Flight - Caroline Harbord

‘No wind.  That’s good’

            ‘Shall we go?’

The Wing Commander looked to the north.  ‘I reckon so.’  He felt the morning air, cool and sharp; no hint of the heat to come.  The sky was pale, the moon still just visible, a white sliver above the western hills.  To the east the line of the horizon was beginning to suffuse with colour, but there was no sign yet of the rising sun. 

            The grizzled old flier turned to his companion, ‘have you checked the air lanes?   We don’t want any accidents this time.’

            ‘Yes, it’s all been done.  There’s nothing below 10,000 feet.  Bristol is the only problem.  It’s on our direct route, but we’ve got it all mapped out.  The “red-eye special” from across the pond should be landing any minute now and the morning flights to Amsterdam and Paris will be taking off soon after.’

            ‘What about the commuter flights?’

            ‘Glasgow has gone already, and London and Manchester are due for take-off well before we get there.  Our only problem will be the long-haul flight to Newark which isn’t scheduled till later in the morning.’

            There was silence all around them.  Overhead a white vapour trail indicated the Heathrow flight to Vancouver was on time.  

            ‘No problems with Lyneham?’

            No, nor with Yeovilton.  It’s all quiet today.  There’s a couple of Cessnas due out from near Sherborne, but they shouldn’t get this far.’

            ‘If we’re low flying, under the radar, what about obstacles?  And turbulence?  Have you accounted for the new wind turbines along the west coast up beyond the Wirral?

            ‘Yes, we have their exact locations and have planned our route to avoid them.’

            ‘And the transmitters?’

            ‘Yes, all taken into consideration.  I’ve also avoided Hinkley Point and Sellafield, just in case.’

The list of potential dangers seemed unending, but then any well-planned operation took heed of the dangers.  He wouldn’t have reached the rank of Wing Commander if he hadn’t learned to be careful.

It must be a sign of old age, thought the junior officer.  The WingCo didn’t usually get himself into such a state about a flight.  This was just routine, they’d done it lots of times before and there was hardly ever a problem.   He enjoyed flying, it was in his blood; some of his happiest times had been in the air and he could think of few better ways to spend his life.  The freedom that it gave was like no other feeling.  The necessities of existence – breathing, eating, were all secondary to the wonderful experience of flying.  You could happily die in the air, so intense was the joy.   Some of the others in the group regarded this as just a job, something that had to be done in order to survive, but for him it was a spiritual sensation.

            ‘Did I ever tell you about that Government establishment somewhere down near the Solent?  No one knew anything was amiss, but it transpired they were shooting some sort of high-powered laser beams vertically upwards.  That was in the early days, and the scientists apparently didn’t realise the dangers.  The low-flying AA5’s coming out of Eastleigh took the brunt of it; and there was talk of two female instructors from the flying club there who became infertile.  There was one hell of a stink, but naturally it was all hushed up.  Didn’t affect us, of course, not our patch.  But still it didn’t half make you think.  You just never know what’s out there.’ 

            ‘Do you miss the old days, Sir?’

The old flier looked sad. ‘No, not really.  We had a lot of good times, but I also lost a number of good friends, fliers who didn’t obey the rules.  You know what it’s like, you get so carried away when you’re up in the air that you take risks – low flying under bridges was a favourite, and dive bombing the motorways, scaring the living daylights out of the motorists.  And then there were the idiots who thought that the rules about airspace didn’t apply to them and who breached the airport zones.  We had one lunatic who, years ago, decided to fly into the Military Air Traffic Zone round RAF Brize Norton, just for fun.  He didn’t live to tell the tale, the fool!  Of course, all that has stopped, now that the country is so besotted with rules and regulations.  There’s red tape everywhere, so we tend to behave ourselves, which is probably not such a bad thing, but it does take a lot of the joy out of flying somehow.  I’m expecting us to have to file a request in triplicate any day now just like the civilian fliers have to do – Where are you going?   When are you going?   What speed will you be doing?  What height are you flying at?  – pah!  Times have changed my boy, and we’ll just have to get used to it.’

            ‘Do you want me to go over any of the other details, Sir?’

            ‘What about the refuelling en route?  Have you got all that organised?’

            ‘Yes, there’s a landing field in the Outer Hebrides we can use’

            ‘Good!  Do they know we’re coming?

‘No!’

’Ha!  That’s the stuff!  We’ll take them by surprise, the blighters!

            ‘The others say this will just be like a holiday trip, an easy ride.  What do you think, Sir?’

‘They don’t know the dangers; that’s their problem  They’ve never had to fly in a storm, with the rain lashing in your face and the fear that you won’t reach your destination; or experienced the horror of losing height over the sea, with the waves rushing up to meet you and visibility about 1 yard.  We lost three fliers ten years ago, you know, when that big storm struck just north of the Shetland Isles, did I ever tell you that?  I wake sometimes in a sweat just remembering.  Do you know, sometimes I feel I’m getting past all this, perhaps it wouldn’t be such a bad thing just to stay here, but then I remember why we’re doing this.  It’s not really for me, I’ve had a good long life, I can’t complain.  I don’t need to go, I could stay. But it’s for the young ones, isn’t it; all those who come after us.  They’ve got to realise the importance of what we do and why we do it.’

His tired eyes gazed upwards.  Blue had spread from horizon to horizon and the sun was showing its fiery rim.  The day had begun and it was time to depart!

            ‘Is everyone prepared?’

            ‘Yes, all fuelled up and ready’

            ‘Ok!  Let’s go’

With their necks outstretched and their huge, white wings beating a tattoo on the still waters of the lake, the twenty-five geese swept into the morning air.  They wheeled to the right and then, in strict arrow formation, headed north, to Scotland and beyond, to the cooler lands where the summer days seem never-ending and the nights are streaked with lights of green and gold; where the next generation would be born and the cycle of life would start once more.