Excerpt from The Measure of Days, the 30th in the Morland Dynasty series

           One breezy day in March, Jack was walking across the airfield, with Rug at his heels, towards the hut where he gave his ground-based lessons to aspiring pilots. He generally took Rug on his training days, and the little dog seemed quite happy to lie under his desk during the lessons, and enjoyed the long walks on the perimeter in between whiles. He was a general favourite with everyone at the school, especially the mechanics, who could always be inveigled into sharing their sandwiches with him at lunchtime.

     Jack was too early for the lesson, but he had wanted a little quiet to work on a design, and the house was not in a state to provide such tranquillity. He understood now why wealthy families always had a nursery in some distant part of the mansion: it was amazing how much noise one very small baby could make.

     He was walking without a stick, having been signed off by the sawbones last month, his ankle declared sound at last. It was still a new enough sensation for him to be aware of it, and as he walked he still scanned the ground ahead for fear of putting his foot down a hole or stumbling over a rock. The doctor had said he could resume all normal activities, but he had been favouring the shattered ankle so long it was hard to trust it. And, he thought with some bitterness, he was not the only one who did not trust. He had not yet been given permission to fly again. He had a dreadful feeling that he had slipped down one of those backwaters that existed everywhere in the army, where one was forgotten and left for ever.

     Automatically he looked up to check the cloud ceiling, the wind strength and direction, the likelihood of rain, gauging the 'lift' with his flyer's senses. He missed the sky. I was like a constant low ache in him, like the longing for an absent lover. He wanted to be up there, in the clear air, feeling it buoying him up like loving arms, hearing its sweet passage over the planes and the singing of the wires. He wanted to fly - man's eternal longing since he first rose from all fours and saw the birds above him. How could the army forget him and leave him here, earthbound, teaching other lucky young men to do what they wouldn't let him do? It was a terrible thing.

     He had almost reached the door of the hut when someone called his name. It was one of the sergeant-instructors, Parry by name, hurrying towards him. 'Mr Compton! Mr Compton, sir!' Jack turned. 'The CO sent me, sir. Have you got a minute?'

     'I've got almost an hour. My first lesson isn't until nine.'

     Parry nodded. 'That's what the CO said.' He bent down to return Rug's greeting, scratching the dog's ruff vigorously. 'And seeing as you've got a bit of time on your hands - would you come with me, sir, please?'

     'What is it?' Jack asked, falling in beside him.

     'If you wouldn't mind coming down to the sheds, sir. You're wanted there.'

     Jack was not surprised to be so summoned. His knowledge of engines was as great as his flying skills, and he had always had the pleasant habit of dropping in to chat to the mechanics. Often they would ask his advice about a problem, and he was happy to help. If he could not fly, the next best thing was to get his hands oily inside the guts of an aeroplane.

     When they reached the sheds he saw one of the trainers - an old BE2 - had been pulled out, and a couple of mechanics were leaning against the wings, chatting. They grinned at the sight of Jack, and answered his greeting call of, 'What's the matter with the old 'bus?' with a knowing look at each other. Jack looked at Parry for enlightenment, and found he was grinning too.

     'The CO thought you might like to take her up, sir,' he said. 'Get your air-legs back, so to speak.'

     Jack stared. 'You mean - I'm allowed to fly again?'

     'Got the paperwork sorted out at last, sir - landed on the CO's desk this morning. He thought you wouldn't want to wait.' Parry was evidently delighted with the little trick they'd played, and with the dawning pleasure on Jack's face. 'Feeling nervous, sir?' he added as Jack still hesitated.

     'Of course not,' Jack laughed. 'I can't wait!'

     'We've got your flying helmet here, sir,' said one of the mechanics, 'and the little feller's too.'

     Jack sprang up onto the wing and inserted himself into the cockpit, for once entirely forgetting to worry about his ankle. The seat seemed to fit him like a comfortable shoe and he sighed with pleasure. Rug barked his disapproval of being left behind, but Parry fixed on his goggles and lifted him up onto the wing, and he jumped into the front seat and looked about him with satisfaction.

     Jack tested the controls, nodded to the mechanic, who swung the propellor for him, and as the engine caught he adjusted the throttle and tested the flaps and rudder again. Parry came close to shout up to him. 'Don't forget she needs a bit of left rudder in the air.'

     'Tell your grandmother!' he shouted back.

     'And don't do any loops, sir, or you'll lose the co-pilot!'

     Jack stuck up his thumb, nodded to the mechanic to remove the blocks, and as they skipped out of the way he eased her forward. They went bumping over the uneven ground, each springless jolt seeming to shove his spine up into his skull. He loved it. His feet automatically touched the rudder to keep her from swinging; he increased throttle, the engine roared and the tail came off the ground. The machine bounced over the rough ground, the jolts coming harder and faster, and then there was that wonderful, sudden smoothness as she unpeeled herself from the grass, came unstuck from the grip of the earth, and they were airborne. In front of him, Jack could see Rug grinning in canine delight as the ground sloped away and left them alone, and he gave her stick and throttle and climbed, climbed up the crystal air. 'My God, my God!' Jack cried out, and there was nothing of blasphemy in it. It was pure joy and thanksgiving.