Flight of the Tiger Moth (16 page)

Jack spent the next few minutes concentrating on flying the ­plane.

“You haven’t lost your touch,” shouted Trevor over the Gosport. “I bet you miss it.” Jack grinned at the ­praise.

Finally it was time to land and Trevor touched down smooth as a skate on ice. With a Tiger Moth that was a ­challenge.

“Of course I miss flying,” said ­Jack.

“Maybe we can do this again.”

“I better get back home. I told Dad I’d wash and wax Sandy’s car. Mom is stewing about Flo.”

“I hear she’s been injured. Basil told me.”

“Who on earth would bomb a hospital? Nobody’s safe over there.”

“I know, and I’m heading home soon. I figure life is short. I’m going to live in the moment. It may be all we have. And at least I get to fly. I’ll love it even if it’s the last thing I do.”

“I hope it won’t be.”

“You’re a good bloke, Jackie.”

“We’re really different, though. You’re a city slicker, a musician, and a flyer. I’m still in school.”

“That’s why we’re such good mates. We don’t have to compete, we can just be friends. You remind me of my younger brother, you know. He and I are great mates. My brother Tom is a loner. Maybe it’s because of his legs being bad.”

Jack nodded. “Some of us are going over to the Hobbs farm for a swim later. Are you and Basil coming?” Jack ­asked.

“Basil is, for sure. I’ll take this crate back and refill the gas tank. I want to write in the next page of my pilot’s log.”

“You’re an eager beaver. That’s what my grandpa called me when they let me skip Grade Four,” laughed ­Jack.

“So you’re hardly one to talk, are you, Jackie boy? I’ll fly over and wave, kiddo.”

“Take it easy, Trevor.”

“You worry too much.”

Chapter ­22

Later that afternoon Basil, Dexter, Buddy and Jack headed out
to the Hobbses’ swimming hole. They had their swim trunks on. No ­skinny-­dipping today. Violet and Rose Hobbs had warned the boys they were planning on a dip after they’d practiced with Cathy and Ivy at the ­church.

You couldn’t see the pond from the road. It was surrounded by a windbreak of mixed willow, small birch, poplar trees and wild brush. The track from the farmhouse to the water was well worn and rutted. Jack remembered flying over the farm early in the spring, watching the wandering course of the creek and spotting the pond glinting in the sunlight. He had pointed it out to ­Sandy.

Now he stretched out on one of his mom’s old towels on the grassy slope that led down to the muddy shoreline. You
could wade into the cool water or dive off the wooden dock the Hobbs twins had built. On the other side, close to the dam, a family of ducks patrolled. A frog chorus provided the musical entertainment. The frogs were accompanied by flies, bees, dragonflies and other insects. Cattails and lily pads edged the area where the smaller stream wandered ­on.

Jack turned over to toast his pale back. Basil and Dexter were yelling and throwing water at each other, with Buddy barking happily on the shore, but Jack just felt like ­loafing.

What a week lay ahead. It made Jack jumpy as a gopher in a hayfield full of foxes. Tonight there was a flying school party. Jack hoped he wouldn’t have to dance. He loved big band music by Jimmy Dorsey and Glenn Miller but he had two left feet when it came to the two-­step.

Wes came bumping across the grass on his bicycle. He had on baggy swim trunks. “I finished my chores so I thought I’d join you guys.” He tossed his bike down and pulled off his ­t-­shirt, slipped out of his running shoes and ran for the ­water.

Jack sat up, put his arms around his knees and watched his friend slice through the water. Wes was a far better swimmer than Jack. He’d join him in a minute but right now he was going over his agenda in his head. He liked to know what was coming up. It gave Jack some sense of having control of things. He chuckled. He was probably more like his mother than he wanted to ­admit.

Coming up next Thursday was the dress rehearsal for the fête. Saturday was the performance in the United Church basement. Sunday evening they were performing in Mortlach – taking the show on the road he had laughingly told his parents – and Monday was graduation day at the airfield. It was going to be wild. Life couldn’t be any ­better.

School started a week Tuesday. The raf boys were slated to leave Wednesday. Life would get back to normal – when? A new bunch of flyers was due a few days after this batch left. But Wes and Jack would be too busy with grade twelve to work at the base, even on the weekends. They both needed scholarships or bursaries or really good ­part-­time jobs. Neither set of parents had money to ­spare.

Meanwhile he was intent on having a great time now, as Trevor had suggested. He swam out and joined Wes and Dexter in a game of ball. Basil and Buddy were playing in the ­shallows.

Jack headed back to shore to see his dog. What was he going to do about Buddy when these guys left? That was a problem he hadn’t considered ­yet.

Buddy padded into the water to greet Jack as he emerged from the pond. Basil joined Jack and the dog and hummed tunes from the show as they waited for the girls. Buddy stretched out on the grass and chewed on a worn bit of rope that he hauled ­everywhere.

“I’m sure going to miss you guys.” Jack sucked on a blade of sweet ­grass.

“The feeling’s mutual, Jack.”

“Maybe after the war…”

Basil pulled a green shoot from a stalk of grass and chewed too. “I hope the co will approve of me getting married before I leave. I want Dr. McLeod to perform the ceremony. I want Cathy to move to England as soon as the war ends.”

Jack didn’t like the sound of ­that.

“Trevor thinks we can start a production company to do musical theatre after the war. I’m not sure. I might be better as a lawyer at the bar.”

“I can’t imagine you in a courtroom,” laughed Wes who had come out of the water dripping and shaking water over Jack and ­Basil.

“My dad sure can. He has his heart set on it. Any news from the front?”

“Not yet.” Hovering over every conversation, every event, was a shadow, the cloud called ­war.

Cathy and the other girls came over the hill, waving towels and laughing together about something. Jack’s insides flipped. He leapt up and raced into the pond, dove and came up spluttering. Rose and Violet stood at the edge chattering about how cold it was and how they didn’t want to get their hair wet. They both had on swimsuits that showed off their tanned legs. Jack tried not to stare at ­them.

Buddy came swimming out to Jack with a thick stick. Jack threw it. Buddy fetched it and swam to shore and shook his wet coat all over the ­girls.

“Call off your dog, boys,” laughed Cathy. “We don’t want our perfect day ruined.”

It was truly a beautiful late summer day. Jack floated on his back, looking up at the endless blue sky, the colour of his mother’s fancy Wedgwood teapot. Only a few planes crossed his field of vision. The buzzing of the bees seemed louder than the drone of the small yellow ­planes.

What a summer he’d had! He glanced over and saw his dog, sitting with his ears up, quivering attentively, his eyes scanning the area around him. Buddy was ready for anything. His old friend Wes was talking to Rose Hobbs. He chuckled, seeing Wes talking to a girl, trying to act like a smooth operator instead of the studious type. It wasn’t just the village that had changed with the presence of all these young airmen. He and Wes had changed ­too.

What was going to happen to Buddy when these flyers left, and what was going to happen to him? Like the string of ducklings following their parents to the next slough and practicing for their flight south, he was perched on the edge of his future. It lay before him, a challenge or a problem, depending on how he tackled it. He had to make plans. He knew he didn’t want to back into life, or fall into it, take the easy ­way.

He wasn’t like Trevor, who said he lived for the moment and the day. Jack wanted to move forward, discover his centre of gravity and choose his own course. Follow his dream. He wanted to keep a sense of ­equilibrium.

Seemingly out of nowhere, a line of dark clouds skidded across the sky from the north and covered the sun. A sharp wind stirred the water and the leaves of the poplars around the swimming hole. Jack swam to shore, where Buddy stood to welcome him, his plumed tail like a gorgeous black ­feather.

Cathy and the other girls were washing their hair and laughing on the other side of the pond. Basil, Dexter and Wes tossed a beach ball back and ­forth.

The whine of a small plane approaching caught Jack’s attention. He looked up, shielding his eyes. One bright yellow Tiger Moth, 3404, made a pass over the ­farm.

“It’s Trevor!” shouted Jack. “He said he might fly over to say ‘hi.’”

The small plane disappeared behind the trees. The buzz faded. Everyone had clambered out of the pond and stood dripping, teeth chattering. Cathy stood, holding Basil’s ­hand.

Trevor reappeared higher up. He rolled and dived, showing off the little plane and his skills. Buddy sat close to Jack, still as a rock, his eyes following the plane in its flight. The dog growled deep in his ­throat.

“It’s okay, Buddy. It’s just Trevor showing his stuff.”

Jack had a crick in his neck but he didn’t dare look down. He didn’t want to miss the show. Trevor flew high, low, and rolled and dived in the little kite. Jack shivered as a stray wind blew across the pond. Dark shadows of an eagle being chased by two screaming crows crossed his line of vision and then disappeared in the ­distance.

Everyone at the swimming hole had stopped to ­watch.

Jack was entranced. He loved watching the ­hard-­working biplane manoeuvre. How many young flyers had flown these training planes? A Tiger Moth was not elegant but she was tight and tidy, like a small but sturdy hockey player on a frozen ­slough.

Jack longed to be up there with his ­friend.

Buddy started barking – as if he knew his good friend Trevor was in the plane overhead. Jack shook his head. “He can’t hear you, Buddy, not above the noise of the engine.”

Buddy bounded up and down the shore of the pond, barking ­furiously.

“Don’t worry, Buddy. He’ll head back to base soon.”

Trevor came in low for another sweep over the pond. He waved as he passed, then climbed sharply out of ­sight.

The engine sputtered. Jack heard a loud pop, and a raucous bang. Then a silence that went on too long. Only the whine of wind and hum of insects filled the air. It was not enough. What had happened to Trevor and the Tiger ­Moth?

Jack stopped breathing. His ears plugged as if he was diving too deep, too fast. His skull hurt as if it was being compressed under tons of water. He was ­drowning.

Crash! Whoosh! The crackle of flames and the sighing of the ­wind.

Clouds of smoke and dust rose from Hobbs’ hayfield. Buddy ran like lightning. Basil, Dexter, Wes and Jack raced, bare feet on stubble, avoiding stooks of drying alfalfa, across the field to the creek bed where the yellow Moth lay crumpled and burning. It was a total wreck. No one could see through the haze and scattered debris. Jack shook like a leaf. There was nothing or no one to see. He knew that like he knew his own ­name.

Buddy had beaten them all to the site. He pawed the scorched and blackened ­earth.

The stench of gasoline was everywhere. The girls arrived, shivering. Cathy ran toward the ­burnt-­out plane but ­stopped.

“Stay back!” Basil pulled her ­close.

“Trevor!” Cathy began to ­shake.

The young people huddled in a ­semicircle.

“He’s gone,” said ­Basil.

“Someone go for help!” Jack ­yelled.

>>>

Crash!
The shriek of a second explosion echoed across the open ­prairie.
“It’s the gas tank!” shouted ­Basil.

Rose and Violet ran to the farmhouse. Dexter raced to phone the base. Jack stood in shock by ­Wes.

Cathy dropped to the ground with Basil holding her in his arms. She rocked and cried, rocked and cried. “No! God, no!”

>>>

Buddy stayed a safe distance from the smouldering wreckage,
whining. He sat unmoving, like a sentinel, Trevor’s white scarf caught under his paw, scorched, tattered, grimy but ­intact.

The dog’s whiskers were singed. Jack sat down beside him He hugged the trembling pup. “You’re a good dog,” he ­said.

Jack walked back to the pond in a kind of daze, the dog padding slowly beside ­him.

His mouth was dry as a desert, his tongue thick. Nothing, but nothing, would ever be the ­same.

Only this morning he had been in this plane with Trevor. They did the same manoeuvres. He’d been flying the Moth for some of them. And now the Moth and Trevor were gone. And he, Jack Waters, was alive and safe on the ground. Life was not ­fair.

He dove into the pond and swam across it and back, wanting to get away, far away, from the scene in the field. His tears mingled with the water. He dove to the bottom of the pond and tried to stay down. When his lungs were about to burst, he rose to the surface, gasping for ­air.

He heard sounds of a motorcycle, a truck and an ambulance racing toward them. He ran with the others to meet them – to describe the crash and the death of Trevor Knight, the sudden, horrible death of a ­seventeen-­year-­old who had flown into everyone’s hearts in Cairn, Saskatchewan, in ­1943.