Nor the Years Condemn

by Justin Sheedy

  ‘Haven’t chundered yet?’ came the voice.

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Remember the blackboard: Each turn starts with the stick gently left then centred. That rolls the aircraft to the left, holds it there, gentle back pressure on the stick pulling us through the turn, gentle left rudder all through it. Turn completed, release the back pressure on the stick, edge it a little to the right to put us horizontal again, then centre it, rudder pedals too. With me?’

  ‘Sir.’ Quinn’s mind struggled desperately to keep up.

  ‘I’ll do it once again. You watch what I do and what happens. Then it’s your turn. …Nervous?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Good. Nervousness first time up is a very healthy survival instinct. What’s another one?’

  ‘Watch that yellow aircraft ahead left, sir. About half a mile.’

  ‘Well done… Al-righty.’

  The Moth curved into another left bank, Quinn feeling a downwards pressure on his cheeks and eyelids – The instructor had pulled the stick back harder this time, matching rudder, matching stomach. He levelled them smoothly, Botany Bay ahead now, the ocean settling into view front left. Some instinct informed Quinn he’d have to start breathing again or he’d pass out. The coastline drew closer. As did the turn. His turn. The voice resumed.

  ‘You’ll have control of the aeroplane on this one. Is that clear?’

  ‘Sir.’ Quinn swallowed hard.

  ‘If, at any time, I say the words, “I have control”, then let go immediately or I’ll scrub you immediately. Is that clear?’

  ‘Sir.’

  ‘Okay, look where the horizon is right now between the wings and struts… Remember that picture out in front of you. Gottit?’

  ‘Gottit.’

  ‘Anytime it looks like that, you’re flying straight and level.’

  Meagre relief but Quinn grasped this point at least…

  ‘Right,’ the voice continued, ‘I’m about to pass you control of the aeroplane. When I do, I say it. When you take it, you say it. Alrighty. You have control.’

  Quinn’s right hand closed around the stick, his left hand on the throttle. He placed his boots very carefully on the rudder pedals, feeling as if he’d just caught the football, a Grand Final on the verge of being lost. ‘I have control,’ he said, swallowed again, and began the turn.

  Left stick, centre stick, back on it slightly, gentle rudder. Banking now, curving, yes… Release back pressure, right stick, centre stick and rudder, flatten out of the corner.

  Flying straight and level again – pretty much – ‘horizon picture’ steady in front, the realisation settled on Quinn…

  He’d done it… So it seemed…

  The voice came back through the tube. ‘Well that wasn’t too terrible… But don’t force it. Guide it… It’s normal you should wrestle it first time. You try to control it and you over- control. The most important thing to get under your skin is this. Listening?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Follow the steps but don’t control what’s supposed to be happening. Control what is happening. Got it?’

  ‘Gottit.’

  ‘Alrighty. Fly on till the next corner of the circuit, then do another turn. The aeroplane is yours.’

  At those words, Quinn realised he’d been flying it quite naturally all the way through the instructor’s explanation. His limbs tingled. It wasn’t lost on the instructor, as, through the controls, it passed to the wings.

  ‘Steady yourself, lad,’ the man shouted, not the first time he’d seen it over the Bay.

  Managing to, somehow, Quinn scanned out over the blue distance, warm sun on the back of his neck. He edged the stick forward slightly, the horizon rose. Stick back again, the aircraft obeyed him, the horizon returning to its ‘picture’ place between the wings. He tipped them gently right, down there the ocean. Tipping left, straight down were honeycomb cliffs, crashing surf. Levelling once more, way ahead were beaches. Bondi? For a moment he thought of Matthew. The little girl outside the pub. Mr Phelan… Checking his horizon picture again – correct and steady – Quinn realised he did have control, also that, with this feeling of control, the physical fear he’d felt to begin with had vanished… He felt in place in the cockpit. Secure. And in control.

  He flew into the next turn, at the corners of his mouth, a tickling. He found himself grinning, a grin creeping into laughter – He couldn’t hold it back – He was flying the thing! Please, God, he hoped the instructor hadn’t heard it… He bit his lip to try and quell it, levelled out, heading them back inland.

  ‘That was better,’ the man’s voice resumed. ‘Smoother, wasn’t it. Watch the aerobatics, though.’

  ‘Sir.’

  ‘Remember. Don’t fight it. Guide it. Graceful movements on the controls. That’ll keep your speed up, and speed’ll keep you alive. It’s a bird. Fly with it. Or it won’t take you far. Now… What’s our bearing?’

  ‘North again.’

  ‘Right. Fly me home, please.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  The casual shout continued.

  ‘You’ve done well. Most blokes only fly it on their second time up. If I don’t scrub them on their first… Luckily for you, we’re in a rush.’

  Quinn took them north, curving smoothly over the train line, towards the west, and the Mountains. He made a nice wide one back south, avoiding another aircraft, nice and safe. He was enjoying himself. As a dark shape flashed off the right-hand wing, then another, he checked the altimeter. He hadn’t thought birds flew as high as 1000 feet, yet there they were.

  Nothing further from the instructor, as the ocean loomed front left again, Quinn’s feeling of control over the aircraft began to flow more freely, as did his adrenalin. Ahead, the Bay.

  He curved into the turn. This time, though, he pulled it tighter. Pressed down in his seat, a shudder infected the wood, wire and fabric all around him, and intensified.

  The airframe was buffeting – JESUS! Steady it – Release the turn – Level out… Compensate now, shit, too much forward stick, too much RIGHT…

  Quinn over-controlled. Badly.

  ‘I have control,’ drummed the voice in his ear-cups.

  Quinn let go.

  The aircraft steadied, levelled. After long moments, the instructor’s voice once more.

  ‘Now that… wasn’t very smart. Was it. You’d done well up till now but that was just cocky… Never. Never move outside your experience. A cocky trainee is a dead trainee.’

  Quinn knew it.

  He had just been scrubbed.

  First time up – finished – his words tumbled out anyway: ‘I’m very sorry, sir.’ He peered inland over the left-hand rim of the cockpit. There, the rooftops of Sydney spreading out in the mid-morning sun. First time in an aeroplane, bloody last time too. Below, the honeycomb cliffs again, blue ocean. Bondi ahead. Sorry, Mr Phelan. I fucked it.

  ‘S’alright, son.’

  Quinn honestly didn’t know if the words had been in his head or his ear-cups. ‘Sir?’

  ‘Only reason I didn’t fail you outright back there is you did what you were told, did it quickly, and let go control… Now. Down we go.’

  The instructor drew the throttle back. Completely. Quinn’s eyes widened at the throttle lever. Then ahead. No power?! Yes, the engine was still turning over but, for the first time in the flight, Quinn could hear the Moth’s wooden structure rattling…

  The man made a gentle left bank towards the airfield, and curved them into a gliding descent. He didn’t have to shout now as the green of the airfield became framed in the forward struts: ‘That was an aggressive move you made. Aggression is good. A fighter pilot without it should hide in the hangar. But you must have experience to match it…’

  Quinn wasn’t certain whether to focus on the man’s words or on the green earth fast approaching.

  ‘…You bloody-well do what I tell you and you stand a chance of gaining some. Keep your eyes and ears open. Fly accurately. An
d I mean every time or I’ll scrub you quicker than you can blink. The Brits have a quota for Rear Gunners that needs filling. And which never gets full. Clear?’

  ‘Sir.’

  ‘Good.’

  Quinn watched the airfield fill his vision as they slid down the sky towards it. The propeller idled over the perimeter tree-line, the stick coming slightly back, approach angle flattening, grass left and right now rushing by. Nose gently up, they lowered further, skimming the grass until the tyres touched smoothly down and, nose high, they were rolling across it.

  The instructor guided them over to the flight-line, taxiing past other yellow craft, slowing further as airmen ran alongside. One held a wingtip as they wheeled around to the left. And to a stop.

  With a click – click – click, the engine was off.

  The only sound now was the crickets of Mascot, and the buzz of another Tiger Moth in the distance. Quinn put his goggles up, sweat trickling down his temples. It stung his eyes, which he now rubbed, blinking to try and clear them.

  The instructor flicked switches off, unclipped his straps, reflecting as he did: All these little chaps… All just the right size for a fighter cockpit. So many to trial, so many ‘well-qualified’ young gentlemen a complete waste of time. Scrubbed instantly, washed out. Most of those were packed off to Wireless Air Gunners. Some, dreams shattered, would drag their feet in shame to be re-mustered for Ground jobs. Oblivious to their good fortune: For those who made the grade never seemed to ask where that grade was sending them. The luckiest of them would finish graded ‘Exceptional’, and be invited to stay home in Australia. As Instructors.

  The older man’s gift was his instinctive feel for those who also had it. And for those who did not.

  This young man had it.

  Quinn became aware of the face beside his own over the rim of the cockpit, its leather helmet off now, thinning hair tangled and oily from the flight. The eyes were slits. Lips, parted.

  ‘Well done.’

  *

  Dear Danny

  Once again, congratulations from me and the whole family. Mum, Dad, Kathleen and Angie all send their love. Mister Reiser sends that old blessing of his. That thing he says every time after lunch, ‘May the Lord bless you and keep you’ etc.

  It was great to have you with us on your Leave. Wish I was with you right now. Your own Tiger Moth! A bit more of a handful than the old MG, I’ll bet. I knew they’d pick you, Danny. The blokes at school ask me about you all the time, so keep those details coming please.

  Fascinating to read everything you write about the course, and the flying sounds just incredible, being way up there like that. I know you wrote how easy it is to be ‘scrubbed’, but you’ll make it though. You always have.

  Well, brother, congratulations on your promotion to L.A.C., all the best to you and see you soon I hope. (WE hope.)

  Yours truly

  Matt.

  P.S. Don’t tell Mum and Dad, but I’ve made up my mind to volunteer for Aircrew. Just as soon as I’m old enough anyway. Two and a bit years to go yet, worse luck. The war will probably be over by then. You’ll just have to get them to string it out for me, won’t you.

  April 1941

  Quinn had first encountered Tom Barratt back at Bradfield Park. And might not have noticed him except for the fact he’d topped the firearms course. Like so many country boys Quinn had known back at college, Tom had that ability to blend in. They looked hard, moved slow, spoke quietly. And knew how to shoot a rifle already.

  Though Barratt hadn’t seemed the university type to Quinn. More like boarding school in Sydney for the Leaving Certificate then straight back out to the farm. His nuggety frame stood taller than Quinn’s, his six feet putting him clearly over the height regulation for Fighters. Quinn surmised what Barratt’s initial interview panel had seen before them: a young horseman, air of complete unflappability – They’d been looking for it in applicants of Tom’s height. The height that only a Bomber cockpit would allow.

  Quinn noticed Barratt a second time, only now as the best air student on the course. He was being talked about: Only eight weeks into it and this hayseed was already flying Solo.

  As his aircraft flew past them, a knot of young hopefuls watched on from the flight-line. Amongst them, Quinn could only hope they felt as he did – instantly inferior, and an inch closer to being scrubbed.

  ‘’Ere! You lot!’ From a short distance behind them on the grass came the unmistakable peal of the Flight Sergeant, no less than Mascot’s Senior Instructor. ‘Don’t just stand there like a bunch of stunned mullets! Look and learn, girls, look and learn. Now you will see how to land an aero-plane.’

  The lads focused even harder as, over their shoulders, the man beamed: A pilot like this one was pure gold on any course. He paced the rest of the students; just watching him fly they’d raise their whole expectation of themselves.

  Catching the last rays of the sun, the yellow bi-plane banked gracefully round from the bay and levelled out on its prescribed course, the assembled group tracking the craft’s growing form as it lowered down the glide-slope towards them. Yet something was odd, Quinn noticed: Barratt wasn’t throttling off.

  No, the buzz of the little engine was getting harder if anything, markedly now.

  ‘What the bloody hell’s he doing?!’ piped up one lad.

  Throttle wide open from the sound of it, in moments the Moth was on them, RAAF roundels looming large, their red-white-and-blue flashing close over ducking heads, a glimpse of pilot. As Barratt climbed away with the excess speed, he rolled it, slowly, beautifully in the ascent, a full revolution of the wing span – the first Quinn had ever seen. Upright again, the aircraft curved away left in a shallow diving bank to the west.

  The Flight Sergeant continued… ‘You can do that when you’re as good as he is and only then. Any one of you do an aileron roll before I say so, if you haven’t already killed yourself, I’ll make sure you wish you had.’

  His words went clean over Quinn; he felt only elation at the sight. Besides, his spirits were high this Friday afternoon, watching on at the last flight of the day: A free weekend ahead and he had an off-base Pass. His stare never left the aircraft as it banked round the circuit, passing level with them at the far side of the field, out over the bay, then turning back in to land. Only this time, the throttle came off.

  Centred on the field, Barratt lowered, making hardly a sound in the descent. When almost touching the grass, he flattened over it, his nose rising subtly, holding off, off, off, then touching down. Hearing the single, sweet thud, the group knew they’d just witnessed a text-book ‘Three-Pointer’ – both wheels and the tail skid contacting the earth simultaneously.

  Barratt ruddered right, taxiing towards them, then left again until parallel to the line of parked aircraft. As he drew level with them, the ground crew ran out, grabbed the left wingtip to bring him round, until facing away, and to a stop.

  As the Moth’s engine spluttered off, Quinn stood silently with the lads for a moment, each in his own thoughts. One by one they turned and headed away, until only Quinn remained: Duties finished for the day, he’d take a closer look at the yellow craft he was already beginning to love. In coveralls and forage cap, he ambled out to it.

  By the time he reached the plane, the ground crew were finishing their tasks, tying it all down, wheel chocks in place. Quinn took notice of their silent actions, devoted sixteen-year-old mechanics, acknowledging their tradesman nods as they departed. The engine tinked here and there as it cooled.

  ‘Nice flying,’ Quinn offered as he stepped a little nearer the cockpit. The leather helmeted form still inside it said nothing, the only sound that of a few switches and an unclip. The engine gave another tink. ‘My name’s Quinn…’

  Still there came no reply, only a gloved hand on the cockpit rim, its occupant shifting up in his seat. A goggles-up face angled to Quinn for an instant.

  ‘Whaddya want?’ it drawled. ‘…A medal?’

  To Qu
inn, the eyes seemed black. The young pilot now heaved over the rim, and though stepping delicately via the wing-root, his boots thudded heavily onto the grass. Quinn had heard the term ‘granite-faced’ before. But he’d never actually seen it. Until now…

  ‘Well, nice aileron roll back there,’ Quinn concluded, poised to withdraw as promptly, as politely as he could. Just as he was about to, the figure before him slipped its headgear and gloves, wiped sweat off palms onto coveralls, and extended a branch-like arm. Quinn knew this one from college: the full-arm-out country handshake.

  ‘Tom Barratt,’ said the young man with just the edge of a grin.

  ‘Daniel Quinn,’ he smiled with relief as they shook. ‘You can really fly.’

  ‘S’pose so,’ returned Barratt. ‘You headin’ back?’

  ‘Yes I am.’

  They moved off together towards the barracks.

  ‘I hear you’re not too bad y’self, mate,’ said Barratt. ‘Streuth, I could go a steak.’

  ‘A steak? Where from?’ put Quinn. ‘Last time I checked, there was a war on…’

  ‘Not if y’know someone who’s got one for you, there isn’t. Plus all the cold beer you care to purchase.’

  ‘That would be very generous of them,’ chuckled Quinn, ‘given the problem of Beer Rationing.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘So you run the Black Market, do you?’

  ‘You right for a hangover tomorrow?’

  ‘…Well … yes, as it happens.’

  ‘I’m hitting the showers, you get y’glad-rags on… Got fuel in that car of yours?’

  ‘Half a tank.’

  ‘Beaut. Meet me in front of the guardhouse in ten. My shout.’

  ‘Very kind.’

  ‘No wucken furries.’

  *

  Barratt hardly spoke on the drive, except to offer Quinn a cigarette he’d rolled – cheerfully declined – then to mention their destination.