From Quinn’s conversation with the Anson pilot, he seemed a nice enough bloke, a young Flight Lieutenant. A veteran at twenty-three, he’d been in England at the outbreak of war, had volunteered and commenced operations – ‘ops’ – from about half way through the Battle of Britain. He’d flown a Hurricane – a lovely fighter, he said – and had clearly been in the thick of it, claiming four German bombers confirmed and one fighter. Then, leading a section of three, he’d had his first Spitfire shot out from under him. He’d baled out, spent months in hospital, and was invalided back out to Australia – a fact he now seemed entirely content with.
‘Don’t get me wrong,’ came his words through Quinn’s intercom headphones, ‘I know where you’re going and you’re welcome to it. Don’t mind saying I’ve done my bit. Bus driver suits me fine.’ When his voice resumed, its levity had gone. ‘…After a while,’ he said, ‘you’ll stop making friends with other pilots. …One way or another.’
Quinn’s lips moved to query the comment. Yet the penny had already dropped as the pilot continued.
‘A word of advice, son… Watch your Six.’
‘…My Six?’
‘Your arse.’
*
Number 2 Service Flying Training School was built around an airstrip a few miles east of Wagga, on the map, at a place called Forest Hill. After landing, Quinn signed in at Personnel, stowed his gear, and took a good look around. He counted fifteen major hangars, then there were the machine shops, classroom blocks, administration and headquarters buildings, and row upon row of the type of arched corrugated iron hut that would be Quinn’s home for the next six months, called Nissen huts. Then there were the Airmens’, Sergeants’, and Officers’ Messes, a chapel, a parade ground, plus playing fields. The place even had its own train station. Young men were channelled here to become Fighter Pilots.
About an hour into his walk, Quinn quietly noticed the row of gravestones at the far end of the airfield – Number 2 SFTS had been operational for a year now. Here he would be flying Wirraways. Like the little bi-plane on which Quinn had learnt to fly, they were painted ‘training yellow’. Except the Wirraway was a modern, high-performance mono-plane. Which Quinn now had to master. Quite a few had flown over him as he walked, some exceedingly low, their sound, a heavy bass whoosh tinged with snarl.
*
‘A pleasant-looking little aeroplane,’ said Quinn’s new instructor, ‘but don’t be deceived. She bites.’
From a distance, walking out towards it on a cool, crisp morning, the yellow aircraft had the look of every child’s ideal toy. It was proud and sturdy looking, wing leading edges nicely swept back, reassuring little tail, a satisfying roundness to its radial front. The ‘Pilot-Maker’, Quinn had heard it nicknamed. Pilot- Breaker, he’d just heard someone comment at breakfast.
‘Your last aircraft had 130 horse-power,’ said the instructor. ‘Now you’ve 600. Handle her like a princess or you’re dead.’
Just as back in the open cockpit of the Tiger Moth, the ‘dual’ controls in front of Quinn mirrored the instructor’s as he test flexed them, this time from the forward seat. There the similarities ended: Quinn was now enclosed in the metal and perspex cage of a canopy. All around him were flaps levers, rudder and elevator trim wheels, controls for radio, intercom, fuel mixture, undercarriage, hydraulics, and an array of other things he didn’t even recognise yet. The little Moth hadn’t even a speedo.
A whine went through the airframe as the starter motor spun up. A vibration, a hefty bump, a cloud of black exhaust wafted past them, and the Pratt and Whitney Wasp radial engine up front settled into a sound every bit as gutsy as it looked – a gigantuan purr, five more cylinders than the Moth’s four, plus a supercharger. The cockpit now a mad rattle, through the early morning light, Quinn saw the dust storm generated behind, airmen scattering. The lever with the T for ‘Throttle’ edged forward, the purr put on thunder, and forward they rolled.
The instructor taxied them to the far west end of the airstrip, and wheeled them back round towards the east. Now lined up and ready, straight ahead the sun was kissing the horizon.
‘Ready?’ came his voice in Quinn’s headphones.
‘Sir.’
‘I’m a Flight Sergeant. You’re not supposed to call me “Sir”.’
There was no time for Quinn to reply: As the throttle drove forward, he felt the aircraft fully delivering on its promise of some serious power…
It charged.
Quinn was aghast at how far right the instructor had to shove the rudder pedals just to keep them heading in a straight line down the runway: In the Moth, Engine Torque was something you counteracted. Here you fought like mad against it, in an instant the Moth’s ‘swing’ relegated to pleasant memory…
A million miles from this.
With the purr now a howling buzz-saw, airstrip racing, the ground fell away. Quinn watched the levers shifting all around him, wheels up, flaps up, raw power surging at his back. Climbing fast, and with excellent visibility from the cage, Quinn saw the flat earth below red-golden from the sun. The morning sky was already deep blue, and perfectly clear.
The voice came through the electric headphones in Quinn’s leather helmet – a long way from the Moth’s rubber tube…
‘Okay then. How do you feel?’
‘Sort of…’ Quinn hesitated. ‘Like I left my brain back down there on the runway.’
‘Well, that’s common first time up. And good you’re being honest…’ – Save a lot of time if he’s useless, thought the instructor – ‘…Just get your brain right back up with us in a hurry or I’ll scrub you.’
‘Sir.’
‘I am not “Sir”. I’m a Flight Sergeant. You say “Flight”… Righto, now let’s see what you’re made of.’
What’d that mean? Quinn puzzled. I’m only Passenger today…
The answer came crystal clearly and without a word as the Wirraway flick-rolled, the world turning upside-down and levelling upright within a second.
Quinn blinked to clear his wits: Well. That wasn’t so bad…
Then came the power dive…
The aircraft flipped on its head, and stayed inverted, above Quinn, the Earth. The stick now pulled back between his thighs and he was arcing down towards it, deeper, deeper, now straight down, the engine winding to a scream in the descent.
He peered at the control panel. The airspeed needle was winding up, the altimeter crazily un-winding. His stomach turned to ice. Maybe something was wrong. Something was wrong. It must be: Those fields were way too close – He could make out trees, even their shadows cast by the morning sun…
Had the pilot lost control? Maybe a control line had snapped… Why wasn’t he saying anything?!
The plane was starting to buffet, still heading straight down, now shaking badly. The fields were rushing at Quinn’s face. And they kept coming. Jesus Christ, maybe the pilot had nothing left to say…
Quinn could only stare at the earth coming up to kill him: How could it be all over first time up?! And so quickly? Nothing he could do about it – If the pilot couldn’t, how could he?! All he could think was at least it hadn’t been his fault; that would have been pathetic… Nothing else to do but watch it come… As he did, his mother’s face came to him – not smiling, not crying, just normal – his vision then settling ahead. On the swelling fields…
Then more fields. Then more… Moving, the fields were MOVING, clambering through Quinn’s vision as the pilot wound interminably through the pullout.
And with that howling recovery, the gravitational forces piled. Quadrupled. A terrible weight pressing on his head and shoulders, his one-sixty pound bodyweight heaving to over six hundred, Quinn’s lower eyelids felt as if wrenched somewhere down near his mouth.
The scream of the engine melted to a tortured groan. Quinn knew his eyes were still open, if only for the greyness they now saw crowding in, narrowing down to a port-hole of light, and then blackness.
He was blind.
Should he tell? He’d be scrubbed. He hadn’t come this far to wash out. The engine sounded like a rushing wind. Fuck, he was finished.
He felt numb.
Yet no other option.
The intercom.
‘Flight…’
‘…Go ahead,’ wafted the reply, to Quinn’s amazement, serenely.
‘I’ve… I’m afraid I’ve gone blind.’
During the pause that followed, an eternity to Quinn, he knew, this time without a doubt, that he had been scrubbed.
The voice came back.
‘Good: Day One, Lesson One. You’re supposed to.’
‘I am?’ For a split-second Quinn thought he’d yelled it.
‘Just hold on, your vision will return. You can probably feel we’re flying level, in a shallow climb, yes? Get the feeling of it. In air combat, blackouts are inevitable. You will learn to decrease them. …If I let you get that far.’
Most of the words were a blur to Quinn, yet the pilot was right: The blackness was turning grey – As blood flowed back from his lower body to his brain, his vision was returning. In the greyness a hole of light widened, further now, he could almost see again!
Full eyesight restored, Quinn had never felt more relieved, more euphorically bloody grateful in his entire life. The voice came through the headphones once more.
‘Say when.’
Quinn took a blessed moment.
‘Ready, Flight.’
‘Righto. Tense your lower muscles. Hard. Everything from your stomach down. And hang on.’
The world turned on its side, hard left – tight turn – Quinn’s eyelids wrenching once again. He squeezed everything below his neck but Jesus…
*
Labouring out of the cockpit, Quinn staggered slightly down off the wing. Both feet back on solid earth, he strained to collect what remained of his wits, and turned back round to take in the aircraft, only to regret it immediately. He hunched over, stretching both hands to his knees, get some blood back to the head. He’d felt this way before – when he’d just come off the rugby field after a very bad half.
The instructor, a young man about his own age, was beside him suddenly, Quinn feeling a gloved hand on his shoulder. He straightened as quickly as he dared, smoothly to avoid fainting, and to downplay his condition if at all possible. A terrifying thought had pierced the fog that this glove on his shoulder meant, ‘ Well, nice try, mate. Failed.’ But as he regained some sort of equilibrium, he saw the face beside him was determined, speaking to him. As the sounds filtered through, they reminded Quinn for a moment of a priest refereeing one of his early games – one who’d assessed him on the spot for concussion.
‘I know how well you’ve done up till now…’
In the midst of his nausea, Quinn sensed a strange tone in the words. Yet a sound embedded deep in his memory.
It was the sound of encouragement.
‘The key thing in this whole business is to keep your head. Are you listening?’
The voice hardened.
‘Keep it mentally – when there’s a thousand things to think of at once, and physically – when you’re pulling heavy G-forces. When you pull a heavy turn, tense your body as hard as you can from your stomach down. Keep the blood in your brain. You read about Douglas Bader last year?’
‘Battle of Britain,’ Quinn wheezed. ‘“Tin Legs” Bader…’
‘Only reason he survived is he could turn tighter than anyone else as the blood had nowhere to go. No legs.’
‘Keep my head.’
‘You may as well. If you don’t, some competent young German’ll have it off for you. Now take it on the chin today. Just remember our little chat for tomorrow. Don’t worry about it, we’ve all been where you are right now. You’re here for one good reason: You’re the raw material. Capable of learning it all. And you will learn it. But you must learn quickly. Understood?’
‘Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.’
‘And for fuck’s sake stop calling me Sir.’
Hearing the smile in the voice now, Quinn knew it: He’d been shown mercy, given a second chance. The rush of reprieve welled up from deep inside him.
He threw up in the dust between his boots.
July 1941
Dear Danny
The Wirraway sounds marvelous. I want one. 600 horse-power?! No wonder you had that trouble first time up. Still, glad to hear you’re getting the hang of it. Obviously there’s always going to be a degree of danger but I know very well how you’d handle that. Like when we really gunned the car those times, I could always trust you there, couldn’t I. As you always said, it’s all about knowing how far to go then no further. Anyway, I know you’ll use good judgement and that’s all there is to it.
And Germany invading Russia?! Who would have believed it? So Stalin’s pact with the Germans goes up in smoke and now he’s our Ally to boot! Funny how all of a sudden the Russians aren’t ‘Godless Heathens’ anymore. Remember how Father O’Donnellan used to go on? Well the old boy seems to have mellowed on that point. Now the talk is all about how badly we need them against the Germans.
Thanks so much for the book. One birthday closer to joining you now. Father O’D says I’d be a Spitfire pilot tomorrow if only I spent half as much time studying Physics as aircraft recognition silhouettes. He often asks about you. Says to say hello and that he’s praying for you. Seems he thought something of you after all, buggered if I know why…
Life’s pretty dull here compared to yours. Here’s me, putting off Physics homework, there’s you, becoming a Fighter Pilot. And a Spitfire Pilot, no less. That’s what Wirraways lead to, they say. Missing you, brother.
Yours truly
Matt.
September
For Quinn, Wagga Wagga was a nice enough town close up. After a couple of beers anyway…
His instructor, Flight Sergeant Bob Eastwood, made a point of buying Quinn a few – He’d made it halfway through the program and for the next three months would be flying the Wirraway solo.
‘So long as you don’t plow a fifty-foot crater into someone’s farm,’ sided Eastwood.
Quinn enjoyed Bob’s company, but more than that: He felt lifted by the air of determined intelligence about him. With ginger hair, pale hazel eyes, the twenty-three-year-old West Australian had been a primary school teacher in civvie street, rated Exceptional at the end of his elementary flying training, they made him an instructor. Quinn doubted Bob’s initial interview panel had realised he possessed the natural teacher’s gift for letting confidence build on itself, though he didn’t doubt it as the reason the Air Force had turned down his application for overseas posting once already.
Quite the established country centre was Wagga. The Union Club Hotel, laid down in the 1850s, dominated the wide mainstreet intersection its upper verandahs surveyed. From the iron lace railing, Quinn took in the Saturday afternoon procession of ambling locals, a horse and cart, and the military trucks that clattered past now and then.
The town reminded Quinn of so many childhood holidays: all those stately facades beaming out loyalty to Empire, each official building standing so solidly reverent in a land so far from England’s ‘Green and Pleasant’ one. Here in a place rarely ever green or pleasant, he reflected over a sip of beer.
‘Do you think Britain has ever heard of Wagga?’ he put to Eastwood.
The Flight Sergeant pondered on this with a grin and a smoke.
‘Nope.’
*
After some meat pies and a few more beers each, Eastwood suggested they take a bit of a wander; evidently the town’s Victory Memorial Gardens were worth a look…
As they ambled up Wagga’s main street, Quinn felt happy, relaxed, the sun forming its first long shadows behind buildings and trees, up ahead, the gardens, profusions of wattle still intense yellow despite the dying day. Indeed, Quinn felt the flimsy
warmth of the spring afternoon lifting, as they reached their destination the slightest mist beginning to form. ‘Coming on a bit chilly,’ he said.
‘Here,’ offered Eastwood with a smile, producing a silver hip flask from inside his tunic. ‘Get this into ya…’
Quinn took a swig. ‘ Lovely… Cognac?’
‘I see you are no stranger to the finer things, Daniel,’ grinned Eastwood, accepting it back from Quinn and taking his own swig of it.
Warmed by it now, they stood on the beginning of a paved way leading to a giant arch, its sandstone in shadow. Around the whole edifice peered trees of the park, the lowering sunlight behind them, some still leafless from winter. On either side of the arch stood a wall, upon each of these, columns of text engraved in granite. Silently, they meandered up the path towards it.
Quinn saw they were columns of names. Atop the arch was a wreath carved in granite. To the left of this was carved 1914, to the right, 1919.
‘I think they call this the “Victory Memorial Arch”,’ offered Eastwood, approaching it for a closer look at the columns. He read name after name, after name – there were hundreds of them, commencing with ADAMS. ‘God, here I am,’ he piped up after a few moments, ‘ Eastwood.’ He stepped back slightly, appraising the monument as whole. ‘…Writing’s on the wall, eh?’ His face suddenly pained, he angled to Quinn, ‘Sorry…’ and turned back to the names. ‘…Bloody stupid thing to say.’
Nor the Years Condemn Page 6
