E-Book, Englisch, 200 Seiten
ISBN: 978-0-9930687-1-3
Verlag: San Fernando Press
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: PC/MAC/eReader/Tablet/DL/kein Kopierschutz
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Chapter III 1941 ’Is ironical, but it was Germany’s early success t’ru Lufthansa flying to Bermuda dat first capture’ my imagination. Previous’ to dat, I never consider flying serious’ before dat, but took to aviation with de sole intention of applyin’ to Lufthansa for a job ’pongraduatin’, wantin’ to spread my wings not in de US, but all the way over Europe side. I was fortunate to have a farder enthusiastic to have me succeed, even though it would eventually tek me away from him and, despite me mudder’ protestation’, he encourage me movin’ to Caracas to get me wing’. But de many weeks of trainin’ pluck open my eyes, changin’ me perspective. Without dem love an’ support, I could now see de benefit to stayin’ closer to home, so when de opportunity come up to fly instead for de world leaders, for Pan Am, from Nassau through Port o’ Spain and over Mexico City and Buenos Aires, I took it, wid the excuse that me mudder would miss me too much, when- de truth? I woulda miss’ both of them more, ma’s goat roti bein’ a good case in point. No one mek bread like me mudder. Just t’ree years later, I find myself alone in Allahabad, India, my firs’ time der, clutching me farder’s ashes, to empty dem into de Ganges, as he would want. He always want’ to go visit de homeland, meet distant cousin, but most of all, for de great KumbhMela. But heart disease took him before he make it over. As de dawn broke on the soft ripple, de oarsman waitin’ patiently silent behind, I offer prayer to Shiva, lean over de side o’ de skiff, and pour him ashes and marigold at tha confluence of dem two great rivers. Gust of wind blew dis fine dust of ash up back of me arm -like a caress; like a final ‘thank you’ for bringin’ him home to res’, one hundred year after him ancestors left for Trinidad under the British, none of them ever to return. During the Mela it is said that at de dawn after de full moon, at dat most Holy moment of change, a space opens up between two world; de real and de celestial, dis world and the spiritual, made holier by the naked, ash-coated Sadhu’s, dancing to music all de way downg to de water’s edge where dem bathe in de early light, celebratin’ de drop of nectar that fell from the heavens into de river at dis exact point, at the confluence o’ de two river. De Sadhu’s ash signifyin’ de death an’ rebirth of life’s everlastin’ cycle. I watching him ashes perish, futile tears stop’ in they pursuit by de surface swirl of de holy river. Slow t’ree-day train journey back to de hot chaos, de cows of Bombay and den finally aboard de packet ship for Southampton, glad for some fresh sea air. So, five days into dis trip when, on September four, nineteen hundred an’ t’irty nine, I learn of Britain’s Declaration of War against de German t’reat. Now, my original plan had been a lickle train trip up to London town, a licklesightseein’ and den Greenock for de final boat home. But now, with dis momentous news shocking de entire ship into some sombre silence for what now awaited us all, I come up wid a loose plan. De war was no shock to us Trinis. We was limin’... it had been discuss’ at great length, especially amongst us fraternity o’ pilots. All of us felt a great bond, a fervent patriotism, a sympathy for de mudder country, England. If she wuz going to war, then there was never any doubt in my mind dat we would too, by hook or by crook. Most ‘our discussion was how; whether it be t’rough de States, although there was some chattin’ as to whether she would join de fray at all, which many of us doubted, or Cyanada. I favoured Cyanada. Only a few of us thought to go direct to Hengland. But here I was. War declare’ and on my way already. ‘Seem Destiny. And beside, I couldna see how my original plan would even exist by the time I land, a ship home to Trinidad da first ting cancel’ in a state of National Emergency. By de time me board the 10.37 to Waterloo, me mind was made up; I would stroll to de RAF offices in London and offer my service to de King. I always wanting to fly Europe. I duly present myself as fit an’ able, a pilot wid a great deal of experience under me belt, but was soon strip’ down o’ de idea that I would be welcome wid open arm’. I was taken, yes, but not to fly, but to work as ground crew. I was post’ to Lincolnshire, a cold, wet, flat, fog-bound place I had never heard of, on a base larger than anything I had ever experience previous’, call’ RAF Waddington, home to de Handley Page Hampden bomber. It was the loneliest period of my life I can remember. No sense of camaraderie, I was definitely on de outside, although some much-needed warmth was afforded by Anne, de barmaid in de local tavern, albeit on de quiet, for fear of reparations from jealous airmen, or de local’, for dat matter. I was pretty sure I wasn’t her only, but I don’ care. Even de food was grey. What I wouln’ give for a fresh mango off de bush. For to suck de seeds of a cocoa pod dry. T’ru this time, I write home as often as I can. I missin’ me farder so much and feelin’ for me mudder in dis time, wishin I could be der for her. Wishin’ I could talk wid her, but felt it a bad idea to disavow me mudder of her ideals about Britain. From de day she born, she never set foot in anudder country, not even Venezuela. ’Woulda been pure selfish of me to have her worry on my behalf, when there was nuttin’ to be done. And she write back advising me to integrate and how proud I mek her feel and de whole community inspired by me. But it don’ matter how hard I try integratin’, whatever small inroad I make on de one to one, they soon undone when de group got larger than two. Tings change markedly though, as de war develop’. Once de Axis powers invade de low countries, everyting move up a gear. Bomber losses, especially de ol’ Hampden, de Hereford, de poor Manchester and even de Wellington were fierce; but nuttin’ was said. As ground crew it pay to keep your head down an’ get on wid de job, but der were no denying de numbers that fail’ to return. There were moves to train up more an’ more aircrew; I sense perhaps my day on de ground may be numbered, although I wasn’t in love wid de idea of flyin’ bomber, I cyan’t refuse if it offered me. After all, why was I here in de first place? De invite come unexpected, after lunch. I hurry over to de admin building, taking great care to wipe me feet as I step’ indoor, me overalls less than crisp. What met me had me stun’. Having confirm’ again me flyin’ credential, I was offer’ a post not wid bombers, but to learn wid fighter squadron.My salute was so sharp, I almost pull a muscle! De immediate ting I want to do was write me mudder an’ tell her, but firs’ I need to get pack’ and on de train south. Mebe was my imagination, but in Englan’, I always feel warmer south. Me mudder right though. Integration was de answer. She may not be de mos’ travel’, but she wise. One ting I find when I went to Caracas was dat I quick move to soun’ like de local. I tink it jus’ an effort for to fit in, is all. Us of the Indian Diaspora, dat is what we famous for, fittin’ in. When I was youth, I had a English teacher, Miss Larkin. Lord! Verry proper she was too. I study English fo’ my first degree. With not too much trouble, I could fit in; I could lose my accent. I could lose the musical lilt Anne was so fond of, in this crusty land that didn’t know how to dance, yes... If dat was what it cos’... if that was what it cost, then that is what I would do. Eat, sleep, drink, England. I would show them I could be as English as the English. More so. There was a language, a turn of phrase, a way of walking, of holding one’s cigarette. It wouldn’t be hard. I decided, before I even reached Northolt, to start a training of my own, to become the man we used to love to hate as a youth. By the time I hopped off the ride to the base, there would be no trace of the boy off the banana boat. My apprenticeship didn’t last long. Once they saw me behind the stick of a Majister, I was soon moved up to a Hurricane and then promoted to Flight Sergeant to teach others. The gloves had come off and fighting had started in earnest. There was a distinct shortage of pilots, especially of the calibre needed to fly Hurricanes and Spitfires. Letters from home informed me of Trinidad’s efforts to raise money for the war effort and buy planes for the front. And not only that, even Carib pilots were beginning to trickle through too. The call up seemed inevitable. There appeared two distinct pilots’ philosophies, every time one sank blindly into the snug, unyielding seat to be strapped down. Either that it would never happen to you, or this time was in all likelihood your last hour breathing canned air on God’s Earth. One was then either reconciled with the latter, in the knowledge that one was doing one’s level best and that many who had gone before were undoubtedly better men, or at least, better pilots, or one simply didn’t want to die, period. This last option was the worst one to choose, for it was within this chink that fear could spread its wings inside the captive, even as he took flight. The time I’d spent seconded to 303 Squadron, Northolt, up to the end of the so-called Battle of Britain had been trying. I just wanted combat, but was kept out of the front line, despite best efforts. I needed to be twice as good, twice as sharp as the man standing next to me. And patient. Ostensibly there to teach the Polish how to fly, we were all taught a lesson by those remarkable men, battle hardened on the German anvil above Poland, on how best...
