The Great Southern Hotel, George Street, in the city.
The doorman and bar staff clearly knew Barratt, his whole clan evidently, and took plenty of time to pay their respects. Not that Barratt said a great deal, his syllables taking their own sweet time. The order for first ales, however, required no spoken word at all, beer being conspicuous as the only thing within the entire establishment to move at lightning speed. It actually beat them to the spot Barratt found for them at the endless bar. From their conversation, Quinn gathered that Tom had boarded at The King’s School in Parramatta, his family graziers out of Coonamble – about a hundred miles out. Though it seemed the sons of his line had quit the farm at every call since the Boer War.
Quinn took a sip of his schooner. ‘How do you know this place, Tom?’
‘Always come ’ere at Show time.’
‘The Royal Easter Show?’
‘The old man brings down a few prize head for ribbons. Everyone stays ’ere.’
‘You like the city?’
‘Town’s alright… Mum makes a day of it at Foy’s and Horden’s. Station’s home though. Missed the hell out of it at school… Y’folks pay a fortune and the food’s a bloody shocker. Inedible. We came
’ere just t’stay alive.’
Quinn chuckled into his beer. He felt relaxed, plus, he had to admit, proud to be wearing the dark blue uniform in a public place for the first time, their forage caps resting on the counter before them. An older man had sided them a deferential ‘Boys…’ as he passed, a glass of beer raised to them here and there.
‘Too right,’ vowed Barratt, ‘a huge steak medium-rare, onions and eggs’ll keep ya goin’. Breakfast every morning where I come from.’
‘Well I appreciate your bringing me here, Tom. Next beer’s on me.’
Barratt looked him in the eye. ‘Quinn… You’re alright. And look, I’m sorta family here, so don’t worry about Six O’clock Closing.’
‘Barbarous law.’
‘Bloody oath,’ Barratt fairly spat.
‘When I become Prime Minister of this country,’ Quinn winked, ‘it will be on a platform of major social reform.’
‘Hell, I’d vote for ya,’ pronounced Barratt, his face perfectly serious.
Quinn raised his glass. ‘Here’s to a pair of Wings each.’ They clinked glasses, yet their grins became tempered.
‘Wings,’ Barratt agreed. And they drank as one.
Quinn took in the atmosphere of the hotel around him – in the moment, cool and soothing to him. Indeed, he felt as if finally breathing out after the supreme effort of concentration of recent weeks.
Their conversation turned to the war, and to how well the Australian 6th Division had begun it in North Africa, taking Bardia and Tobruk and a whole Italian army prisoner. They spoke of the German general who’d landed in Tripoli back in February with his so-called ‘Afrika Korps’. To Quinn, this ‘Rommel’ seemed a worryingly competent sort of leader, certainly a rude shock after the Italians.
‘’Bout time the Yanks got into the act,’ ventured Barratt. ‘They had pilots in the Battle of Britain last year…’
Quinn had read only yesterday about Greece falling to the Germans, Australian forces there evacuated. He wondered if Barratt had yet…
‘Anyway, Tom…’ Quinn put his empty glass down on the counter. ‘Like another?’
‘Quinn…’ Barratt’s face smiled into many creases. ‘You’re all-right.’
*
After the dinner as promised, Barratt plated his knife and fork with a clatter.
‘Streuth. Didn’t even need sauce.’
Quinn touched his mouth with a serviette. ‘I have to admit, Tom… That was the best steak I’ve ever had. Thanks.’
Barratt looked across at him. ‘You up for some serious drinking then?’
Quinn smiled back at the country boy. ‘Tom, you know how to live.’
‘Well… Y’have to, doncha. Do y’play snooker, Daniel?’
‘Atrociously.’
‘Beu-dy.’
They headed upstairs to a vast games hall, though only half crowded, Barratt organising them a table and cues. Older men either nodded to him or moved aside to let him pass. From a bar stool nearby, Quinn took in the room.
It was darker than the floor below, a long line of snooker tables, a thick pall of smoke at lamp level. The oak wood and green cloth of the tables gave the hall a comfortable feeling, despite an air of old newspaper about the walls. Men sat or stood around talking, some playing, a bit of an argument down the far end, and a steady flow of drinks from the dumb-waiter.
Just staring idly, he noticed Barratt in quiet conversation with a man who seemed a stalwart of the place, other men listening on through sips of beer. From their stance, their high regard for Barratt was apparent. Indeed, he visibly ruled his corner of the room. It always fascinated Quinn when he saw it, and he saw it now… Natural authority.
After a few games, Quinn thought he’d played pretty well, Barratt far better, the beer flowing on, so too the conversation.
‘So, Daniel…’ Barratt lined up a shot. ‘Where do you see yourself headed?’ He took the shot and potted it.
‘Well… On to fighters, I hope,’ offered Quinn as Barratt lined up his next. ‘A Spit’d be good…’ Quinn had heard about the attrition rate of British Bomber Command crews and pilots, a combination of air force rumour and inside numbers telling the grim truth the papers weren’t about to. He knew full well, given Tom’s height, he could be headed one way only. ‘…What about you, Tom?’
Barratt didn’t look up. He considered the table, leant over it, smoothly drawing back his cue. ‘Bombers for me…’ He shot, downing the ball as sweetly as the last. ‘Wellingtons, probably.’
‘Yeah?’
‘Yep. Good aircraft.’ He hit his next ball. It ran…
Quinn was taken aback to see it narrowly miss – Barratt’s first for the game.
‘I may get scrubbed yet,’ Barratt shrugged, reaching into his tunic pocket for another cigarette.
Quinn leant over the table, aimed. ‘Not you, Tom.’ He hit, followed through…
For an instant he assumed his senses deceived him after one-too-many beers.
‘…I got one!’
Barratt shared his laughter and blew a long cloud of smoke. ‘Beu - dy…’
*
‘Right. Give me a bumpy ride this afternoon and you’re finished. I mean it this time, Daniel.’
Saying nothing more, the instructor had climbed into the cockpit behind Quinn’s. The ‘Rear-Gunner Quota’ was washing everyone out – a couple of very good students scrubbed over the weekend. The afternoon was hot, the air dead still at ground level, yet the heat of the day so far would be building bumpy thermals at any kind of altitude. The Tiger Moth was accepted as a tricky plane to fly in turbulent air, and by design: It was subtly unstable in flight so as to emphasise a student’s weak points to the instructor. Quinn knew this was what they called the ‘Scrub Ride’. He’d caught an encouraging thumbs-up from Barratt as he’d taxied past solo to take off ahead of them, and though Quinn’s chest felt gripped in a vice all the way round his prescribed circuits, he’d flown smoothly and accurately. He’d kept air discipline, bounced along through the thermals without once over-controlling, and from the back seat the instructor had said nothing.
‘Alrighty then,’ the voice came at long last through the tube. ‘I’m happy with that… Take her down.’
Yeah, just don’t fuck up now, Quinn said very firmly to himself. That’s precisely what he’s waiting for. Wants you to think you’ve passed already. Nice and over-confident. Then blow it. Well bugger that…
The deep blue ocean out ahead, Quinn put the Moth into the smoothest of shallow diving curves to the left, pulling just tight enough to bleed off sufficient speed for the landing approach, and also to squeeze the instructor just nicely down in his seat with the gravitational force of the turn. … Ride it, ride it, ride the edge of the buffet. Make the plane
say to him, ‘THIS young man is in control.’
At the end of the turn, Quinn straightened, and throttled off down the glide-slope. He readied for thermals off the hot grass as he lowered, guided her in, held her off, off, off, and touched down, tyres rolling.
They coasted over the grass, still headed straight down the field for an immediate take-off. ‘Circuits and bumps’ they called it – sequential take-offs and landings. Once they’d stopped, the instructor would offer a remark or two, then they’d take off again. Quinn turned back to the rear cockpit for the man’s appraisal. Only he did not understand what he now saw…
He’s unclipping. Shifting up in his seat. He’s getting out . What the devil’s he doing? Shouldn’t we cut over to the right and park it first? We’re seriously in someone’s way here! Dead centre of the field… Someone’ll land on us.
‘ALRIGHTY THEN.’ The instructor’s face was right beside Quinn, goggles up. He was right out of the aircraft and yelling something.
Quinn had heard this was how it happened: One day the instructor just got out, you took off without him, and you’d gone Solo.
‘You - have - control.’ There came a firm pat on Quinn’s shoulder. And the man was gone.
They did it that way, or so the barracks talk went, so you wouldn’t build up to a heart attack about it. You just had one on the spot instead.
Settling himself in the cockpit, Quinn peered forward left, then right, craned hard back to make sure no one was about to land on top of him, all clear…
Then drove the throttle steadily forward.
‘React to what does happen. React to what does happen,’ he drummed aloud as the little plane eagerly responded. Tail up, he corrected the left swing…
And was airborne.
As he climbed, a flurry of white and yellow passed off to the right in the afternoon sun. A Sulphur-Crested Cockatoo, unless he was mistaken! No instructor to hear him this time, Quinn laughed out loud.
Checking the altimeter, he saw its needle coming up to 800 feet – all okay – compass heading, North, the canal, the train line, ready for the turn to the West, and the Mountains.
At 1000 feet there was a layer of broken cloud. It lurched on its side as Quinn flew into the turn and flattened out again. Then, with a start, he saw the other yellow aircraft tear past only fifty feet off to the left, overtaking him on the inside at the end of its own more powerful turn.
It was Barratt.
Ahead of Quinn, he barrel-rolled, gracefully, as if round the inside of some giant corkscrew. The roll bled off his surplus speed, reining him back level with Quinn, Barratt, the master, waving casually. Putting on throttle, he drew ahead of Quinn again in a shallow dive, zooming to regain altitude and level out a hundred yards in front. Quinn decided to follow him line astern around the circuit – match his moves if he could – Give her some gas, boy, you’re losing him… But turning south with Barratt for the coastline and drawing closer on his tail, it dawned on Quinn: He was doing it. This was good, he thought. Formation flying! And they hadn’t even been taught that yet!
Right, smiled Quinn, ocean turn up ahead, check down to the airfield for traffic – there, another yellow Tiger Moth awaiting take-off to the north… Coming back in from the ocean, they’d likely fly over him on their inland leg. That was a little way off, just best to know where everybody was in the circuit, be expecting what you saw when you saw it, keep a visual fix on him through the next turns if possible…
Over the coast, Barratt took the turn east, Quinn following suit, total attention on keeping formation. Now he scanned inland. Where’s our friend on take-off? No. Lost him. Where is he? Damn it. What’d he do, taxi off and park it? Maybe he’d just landed… Quinn couldn’t ask the control tower – The Tiger Moth had no radio set. He fixed his eyes back on Barratt for the bank to the north. There he goes, curve it behind him, and straighten, nice one.
Heading inland behind Barratt, Quinn checked the flight-line down to the right as they flew over it. Nine Tiger Moths parked. Twelve in the Squadron. So three in the air right now. Where’s number three ? Must have taken off…
Quinn peered forward: down ahead left, down ahead right, then saw him – coming up under Barratt from slightly behind. Flying straight and level in the circuit, Barratt couldn’t have seen him yet – They called it the Blind Spot, below and behind. Barratt at cruising speed, the third aircraft on full throttle for take-off, it was up to the climbing pilot to see Barratt. The bloke’s instructor would, surely!
Unless Barratt was in their blind spot…
Above their upper wing.
In horror, Quinn saw the vertical space between the two Tiger Moths ahead of him running out. He jammed the throttle forward, pushed into a shallow dive to pick up speed – try to come alongside Barratt and wave him off.
As the sun went behind a cloud, Barratt’s eyes were able to relax behind his goggles for a moment in the absence of glare. He looked out to the right, over the afternoon sunlit city.
‘Piece-a-piss,’ he grinned.
Tom couldn’t rightly understand it: No error, he was grateful, relieved for the fact, but where most blokes seemed to be struggling with the whole flying caper, Tom found it easy. He applied himself, sure, listened damn hard to what he was told, did what he was told. But the training, the whole military rigmarole, it felt the simple next step after boarding school, and the flying… the flying was just beaut. Like a horse sent from Heaven.
He looked out left, to the Blue Mountains. Beyond them, in a golden afternoon haze, the West. Finish the course – rumour was he’d top it – then back home out to Coonamble for a nice spot of Leave. Do a bit of riding. Yes… Still, that could wait. Yes, it could. He scanned for other aircraft, all clear, looked back to the controls of the Tiger Moth. And smiled as the sun came out again.
Engine gone mad, Quinn had closed the distance, up with Barratt now, Barratt saw Quinn: What’s he doing? – waving like a retard, palming, pointing… Barratt understood just as the pilot and instructor of the climbing aircraft saw Barratt’s aircraft not two feet above their heads…
Quinn saw them crunch together in a sandwich of splintering spruce-wood and fabric.
Then arc as one downwards, a flailing, windmilling tangle, all the way to the airfield a thousand feet below.
Quinn could have sworn he’d seen calm in Barratt’s face, before a frenzy of unclipping as, half out of the cockpit, spasms of escape, his body fell away – No parachute opened. The lower pilot and instructor never stood a chance.
Quinn nursed his aircraft round the circuit, glided directly over the scattered wreckage, and landed at the far north end of the field.
Barratt had been scrubbed.
*
Rumour said the other pilot had been dead before he hit the ground. The instructor? You couldn’t tell, evidently. He’d been decapitated.
Barratt’s family were offered a military funeral for their son, which they accepted, to be held out in Coonamble. When Quinn applied for two days’ leave in which to reach, attend, and return from it, the request was denied: His training schedule couldn’t be held up.
He’d started a letter to Barratt’s parents, though, when he found himself writing about their son as the best pilot on the course, he’d crumpled it and thrown it in the bin.
Blind Bad Luck had been the unofficial verdict. It must have been, given the known abilities of Barratt and the deceased instructor.
At the end of May, Quinn’s training at Mascot would be over. Since it began, his instructor had taught him many things: Subtlety of control. Air discipline. The value of experience and never moving outside what you’d accrued. Many things… Though nothing, nothing at all, about Blind Bad Luck.
What else? Quinn wondered… What else had his instructor told him nothing at all about?
CHAPTER FOUR
June 1941
Quinn had seen practically the entire Elementary Flying Course packed off to Wireless Air Gunners School. With more of them in Royal Air Fo
rce Bomber Command than any other crew position, more of them were dying. So more were needed. Of the course, a handful of the most acutely intelligent had been culled out as Navigators and off to Air Observers School, and just a jubilant few for training as Bomber Pilots. The gloom of the fateful orders had been lightened somewhat by the announcement of so-called ‘inter-course leave’, though the mood of blokes was pretty grim.
As the twin-engined Avro Anson lifted off from Mascot, just the pilot and Quinn aboard, from the co-pilot’s seat he peered out of the sturdy transport aircraft’s green and brown camouflaged form. As they climbed, Sydney passing beneath, the Blue Mountains came into clear view ahead, Quinn’s destination, Number 2 Service Flying Training School, Wagga Wagga.
And Fighters.
He’d made it. The only one; there’d been a single opening. His ‘Pilot Ability Rating’: Above Average. No one had made Exceptional.
No one would be staying home to instruct.
Quinn looked at the map on his knee. The flight would take them about 300 miles inland south-west of Sydney. From his seat next to the pilot he’d take advantage of the navigation practice the long flight would provide.
Only on his home leave had Quinn realised his tunnel-vision of the past month: At Killara he’d had seven whole days of sweet nothing to do but sit with cups of tea by the wireless, read the newspapers, he’d even gone with Matt to a few newsreels. There he’d seen how, just last month, Rommel’s attack on Tobruk had been repulsed – by the Australian 9th and 7th Divisions mainly, who were now dug in. By contrast, the last newspaper item he’d read had been thoroughly depressing: The strategically crucial island of Crete in the Mediterranean had fallen to the Germans only days ago, with thousands of Australian and New Zealander troops having to be evacuated.
So hectic had been his final weeks at Mascot, even thoughts of Tom Barratt had receded. More than anything now, Quinn felt one step closer to the war. Coming out of the newsreels, it felt like it was being won. Closing the Sydney Morning Herald, things seemed far bleaker. A couple of times, in the cockpit of the Moth – a few thousand feet up and no radio – he’d felt all alone on his path. Back on the ground again he felt just one of many thousands, converging as they were from all corners of the Empire, so said the newsreels. But now, for the first time since his initial interview, it seemed he might actually get there. The prospect of going to war was taking on the feel of reality. It shot him with fear, sometimes elation, until his blood seemed to settle on a tantalising fusion of both. In any case, he reflected, he had no choice now, none of them did. No option but to play their part defending Britain, in a war they had no option but to win. Some blokes talked about defending their way of life. Whenever Quinn woke up afraid, he struggled back into sleep drumming into himself what was at stake: the peace and welfare of his parents, a normal life for his brother and sisters, for Mr Reiser.
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