Ann-Marie MacDonald - Way the Crow Flies

Jack managed to reply, his voice trembling uncontrollably, “I’m easy.”

Simon tossed his hat onto the grass next to the tarmac. “See if you can come level with this mark when we land.”

He was assuming they would land, not crash. They went back up.

Later, in the mess, surrounded by buddies, Simon bought the beer: “Here’s to being above it all.”

At Jack’s level, there was only an hour or so of required flying time with an instructor, after which you did your “circuits and bumps” on your own. But there were two or three pilots with whom Simon flew overtime. He said it was because they were bloody hopeless. Jack was among them. Top of their class.

Wearing night goggles, flying blind, able to see only his instrument panel, Simon drilling it into him, “Trust your instruments.” Because when you can’t see the horizon, your brain and body will tell you that right is left and up is down. You’ll compensate for a felt left turn by banking right. You’ll enter a terminal dive with no sense of velocity or direction, heedless of the approaching earth until your aircraft begins to come apart with the stress of speed.

Simon waited until the last second, then removed Jack’s goggles so he could see he was in a sideslip, perfectly executed but for being a mere three hundred feet from the ground. “Power up, mate.”

BAT. Blind approach training. Next time, Simon didn’t remove Jack’s goggles until they had landed smoothly. “Not bad for a Canadian.”

Simon had a lot of attractive qualities but the one that inspired the most trust — and got you to do your first controlled stall at ten thousand feet — was his relaxation. It was also a quality that inspired fear, because you could never properly gauge the danger. Treetops piercing the fog. Unscheduled thunderheads. “Not sure I like the looks of that.”

They flew for the fun of it. Got lost on purpose, followed the “iron compass” home, catching up with and overtaking freight trains below.

It’s odd to think this of a man he has seen once in the past nineteen years, but if he were asked, Jack would answer that Simon Crawford is his best friend. Squadron Leader Crawford, DSO, DFC with Bar— Distinguished Service Order, Distinguished Flying Cross, twice . The ancient Chinese saying dictates that once you save a man’s life, you are responsible for him. But the old son of a bitch needn’t have taken it that far — Jack would have loved him anyway.

He leans back in his chair and clasps his hands behind his head. He has done well. Wing commander at thirty-six. He never would have believed it but he enjoys flying a desk. He likes the life, he likes the people. They know how to get things done without a lot of fuss. And if they survived as aircrew in the war, there’s not much that can faze them. He isn’t given to jingoistic declarations, but Jack loves the air force.

That’s why it comes as a bit of a surprise to find himself staring out of his window at the unclouded sky, and imagining a different office in a different organization. An auto plant or hospital. An oil refinery in Saudi Arabia perhaps. Management skills travel well; he could work just about anywhere. Is it possible he’s just the slightest bit bored? Or is it the sleepy effect of sun and cornfields, the hemispheric distance between him and the tension of the Eastern Sector, as they called the Soviet Union back in Germany? Does he miss the proximity of the Mk 6 Sabres back at 4 Wing? Life near the sharp end? The smell of jet fuel, the frequent reminder roaring overhead of why he is in his office doing what he’s doing? “Anyone who wants a quiet life should not have been born in the twentieth century,” said Leon Trotsky. Anyone who wants a quiet life should come to Centralia, thinks Jack, and smiles to himself.

It was good timing, running into Simon in Germany last summer. Because when Jack got his transfer message this April, he had Simon’s number and was able to phone. “You’ll never guess where they’re sending me, Si….” They both laughed when Jack said, “Centralia.”

Simon called back a few days later. “Listen, mate, I’ve got a favour to ask you….”

Jack picks up his phone, then remembers that Simon asked him to use only pay phones. He puts it down again, gets up and leaves his office. He noticed a phone booth next to the PX, he’ll call from there, then head to the mess for lunch.

The ennui that descended briefly in his office is dispelled by the fresh air as he emerges from the building and trots down the concrete steps. Simon described the favour as “glorified babysitting, really,” and while it’s true that what Jack has been asked to do is not exactly rocket science, it does promise to enliven this posting. He follows the sidewalk along a row of poplars, toward the parade square. Not a creature is stirring. Not even a Chipmunk.

Jack has heard that intelligence work can be numbingly dull, but he can’t picture Simon bored. He does his best to suppress a tingle of anticipation. The favour will likely be just that. Dull. In any case, it’ll be an excuse to hoist a few beers with Simon. Pry some Cold War stories out of him.

Jack tried once or twice after the war to track him down, but Simon had demobbed without a forwarding address. Then last summer, in a medieval town in northern Germany, he ran into him. Jack was with Madeleine, about to take her picture in front of the statue of the Pied Piper of Hamelin. The McCarthys were on holiday, making the most of their last summer in Europe, driving the Fairytale Route — the Märchen Strasse . They had visited the castle in the Reinhard Forest where the Brothers Grimm had stayed; they had toured Bremen, where the animal musicians fooled the robbers. Now they were in Hameln, the Hamelin of legend. Mimi had gone off with Mike for the afternoon. Tomorrow they would trade and Mike would spend the morning with his father for a little one-on-one time.

Jack was focusing his Voigtlander slide camera on Madeleine, who smiled, squinting into the sun, the stone Piper towering behind her. Tourists milled about, passing in and out of frame behind the statue. Jack was ready to snap the picture when he saw a man pause to light a cigarette. Son of a gun .

“Simon!” he called, lowering the camera.

The man looked around and a smile broke over his face. “Jack?” he said, rounding the statue, coming toward him. “You still at large?”

Eighteen years can work a lot of changes in a man but Simon was unmistakeable. Not just his trim build but his voice, the way he carried himself — his whole manner seemed to say, the most natural thing in the world, running into you, mate . They smacked their palms together and shook hands, laughing. Reflex is a reliable indicator. Jack’s reflex — and it seemed Simon’s too — was pure delight; as though they were laughing at the punchline of a joke they’d left off telling in 1943.

“You sorry bastard,” said Simon; then, glancing down, caught himself. “I beg your pardon, who is this young lady then?”

“This is our Deutsches Mädchen,” said Jack.

“Well how do you do, Fräulein? Sprechen Sie Deutsch?”

Madeleine replied, “Ein Bisschen.”

Simon laughed.

Jack said, “Madeleine, this is Squadron Leader Crawford.”

“Jack, for Christ sake, I’m retired.” Then, looking down at her, he said, “Madeleine, please call me Simon.”

She hesitated, squinting up at him.

We should all age like Simon. Light blue eyes, shrewd behind the smile. The healthy smoker’s skin, fine lines in a light leather tan that can look good on a man in 1961. Touch of steel through his honey-brown hair, combed quickly but neatly back. In his early forties and unlikely to change till he hits sixty-five. Camel cigarette cooking between his fingers.