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Hello, my name is Carolyn and I am an Education Officer here at the Shrine of Remembrance in Melbourne.
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We look forward to sharing some stories with you during the school holidays.
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Today I would like to read Lofty's Mission by Krista Bell and beautifully illustrated by David Miller.
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Lofty's Mission
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‘No Dad! Please don't take Lofty. I bred him to be a champion racer!’
00:49
Tears trickled down Harley’s cheeks.
00:53
Harley's father was putting six baby pigeons into the cane hamper.
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Lofty would be one of them.
01:02
'Couldn’t you take Number 368 instead of Lofty? Please!'
01:11
'Sorry, lad.' Frank McNamara was firm. 'The army needs top homing pigeons as messengers.
01:19
Your Lofty, number 371, is our best squeaker.
01:25
He’ll be a big, strong adult bird—just what they need up in New Guinea.
01:31
Everyone has to make sacrifices for the war effort.’
01:36
Frank locked the hamper securely.
01:39
'Harley, while I deliver these birds, would you clean out the stock loft? Won’t be long.'
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He strapped the pigeon hamper onto his motorbike and rode away.
01:56
Harley stared down the empty driveway.
01:59
'Maybe the war will finish next week,' he murmured. 'Then the army will send you home, Lofty.
02:06
I’ll train you, just like I promised. We’ll go in races—and you’ll win.
02:13
You’re the best pigeon ever.'
02:16
His mother held him tight.
02:19
‘Give me a hug, dear. Don’t be sad. There’ll be other squeakers.’
02:25
‘I don’t want another squeaker,’ Harley sobbed. 'I just want Lofty.'
02:35
Lofty was being trained by the army up north, in Queensland, where it was hot and wet.
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The sergeant who worked with the pigeons was teaching Lofty to fly back to his mobile loft.
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One soldier would stand next to it and shake a tin of dried peas.
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A few feet away the sergeant would gently toss Lofty into the air and he would fly to the loft.
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At first Lofty was only a short distance away but, as the toss distance increased,
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he learnt that, no matter how far he had to fly, the mobile loft meant food, water, rest and safety.
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The loft was home.
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Months later, in the New Guinea jungle, Lofty flew hundreds of miles on long-distance missions for the army.
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At dawn one morning, he was placed in a carry box with another pigeon.
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The platoon was going out on patrol behind enemy lines and the pigeons would be their only communication with headquarters.
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But before they reached their destination, the enemy surrounded them—the entire platoon had walked into an ambush.
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The captain wrote an urgent message on rice paper.
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The sergeant rolled up the note and placed it in a tiny cylinder, which he strapped to Lofty’s left leg.
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Then he attached a copy of the note to the other bird, in case Lofty didn’t reach headquarters.
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In his gently cupped hands, the sergeant held Lofty up high, then lowered his arms, opened his fingers and tossed the bird into the air.
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'God speed, 371. Without reinforcements, we’re goners.'
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Lofty pushed strongly up into the air. Enemy gunfire whizzed around him, cutting into his wings and threatening to bring him down.
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But he flew on bravely, until finally he reached the safety of his loft.
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'It’s 371,' yelled the loft sergeant.
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'He’s exhausted and badly wounded. Corporal, take this message from the platoon to the Lieutenant. Hurry!'
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Poor Lofty!
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Down south, where it was cold and wet, Harley was in hospital. He was very ill.
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‘Once he recovers completely,’ the doctor explained to Harley’s parents, 'I’m confident he’ll walk again. It’ll just take time. The polio shouldn’t affect him permanently.'
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Weeks passed. Harley was home from hospital but still in bed.
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Through his bedroom window, he watched his father’s racing pigeons circle the house as they came home from their daily flying sessions.
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Lofty’s been gone so long, Harley thought.
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Maybe he’s never coming home from the war.
05:59
Harley’s mother was sitting on the end of his bed.
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‘There’s a bird in this book I’m reading, Mum,’ said Harley.
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‘Not a pigeon—a robin—and a girl called Mary, and a boy called Dickon. They find a secret garden.’
06:17
‘That book was one of my favourites when I was your age,’ said his mother.
06:22
His father came into the room. ‘Look what the postie just delivered, lad.’
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Harley opened the parcel. 'It’s a medal!'
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Frank McNamara scanned the letter.
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‘It says here that number 371 has been awarded the Dickin Medal for gallantry. Seems he saved an entire platoon of soldiers.
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The Dickin Medal is a bravery award for animals—a bit like the Victoria Cross for soldiers.
06:57
Your name is on the certificate as his breeder, Harley. Congratulations, lad. Your Lofty is a hero!'
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‘Ripper! A bravery award!’ said Harley.
07:11
‘Hang on, did you say Dickon? Like in my book?’
07:14
His mother checked the certificate.'The award is spelt d-i-c-k-i-n.
07:22
It’s something to do with a lady who runs a clinic for sick and dying animals in England. I heard about her on the radio.’
07:34
‘Lofty’s dead, isn’t he?’ Harley slumped back onto the pillows.
07:38
‘The army sent this because Lofty’s dead.’
07:42
'No. Quite the contrary, lad.' His father pointed to the letter.
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‘It says here that 371 was wounded in action and the loft sergeant stitched him up.
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He’s okay now, but he won’t ever fly again.
07:59
We can write to the army and ask for Lofty to be discharged. They’ll send him home. It’s happened with other birds from the pigeon–racing club.’
08:11
Harley grinned as his mother pinned the medal onto his pyjamas.
08:15
‘It’s okay that Lofty can’t fly, isn’t it, Dad? Our stock birds don’t fly anyway.
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Lofty can be my number one stocky. Lofty’s squeakers will grow up to be the best racing pigeons ever!
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They’ll be bonza flyers, just like Lofty—and they’ll win lots of races.’
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Harley moved to the edge of the bed, lowered his feet to the floor and stood, for the first time in months.
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‘Can I go out to the stock loft?’ he asked his parents.
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'I have to get things ready. And we need to choose the best hen we’ve got to mate with Lofty.'
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A year later, Harley and his dad stood together in the backyard.
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‘Look, Lofty! Your son is first home by miles,’ said Harley.
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‘Quick, Dad. Let’s get the race ring off his leg and into the tin lizzie to record his time.
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What did I tell you, Lofty? I knew Nifty would be a champion—I just knew it!'
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And that is the end of our story.
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