!’ He patted me on the back, nodding to the others. ‘I have to get myself cleaned up. Please excuse me, Peter, ladies. I won’t be long. And then we can leave for the reception.’
‘Oh yes,’ said Dora. ‘It’s going to be awfully fun, Ross. I heard Mrs Agnew is going to perform a song she’s written for you.’
‘Well,’ said Ross, giving me a quick look, ‘how marvellous.’
We’d touched down in Delhi yesterday, 13 days after departing London. Poulet had left the aerodrome just hours before, 42 days after leaving Paris. ‘His Gallic goose is cooked,’ said Keith, when he heard how close we were.
‘We’ve got the French bastard,’ said Benny at exactly the same time.
And I felt the tiniest twinge of sympathy for the man, determinedly pressing on across the skies as our big bomber bore down relentlessly behind him.
Ross had flown 1,450 miles in 18 hours over two days from Bandar Abbas to Delhi, wrestling with the controls to keep the Vimy steady in fierce head winds and turbulence. He was wiped out, almost falling from the cockpit when we landed before tens of thousands of people. He’d been deafened by the engines, too. General McEwan, the RAF chief in India, and dozens of others were lined up to tell Ross what a hero he was, but he couldn’t hear a word they said for three hours.
With Poulet’s lead all but gone and the 30-day target on track, Ross decided to stay an extra night in Delhi to give the engines a good going over, and rest up for the final half of the race.
Benny and I caught up with a lot of old RAF air mechanic mates, too, some from the war and some from the Handley Page flight. They were the kind of men who drift out of your thoughts and into the past, but when you’re together it’s as if time has stood still and your chest fills in a way it never quite does with anyone else. We worked under spotlights on the Vimy with half a dozen blokes gathered around, passing a spanner or a screwdriver while we reminisced about the war years—about who’d made it through and who hadn’t.
Meanwhile, Ross and Keith were in demand with the B
ritish Raj. That’s why the Fairweathers had been dispatched to collect them for a reception at Government House.
As Ross disappeared inside the barracks, I clapped my hands together. ‘Right-o,’ I said. ‘Who’d like to see the cockpit first?’
Peter put his hands in his pockets and turned to look out across the aerodrome. ‘I think we’ll wait for the Captain to show us around. But thanks all the same, old chap.’
I looked at the women. Dora wouldn’t meet my eyes. Viola gave me a thin-lipped smile. I nodded. ‘No problem. Captain Smith won’t be long.’
The hawk screeched again, and a flock of small birds lifted from the trees before settling back down.
I collected up the empty fuel tins and ferried them to the lorry while the Fairweathers strolled around the Vimy, watching and whispering.
Half an hour later, Ross still wasn’t back. I stood reading the signatures and messages people had been leaving in the white G-EAOU letters painted along the fuselage. Then I gazed out across the aerodrome to the white marble dome—a tomb—in the distance, deciding what to do next. The Fairweathers had wandered back to their vehicle, and were standing in the shade beside the barracks. Peter and Dora were sharing a cigarillo, leaning against the car. The rich cinnamon smell of the expensive tobacco wafted toward the Vimy and reminded me of the Bengal Club in Calcutta, and the elderly Sikh waiter with his fine turban. The most magnificent man in the room.
I knew Ross wouldn’t want me to leave the Vimy, so I peeled off my overalls and hung them over the fuselage to air out, straightened up my uniform and retrieved my diary from the aft cockpit. Then I sat on an old wooden chair in the sun, found my page and set to scribbling.
‘Are you a writer?’ It was Viola. She’d come up behind me and was peering over my shoulder.
‘Ha!’ I shut the book, embarrassed by my chewed pencil, my scratchy writing, my words. ‘I’m no writer.’
In the distance I thought I could hear drums. There was a procession near the tomb.
Viola straightened her hat, following my gaze. ‘Gandhi followers and their non-violent protest, no doubt,’ she said, almost to herself. ‘As if there can be such a thing.’
Long Flight Home Page 21