The Lost Flying Boat by Alan Silltoe Page A

and also capable of piloting the plane, was second in command. The flight engineer would, in spite of his cough, be able to control the aircraft and keep it on course during level flight, if necessary. He also knew some navigation. So did the wireless operator. It wasn’t unusual for such a crew to learn something of each other’s jobs, so we had the equivalent of three possible pilots and two good navigators, which was an advantage, considering what margins of error might develop on our lengthy flight.
    The fact that there was one wireless operator gave me some satisfaction, because it meant that the ears of the craft and the transmitter were my own. There would be no one to interfere with me working the dials and clickstops. If I went down with illness or injury Bennett and Rose could do a slow morse speed of six words a minute and tap out an SOS, but only providing the transmitter was on the right frequency.
    Bennett pointed at the chart with a piece of stick. ‘The first leg of the trip will be to the Kerguelen Islands, over two thousand nautical miles away. We reconnoitre the straits’ – more indication with his baton – ‘between one island and another, to find a certain cove’ – a definite stab at that point – ‘for anchorage. Using it as our base, we spend a few days exploring the west and north-west coast – a bit of surveying, you might say – and then set course for Freemantle, 2320 nautical miles further on. On our way to Kerguelen we overfly – or as near as dammit we do, won’t we, Mr Rose? – two small inhabited islands, with no facilities, I’m afraid, of either petrol or beer. Also, there aren’t any shipping lanes where we’re going, which is why we have a navigator like Mr Rose to plot our way. Cruising speed will be something in the region of 120 knots, though the prevailing wind, if it prevails as it should, ought to give us a bit more ground speed, so we’ll take about eighteen hours to reach our objective. The end of the second leg will get us to Freemantle, but after refuelling there may be no time to go ashore.’
    Such distances deadened my head, imagination unable to register the sight of endless sea. While Rose played with the knobs on his Dalton Computer – ‘You can do anything with it, except fry eggs’ – we others were supposed to think up questions. Wilcox, still wearing his hat, stopped coughing long enough to comment: ‘This place seems at the end of our range, Skipper, and the wind may not play ball with us. Is there a fill-up station on the way?’
    Bennett smiled. ‘I’ve stared at the chart till I’m blue in the face and still haven’t conjured one up. Nevertheless, I shouldn’t worry if I were you. We do have auxiliary tanks to give a range of two thousand five hundred miles, so we shouldn’t be forced to ditch on the way. I wish you’d suck some Zubes for that cough, though. When the trip’s over we’ll send you to Switzerland.’
    â€˜It’s only ‘flu, Skipper.’
    Nash folded an old Daily Mail into his jacket pocket. ‘And where’s the juice coming from for the flight to Freemantle?’
    â€˜A ship will meet us in a convenient stretch of calm water.’ He waved his stick so that no one could be certain where it was, and I couldn’t be sure that he wasn’t being sarcastic. ‘All hands will set to with gusto, and stock up the tanks.’
    The notion that we would be a flying petrol tank for over two thousand miles gave me a strange feeling in the stomach. ‘Do we have a dummy run to see if we can get off with such a load?’
    â€˜We’ve got the longest runway in the world, Adcock, a thousand miles, if the sea’s calm enough. Let me worry about that. I’ve worked things out, never you fear.’
    â€˜It’s safer to chug along with an extra ton or two of petrol than carry