Free Way the Crow Flies by Ann-marie MacDonald Page B

hundred, his wheels touching down, one side then the other, then the other and the other again, then both—“Bit of a ropey landing, Jack.”
    Hauling himself over the side, legs almost buckling on the tarmac, Jack realized that Simon was still strapped in on the instructor’s side. “You can go straight back up now, mate, or find yourself gun-shy next time round. Either way you’re going to shake for two days.”
    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 likesthe 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