I
haven’t said much about Jennifer. Maybe that’s for the best.
We
did continue to see each other. It was good to have someone else to think
about.
My
officers and men were busily engaged in landing practice, firing practice,
high-altitude practice, and aerobatic practice. Even now, we had just received
three new pilots, more technical trades, and more soldiers to provide
additional security were expected shortly.
Having
a spare moment to think of Jennifer, our last conversation ran again through my
already stressed-out mind, a jumble of facts, figures and potential problems.
All were momentarily pushed aside by thoughts of her. And I couldn’t quite
figure out if I loved her or not. That just seemed so unfair. Let me tell you,
I was happy enough in not having sex with her. It was kind of sweet, in a way I
personally didn’t know much about.
Back
on the farm, a few of my buddies had sweethearts. My best friend was married.
He and his wife had a little boy. He couldn’t even be drafted because he was
the head of the household of a family farm, which I told him was excellent. He
had the candor to agree, but asked me not to put it around too much.
He
loved his wife and little boy something fierce, and he had this look in his
eye, a little too much white around the edges.
“Best
thing is to live with it, under the circumstances.” That’s what I said at the
time.
People
used to worry about being called a coward, after some young girls gave out
white feathers on the streets of Toronto, or Montreal. It’s all so long ago.
I
stand by that, actually. Just because those of us who went were condemned men,
and we understood that after a while, there wasn’t much sense in dragging a
bunch of other innocent bastards into it. There were some guys who felt
differently, in fact a lot of men felt different. They were just griping,
mostly. These were the guys who were later credited with cheerfully sacrificing their lives for the upper-class
establishment.
I
can assure you of one thing. They were not, fucking, ‘cheerful.’
Voices
could be heard outside of the command building as men began to unload
truckloads of engines. Because we needed the trucks, we moved crate after crate
to the rail siding and our guarded lockup. This was built from hastily-requisitioned
(stolen) wire and timbers. Guarded twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week.
We were all getting tired of that shit. Oh, well. It’s lonely at the top. We
were so short-handed, sometimes I was the only one who could be spared.
***
Jennifer.
Jennifer’s
parents lived in the fashionable west end of London. I went around to meet her
parents. It turns out her dad wasn’t a cabinet minister, but some government
bigwig nevertheless. Her mom and dad were very nice.
Apparently,
she told them all about us going for a ride on the bike, and explained why she
hadn’t been home at all that night. Members of the capitalist, or leisure
class, they could probably live on the interest or income from their properties
and ventures. And yet they couldn’t just walk away from power either, could
they? Money and power go hand in hand. Members of a social class, her folks
were used to their daughter arriving home at dawn after some gay ball, but when
she didn’t come home at all, they were a little worried.
He
told them pretty well, always with one eye on his wife and one on myself, ‘The
only other ally he had.’
The
butler grinned. Apparently he was a friend of the family and belonged to
generations of O’Ryellys or some such. Family retainers, is my interpretation.
Badly wounded, he seemed pretty grateful to have a job.
Lucky
to survive, by the looks of him. My host began another tale.
“Ralph.”
His wife Mary chided, and he changed anecdotes in mid-stride. I couldn’t help
but grin anyway, because with my own quick wits I could see where the story was
going.
My
eyes traveled over the wealth of family history displayed upon the walls.
“He
fell on his bum.” Chimed in Zoe, the youngest, a bright-eyed child of maybe
three and a half years.
We
all laughed. She had kept us all going since walking in the door. Perhaps she
was on display as well, if you can imagine their pride. I was on display. That
much was clear, and the house was aquiver with the romance of it all. This
strange, tall figure was their eldest sibling’s, ‘beau,’ with all that the word implies.
Number two sister.
Thank God, I just wore a
plain old dress uniform, no over-decorating. Having made it through dinner all
right, the adults and the oldest sister withdrew into another room while the
table was cleared. The small ones stayed behind to pester the servants with
their cheerful banter.
I
followed Mr. and Mrs. Bolteman in, with Jennifer at my arm.
By
now her kid sisters worshiped me. I could just imagine them sitting on the bed
late at night and discussing me in fine detail. Lord save us from women, eh?
It’s
like they had it all planned out.
“So
tell me about this Member.” I
prompted.
“Oh,
he’s not so bad.” Mother replied for him. “He gets his point across, and of course
that annoys Ralph and his cronies, noisy old bunch of hens that they are.”
I
could see that old Ralph might have a hard time of it, but he seemed to have
thick skin where the sweet wife was concerned.
His ‘better half,’ or some such ilk.
“She’s
right of course.” Winked Mr. Bolteman. “We have a drink together from time to
time, and we get along just fine. It’s just that some of his tactics are simply
juvenile.”
My
Jennifer sat there on the sofa, and it really sucked when the old fellow
cleared his throat and asked the old, “So where do you plan to go in life,
young man?”
A
surprise attack, and pretty nice work by the way.
“What
are your credentials for dating my daughter?” He continued.
And
for whatever reason, it kind of floored me. But then I had no idea of why it
was a good idea. None whatsoever, unromantic as that may be.
The
most aggressive pilot wins.
“Daddy.”
Implored Jennifer, while her sister Deanna giggled, and stared unabashedly.
“I
don’t know. I guess I’m gainfully employed, free, white, and twenty-one, as the
saying goes.” I began diffidently enough, although the age part was a lie. “I
have no criminal record. No visible infirmities. I’ve never declared
bankruptcy, and I’m in a pretty good state of mental health, with no
communicable diseases. I have a good employer, although my future prospects may
be limited by the duration of the war, which I am assured will be over by
Christmas.”
Oh
yeah, I could go on and on.
Old
Man Bolteman and his wife roared with laughter, and gave each other a knowing look.
He leaned over from his chair and slapped me on the knee.
“That’s
a good one.” He chortled.
Jesus
H. Christ. Jennifer’s parents were, like a lot of the bourgeoisie, ‘crazy like shit house rats.’ All one
can do sometimes, is to sit there red-faced, and take it like a man.
“Well,
my daughter assures us you’re a gentleman.” Said the old man.
“And
you’re always welcome in our home.” Mrs. Bolteman told me kindly. “Don’t let
old Ralphie get your goat. He just forgets that not everyone is a political
animal.”
She
trailed off with a smile. She seemed like a pretty genuine old lady.
“With
your skills in diplomacy, you might take the Civil Service Exam, and apply to
the Foreign Office.” Suggested old Ralph.
So what are your qualifications towards courting my daughter, young man.
She
winked at me from behind her teacup.
At
some point the younger daughter began to practice on the piano. While she was
pretty bad, I enjoyed the homey atmosphere of it. Jennifer and I sat quietly as
her mother Mary picked up an embroidery bag. She began to sort through it in an
absent fashion.
Plink-plink-plink…plunk.
Ah. Beethoven’s Third. I can name that tune in four notes, and one of them is
wrong.
I
heard of a guy, his lady’s dad asked him, ‘What are your intentions towards my
daughter?’
The
guy said, ‘Buddy, I intend to fuck the ass off your daughter.’
He
got chased down the stairs and out into the street with a red-hot poker, as I
recall.
I
see diplomacy as an extension of war by other means. And I really don’t give a
shit what her old man thinks. Nice as the folks are.
“Where’s
my spectacles?” Murmured Mister Bolteman, having picked up a paper and tried to
read it.
He
should have learned by now.
“Here
they are, daddy.” Said Jennifer.
She
brought them over, and as she was beside him, she tipped me the wink and a
grin. Then she came and sat near. This was a hard conversation to begin. Idly
my mind wanders back to the point. But there won’t be another chance and it’s
late already. A long drive in the dark to the aerodrome. Hours of driving ahead
of me—and I’m the CO.
“I
don’t know when I’ll be able to visit again.” I began, and it kind of choked me
up, feeling all wooden as I was at that point.
All
I could do was to ignore her folks and soldier on.
Maybe
I was tired, I don’t know. She was holding my hand, her chair angled up close
to mine. She looked down quickly.
Cough,
cough. Something tickled my throat and burned at my eyes.
It’s
hard to know how to begin. Something really needed to be said here.
“Don’t
worry, I’ll be coming back.” I managed. “I don’t plan on getting killed or
anything like that.”
She
looked up suddenly, that’s for sure.
“I
mean I’ll be coming back to you.” I tried to explain, but it just wouldn’t come
out right.
Oh,
yeah, I guess I knew by then. The fact that we were in love. Maybe it was
obvious to everyone else, but we males are always the last to know. And I knew
it would be all right. I don’t know if you’ve ever had that feeling? I just
knew it would be all right. The room was very quiet. I just sat there and
stared at the carpet between my feet, as if to memorize the pattern for future
reference. Her folks must have packed up and left in a hurry, and I didn’t even
hear ‘em go. How they managed the sister, I’ll never know.
She
came and sat on my lap and said, “I love you, Will.”
And
it was good. There must have been some other conversation then and along the
way, but it’s not important. My heart thudded deep in my chest, and a strange
rush of adrenal juices shot through me. We were both taking ragged breaths, and
there were tears on the verge of gushing out.
“I
love you too, Jennifer.” I said.
A pretty genuine old lady, and that's a good thing.
There
was some kissing, on the lips, face, nose, eyes, chin, forehead, ears, and at
some point she put my hand on her breast. My heart pounded. That was the first
time I ever touched her that way. She put my hand over her heart. That’s what I
meant to say. She put my hand over her heart.
I
could see glistening tears in her eyes.
“Please
come back to me.”
“I
promise.” I kissed her again, a little more thoroughly.
I
meant it, too. And I gave her breast, er, I mean her heart, another little squeeze.
Start
with the basics. Every pilot would be checked out on the Camel, but there would
have to be a group of pilots who flew them daily. Let’s see here. Black not
aggressive enough, put Andrew in charge of the Camel squadron. Call it, ‘Number
193.’ At least for now. Powell was already lined up for the strike element,
equipped with Bristol fighters. The strategy was to use fictitious numbers most
of the time, then pretend to be an existing squadron when appropriate. This
would confuse the hell out of the enemy. We would pop up here and there, as inappropriately as possible.
Number
192 for the SE’s and 193 for the Camels. ‘Biffs,’ 194. Make a notation, it’s so
new I hadn’t yet memorized who’s who.
Cowings,
Dexter, Wallace and Webster. A few more boys, to start.
No
sense in teaching a class to anything less than half a dozen. Lawrence, Mootry,
Nelson
and Perry. They’re all ones and twos, all used to working with each other.
So I
had them all in a room, and I was teaching.
“I
want to read you this telegram.” (Ahem.)
“Congratulations
on the success of the program thus far. Enclosed are your newly-assigned
squadron numbers. Wear them with pride.” (I skipped the next part, dealing with
additional numbers as needed.)
“Your
men will make us proud and justify the confidence we have shown in selecting
them for the pilot program, no pun intended, which you have developed.
Integrated tactics are the way of the future. Your formation is on the cutting
edge of airframe and engine development. We are depending on you and have full
confidence in your efforts.”
“Let
us know how we can further assist you in the next phase.”
“Signed,
Sir John Salmond.”
One
more thing to take care of. I waved the second note at the class.
“Oh,
yeah, now I’m a Lieutenant-Colonel.”
How
do you like that? The boys looked impressed. It’s better to work for a colonel
than a captain. Some of the credibility rubs off. They were already getting
promotions—to squadron leader, to flight leader, to number ones, i.e., element
leaders. This helps with the motivation.
“Jim,
you’re checked out on Camels.” I nodded at Nelson. “Andrew is the squadron leader
until further notice. You guys are number one-ninety-three squadron.”
“Reading
from the manuals, of which we have several copies, Sopwith Camel type F.1
mounts a 130-horsepower Clerget rotary engine. It is described as a single
seat, two-gun fighter. It is equipped with two Vickers guns of .303 calibre. It
has Hyland cocking levers. Some models have a Kauper mechanical interrupter
gear, but our planes have the more familiar Constantinesco
hydraulically-operated synchronization mechanism.”
“Your
interrupter gear is important. Don’t be afraid to set up your guns and check
that equipment once in a while.” I added. “Now, your instruments are important
as well, and you have good ones available.”
The
men often seemed to stare fascinated by my performance as a lecturer. Sometimes
I wonder if they are far, far away.
“Wake
up Mr. Lang.” Wait…here he is.
Back
with us.
Major General John Salmond.
“Also
located in the cockpit is a Rotax hand-pump to raise initial air pressure in
the main fuel tank. This, as you know, begins feeding fuel to the engine for
start-up purposes, and can also be used in the air. We may be using it at high
altitude, on an experimental basis. The real challenge is engine tuning for the
thin air. Just pushing more fuel into the carb may not be that effective. I
mean at extremely high altitudes of course. Still, this would act as a choke,
and maybe prevent stalling of the engine.”
“In
the final analysis, try to keep the engine running, and if you are having major engine problems at extremely high altitude, dive steeply to ram as much air
into the intake as possible.” I went on. “Don’t worry guys, we’ll have all this
figured out before we go into action.”
Ah,
let’s see here.
“We
have a Pyrene fire extinguisher, clipped to the floorboards, and we have the
very latest in shoulder straps, which our mechanics have fitted for us from
kits provided by the maker.”
“And
that’s better than the old single strap, boys.” Called out Jim from the back.
“Jim,
what can you tell us about flying the Camel?”
Nelson
came up to the board and I sat down gratefully to one side. All the boys knew
the teaching routine by now. He picked up chalk and made notes on the
blackboard.
“The
Camel has massive gyroscopic effect, which must be mastered on takeoff.”
He
gave some tips, reminding us of firm rudder handling.
“And
as soon as the wheel lifts, be prepared to put in a surprising amount of
aileron.” He noted. “Honestly, it feels like a big giant hand grabs the ruddy
wing and tries to throw the plane upside down…”
“While
the plane has an excellent rate of climb, you want to keep it straight and
level until you have good speed and enough rudder authority. The plane
accelerates well. The first time I took off in a Biff, it seemed to take an
agonizingly long time to get going. In a Camel the tail skid lifts very quickly,
and if you’re going into a ground loop, or have the stick pulled back for
taxiing, it’s all too easy to lift off and then snap-spin into the ground. When
taxiing, hold hard back-stick to avoid nosing over, and you have to blip the
throttle on and off because the thing has so few settings. Not like the V-type
engines in the Biffs and the SE’s.”
He
explained the simple carburetion and ignition system of the rotary engine.
Again,
he noted the burst of torque when full throttle was applied for takeoff.
Nelson
had confidence, and we listened to his calm advice.
“The
same thing applies to the first turn at low level after takeoff. Make your
first turn a very gentle one. Try the plane out at higher altitudes. People
have tried to turn hard on takeoff and spun in from low level due to the high
torque, also the fact that the craft is very nimble. You fight the plane one
way, but it helps you going the other, if you use it wisely.”
“The
plane climbs like a bandit, and doesn’t blow off in a turn. It turns and climbs
better than any plane, even the DR-1…” (A little muttering greeted that.)
“When
you want to do that, roll in, pull back, and then start pushing high side
rudder. It’s like climbing up a corkscrew. Very handy to get out of trouble
sometimes. No one behind or below can catch you, but you still have to watch
for people diving from above.”
Good
advice.
“The
service ceiling is twenty-four thousand feet. It takes a long time to get up
there, and the aircraft is seriously underpowered at that altitude. If you get
one good dive on the enemy, make it count, because you don’t have enough fuel
or time to climb that high more than once, early in the flight…”
Jim
went on and the boys made notes. That’s good. It seems to me we’re almost ready
to go.
“After
some time in the Camel, you’ll notice one leg begins to get bigger than the
other.” We all laughed. “That’s because you literally have to hold the rudder
in level flight. You also have to hold down elevator, at full power or even a
fast cruise.”
Pilots
had been complaining about the Camel’s trim since day one.
“What
about landings, Jim?” I asked, writing as busily as the rest of the class.
“You
have to be careful. Generally, I like to blip up to a quarter throttle, then
off.” He said. “Keep the nose down and a fairly high airspeed, say about sixty
or seventy, and that way you really shouldn’t have to ram full power to it.
This is a bad idea in a Camel at low level and in a low energy state. Never
relax in a Camel, it requires constant attention…you can sideslip this plane,
and that’s a better way to manage the energy state. When you have the nose
down, you can speed up by pushing, slow down by pulling.Patience is a virtue in a Camel. There’s no
sense driving it up to the edge of the runway at full throttle. Trust me, it will
come down. Get above the landing zone and all you have to do is shut the motor
off. Put a little down into her, she’ll land.”
The
Camel wasn’t really meant as a gliding machine.
I
grabbed my notebooks.
“So
Jim, if you put the plane in the correct position, then switch off, she almost
lands herself?” Andrew asked.
It was one of his rare moments of apparent
humility.
“Check
the windsock.” I blurted.
I
just couldn’t help it.
“If
you’re not too crazy on the control movements, yes.” Agreed Jim. “Just before
the wheels touch, hit quarter-throttle for a second, and then shut it off
again. This gives you good control authority. And then you’re down.”
The
chord of the bottom wing was quite narrow, and it took a while for
‘flare-effect’ to kick in, Jim concluded. He was talking about high-pressure
air trapped between the lower main-planes and the ground. Ninety percent of
pilots knew nothing of such notions, which made Jim a lucky find. Two people on
that committee must have liked me.
“Andrew,
brief your men for a high-altitude training session. Just use the planes you
have. A couple of your boys will have to sit this one out.”
And
then I was gone, heading for another class, another bunch of projects and
necessary jobs. The last thing I heard was somebody complaining about ‘cloud
landing practice again.’
***
Over
at the Biff squadron shack, the boys were all sitting at the long tables around
the perimeter of their main classroom, writing reports on their flights.
“Okay,
boys, from now on you’ll be putting squadron number one-ninety-four on your
reports.” I read them the same telegrams from Sir John. “Incidentally, the SE
boys are one-ninety-two, and the Camel Jockeys are one-ninety-three.”
They
gave a ragged, if slightly sarcastic cheer. Impromptu and spontaneous as it
was, it degenerated into a long, drawn-out, masculine-bonding kind of chuckle.
Powell settled them down diplomatically. He was a good commander for this crew.
“The
mechanics are painting numbers first thing tomorrow.” I added.
One
of them asked about a squadron motto.
“Illegitimi
non carborundum est,” quoted Biggsy when prompted.
“What
does that mean?” I asked.
“Don’t
let the bastards grind you down.” He replied with a mischievous grin.
You
had to have met Biggsy. He was about five-ten, two hundred pounds, flaming,
long, red frizzy hair, shaggy beard, moustache, twinkling blue eyes and a
wheezy laugh. He wore little granny glasses, tinted sometimes, but often the
clear ones. I wondered how he managed to get into his leather helmet and
goggles with all the hair and whiskers.
At
that weight, I wondered how he got into the cockpit at all, but he did.
He
was a card. That guy knew everyone, and could wheel and deal with the best. We
had a couple of good scroungers there. Whoever he didn’t know, his wingman did.
I started Biggsy off with Andrew, but now he flew with Dempsey.
“How
high did we get today?” I asked Powell.
“Eighteen
thousand, eight hundred.” He reported. “Maybe we could improve the rate of
climb with more back stick, but we get to a point of rapidly-diminishing
returns.”
“Obviously
the aircraft begins to wallow, and it’s no longer the best rate of climb when
the aerodynamic inefficiencies get too great.” I muttered, thinking.
He
waited.
“That’s
a good point,” I said. “How long did it take to get up there?”
“According
to the book, we should get to ten thousand feet in about eleven minutes,
fifteen seconds. We got there in ten minutes and fifteen seconds. We took a
full minute off the book time. Now the service ceiling is quoted at twenty
thousand. I have no idea how they came up with that figure. Not with a full
war-load, at any rate.”
Powell
hesitated.
“What
was your load?” I asked. “When we get more power, we’ll go up faster.”
“Other
than burning off fuel, we had the two bombs and full ammo belts. We took up
every little thing of comfort, or value or utility we could think of, even
flashlights. It took almost half an hour to get up to fifteen thousand, and
just under forty-five minutes before I signaled the end of the mission due to
clouds looming up.”
“Do
you think you could get them up higher?” I asked.
“Yes.
However, I think I’ll give the men some low-level map work this afternoon, and
we’ll go up high again tomorrow.” He suggested.
The
dummy was looking for approval again, something that always grated on me. In
that sense, I wasn’t the best command-type material.
“Yeah.
Okay.” I said.
“At
that altitude our indicated airspeed was about one-hundred-ten.” He added
without hesitation.
It
was an expression of confidence. To be quite honest, he had initially doubted
the notion of experimenting with our planes and motors. He even doubted things
like filtering the fuel, at first. Until we did it and then examined the cloth
we used as a filter. Then his doubts were removed.
He
was very helpful when it came time to put fuel-filter elements in the systems
of our aircraft, bearing in mind our ever-present shortage of skilled
mechanics. Tomorrow they would try with no bombs, start off with exactly the
same equipment in each plane. One camera per plane, no extra film, only one
extra magazine for the observer, and a reduced number of rounds in the front
belt. It kept them busy flying.
“Tell
everyone to bring a quart of water, a sandwich, and try to keep exactly to the
program. Try retarding and advancing the spark. And the mixture. See if you can
save fuel, especially after you achieve maximum altitude. Watch the temperature
gauges. If one guy’s carburetor freezes up, everyone else’s probably will too.”
I lectured.
He
was keeping copious notes on the findings of the test flights.
“Also,
a leaking radiator can freeze up and then your engine will overheat. We’re
trying to adapt the gun-breech type heaters to the carburetor assembly.” I told
all the men. “That might prevent carb icing. But we don’t have a lot of
geniuses on hand.”
There
weren’t enough hours in the day. The real problem was that batteries and
electricity were a bit of a mystery. Building from a drawing was fine. Creating
something from scratch, was much more challenging. It required certain
fundamental knowledge to visualize. You have to know the words in order to ask
for something. It also required the extra weight of a battery in each plane. A
factor to consider, plus the need to re-charge after each mission.
He
was already putting a lot of thought and effort into his crew.
I
slapped him on the back and told him. “Good job.”
“Thanks,
skipper.”
“That’s
fine.” I said. “But be aware that we will be pulling out as soon as next week.”
The
men were learning. There is a direct co-relation between war-load and aircraft
performance. Something the Air Ministry didn’t seem to realize. For example,
they always thought an airframe delivered was an airframe ready to meet the
enemy, and didn’t seem to take into account the in situ work of assembly and test.
“Yes
sir,” he said.
I
was halfway out the door when I suddenly remembered something and spun around.
“Any
idea where all them army types went?”
Black
shrugged.
“They
might have gotten called up or something.”
“Very
funny. Well, I’d better keep looking.”
By
not over-supervising, I showed confidence in him. That stuff is important, when
motivating people. Finding men to guard the place was my responsibility.
***
Captain
Howard-Smythe was reading the papers.
‘The
Adj,’ was already on to the problem. Apparently the infantry sections assigned
to guard our cozy little aerodrome nestled in the Broads had been reassigned.
“Nice.”
Was all I could say.
“The
Hun is going all out.” He explained. “With the collapse of the Russians, and
the signing of the armistice on the Eastern Front, they realize that this
opportunity may not come their way again.”
A
million German soldiers, loading up onto trains and headed our way.
And
on the home front, morale was at an all-time low. There were even stirrings of
anti-war sentiment. People grumbled about rationing, long line-ups, and about
Zeppelin and Gotha raids.
“They’re
trying to beat the Yanks to the punch.” He concluded.
I
wholeheartedly agreed with his assessment. He was a line commander, before a
very large mine buried under the lines by enemy sappers killed most of his
troops and ruined his hearing. After that, Howard-Smythe did something in
Intelligence.
“Cor
Blimey. I ‘ears the bloody Yanks is coming, sir.”
That
would be the corporal. I sighed. Now that guy was all ears
“Yeah.
I can’t wait.” I called back with a wink at Howard-Smythe.
He
had learned to deal with Corporal Whittington and I.
The Times was on the desk
in front of him, and he was reading up on the new Royal Air Force, which came
into being only recently. I thought it was crazy to bring up the issue now. He
thought if we waited until after the war, it would never happen.
Ultimately,
it turns out he was correct in this assessment.
When
I first met him, I took him for a desk-bound paper pusher, but he had
surprising skills, once you got to know him. Howard-Smythe was a man who could
get a lot out of the news. Howard-Smythe went for politics, the war news,
travel, puzzles, employment and sales ads, he read all that long before he got
to the sports section. He could read a tidbit from the foreign news page and
tell you what it all meant. He had an eye on the big picture.
“For
the time being, a platoon of replacements is in transit by train.
Unfortunately, it is a local and will make all the stops.”
He
grinned wryly, studying my face. It took some time and effort to learn to speak
clearly, to enunciate my words, for he lip-read well. I knew a few basic signs,
which shortened up the conversations to that which was essential. A wave will
do for good morning.
“We’ll
all have to take a turn on guard duty.” I decided.
“Already
taken care of. Here’s the schedule.”
There
was mail, some telegrams, some papers to sign.
“There
are some completed motors for us at the Farnborough aerodrome. They’re under
lock and key. We ask for Sergeant-Major Rosenberg.” He reported. “I understand
you’re headed up there again?”
Rosenberg.
I made a note.
“Yup.”
I nodded, reading three things at once, as he showed me where he wanted my
signature on a train requisition.
“It
will be here Monday by noon, Tuesday morning at the latest.”
“Huh.”
I muttered. “We’re getting three new trucks?”
“That’s
what it says.” He agreed.
The Adj.
But
we both had our doubts.
“Who’s
this?” I queried.
A
letter, smelling quite nice.
“I’ve
never heard of her.” He allowed. “I’ll see if I can find out.”
“It
sounds Russian.” I murmured.
An
invitation to a ‘soiree.’ I had no
idea what that meant, so I wasn’t too interested.
I
set that one aside, with a couple of personal letters from home, easily
identified by my old mom’s atrocious spelling.
And
this?
“Wants
to do a quick inspection.” He advised.
“We
don’t have time for that shit,” I said in no uncertain terms.
“I’ll
try to break it to him gently” Sighed Howard-Smythe.
Ever
the diplomat.
There
was always too much to do.
I
sat back in my swivel chair with the casters, and put my feet up on my desk. A
relic of the Crimean War. From the scrap pile at Woolwich Arsenal. It would be
wise to load it up and take it to France.
“A
general’s first study should be the road atlas.” I began.
Howard-Smythe
beat me to the punch.
“What’s
her name and address?” He avowed firmly. “I’ll look it up right quick so
Corporal Whittington and I can get back to our important duties and functions.”
He
had some surprising skills.
***
Melissa
was preying on my mind quite a bit. It was time to scratch that itch.
No
matter what the outcome. But I had to know if that gut reaction was real. Puppy
love can be pretty intense. There are women who have that ethereal something.
Like Helen of Troy, a face that could launch, (or sink), a thousand ships.
Maturity was catching up, and so with Jennifer, I made sure to do nothing a
gentleman shouldn’t.
One
thing a gentleman should not do is to take advantage of a lady in distress. Yet
I had, hadn’t I? This much seemed certain, Jennifer was very vulnerable.
She
said she loved me?
You
had to take that with a grain of salt. It’s like a doctor, ‘first, do no harm.’
The
Hypocritical Oath. It was unfair to Jennifer to go any further than just
talking. No matter how hard she tried to provoke me into going a little farther
than I might have intended. And I liked her a lot.
From
a technical point of view, Jennifer was probably just as physically beautiful
as Melissa. Perhaps even more so. None of us in wartime had even the slightest
chance of a normal relationship, a normal courting process. Where I grew up, a
first date was likely spent sitting on a Sunday afternoon in the parlor, with
your lady love and her parents, sisters and brothers. Aunts, uncles, cousins,
nieces and nephews. Grandma and grandpa and great aunt Minnie. You didn’t even
try to hold hands with that bunch around.
It
sounds a little old-fashioned, but now I knew the cost of being impetuous.
There
was a good excuse. It came to our attention through informal channels that
there were some people who might be useful, but they were incarcerated for
minor infractions.
It
was time to go and chat up old Foreman, and see if I could bail these boys out
and take them to France. Captain Howard-Smythe, The Adj, applied all of his powers of persuasion in writing a
letter to Foreman. Foreman was gracious enough to make an appointment, with no
real indication from us as to what sort of matters would be discussed. That’s
kind of unusual, in someone of his military rank. The kind of personality that
runs a prison, or ‘detention barracks,’
is not often noted for artistic creativity. It might not be too out of
character for the writer of The Wizard
Prince, to take an appointment from a stranger on short notice, without
some idea of what it was all about. All I could do was to play it by ear and
see what kind of a person he turned out to be. I had bet a nice, crisp
five-pound note with Howard-Smythe that Foreman would invite me home to dinner,
if I played him right.
Flying
up to a little village just north of Birmingham, I timed it so that my wheels
touched down at the aerodrome after lunch on a cold, rainy, miserable Friday
afternoon.
It
was barely possible that he would be a little eager to get out of the office
early on a Friday, make for home and the weekend.
Foreman
would enjoy the little domestic pleasures. Most generals do.
Linking
up with a vehicle and driver, I found my way to the military prison.
Working
my way through several steel doors, gates, barred access points, guard-houses,
gates, doors, and locks, it was almost three-thirty before I sat down in his
office anteroom, took a load off, and loosened my collar. But only a little.
Then
I had to wait for another half-hour. Old Foreman had lots and lots of people
coming and going. I dreaded the office part of my job. There were far too many
people, wanting far too many things for my liking.
The
door opened, and I overheard, “…and put some cream on that and let the cat lick
it off…” And a young guard came out, avoiding my smile.
All
of eighteen years old, by my estimation. He had a wispy little seventeen-hair
moustache, and very, very red-faced he was, too. Was old Foreman something of a
tyrant? Finally his secretary admitted me to his presence.
“Thanks,
Danny, you can go now if you like.” Said Foreman to the other man as we shook
hands. “Lieutenant-Colonel Tucker. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
He
indicated a chair, and I sat down. I made sure to sit up straight, and not
slouch.
Opening
up the briefcase, and whipping out a few sheets, so that I had a copy and he
had a copy, my presentation could actually wait a moment.
“You’re
taller than I expected.” I admitted with a sheepish grin. “I’m sorry, I’m a
little nervous.”
“What
can I do for you?” He asked kindly, as he studied the cover letter.
“I
read about you in the paper.” He said, looking up. “Second Ypres, correct?”
“Yes,
sir,” I acknowledged.
“Humble,
are you?” He asked.
“Yes,
sir.” I acknowledged again.
“You
earned those decorations, I reckon?” He murmured drily.
“Presumably.”
I murmured back, unable to control the impulse.
“Well.
Presumably you’re here to see if I will release someone?”
“I
have to find a few people, actually. I need machinists, mechanics, aircraft
riggers, drivers. I suppose a couple of corporals, quartermaster clerks, almost
anyone I can get.” I began. “A doctor, now, that would be priceless.”
“It’s
a little irregular, but not exactly unheard-of.” He replied, a little
suspiciously.
General Foreman, Melissa's father.
He
explained further.
“If
they have a unit to go to, and that if unit will have them back, and if they
have a required skill, and if it’s approved by my superiors.”
“Well,
I can’t ask you to break any rules. But I have a unit they can go to. Three
squadrons, actually. And I’m a stern disciplinarian, let me assure you, sir.”
Breaking
a few rules was exactly my intention.
“I can
get you paper transfers. They’re all signed and everything. Then you can give
them back to me.” I offered. “But I need some names to put on the papers.”
Foreman
sat back. He surveyed me. As I knew he would.
“So,
um, you’ve traveled from the South Seas to Zanzibar.” I told him. “I read ‘The
Wizard Prince,’ when I first got to England. It was in basic, Salisbury. It
rained for weeks, and I was grateful for your story.”
“Well,
that’s always nice to hear.” He began.
“I
do a little writing,” I said diffidently.
“Huh.”
He chuckled. “Ha. Well, I hope you’re prepared for a lot of rejection. By Jove,
I remember…I remember the first time I sold a story.”
He
had a big smile on his face, somewhat unusual for a person of his rank and
stature in the military establishment.
“My
old man used to say things like, ‘well, I
wish you luck,’ in a certain tone.” I told Foreman, as he regarded me with
almost colorless eyes.
He
nodded in sympathy, no doubt familiar with doubting attitudes.
“Be
that as it may, and I also liked that character.” As my mind blanked
momentarily. “You know, that one you sort of turned into a fat Chinese Sherlock
Holmes, who spoke English with a Boston accent.”
“It’s
a lot of fun writing for boys.” He admitted. “I actually get a lot out of it
myself. On the one hand, you really shouldn’t waste too much time worrying
about the reader, but on the other, you should write to serve, not to impress.
Give the reader some credit. If they really didn’t want to be there, they
wouldn’t have made it past the first page.”
And
one more thing.
“…don’t
try to be something you’re not…”
“My,
my, my.” I scribbled it all down. “See, I knew I wasn’t wasting my time.”
Foreman
was thoughtful.
“I’ll
tell you what. Give me time to consider this, and I’ll see what I can do.” He
said.
“This
Crouch character of yours, he was like a mixture of a missionary in South
Africa and the captain of a Chinese river steamer, sort of like Mr. Cutliffe
Hyne’s, ‘Captain Kettle.’”
“Yes,
yes. I can see you’ve been doing your homework.” He chuckled. “Look. I admire
your persistence, and if you like, maybe we can get together some other time.”
Damn.
“I
really don’t know any publishers who are looking for bright young writers at
the present time.”
He
thought for a moment.
“Lots
of demand, but it’s being fulfilled by established authors. Your decorations
will stand you in good stead. If you’re any good at all, and keep at it.”
Shit.
Foreman
stood, came from around the desk with hand outstretched.
“Good
luck to you.” He offered.
Fuck.
“Well
look,” I said. “I’ve been thrown out of better places than this, but would you
mind signing my copy of the Boy’s Own
Paper? I mean, if you don’t mind?” His story, right there on the cover—
Now
that one got to him. I could see it.
“Why,
certainly.” He said. “Did you save this for the last two and a half years?”
“Um,
um, yes, sir.” I stammered.
God,
I’m a good actor. One of the finest Lesbians who never trod a stage. We swiped
it out of their own publication morgue, by a friend of a friend, but I can’t
tell him that.
It
pays to have men under your command.
Lucky
shot, but I seem to have found my way to the miserable old bastard’s heart.
He
sighed, just a little. A very polite and self-possessed man, yet I caught it.
“Well,
would you like to meet the wife?” He offered.
“Oh,
no. I couldn’t, really, impose on your hospitality,” I proffered in confused
embarrassment.
“You
must come and have a cup of tea with the old girl.” He said. “You’ve had a long
trip, after all.”
He
asked me to wait outside. He locked up and had a quick chat with someone. Then
we went out through all the gates, doors, checkpoints, ‘et cetera.’
My
driver followed him over to his place, a stone manor house. It wasn’t overly
imposing. It was just a nice big place. The drive in was through a clump of
huge oaks, but out back it was all fields and hills, with a little creek
meandering away in the far distance.
In
the dim half-light of overcast skies, it looked like a nice little set-up.
He
showed me to the drawing room, and then went to find his wife, who turned out to
be a slender blonde woman. Her gracious manner implied good breeding. She had
social skills far above mine, but no doubt like piloting skills, that sort of
thing comes with practice and experience. She made him a good partner. A very
political wife, it seemed.
“The
weather has socked in.” He informed Mrs. Foreman.
“That’s
too bad.” She nodded, eye-balling me.
“It
will clear up later.” I assured them.
An
old woman in a maid’s uniform served us tea, crumpets, scones and butter.
“So
you’re a writer, Will?” She began.
“It’s
always good to have another string to your bow.” I said. “No telling what work
will be available after the war is over, and it sure beats hammering rivets or
putting nuts on bolts in some smelly old factory.”
She
repaid this sally with a smile, which transformed her pallid features. I could
see the ghost of a much younger woman. A young man came in, dressed in casual
civilian clothes.
“Ah,
Jack. There’s someone I want you to meet.” Foreman stood. “Come and meet Will
Tucker.”
I
had to stand there while Foreman listed all of my decorations, and Jack stared
at me with that weird kind of awed reverence. I never knew how to handle that.
I still don’t.
Basically,
it was a list of gross errors in the decision-making process. No one ever
seemed to get that.
Jack
was a nice-looking fellow, with straw-colored straight hair, blue eyes, and
horn-rimmed glasses. He wore a Harris tweed jacket with leather patches on the
elbows, light grey trousers, and black Oxford type loafers, but he had a good
handshake.
“Jack
and our daughter Melissa are engaged.” Mrs. Foreman explained proudly.
Oh, ah, jolly good.
“What
brings you up this way, Lieutenant-Colonel Tucker?” Asked Jack. “Bit cold for
flying, in my opinion, but I don’t know very much about it.”
Jack
was just getting back from a stroll, down to the village pub and back.
“The
usual press-gang type of mission.” I replied. “We’re very hard up for skilled
trades in my outfit.”
“Oh,
my. You flew in this weather?” Gasped Mrs. Foreman. “Where did you come from? I
hope it wasn’t far?”
She
was a little stunned when she learned that I had flown in from Norwich.
We
had our tea, ate our vittles, and passed the time pleasantly enough. It wasn’t
long before I was drawing out Jack. Langdon was his last name. He was in the Navy.
Jack was first officer on a monitor, and seemed like a bright chap.
“Oh,
yeah? I was studying for my ticket when war broke out.” I said, wondering when
and if Melissa would be strolling in. “My steamship ticket.”
“That’s
too bad, old fellow.” Said Foreman, who obviously loved the sea.
The general loved the sea, or at least writing about loving the sea...
There
were a few hints, scattered amongst the nautical bric-a-brac. The walls were
covered by pictures of ships and the sea. The tea-cups had sailing ships on
them, I kid you not.
“Bit
of a stroke of luck, actually.” I said. “We did three trips on the upper Great
Lakes. Then the ship was rather hurriedly pressed into service for the Atlantic
run. ‘Twas a wee bit of a shock even after Superior or Huron, let me tell you.”
“The
Atlantic crossing put you off?” Jack chuckled.
“Something
about seventy-foot rollers, hundred-knot winds and high, following seas.” I
explained with some feeling. “Sea sickness was a secondary consideration,
although I didn’t have it near as bad as the captain.”
Jack
grinned. I guess he’d seen a few seasick men.
“But
the real problem was the days and weeks of sheer, unremitting terror.” I added
firmly. “Those lakers are like three hundred feet long, with a beam of about
twenty-two feet.”
One
trip was enough to convince me. Nothing would ever get me on a ship again
without a damned good reason. I had an aversion to it.
“So,
that’s how I ended up in the British army as opposed to the Canadian army.”
Which seemed to settle an unasked question, and Mrs. Foreman smiled at her
knitting.
“Then
I was transferred back to the Canadian Army.”
It
was a little confusing. Basically a long story.
“Then
stuck in the RFC…a stroke of luck. Really, I just wanted to learn how to cook.”
Mrs.
Foreman raised her eyebrows but said nothing.
“Nothing
quite like conning a ship in heavy seas while standing in a puddle of vomit.”
Jack noted. “You just need to lash yourself to the wheel.”
I
grinned in appreciation.
“But
enough of my troubles. Just what exactly is a monitor and what does it do?”
Nice
safe subject. Keep them talking about themselves. People love that sort of
thing.
There
aren’t enough good listeners in the world.
“A
monitor is special. We’re not built for speed, or transport, and we’re
definitely not built for comfort.” He stated.
“It
seems to me an unsung and thankless kind of a job,” I told Jack, and the
others. “I mean you read about it, some such statement in the paper: ‘our
monitors bombarded the Belgian coast for four hours last night,’ or yesterday,
or the day before, and did ‘great damage’ to Ostend and Zeebrugge.”
“Unlike
the great ships of the Fleet, the names of officers are never mentioned.”
Pointed out Foreman. “Very unglamorous work.”
“The
entire design of the ship is predicated upon carrying two really big guns,”
Jack explained. “We do carry other weapons. We don’t do long voyages. We
aren’t much good on the open sea or in a fleet action.”
The
monitor was ‘flatter, far wider, stumpier,’ and had less extraneous equipment
than other ships. It was, ‘completely specialized.’
“We’re
designed for short-range shore bombardment.” He concluded.
“You
mean like a bomb ketch of the seventeenth century?” I asked.
“Those
were far more seaworthy vessels. And we have the constant threat of submarines.
An attack is inevitable, sooner or later.”
“What
do you do about that?” I asked.
“Well,
we have a very shallow draft. Unlike a cruiser or battleship, we’re an
extremely difficult target for a torpedo. And subs don’t like shallow water.”
“I
remember when the gallant General Plumer was attacking the Germans near
Roulers.” I said. “On the right, the British were threatening Menin, and on the
center we were advancing on Roulers. Somebody offshore was sending some big
shells over.”
Okay,
it was mostly bullshit. But it was good bullshit.
“We
were there.” He said stoutly. “We could see both places in flames. We
co-operate with the artillery. A rain of projectiles on the enemy’s rear
positions. We swept his lines of communications, paralyzed the movements of
reserves and inflicted heavy losses on troops marching to the front.”
“Well,
somebody out there saved our asses.” I said, then blushed furiously as Mrs.
Foreman looked up with a little gleam in her eye.
“Er,
in any case, thank you.” I muttered rather feebly.
“They
must have been mighty big fires.” Said Foreman. “But I guess you could see them
twenty or thirty miles away. It must have been quite a spectacle.”
A
friggin’ spectacle.
“Yes,
sir, it was that all right.”
“That’s
enough talk of war.” Said Mrs. Foreman. “I hear someone in the front hall.”
My
heart flipped over at that.
The
man of the house was skimming through the paper and taking little part in the
conversation.
Damn
that Jack. He was a hell of a nice guy. I really liked him, and that was not
what I was hoping for. Actually, I wasn’t too sure what I was hoping for.
“This
is our youngest,” said Mrs. Foreman. “Gillian, meet Will Tucker.”
Holy.
Gillian was a vision of loveliness. But, she was obviously too young for me.
And
I had a lot of unresolved issues elsewhere.
After
tea, Mrs. Foreman, (Gillian senior,) and Gillian Jr. went off to, ‘see about
dinner,’ yet the servants hardly needed supervision. Us men withdrew into
Foreman’s study, where old Jack was doing a spot of writing himself.
“What
are you working on?” I asked. “An adventure story?”
“No,
we’re collaborating on a translation of Sappho.” Jack replied. “But we’re going
to publish it under a pseudonym.”
“Well,
you wouldn’t want to spoil the Brigadier’s image.” I murmured, receiving a
quick smile in return.
“He
is a bit daunting, at first.” Jack admitted.
The
other man was out of the room for a moment. It seemed a good time.
“I’ve
been writing my brains out,” I said, and whipped out a few sheets torn from an
elementary-school ‘scribbler.’
“Can
I read you something, Jack?”
He
was flattered, no doubt about it.
“Of
course, old boy. Love to hear it, but wait for the Old Man, will you? His ear
is excellent.” And so, while waiting, Jack mixed cocktails.
“And
the Brigadier gets annoyed if you go a little too heavy on the soda.” He talked
to himself, as he shook the drinks in a shiny metal-lidded device.
“There
you go, get that into you. It’ll ward off the chill of a dank and dreary
night,” he instructed.
“So
anyway, I’m working on various manuals for my students.” I said. “You know,
when I started, I thought I understood English. But it is a lot harder than it
looks.”
“It’s
not until you actually try to do it, then you find out how hard it is.” I added
ruefully.
“Where
did you go to school?” He asked.
About
this time Foreman came back into the room and stood by the bar, sipping his
drink appreciatively.
“Aye,
aye, aye.” He said with a wince.
“Dry,
isn’t it.” I quipped. “Ma vie en mains…taking your life in your hands.”
“I
went to school in Petrolia.” The story went. “I got all the way to grade nine,
which means that William Sebastien Francis Tucker is the best educated Tucker
so far.”
The
school systems in Canada and England didn’t exactly correspond, but Jack and
Foreman seemed a little stunned.
“What
about the technical side?” Asked Foreman. “Student pilots have to knock a lot
of books into their heads, don’t they?”
He
gave Jack a significant look. There was a strange glint in his eye. Jack choked
a little on his drink. These guys were patronizing me. I don’t even know how to
pronounce that properly, but fuck them anyway. They say it different over here.
I’m
not even really sure what it means.
“Well,
I am literate, thank God. My mom taught me how to read, you know, like the
alphabet and stuff.”
One
might as well lay it on thick.
“Let’s
hear you read what you brought.” That’s what I liked about Jack, no stiff
formality about him.
“All
righty then. I’ve been trying to develop a style. Here goes: in the case of
inclement weather, one of the greatest difficulties confronting the pilot is
that of finding his way.”
I
always had a good voice, perhaps that helped. The room was otherwise silent.
Breathing
slow and shallow, they listened, eyes far away.
“Like
a mariner upon the sea, the airman relies upon his compass, but the instrument
has one failing. It’s only useful as long as he knows his position on the map.
As soon as he loses his bearings, the compass isn’t much good anymore.”
To
read aloud properly requires pacing and good breathing skills.
“When
flying, one encounters various air currents and cross-winds. These will carry
man and machine off course. The flier has no way of knowing how far. At high
altitudes, the wind may be from a different direction than the wind at lower
levels or at ground level. Clouds at different levels are often going in
different directions. When speeding along at ninety or a hundred miles per
hour, a pilot has little time for astronomical observation, even when weather
conditions are favorable.”
“Why
not just say, ‘good’,” suggested Foreman. “There’s no need to unnecessarily
decorate it, if you know what I mean?”
“I
suppose you’re right.” I acknowledged. “On the one hand, it’s a manual for my
fliers, and after the war, it could maybe be adapted for training civilian
students. Weather is an art, unfortunately, not a science, like astrology.”
Foreman
and Jack laughed.
“On
the other hand, maybe I could get a different kind of a book out of it, after
the war. A book on flying for general interest readers.” I petered out. “Sort
of.”
“You
could write your memoirs,” Noted Foreman.
“Not
much to talk about, at this point,” I assured him and they both grinned.
It
was time I got going. It looked like Melissa wasn’t going to show up.
Jack
pressed another quick one on me. I swallowed it at a gulp, feeling the fire
down below.
“I’ve
had my differences with the Navy in the past.” I admitted. “But you fellows
certainly do know how to build one. Whew.”
“All
I can say, is to believe in yourself, and never quit.” Said Jack with a nod at
Foreman.
And
it helps if someone else believes in you, but I didn’t have that luxury.
“Well,
I’d better get moving along,” I noted. “Thanks for everything.”
As I
said my goodbyes to the women of the household, back in the drawing room,
Foreman came out of the study again.
“I’ll
make a couple of calls.” He said. “I’ll see if I can get you some people.”
“Thank
you, sir,” I said, and made my exit.
There
were three squadrons of men and machines, and a train due to be loaded in about
three days. Pleasant as the interlude was, my work was cut out for me, and
there was little time to waste.
“Be
careful,” Foreman said as he and Jack stood on the front porch. “And Jack’s
right. You’ll be fine.”
That
was all I got out of him.
What
he didn’t know was that flying was not the problem, not even at night. Living,
living in the world, that could be a problem. In some small way, my feelings
about Melissa were resolved. A little. There are some things in life that you
just can’t have. It doesn’t seem fair, does it? I’m just glad I liked Jack. It
made it all so much simpler. No further action required, nor would it have been
appropriate.
The
truth about why I didn’t join the Canadian Army? I’m just glad the question
wasn’t asked. When I decided not to go back on the ship, it did cross my mind
to join up with them. I probably could have signed up with a unit from my own
county and everything. According to conventional thinking, that would have made
the most sense.
That’s
what decided me against it.
Because
I knew who would be Colonel.
Who
would be the captain, who would be lieutenants, who would be the sergeants,
corporals, and privates. No doubt I would be a private in any army in the
world. But only in the Canadian Army could you find officers like that. I knew
my local judge, my local postmaster, my local school principal, my local
firemen, my local butcher and barber. I knew my local laboring hands, drunks,
retards and perverts. I transferred in later, and I actually got into a pretty
good little unit, with a pretty good little field commander and a pretty good
little platoon, with a pretty little good sergeant. But by this time, I knew
what I was doing, when I applied for a transfer.
It
was about the best one could hope for.
A
man can be a private in any army. It’s up to him what idiots he may wish to
serve with. And I know idiots. I’ve met enough of ‘em.
***
When
arriving at the Birmingham aerodrome, I made sure my plane was stashed in a
convenient hangar. I didn’t know if I was staying. There was the pub, but what
the hell. Not much point in hanging around. I borrowed a convenient bike,
leaning there against the hut wall. There was no one around to ask proper
permission.
After
a meal, I returned to the aerodrome, and got into my flying clothes. Then I got
someone working late to flip the prop, and took off into the night. My Avro
504-C was equipped for night-fighting, so I had a primitive electrical lighting
system on the instrument cluster, and two small torches in my pockets. These
were chosen for the fact that they had big switches. They were easy to turn on
with gloves. Special spring clips, similar to bicycle clips, held them in
place.
It
was a snug little office.
Snug
as in tight, not snug as in warm.
The front
cockpit was obstructed by an angled machine gun. The pilot flew from the
instructor’s seat. This one still had the big fuel tank up front. Check the
trim, with these babies. There was a full moon, almost no wind. No clouds, just
a starry sky blazing with little pinpricks of light. You could almost read a
book, once achieving an altitude of about 3,000 feet.
Visibility
was unbelievably good. With the map folded out to show just the section
required, it was possible to follow train tracks and watch the villages and
towns speed past below. It was way too cold for proper fog to form, but tiny
wisps of vapor were forming on ponds and rivers. There was the occasional
yellow gleam from a window improperly blacked-out.
The
light of the moon’s pale orb gleamed off the tracks. They were an outstanding
feature of the landscape, being plainly visible. Some of the towns had names
painted in big white letters on the roofs of the railway stations. While most
were blotted out, it was still possible to deduce from adjacent rivers and the
relative size of towns, that one might be Stratford-on-Avon, the next one
Banbury. The big thing was the rivers and lakes. If you can pick them out,
follow them downstream. All the tributaries converge instead of spreading out,
in branches which can be confusing.
That
had to be the upper Thames. Damn, I’m good.
Cruising
over Oxford, how could one mistake it? I was maybe a tad lonely, knowing that
everyone down there was snug in a pub, or better yet, at home in warm bed.
Damn.
It was cold.
All alone in the night.
The
cold was a constant companion, winter, summer, spring and fall. I was dressed
to survive, and comfort is a relative thing. My hands had been cold before. All
you can do is keep wiggling your fingers, and moving your feet. Scrunch up the
toes in the boots.
Relax
them again…scrunch them, relax. The toes were fine.
Wiggle
the butt in the seat, lean forward, shift around. It will end.
Grin
and bear it.
You
can’t allow racing thoughts to distract from the business of flying. I have
been lonely before, and survived. I’ve been cold before, and lived.
Where
the hell was Farnborough? It had to be around here someplace.
What
is love?
I
had no problem flying at night, and I had no problem finding Farnborough. My
only hope was that some right-thinking, reasonable-minded person would come out
and light up a few smudge pots, or flares, or line up some vehicles along the
runway. Run the motors, put the headlights on and let me know just exactly
where the sky ends and the ground begins. For some reason, as you approach the
earth, everything gets a whole lot darker. The ground should be found as gently
as possible. I try to sneak up on it.
Love
is difficult to define, isn’t it?
People
say, ‘I just want what’s best for you, because I love you.’
Sometimes
they have a hard time taking, ‘no,’ for an answer.
Well,
I wasn’t sure I could just let go of Melissa. The idea, of love. The childish
need, the fantasy of it. The love to end all loves. I thought, or at least it
felt like I had invented it and no one would ever understand. I needed to grow
up. No one knew that better than me. Melissa had mothered me. And I was one
poor, crazy, mixed up kid in those days. Just a big kid, with way too much
responsibility for my age. Shot to pieces.
All
you can do is to file it away for future reference, and hope to make sense of
it all later, when you have more time.
I
brought the plane down to 1,000 feet and buzzed the place again. Then back up
to 2,000 feet. At times like this, a very small bomb would come in handy. Next
time I’ll bring a hand-grenade.
Finally,
somebody put a light on. A pair of headlights swung out along a runway, and
soon more blobs and pools of light blossomed in the Stygian darkness below.
Whatever the heck ‘Stygian,’ means. It’s just something out of a cheap,
dime-store novel.
The
wheels startled me with a little ‘cheep,’ as we hit the main strip.
A
couple of men rattled up in a chugging three-wheeled lorry.
“Jesus
H. Christ, do you never sleep, sir?” Someone asked glumly.
“No.
I’m a vampire.” I grunted.
“It
takes all kinds, to make a world.” His partner chided. “Welcome, good sir.
We’ll be glad to find you a room and a cup of fresh blood, if you like.”
Images. Louis is sort of a researcher and
curator. He has to decide what would be best and then try and find it. Many
images are public domain or credit is given through a Youtube or other link. Camel
in Flight.Major
General Salmond.Bristol
F2b.
