Fire in the Sky

by David Ward

  Mr. Timpson regarded me as he had the first day I’d met him in his field, when he’d walked towards us carrying a shotgun. I took a second swig of beer. “Mr. Miller informs me you have something of importance to say.”

  I stared hard at the beer swirling in my mug. “Well, yes, sir. I do. I do have something of importance to ask you.”

  Billy stared at the porch.

  “You may,” Mr. Timpson said.

  I choked on my beer. “I … I … may?”

  “You may ask me this thing of importance.”

  Billy made an indistinguishable sound and wrapped his arms around his chest.

  When I looked up at Mr. Timpson, I saw the tiniest creases in the corners of his eyes, the faintest hint of humour.

  “Sir?” I asked stupidly.

  He leaned forward and whispered. “Ask me.”

  “Would you permit me to marry your daughter?” I said.

  Billy and Mr. Timpson burst out laughing and turned away from me to grasp each other’s shoulders. When Mr. Timpson looked at me again, he had regained his composure. “With my blessings, my boy,” he said. “There’s not much to think about on the farm in January and February, and Mrs. Timpson’s been chatting up the topic non-stop.”

  I set down my beer to shake his hand, and then reached down to pick it back up, in the same instant that he offered his own hand. Eventually we managed to shake hands. Nellie appeared at the door, watching us curiously.

  “Go,” Mr. Timpson said to me and nodded towards his daughter. I took Nellie outside in the gathering dusk, knelt in the mud and asked her to marry me. Mr. Timpson agreed to our marriage when Nellie turned nineteen, in less than a year’s time.

  It was difficult to leave the farm that evening. The whole family accompanied us to the station for the last train. When I kissed Nellie goodbye, she did not pull away or appear embarrassed as she had earlier that night. Our lives had changed with the coming of a slender ring that sat so beautifully on her finger.

  * * *

  Our return to France was considerably different than our departure. In the first place, I felt a wave of hope through my engagement to Nellie. It somehow eased the weight of the war. For almost an entire day my hand stopped shaking. I wrote to my parents and to Robert with the news and could hardly wait for their replies. The shaking returned, however, when we received word that we were to ferry a fighter over to an RNAS base at Dunkirk.

  The Bristol F.2b fighter was a powerful beast and superior to the Harry Tate. It had a Vickers forward-firing machine gun for the pilot and a twin Lewis machine gun on a Scarff ring for the rear cockpit. The Scarff ring ran around the perimeter of the cockpit like an elevated miniature train track, allowing the gunner a great deal of manoeuvrability in order to shoot at the enemy.

  Billy was wide awake this time and somewhat refreshed, although he was still exhausted. He certainly looked better after long hours of sleep and Mrs. Baxter’s cooking. And my engagement to Nellie had become a feather in his cap.

  “Couldn’t have done it without me, Paulie,” he boasted. “I had the old man eating out of my palm. You’re lucky I didn’t decide to marry the girl myself.”

  I experimented with the Bristol F.2b while travelling over the Channel, rolling and banking more often than Billy liked. “It’s a good plane,” I shouted.

  “Yes, it is,” he roared back. “And as revenge for your stomach-turning tricks, I ate the rest of Mrs. Baxter’s cookies. Hurrah!”

  Our new orders were to ferry yet another plane, this time a Bristol wanted at Dieppe, and then find transport back to our squadron. It was a smooth flight and without incident.

  On delivering the Bristol, we were informed of our reassignment to a squadron near Dunkirk.

  “I wonder what they’re flying over at Dunkirk,” Billy commented.

  “Pups, most likely,” I answered.

  “I meant the Hun.”

  * * *

  In May, news of British ace Albert Ball’s death reached us at Dunkirk and kept us all sombre for days. The word around the aerodrome was that he’d flown into a cloud and then crashed to the ground. Exactly why he’d crashed was still unknown. He’d been a brilliant pilot, the pride of the Royal Flying Corps, scoring 44 victories. The British officers were crushed by the news.

  Late that month came the rumour of daylight bombing raids against England. The threat called for increased caution along the coasts.

  Daylight bombing was risky, as the anti-aircraft gunners could easily see the planes. But the Hun had created an agile new bomber, the Gotha, and they had confidence in their aircraft. On May 25, the Gothas attacked the English coast and the town of Folkstone, killing over ninety civilians.

  Chapter 13

  June–September 1917

  In early June we received exciting news. We were to be outfitted with new planes, Sopwith Camels, a newer version of the Pup. U-boats were making more frequent appearances in the English Channel and we needed planes that could take on both the German air and undersea power. Rumour spread quickly that the Camel was a better fighter than the Albatros. There was also a rumour that the Camel came with surprises. Those surprises turned out to be both a blessing and a curse.

  The skies were clear and the temperature warm on the day the new planes arrived. They were a marvellous sight — five biplanes with a mysterious hump, a camel’s hump, in front of the pilot. The hump turned out to be two Vickers machine guns, covered by a piece of metal designed to make the plane more streamlined and reduce drag.

  “Looks a little odd,” Billy commented as we inspected the planes.

  “No, no,” I said. “Look at it! They’ve put the engine, guns, pilot and fuel in a compact little box. No more than six or seven feet, I’d say. That will make it feel like riding a horse even more than the Pup.”

  Billy shook his head doubtfully.

  I stood at the prop and paced off towards the tail, squatting under the wing and then coming to a stop just past the cockpit. “There,” I said. “No more than seven feet. That’s going to make for excellent manoeuvrability if the engine’s got any pluck.”

  “That’s a point, isn’t it?” he answered. “It really is compact.”

  By the end of the day the pilots were called in for a briefing. Two British officers delivered a summary of the plane’s operation, and their expressions set an ominous tone.

  “The Camel carries its centre of gravity far forward,” one officer began. “The engine, pilot, weaponry — are all at the front. A full fuel tank can be particularly hazardous in disrupting the centre of gravity,” he went on. “Be wary of it, especially on quick takeoffs when ground crew has fuelled you. Do not let the excitement of the Camel’s power lull you. You must keep her steady with concerted pressure on the rudder and ailerons.” He looked at each of us intently. “We’ve lost pilots already in training. Too many.”

  The officer clasped his hands behind his back. “Which raises yet another point. The Camel’s rotary engine carries a gyroscopic effect — a strong one! She’ll pull hard to the right, so be ready to compensate or you’ll find yourself upside down before you’ve left the ground.”

  Billy stirred beside me. “Is the news all bad then, sir?” he asked.

  The officer shook his head. “Not at all. The same torque that hurls you over on takeoff is the very power that will make your manoeuvrability in the air go well beyond anything the Hun has to offer. The test pilots have fallen in love with this plane. Those that have survived,” he added.

  Despite the warnings I found myself restless to get into the cockpit. The Camel looked and sounded exciting. I understood the dangers and I knew I would keep them in mind when operating the plane. Instead of anxiety I felt the same wild surge of excitement that I’d felt when flying with my instructors back at Curtiss.

  “I want to get up there,” I said to Billy when we returned to our huts.

  “You’ll get your chance,” he answered, with less enthusiasm. “We all will.”

  * *
*

  It was mid-June before I had my first flight in a Camel. The cockpit had a wicker seat, and rudder controls up near the engine. I marvelled at the twin Vickers and watched two crewmen load the guns. One man sat in the cockpit while another stood on the ground and unfolded the belt of bullets.

  “Might want to be careful with this one, sir,” the crewman in the cockpit said. “Almost turned over yesterday.”

  “Was it on a full fuel tank?” I asked.

  The man stopped loading bullets to think. “I believe it was, sir. We fuelled it first thing, at about seven, and the pilot went up around nine for a spin. There’ll be plenty of fuel left, if that’s what you mean. Shall I check for you?”

  There was just over half a tank in the Camel when the crew prepared me for takeoff. The engine roared and I laughed at the power surging through the plane, from my seat to my feet at the rudder controls. I signalled thumbs-up and two crewmen took hold of either wing. I increased throttle and began to move. The men trotted beside me, steadying the wings. They ran me out about 50 feet or so and then let go. The torque of the engine, pulling hard to the right, was unbelievably strong. I pushed my rudder out full to compensate and then opened the throttle wide.

  There was a steady spurt of castor oil spray, more so than with the Pup, or at least more of it actually hitting me, and I wiped my goggles clear with my scarf.

  As I gained speed, bumping and teetering along the field, I had to keep my foot pressed hard on the rudder. The torque was powerful, and without the countering rudder, the plane would have careened to the right and crashed into the trucks parked alongside the landing field.

  As my wheels left the ground the wings suddenly dipped in a gust of wind and I eased off the rudder to compensate. The torque pulled me right back up and would have flipped me over onto the field like a pancake if I hadn’t pressed my foot back down on that rudder. I grinned. She was a feisty beast!

  At 500 feet I started to test the Camel. I completed a slow turn to the left and gained more altitude. There was certainly nothing remarkable about the Camel banking to port. Then I turned to starboard and felt the instant change. She wanted to turn — and with a will! The controls were light and responsive, and with the compact nature of the cockpit and engine, I felt in complete command.

  “It is like riding a horse!” I shouted. At 800 feet I rolled her over twice in succession. I performed a loop and even fired the twin Vickers to gain a feel for the weaponry. The plane was a marvel.

  That night in my cot I drew an elaborate sketch of the Camel. I loved the compact feeling of the airplane, for it delivered such a wonderful sense of control. Soon it would be time to try the Camel in combat. I finished the sketch with a flyer’s scarf trailing far behind. In the centre of the scarf I wrote: All for Nellie!

  * * *

  The fellows celebrated my twentieth birthday in August with aviators’ flair. They decked me out in winter gear, including gloves and goggles, and then proceeded to put a cake that someone had brought in from town on my lap. I discovered later that it was Billy’s mad scheme, and I provided a good deal of amusement with my attempts to get the cake into my mouth.

  My parents sent me a tin of candies and coffee — all of which were gone by the end of the day. Nellie sent me a letter that set my heart racing. She also sent a pound of chocolate. I couldn’t imagine how she’d managed to do that, but guessed that perhaps her father had chipped in to help.

  “Where are you two pigeons going to live?” Billy asked me one day. “England? Will you work for her father? Or will you take her back to Canada? There’s no war there, you know.”

  “I don’t know,” I said truthfully. “I haven’t thought about that.”

  “Well, you’d better,” he answered.

  His words got me thinking and I asked Nellie about it in my next letter. We were so caught up in the idea of marriage that other details seemed insignificant at the time. The war dragged on and I wondered if there would ever come a time when we might be married in peace. I knew what my sister Sarah would say. She wanted us safely at the farm near Winnipeg — perhaps in a little house on the upper pasture. But what did Nellie want?

  * * *

  One evening in September we were given orders to stand ready just past nine o’clock. A wire from the coast alerted us that planes had been spotted heading towards London. A second wire came through minutes later. Gotha bombers.

  Billy was not called up. He twirled his moustache at me. “Don’t get yourself shot!”

  Six Camels were running and ready for us as we jogged out to the field. The other five pilots were British, lads I knew only from our soccer games. The senior officer, Newkirk, was a year or two older than me. We’d had a brief discussion on the sideline during one match. He was not impressed with the torque of the Camel and confessed that it troubled him greatly — it might be especially tricky for the newer pilots.

  As we ran the last few yards to the planes in the dark, the adrenaline pumped through my body. A night flight in a Camel! And against a foe as well! This wasn’t just a training sequence. Curiously, my hand did not shake.

  The castor oil spurted as I settled into my seat and attached the safety belt. I checked my scarf to make sure it was wrapped properly and ready for use. It was going to be a hunt in the dark to find the Gothas and we needed our ears and eyes wide open.

  I brought my plane in behind Newkirk and let him move forward before opening the throttle. Each plane was to take off several minutes in advance of the next, for safety. There was a good deal of dust, but I could still see his wings in the moonlight.

  Only 10 feet from the ground, Newkirk’s wing suddenly dipped to port, just as mine had done on my first flight in a Camel. As he compensated, his wing came over hard to starboard and he couldn’t bring it back up in time. The wing caught the ground and raised a storm of dust. In a split second the plane performed a grotesque cartwheel, spinning end over end until it collapsed in a mess of wood and canvas.

  “Poor old Newkirk,” I gasped. There was no hope of him being alive, not with that sort of crash. The glow and flicker of flames rose up from the field. Seconds later there was an explosion. Flames shot up high into the night. I slammed my hand on the console.

  For a moment I wondered what to do. We had lost not only a pilot, but also our leader. Behind me, the other planes were lining up. Without Newkirk, I was next in command. As I stared at the fire burning on the field, I thought of the Gothas on their way across the Channel and of the deaths that would result from their bombing. I slammed the console one more time. Then I increased throttle and took off, making for the Channel. The mission had to carry on.

  It was cloudy but with relatively decent visibility. The clouds were stacked more ominously along the coast towards northern France and Germany. The Hun was brazen to fly on such a night, clearly unafraid of reprisals and confident of their own strength in the air. Word had it before we left that there were other sorties going up from squadrons in the area, so we were not alone. I grimaced. It could be trouble with too many planes. Even with the moon slipping out from the clouds, it was often impossible to see an enemy clearly until he was close, or the silhouette of the plane was outlined in relief.

  We were not even halfway across the Channel when I spotted dots in the sky headed northeast towards Europe. I made to intercept, knowing the others would be doing the same. I did not doubt that Newkirk’s crash was emblazoned on their minds and that their hands were itchy for revenge. The best remedy for a loss was a win.

  The dots ahead grew closer. They must have seen us, for they changed course — not markedly, but enough to go around us should we lose them in the infrequent clouds.

  As they moved I caught sight of the giant engines on either side of the fuselage. They were Gothas all right — seven of them. There didn’t appear to be any accompanying fighters, which was not surprising, given the distance they had covered and the size of their fuel tanks compared to a single-seater. The Gothas were agile for their
size and carried a versatile rear gun on the back. When they travelled in significant numbers, as they were doing now, it made their guns that much more lethal. They could lay down a wide and accurate suppressing fire from all seven planes before we could break up the pack.

  I realized that some were changing course, not to escape as much as to provide their rear gunners with a good view of us. I increased altitude. We had the edge on the Gothas in terms of speed. Our Camels could do over 115 miles per hour, whereas the Gothas’ top speed was little more than 85. There were larger cloud formations ahead that would play into the bombers’ advantage and we needed to attack before it became a game of hide-and-seek.

  As we cleared the first cloud mass, the rear gunners fired. White lines of smoke traced through the night sky towards us. To keep from presenting a good target, I kept my plane moving from side to side as I neared the bombers. At about 200 yards I gave the central plane three solid bursts.

  I discovered a problem. The flashes from the incendiary bullets coming from my own machine gun were absolutely blinding. Even when I turned my head, I saw a thousand stars swirling in the darkness. To make matters worse, it dawned on me that the flashes from my gun made me an excellent target. There was nothing to be done about it other than to make myself as difficult a target as possible and to squint when I fired.

  I dropped a little and fired a burst, then rose up again just as quickly and fired another. What an annoying fly I must have been to that gunner — biting at his flesh with each burst and yet so hard to swat! My attack must have caused some damage, for the central plane broke away from the others and headed down towards a cloud bank at some 8000 feet. The Gotha pilot was trying to lose me in the clouds — the very game I feared we would end up playing. I followed, firing almost incessantly and stopping only to keep my gun from jamming.

  It was the longest burst I had given, and my eyes were so blinded from the machine-gun flashes that I lost sight of the Gotha completely. I gained altitude and stared out into the darkness, waiting for my night vision to return. It took a good 30 seconds before I was seeing well enough. Still, I couldn’t spot the bomber anywhere. I listened intently for sounds outside of my own plane. The Gotha might have dropped even lower in a bid to escape. Against the blackness of the sea it would be invisible unless the moon came out again. I broke off the chase and headed back to join the others.