Flight of the Tiger Moth (6 page)

Jack cycled over to Hangar Number One where Harold stood by the door holding a dingy white mug of coffee and talking to Angus, his ­second-­in-command on the maintenance crew. Harold was beefy like a football player, with no neck to speak of, while Angus had a paunch that hung over his ­leather-­belted work ­pants.

“What’s this, then?” asked Angus, running his hand through his thinning brown hair. “Where’d you pick up this wee laddie?”

“Tell him the story, Jackie,” Harold said, “but I’ve got to get back to work. And I’ve got lots for you to do. Poor old 3070 caught a duck in its propeller and fuselage. Start with that. Clean it out.” He walked off. “Oh, and tie the dog close to the repair shop. I’ll keep an eye on him. Angus can show you what to do.”

Angus didn’t seem in a hurry as Jack told about the rescue. Angus had a border collie himself, back in Edmonton, that his brother was keeping for him, and he gave Jack all sorts of tips about raising a good ­dog.

“Border collies like to take care of a group, a herd, a bunch of things, preferably sheep. But they’ll herd
you
if you let them. Train them to take care of things, and they’re happy as clams.”

Jack sighed. “I don’t think I can keep him.”

“Wish I could help you out.” Angus led the way to the tractor at the far corner of the shed. “Rev this fellow up and haul 2804 and 2805 out on the tarmac and give ’em a wash. Get the duck out of the works on 3070. Then fill all these babies with gas so they’re set to take off with the new blokes.”

Jack whistled as he started up the tractor, headed down the centre of the hangar to the far end and located 2804 and 2805, spattered in mud, as if whoever landed them had driven through the swampy area at the end of the west ­strip.

Tiger Moths were an easy plane to fly – sometimes too easy, Sandy had told Jack. Young pilots became overconfident and didn’t slow down enough, or they didn’t get the nose headed into the wind when they came in to land. Most said they were hard to land. Jack hadn’t gotten that far. Sandy had landed the plane when he’d given Jack that day of ­lessons.

He was grateful for all the flying tips he’d picked up. If a fellow kept his ears open, he could learn a lot around the base. And if he could get through the work on time, he would ask Mabel for a ­half-­hour on the Link Trainer. He never got tired of that. Mabel, the best instructor on the base, knew how Jack longed to fly. Harold and Angus wondered why Jack liked to “play” at flying, but Mabel understood why he showed up in the strange circular Link room with its domed ceiling representing the ­sky.

Jack hooked the towing cable onto the front of 2804, ready to haul it outside through the open hangar doors. Thank goodness there wasn’t a strong wind on the runway, or he wouldn’t be able to do this on his own. Small birds twittered and flitted back and forth like tiny kites in the massive struts and beams that held up the hangar ­roof.

Ever so carefully, Jack drove the tractor with the yellow biplane trailing behind it through the massive doors of Hangar ­One.

He remembered watching this hangar being built. The foreman of the construction crew, who bought coffee from Jack when he used to cycle out to the base, saw he was interested and taught him things he could never have learned in ­school.

The guy had told him that this was by far the biggest construction job Canada had ever been involved in. “After this we’ll be a world power, Jackie boy,” he’d said. “The British Commonwealth Air Training Plan will put Canada on the world map, you wait and see. There’s nearly a hundred of these aerodromes across the country, and I helped build the prairie ones.”

Jack had rarely seen anyone so proud of what he was ­doing.

“I may not get any medals for this, but I’ll know when we win the air war that I did a good job. If a man can say that about his work, he can die happy.”

Jack had never forgotten the guy’s enthusiasm. He himself would never fly a fighter plane either, but maybe helping at the airfield was enough. He towed the beautiful little plane ­outside.

Buddy barked and whined, so Jack jumped down and ran over to fetch the dog and tie him up by the first light standard on the field. Then he jogged back to the tractor and towed the biplane to the left side of the tarmac. Buddy barked his ­encouragement.

He climbed up into the front cockpit first and tidied it. He hung his head outside as much as he could, with the Perspex canopy pushed right back. The inside reeked of old sweat, oil, gas and metal. A crumpled Chiclets box and a wadded tissue curled on the ­floor.

Jack took a damp rag and washed down the controls, cleaning the windows on the dials, wiping down the speaker tube, the metal student pilot seat, even the rudder pedals on the floor. Thank goodness the last user hadn’t barfed. He’d had to clean that up often ­enough.

The cockpit clean, Jack inserted himself, like a sausage in a skin, into the front seat. It was a tight fit. How on earth would a bigger guy squeeze in, let alone be able to move? A tall black metal rod, the control stick, sat between his legs. The left and right rudder controls were on the floor at his feet. There were several gauges – for oil pressure, airspeed, turn coordinator, compass, and altimeter. The throttle was to his­ left.

Suddenly he was back in that day with Sandy, roaring down the runway, then lifting into the bright sky. The little biplane had rattled and groaned, the wings tipped, and the ground sped by, and he was enthralled by the wonder of seeing forever and soaring free of the ground. That day would stay with him for the rest of his ­life.

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He cleaned out the instructor’s cockpit, slid to the ground and went for the hose. He took a side trip over to Buddy, gave him food and water, and played with him for a moment. The pup rolled and wiggled and panted. He licked Jack’s hand, his pink tongue quicker than a slippery, ­fresh-­caught fish from Thunder Creek. Somewhere inside, Jack felt like ice was melting. He hugged the dog and decided it was time to get back to ­work.

An automobile roared up and came to an abrupt stop. Buddy trembled, anticipating trouble. Four English lacs – Leading Aircraftsmen, or Lowly Air Crew as the village called them – spilled out of the clunker, a ’36 Chevy with its roof gone, that the students seemed to pass down like a used suit of clothes. Jack couldn’t imagine how it managed to keep going. Rumour said some Brit had paid ­twenty-­five dollars for it a year ago. He’d bought it from a farm boy over near ­Mortlach.

“I say, is that your dog?” asked the driver, a short, ­dark-­haired young man, not much older than Jack. “Is he a purebred border collie?”

Jack shook his head. “No, his father’s a border collie, but his mother had lab and terrier in her.”

“Is he for sale?” a blond fellow with flashing blue eyes ­asked.

“Are you daft, Basil?” said the driver. “We can’t keep a pup.”

“Why not?” Basil came over to Buddy. “He could be the mascot of this blighted bunch of blokes. I’m Basil, by the way.” Basil was like a walking advertisement for a handsome British flyer – blond, fit and smartly ­dressed.

“He’s
my
dog,” said Jack, standing up beside ­Buddy.

“Be a good chappie and let us borrow him for a bit.” Basil was tickling Buddy under the chin. “We’re only here for a couple of months.”

The two other fellows joined in. “I could build him a doghouse behind our ­h-­hut,” said one of them. “He’s more friendly than the sergeant, by crikey,” added the other. “More handsome too.”

“Basil, you can’t just walk off with the fellow’s dog,” said the driver. “Much as I miss my own.” He turned to Jack, “My fox terrier, Max, was killed in the Blitz in ’41. Didn’t like going to the shelter in the back garden. Stayed in the hall closet under the coats.” Jack realized the house must have been ­bombed.

Jack found himself liking the driver. The others seemed a bit snooty, full of their own importance. He’d noticed that some British flyers acted like everyone in Canada was a hick, or a “colonial,” as one pilot had called him. He hoped this batch wouldn’t be like ­that.

The driver shook Jack’s hand. “I’m Trevor Knight, of London, England, and these nincompoops are Basil, Dexter
and Cheese, otherwise known as Charles.” Dexter was pudgy
and awkward with a big nose and big feet. Cheese had skin blemishes dotting his face and forehead like small craters on the moon. He had big teeth and a bigger mouth than anyone Jack knew in town. When he grinned it looked like the corners of his mouth ran up to his ­ears.

Jack listened as the four lacs chatted about home and families and flying planes. Jack warmed to them all finally. Maybe the boys weren’t snobs as much as unsure of the ways of Canadian boys. Buddy, meanwhile, had been passed around like a coveted prize and enjoyed the ­attention.

“Is there any way we could convince you, Jackie boy, to lend us your dog, Mr. Buddy, for the duration of our stay here in this unbelievably empty desert?” asked Basil. He was lanky like Wes McLeod, but really fair, with a small blond moustache, what Ivy Waters would call a cookie ­duster.

Jack studied the four young flyers. His mind flashed to Sandy, lost somewhere in France. He hoped someone in a French village was helping ­him.

These guys were a long way from home. Jack remembered studying geography when he was in elementary school, colouring maps and making fancy tags that named the crops, creatures and outstanding features. All of Great Britain had been very green, lush and rainy. Not like Cairn at all. No wonder they were so shocked, probably homesick too. His mind did a fast trip down a dark street – some of them would die in this war, or maybe even in an accident right here in southern ­Saskatchewan.

Trevor was holding Buddy and crooning to ­him.

What was Jack going to ­do?

“I’ll think about it,” was all he could ­say.

Chapter­ 9

Wes was sitting on his front stoop
eating a brown sugar sandwich when Jack pulled into the lane by the manse. Dr. McLeod was trimming rose bushes beside the stucco ­bungalow.

“What have you got there?” hollered ­Wes.

Jack leaned his bike against a barrel of brilliant red geraniums, grabbed Buddy and joined Wes on the steps. “Look what I found!”

McLeod’s tortoiseshell Persian, named Gracie Fields after a famous English singer, arched her back, spat and leapt from the wooden rocker on the porch, darting toward the ­street.

“Gracie Fields doesn’t approve of dogs.” Wesley reached over and patted the wiggly pup. “Where’d you find him?”

Wes’s mother stood behind the screen door in her apron. “I want to hear too,” she said. “Wait a minute and I’ll bring lemonade.”

She turned and disappeared down the hall. The smell of fresh lemon squares wafted in the air. Wes’s mom was younger than Jack’s. She took a real interest in whatever the boys were ­doing.

“What’s young Waters brought over?” Dr. McLeod came around the side of the house, wiping his bony hands on a shabby old cardigan. He bent down and scratched Buddy on the chest. “Looks like the Boyles’ litter.”

“I found this pup on my way to work this morning. I want to keep him. Mom doesn’t.”

“Don’t get your hopes up, Jackie,” sighed Dr. McLeod, as his wife appeared with the lemonade. Soon the McLeods were seated on the porch sipping lemonade and listening to Jack’s ­story.

“I know why she said no,” Mary McLeod said. “Ivy’s not a dog person and she’s just had a terrible shock.”

“That’s what Dad says,” Jack ­agreed.

“I worry about Jimmy and Pete, I do.” Dr. McLeod shook his head sadly. “No one sets them much of an example, especially since Mrs. Boyle died of cancer.”

“There’s a violent streak in old Jerry Boyle,” said his wife. “I expect he beats his kids.”

“And then there’s the drink,” Dr. McLeod said. “He and Pete Nelson like to tie one on most weekends from what I hear.”

“Isn’t there something we can do?” asked Wes. He had Buddy on his lap and was feeding him crumbs from his ­square.

“I don’t think there’s much we can do about the Nelsons or the Boyles. Old Mrs. Nelson comes to church when her arthritis isn’t too bad. The Boyles go to the bootlegger instead. But I worry about the guns. You say the mother dog had been shot?”

Jack nodded. “Mrs. Nelson said something about Boyle’s old bitch being lame. They probably killed the pups because it was too much trouble to look after them.”

“Well, Jackie, my lad, what are you going to do with that beautiful wee dog?” asked Dr. McLeod. He turned and studied his wife Mary’s face. “I don’t suppose…”

“Gracie Fields would never allow a dog around the place.” Mrs. McLeod threw a catnip mouse in the direction of the old ­cat.

“My wife is a cat person,” sighed Dr. McLeod ­wistfully.

“I’m hoping Dad can talk Mom around.”

“Probably not with Sandy missing,” said Dr. McLeod. “You know, if I was a younger man, I’d go as a chaplain.”

“I’m glad you’re too old!” Mary McLeod started clearing the table, loading the plates and glasses onto the tray with a little more vigour than necessary. “Some men have to stay home and hold the fort.”

Dr. McLeod kissed the top of his wife’s head and escaped to the garden. “I’d best attend to my roses, lads. Good luck finding a home for the wee dog, Jackie.”

“Thanks.” Jack smiled at Wes. Every time Dr. McLeod got into trouble with his wife he spoke with a thicker Scottish ­accent.