Flight of the Tiger Moth (12 page)

As they left the café, Trevor whispered, “Promise not to tell – about the age thing. I could get sent home.”

“I’m good at keeping secrets.” The two young men shook hands on ­it.

The drive home was much quieter. Jack pretended to fall asleep. He wouldn’t even let himself think about Cathy and ­Basil.

No one sang any ­songs.

Chapter ­16

One morning over a week later,
Jack and Wes rode their bikes to the air base. Wes was working on the
Moth Monthly
, the base newsletter. He pointed to the ­sky.
“Looks like some of the guys are doing manoeuvres. You’d really like to be up there, wouldn’t you?”

“I’d love to fly, you know that.” Jack pointed at his big glasses and shook his ­head.

“Why do you need super eyesight to fly? There’s nothing to bump into up there.”

“There is over France and Germany. There’s ­ack-­ack around you and flak coming from the ground guns.” Jack dodged a dead ­gopher.

“You’d fit right in, though. Me, I’m more like Cathy. I just want countries to figure out how to live together. I want to write for a newspaper, and not be a war correspondent.”

“Wes, someone’s got to put Hitler and Mussolini out of business.”

“I know. Dragons have to be slain, but I don’t want to do it,” said ­Wes.

“If I was old enough, I’d go.”

“I know.”

Above their heads small planes banked, rolled and dived. Wes changed the subject. “Dexter and Cheese are afraid they might wash out. Cheese gets nosebleeds and makes mistakes. Dexter keeps gaining weight.”

“Trevor loves it,” Jack said. “And Basil feels right at home in the sky.”

“Cathy’s afraid for him,” Wes said. “Basil takes chances. Pushes the limits. That’s why she’s so gaga about him.”

“We should take Trevor and Basil out to the swimming hole at the farm, Dexter and Cheese too,” Jack suggested as they pedalled onto the ­base.

“Maybe after work if they’re free.” Wes parked in front of the administration office. Jack headed across the pavement to the hangar and stuck his bike in the rack before heading to work. Harold and some of the younger mechanics were already ­there.

“About time you got here. Your dog’s already curled up on his blanket waiting for you. lac Knight dropped him off on his way to his flying lesson. He’s going solo for the third time.”

For a second Jack envied Trevor like crazy. Then he let it ­go.

Jack tucked his lunch in his locker and tugged on his coveralls and work boots. Buddy leapt to his feet as Jack strolled toward his workspace. He knelt and played with Buddy, made him sit, shake hands and play dead. He filled Buddy’s water bowl and tossed some dog food in his dish. “You may hang out with all sorts of guys, Buddy, but you’re still my dog, and don’t you forget it.”

Buddy cocked his head and the way his jaw was set, anyone looking would have sworn the dog was ­smiling.

“Enough, Jackie.” Harold wiped sweat from his broad forehead as he came over. “I want you to wash down those two Moths to the left of the runway. Check if their bodies need any repairs. And stay clear of traffic. The flyboys are up and down like ­yo-­yos. The instructors are ­shell-­shocked from so many close calls and rescue missions.”

“How’s Angus?” Jack ­asked.

“Says he’s healing fast. I’ll put him on light duty for a few weeks.”

Just then Jimmy Boyle pulled up in his dad’s second truck. “Where do you want these oil drums?” he asked Harold. Then he saw Jack and shook his fist at ­him.

“Jack, take the tractor and show the young man where to stow the drums,” said ­Harold.

Jack climbed on the tractor. “Follow me.” He steeled himself for a ­confrontation.

He headed around the hangar to the shed at the side where the oil drums were stored, his heart beating fast. Wes wasn’t there to intimidate Jimmy with his size. Jack couldn’t run away or dodge him. He’d have to face ­him.

“So, Jackie boy?” Jimmy climbed down from the truck cab. “You’ve given those snooty British flyers a dog of mine. You’ve got the job I wanted – just because your dad owns a store, and now you’re going to stand there and tell me where to stow this stuff.” He unloaded an oil ­drum.

“I’ll help unload.” Jack strode to the back of the truck and started unloading drums and rolling them into the shed. His hands ­shook.

“Thanks for nothing, Foureyes!” Jimmy shouted Jack’s old nickname from elementary school. “I’ll deal with you in a minute.”

“Look, Jimmy,” Jack tried to sound calm, “I found that pup out on the roadside beside his dead mother. I got the job because Harold hired me. He doesn’t even know my dad.”

Jimmy raised his muscled arms and shoved Jack against the wall of the shed. The wood rattled and creaked. Jack lifted his arms to block the punch, but Jimmy pulled one of Jack’s arms down and landed a right jab on his jaw. Jack twisted away and tripped Jimmy in the process. Dust rose. A crow ­squawked.

Jimmy jumped up quickly. “That was for getting me into trouble with my dad over the dogs. This one’s for getting the job I wanted.” He punched Jack again, this time on the nose. Jack felt blood spurt and saw a fountain of red ­stars.

He wrestled Jimmy to the ground. The two boys rolled and heaved on the gravel. Jack figured he was at least keeping Jimmy from getting in another ­punch.

“You’re a ­stuck-­up ­son-­of-­a-­gun,” Jimmy hollered. “Your brains can’t help you now.”

“You’re a bully!” yelled ­Jack.

“Jackass!”

“Idiot!”

Jimmy got an arm free and Jack knew Jimmy was going to hit him again if he didn’t get a punch in first. With the strength of desperation he sent a quick jab into Jimmy’s face. With any luck, Jimmy was going to have a black ­eye.

“What’s going on here?” Harold pulled up in the ­forklift.

Jack and Jimmy got to their feet. Jack brushed his coveralls and swabbed his bleeding nose with his hankie. He glanced sideways at Jimmy, who was rubbing his face. “It was nothing.”

“Looked like a fight to me,” said ­Harold.

Jimmy clambered into the truck cab in no time. He gunned the motor and pulled ­away.

“What was that all about?”

“Jimmy Boyle and I go back a long way.” Jack sighed. “Buddy came from their bitch. Jimmy left him by the road to die.” His whole head hurt. “I don’t understand the way his mind works. Someone else is always to blame for everything.”

“Doesn’t want to take responsibility,” Harold ­com-mented.

“I’m the opposite. I always figure, anything goes wrong, must be my fault.” Jack rolled the last of the drums into the shed. “Thanks for coming along when you did.”

“You were holding your own, Jackie Waters.”

Jack couldn’t help himself. He grinned sheepishly, closed the shed door and climbed back on the ­tractor.

Harold called after him, “You better go clean yourself up. Your face is a mess.”

Chapter ­17

Jack drove back to the front of the maintenance shop.
He cleaned up as best he could in the dinky washroom, then picked up his cleaning supplies and walked out to the planes. Buddy trotted along with him and headed over to his favourite place by the fence to keep an eye on ­things.

Jack set to work. He knew Tiger Moths inside and out by now. He remembered the thrill of flying with Sandy and he remembered the tight fit of the cockpit. These days, he was scribbling in a notebook whenever he had a moment, trying to work out his ideas for improving the handling of controls in small planes, and maybe enlarging the cockpit as well. It would also be good if they could figure out a way to put a decent heater inside a small plane. A pilot nearly froze in wintertime. Next time he was in Moose Jaw, he’d see if the public library had books on aeronautics that he hadn’t already seen at the base ­library.

If he couldn’t be a pilot like Sandy, maybe he could be an aeronautical engineer and design better planes, safer planes. It was a land job. His mom would like ­that.

He washed down the cockpit of 5808 first, cleaned the dead bugs off the canopy and moved to work on the wings, watching for any rips in the fabric or bent bits that needed ­straightening.

Jack ran his hand over the smooth surface of the wing tip, caressing it as if it were alive. He loved these little yellow planes. He resonated with the way they worked, felt alive when he was around them. Imagine designing them, building them, testing them and then watching them fly – a man could really feel his life was worth something if he could do that. How big could you make them, how small, how safe and how easy to ­fly?

He lifted his hand off the smoothly stretched canvas wing and knew that, whatever he did with his life, it had to make him feel connected, focused like ­this.

He was nearly finished the first plane when he heard the horn sounding. He looked up in time to see two Ansons coming in for a landing at the same time, the top one coming in at a much steeper angle than the other. A jeep roared onto the runway, the ambulance revved its motor. Staff and maintenance personnel waved flags and ­shouted.

The top plane attempted to abort the approach and head up for a second pass but it didn’t have the airspeed to climb out. The lower plane wavered like a butterfly with floppy wings just beneath it. Jack couldn’t take his eyes off the ­scene.

The upper plane couldn’t climb. The lower one probably didn’t even know there was anything the matter. After all, the flyer below couldn’t see the plane above him. But he must have just felt something land on him. The top plane had somehow managed to snag the top of the wings of the lower plane. They weaved back and forth, heading straight toward the hangar. Both of them must have been braking as best they could, but the top one had no control over anything. If it weren’t so serious it would have been funny, thought Jack. It was one for the ­books.

Sirens wailed, horns blared, Buddy barked and a crowd gathered at the fence away from the open doors of the ­hangar.

Jack scrambled off the Moth he was working on and ran out to join the spectators. Ten feet from the hangar door, the planes came to a skidding stop. The smells of rubber and gas floated on the dust in Jack’s ­direction.

The two pilots were hauled from the planes and marched away toward the administration office. Harold and the other mechanics raced to separate the two planes and check that there was no danger of ­fire.

Harold beckoned Jack over. “We need coffee, Jackie boy. Gotta figure out how to get these two lame birds apart. It’s a good question whether these planes will ever fly again or if we have to write them off. It’s going to be a heck of a job. I never cared for Ansons anyway.”

“I’ve never seen anything like that in my whole life,” said George, an older mechanic from the night shift who was filling in for Angus. “And I worked at Blatchford Field in Edmonton for years.”

“I wish Angus was here. This is going to take a lot of work.” Harold strode up and down, growling about the whole dilemma. “We aren’t miracle workers.”

“Those two students are lucky to be alive. Especially the one on the top,” said another mechanic, sitting on the floor with motor parts surrounding him. “He came in too steeply. The other bloke never knew what hit him.”

“That top flyer will wash out for sure. He’ll be off to Observer School, I bet,” Harold ­said.

“Who were they?” Jack ­asked.

“Dexter and Cheese.” Harold glanced at the list of pilots. “Who else?”

Jack took the thermos and headed to the canteen. He passed Basil and Cathy walking on the path between the small airport store and the admin office, sharing a bottle of ­soda.

“What happened to your face, Jack?” asked ­Cathy.

Jack shrugged. He’d forgotten all about his scrap with Jimmy Boyle in all the excitement. He’d cleaned away the blood, although his jaw still ached and his nose throbbed. But he’d held his ­own.

Basil and Cathy had seen the two planes come down. “Who was it?” she ­asked.

“Cheese and Dexter,” Jack said. “They’re okay, and we’ll know about the planes in a bit.”

“They’re lucky they walked away,” laughed Basil. “That was some fancy manoeuvring.”

As he headed into the mess, Jack heard Cathy speaking firmly to Basil. “I don’t want you trying any stunts like that.”

“Don’t worry, darling girl. With the future we’ve got planned, I won’t risk anything I don’t have to.” He bent and kissed her lightly on the ­cheek.

Watching the two lovebirds, Jack’s mood dipped below zero. So much for first love, Foureyes. He got the coffee and went back to his planes. Buddy chewed on a bone the cook had sent him and watched as the repair crews worked at prying the two Ansons apart. It was going to take a long time to repair those trainers, that was for ­sure.

At lunch Wes showed Jack the cartoon he’d drawn of two planes on top of each other – “Coming in on a wing and a flyer,” he’d written under the line drawing. His artwork wasn’t much but his ideas were ­great.

“Do you think the newsletter committee will let you print it?”

Wes shrugged. “Probably not.”

Cathy and Basil, with Trevor trailing behind them, came over to where the two boys were sitting on the grass in front of the mess. “I say, how about we all skedaddle into Moose Jaw tonight to celebrate Dexter and Cheese’s miraculous escape,” Basil ­said.