by David Ward
Billy took a last swig. “I hope I meet him,” he said. “And I hope I get the chance to watch his red plane fall from the sky.”
* * *
For the next several weeks we flew at a reckless pace. Billy lost a great deal of weight and his face became gaunt. When I stole a glance at the mirror I was astonished at the change in my own appearance. There were black patches under my eyes and a bald spot on the back of my head. The doctor said that the hair loss was due to stress and that it would grow back. As much as I missed Nellie, I was glad she couldn’t see me looking so ragged.
We had continued sending letters and there was not a hint of her losing her affection. To my great delight a letter also arrived from Sarah, who reported that all was well at home. My mother had caught a terrible fever but had recovered sufficiently. Sarah had received a letter from Robert. His trench foot problem had flared up again and was causing a great deal of discomfort, and for some reason he appeared more susceptible to it than others. I remembered the horrible condition of his feet. On the positive side, it meant that he had been out of action for the past three weeks and hence out of the line of fire.
At the bottom of her letter Sarah noted something else that sent my heart soaring.
Your Nellie and I have exchanged letters and become friends. So you have but two choices: Come and fly me to England, or bring her home with you.
“Do I get to be best man?” Billy quipped when I showed him the letter.
“Of course. I mean, if we … I …” My face flushed and Billy burst out laughing. It was one of the only pleasant highlights of early March.
Word also reached us about Raymond Collishaw, the pilot from British Columbia who had paid me a visit after my injury. He was part of Black Flight now, a Canadian wing that was taking German planes down at such a shocking rate it was gaining quite a reputation. If I’d known he was such an ace, I’d have given his hand a longer shake. He seemed like a very decent sort of person.
* * *
A few days later we were sent up with a larger force than usual. It was common for us to fly in twos and threes and it was certainly not unknown for a lone plane to go up for patrol. On that day, however, twelve of us were sent up. It was a strange, exhilarating feeling to be part of such a group. We seemed to fill the air, an invincible wall of fighters. I wondered why we didn’t fly like this more often.
Ashcroft had told me months previously that the Brits were cocky flyers. “A bunch of brave lunatics,” he said. “And yet so bloody practical too. Their superiors are of the belief that it’s better to send up only a few pilots at a time so we can only lose that many. Not like the Hun. They travel in their circuses and stick together.”
We gained altitude to 8000 feet and then sorted out our formation. Billy and Rogers were on my flanks. It was strange not to have Ashcroft somewhere near, especially with so many of us flying. He was in England waiting for medical transport back to Canada. We promised to catch up when we all returned. Toronto, Ashcroft’s hometown, did not seem so far now that I had been overseas. His last words to me were, “Take care of Billy. He’s a wild one.”
Leadership was a curious thing when it came to air combat, and I felt it distinctly on that day in March. We had lost so many pilots to the enemy and to landing accidents that it took a relatively short time to be called a veteran. New lads arrived monthly, many of them looking as if they were hardly a day past eighteen. It was Billy who reminded me that I was not that much older than some of them. With all that had happened since I left our Winnipeg farm, it was difficult to imagine that so little time had passed.
As we pressed into No Man’s Land with our large formation, Rogers suddenly waved and pointed. Ahead of us and coming from the German lines were five enemy fighters, three of them Albatroses. We changed direction and moved towards them, although not so much to intercept as to observe. They were flying some 200 feet below. I waited for our leader to signal attack, but he seemed content to keep an eye on the enemy while still hunting for signs of movement on the ground. The Germans could not have missed us, and yet they did not turn away.
The sun broke from a cloud, ever so briefly, and in that instant the red fuselage of an Albatros, flying at the centre of the formation, was illuminated. Billy saw it at once and broke away from my wing.
“Idiot!” I hollered. I felt a shiver go down my spine when the red plane also pulled away from its formation. Soon the two of them were matching altitude and on a collision course.
I followed Billy, as did Rogers, and opened the throttle in order to catch him. The wind didn’t help and I felt the tug and pull on my wings, pushing us towards enemy lines. I wished for the hundredth time that Bunyan was on hand to reel Billy back in.
As our planes drew closer, Billy opened fire and white smoke trails spun out from his gun. The Baron did not fire.
Rogers took position above to act as lookout and I followed Billy in for the attack. At 100 yards Billy stopped firing, and I realized with a sinking heart that his gun had jammed. I could see him madly trying to clear the blockage. He was an easy target. At 50 yards the Baron opened fire. I heard the chatter of gunfire and then several gashes appeared in the canvas of Billy’s wing. I had seen wings shorn off by bullets before, and I certainly wasn’t going to let that happen to my friend.
I cleared Billy’s tail and then fired several rounds. The incendiary bullets flared as they left my gun and the pilot fluttered his wings in an attempt to avoid them. Then we all roared past one another and began to turn about like knights in a jousting tournament. In that brief moment I recognized the plane and pilot that had shot me down only a short time before. No wonder the commander had sent us all up. He was tired of the Baron shooting our boys down.
We hit a large bank of cloud and I kept my turn steady, trusting Billy to do the same and lessen the risk of collision. I caught a glimpse of him. His wing appeared to be holding up in the turn. The ground was visible between patches of cloud. A swath of green caught my attention. We were drifting away from the Front and towards Germany.
We came around to find our formation broken up and a full fight in progress. Billy’s gun was working again and he opened fire the moment we straightened out. There was no knowing if he was actually doing any damage, but his gun blasted away nonetheless. It jammed again a few seconds later. It did not matter. The German plane had slowed, a thin strip of white smoke erupting from its engine.
“Fuel’s leaking!” I shouted. “It’s going to blow! The Baron’s plane is going to blow!” The thin white smoke was the first indicator that a plane’s fuel tank had been pierced and was about to explode. The question was how much fuel was pouring in around his feet and how long it took for a spark or the heat of the engine to ignite the benzine. Billy started firing but his gun jammed yet again. When was he going to learn? He was so wild with hate that he was not concentrating.
The Albatros’s propeller suddenly stopped and the Baron headed towards the earth. I couldn’t believe it was happening, for Billy’s gun had jammed three times and I’d only managed one brief burst, without a clear view.
A bright object caught my peripheral vision and I turned to see a fireball falling through the sky. It shot past the damaged Albatros some 200 yards away. The pilot looked up just as the fiery wreckage passed him, and raised his hands in triumph. The burning plane was a Sopwith Pup. Already it was completely engulfed in flames. A second later another plane, an Albatros this time, went down, streaming smoke.
I watched the Baron for close to a minute. There was no question that he was going down. I kept waiting for his plane to explode. It didn’t. Billy pulled even with me and shrugged. He motioned as if to follow, but I shook my head vigorously. How ironic that only weeks ago this same enemy had watched my own plane fail and fall from the sky. He could have finished me off for certain. It was almost as if he wanted to let Providence choose for him. And perhaps Providence had, for in that moment I made the choice not to pursue the failing plane.
I point
ed to the battle above us and signalled for us to join them. Billy turned frequently in his seat to look down after the Baron. After a moment he nodded and reluctantly closed in behind me. Even as we approached the remnants of the fray, the last three Germans turned away and headed across their lines. I could hear the anti-aircraft guns starting up from below. We were still out of range and none of us wanted to fly into that barrage for the sake of three planes, especially when we were such a large contingent. The risk far outweighed the benefits.
Rogers gave me a thumbs-up as we re-formed. I scanned the planes to see who was missing. Everyone I knew was still present, so it was clearly one of the new lads who had gone down. A couple of them had minimal flying experience — surrounded by experienced fighters, there was a danger of them losing concentration or being cocky.
It was life-threatening to take any of the Jasta squadrons for granted. They had pilots like Richthofen — the Red Baron of Jasta 11 — plus Ernst Udet of Jasta 15 and Werner Voss of Jasta 2. These were men worthy of respect and careful attention. We knew their names, sometimes their planes, and always their reputations. An inexperienced pilot could easily think that ten of us against one was an obvious win. Those of us who had faced the German flyers numerous times knew the dangers of any and all our enemies. Our own Canadian aces, men like Billy Bishop, Billy Barker, Raymond Collishaw or Donald MacLaren, understood the need to respect the enemy. As for my own friend Billy, he wasn’t cocky — he wanted revenge.
Back at the aerodrome, we learned that it was indeed a new man, Collins, who had gone down. This was his first posting after training. He was nineteen years old.
Billy, Rogers and I stood just inside the hangar, three of us, with steaming tins of coffee.
“There are times I wish I had Bunyan’s fists,” Rogers said wistfully and glanced at Billy. “You’re a bloody idiot, going after the Baron like that.”
Billy only shrugged.
“He baited you,” Rogers added. “Waited for one of us to pull away. Then went right at you.”
Again Billy shrugged. “I’ve got my reasons. He’s the one that went down, isn’t he?”
“You’re lucky,” Rogers said seriously.
“What is luck?” Billy retorted. “You’ve either got the angels on your side like Stitch here, or it’s off to hell like Collins today.”
“Just stop trying to kill yourself,” I said. “The Hun are good pilots. Their planes are ingenious and match or better our own. You know that. And for crying out loud, you just took down their best.”
He nodded. “Didn’t kill him though, did I? Captain says the Hun were fast to wire and say that the pilot landed without a scratch.” He glanced at Rogers. “That must have been luck. It couldn’t have been angels. He’s on the other side.”
“Beggin’ yer pardons, sirs,” came a voice from above, pulling us from our discussion. A mechanic leaned down from his ladder as he worked on a bent propeller. “I’m not a churchgoing man myself. But I do know there will be hell to pay if I don’t fix this prop. Could one of you hand me that spanner?”
And that was the end of our discussion.
Chapter 12
April–May 1917
The next month became known as Bloody April. We flew even more than usual and I found myself getting a little careless when we entered dogfights. In the skies I felt less and less fear and far more exhilaration, as if the air itself were intoxicating. The very carelessness that we warned new pilots about was creeping into my day-to-day flying. On the ground I was bone-tired and often depressed. Sleep did not come easily, especially when some of our pilots did not return from sorties. I saw men die horribly that month. Both sides sustained a high rate of casualties. Every week we were raising our glasses to honour another fallen friend.
I became so sick of writing home, or to Nellie, about another death that I stopped recording them. Instead, I wrote about the soccer matches and the indescribable coffee that we adored in the French towns. More than anything I wrote about how dearly I wanted to see each of them.
On April 6 some shocking news arrived: the United States had finally declared war on Germany! Angry at the Germans’ continued use of U-boats against passenger and merchant ships, the United States was entering the fray. Needless to say, the news made a splash among the men.
“The Americans are boasting that they’ll put twenty thousand planes in the air against the Hun,” I heard one pilot say on our way out to the field.
“I’ll believe it when I see it,” said another.
Our captain snorted. “Won’t help us today, will it? We could use a hundred more planes — and better ones — to face off against these wretched Albatroses.”
I wrote to Sarah that night:
I wonder if this might mean the end of the war. America is a big country and the Germans must be shaking in their boots at this announcement. I only wish they had come sooner. There are a lot of good men who might still be alive. But if the United States entering the war allows me to go home, then I can only hope that they advance quickly. And if you are very good I might bring someone home with me.
Less than a week after America joined the Allies, we cheered when news came of the incredible Canadian victory at Vimy Ridge. They had taken a hill, a strategic and well-fortified high ground used by the enemy to rain down shells on Allied troops. Yet our elation began to die away when news of the number of casualties started to come out. The rumours said well over three thousand dead and up to ten thousand injured during the battle. It was still a stunning achievement, but at such cost.
* * *
Billy and I were so exhausted that by the third week of April, we were granted leave. Our service since January was deemed enough to warrant the rest, and our mistakes certainly showed that we both needed a break. In the last week alone, Billy had ruined the undercarriage of two planes while landing. Twice I had drifted into enemy territory, once with two inexperienced pilots under my protection.
At the time of the second incident I told myself that the wind was extreme and that I was just trying to hem in the new pilots. It was the partial truth. In fact, for several minutes I had stopped looking at my maps and at the landmarks for direction. It was a moment of fatigue, of “mind drifting” — a curse that plagued all of us when we were too tired. We were fortunate enough to return whole, with the new pilots intact, but it did not come as a great surprise when the commander decided that Billy and I needed a rest, or we were going to make more costly mistakes.
My intention was to get to Redcar and Grimsby as quickly as possible. The commander permitted us to fly a two-seater to England provided that we brought him something better than an old R.E.8 reconnaissance plane in return. It was much faster than taking the train and then the boat across the Channel and we jumped at the chance. Billy agreed to stay with me at Mrs. Baxter’s. “It’s about time I see that Nellie of yours,” he said.
On the field I looked over our transport with a critical eye. “Some caution with that beastie, if you please, sir,” a mechanic said as he walked over to me. He wiped his greasy hands on an equally greasy cloth. “She’s been sputtering a fair bit and is given to bouts of power loss. It’s good that you’re flying on our side, sir, or you’d be a sitting duck.”
The R.E.8, nicknamed “Harry Tate,” was often used for reconnaissance and photography missions. I had seen them many times on the base. They were steady machines, but had little manoeuvrability compared to our fighters. This particular Harry Tate had seen a great deal of action. Only a few days earlier, six R.E.8s had been tragically shot down near Douai by Jasta 11. The Baron had registered over 40 kills.
“Caution taken!” I answered and thanked him. How could I explain that I would have flown it with one wing if it could take me to Nellie? And after months of constant stress and action, I cared little about the dangers of a slightly faulty plane travelling over friendly ground.
Billy stopped me as I tossed in my bag. “We’re stopping in Middlesbrough.”
“Why?
”
“To pick up a ring, you twit.”
And we did. I bought a gold band — slender, yet great in significance.
A few days into our leave Billy and I took the train to Grimsby.
“You look as if you’re off to fight Jasta 11,” Billy teased.
“It’s a different sort of worry,” I answered.
“Let me warm up the old man,” he said. “I’ll give you your cue.”
We approached the farm at teatime and our arrival was greatly heralded. Billy fell right into telling stories, and within minutes he and Mr. Timpson were laughing and taking sips of beer. They wandered to the porch, where their voices quieted.
“That’s curious,” said Nellie as she eyed the two men through the window.
Standing in front of my beautiful Nellie, I nearly offered her the ring on the spot. I was saved by her youngest brother, who charged at me with his head down and tackled me.
“Off!” Nellie commanded him. I gave him a playful punch and let him go. As I stooped down to retrieve my hat it struck me like a thunderbolt that my head was exposed. Nellie reached out and touched my hair.
“Is that a wound?” she asked worriedly.
I was tempted to tell her a wild tale, but with Nellie that would never do. “It’s a stress spot,” I said. “The doctor says it’s caused by tension and will grow back naturally enough. It’s part of the reason I’m on leave.”
She tapped her lips with her fingers and regarded me thoughtfully. Then she said, “If it doesn’t grow back then I’d like you to shave a spot on the opposite side so that you match.”
I laughed, pulled her to me and kissed her.
“Not here!” She giggled and looked around nervously.
The door to the porch opened and Billy beckoned. “Over here, Master Townend,” he quipped.
I swallowed hard, glanced one more time at Nellie and then went out to the porch. Billy put a mug of beer in my hand. I took a swig without even thinking.
