Bomber Crash

Dark lights illuminated the aircrafts suspended in the air and just above the ground. Screens on the ceiling displayed photos of Kittyhawks in formation. “I wanna see the tanks!” complained a boy with jelly cheeks. “No, no. The Australian War Memorial is a big—” The grandfather was interrupted. “I wanna see the tanks!” He smiled and a cold wisp of air streamed from his lips as he found the Bradbury Aircraft Hall still smelling of whitewash. He planned to follow suit when his eyes caught an aircraft: the Wirraway. Wirraway. He closed his eyes and fell into a void. A ringing was evident in the distance and faint shouting issued in his ears. Thick wasps of smoke brushed through his nose as the unmistakable noise of the nostalgic plane engine sputtered.

Flying steadily among the cotton clouds and blameless blue, Flight Lieutenant Frank Archer wondered what on Earth would attempt to destroy this tranquillity. Buzzz. “Flight Lieutenant, I'm getting interference on my radar. Stay alert,” said the Major. Archer's gunner, Flatley Hugh, glanced at his radar. “Acknowledged, 12 are approaching us. Let's get the job done and go back to our chess game, Lieutenant—” Without warning, yellow tracer lights climbed onto the horizon and zipped through Archer's wingman. Planes with patriotic green paint and a red circle proudly striped on the plane narrowly missed Archer's Wirraway. The hit Wirraway burst into blazes and was a glamorous firework of red and yellow. “Zeroes! Abort! Abort! Abort!”

Eight Wirraways broke off in formation. Multiple voices cried out on comms. “It's an ambush! Scissor right! Scissor right!” “I've got 3 bogeys on my tail! I can't shake them! Somebody help me!” “Can't help you there Hangman, I've got problems of my own— Argh!” “Despot, you there?” “Gone, sir.” Archer watched with dropped jaws as each Wirraway was ripped to pieces. Flying fireballs, comets of red. One by one, each Wirraway plane riddled with lead and protruding metal rods fell into the cold depths of the Pacific Ocean. He had fought with some of these men from the inception of Squadron 26. Although, he knew that saving them was textbook suicide. The Vickers forward machine guns were no match for the Zeroes.

Whatever shock Archer had felt earlier had turned to blood red anger. “Hugh! Keep firing at those Zeroes!” The continuous rat-at-tat-tat of Hugh’s swivelling machine gun was now music to Archer's ears. “The gun's overheating!” “Just hang on! We're approaching base now!” The siren of a dropping Zero was the last Hugh had heard in his life, as yellow beams of light trickled down onto the gunner's seat. “No!” Hugh leant forward against the machine gun as it started to shoot rounds in succession 360 degrees. Twelve enemy aircrafts against one defenceless Wirraway was inconceivable, and Archer knew it. It was a hunting game for the enemy but a fight for survival for the Australian pilot. Though, he had a stirring thought in his mind: if destroying them head on is out of the question, what about destroying them from above?

Archer slapped the yoke and the Wirraway swerved upwards. The adrenaline was flowing in the Wirraway and the air. This action drew an exclamation mark among the Zero pilots as all 12 planes scrambled to defeat the remaining Wirraway. Two planes manoeuvred simultaneously upwards, resulting in the combustion of red hot metal and burning bodies plummeting to the ocean. Archer released the yoke and pressed downwards. However, a round of bullets brushed one of the Wirraway's turbines as a grating shook the Wirraway. Thick smoke was issuing from the engine and the altitude metre was failing. Come on, please hold together! Please hold together! Without consciousness, he swivelled the Wirraway around and held the fire button.

Bright red rained on a diving Zero and the plane burst into red and yellow, matching its melting red circle. Archer pressed continuously on the fire button and the sky was full of red. Zeroes, taken by complete surprise, threw sparks. He heard rocks being shaken in a tin can as he fired down. The shrapnel downed onto the Pacific Ocean were simple drops of water from a bird eye's perspective and the hunting game was over: the Zeroes decided that Archer was too much trouble for a day's pay rate.

Following the retreat of the enemy, Archer realised the state his plane was in. Engine hanging on to a single copper wire, bullet marks left in the lower half of the Wirraway. Altitude failing, Archer's last resort was to be executed. He pulled up the control as he bounced on his nose and came back pointing onto his face. The swift move was sharp; the Wirraway lost lift and was heading towards a cowering, shining collection of stone. Archer banged on the emergency release for the cockpit window. It did all but budge the door. He was aware without knowing anything. His eyes grew wide. His face gave way to hot sweat as he tore away his Type E flying helmet onto hot glass. Crack. The window was open! He leapt face-first onto the sand. Seconds passed, and Archer's dun uniform was torched with burns and shrapnel. The Wirraway was now a Picasso painting of red, yellow, and brown. He sat down onto the desaturated sand, looking up at the vermillion sunset. The unfinished chess game. Who will I play chess with? Archer spied an art admirer sprinting to the renovated painting: an angel sent from heaven, a Lockheed Hercules. His heart stopped racing. He was saved.

“Grampa! Grampa! I wanna see the tanks!” Archer raised his eyebrow. “You really want to see the tanks?” “Yeah!” “Do you want to hear a story?” He stared at his grandfather with focussed eyes and a stationary mouth. “Yeah.” Archer twisted his body and beckoned to the Wirraway. “See that?” “Yeah.” “That's a Wirraway,” Archer paused and looked upwards. “And I used to fly one.” “Really? What did you do?” The grandson looked up, hypnotised. “I looked up at the vermillion sunset.” The grandson let out a peal of light laughter, and together they transitioned from the dark hall to the gleaming white of the tank hall as the Wirraway plane smiled and looked at them from behind.