Fly Boy (18 page)

“You won’t see anything yet,” Jacko said. “They’re still
over two miles away. High, maybe seven thousand feet to the southeast … not on an intercept course … at least not yet.”

“Let’s make it harder for them to find us,” Jed said.

The plane dipped and we descended even more. I grabbed on to the table and pulled myself down until I was wedged underneath.

“We’re slightly over two thousand feet,” Scottie said.

“Tell me when we get to fifteen hundred.”

“I’ll give you readings every hundred feet in case you decide to level out before that,” Scottie replied.

I guess that was his way of saying he would have preferred a little more altitude. Jed had used this technique before. Dropping down not only gained speed but made it difficult for us to be tracked by radar. As well, if we did encounter fighters, they would always be coming from above, where we at least had a gunner.

There were advantages to the strategy, but there was also one terrible danger. At this low altitude, there was almost no time to bail out if there was a problem. Parachutes needed at least five hundred feet to be effective, and there would be only a few seconds before we dropped to that height. I reached out with my foot and hooked my parachute and pulled it toward me until I could grab it with my hand.

“Where are the bandits?” Jed asked.

“They’re circling back, waiting for the main formation.”

I felt a wave of relief wash over my entire body. We were safe. At least, safer for a few more minutes. But this was no time to relax. I pulled the blackout curtain and turned on the little reading light. It was almost time for another course correction.

The sun peeked over the horizon, and from behind us came a warm glow that lit up the canopy.

“It appears that we’ve lived to fight another day,” Jed said. “That is one beautiful sunrise!”

“Any sunrise you’re alive to see is a beautiful one!” Glen replied. He had left the top gun turret and was standing beside me in the canopy, right behind Jed and Scottie.

“You boys know that the most beautiful sunrises in the world are in Australia. And that doesn’t seem fair since we already have the most beautiful women as well!” Jacko added over the intercom.

“And the most boastful men!” Scottie said.

“Pure jealousy from a man whose country has more sheep than women!” Jacko yelled.

“Compared to some of your Aussie women, the New Zealand sheep look mighty pretty.”

“Spoken like a true Kiwi. And we’re not boasting. It’s just the facts—nothing but the facts!” Drew added from the nose cone of the plane.

I didn’t want to get caught in another battle between the Kiwi and the Aussies, but I thought they were both wrong. I didn’t know about the women, but I knew the best sunrises were in Ontario.

In the morning light I could clearly see the rest of the Lancs in our formation. I only wished there were six planes in the formation, not five. I’d avoided asking which plane was missing—which men. I could have found out by looking at the numbers on the sides, but I didn’t look. What did it matter? Whichever plane had gone down contained seven men I knew. Each plane held at least one person I called a friend.

Instead, I looked out at our escort. For the last hour we’d been accompanied by a formation of six Spitfires. They were spread out, above and off to the port side, there to provide support, watching for enemy aircraft. Their appearance was almost a guarantee that no fighters were going to try to attack. We were as good as home, and that was why Glen could come out of the gun turret. We were being watched and protected by the Spits now.

Those Spitfires were beautiful beyond words. They were graceful, nimble, and so agile. I still dreamed about piloting one of them, but I’d been thinking more and more lately about taking the controls of a Lancaster.

Then there were the times I just thought about flying nothing, finishing my tour and going home. I missed so much about being there. Not just the people, but the smell of the air, even the snow and cold. The closest I got to Canadian winter weather was being up in the Lancaster, the temperature so low that my fingers got numb. But up there the shaking was only partially because of the cold. I was still afraid every time I went up.

Jed had said that anybody who
wasn’t
afraid shouldn’t even go up because he was obviously too crazy for combat. Of course, that wasn’t just a joke. Some men did crack up. They
were so afraid that they couldn’t go up anymore; they just couldn’t do it.

Two weeks ago, one of the pilots had been forced to abort his mission and circle back for a landing because his flight engineer had “lost it.” He started screaming and yelling about how he knew they were all going to die on that mission. They’d tried to calm him down, but he just got worse and worse, and finally they had to restrain him because he was trying to get into his parachute and jump. Once they landed, they took him away to see the medical officer. They said he was given medication and then taken to a hospital for “rest.”

The thing was, that mission had been particularly deadly. Four planes from our squadron hadn’t come back. Maybe he really did know something, and by doing what he did he’d saved his own life and the lives of the members of his crew.

I knew it was strange even to think that way, but what with all the superstitions and things that we all did, who was to say who else was crazy? How crazy was it to climb into an airplane and drop bombs on people while they tried to blow you out of the sky?

I looked up and saw in the distance the glimmer of the Channel. Underneath us—about eight thousand feet below—was the French countryside. From our height it was all so calm and beautiful that it almost took my breath away. There was no hint of the war that was taking place down there, no signs of destruction, or of soldiers or tanks or anything related to war … So peaceful looking. Of course, from far enough away, appearances could be deceiving—the same way that looking at the war from North America was so different from seeing it up close.

We’d be back at base and eating breakfast in less than
sixty minutes. I could almost smell the bacon and eggs. I was hungry. The food always tasted so good after a mission. In fact, everything seemed different after a mission. As bizarre as it sounded, somehow even colours looked brighter. I wasn’t sure if it was because our senses were still working full time to keep us alive or simply that we were so grateful we
were
still alive.

“Davie,” Jed called out, “are you ready for a little time behind the yoke?”

“Always ready!”

Most types of bombers had a pilot and a co-pilot, so if something happened to the pilot there was still somebody to fly the plane. But the Lancaster had only the one pilot. They’d found that if a pilot was hit by flak or strafed by machine-gun fire, in most cases the co-pilot was killed as well. So they figured, why waste a second pilot?

With the Lancs they had a policy of giving other members of the crew some supervised time behind the yoke, just in case there ever was a time when the pilot was disabled. That usually involved splitting time among the flight engineer, the navigator, and the wireless operator. But ever since they’d found out I was hoping to become a pilot, I’d taken most of the time. In fact, Jed had made sure there was extra time, and he’d also spent hours and hours with me on the ground, either in the mess hall or in the cockpit, teaching me all about the Lancaster. I did know how to fly this plane … well, if flying it didn’t include taking off or landing, or changing directions too fast or sharply, or taking evasive action or … I guess you might say I could fly it a little.

Jed slid to one side and I slipped in beside him, first getting my feet on the rudder pedal and then taking the yoke. I still
felt my palms get all moist. I was nervous, but nothing like the first few times I’d sat behind the controls. I was more frightened to take the stick then than I’d been when they were hurling flak up at us and it was exploding all around the plane. At least if we’d all died then, it wouldn’t have been because I’d screwed up.

Jed got up and stood behind me. The controls were all mine. I pushed the yoke forward and the plane responded, dipping a bit. I always did that when I first started flying because I liked to have the feel of the plane, to make it respond to my hands on the controls. I pulled the stick back ever so slightly to level it off again.

The Lancaster was what they called a muscle plane. The yoke and the rudders were manual and working them required serious muscle. You could often tell a Lancaster pilot by the way his arms were developed. Eight hours behind the yoke was really hard work, almost like lifting weights. I knew that after fifteen or twenty minutes, I would start to feel it in my arms.

I glanced over at Scottie. He was sitting there monitoring his instruments. He looked very relaxed. I was glad that he felt comfortable enough with my flying to be relaxed. Or at least if he
wasn’t
confident, he was kind enough not to show it.

“Squadron leader, this is Spitfire leader,” came a call over the radio.

I looked over my shoulder for Jed. I didn’t see him. I turned the other way. He wasn’t there either.

“He’s in the back, talking to Sandy,” Scottie said.

“Can you go and get him?”

“Why?”

“They want to talk to the squadron leader!”

“When you’re in that seat, you’re the squadron leader. Ask them what they want.”

“This is Spitfire leader to squadron leader,” the voice called out again. “Do you read me?”

At that same instant a Spitfire appeared just off our starboard side. He was close enough that I could see his face.

“Answer him,” Scottie said.

“Um … hello … Spitfire leader … I hear you.” I deliberately didn’t identify myself as the squadron leader.

“We’re about to break off our escort. You’re home free from this point,” he said.

“Okay, sure, thanks for your help,” I replied.

“It was our pleasure.” He gave me a thumbs-up. I waved back and he waggled his wings and then banked sharply and disappeared beneath us. The other Spitfires broke off their escorts too, dipping, climbing, and banking, leaving us.

“I guess we’re on our own,” I said,“which means we should probably have our top gunner back in his turret.”

“We’re almost home,” Glen replied.

“Better do what the skipper wants,” Scottie said. “You might outrank him, but as long as he’s in the captain’s seat, he’s in charge.”

“Yes, sir, Captain McWilliams, sir!” Glen said.

I couldn’t help but laugh, but I kept my attention on the job of flying. I listened for the engines, turning my head first one way and then the other. There was a slightly different tone coming from the port side … at least I thought there was. I looked at the engines. There was nothing visible, certainly no smoke or fumes.

“Scottie, can you check the port engines? Is something happening with one of them?”

“No need to check. The outside port engine is running rough. I suspect that one of the propellers is damaged.”

“Damaged?”

“Probably took a piece of flak. I won’t be able to tell until we land, unless I turn off the engine now … Do you want me to do that?”

“I’m not that curious.”

“We could fly with two engines if we needed to,” Scottie said.

“Let’s hope we never need to.”

The white cliffs of Dover were looming on the horizon. I looked for one particular cliff—it had a peculiar coloration pattern—as my marker. From this altitude and in daylight, I could find our way home simply by landmarks, so there was no need for me to navigate a course. From the pilot’s seat I could do it all visually.

I banked slightly to one side to correct my course. The other planes in the formation responded similarly. I wasn’t just piloting us home, I was directing the entire formation. Unbelievably here I was behind the yoke of a Lancaster bomber having come back from a bombing mission over Germany, while what I should have been doing was trying to finish high school. I wished my mother and father could know about what I was doing. They’d be so proud of me … Or no, they wouldn’t. They’d be worried and upset and mad as hell. And who could blame them?