Wings of War

by John Wilson

I wasn’t making much progress with her until Ted arrived to visit Horst. He roared in with the Avro one sultry afternoon and bounced to a halt in our back field. My uncle was already over, and the two of them set to work on Mom. Horst explained that being a pilot was by far the safest occupation in the war, and Ted explained the rudiments of flying and built me up as the best student he had ever seen. Then he took Mom up for a spin. She returned to earth breathless and almost as much in love with flying as I was, and that evening I was allowed to draft a letter to the War Office in London, offering my services. Plans were made for my transatlantic voyage and for my time in London, where I would lodge with a cousin of Dad’s. I left from Moose Jaw station, amid cheers and tears, only ten days later.

  I met Cecil, a skinny man more than six feet tall and several years older than me, on the station platform as I changed trains in Toronto. He was struggling with a huge steamer trunk and I gave him a hand. “Thanks, awfully, old chap,” he said, sounding as if his cheeks were full of plums. He sat next to me on the long train journey to Halifax. At first, his accent made me think he was just an upper-class English snob, but I was wrong. Cecil was certainly upper class, he came from a very old, well-connected family, but as the third son, he had been sent out to Canada to make his own way in life. He had been everywhere, working with fur trappers way up north, helping surveyors in the Rocky Mountains and seal hunting in Newfoundland. He had not settled at anything, however, and somewhere along the way he’d learned to fly, so the war was a perfect opportunity for him to return to Europe and find some excitement. He’s as determined to be a pilot as I am, and we spent many happy hours on the train talking about our shared love of flying, the unfettered joy we both felt being at three thousand feet and our plans to contribute to the war effort.

  I met Alec on board the Akrotiri. He’s Cecil’s opposite, a rough and ready miner who’s barely five foot four and powerfully built. He’s on his way to join the Newfoundland Regiment in Egypt.

  “That old rust bucket,” Cecil says as we continue to stare at the freighter. “He cannot be doing more than a couple of knots. The poor chap’s a sitting duck if there are any U-boats around.”

  As if in response, a sleek shape breaks the calm surface beside the laboring freighter. “My heavens!” Cecil exclaims. “Look at that chap. On the surface in broad daylight as bold as brass.”

  Soldiers and sailors are shouting all around us, and dozens of men are rushing to the rail to watch the unfolding drama. Our ship’s whistle is sounding harshly. “Why’d he not just torpedo him?” Alec asks. “I thought that’s what submarines did.”

  “Indeed they do,” Cecil says as we watch hatches open on the U-boat’s deck and tiny black figures rush to man the forward gun. “But this way he saves a torpedo. The freighter’s not a threat and we’re unarmed, so he can attack us at his leisure.”

  Suddenly what I am watching becomes less of an interesting show and more of a threat.

  “Will he attack us?” I ask nervously.

  “If he can dispose of that chap quickly enough,” Cecil says. He seems remarkably calm amid all the shouting and running about. “Our best chance is to get far away while he’s busy. I doubt if he’s fast enough to catch us.”

  I look up at our three funnels, each one belching black smoke, and imagine the stokers in the bowels of the ship shoveling coal into the boilers for all they’re worth.

  “What’s he doing now?” Alec’s question draws me back to the drama in front of us. Instead of trying to run, the freighter has turned its side to the submarine. With a loud clang that we can hear quite clearly over the water, a massive panel on the freighter’s side drops down to reveal a gun much larger than the one on the U-boat.

  The U-boat fires first, but its shell explodes harmlessly in a column of water some distance away. The freighter replies, and a much larger fountain erupts very close to the U-boat’s side. A ragged cheer bursts from the sailors watching around us.

  “They’re giving up!” Alec shouts excitedly as men scurry across the submarine’s deck back toward the hatches.

  Just then, a second shell explodes beside the submarine, throwing several men into the water. The rest are below now, and the hatches close. The submarine’s bow dips beneath the waves. “She’s getting away!” someone yells. A third shell catches the U-boat about two-thirds of the way along its length. The rear section, which is still sticking out of the water, buckles awkwardly and the submerged bow rises up again.

  “That one’s broken her back,” Cecil says quietly.

  Silence spreads through the men as we watch the U-boat die. They’re the enemy and they attacked us without warning, but men like us are dying a horrible death over there. The freighter continues firing, and the two sections of the submarine soon slide beneath the waves. Debris bobs in a slowly expanding oil slick. There are men there as well, dark with the heavy oil, waving weakly. Soon the waving stops.

  Soldiers and sailors drift away from the rail, talking in low voices. “She’s a Q-ship,” Cecil says. “A decoy. Chap I know at the War Office told me about them. A Q-ship is an old freighter that looks like a soft target but has powerful guns hidden behind screens. You saw what happens when a U-boat surfaces.”

  We’re each alone with our thoughts as we head around the deck. None of us feels like going below, knowing what might be lurking under the water.

  “Those poor men,” I say, unable to shake the image of the helplessly waving arms in the water.

  “There’s our first taste of war,” Cecil says. “Horrible way to die. Proves we made the right choice chasing our dreams in the sky with the birds, eh, Edward?”

  I nod agreement and silently hope that Cecil and I are sent to the same squadron. Our shared passion for flying makes me regard him as almost family.

  “They brought it on themselves, Eddie Boy,” Alec says. “And personally, I’m glad that Q-ship was there to do the job, or else it might have been us floating around in the ocean.”

  “A good point, my Newfoundland friend,” Cecil says.

  “War’ll be over soon, anyway,” Alec says cheerfully, trying to lighten the mood. “Soon as the Newfoundlanders get into it. Everyone knows Newfoundlanders are the best fighters in the world.”

  THE Q-SHIP LOOKS HARMLESS BUT IT HAS POWERFUL WEAPONS HIDDEN FROM VIEW.

  “Among themselves,” Cecil says with a smile, and Alec nods acknowledgment.

  “There are a few boys from St. John’s on board,” I say to Alec. “Have you met them?”

  “They’re city slickers,” he scoffs. “Real Newfoundlanders live in the outports, like me. Coachman’s Cove, up west of Notre Dame Bay—that’s the place I come from. God’s country, for sure.”

  “Never heard of it,” Cecil says.

  “Well,” Alec says, “that just goes to show how uneducated you are. There’s a mine there, up the inlet at Terra Nova—or at least there used to be. Copper mine, it was. That’s where I worked.” Alec is happy to talk, and Cecil and I are glad to listen. It takes our minds off what we have just seen.

  “My dad worked over on Tilt Cove,” Alec goes on. “That was before a lump of copper ore crushed his leg. Terra Nova opened up just after my tenth birthday, so that’s where I went to work. It was either that or going out on the boats, and I never much liked the smell of fish. Besides, being short’s an advantage for a miner. Trouble was the mine closed down this year, so my choices were the army or the fishing boats.” Alec throws his arms wide. “So here I am, Eddie Boy, on my way to exotic Egypt to show the Turks what’s what at Gallipoli. Maybe after that, I’ll come and help you flyboys in France.”

  We talk and joke, and the memory of the U-boat soon fades. Two days later we dock at Liverpool and, amid promises to keep in touch and vows of undying friendship, go our separate ways.

  CHAPTER 7

  Going to the Right School—September 1915

  I’m standing at the tail end of a long, slow-moving queue in a corridor on the sixth floor of the War Office in Wh
itehall, London—and I’m seriously disappointed. I had assumed I’d be the only one here. My dad’s cousin, the oddly named Morley Somerset, met me at Liverpool Street railway station and took me to his home on the Underground, or “the Tube,” as Londoners call it. A letter from the War Office was waiting for me there, and it instructed me to appear in three days’ time for an interview.

  I spent the three days wandering around in a daze, overawed by the size, noise and bustle of London. In half an hour walking along Oxford Street, I saw more people than live in the whole of Moose Jaw. I was surrounded by horse-drawn carriages, motor vehicles and omnibuses—all clanking, rattling and wheezing their way around the congested streets. The buildings were black with soot and towered over me, giving me the feeling of being trapped in a dark maze. I missed Saskatchewan’s wide-open vistas and couldn’t wait to get in a plane and soar above the clamorous, teeming throng.

  Now I’m stuck at the back of the snail-like queue of other hopeful recruits. It’s well after lunchtime, and my stomach is rumbling with hunger and nerves. Just then, a door a long way down the corridor opens and Cecil appears. I’m thrilled to see him again and step out of line to say hello.

  “Well, Edward,” he says, grasping my hand, a broad grin splitting his face. “Utterly splendid to see you again.”

  “Were you accepted in the Royal Flying Corps?” I ask excitedly.

  Cecil looks slightly confused by my question. “Of course. The recruiter’s a terribly nice chap. He was a master at my school before I moved out to the colonies. I must dash, though—lunch with Father and I’m late already. See you at Brooklands. I shall have a word in the right ear and see if we can be stationed in the same squadron. Cheerio for now.”

  “Goodbye,” I say as Cecil leaves. I have no idea where Brooklands is, but I’m delighted that my friend also wants us to be in the same squadron.

  After an eternity of nervous waiting, I’m ushered into a high-ceilinged office. As I enter, I reach in my pocket and squeeze the box containing the Pour le Mérite for luck. If it works while I’m flying, it might work here.

  A short, balding, bespectacled man in an immaculately pressed uniform is sitting behind a large, shiny desk. “Name?” he asks without looking up.

  “Edward Simpson, sir,” I reply.

  “What school did you go to?”

  The question confuses me, but I answer as best I can. “Mortlach School, sir.”

  The man raises his head and peers at me through thick lenses. Thinking he needs more information, I keep going. “It’s about twenty miles west of Moose Jaw. I used to ride in every day on Abby. She’s my horse.”

  I fall silent under the stony stare. Eventually the man says, “Where in creation is Moose Jaw?”

  “Saskatchewan, sir.”

  Still the stony stare.

  “Canada.” We hadn’t thought it necessary to mention this fact in the letter.

  “Canada?” He repeats it as if he has a bad taste in his mouth. “So you’re a colonial.”

  “My father’s English,” I say defensively.

  “And what exactly does your father do?”

  “He farms a quarter section west of town. Wheat, mostly.”

  “He farms wheat.” Again the bad taste in the mouth. “Look, young man, you have applied to join the Royal Flying Corps, a service of the British military. The types of recruits we are looking for come from good schools and families. Their fathers most decidedly do not farm wheat. Good day.”

  The man returns his gaze to the papers on his desk, but I continue to sit in stunned silence. I’ve been dismissed because I’m Canadian. I feel anger rising.

  “That’s not fair,” I say.

  The man looks up and blinks. “You are not the right sort for the Royal Flying Corps. I suggest you try the army. Their standards are lower.”

  “I don’t want to join the army,” I say, standing up. The man looks vaguely surprised. I don’t suppose he’s used to mere colonials talking back to him. “What does the Royal Flying Corps do?” I ask.

  “We fly—” he begins, but before he can say anything more I cut him off.

  “I can fly.”

  “What can you fly?”

  “I learned on a monoplane built by my uncle.” I decide it’s best not to mention Horst’s German name.

  “Ah, a homemade plane. I don’t think that quite qualifies you for what we are doing.”

  “And an Avro 504. I took my pilot’s license on that.” I flatten the certificate Ted gave me on the desk. I’m certain the man has never heard of the Aero School of Glasgow, Montana, but Ted did a good job of making the certificate look impressive.

  “I never knew there was a flying school in Glasgow,” the man says to my surprise. “It must be new.” He looks up. “Why didn’t you say you learned to fly in Scotland?”

  I realize he has missed the Montana bit of the license and thinks I trained in Glasgow, Scotland. But I’m not about to correct him. “Sorry, sir,” I say, sitting back down.

  “How many hours solo?”

  I count those on Bertha, add the hours on the Avro and round up. “About twenty in total, sir.”

  A flicker of interest crosses the man’s face. “Did you do a figure eight?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And a power-off landing?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Hmm.” The man scratches his neck thoughtfully and looks back down at my license.

  “I can loop-the-loop, sir,” I say, hoping to distract him before he notices that I’ve never set foot in Scotland.

  His head jerks up and his eyebrows raise in interest. “In a 504?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The man closes his eyes and rubs his temples. I’m more nervous now than I was looping the Avro. This is my chance. If I haven’t persuaded him, I’ve nothing left.

  “Very well,” the man sighs and opens his eyes. He scribbles something on a piece of notepaper. “Report to Captain George at Brooklands in three days’ time.” He hands me the paper. “And here’s a chit for the rail fare.”

  “Thank you, sir.” I stand and suppress the urge to salute. “I won’t let you down, I promise.”

  “You’d better not,” the man says. “On your way out, send in the next applicant. Perhaps he went to a decent school.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  I don’t think my feet touch the ground as I walk down the corridor past the long line of hopeful applicants. I smile at everyone. I squeeze the Pour le Mérite in its black box. “Thank you,” I murmur. I have difficulty not shouting out that I’ve been accepted. I’m going to be a pilot in the RFC. I’m going to war!

  CHAPTER 8

  The First Tragedy—January 1916

  After a short spell at Brooklands, a motor-racing track near Manchester that has been taken over by the War Office and pressed into service as an aerodrome, I find myself at Gosport on England’s south coast. Since arriving here, I’ve struggled to get used to the foul weather of England’s southern coast, which keeps us sitting in damp tents for days at a time. Worse yet, our flying time is severely limited by the shortage of planes. But we have at least been lucky. It’s said that more pilots die during training than are killed by the enemy over in France. We have had only four accidents and no deaths among our group.

  The only joy outside of my scant time in the air is exploring the local countryside with Cecil. He knows a vast amount about the nature and history of England, and as we poke about in ancient churches, I learn much about the country my dad grew up in. I think that without Cecil by my side, I wouldn’t be able to bear the loneliness and strangeness of my new life in this unfamiliar land.

  Finally, I’m issued my smart new uniform and awarded the coveted wings of a fully trained RFC pilot to sew onto it. I spend Christmas in London with Morley, and in January we are shipped over the Channel to St. Omer in France for our final training. Cecil has been there for a couple of days before I arrive with five other new pilots one rainy, windswept morning. I’
m looking forward to seeing him once more and finding out if he’s managed to get us assigned to the same squadron. The first thing I do is ask for my friend, but I’m told he’s up on a solo flight.

  We six new arrivals line up outside a large hangar beside a collection of biplanes. In the distance, there is an odd-looking monoplane, its wing raised high above the fuselage so the pilot sits under it. What intrigues me is what appears to be a machine gun sitting on top of the engine. My attention is drawn away, however, as the base’s commanding officer begins to address us.

  “Welcome to France, gentlemen,” he begins. He’s a short man with a friendly face. He’s not as neatly dressed as the officers I have become used to, and he walks with a limp. “St. Omer will be your home until you are transferred to an operational unit. You will each be assigned a B.E.2c.” He waves his arm at the biplanes parked outside the hangar. “I suggest you take your plane up for practice at every available opportunity.”

  We are standing in a line and I am at the extreme right. The officer begins at the left.

  “How many hours solo?” he asks.

  “Fourteen, sir,” the first pilot answers.

  The officer shakes his head. “It’s criminal sending pilots out with so little experience. Still, at least you survived the training.”

  He continues down the line. No one else has more than twenty hours of flying time. Finally, he stands in front of me.

  “How many hours?”

  “About thirty-six, sir,” I answer.

  He cocks his head and regards me with interest. “Where did you get all those?”

  “I learned on my uncle’s plane in Saskatchewan and then got my license on an Avro 504 at the Aero School in Montana. The last twelve were at Brooklands.”

  “So you’ve flown a 504. You’ll have no trouble with the B.E., then. What was your uncle’s machine?”

  “He made it himself, sir,” I answer.

  One of the other pilots—an arrogant kid fresh out of one of the “right” schools in England—snickers.