Ann-Marie MacDonald - Way the Crow Flies

Tell the story, gather the events, repeat them. Pattern is a matter of upkeep. Otherwise the weave relaxes back to threads picked up by birds to make their nests. Repeat, or the story will fall and all the king’s horses and all the king’s men…. Repeat, and cradle the pieces carefully, or events will scatter like marbles on a wooden floor.

JACK IS ALONE in his new office. He has just looked in on the commanding officer of the station and introduced himself, informally. He has not yet officially reported in or taken command of the Central Officers’ School. That will come in a few days, once he has settled in with his family. Centralia is still on summer hours so things are pretty quiet, many personnel on leave. He has a little time before meeting some fellow officers for a casual lunch so he has strolled over to take a look at his new digs.

He’s in civvies. Mimi has already taken his uniform to the cleaners so it will be crisp for the handing-over ceremony toward the end of the week. This morning he wears tan trousers with a cream-coloured sports jacket she picked out for him in Paris. He pretends not to notice that it’s raw silk, and he would never spend his money on himself this way, but he does submit from time to time to her sartorial interventions. She’s the boss, after all.

He does what he always does when he moves into a new office: places a framed photo of his wife and children on the big government-issue oak desk. This office is much the same as the one he occupied at RCAF 4 Fighter Wing back in Baden-Baden, Germany. And the one before that in Alberta, and before that at the Pentagon, where he was an exchange officer in the Accounts Branch; a succession of smaller and smaller desks in shared offices all the way back to the supply section at the RAF station in Yorkshire during the war. This desk, these green metal filing cabinets, the shelves with The Queen’s Regulations and Orders in three thick blue binders; the photo of Her Majesty, Queen Elizabeth II, the photo of the Governor General, a Department of National Defence map and four white walls — he could be anywhere. It even smells the same: floor wax and pencil shavings, the tang of shoe polish and wool uniforms. The view is similar too. Out his window, green hedges, white buildings, blue sky — no jet stream though. Just a single yellow Chipmunk banking into view.

The handing-over ceremony will occur in this office. It will be attended by the commanding officer — the CO — and the staff of the Central Officers’ School. Jack and the officer he is replacing will shake hands, then co-sign a document in formal recognition of the change in command. Standard operating procedure — SOP — in the military: there must be no break in the continuity of command and control. Afterwards, a meet ’n’ greet will be followed by lunch at the mess, during which a detailed schedule of one-on-one briefings between Jack and his senior staff will be drawn up. He will tour the facilities and meet the instructional and support staff, so that, by the end of the day, all concerned will have been made aware that Jack has taken up his position as officer in command of the Central Officers’ School — OC of the COS. Another SOP: a leader must be seen and identified by his men, whether he is commanding a wing of jet fighters or a building full of desks.

Jack notices some paper stuck behind the radiator below the window ledge. He bends to retrieve it. I’ll be darned . A copy of the Schwarzwald Flieger — Black Forest Flyer . The monthly magazine of RCAF 4 Wing, Germany. It’s a small world. The issue is from February 1958, and on the cover, the newly elected Prince and Princess of the Fasching Karneval stand triumphant before the Narrenzunft —the Fools’ Council. Fasching is the German lead-up to Lent — bigger and wilder than Mardi Gras. The photo was taken at the Kurhaus in Baden-Baden. He and Mimi were at a similar do one year later, two among dozens of personnel and wives who had turned out to mingle and celebrate with hundreds of Germans. He flips through. In among the birth announcements, squadron scuttlebutt, Little League news and ads, the schedule of events is printed — party after party, Children’s Fancy Dress Ball, Rose Monday Ball … Canadians welcome. Willkommen . So many nice times. So many nice remember-whens. He tosses the magazine onto his desk. No doubt it belongs to the outgoing officer. He’ll want to hang onto it for sentimental value.

When you get your transfer message telling you where you will be posted in a few short months, two factors determine whether your reaction is elation or disappointment or something in between. The first thing you look at is: who’s in charge? Group Captain Harold Woodley is Centralia’s current CO, a man whose reputation as a wartime pilot enhances his relaxed style of command, which is vintage air force and synonymous with firmness of intent. Jack was pleased. Veterans — especially pilots — tend to know that, although they are answerable to a big organization, that organization is made up of human beings, not just systems. The second factor is geographic, and this better be good or you’ll have an unhappy wife on your hands — although Mimi could make a radar station on Baffin Island into a social mecca. The air force has an efficient informal communications network, otherwise known as the grapevine, and Jack knew Centralia’s reputation as a great place for kids, with plenty to keep the wives busy. The city of London is just down the road, the small town of Exeter is even closer, not to mention countless villages, flea markets, auctions and the great inland freshwater sea of Lake Huron for swimming, camping and picnicking. He knew that the officers’ mess is well run and that the station as a whole has healthy links to the civilian community — curling leagues, charity events, all manner of sports and recreation. So, although nothing can compare to 4 Wing, Jack’s reaction to his transfer message last spring — once he got over the irony — was pretty much on the elation side. But no matter where they sent him, he would have the sense of a fresh start; the optimism that imbues every change, coupled with his belief that no situation is beyond improving — after all, in the military, change is the only constant. He pulls out one of the heavy blue binders— Administration —and flips through.

His phone rings. Surprised, he reaches for it.

“Jack, it’s Hal Woodley. My wife needs to know something ASAP.”

“Fire away, sir.”

“What’s your wife’s first name?”

“Mimi.”

“Righto.”

This job comes with a promotion. From squadron leader to wing commander — the equivalent of the rise from major to lieutenant colonel in the army. Wing Commander McCarthy is now in charge of upwards of a thousand students, department heads, course directors, instructors and admin personnel at the Central Officers’ School. Aircrew selection and orientation, logistics and administration, construction and aeronautical engineering, military and executive development at several levels, leadership and management — it’s all covered. There is even an exchange arrangement with the MBA program at the University of Western Ontario in London. There are Technical, Language, Finance, Management and Basic Officer Training sections, as well as an Office of Training Standards. Just about everything there is to know about the air force, apart from flying an airplane. Ground training.