now.”
“Still in aircraft?”
“Yes. I’m operating in the Persian Gulf. I came down here on a charter job.”
I was terribly glad to see Connie again. He was a part of my youth, part of the fine time you have before you have to takeresponsibilities. Presently, as you go through your life, you undertake so many duties that you haven’t time for making new, close friendships any more; you’ve got too much to do. For the remainder of your life you have to make do with the friends you gathered in in your short youth, and for me, Connie was about the only one I ever had. I started getting serious pretty early in my life, I suppose.
I told him all about my charter service in the Gulf as I stripped my few clothes off and stretched out on the bed. In return he told me what he had been doing. From Cobham’s circus he had gone to California; he had got a job with the Lockheed Company in their service and repair department and he had stayed with them for six years or so. Then the war had come, in 1939. He was a British subject, of course, and England was at war; he felt it was his duty to serve although he had queer ideas about fighting, and so he went north over the border to Edmonton and joined the Royal Canadian Air Force as an engine fitter.
“Were you in aircrew?” I asked.
He shook his head. “I think that it is wrong to kill,” he said simply. “I told them that when I volunteered for the R.C.A.F. I told them also that if one could not kill in time of war, one ought to work very hard. I had the American ground engineer’s certificates, of course, for Lockheed and Pratt and Whitney stuff, and they were glad to have me for a fitter on the ground.”
He had spent the whole of the war in Canada working at various aerodromes in connection with the Empire training scheme and, later, on some cold weather research projects at Trenton. He had sat for the Canadian ground engineer’s licences at the end of the war and had got the lot without difficulty, and at the beginning of 1946 he had gone out to Bangkok and had worked for a time as a ground engineer with Siamese Airways.
I opened my eyes at that. Siamese Airways is the national airline of Siam and, I thought, staffed exclusively by Asiatics. “What on earth made you go there?” I asked.
“Karma,” he said smiling. I didn’t understand him, but his old magic was upon me once again and I didn’t interrupt; he knew so much more than I did. “I went back home to San Diego for a few months and worked at the Flying Club, but I couldn’tsettle there. I didn’t really like America, and I wanted to know more, much more, about the Lord Guatama and the Four Noble Truths. I wanted to hear people talk about the Buddhist faith who really
knew
something—not the sort of people you find in Los Angeles. And presently I found I had to go to Bangkok to find out about all that. There was no alternative except the bughouse.”
I grinned. This was the same old Connie, different to anybody else that I had ever met. He had been good for me when I was a callow and an ignorant youth; he was good for me now. I said, “Were you able to get into Siamese Airways?” And then I said, perhaps a little thoughtlessly, “I thought they were all Asiatics.”
He smiled. “Well, what do you call me?”
“You’re British,” I said, wondering.
“I was born in Penang,” he replied. “My father was a full Chinese. My mother was a Russian who got out in 1917, at the time of the Revolution. I speak Cantonese, and a little Mandarin. I spell my name in two parts now that I’m out here, Shak Lin, like my father did. I’m an Asiatic.”
“Not a proper one,” I said loyally.
He grinned. “Proper enough to get a job with Siamese Airways. I think they were very glad to get me; I got to Bangkok just as they were starting up. They bought a lot of disposals Dakotas and had them converted in Hong Kong. I was with them up till about four months ago.”
“What are you doing now?” I
“Still in aircraft?”
“Yes. I’m operating in the Persian Gulf. I came down here on a charter job.”
I was terribly glad to see Connie again. He was a part of my youth, part of the fine time you have before you have to takeresponsibilities. Presently, as you go through your life, you undertake so many duties that you haven’t time for making new, close friendships any more; you’ve got too much to do. For the remainder of your life you have to make do with the friends you gathered in in your short youth, and for me, Connie was about the only one I ever had. I started getting serious pretty early in my life, I suppose.
I told him all about my charter service in the Gulf as I stripped my few clothes off and stretched out on the bed. In return he told me what he had been doing. From Cobham’s circus he had gone to California; he had got a job with the Lockheed Company in their service and repair department and he had stayed with them for six years or so. Then the war had come, in 1939. He was a British subject, of course, and England was at war; he felt it was his duty to serve although he had queer ideas about fighting, and so he went north over the border to Edmonton and joined the Royal Canadian Air Force as an engine fitter.
“Were you in aircrew?” I asked.
He shook his head. “I think that it is wrong to kill,” he said simply. “I told them that when I volunteered for the R.C.A.F. I told them also that if one could not kill in time of war, one ought to work very hard. I had the American ground engineer’s certificates, of course, for Lockheed and Pratt and Whitney stuff, and they were glad to have me for a fitter on the ground.”
He had spent the whole of the war in Canada working at various aerodromes in connection with the Empire training scheme and, later, on some cold weather research projects at Trenton. He had sat for the Canadian ground engineer’s licences at the end of the war and had got the lot without difficulty, and at the beginning of 1946 he had gone out to Bangkok and had worked for a time as a ground engineer with Siamese Airways.
I opened my eyes at that. Siamese Airways is the national airline of Siam and, I thought, staffed exclusively by Asiatics. “What on earth made you go there?” I asked.
“Karma,” he said smiling. I didn’t understand him, but his old magic was upon me once again and I didn’t interrupt; he knew so much more than I did. “I went back home to San Diego for a few months and worked at the Flying Club, but I couldn’tsettle there. I didn’t really like America, and I wanted to know more, much more, about the Lord Guatama and the Four Noble Truths. I wanted to hear people talk about the Buddhist faith who really
knew
something—not the sort of people you find in Los Angeles. And presently I found I had to go to Bangkok to find out about all that. There was no alternative except the bughouse.”
I grinned. This was the same old Connie, different to anybody else that I had ever met. He had been good for me when I was a callow and an ignorant youth; he was good for me now. I said, “Were you able to get into Siamese Airways?” And then I said, perhaps a little thoughtlessly, “I thought they were all Asiatics.”
He smiled. “Well, what do you call me?”
“You’re British,” I said, wondering.
“I was born in Penang,” he replied. “My father was a full Chinese. My mother was a Russian who got out in 1917, at the time of the Revolution. I speak Cantonese, and a little Mandarin. I spell my name in two parts now that I’m out here, Shak Lin, like my father did. I’m an Asiatic.”
“Not a proper one,” I said loyally.
He grinned. “Proper enough to get a job with Siamese Airways. I think they were very glad to get me; I got to Bangkok just as they were starting up. They bought a lot of disposals Dakotas and had them converted in Hong Kong. I was with them up till about four months ago.”
“What are you doing now?” I
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