Bird of Paradise

Deep South v.3 n.1 Autumn 1997

When Mr Hailes decided to take his son Brent to see a war film, the boy was surprised. "I thought you hated war films, dad" said Brent. "I do" said Mr Hailes, "but this is an important one; it'll show you the true horror of war!" "Uh", said Mrs Hailes, "I hope it's not too gory!" "Oh, it's nothing like that!" Mr Hailes hastened to add. "It'll just go to show what a futile waste of time war is."

"What's the film, dad?" begged Brent. "The Battle of Britain," replied Mr Hailes, flicking a glance at the news on the television, which was showing an American battery opening up on a Vietnamese position, just hours into the opening of the Tet offensive. "Opening night's at the Odeon this Saturday" he continued. "Great!" said Brent. "And it'll be a nice night out for the menfolk" said Mrs Hailes glaring at her husband, as Brent gave his sisters a triumphant look.

At school the next day, Brent eagerly told his classmates about the film. "It's not like dad to go to a war movie, though" he told Paul, "him being a Quaker and all". "Weren't Quakers the ones that went to America in the Mayflower?" asked Paul. "Of course not, stupid, you're thinking of the Pilgrims." "Do you wear those big black hats to worship?" asked Sally. "Only on special occasions", lied Brent, who had a soft spot for Sally and didn't want to hurt her feelings; Quakers never wore strange headgear.

"We're going too" said Lewis. "Dad wants us to see what war's really like." "That's what my dad said" added Brent. "And mine" chimed in Steven. "Mine too" said Paul. "Looks like we'll have quite a crowd on Saturday", said Robbie.

On the big night, Mr Hailes took the station wagon so they could pick up Mr Wiltshire and his son Robbie, Mr White and his son Steven, as well as Mr Rosenberg and his sons Paul and Ashley, plus Mr Hadder and his son Lewis. They too wanted their sons to see what war was really like.

The adults sat in the front of the station wagon while the boys huddled in the rear and chatted excitedly about the film. "Course", boasted Lewis, "my old man was in the thick of it; he was in charge of an ack-ack gun in London." They'd all heard about Mr Hadder's close shaves with death, both from Mr Hadder when he got drunk and talkative (the terms weren't mutually exclusive), and Robbie butted in with, "Well, mine was on a mine-sweeper. In the Pacific." "Our dad was in Belsen for a bit" said Paul Rosenberg.

There was silence, then Steven asked, "What'd your dad do in the war, Brent?" "Dunno" said Brent, wishing Steven would shut up. "Mr Hailes, what'd you do in the war?" asked Steven over the noise of the engine. "I was at school during the fighting, Steven", said Mr Hailes. "After the fighting I was a librarian", said Mr Hailes, &qout;out at Linton Camp." "A librarian?!" said Steven. "That isn't what you told me last week, Brent". "Shut up will ya?" said Brent. "Librarians in the army", said Steven, shaking his head. "I didn't know there were such things." "Why shouldn't there be?" said Brent angrily. "There's cooks and drivers and mechanics and artists too you know!" "Takes all sorts to run a war, I suppose" said Ashley as they arrived at the theatre.

The movie started with the fall of France, and everyone enjoyed the action scenes when the fighters battled over England. The audience cheered each time a Nazi fighter went down in flames but a stony silence greeted the demise of an allied fighter. Brent cried bitterly though, when a Spitfire attacked a bomber head on and the German pilot's goggles were shattered by shrapnel and started filling up with blood. Brent cheered up at half-time though with an ice-cream, and at the end, the goodies won; the crowd left the theatre in a good mood, and went to retrieve their cars.

Mr Hailes unlocked the station wagon. "Enjoy the movie boys?" asked Mr Rosenberg. "Yes" they chorused. "Damn good flying" commented Mr Wiltshire. "Got fighters offa the Spanish airforce I heard." Mr Hailes started the car, and they turned right into Mercer Street, before heading south down Pioneer Highway; soon they turned north again, and Brent realized they were heading out over the North Sea. Steven wound the rear window down, and it grew colder in the back of the big Lancaster.

Up front, the pilot lit a cigarette and the smoke drifted to the rear of the plane. Brent grew uneasy. "I think we've got a fire onboard" he said to Steven. "Can you find the source?" "No sir" said Steven, "but I've activated all the extinguishers and I think it's out."

They lumbered on, the old kite a veteran of twenty missions, staggering against the headwind as they battled down Botanical Road. They came to a stop, and let Mr Hadder and Lewis out. Lewis ran a distance then turned and waved, then took to the shadows before a passing Nazi patrol could see them. Off they went again, their path across France lit by the occasional light lit by the Resistance.

Suddenly, there were three fighters on their tail. "I'll take care of 'em", said Robbie, who raised his hands and jerked his fists up and down as he operated imaginary machine-guns. "Ahahahahahahahahah!!!" he yelled delightedly. "Cut that out, now!" pleaded Brent as the tough Rauhwhiti kids made rude gestures. "They go to my school; they'll kill me come Monday for giving cheek." "I know" said Robbie smugly. Brent punched him on the arm. "Break it up" said Paul, who was always imitating John Wayne,"and save it for the Nazis!"

With the last of the passengers dropped off, the big plane was free to make the final run for home. By now, Brent was in the co-pilots seat; he wanted to be able to take over the controls immediately if the pilot, who, judging by his increasingly snappy behaviour, was suffering from oxygen starvation. Brent hoped the pilot's oxygen mask was working. The plane hit the end of the runway, bounced badly, then was down. They came to a stop as the plane ran out of fuel, and Brent heaved a sigh of relief.

Mr Hailes was out first; Brent waited so as to pounce on the cigarette butt he knew his father would leave on the concrete path; Mrs Hailes wouldn't let her husband smoke inside. Brent pounced on the discarded cigarette and took a deep drag on it, then walked over to the car. From inside the house, he could hear his parents squabbling already, so he wetted his finger, and drew an iron cross on the driver's door to designate a mission, then jumped guiltily as his father opened the back door and yelled, "Brent, stop scribbling on the car!" "O.K. dad." "And come in before your cocoa gets cold!" chided his mother. "All right, mum."

He thought, sadly, of the young pilot who'd had his goggles fill with blood. War was horrid, Brent decided and he erased the cross, then froze as he was caught in the white light of a Nazi searchlight as Mrs Crumble's car swished by in the wet. He relaxed as she turned into her driveway next door. Then he thought of the Spitfire whose pilot had bailed out. The pilot, flesh and blood, a thing of the earth, had parachuted down and been saved, rescued by some Kentish farmers who had smothered his smoking clothing and recoiled at the sight of his burnt, tortured face. But the plane! It had done its work well. Only to be abandoned when it had run out of fuel, ammo, luck. It had spiralled down like a spinning crucifix, pilotless, from an unimaginable height, accelerating as it neared the ground, an incandescent fireball that had trailed a tail of orange and gold. Like a bird of paradise.

Brent listened for a moment to the angry yells from indoors then with mixed emotions, wondered for a time, if he had been the pilot, would he have bothered jumping free?