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By Dennis Rookard This is as yet an uncompleted work. Not sure which direction it's going to take, or if it will become a drama srcipt.. based on a real nineteen twenties airline which set up near the A12 just outside Harold Wood (near the present day M25/A12 interchange.)
Once he had been Squadron leader Jack Crawford. He still was Jack Crawford, but no longer a Squadron leader, or anything else, come to that. Like so many flyers after that war to end all wars, his flying skills were no longer needed, and like so many in those Late twenties depression years he had been down on his luck.
Oh he had tried his hand at any number of flying ventures, both at home and overseas, but all had failed in some way. Then he had tried his hand at office work, but quickly grew bored. The end coming as they caught him at the sound of an aero engine gazing up though a dingy office window once to often, before forcefully suggesting he take his talents elsewhere. The trouble thought Jack, was that at Thirty Two, all he really knew was flying, and frankly he was still missing the excitement and danger of aviation
It was no consolation to know he was not alone. The armistice had dumped thousands of highly trained survivors back into a peacetime world, where their new found talents were unwanted. Then hopes of lifetime careers had been dashed in the Wall Street crash and it's effects this side of the Atlantic. Indeed things had got to such a pitch that when Jack had seen that small advert, he had just finished a shift washing dishes in the Savoy kitchens, and was sitting on a Thameside bench reading a discarded newspaper, and wondering which old pall he could stay with that night, and where his next meal was coming from.
Trained Pilots required for a new venture he had read. Apply Maylands airfield near Brentwood, Essex it invited. Well thought Jack, "why not, I can just about afford the bus fare, and if I get in first, there's always a chance."
That was this morning, now as he stood before the signboard announcing flights to Clacton at ten shillings and sixpence he was beginning to have his doubts. Where were the smart new modern designed terminal buildings, like they now had at Croydon where they even had radio to talk down lost pilots, or the hangers he was so familiar with from his RFC days.
Here before a rambling farmhouse was just a large empty field. True it had a few huts scattered around alongside a large open fronted shed where the nose of an aircraft showing distinct signs of having clipped a tree or two could be seen under maintenance. Outside a few aircraft were lined up, with another over by the distant hedge, nose down and tail up. But where was the spit and polish beloved of the military.
Oh well, that was all behind him now. As was the long driveway he had walked to get to this old farmhouse that seemed to be the centre of operations. As he pushed open the door an angry cockney voice could be heard yelling from deep within. "I don't bloody care," came the cry, "if they can drive a bloody bus, they can fly an aeroplane" then seeing a rather shocked Jack standing in the doorway, " and what do you bleeding well want." He yelled.
"Er. I've come in answer to your advertisement." Jack stuttered. "Which one is that for then," shouted the little man. "Pilot or course" said jack, wondering who this rude East Londoner was. "Listen mate I got a coach company, bloody good one too, so if you don't want to find yourself driving a bus, don't get cheeky with me, Now got your papers." Jack handed him his flight logbooks along with the results of his last medical.
There was a strained silence as the stocky man leaved through his collection of paperwork. Satisfied he at last stood up, and handing them back and for the first time allowed his face to light up with a gin as he asked, "ever flown a twin engined job." "Yes sir" said Jack, "Vimies and." He got no farther. "Right" said his tormenter, "just three rules around this place. No booze and lay off the women before flying, and take care of my aircraft. They're bloody expensive. OK," he concluded.
"Fine by me sir," said Jack realising that this over loud man was Mr Edward Hillman, owner of a fleet of coaches and now expanding into ownership of one of the counties fledgling airline companies. "Right, go see Peter in the hut, he'll fill you in on our other rules and fit you up with a uniform."
So he was a commercial pilot now was he, thought Jack as he made his way towards the wooden hut. Well that bit was perhaps a tiny lie. He'd never carried any passengers in his life, only dropped a few bombs. Still the principle was the same. Just don't lose the passengers.
He was still smiling at his little joke as he pushed open the shed door. Stepping inside the gloom, his nose became aware of those familiar smells of any flight crew rooms. Coal from the stove together with Sweat stained leather, engine oil, and that pungent dope used to patch up torn fabric, all mixed with clouds of tobacco smoke.
"Good God almighty, as I live and breathe. It's Jack Crawford" came a cry from a tatted leather armchair placed a little too near the stove. "Peter – Peter Rawlings, is that you," cried Jack, delighted to find a familiar face. "Don't tell me you're going to be a bloody bus driver as well."
"Come off it old son," laughed Peter. "We're commercial pilots now and don't you forget it, oh and by the way, I'm your boss, so a little respect. Anyway you old sod," he continued, "What have you been doing since we both got kicked out"
"Oh tried to join the new RAF" said Jack, but no luck. "Cut backs all round they said, then a few jobs here and there, now this. How about you," "oh much the same old boy, a couple of flying jobs overseas, then bummed around with Cobans flying circus. Then got in here with old man Hillman at the start. Been flying ten bob trips ever since. But now he has great plans. Wants to get a Royal Mail contract and fly to Paris."
"What chance of that " asked Jack. "Well we've got the kites," grinned Peter, "Brand new they are from De-Haverland. Our Ernie's not as stupid as he looks you know." went on Peter. "Went right in and told them what he wanted. De-Haverland says no can do. Then our Ernie waves a bundle of cash at them, they suddenly see it his way, and designed their first airliner.. then they just upped and built it for him. Call it the Dragon Rapeed they do, God knows why. Do you know you can get twenty passengers plus cargo aboard that crate. And with twin engines we reckon it will give us the edge with its range."
"Anyway, dump your bags, your here at the right time old son, just had to let your predecessor go" laughed Peter. "What happened to him." Asked Jack. "Own silly fault really." Replied Peter finally getting up from his armchair. "Got rip roaring drunk, and then takes off. All would have been fine had he just landed in the normal way. But no. Silly sod then had to go and beat up the farmhouse. Then to cap it all, doe's couple of loop the loops."
Bet that scared his passengers shitless," laughed Jack. "It'll be a long time before they climb aboard an aircraft again. Agreed Peter, opening a cupboard to reveal a selection of uniforms. "Are they what I think they are" said Jack. "Yep. Job lot left over from his Bus route days. Still makes you think; now we're bus drivers of another sort. But look on the bright side Jack, you can't tell their original purpose can you."
No agreed Jack wondering what he was letting himself in for. "So This Hillman chappie, what's he like." He asked. "Ah our Ernest. Barks worse then his bite. Typical Cockney and Salt of the earth type. Started out as a Bus pirate running routes into central London plus a few coach routes out of Romford and Brentwood up on the hill there. Mind you by all accounts drove his drivers with a rod of iron. So the story goes, buses used to pass by his door. And the crafty sod used to time them. Pass his house late and it was a wage docking offence."
"Then when the Government out-laws private buses into the smoke," went on Peter, "Our Ernie invests in a couple of aircraft and starts a flying bus service up to Clacton." "Why Clacton" laughed Jack. "God knows," yelled Peter has he left the Hut, "as far as I'm concerned it's just a bit more upmarket then Southend. Still if that's where the punter wants to go, who am I to complain."
Within days, Jack Crawford had found digs in Brentwood, and settled into his new roll, His passengers were many and varied, and whilst these may have been the depression years, for some money was still easy to obtain. As indeed was flying his passengers. Take off, swing around to pick up the railway line then follow it over Chelmsford to Colchester and conclude with a sharp right to follow the branch line down to Clacton and the small airfield on it's outskirts. Then a leisurely lunch in the clubhouse, before his by now happy and very refreshed customers piled out of their taxi for the return trip. Mind you if the weather was not kind, following that railway line could be a hell of a job.
As he built up his flight hours on the route. It soon became second nature to him. And despite the company rules he was fast developing a relationship with Amy, one of the girls who acted as flight stewardess.
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