Fire in the Sky

by David Ward

  “Focus, focus,” I told myself. It was difficult to estimate the distance, especially when my head was so foggy. On my next try I cleared the beach and approached the lighted field.

  “Rudder, rudder!” I shouted at myself. Even the sound of my own voice made me wince. This time, patches of grass and dirt were visible between the flickering lights. I brought the Camel down as slowly as I could and wrestled the controls to keep her steady. The tiny lights came up suddenly and I realized too late that I was still approaching too quickly.

  I gritted my teeth. “Now or never!” With a crunch and a terrific jolt, my undercarriage broke away. I did not pull up, however, and bumped and slid along the field within the perimeter of the lights. The jolting was horrific and I felt another blackout coming. When the Camel finally came to a full stop I switched the engine off and put my aching head in my hands. I was on the ground. Hallelujah, I was down.

  “Are you all right, sir?” someone shouted. Helping hands lifted me out of the cockpit. A bright light shone in my face.

  “Blimey,” someone murmured. Then, “Medic! Medic!”

  I was loaded onto a truck and someone rode with me, pressing a cloth firmly against my head.

  “My head,” I murmured. “It hurts.”

  “You’ll be right as rain, sir!” the man said. “But let’s just keep your helmet on, shall we, until we reach the hospital? Looks as if a bullet’s grazed your head, based on the hole in your helmet.” One of the ground crew came up and handed me my flight jacket.

  “Was there anyone that landed ahead of me?” I asked him.

  He shook his head. “No, sir. You’re the first one back.”

  Chapter 15

  November 1917–March 1918

  For three days we waited for news of Billy. At night I was restless, stirring at every sound, and hoping beyond hope that, like Ashcroft, Billy might show up and surprise us all. He did not come. My head throbbed. Rogers visited me regularly at the base hospital. He made me go over the incident minute by minute, and along with the rest of the men that night, we pieced together as accurate an account as we could.

  To the best of our knowledge, Billy and the Albatros had suffered a mid-air collision, a fatal one as far as Billy was concerned. The Albatros apparently recovered sufficiently to fly, although it didn’t return to the fray. Billy’s plane spiralled down to the English Channel. No one else saw the incident, although Rogers witnessed the Albatros flying away from us. I had been the last to see Billy. I described the sound I had heard to the officers and to several of our mechanics and sail makers. Each of them said the sound appeared consistent with what a mid-air collision between two wood and fabric structures would make. One of the mechanics suggested that the undercarriage of the Albatros may have clipped Billy’s wings. The Albatros could still fly without its undercarriage, but Billy would be helpless if a portion of both wings was ruined.

  “Mid-airs aren’t frequent,” the mechanic said. “Yet often fatal when they do happen. I’m sorry, sir.”

  Talking about my best friend only made his absence that much greater. For months he had been telling me that he felt his end was near. I began to wonder if he had even set up my engagement with Nellie out of fear that he wouldn’t be around to help me in the future. I always brushed off his fears. Death was all around us, and yet somehow, I’d felt that Billy would always make it.

  I had never cried in the pilot’s seat. Never shed a tear in the most harrowing moments or in the pain of being shot. But I cried for Billy and felt no shame in it.

  In the end, I wrote a letter to his family. I do not remember the contents of the letter, for those few days were blurry and miserable, except that I included details of the crash. I also wrote something about my friendship with Billy and what an honour it was to have known him. Rogers wrote a letter as well, both as the commander of our squadron and a friend. He kept up his visits to the base hospital through those difficult days, saying little but making sure I ate.

  * * *

  My own condition was dismal. The nausea and vomiting continued for days. It was a bad concussion despite the fact that the wound on my skull itself was not deep. Being grounded was maddening, for I wanted every day to go back up into the skies and seek revenge for Billy. Eventually the doctors recommended a furlough in England, as I was not fit to fly until the symptoms went away.

  This time I stayed with Nellie’s family on the farm, and it was only under her care that I finally began to climb out of both the injury and the depression. I mended fences in the chilly wind, enjoying the change of using rocks rather than wood as we did in Canada. I cleaned out the cow stalls and smelled the familiar barn odours that had been a part of my daily life until joining the RNAS. The work was refreshing and tough, a welcome relief from the stress of the last days.

  Nellie and I went for long walks, planning and enjoying our future lives together. She was not afraid to talk about Billy. Rather, she encouraged me to tell stories about him. The more I spoke, the more I felt that his memory was being honoured. Somehow, through our walking and late-night talks, the wound of Billy’s loss began to close. It did not heal, but at least it did not gape so agonizingly as it had in the first days and weeks.

  Our conversations wandered to topics that Billy had pressed me about days before his death. It seemed uncanny that he had predicted such an end. Nellie wrestled with the prospect of leaving England and yet felt so much excitement over the idea of living in Canada. Both our parents had offered to build a cottage that would serve until we could make our own way. My parents wrote such a comforting letter that I felt a great relief about our future plans.

  My head was bandaged for those weeks, and once, when Nellie was changing the dressing, she said, “You have a stress spot on this side and a long streak on the other. If you weren’t about to become my husband I’d suggest we shape them both into a tonsure and declare you a monk!”

  * * *

  I returned to duty in mid-December. Rogers was on leave and I found the place rather dull without him or Billy. I played soccer when the field was not a mud bath, under doctor’s orders not use my head to strike the ball.

  One small and yet significant detail came to light the first day I went up for patrol after my furlough. The ground crew gathered around my plane in the morning and welcomed me back. I was surprised by the greeting and very pleased. They grinned and I wondered what else was up.

  “Well, sir,” said a mechanic, “we’ve taken the liberty of adding a wee detail to your plane.”

  I glanced over the Camel and suddenly caught his meaning. Painted below the lip of the cockpit in bright white letters was one word: Hurrah!

  I shook hands with each of the men, barely able to keep my voice from cracking.

  “He was a good man, sir,” a crewman said.

  “He was a good man,” I repeated. I put my hands on my hips and stared at them. “Well, gentlemen,” I said. “In light of your good example, what say we call this Camel Hurrah!” The name stuck, and while I didn’t always have the opportunity to fly the same plane, it was common knowledge that Hurrah! was mine. Further, I made it my duty to inform new pilots of the namesake and the memory of an excellent man, my dearest friend, Billy.

  * * *

  The rain, fog and ice in January kept us grounded for much of the month. We often stood ready to go out on patrol for hours, only to have the sortie called off. It was infuriating.

  To keep busy and flying, I volunteered to take up photographers for reconnaissance. The planes were not half as fun as a Pup or Camel, but at least I was in the air and not sitting around in our hut. We didn’t venture out far, however, without fighters.

  When Rogers returned from leave, we clapped one another on the shoulders and then stood staring in silence as the gravity of the moment sank in — we had not seen one another since my concussion. Billy’s death was a heavy burden to bear and there were days I could hardly stand it. Rogers put it best: “Some chaps make such an impact in life that their
loss is no less great in death.” I could only nod in agreement.

  Rogers was delighted to see Hurrah!, and the following morning he painted his own memorial. Billy’s Vengeance was towed out beside my plane and the ground crew all crowded in for a photograph.

  With the weather co-operating, we managed regular patrols throughout February whenever the cloud ceiling remained high. On February 22, 1918, five of us went up at dusk in response to a warning that bombers were headed over the Channel.

  It was a remarkable night. There was a bit of cloud cover and unusually warm air. As we climbed higher, the remaining sunlight burst from a bank of cloud clinging to the horizon. The light opened a path across the sea and I sighed at the glorious sight. It filled me with a longing for the wretched war to be over. I wanted to fly right over the Channel to Grimsby and land in the Timpsons’ field. I thought of Robert and hoped beyond hope that he might make it safely through the war. The thought of losing both Billy and my brother was unbearable. Robert had not written for some time and there was no word from Sarah about him. Never before had I hoped so strongly for an end to the war. It was a lonely world when so many died so quickly. The sunlight dissolved into night and we returned to base without finding our quarry.

  The next few days were a washout because of bad weather. When the sun finally came back, Rogers spoke with me at our soccer game. “We need some photos taken,” he said. “It means flying the Big Ack. Are you up for it?”

  I nodded. The Big Ack, or the Armstrong Whitworth F.K.8, was a lumbering multi-purpose plane that I had seen numerous times in the bay. It looked ungainly with its snub nose and long wings, but it could still manage 95 miles per hour and reach over 12,000 feet — more than enough to manage some reconnaissance.

  “I’m always up for trying new planes,” I answered.

  Rogers grinned. “That’s why I asked you.” His grin diminished. “It means flying into Belgium. You’ll have an escort of four fighters.”

  I shook his hand. “You know I’m good for it. When do we go?”

  A couple of days later, five of us made for the Belgian border. The four Camels around me looked so magnificent compared to the Big Ack and I couldn’t help but shrug helplessly at Rogers as we made our way to the south of Ostend. He held his arm out and imitated flexing a muscle. Then he pointed at Big Ack. Yes, we were bigger, and we carried enough bombs to cause considerable damage if needed. The photographer, a fellow by the name of Tyler and a man of few words, made a great show of strapping himself into his seat.

  We made excellent progress without being contested along the coast. The conditions were perfect for reconnaissance but not for travelling into enemy territory. Several miles out of Ostend a sortie came up to challenge us. Our presence must have been spotted and reported with enough time to get planes in the air and at considerable altitude. We still had the edge by at least 400 feet, but they were climbing steadily. Rogers signalled for me to return — there was no possibility of photographs that day. The Camels banked around as well, in order to engage the Hun closer to friendly territory.

  I kept a close eye on the enemy’s progress. Then I yelled at Tyler to man the manoeuvrable Lewis gun. He hastily stored his camera equipment and prepared to take over the gun. Somewhere close to the border of Belgium and France, eight enemy planes caught up with us.

  Rogers performed a loop and the other three Camels followed. It felt strange to watch my companions head into the fray while I made every effort to leave them behind. There was no reasonable option. Once we crossed into French territory and were lower to the ground, the enemy would likely back off rather than risk the anti-aircraft guns from Dunkirk. They outnumbered us, and the Big Ack was no match for a group of Albatroses if they got past our Camels.

  The chatter of machine-gun fire reached us and I took another look back. Tyler was at the ready, his gun trained at a growing black spot in the sky.

  One Albatros at least had made it past our retinue and was closing in. The Big Ack was at maximum speed, about 95 miles per hour, while the Albatros could put out over 100. Tyler swivelled the Lewis gun left and right and I knew instantly that the enemy was beginning his attack. Sure enough, the bullets whined around us and the Lewis chattered its return fire behind my head.

  Time was the most critical element. Too much manoeuvring slowed us down and I needed to get as close to Dunkirk, and the support of anti-aircraft fire, as possible. The Albatros pilot knew it too. I had to rely on Tyler as our best defence. I thought of poor Harry Pritchard, my last gunner, being shot to pieces long before we made it to base.

  I realized that Tyler had missed his calling. In the few minutes since the chase had begun, the man transformed into a completely different animal. I had never seen a gunner so eager. Even over the noise of the engine I could hear him in snatches, screaming as he fired burst after burst.

  “Come ’ere ya filthy blackbird! Take that up your tonsils! Oh, you want some more, do ya? Come to papa!” His wild banter never stopped. His safety belt had long been hurled aside. He flailed around like a madman. I kept my mouth shut, for his antics worked wonders at keeping the wolves at bay. There were two planes at us now.

  Tyler suddenly screeched in triumph, and off to port I saw a plane headed down in flames.

  But the second plane shot several holes in the fabric of our wing.

  Tyler cursed away and opened up with a new burst of fire. A moment later a waft of smoke puffed from the Big Ack’s engine. The engine caught, coughed and belched a larger amount of smoke until we were completely encompassed in it.

  The nose dipped. I fought with the control stick and then the flaps to keep us up. The machine gun had fallen silent so I shot a glance behind. Tyler waved at me, dutifully strapping himself back into his seat. There was a red patch growing on his shoulder, but how serious the wound was I could not tell. His grin reassured me. The Albatros had broken off pursuit and Rogers came up quickly from behind.

  We still held a decent altitude, although the Channel looked alarmingly closer than it had a minute before. I could see our base at Dunkirk between the belches of smoke.

  “Can we make it, sir?” Tyler yelled.

  I held up my thumb. Angels help us! Could we make it?

  The propeller stopped at about 400 feet and I held the Big Ack as steady as I could. The smoke was intermittent, so I used any moments of clarity to plot our landing. Men ran around on the field, preparing for us to touch down. A line of fuel trucks made their way off the track.

  I estimated that we could make the first hundred yards of the base field, though we risked striking the remaining truck if we did so. But there was no option left. A ground crewman ran like the wind towards the truck. He was trying to move it before we reached him. Brave, foolish man!

  The ground was close. I was dropping the nose down slowly when another billow of smoke caught me full in the face. We were too low not to complete the landing, but I couldn’t see a thing. We struck hard and bounced. The wind was knocked out of me and I tried to hold the plane straight. Through the smoke I caught a glimpse of the side of the truck zooming across our nose, with the crewman ducking low to the dashboard as if he feared his head being chopped off.

  My wing dipped suddenly, caught the earth and we spun around. In a split second we flipped. My head struck something and I blacked out.

  Chapter 16

  March 1918

  I woke up in the hospital with a doctor shining a bright light in my eye.

  “Hello, Lieutenant,” he said casually. “Welcome back.”

  Once again I had sustained a concussion, and this one was a little worse than the first. I was groggy, disoriented and frequently nauseated. Headaches plagued me much of the time. I lay in bed for two days, waiting anxiously for the doctor to release me.

  Rogers and Tyler filled me in on the details. The ground crew had pulled both Tyler and me out from our upside-down position.

  “You did marvellously well, Stitch,” Rogers commented. “The flip only happe
ned at the end, when your speed had decreased, so the crash wasn’t as bad as it could have been.”

  “And we got a score, sir!” Tyler said excitedly. “The bloke managed to crash-land his plane, but we got the victory. My first one, sir!”

  I smiled. “You were a complete idiot up there, Tyler. A madman.” I held out my hand. “And I’d take you as my gunner any day of the week. It was an honour to fly with you.”

  He blushed to his roots.

  Rogers coughed. “Off you go, Tyler. If you will, please. I need a moment.”

  Tyler shook my hand again and left. I looked up at Rogers uncertainly. “What, more bad news? Who didn’t make it back?”

  He shook his head. “There were no losses, Stitch. All back safe.”

  “Then what’s wrong?”

  He cleared his throat. “The doctor says you’re through.”

  I stared. “What?”

  “The war’s over for you, my friend. You can marry Nellie, go home and have babies.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  He put his hand on my shoulder. “You sustained two bad concussions, Paul.”

  “I came back after the first one, didn’t I?”

  He nodded. “Yes, but it took a long time for you to steady up from the first, and you’ve never completely healed. You’ve had headaches ever since. Can you imagine what you’ll feel now that you’ve had a second? The doctor fears your symptoms may be semi-permanent. He says you’re not safe to fly an aircraft. I’m sorry, lad. For many reasons, I’m sorry.”

  As his words slowly sunk in I felt conflicting emotions. I would be with Nellie! We could go home! But I could not fly again.

  “I’m writing your papers today,” Rogers continued. “You’ll be on sick leave indefinitely. The doctor here believes it will lead to an honourable discharge. You’re going home, old friend!”

  I remained on the base for three more days while the doctor monitored my progress. Despite the hope of going home, I felt ill and off balance. Rogers wrote to my parents and to Nellie for me, as I could not stare steadily at the page, and vomited on my first attempt at writing. For the first time, I began to fear that I was indeed permanently damaged.