Fire in the Sky

by David Ward

  I banked sharply and increased altitude, and nearly put the Strutter into a stall. Billy was right on my tail. I couldn’t believe they had fired at us. Why on earth had they done that? I glanced back and saw that one of the ships had opened fire as well. Puffs of smoke, like tiny clouds, rose from her deck. Could they reach us from here? I took no chances and rose even higher, all the while increasing throttle to gain more distance.

  As my heart settled I suddenly remembered that the town of Great Yarmouth, a short way up the coast, had been bombed last year, killing two people. No wonder they’d fired on us. It was possible that the Harwich port defence and sailors on the ships couldn’t see the British insignia on our wings. We needed to be more careful.

  Billy waved at me wildly. I knew he was grinning from ear to ear under his mask. I shuddered, and shook off the tension running through me. My hand was frozen to the control stick and I forced myself to relax. I took a deep breath. And then I chuckled and waved back at Billy. It was the first action we had seen. Only we hadn’t counted on being shot at by our own side!

  * * *

  I was low on fuel. The trouble had started just after we reached The Wash, the enormous bay south of Skegness. The clouds were now billowing and grey. It was terribly disorienting. I tried to keep a straight course, but soon found that using the water as a marker was not enough. I needed to see the coastline in order to be sure of our bearings.

  I had to keep wiping my goggles. Huge curtains of cloud floated between our two planes and I lost sight of Billy. I let go of the control stick for a moment and turned right around to check. He was gone. I slammed the side of the cockpit with my fist, but maintained speed and direction, hoping that he would pop through the clouds any second.

  I resisted the temptation to turn back. If either of us changed course in any way, there was no hope of finding one another in such massive clouds. I banked very gently a few times port and starboard in the hope of catching sight of him, but all I accomplished was losing fuel.

  I needed to drop beneath the clouds to get my bearings. I could only hope that Billy would do the same. I pushed the control stick forward and descended.

  The moment I came clear of the clouds, I realized how dangerous the situation was. I was headed for open sea at 60 miles per hour and low on fuel. At my present course I’d run out of fuel and crash into the ocean. I turned sharply back for the shore.

  It didn’t take me long to find my way. The officer back at the RNAS base had written Clock Tower on my map at the town of Skegness. Flying at 1500 feet, I saw the tower and gave a shout of triumph — only 40 miles or so to Grimsby, where we were to refuel. I peered at the fuel gauge. Close to the low mark, but still a little left. I searched constantly for Billy, and prayed for him too. I pushed away the thought of him flying far above me and heading straight out to sea for a watery death.

  I was coming up on a small town, which I presumed was Saltfleet, when I spotted Billy. He was below me and less than a mile ahead. Not daring to increase throttle with so little fuel left, I descended to his altitude. To my amazement, I caught up with him in a few minutes. He waved happily, as if nothing was amiss. I held up both my hands and shook my head. Where did you go?

  He tapped his fuselage and showed a thumbs-down. I nodded. We were now 10 miles out from Grimsby. I thought back to my training sessions with Mr. Martin and Mr. Edwards. Only once had we landed without fuel and it was Mr. Martin who was at the controls. I reviewed in my mind what our manuals said about landing without power.

  I was still wrestling with possibilities when the mouth of the Humber River came into view. There were the towns of Cleethorpes and Grimsby. I caught Billy’s attention and he followed me down. Just past Cleethorpes my engine began to sputter. I lowered the nose to see if I could direct the last of the fuel to the engine. Then I waved frantically at Billy. He eased up on the throttle and came in behind me.

  At around 1000 feet the engine quit and my propeller stopped. My stomach lurched as the Strutter lost power. The sudden quiet was disconcerting. Billy moved alongside. He pointed to a farmer’s field not far from the town. I aimed for the brown patch, hoping desperately that the farmer had removed any large rocks or stumps from his field.

  The ground approached quickly. Suddenly, as I dipped my wings for a better view, I caught sight of a rock wall at the foot of the field.

  “Damn!” I shouted, and adjusted my flaps for more lift. There was only one shot at landing and I could not pull up to try again. The wall was sickeningly close. I squeezed my eyes shut as the top of the wall went under me. I missed it by a hair. Seconds later I touched down and bumped violently along, all the while trying to keep the nose straight. Something yellow and grey suddenly appeared in front of me. There was no time to turn so I threw my hands in front of my face. The Strutter staggered for a moment and then carried right through the obstacle. The plane came to rest after a final jolt. Bits of straw covered the fuselage and hung down in front of my eyes. I had struck a whole stack of it!

  I climbed out and leapt down off the bottom wing. Billy walked towards me shaking his head. “You’re the luckiest dog I’ve ever met!” he said. “You managed to hit the only haystack that wasn’t loaded into the barn. Soaking wet too. Stopped you without tearing the plane to pieces. And you missed a stone fence by three feet at the most. I thought I was going to have to pick up pieces of you.”

  His own plane had touched down with fuel still in the tank. Whether it was because he’d descended earlier and lost less time in the clouds, or because he’d kept his speed down, we didn’t know.

  We walked around the plane searching for any damage.

  “Not a scratch!” exclaimed Billy.

  “Not quite,” I said. The tail guard had broken off. We lifted the tail and Billy ran his hand underneath. “Pretty clean break. You’ll have to have someone to hold the tail up until takeoff. I’ll do it if we can’t find anyone else.”

  I glanced across the field to a stone farmhouse sitting a half mile away at the top of a low hill. “Maybe up there?” I said. “And where are we going to refuel? And how will we get fuel out to this field?”

  We made our way up to the farmhouse. We needn’t have worried about knocking. Three figures were already making their way down to us. One of them carried a shotgun. When we were within a hundred yards of them, the tallest figure raised his gun above our heads and fired. We ducked and then froze in our steps.

  “Who needs to go to France?” Billy muttered. “We can just stay here and be shot by our own side. Twice in one day.”

  “We’re friends!” I shouted. “Pilots. My plane crashed.”

  “Where might you be from, then?” the middle one asked.

  “Canada!” shouted Billy. “And for goodness’ sake, please point that thing somewhere else. We’re not pheasants!”

  The farmer lowered his gun. “All right then,” came the reply. “If you’re under the king, that’s the main thing.”

  Once our identity was settled, the farmer and his family treated us like royalty. One of the boys was sent to hitch up a wagon to take us into town.

  “You’ll stay and take a meal with us and then we’ll get you to town,” the farmer said. We were taken inside. Billy was in his element and soon had the farmer, whose name was Timpson, laughing as he told stories about his own farm back in Winnipeg.

  A girl came into the room carrying a jug and mugs. She was no more than a year or two younger than me, but was the prettiest girl I’d ever seen in my life.

  “Nellie,” Mr. Timpson said. “See if the wagon’s come ’round.”

  Nellie, I thought. Nellie Timpson. It was a name worth remembering. As she set down a mug in front of me she flashed me a smile.

  “Thank … thanks, Miss,” I stammered.

  Billy leaned forward and said charmingly, “I believe my friend is thanking you for the coffee and for your smile.” I blushed to the roots of my hair. Mr. Timpson laughed and slapped Billy on the shoulder. I didn’t follow the r
est of the conversation very well. I kept glancing out the doorway to catch a glimpse of Nellie.

  Mr. Timpson gave us a ride into town and Nellie was allowed to ride with us. Billy nudged me and whispered, “Sit in the back, you ninny.” He climbed up beside the farmer and immediately began telling a story about a horse they had. Nellie and I sat with our legs dangling over the edge of the wagon. She did most of the talking, which suited me just fine, as I wanted to listen to her voice.

  “What about your family, then?” she asked after a while.

  She nodded when I spoke about my brother fighting in France. “The boys are a bit young yet,” she said, speaking of her own brothers. “It won’t be long though,” she added. “I dread the day.” She was quiet for a moment and then looked at me. “What about you, Paul? Aren’t you afraid of being killed?”

  For a moment I was tempted to tell her that I wasn’t. Instead, I said, “Sometimes I’m scared out of my mind.” I glanced at her to see if she thought less of me, but she gave no indication other than a kind smile. So I said, “I sing hymns, and that seems to help. When I’m in the clouds it seems natural to pray for courage.” I thought for a moment. “Robert told me once to always move towards the fear.” I stared at my feet. “I try to do that. But he’s always been the brave one.”

  She suddenly put her hand on mine and said, “I think brave people are scared like anyone else. It’s just that they do something to help in the heat of trouble. Even if ’tisn’t glorious. And you’re here, Paul. You’re in England, in a flying machine. Even though you’re scared. That’s something already, isn’t it?”

  We were quiet for a time and then I asked, “Nellie, may I write to you?”

  She nodded. “I will write back every time you do. And I’ll pray for you each day.” We talked the whole way to the base. I’d never spoken that long to any of the girls I’d met at church or school.

  * * *

  As much as I was excited to be back in the Strutter, there was a part of me that wanted to stay longer and talk with Nellie. The army sent a truck to refuel the plane, fix the tail section and help with takeoff. Mr. Timpson’s whole family stood in the field to watch. Nellie stepped back so no one would see and blew me a kiss. I jumped into the cockpit as if I had springs on the bottom of my feet.

  Once we were in the air I could not resist flying low over the field with Billy right on my tail. I waved and watched the figures disappear behind me.

  From Grimsby we made our way without incident to Redcar, and this time I brought the Strutter down smoothly, taking extra care of the patched-up tail. The ground crew met us and held the plane steady as I switched off the engine.

  “G’day, sir,” said a crewman as he saluted me. He raised his eyebrows at the patched tail guard. “Had a bit of bad luck on your way here?”

  “Ran out of fuel just before Grimsby,” I answered. “We had to land in a field.” But it wasn’t unlucky at all. I’d met Nellie.

  After a good night’s rest we began our training in earnest. As it turned out, we were the only Canadians left. Our mates from Hut C had already been sent to France. Our new companions were British officers, and the difference between us was evident immediately. All of them came from wealthier families than our own. I was afraid to open my mouth around these well-mannered, clever men. I doubted if any of them had milked a cow. Nonetheless, they were very good to us, and helpful in sorting out how things operated at the aerodrome. All of them respected us for already having our pilot’s licences. Several of them had been on hand when we landed from Grimsby and were impressed by our handling of the Strutters.

  One of the most exciting bits of training was machine-gun practice. There was a tiny rail track installed at the far end of the aerodrome with a little cart that ran along it. The cart had a chair and a fixed gun, much the same as the one on Billy’s Strutter. On the hillside were various targets. Our objective was to try to hit the targets while sitting in the moving rail car. We each took turns. While it was deafening, I found it enjoyable to watch the line of bullets getting closer and closer to the target until I finally struck it. Only later did I think of how those bullets might soon be aimed at a real enemy.

  That night, instead of writing to Sarah or Robert, I wrote to Nellie. It had only been a day since I’d crash-landed on the farm, and yet I found I already had so much to tell her. I sketched a picture at the bottom of the page of her family saying goodbye to us. I drew her hand in the act of blowing a kiss. Beside her figure in the picture I wrote: Right back at you!

  * * *

  Our flight instructors began our training in warfare in the skies. They showed us detailed diagrams of airships — dirigibles, or Zeppelins, as the Germans called them. These massive rigid airships could sail over the English Channel and drop bombs on major cities or military targets. Part of our role at Redcar was to hunt for the Zeppelins along the coast while on dawn patrol.

  There was also the possibility of enemy bombers coming over the Channel, so we learned about some of the planes the Germans were flying. Our flight instructor presented a picture of the Albatros and I remembered Mr. Martin’s sharp words to Billy. My general sense of the instructor’s lesson was that new machines and inventions for flying were cropping up daily. Both sides were working night and day to create superior airplanes.

  One afternoon an instructor approached Billy and me while the officers were having a smoke break. “Listen, you fellows,” he said. “I want you to head up and play a little game of tag in the air.”

  I stared at him blankly. “I want the fellows to witness the art of escape and chase,” he finished.

  Billy and I exchanged glances. “Yes, sir,” I responded.

  The instructor turned to Billy and said sternly, “Don’t hurt the machines!”

  It was good to be up in the air again. We had agreed to warm up a bit and then play a little chase. We had never tried it before, and the only time one of us had flown behind the other was on our ferry to Redcar. After a turn or two I looked behind me and suddenly found Billy right on my tail. The game had begun. I gained altitude and decided to give our friends on the ground a show. I took the Strutter into a loop and Billy followed. The powerful engine took me right into the loop, but it somehow seemed different than the Jenny. The Strutter felt stronger and yet more reactive too — as if a single touch of the controls would send the machine spinning into a roll.

  I also noticed that my goggles were clouded. I wiped at them with my gloves and saw what appeared to be oil stains. The smell of oil and petrol had been present the entire flight, but now I noticed a dark spray coming from the engine from time to time. After a second wipe I could see clearly again. Mr. Martin had mentioned castor oil back in Toronto and now I knew what he meant.

  I banked port and starboard but could not shake Billy. It was as if he could predict my every move. Had we been in a real battle and he opened fire, my plane would have been ripped to shreds. I thought of what to do next and then remembered one of the diagrams they had shown us on the chart. I climbed again and went into a loop. Billy was right with me. This time, however, as I was coming out of the last part of the loop, I banked sharply to starboard.

  The manoeuvre caught Billy by surprise and he kept going straight. I followed the turn and came around behind him. He shook his fist at me playfully. I waved. We took a few more turns and then landed.

  Once we were on the ground again, the flight instructor approached us a second time. “Well done, lads. A fine turn, Mr. Townend, I do say. However, you will find that many such manoeuvres may be required in a single dogfight.”

  “Planes are safe and sound, sir.” Billy grinned.

  “So I see,” replied the instructor. “Let’s hope your luck keeps rolling, shall we?” He smiled, not unkindly, and said, “You’re on dawn patrol tomorrow.”

  Chapter 5

  October 1916

  The next day, Billy and I participated in our first dawn patrol. Four of us went up while it was still dark, one after the ot
her taking to the skies. It was terrifying in those first few minutes before the grey light of dawn appeared. I kept my nose aimed at the elusive shadow of our leader, Williams, a gruff British officer. We knew that the main reason for our turn on dawn patrol was to practise formation, and Williams was the man to teach us. Not long into the patrol we spotted a Zeppelin. It was out of range for us, yet the very sight of that giant airship with its black Iron Cross set my heart racing.

  “Make note of when and where we saw it,” Williams said sternly when we were back on the ground.

  Writing reports was part of our daily work. Time, altitude, speed, towns — all had to be recorded in logbooks. It was tedious, unfulfilling work, especially when absolutely nothing happened on most of our sorties. Yet after our brief encounter with the Zeppelin, I realized the importance of the logbooks. Our report put the coast on high alert. Lives were at stake: not only those in the air but civilians on the ground. I thought of Nellie and her family. What could they do against bombs dropped from high above? A warning allowed them to find some protection in the cellar. And what about Robert, hunkered down in some trench with bombs landing all around him? I was angry just thinking about it. It made me want to go straight back up and hunt the Zeppelin down.

  That afternoon the mail arrived and I gave a whoop of joy when the carrier held up two letters for me. One was from my mother with a note and a letter from Robert folded inside. The other was from Nellie. I didn’t know where to start!

  I opened Robert’s crinkled letter. The seal was in place — that meant that my mother had not opened it. Whatever my brother said to me was for my eyes only. I began to read.

  He had seen action. A lot of it. I read on. As pilots, we all heard stories of the harsh life at the Front. Billy had chosen flying instead of infantry for that very reason. And what Robert described was horrible. Three of his friends had been lost in a single charge, shot down like a row of pigeons on a fence. Gone was his excitement. Gone was his enthusiasm. Small wonder, when Canadian casualties had been so high recently at the Somme, in particular at the village of Courcelette.