by John Wilson
The officer turns on him. “Arrogance will get you killed out here quicker than anything else,” he warns. Then, turning back to me, he says, “Describe it.”
“It looked a bit like that, sir.” I point at the monoplane. “The wings came out of the fuselage, but high up. It had a fifty-horsepower inline engine and ailerons.”
“How did it handle?”
“It was very light, sir. Much more sensitive than the Avro.”
The officer stares at me for so long that I begin to feel very uncomfortable. “What’s your name?” he asks eventually.
“Simpson, sir. Edward Simpson.”
The officer nods and steps back. “All right,” he says, addressing us all. “Go over and select a B.E. each, and then go to the quartermaster and draw equipment. Weather’s not the best this morning, but we’ll see what you can do this afternoon. Dismiss.”
I begin to follow the others, wondering vaguely why Cecil’s up flying in bad weather, when the officer calls me back. “Simpson, a word if you please.” He limps over to the monoplane and I follow, convinced I’ve done something wrong already.
“You know what this is?” he asks, indicating the plane. I shake my head. “It’s called a Morane-Saulnier L. Everyone calls it the Parasol, on account of the high wing. French machine. Absolute devil to fly. One wrong move and you spin. Death trap for inexperienced pilots. We’ve two here. Other one’s up at the moment.”
READY FOR FLIGHT.
That must be the plane Cecil’s flying, I think to myself. I peer into the cockpit. It looks normal enough, but the stick is very short and ends in a leather handgrip.
“Most planes’ll fly level if you let go of the stick,” the officer says. “Not the Parasol. You let go of that leather grip, the stick’ll shoot forward and you’ll go into the steepest dive you’ve ever seen. You need to be flying every second you’re up there, and don’t try anything, even a simple turn, at under five hundred feet. It’s a rotary engine in a small plane. You have to fight to get the plane to turn against the rotation of the engine, but if you touch the stick the same direction as the engine rotation, she’ll whip round before you know it. Useful in a dogfight. But overdo the controls and you’ll be buried in a field before you know what happened. In the right hands, she’s nimble.” He steps forward and pats the cowling behind the propeller. “The engine’s a reliable Le Rhône eighty-horsepower, so she’s fast enough. A match for anything the other side has at the moment. In the right hands,” he repeats, lifting his head to hold me with his gaze. “This one’s yours if you want it.”
I’m flattered at the offer, but terrified at what he’s told me about the Parasol’s dangers. I look back over at the comfortable biplanes and the other pilots milling around them.
“They’re safer, no doubt,” the officer says, seeming to read my mind. “But do you know what they call them at the front lines?”
I shake my head.
“You’ve heard of the Fokker Eindecker?”
“The German monoplane with the gun that fires through the propeller?”
“That’s the one. It’s fitted with an interrupter gear that stops you shooting the propeller off. We haven’t come up with an answer to that yet, so anything that can’t outmaneuver the Fokkers is in serious trouble. The old B.E.2c is fondly known as ‘Fokker Fodder.’ ” The officer looks across at the other new pilots, laughing and messing around among the biplanes. A sad expression crosses his face. “Most pilots coming out here have no idea what to expect. They don’t have enough training or good enough machines to compete with the German pilots. A frightening number of them are dead within three weeks.” He looks back at me. “But if a pilot puts the hours in, the Parasol’s a match for the Eindecker.”
I’m shocked by what he’s telling me. In an instant, the safe life I had imagined—flying free thousands of feet above the fighting—has vanished. Three weeks! But then I realize that maybe I’m being offered something more than a plane that sounds like a certain disaster. Maybe I’m being offered a chance to live.
“Does the Parasol have an interrupter gear, sir?” I ask, looking at the machine gun mounted in front of the cockpit. I recognize it as a Lewis gun by the round magazine on top.
The officer laughs. “Of a sort. Look.” He points to a V of metal bolted to near the base of each propeller blade. “Those are deflector plates. With a two-bladed propeller like this, about one in ten bullets will hit a blade. The Vs are designed to deflect those bullets left or right. Puts a strain on the engine, but it works—most of the time. So do you want to try her out this afternoon?”
“Yes, sir,” I say, hoping I sound more confident than I feel.
“Good. Now off you go and get kitted out.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Simpson, just one more thing.”
“Yes, sir?”
“Less of the ‘sir.’ The RFC’s less formal than the army—at least down here at the sharp end, where you’re heading. For the most part, we don’t go for the standing at attention, the saluting and the sir-ring. In private, we’re all pilots.” He holds out his hand. “My name’s Jack.”
I shake his hand and swallow the “yes, sir” before it slips out. “Thank you.”
I’m turning away when I hear the sound of a plane approaching. It’s the Parasol that Cecil’s taken up. I’m excited that we’ll both be the Parasol pilots. They’ll have to send us to the same squadron now.
The officer and I are both scanning the sky. “There he is,” Jack finally says, pointing. I follow his arm and see the tiny shape of the Parasol heading toward us. It’s being thrown around by the wind and must be a bumpy ride for Cecil. “He’s coming in too high and too far to the left,” Jack mutters.
The Parasol’s about a hundred feet above the trees and on a line off to one side of the runway.
“Remember the rotary engine,” Jack says under his breath. “Don’t try to bank right at that height. Go around and come in again.”
The instant Jack stops talking, the Parasol’s right wing dips sickeningly. With horrifying speed, the plane twists in the air, spins over and plummets straight down behind the trees. The noise of wood shattering reaches us over the wind.
All over the field, men have been watching the Parasol come in. Now several of them, including Jack, take off at a run toward the trees. I stay where I am, rooted to the spot by a sick feeling in my gut and the horrifying realization that my friend Cecil is dead.
ONE OF OUR PLANES AFTER A CRASH LANDING.
CHAPTER 9
A Pair of Letters—February 1916
Cecil died instantly, his body crushed in the mangled remains of the Parasol. I spend the rest of the morning walking around the field in the rain, mourning the only friend I had in a thousand miles. I promise myself that I will not get close to anyone else in this war. That way I won’t have to suffer the pain of loss again.
In early afternoon, the wind drops and the clouds break up. Jack insists that despite the tragedy of the morning, I take the remaining Parasol up. I remember nothing of the flight except a determination to make myself the best Parasol pilot in the war, as an honor to Cecil.
Over the succeeding days, I ignore the other young pilots struggling to master their cumbersome B.E.2cs. I get a reputation as a loner, but I don’t care. I work hard with the Parasol and, with Jack’s help and encouragement, learn to love it. Jack’s right—the Parasol’s fast and maneuverable, but you can’t relax for a minute when flying it. Any of the dozens of mistakes I make in training would be fatal close to the ground, but at five thousand feet there is time to correct. I learn that the trick is not to try never to make mistakes, but to know how to correct them quickly when they happen.
“All right, you’ve got most of the basics,” Jack says one morning. “Now you’re ready to spin.”
“If I spin, I’ll crash,” I say. “It was a spin that killed Cecil.”
“Yes, a spin at two hundred feet above the ground. But if you’ve got enough time and space, there are ways to
recover. Do you know what a spin is?”
“It’s when the plane goes out of control and spirals down.”
“But it happens because you stall. If your plane stalls, it will flip over on whichever wing has the most drag, making you spin left or right. Your instinct is to increase power and pull back on the stick to force your way out of the spin. But that’s actually the worst thing you can do. When you go into a spin, make sure your ailerons are neutral, reduce power and give the machine hard rudder in the opposite direction—if you’re spinning to the left, give hard right rudder and vice versa. As soon as you come out of the spin, ease off on the rudder and increase power. Voilà, you have control back. Want to give it a try?”
I nod, not trusting myself to speak. In next to no time, I’m following Jack up to five thousand feet. We’ve received a replacement Parasol for Cecil’s machine and Jack takes that up. It’s agreed that he will spin first and I will watch. As I circle, Jack climbs and reduces power. For an instant, his Parasol stands stationary on its tail. Then it tilts to the left and snaps into a terrifyingly tight spiral down. I follow and see Jack set the ailerons to neutral and move the rudder hard over to the right. The spiral eases and the Parasol is suddenly flying flat. Jack points up to indicate my turn and smiles. I take a deep breath to calm myself and pull the stick back.
I feel the Parasol losing power in the climb. Everything seems to be slowing down. I stop, hanging impossibly in the air, then, with a sickening lurch that leaves my stomach behind, my plane falls. The force of the spin presses me back into my seat, and the sky and the land flip wildly across my vision. I resist the temptation to pull back on the stick and try to think calmly. Following Jack’s instructions, I neutralize the ailerons, reduce the power and kick the rudder hard over. Almost magically, I am flying level and under control. I look around and give him an enthusiastic thumbs-up.
Back on the ground, Jack congratulates me. “Now you don’t need to be afraid of a spin. Most pilots are terrified of spinning. They think it’s a death sentence. But it can actually save your life.”
“How?”
“Imagine you’re in a fight and you’re losing. Say your Lewis gun’s jammed and there’s a Fokker on your tail.” He shrugs. “Throw the Parasol into a spin. Chances are good the Fokker pilot will assume he’s got you and go after someone else. Spin as long as you can, then level out and head for home.”
I take Jack’s lessons to heart and practice spinning until I’m confident going into one and coming out. I also learn to shoot well—all those hours hitting gophers on the farm have given me a good eye. Of course, a gopher sits still while you aim, unlike an enemy plane that’s moving rapidly and unpredictably through three dimensions, but Jack assures me that a good eye is critical for a successful pilot. By the end of my training, I’m winning almost all my mock dogfights against the other pilots at St. Omer. I even manage to beat Jack once or twice.
At St. Omer I receive almost weekly letters from Mom giving me all the news from home, the gossip about our neighbors and the goings-on in Moose Jaw. Sometimes the letters are in parcels containing knitted socks and tins of candy, and a couple of times Mom even persuades Dad to add a few curt lines at the end. I also receive two letters that I didn’t expect. I’m delighted to receive them both, but the first contains bad news.
Hello Edward,
I hope that you are learning to fly well, and that Father’s Pour le Mérite is bringing you luck. I envy you your youth and the chances you have to fly.
Poor Bertha is no more. I flew last month in too much cold and wind, and she landed in a tree instead of a field. But I am building another in the barn. I have many ideas on how I can run the wires to better control the flight. In the spring, Bertha will soar once more.
I am afraid now that I must pass on some sad news. Ted died some weeks ago. He was flying back from Bismarck and became caught in a storm. The wings came off the Avro and he fell in a field only a few miles short of his home. It is a great loss.
If you have time, please write and tell of the planes you have seen.
I wish you all the best,
Uncle Horst
I’m terribly sad to hear of Ted’s death. He was very kind to me and taught me a lot. His accident brings home how dangerous flying is, even if you don’t go to war.
Of course I write back to Horst immediately, telling him of my adventures, describing the machines I’ve flown and wishing him luck with the new Bertha.
The other letter is even more of a surprise and it’s taken quite a while to find me. It’s addressed simply to “Edward Simpson. Pilot. Royal Flying Corps. England.”
Hello Eddie Boy,
I hope this reaches you and all is well.
I never got to Gallipoli. By the time I reached Egypt, the invasion force was being withdrawn, so I had to sit in Cairo and wait for them to return. The training here was boring, and I don’t imagine it will be of much use in France, where we are headed next. I’ve put in a request for a transfer to the Royal Flying Corps, so maybe we’ll meet up somewhere.
Cairo is a strange place. Everything and anything is for sale in the bazaars and the place is full of Australians, so it seems as if there’s a fight every night. I saw the pyramids, though. They sure beat anything I ever saw in Coachman’s Cove!
We board ships for Europe in a day or two, and I don’t know where I’ll be after we arrive. Still, if this reaches you, try writing back c/o the Newfoundland Regiment. It should get to me eventually. I would like to hear your news.
Don’t fall out of the cockpit!
I look forward to catching up and sharing a tale or two.
All the best,
Your friend, Alec
I’m glad Alec didn’t make it to Gallipoli. I’ve heard stories about what a disaster it was over there. I write back giving my news and tell him I also hope we can meet up somewhere.
It’s very strange getting letters from home and from Alec. They seem to be from a different world, and my world is about to change even more. Tomorrow, February 29 of this leap year, I am to travel south to Bapaume, to join No. 8 Squadron and the real war.
CHAPTER 10
The Canadian Kid—February 1916
Every bone in my body aches from hours spent in the back of a lorry bouncing over rough roads, but we have at last arrived. I am the only pilot joining this squadron. I climb down, retrieve my gear, wave goodbye to the driver and look around. I’m not sure what I expected, but this is certainly not it. London was indeed a shock for a farm boy from Saskatchewan, but everywhere I have gone from there seems to take me to an even stranger place. It has been a long journey, but now I’m almost at the war—and oddly, it looks more like home.
About a dozen single-seater Parasols are scattered haphazardly around a farmyard. The stone farmhouse looks abandoned, but there is activity around the large barn, with several figures coming and going. Tents of various sizes are spread around, and a few mechanics are working on a Parasol outside a ramshackle wooden hut. I assume that the closest field is the airstrip, but the only real clue is the worn grass in the center. My impression of having returned to Horst’s back field is reinforced by the sight of a solitary cow placidly grazing nearby. A regimented line of plane trees runs along the country road and marks the end of the airstrip. Wondering what I’m getting into, I hoist my pack to my shoulder and head toward the barn.
I’ve got only about halfway when a terrifying racket breaks out. It sounds like an animal is being tortured, but the noise quickly resolves itself into a tune of sorts. A figure emerges from the barn and strides toward the airstrip, where it marches back and forth in the fading evening light. It’s someone playing the bagpipes.
Feeling confused, I continue on. When I’m almost at the barn, a man detaches himself from a small group to my right and approaches. He’s tall and skinny, and sports a thick mustache. Instead of a regulation uniform, he’s wearing riding breeches and a tweed jacket with a bright green silk scarf knotted round his neck. He holds
out his hand and smiles broadly.
“You must be the new chap.”
I shake his hand. “Edward Simpson, sir.”
“Oh, we don’t much bother with the ‘sir’ thing here,” he says with a dismissive wave. “Only if some of the top brass are coming—and they don’t get out here much. I’m the CO, Captain Neville Fowler, but most of the chaps call me Wally. They think my facial hair makes me look like a walrus.”
A particularly loud bagpipe tune interrupts him. I look over.
“Don’t worry about Jock,” Wally says. “He loves those bagpipes of his. Plays them every evening, whatever the weather. Even takes them up in the cockpit with him. Says they bring him luck on patrol. Some of us think they’re his secret weapon. If his Lewis gun jams, he just plays the pipes and Fritz thinks a host of demons are after him.”
“Who’s Fritz?” I ask.
“That’s just our nickname for the enemy—same as Jock’s our nickname for our mad Scottish piper. But old Jock’s not the craziest we have here. Come on in. Let me show you where your bunk is.”
I’ve only just entered the barn when I’m startled by a loud thunk beside my head. I look round to see a long, evil-looking knife protruding from the wooden wall. On a very tattered sofa in the middle of the barn sits a massive bear of a man. He’s dressed in uniform pants and a leather jacket, and has one leg thrown casually over the sofa’s arm. He’s cleaning his fingernails with the point of another knife.
“Meet Bowie,” Wally says casually. “He’s our American. Best we can do until his government sees the error of its ways and pitches in to help. He’s good with a knife. In fact, some of the fellows think he would do better throwing knives at the enemy from his Parasol. That right, Bowie?”
“Might be,” Bowie answers. Before I have a chance to collect my thoughts and say something, his arm snaps back and the second knife flies past my head and embeds itself in the barn wall beside its companion. “Don’t worry, kid,” Bowie says when I flinch. “I ain’t hit anyone … yet.”
