Demon's Well

by E. R. Mason

  Across the street was a small playground with children playing, heavy equipment parked among them. Jax crossed over and sat on a bench to consider his dilemma.

  Hadn’t he been over all of this? No income, no identity, no place to live.

  Looking around there was a painful flush of homesickness upon realizing just how far from home he really was. As he sat in despondence, people began stopping along the sidewalks. Others were emerging from the buildings and staring up. Jax looked up to see what it was about. Overhead smoke trails zig-zagged across the blue sky. Tiny specks were racing around creating them. Some of them seemed to be spraying luminous dots as they went. Jax stood up abruptly. These were British pilots trying to fight off Luftwaffe invaders. Just then a bright red flash erupted to the north. Fragments of an airplane scattered across the sky and fell like metallic rain. Other aircraft were trailing smoke. As he watched, a smoking craft with an Iron Cross on the wing dove down toward the ocean and did not reappear. Now there was a parachute off to the left and another Iron Cross aircraft circling it shooting. A second aircraft fell in behind it and opened fire. The first plane exploded into fragments that rained down around the parachute, but somehow it remained open. Suddenly there were no longer planes in the air only a checkerboard of smoke trails. People spoke excitedly as they returned to their buildings.

  Jax slowly sat down and realized his hand was on his heart. He suddenly understood it didn’t matter what the date was. England was his home in any time period. Those pilots had been risking their lives to fight for their people. What if Skyla hadn’t survived the time jump? The thought was too painful to consider. That would mean there’d be no one coming for him for the next three years. He couldn’t stay in the shelters. They’d want to know why he was here and why he wasn’t serving. He’d need to make up some story about doing business in England, but at 19 that would be a tough sell. At his age there was just no way to make any money here even if he could hide out. Three years of hiding out? And, all that time, pilots in the sky would be trying to protect him.

  Something clicked in Jax’s mind. He stood up and began a brisk walk back toward the car, trotting in places where it did not attract too much attention. Back at the car he climbed in, started the engine, and headed for Number 3 PRC.

  Jax made the Metropole Hotel a little after 6:00 P.M. With the exception of his baggy clothes, it seemed the day had been a wild goose chase. As he climbed the stairs toward his room, voices could be heard coming from above. It sounded as though a celebration was underway. As he entered the hallway a group of uniformed men were crowded around an open door near his. Some were smoking, others had drinks. The drone of the many conversations was upbeat and casual.

  As Jax headed for his door, one of the men spotted him and called out. “Hey, Kent! Come on over here a minute.”

  It was John Allen, the same recruit that had greeted him the afternoon before. Jax repositioned his bags and stopped by his door. “Let me drop the bags, okay?” said Jax in his best accent.

  Jax met them at their open door. It was a boisterous crowd of trainees, two in the hall and inside five more gathered around an appropriated table. Most were puffing on unfiltered cigarettes. They had rounded up chairs and other items to sit upon. On the table, playing cards were spread out among money and other items of varying value.

  John Allen waved his hands and interrupted the game. “Hold on, hold on you rejects! This is our late-comer, Neil Kent. Neil, starting at this end of the table, that’s Scotty there, losing his ass. Next to him Ace, then Marshall and Dice, and on this side with most of the pot, Newsie . . .”

  Newsie objected, “I’m not Newsie,” he yelled. “Don’t listen to him, Kent. I’m not taking that for a call sign, no way. It’s Patterson. I’m Scott Patterson, okay?”

  Jax nodded.

  “Okay, and right here nearest Newsie is Link. So, you’ve now been formally introduced to your group. Welcome.”

  Drinks were raised around the table. Comments were made and someone handed Jax a paper cup. It contained cheap wine. With great exaggeration, they all drank and gave their own versions of cheers.

  “We only get out early enough to do this on rare occasions, Kent. Tomorrow it will be back to the grind,” declared Ace.

  “Hey, you got to sit in for just one hand,” suggested Marshall. “It’s a traditional requirement for any flight group.”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” replied Jax. “Kinda poor, you know?”

  “Poor? Hell, we’re all scraping along. Scotty, will you call already so we can deal him in?”

  After a hasty call after which Patterson raked in the pot, there was a shuffling of personnel and a crate moved into place for Jax. It was a quick hand in which Jax was required to deal. Seven card poker with Jax calling deuces wild. Minus eight shillings later, Jax skillfully bowed out and escaped to the hall.

  Allen patted him on the shoulder. “So how you getting on so far, Kent?”

  “What’d you mean?”

  “Are you acing your tests or what?”

  “It’s been mostly physicals and eye tests and stuff. Haven’t had any real classroom yet.”

  “Yeah, that’s the real mine field, isn’t it. All these guys are goin’ for a front seat, you know? But odds are good not everybody will get one.”

  “No?”

  “Yeah, you already know, you score good in some areas but not others and you end up a navigator, or a radio guy, or a gunner, or bombardier. You got to do good across the board to ride up front.”

  “I don’t know, these guys all look pretty sharp to me.”

  “Glad to hear you say that, brother ‘cause you’ll probably end up riding into hell with some of them.”

  Jax crumpled up his paper cup. “Thanks for reminding me. I better go get some sleep.”

  “What you doin’ there, brother?” Allen took the crumpled cup from Jax’s hand and gently straightened it back out. “You know how hard these are to get, don’t you?”

  “Oh yeah, what am I doing. Sorry.”

  “Well maybe I’ll catch you in some classes tomorrow.”

  “Thanks man.”

  Jax made it back to his room, distributed his new clothes, toiletries, and odds and ends and flopped back on the bed. There was a faint touch of the headache trying to return. Jax escaped to sleep.

  Chapter 15

  The first week of training classes went surprisingly well for Jax. Patterson kept complaining they had already completed Initial Training making some of the classes repeats, but for Jax everything was new, including the camaraderie between the group. Unfortunately however, the morning drill practice was proving to be a serious dilemma. Neil Kent was supposed to have already been trained in close quarter marching. But for Jax, it was a worrisome embarrassment. He kept making missteps trying to anticipate the commands. He had been admonished by the drill instructor so many times he was starting to get the nickname two-left-feet. Were it not for his friends covering for him, Jax might have been faced with some difficult questions.

  The group was most anxious to advance. Patterson kept whining that the only reason they were still there was because no airplanes were available at Number 4 EFTS at Brough. Others found ways to distract themselves. Scotty was continually trying to whittle something out of a block of mahogany taken from a chair somewhere, but no matter how long he worked at it, no form ever took shape leading the others to refer to him as “Whittlers’ Mother.” Dice fancied himself a singer and constantly promised he would hit the big time as soon as the war ended, although whenever he began to sing it always seemed to clear the room. Marshall and Ace were constantly competing with each other over every possible bet they could think of from eye exams to giving urine samples. Link constantly brought out his pipe whenever allowed but never ever loaded or smoked it. Jax spent most of his free time trying to figure a way to check the Leigh Library.

  By the end of the seven day stretch, Jax had caught up his classes and had become the turn-to guy in the group. It
had begun when people in class who needed an answer realized that Jax remembered all things, and as soon as it became comfortable and acceptable to ask him, other problems were proffered for his usually sound advice. This tendency to bind and lead the group did not go unnoticed by the instructors. When packing day for Brough came, Jax found a bouquet of roses on his pack with a note that declared him “Winner of the Miss Congeniality Title.” As he read the card there was coughing and laughter coming from unseen observers nearby.

  It had been a very good week except for one thing, a constant nagging in the back of Jax’s mind. He had not found a way to get to the Leigh Library. There was no way Skyla would ever find him here and it was possible she was already looking. Word was, free time would be available from training at Brough. Jax promised himself he’d get to the designated meeting place even if he had to go AWOL.

  When the bus finally pulled into Number 4 EFTS, another new wave of reality came with it. There were airplanes here. Somehow in the continuous maze of everything that had transpired, Jax had not considered where the precarious path he had chosen was actually taking him. He was here to fly these planes, as impossible as that seemed. That thought in turn triggered a rush of excitement, joy and fear. Maybe subconsciously he had allowed this to happen all along. All his life he had wished to follow in his father’s footsteps and get into the sky, but there had never been the money or the opportunity. Suddenly the chance had arrived big-time.

  Jax gazed out at the open runways. The air had that special smell of oil and fuel associated only with machines that could break the bonds of Earth. This was not a luxury international airport. Just past the south corner of the field there was a huge plant of some sort with tall fat stacks rising in several places. A railway bridge ran nearby. Nissan huts large and small were scattered everywhere with a few brick buildings in between. The place was busy and not well kempt. Between runways the grass was tall. Far in the distance a long hill marked the eastern boundary. But, more than anything else, there were airplanes everywhere, large and small, bi-wing and mono. There air was alive just from their presence.

  Jax shook himself back to the moment and realized he was sitting alone. Suddenly John Allen stuck his head in the door and exclaimed, “Kent, what are you doing? Come on fly guy. This is where we live now. You’re gonna get the bunk by the loo.” Jax stood, grabbed his bags, and followed along.

  Number 4 Elementary Flight Training School was full of surprises. Flight trainees were quartered in one of the Nissan huts, a wide wooden dome with no dividers, one ceiling fan, and a wood stove and chimney at the far end. The bunks were spaced about two feet apart, barely enough to walk sideways between. There was a pack on each bunk with a last name attached. Jax found his and opened it. A new flight suit and gear were folded inside. Whooping and hollering broke out. Jax touched his flight suit in silent awe. He had an urge to try on the oxygen mask but resisted at the thought it might be considered childish. He looked up to find half the others wearing their masks and exchanging high fives.

  On day one classes began at 07:00 A.M. The commissary Nissan hut opened at a “still dark” 05:00. Class number one was everything a student needed to know about the Tiger Moth, a single engine, fabric covered biplane with a sliding canopy. For Jax, it was an enjoyable study and though the aircraft seemed a bit fragile by modern day standards, it offered a surprisingly well equipped instrument panel. The instructor wrapped up his class by asking for questions, then telling his trainees to, “go eat lunch, but not too much, then suit up and meet on the flight line.” Cheering broke out around the classroom. To Jax’s astonishment, he was about to fly.

  Lunch was quick. Back in the trainee hut, a chorus of nervous laughter and apprehensive voices echoed around the room, followed by an exodus of excited students in flight gear funneling out the door.

  For Jax, it was a one hundred meter walk across a grass field to a different life. He stared up at the cumulus clouds drifting by overhead and wondered that he was about to join them. Instructors were pulling trainees from the crowd and leading them to parked aircraft. A few were already inspecting their airplanes under watchful eyes. Jax felt like a fish in a stream waiting to be caught. It did not take long. A scruffy-looking old timer with a bristled crew cut spotted him and signaled with one finger.

  “Kent, right?” he asked.

  “Yes sir.”

  “I usually use the 238 over there. Know the inspection?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good answers so far, son. Go have at it. Maybe I set something up to see if you miss it, eh?”

  Jax gave a half smile and headed for his first flight, although he was already walking on air. This whole affair seemed like a dream.

  There was nothing wrong with the aircraft. Jax turned to find grey-hair standing behind him. “Didn’t find nothing then, eh sport?”

  “The aircraft is ready to fly, sir.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes, sir. I’m sure.’

  “Right answer again. Climb in.”

  Jax glanced around and spotted other students in the front seat of the aircraft. He dropped his gear in and started to climb over.

  “You know why cadets take the front seat?” the instructor shouted.

  “No, sir.”

  “It’s so if you crash this airplane you’ll be the first to go.”

  Jax looked back. The instructor looked dead serious. Jax finished getting in.

  “These aircraft have an intercom. Plug in.”

  With a minimum of fumbling, Jax got his headset and cap on and proceeded to try to figure out the seat belt. The instructor leaned in and fastened it, checking to be sure it was tight enough.

  “You’ll be hanging upside down by these straps,” he said. “Better have them right then.”

  The instructor disappeared behind and a moment later Jax’s headset squawked to life. “Couple things here Cadet. You got a call sign yet?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Okay. Kent will do for now. Mine is Pappy. I would not make any remarks about that if I was in your position.”

  “No, sir.”

  In the distance someone yelled, “Clear the prop area!” The sound of an aircraft engine starting up followed.

  “What’s the stall speed of this aircraft, Kent?”

  “Forty knots, sir.”

  “What happens if you let this airplane get slower than that?”

  “It stalls, sir.”

  “And what’s a stall?”

  “Nose pitches downward and you spin down.”

  “Will you allow this aircraft to get slower than 40 knots, Mr. Kent?”

  “No, sir.

  The sound of more engines starting up filled the air.

  “How do we steer airplanes on the ground, Mr. Kent?”

  “With our feet on the rudder pedals, sir.”

  “You hear those other engines, Mr. Kent?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  ‘You keep your head on a swivel when you hear that sound. These aircraft have a tail wheel, sometimes a skid. Tail draggers are tricky to drive on the ground. You cannot see over the engine cowling and they want to go every which way. With all these rookies around us this is a dangerous place, Mr. Kent. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You see the checklist in the flap next to your leg? Do the pre-start section. Tell me if you get stuck. Willaby is waiting to spin us up when you are ready.”

  “I know the checklist by heart, sir.”

  “Use the list anyway, Kent. Never take a chance on missing a step. It’s easy enough in these Tigers, but in the heavier aircraft there’s a lot more to it.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Jax switched on his main power and heard gyros spinning up. Gages sprung to life. He placed his gloved fingers on the magneto switches and spoke, “Ready for prop, sir.”

  “Well Cadet, yell clear the prop and contact then.”

  As loud as possible, Jax yelled “Clear the prop area.” He w
aved to Wiillaby and called, “Contact.”

  With a quick pull, Willaby put his weight into the prop, spun it and stepped quickly back. The engine caught immediately. The propeller roared to life. The airplane shook in anticipation of flight. Willaby gave a thumbs up and backed further away. Jax waved a thank you.

  By that time, five or six other Tiger Moths were already running and trying to taxi for takeoff. To Jax, it looked like a demolition derby, even though instructors were preventing collisions. Not one plane running on the grass was even headed in the right direction. Two were already stuck in ditches. One plane seemed to be repeatedly going in a circle, faster, then slower, then faster. Engines were revving up and winding down constantly. At one point Jax heard Pappy choke back a laugh over the intercom.

  “Well, Cadet, since none of them others are anywhere near the runway, think you can do any better?”

  “Yes sir.”

  “Well, prove it son. Here’s a hint; do not overcorrect. Side to side to see out front. Try not to embarrass me. All these other guys had a big head start, but you get this bird to the end of 31 and you’ll be the first one up. That’s usually worth a pint at the bar.”

  Jax played it smart. He began with just enough throttle to move the airplane forward then used pulses on the left rudder to turn it toward the runway. The aircraft responded much more quickly than expected and he overshot his heading and had to ease it back. Then, by revving the throttle up and back, he limited his over steering and kept a reasonable course toward runway’s end. No one else was even close.

  His half circle to line up was much too big, forcing him to stop completely and turn the airplane in place. Still, there was not a word of criticism from the back seat which had to be good. With some awkward jerking movements, Jax pulled onto the hardened runway just left of the centerline and stopped.

  “I’ll take that, Cadet. Can you do your run-up?”

  Jax set the brake and gently ran the throttle up to 1600 RPMs. He switched mags and watched carefully. “Left mag okay. Right mag okay.” Mag checks complete, he brought the engine back to idle.