The Last Link

Chapter 3-2

For once, to Findlay’s relief, all of the officers were immaculately turned out in their full flying uniforms. Quiet excitement rippled through the gathered men. Today would be their first and probably only experience meeting a member of the royal family.

As the cavalcade of policemen and dignitaries’ vehicles slowly snaked their way on to the field, a hush fell over the assembly. The duke emerged from his chauffeured Buick. Photographers’ bulbs immediately started flashing and the cameramen barked instructions at the Air Force officers to stage poses to immortalise the event. Alongside them, reporters from The Weekly Press and New Zealand Referee stood with pens poised above their writing pads waiting to write down every observation with which the duke might honour them.

Major-General Young stepped forward to greet his royal highness. He introduced him to Major Wilkes, Director of Air Services, then ceremoniously handed the rest of the introductions over to Captain Findlay. The officers stood, spit-polished boots snapped together with uniforms uncreased as well as they could be, as it had been many years since some of them had been in charge of their own ironing. They removed their hats and offered their smiles of welcome to the distinguished guest. The duke held his walking cane casually in his left hand and slowly and patiently, as though he had nowhere else in the world to be, greeted each man in turn.

George had positioned himself in front of an Avro and he surveyed the contingent of reporters standing with their accompanying photographers who were rapidly assembling tripods and checking their equipment over.

He wondered what the Duke of York would make of the planes’ faded bodywork. The machines required more and more maintenance each year to keep them useable. Yet George unaccountably felt a surge of pride to be standing here in front of the display. He struggled to keep still under the heat of the summer sun. His uniform was stuffy and small beads of sweat formed along his brow and soaked into his collar. The leather attachment at the top of his wooden prothesis clung to his skin, leaving his stump feeling slick and slippery. He didn’t trust himself to move. Instead, he focused his gaze on the man walking slowly down the row of planes toward him.

He was disappointed that the duchess had fallen ill with tonsilitis and not been able to make the rest of the South Island trip. He would have very much liked to meet her. His interest was piqued by the accolades he’d received in Cissie’s detailed letter yesterday morning about the petite duchess. His wife had seen the royal couple in Masterton on Monday last week and, from her vivid written description, he could sense Cissie’s yearning for England, even though she hadn’t included any mention about such feelings. There was no mention of the other letter, either. Perhaps he’d been too harsh to doubt his wife’s intentions. George tried to dismiss the twinge of guilt he felt at leaving her at home on her own again, but he couldn’t leave the refresher. He might enjoy these weeks immensely, but attendance was still an obligation in the end. Nonetheless, his father had promised to keep an eye on Cissie for him and that would have to do.

At last, the duke reached George and, after Findlay’s introduction, politely shook his hand.

The duke c****d his head to one side. ‘Tell me, Captain Hood, how do you find being a member of the New Zealand Territorial Air Force?’

It’s not a patch on the British Royal Air Force, Your Highness. The equipment is old and I fear one day these old machines might actually drop out of the sky with all of us in them. But if you want to know if I’d choose these planes over none at all then undoubtedly, yes, I love it, George wanted to say. Instead, he raised a reverential salute and replied: ‘Very well, Your Royal Highness, and may I say what a pleasure it is to meet you.’

The duke tapped his cane thoughtfully on the ground as if he wished he could stay a little longer and discuss the unspoken thoughts behind the pilot’s jovial expression. Seemingly reluctant, he moved away and returned to his sparkling black Buick, to continue his tour of the dominion.

When the last dignitary’s car had disappeared from view, the officers visibly relaxed. They loosened their collars and rolled up their sleeves. George quickly wondered if he might get another hour in the Bristol Fighter that afternoon without too much competition. He forgot about flying though when he saw a small group gathering around Scotty Moncrieff and hastened over.

‘You’re mad, but that’s what I like about you, Scotty. Now could you run it past me just one more time, so I know for sure what I’m getting myself into?’ Maurice Buckley said, and cackled.

Scotty cracked a rare grin. ‘Och, 1925 was not the right year. The public just weren’t that interested. But look what’s happening in the world right at this moment. We’ve got men flying all over the show, setting new records. There’s an unspoken competition in America right now over who’s going to be first across to France. Aviation is at the front of everyone’s mind. It’s now that the whole world is excited. The time is finally right for me.’

‘Let me get this straight. You reckon this is the year you are definitely going to fly across that great big bloody stretch of water just so you can say you’re the first?’ A man named Ivan Kight remarked with disbelief.

Scotty nodded vigorously. ‘Damn right I am.’

Ivan drew deeply on his cigarette then exhaled a long stream of smoke into the atmosphere. ‘Scotty. I have immense admiration for you, I do. But didn’t you learn the first time? We’re just a pebble in the ocean. The New Zealand public’s not that interested. As long as we’re down here doing our job once a year, that’s good enough for them.’

‘Ivan, where’s your sense of adventure?’ George was pleased to see heads swivel in his direction. ‘What you need, Scotty, is to persuade the government it’s a good idea. Let them be the ones to pay for it.’ He had weighed Scotty’s argument objectively. The Scotsman was usually conservative in his demeanour. If the man was going to take the trouble to get fired up about something, he had to be serious about carrying his intentions through. George himself was privately intrigued by Scotty’s optimism. Indeed, the venture was risky, but the rest of them had all lived through The Great War. Hell, he’d survived the entire Gallipoli campaign. Nothing was worse than putting your life in danger for another man’s fight. Here was an opportunity to have glory for doing something truly heroic for the colony. Connecting this little isle to the rest of the world couldn’t come quickly enough.

‘Come on, George. The amount of hoop-jumping to get anything done with the government, you’ll never get off the ground,’ Ivan said, and shrugged.

Scotty raised a hand. ‘Aye, that part is true. No, never you mind. I’ll sort it out somehow. Mark my words, it’s just the small matter of money.’

‘I said to you earlier, Scotty, you keep me in mind,’ George said.

Maurice Buckley took a step forward. ‘Ah, no you don’t, Hood. I’m first in line, right, Scotty?’

‘Settle down, Buckley. I’ve already been told.’ George replied, non-committal.

Scotty turned to George. ‘If you really do want to help, I’ll be needing some capable hands when I get to Australia and prepare for hop off.’

George nodded.

Maurice, pleased to find his place assured, was amicable again. ‘Hey, George, tell us about that spectacular crash that cost you a leg. I never get tired of hearing that story. I still can’t believe the Royal Air Force let you have your wings after you destroyed one of their training planes, let alone decide to send you up to fly another one minus a limb. Trust a bloody Kiwi to talk his way into it!’

George scoffed. ‘Yeah, righty-ho, it wasn’t quite like that. I was test-flying an Avro when the blasted thing stalled on me. I can’t actually tell you how it happened, amnesia from the shock, y’know? You won’t catch me flying one of those again. I prefer to stick to the Bristol Fighters.’

‘Nothing to do with taking too tight a roll, was it?’ John prodded.

George shook his head. ‘Ah Scotty, ever the pessimist. As I said before, and I’m sticking to it, the engine froze, end of story. Next thing I knew, I was waking up in hospital. Got a heck of a shock to look down and see a flat sheet where my poor old leg should have been.’

‘Well, you still do all right with that wooden peg.’

‘I tell you, the ladies loved it. Good conversation starter. Brought out the nursey in all of them. Well, all of them except Cissie, which is probably why I married her and none of the others. I do love a challenge, as you know.’

‘Ah well, you have your charms, ol’ Georgie,’ Ivan ribbed.

George wished he could take a cloth and wipe out the top of his prosthetic. ‘The worst bit is not being able to run any more. I used to be pretty fast. I can honestly say that sitting back at home with my mother doting on me and getting all the pitying looks from sympathetic well-wishers didn’t go down too well. You’d have all chosen to get back into a plane rather than put up with that nonsense. I figured I’d have to be bloody unlucky to have it happen again. So far, my reasoning has proved sound. And I’ll tell you blokes another thing, I can still fly better than you lot put together with this old peg leg.’

The men laughed.

‘Righty-ho, George, I reckon that crash affected your head as well as your leg,’ said Maurice.

‘What can I say? I was born to fly.’ He turned to Scotty. ‘Now, tell us, just how do you think we might get ourselves a plane to fly us all the way across the Tasman?’

George felt that if Maurice’s gaze could pierce flesh, he’d surely now be a dead man.