by John Wilson
“I know.” I sit back down. The path to my dream seems impossible when the difficulties are laid out like that.
“Do not look so miserable,” Horst says. “Difficulties are put in our way to be overcome. And some are easily dealt with. For example, did you know that the Royal Flying Corps accepts pilots at the age of seventeen?”
“I’ll be seventeen in a few months.”
Horst nods. “And with some other difficulties, I may be able to assist. I could talk to your father, for instance.”
“That would be great,” I say. “But why will you help me go to war?”
Horst looks at me for so long that I begin to feel uncomfortable. “There are two reasons,” he says eventually. “First, you are young and strong-willed. You will find a way to follow your dream regardless of what your father and I say or do. Standing in your way will only make you angry at us.”
I open my mouth to deny it, but before I say anything, I realize he’s right. I will go somehow, regardless of how difficult it may be.
“Second,” Horst continues, “already some people are saying we will have to bring in conscription.”
“What’s conscription?”
“A law that would force all men of a certain age to become soldiers. It will not happen this year, but the war will not end this year either. It will be better for you to join voluntarily. Then you will have the choice of doing what you want and are good at, rather than being just a soldier like all the others.”
“And you will tell my father all of that?”
Horst nods once more. “I will. Also, I know of a small flying school outside Glasgow, just across the border in Montana. I know the owner, and we have communicated for many years on the subject of flying machines. I am sure he would take you.”
“Which only leaves the money,” I say, overwhelmed by the speed with which things appear to be moving. “Thank you.”
“There is another reason I will help you, Edward,” Horst says, staring into the distance. “Martha and I have not been blessed with children. You are the closest to a son that I have.” My uncle blinks rapidly a number of times and I shift uncomfortably in my chair at Horst’s unusual display of emotion. “I mean it when I say that you have a talent, Edward. I have never seen anyone take to flying the way you have. It is your dream, as it was mine. I cannot stop you going to war, but I can help feed your dream.”
Thunder rumbles in the distance.
“The storm comes,” Horst says gloomily. He turns to look at me. “If you wish, I will send a letter to my friend in Glasgow and talk with your father.”
“Yes, please,” I say softly.
Horst nods as if I am merely confirming what he already knows. “Then go and saddle your horse. I do not think it would be fitting if the world-famous flyer was struck by lightning on his way home.”
I stand and look down at my uncle. There is a tear in the corner of his eye. “Thank you,” I repeat.
“Ya, ya. Thank me when this is all over.” He hauls himself out of his seat. “You wait here,” he orders, disappearing into the house.
A moment later he returns carrying a small, rectangular black box.
“You are determined to go to war?” he asks.
“I am,” I say.
“Well, then. I give you this for luck.”
Carefully, I open the box. Nestled on deep red velvet is an ornate blue-and-gold cross. The top arm of the cross has a crown and the letter F. The other three arms have the words “Pour le Mérite” written on them in gold letters.
“It’s beautiful,” I say.
“Ya. My father won it in the war against France in 1870. It is the Pour le Mérite, Germany’s highest military honor. Very rare.”
“What did he win it for?” I ask, turning the wonderful object over in my hand.
“He captured an entire troop of French dragoons at the Battle of Sedan. In doing so, he was wounded—a bullet through his right lung that left him always short of breath.”
“I can’t accept this,” I say. “It’s too valuable.”
“What is the value of a piece of metal with some blue enamel on it? It is people who are important, and maybe this will bring you luck in whatever adventures you meet with.”
“Thank you,” I repeat.
Horst waves dismissively. “Thank me when the Pour le Mérite brings you back. Now go.”
I close the box, tuck my new treasure into my pocket and walk to the barn. I saddle Abby and, with a final wave to the figure on the porch, head out onto the road. My emotions are in utter turmoil. Joy, excitement, sadness, confusion, fear—all fight for my attention. But there is one thing I am certain of: today is the most important day of my life. Everything I have been doing for my first sixteen years is finished. I don’t know where the road in front of me is going, but I am certain it is a different path from the one I have been on. In a single day, I have realized my dream of flying and decided to go to war.
CHAPTER 5
Back to School—July 1915
“Okay, so how much flying you done?” Ted Barnham is a big, gangly redheaded guy. Oddly, on this hot July morning only two weeks after my conversation with Horst, he is wearing a heavily padded jacket, scarf, boots and a cloth cap set backward on his head. I feel underdressed in my patched sweater, canvas work pants and scuffed shoes.
“I’ve made five solo flights in Bertha,” I reply. Ted and I are walking across a field at his aero school outside Glasgow, Montana, toward a large, sturdy biplane. The plane’s fuselage is enveloped in doped fabric, and the engine is covered by a broad, smooth cowling. Solid wooden struts hold the wings together and support the two wheels. Strong wires run out to control the ailerons on the upper and lower wings, as well as the elevators and rudder on the tailfin. The engine cowling is painted silver, the wings a light tan and the fuselage a bright green. The plane is beautiful.
“Bertha’d be Horst’s latest invention?” Ted asks.
“Yeah, his seventh, I think. She’s a monoplane.”
“Like a Blériot?”
“Yeah.”
“Did you crash her?”
“No,” I say indignantly.
Ted laughs. “Good, ’cause I don’t want you wrecking my Avro 504.”
“I won’t,” I say with more confidence than I feel.
“Good,” Ted says again. “Fortunately, the 504’s as stable as a battleship.” We’ve reached the plane now, and Ted’s pointing out features to me. “She’s powered by a French Gnome rotary engine. The whole engine turns when it’s running—all seven cylinders flying around. Scared the bejeezus out of me first time I saw it, but it gives you a lot of power, enough to do a full loop. Can you fly a figure of eight?”
“I’ve never done one, but I’ve done turns.”
“Ever do a landing with the power off?”
“Once,” I say, swallowing in embarrassment. “But that was because I wasn’t paying attention and ran out of fuel.”
Ted laughs. “I’ll bet Horst doesn’t bother with luxuries like a fuel gauge. Well, that’s all you need to do for a license, so you’re near enough there. Let’s have a look in the cockpit.”
We walk around and peer into the rear cockpit. I’m amazed at the complex of dials and levers.
“Bit fancier than Horst’s?” Ted asks, seeing my jaw drop. “Rear cockpit’s where the pilot sits, front’s for the student. You recognize the rudder bar and the control stick?”
“Yes,” I say, “but that’s all.”
“Horst’s plane have a throttle?”
“Yes,” I reply. “Why do you ask?”
“Well, a rotary engine don’t need a throttle. Engine runs at full power all the time.”
“How do you slow it down?”
“These here.” Ted points to two small levers on the instrument panel. “The right one’s called the blip switch, and it stops the fuel flow to the engine. You don’t want to use that one much—it’ll cause the spark plugs to clog, and she might not start again. Only
use the blip switch when you’re coming in to land. The other one’s the air valve, and it adjusts the fuel-to-air ratio to the engine. The engine keeps spinning, but you reduce or increase the power. Simple.”
I have my doubts, but I don’t say anything.
“Those three dials”—Ted points above the switches—“will help you once you’re aloft. Left one tells you your speed through the air. It’s pretty accurate, as far as I can tell. Right one tells you the speed your engine’s turning at. Not much use, since you’re running a rotary flat out most of the time anyway. Middle one gives you your height above the ground, or it’s supposed to. I never reckoned it worked too well. Better to look over the side and judge for yourself.”
“What’s that?” I ask, pointing to a ball that seems to float in some liquid behind a glass dial.
“That tells you if you’re flying level. Useful if you can’t see the horizon. The line across the middle’s an artificial horizon, so the ball tells you how level you are. And you’ll find these useful.” Ted indicates two vertical glass tubes, almost full with a pale amber liquid. “They’ll tell you if you’re about to run out of fuel. There’s two fuel tanks—a big one in behind the engine and a small gravity one on top of the wing.” He points to a long silver tube above my head. “The level in the glass tube tells you how much is left in each tank, and the levers below allow to you switch off the fuel and move from one tank to the other.”
“It’s amazing,” I say, taking in the dials, the polished wood controls and the leather seat.
“She’s a beauty, right enough. But the front’s not quite so fancy,” he says, moving to the forward cockpit. “Same rudder and stick controls, but none of the impressive array of dials. Only the air valve and blip switch to control the engine. Probably looks more like what you’re used to.”
“It does,” I say, looking in at the sparse cockpit interior.
“One more thing: these rotary engines take a lot of oil and spit it out once it’s been used. That’s why there’s these windshields, but some oil always gets past. Two problems with that. One, the oil’s hot, so you have to wear goggles at all times. Two, it’s castor oil. You know what that does if you swallow it?”
“I do,” I say, remembering too many times spent perched in the outhouse after my mother had given me castor oil for an upset stomach.
“Best to keep your mouth shut if the oil’s coming at you,” Ted advises. “Well, put these on and hop in.” He hands me a pair of worn leather motorbike goggles. “Let’s take her up for a spin.”
He doesn’t need to ask me twice. I begin to clamber into the front cockpit, but Ted stops me with a hand on my shoulder.
“You take the back one,” he says. “Might as well get used to all the fancy stuff.”
“You sure?” I ask, daunted by the prospect of having to watch all the dials.
“Sure,” Ted says cheerily. “I’ve got controls up front to get us out of trouble if you mess up. And I think you’ll find the 504 a bit more forgiving than Horst’s contraptions. What height have you flown at?”
“Five hundred feet, tops,” I reply.
“There’s another thing,” Ted says. “We’ll head up to three thousand or so. A bit cold, but much safer up there. If anything goes wrong, there’s time to fix it. And if you can’t, you’re just as dead from five hundred as you are from three thousand. Don’t forget to strap yourself in!”
Ted fires up the engine and climbs in the front cockpit. With his instructions coming through the improvised speaking tube, I take off, nervous but thankful that I remembered to stuff Horst’s Pour le Mérite into my pocket.
Ted’s right—the Avro flies like a charm. The controls are much heavier than the ones in Bertha, but she feels solid and reliable. We climb steadily until the world looks very far away. I know I’m much safer up here, but it’s scary nonetheless.
Following Ted’s instructions, I twist and turn, climb and dive, and only occasionally feel his pressure on the stick, correcting me slightly. The windshield and my position in the rear cockpit stop most of the castor oil from reaching me, but an occasional spray of hot droplets stings my cheeks. I keep my mouth firmly shut. I’m freezing and my teeth are chattering, and I now envy Ted’s heavy jacket. But despite the discomfort, I’m having a wonderful time. This is freedom.
“You’re doing great,” Ted’s voice comes through the tube. He sounds very far away and has to shout against the noise of the engine and the wind. “Let’s do a loop.”
“What?” I yell back, thinking I must have misheard him.
“Let’s loop-the-loop,” Ted repeats.
“I can’t,” I say, terrified of the idea of being upside down.
“You’ll have to do one sooner or later, and there’s no time like the present. I’ll take over if you get into difficulty. What does your altimeter say?”
“Three thousand five hundred,” I say.
“Good enough. When I give the word, dive. Keep going till the speed builds up to one hundred, then pull back on the stick to climb. Not too fast or you’ll stall us. It’s a bit unnerving losing sight of the ground and the first time, you’ll want to pull out of the loop too soon. Don’t, ’cause you’ll spin. Keep the stick pulled back until you can see the horizon again, then cut the engine way back with the airflow lever. Keep the stick a bit to the left. The rotary engine spins to the right, so it wants to pull you that way. Easy does it and you’ll come round nice as anything. Don’t panic, and remember, I’ve got controls here. I’ll keep you right.”
“All right,” I say, although I feel far from all right. What am I getting myself into doing crazy stunts thousands of feet in the air with an insane American?
I fly along, trying to pluck up my courage.
“Whenever you’re ready,” Ted shouts.
I check that my harness is securely fastened, take a deep breath and push the stick forward. The needle on the airspeed dial jumps off the sedate fifty it’s been sitting on and begins to climb.
Sixty—I push the stick forward more.
Seventy—What if the wings fold? I’ll have a long time knowing I’m going to die before we hit the ground.
Eighty—Why don’t I simply ease up, fly home and forget this madness? Because I’d be letting Ted and Horst down, and if I’m honest, beneath the fear there’s excitement.
Eighty-five—The wind is violent and icy cold.
Ninety—The Avro’s shuddering horribly. She’s about to break apart.
Ninety-five—Ted has the other stick. He’s got hold of it. He’s doing all this, and I’m simply following his movements.
One hundred—I pull back on the stick. The shuddering stops and the earth whips out of my view. There’s nothing but sky around me. I’ve flown off the earth. I pull back on the stick more and climb and climb and climb. We must be over by now, but I still see nothing but sky. Maybe we’ve gone into a spin. Maybe I’ll suddenly see the earth rushing up to meet us. What made me think flying was safe? And I haven’t even got to the war yet! Don’t be silly. Ted’s got the stick. He’s had it all along. He’s in control, and I’m not in any danger.
As if by magic, the horizon appears in front of and above me. Keeping the stick back, I reach forward and reduce the airflow. The engine note drops, making the wind sound much louder. We come all the way round and level out at a sane speed.
“Woo-hooooooo,” I scream into the wind. That was the most incredible thing I have ever done. “That was great,” I shout into the tube. “Thank you, Ted!”
“Hey, don’t thank me, kid. You did it, and real well too.”
“What do you mean? You had the stick.”
“Nope.” Even distorted by the tube and the wind, the laughter in Ted’s voice is unmistakable. “Never touched it. You did that all on your own.”
“Really! I looped all on my own?”
“Sure did.”
“Yippee!” I yell.
“Don’t get too cocky,” Ted says. “You’ve still got to get us down. A
nd we’ll never manage that if you don’t remember to up the airflow again.”
We fly around in a huge circle and come in to land. Following Ted’s instructions, I flip the blip switch and we come into the field over the trees. It’s a hard landing, and we very nearly crash on my third heavy bounce across the ground.
“Well, there’s still work to be done,” Ted says after we have parked the Avro, “especially on landings, but you did well. A couple of hours tomorrow and I don’t see why I can’t give you your license. Congratulations.” He shakes my hand. “You’re a natural. Them Germans better watch out when you get over there.”
I head for the bunkhouse where my bedding is set up. I’m tired, both emotionally and physically. The raw excitement of looping the loop has gone, but I’m deliriously, stupidly happy. In only a few weeks, I’ve achieved a major part of my dream. I’m a pilot.
CHAPTER 6
Friends at Sea—September 1915
“What is that idiot doing?” Cecil asks in his high-class English accent. I’m standing with my new friends, Cecil and Alec, at the rail of the SS Akrotiri as we steam past the south coast of Ireland. These are dangerous waters; the RMS Lusitania was torpedoed and sunk not far from here back in May, so we’re traveling as fast as we can. But the battered old freighter we’re staring at is almost stationary in the water.
“Hun submarine’ll get her for sure,” Alec comments in his strong Newfoundland accent. Cecil and Alec are as different as chalk and cheese, but the three of us have become close friends on the journey from Canada.
After I returned home from Glasgow, proudly clutching my pilot’s license, I faced the daunting task of persuading my parents to let me go to war. Horst had been working on Dad while I was away, so he was not a problem. Mom, on the other hand, was less keen on my adventure. “Next year, when you’re eighteen, is early enough,” she said.
