The Final Flight

Simon was looking forward to seeing his dad because he only saw him at the weekends. It was better now that Mum and Dad didn’t argue all the time. Those were bad days when Simon hid in his room with his headphones on, but sometimes he could still hear them. After Dad moved out, Mum didn’t cry as much, so that was good, and when Simon saw his dad, they always did something fun. His favourite place was the water park, and they always had burgers and chips after.

“Let’s go to the museum,” said Dad.

Simon rolled his eyes. Museums were lame, like totally boring.

“Can’t we play football in the park?”

“Yes,” said Dad. “But let’s go to the museum first.”

Simon was fed up. Why bother asking? It wasn’t like Simon really had any choice.

Dad smiled. “You’ll like it. I promise.”

The museum was really huge. But it wasn’t like other museums that Simon had visited with his school. This one was full of military planes – fighter planes. Some were more than 100 years old.

“Wow!” said Simon. “This is so cool! I love planes!”

“I knew you’d like it here,” said Dad. “I came here when I was your age. This is why I became a pilot.”

Simon was really proud of his dad because he flew jets in the Royal Air Force. Some of them flew faster than the speed of sound. It kind of blew your mind if you thought about it too much—flying faster than a shout.

“Yeah, pretty cool, huh? But this old plane is the best,” Dad said, pointing at a silver plane.

It was much smaller than other planes Simon had seen. Last summer, his mum took him on holiday to Greece. He’d been on planes before but when he’d been too young to remember. The enormous jumbo jets were sprawled across the tarmac, each able to carry hundreds of people. His dad’s jet carried only the pilot. If anything went wrong, there was no one to help.

This plane was small, too, and like his dad’s planes, there was only one seat.

“Do you recognise it?” Dad asked.

“I’m not sure,” Simon said.

He didn’t want to admit that he didn’t know.

“You’ll know the name. It’s called a Spitfire. See the way the wings are shaped like a seagull? It’s where the aircraft designer got his idea from.”

“That’s so cool!” said Simon. “Yeah, I’ve heard of Spitfires”

“This one was made in 1940,” said Dad. “It flew in the Battle of Britain.”

“What’s that?”

“When the RAF saved Britain from Hitler and the Nazis. That was World War Two, more than 80 years ago.”

His dad walked over to look at some of the other parts of the exhibition, while Simon continued to stare at the Spitfire. It looked so small. Did it really save Britain in a war?

“Your dad isn’t quite right.”

Simon turned to see a very old man. He was leaning on a walking stick and looking at a different plane with straight wings in the shape of a cross. The old man smiled at the plane, then he touched the wing, stroking it gently.

Simon wanted to laugh. It was okay to stroke your pet, and he’d seen his mum stroke a pair of new shoes, which was totally weird and lame, but this old man was stroking a plane!

“This one’s called a Hurricane,” said the old man. “And it’s the real hero of the Battle of Britain. The Hurricane isn’t famous like the Spitfire, but it won more dog fights.”

Simon frowned. “Dog fights?”

The man laughed quietly.

“Oh dear, not real dogs.”

“I like dogs,” said Simon, wishing this weirdo would go away, even if he did know a lot about planes.

“I like dogs, as well,” said the old man. “Dog fighting is a nick-name. It means when two fighter planes fight each other. The planes swoop and dive, roll and rise. It’s very hard to do.”

His smile faded.

“Brave men flew these planes during the war. Some of the pilots were very young – just 18 or 19 years old – teenagers – not much older than you. They fought for their country. They fought for us.”

The man looked so sad that Simon started to feel sorry for him.

The Hurricane was painted a dark green colour with red, white and blue rondels on the wings.

“Ah, yes,” said the old man. “The symbol for the RAF – and a way to identify friend or foe.”

He looked serious.

“If the other plane doesn’t have red, white and blue circles…”

“It’s a bad guy!” Simon said.

The man nodded. “Yes, that’s the enemy.”

“You know a lot about planes,” said Simon. “My dad knows a lot about planes, too. He flies jets.”

“Well, well!” said the old man. “I used to be a pilot. When I was a young man.”

“That’s cool,” said Simon.

“Yes, it was cold up there,” said the old man.

Simon giggled.

The man was surprised. Then he smiled.

“Oh, I see! When something is ‘cool’ that means it’s good, doesn’t it?”

Simon nodded and the old man chuckled quietly.

“Yes, flying is very … cool! But it was cold, as well. My Hurricane didn’t have heating and it’s jolly cold at 30,000 feet.”

“No heating?” said Simon. “Why not?”

“A heater was too heavy. The engine kept me a little bit warm, and the RAF gave me a flying jacket to wear. It kept my body warm, but my legs were cold. Us pilots called it a bum freezer!”

Simon laughed, and the old man smiled.

“Was this Hurricane in the Battle of Britain?” asked Simon.

“Yes, it was. Look behind the wing. Can you see three little holes?”

Simon looked behind the wing.

“Yes, I can!”

“Those are bullet holes,” said the man.

“Wow!” said Simon. “That is so cool. But it’s scary, as well. I hope the pilot was okay.”

The man smiled. “He got a bullet in his leg and three months in hospital, but he was okay.”

“I can’t wait to tell my dad,” said Simon.

His dad was looking at B52 bomber.

“Hey, Dad! Look at this!” said Simon. “Look at these bullet holes!”

Simon’s dad strolled across and peered down to look at the Hurricane.

“Are those real bullet holes?” Dad asked.

“Yes! An old man told me everything,” said Simon.

But when he turned around, he couldn’t see the old man.

“Did he work for the museum?”

Simon shook his head.

“I don’t think so. He was really old. He had white hair and a walking stick.”

A woman saw Simon looking around.

“Are you looking for someone?”

“Yes, an old man. He was telling me about this Hurricane.”

The woman looked behind her and all around, but they could only see other parents with kids running about.

“I can’t see anyone who looks like that.”

Simon was disappointed. Why did people always leave? The old guy hadn’t even said goodbye.

“Oh, he was just an old man who was telling me about planes and the war.”

“My grandad would have talked your hind leg off,” she said, smiling sadly. “Anyone who showed the slightest interest, and he’d talk about planes for hours. But then again, he’d earned the right. He was a famous pilot in the Battle of Britain. And he flew this Hurricane.”

Simon stared at her. Dad was surprised, too.

“How do you know he flew this actual plane?”

“When I was a little girl, he told me all about it. There are three bullet holes behind the wing. Look!”

“I know,” said Simon. “I saw them.”

“You have sharp eyes,” she smiled. “Most people don’t notice them. My grandad was shot in the leg, but he still landed the plane safely. But it was the last flight for this Hurricane.”

She stroked the wing.

“Sometimes grandad’s leg hurt, and he had to use a walking stick for the rest of his life.”

“Is he here?” asked Dad. “It would be amazing to meet a pilot from the Battle of Britain.”

The woman smiled sadly.

“No. Grandad died last year.”

“Ah, I’m sorry to hear that,” said Dad.

“Yes, but he was very old. He was 99. Actually, it’s his birthday today. He would have been 100. He always came to this museum on his birthday.”

Simon stared at the plane, carefully stroking the wing.

“I think he was here,” said Simon. “I think he came back for his birthday.”

But he said it very quietly, and the grown-ups didn’t hear him.

THE END