by John Wilson
“How’re things at home?” Alec asks, changing the subject.
“Fine,” I say. “Mom writes most weeks. It’s good to hear that everyone’s all right, but it’s hard to care about the mundane things she talks about.”
“Yeah,” Alec concurs. “I almost dread those letters from home. No one there understands what our world’s like.”
“I know what you mean,” I say. “My uncle Horst sent me a letter all about building his new flying machine in his barn. Once upon a time, Horst’s planes were the most important things in my life. Now they’re machines I use to try to kill people.”
“It’s a funny old war right enough.” Alec stands up and stretches. “Well, I’d better be off if I don’t want to be left behind. I’d invite you to visit, Eddie, but there’s not much room in the tunnels. I’ll try to drop by again next time I’m out of the line.”
“It was good to see you,” I say, accompanying Alec outside. “Look after yourself.”
“You too.”
We shake hands and I watch Alec head out to the road. Odd how we have ended up, me high in the sky and him deep underground—the top and bottom of the war. I head back into the chateau. Tomorrow we go on our first reconnaissance flight to familiarize ourselves with the new sector of the front, and I have maps to examine before that. I suspect this new airfield is going to be much busier than I’m used to.
CHAPTER 14
Shot Down—June 1916
I am right about things being busy on this sector of the front. It seems that every day there’s a dogfight. The troubling thing is that as the days pass, the German presence increases. Day by day there are more patrols looking for us and more planes in each patrol. For a while we’re lucky—a few wounded pilots and several planes limping home with damage, but no one’s lost and we’re commended on our work protecting the observers. Then we’re given a special mission.
“I’ve got something different for you this morning,” says Wally, having gathered us round the big table under the chandelier in the chateau’s parlor. The table is covered with maps, and Wally is explaining the morning’s patrols. He has already assigned tasks to most of the pilots, but Bowie and I are wondering what he has in store for us.
“As you know,” Wally says, “Fritz has fortified the villages behind his front line. We know about Beaumont-Hamel—we’ve photographed every square inch of it a hundred times.”
There’s a grumble of agreement from the pilots, and my stomach knots. I’ve been over Beaumont-Hamel. It’s low-level work and dangerous. There’s not only the regular Archie, but the Germans also have modified machine guns that are a problem when flying close to the ground. No one wants to go back there.
“And we’ve done the same to the Hawthorn Redoubt in front of it,” Wally continues. “What we don’t yet know is what the infantry’s going to be facing after the Hun front lines are broken. Have they fortified the villages behind the front? And if so, how well? You three”—he gestures to me, Bowie and a new pilot called Gordon—“have the job of escorting a two-seater to photograph the village behind Beaumont-Hamel.” Wally runs his finger over the map. “Beaucourt-sur-l’Ancre. Should be a piece of cake. Just follow the railway running beside the river and there you are. You don’t even have to fly over Beaumont-Hamel.”
I feel a sense of relief, but it doesn’t last long. “Thing is, HQ wants the pictures taken from a thousand feet.”
“A thousand feet!” both Bowie and I exclaim at the same time. “They could hit us with rocks at that height.”
Wally shrugs. There’s nothing he can do. Orders are orders. “With luck, coming along the river, Fritz won’t be expecting you, so you’ll get in and out before he can react.”
“That’s a lot of luck,” Bowie cries. “Still, you can’t live forever, eh, Kid? Come on Gordo,” he says, giving the new pilot an instant nickname. “Let’s go and make sure everything’s working on the old Parasols.”
I touch the Pour le Mérite in my pocket. I have a feeling I’ll need it.
Bowie and I help Gordo run over the checklist before takeoff and stress the factors he needs to remember in flying the touchy Parasol. He’s a nice kid and the best of the new additions, with almost twenty hours’ experience, some of it on Parasols, but I’m short with him. I don’t want him to be my friend because his chances of being alive in a few weeks are not good.
“Why did Wally give us him?” I ask Bowie as we head toward our machines, annoyed that we don’t have a more experienced companion.
“Who else’s he going to send?” Bowie replies. “There aren’t enough pilots with enough training, and there aren’t enough good machines. Maybe if Fritz goes for him, it’ll give us a better chance.”
What Bowie says is cynical, but if I’m honest, that thought has occurred to me too. I shake my head. “Is this what we’ve come to—hoping that the inexperienced boy we’re being sent up with will be killed because it’ll give us a better chance to live?”
“Hey,” Bowie says, grabbing my arm, “don’t start thinking about him. He’ll take his chances like the rest of us did when we first arrived. You start babysitting him and you’ll be distracted. That means you’ll be the one to go down. Keep focused on the work.”
I nod, pull on my helmet and goggles, clamber into the cockpit and wrap Horst’s medal around a spar. I stare at it for a long moment. Max Immelmann was awarded one of these back in January when he shot down his eighth Allied aircraft. How can something that is given as an honor to my enemies be my lucky charm? I shake my head to dispel these negative thoughts. My medal was a gift from Horst, and that’s what makes it lucky. I have to believe that.
We take off without incident, rendezvous with the B.E.2c we are to protect and cross the front lines. They’re on us almost instantly—four Fokkers, two coming in from each side. We’re flying in a V above the 2c, but they ignore us and dive straight for the two-seater. Bowie veers off at the two attackers on the right, signaling for Gordo and me to go for the other two. I wave for Gordo to follow me and push the stick forward.
Almost immediately, I’m in the middle of the swirling, chaotic mess of a dogfight. I get off a few shots at one Fokker, but the pilot’s good and flashes out of my line of sight. I turn toward the other and fire, but this time I’m too far away. I scan the sky quickly and climb to gain height for another attack.
Bowie’s off to the south, curving and turning in a deadly dance with the other two Fokkers. At least we’re keeping the enemy planes away from our 2c. I look in the other direction and see Gordo flying in a straight line, absolute insanity in a dogfight. Sure enough, one of the Fokkers is diving onto his tail. I bank and dive after him. The Fokker pilot’s holding his fire until he’s close enough to be sure of the kill. Maybe I have enough time.
I’m near enough to see Gordo turn his head just as the Fokker opens fire. The Parasol jerks as if kicked by an invisible foot. Red flames leap out of the fuselage, engulfing the cockpit. The wing folds, and the fiery ball of man and machine plummets to the ground. In a hopeless rage, I let off a long burst at the Fokker, to no obvious effect. I’m so angry that I forget to scan and don’t see the second Fokker until I feel a sharp pain in my right thigh and see bullets tear into my engine. Hot oil sprays back over me as I throw my fragile plane left and right, trying to shake off my attacker.
I’m too low to go into a deliberate spin, so my only hope is to dive. As my engine dies, I throw the stick forward; the nose drops sickeningly and the ground rushes up at me. I guess my sudden maneuver at least fools the German pilot—or he assumes I’m dead. Either way, he flashes past above me and dives away toward the 2c.
I don’t care what he does. My priority is to avoid burying myself and the Parasol in the ground. I haul back on the stick with all my strength, praying that the wings don’t rip off with the force. With terrifying slowness, the nose rises and my speed drops. I’m barely two hundred feet above the ground when I level out, but I’m losing height all the time. It’s eerily quiet
without the roar of the engine. I hope I’m headed in the right direction and have enough height and speed to clear the lines and get down on our side. It doesn’t look good.
I lose more precious speed avoiding a small copse of trees, then I’m above the trenches. Startled faces look up only a few feet below me. They’re German, but everyone is too surprised to open fire. Someone even waves at me. Then I’m over the wire. The ground looks green and peaceful, like one of Horst’s fields. The only clues that I am not at home are the lack of animals and the occasional brown crater made by a heavy shell.
I can see the British wire ahead of me, but I don’t have enough height to get over it. I concentrate on putting the Parasol down before she stalls and I drop like a stone. I narrowly miss a solitary, branchless tree before I bump hard and the undercarriage gives way. The Parasol slews wildly to one side and slides into the dense wire.
For what seems an age—as I sit shaking with the relief at still being alive—there is silence. Then a machine gun chatters, slow and heavy like my mom’s treadle sewing machine.
“Are you still alive?” a voice shouts from the trench in front of me.
“Yes,” I shout back.
“Well, you won’t be for long if you don’t get out of there and over here.” As if to emphasize the point, a line of holes appear in the Parasol’s wing. I rip my harness off and haul myself out. But when I try to run, my right leg gives way beneath me and I collapse onto the grass, strands of barbed wire snagging at my jacket.
“Keep your head down and crawl left,” the hidden voice advises.
By now there’s rifle and machine-gun fire from both sides, and I can hear bullets whining over me.
The Pour le Mérite! I forgot it. It’s still tied in the cockpit. I turn my head, but the bullets snapping through the Parasol convince me that it would be suicide to try to get back to the plane, even if I could make it with my injured leg. My lucky charm will have to wait until later.
Lying on my left side to minimize the pain, I slither along until I come to a break in the wire. I crawl through and fall, with great relief and a shout of pain, onto the fire step inside the trench.
My leg is in agony. I look down to see a long tear in my trouser on the outside of my thigh and a spreading bloodstain. I feel weak and nauseous. But at least the machine-gun fire is dying down.
“You’re lucky, flyboy.” I look up to see an officer standing before me. He’s wearing the distinctive blue puttees of the Newfoundland Regiment, and there’s a lance corporal standing behind him. “Second Lieutenant Jim Raleigh,” he says, holding out his hand. “Welcome to our little corner of paradise. Thought you were headed for the Danger Tree out there. You didn’t miss it by much. I’ll get my servant, Lance Corporal Broughton, to take a look at that leg.”
We shake hands and I introduce myself. Then Broughton steps forward, cuts open my trouser leg and begins washing the wound. I clench my teeth.
“Looks like you’re in for a rest, sir,” he says cheerfully. “Maybe even some home leave. Doesn’t look too bad, though. Deep, but I can’t see any bone. Keep it clean and let those lovely nurses fuss over you, and you’ll be right as rain in a couple of weeks.”
“Thank you,” I say as he begins wrapping a bandage tightly around my thigh.
“I’ve seen lots worse,” Broughton declares. “I used to be an orderly in the hospital in St. John’s. The wounds I’ve seen on those fisherman and sealers coming back to port, you wouldn’t believe.”
I’m feeling a bit better, and as Broughton chatters on, I look around. Everything I see makes me glad to be a pilot. The trench is deep enough to stand in and the wall I’m leaning against is sandbagged, but the rest is muddy. Pieces of equipment are scattered all over, and men are sprawled either on the fire step or in shallow holes dug out of the trench wall. There’s a strong smell of earth and nearby toilets, but there’s also something else, a strange sweetness that underlies the heavier odors.
“Not the clean air you’re used to, I bet,” says Raleigh, appearing to read my mind. “We took this stretch over from the French. There’s not been much fighting here recently, but occasionally an exploding shell turns up a body from the early days. Not pleasant, but what can you do? Can you walk?”
SOLDIERS IN THE TRENCHES SURROUNDED BY SANDBAGS.
“I don’t know,” I say.
“You sit there for a minute, sir,” says Broughton, tying off the ends of the bandage. “I’ve got just the thing for you. There’s a pile of broken duckboards down the communication trench. There’s a bit there that’d be just right. Not the perfect crutch, but it’ll do for now.” He stands and hurries off.
“When you’re set, come along to the dugout and we can work out how to get you back to your unit.” Raleigh retreats along the trench and ducks into an opening on the right.
The lance corporal returns with a length of wood from one of the duckboards that line the bottom of the trench. There are several crosspieces attached. He breaks off all but one that’s about the right height for me to grip if I place the wood under my armpit. With his help and encouragement, I stand up and try my weight on the crutch. It works well.
“Thank you,” I say. My leg hurts, but the bandage helps a lot and I can hobble about. I make my way down to Raleigh’s dugout and duck past the gas curtain. The room I enter is larger than I expected, although the usable space is cut down by the wood pillars that support the ceiling beams. The floor is covered with duckboards, but the walls are damp mud. To my left is a crude wooden bunk with an earthenware rum jar propped at one end. Ahead is a desk cluttered with maps and the stubs of candles. A small shelf above holds an oil lamp, a tin mug, several bottles and a copy of Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland. To my right is an alcove with a radio on a small table. Equipment, items of uniforms and assorted weapons hang from nails driven into the support pillars. It’s a far cry from the parlor in the chateau, with its fireplace and chandelier.
“Come in, come in. Have a seat.” Raleigh waves vaguely toward the desk. He’s leaning over the radio, talking into the mouthpiece. I prop my makeshift crutch against the wall and sit gingerly on a chair. When Raleigh finishes, he takes a second chair. “Well, there’s a lorry coming to pick you up at the dressing station, but you’ll need to walk that far, I’m afraid.”
“I’ll manage,” I say.
“They can check your wound at the dressing station and tell you where you need to go from there. Meanwhile, I’ll have Broughton make us some tea.”
As if on cue, Broughton ducks into the dugout carrying a tray with a teapot and two mugs on it.
“The man’s a wonder,” Raleigh says. “Always one step ahead of me.”
“Cup of tea never goes amiss, sir,” Broughton says, putting down the tray. “Sorry I couldn’t rustle up any milk.”
“That’s fine, Broughton. Thank you.”
While the tea’s being poured, I ask, “You’re the Newfoundland Regiment?”
“Indeed,” Raleigh confirms. “You’re familiar with that part of the world?”
“I’m Canadian,” I reply. “From Saskatchewan, but I know someone who was in the regiment—Alec Hamilton.”
“Ah, yes. He joined us after Egypt. Wanted to become pilot, I recall, but they sent him underground. He’s nearby, I’m told, working on the mine up the line.”
“I know. He visited when my squadron first arrived here.”
“Let’s hope what he’s doing helps.”
“The big attack’s coming soon?”
“Twenty-ninth of the month, I hear, but it’s supposed to be a secret. Word is, the artillery barrage beforehand will be the biggest of the war. With that and the mines, it’s supposed to be a breeze. All the infantry will have to do is walk over what’s left of the Hun trenches. I hope so. Fritz does seem to be well dug in over there.”
“Think it’ll end the war?”
“If it does, the Newfoundlanders will be a big part of it. We’re not in the first wave, but after the German lin
es are taken, we push through. I must say, it’ll be good to get out into open country. As you can see, life in these trenches is a little confining.”
“I was protecting some photo reconnaissance of Fritz’s rear area, Beaucourt-sur-l’Ancre, when I was hit.”
“That’s good. We’ll need those maps when we get going. Speaking of which, you should probably head off if you’re going to meet that lorry. Broughton can show you the way. And I’ll send some boys through the wire tonight to salvage what we can from your plane. I imagine Fritz’s had a good few shots at it, but we should get the Lewis gun.”
“If I can ask a favor,” I say. “I have a medal, a blue cross, that I take up with me in the cockpit for luck. In my rush to get out, I forgot it. Could you ask whoever goes out to fetch it and send it on to the squadron?”
“Certainly. We need all the luck we can get out here.”
We both stand, shake hands and wish each other good fortune in the coming battle.
Broughton helps me along the cluttered communication trench and out into the wider reserve trench.
“We call this one St. John’s Road because it’s the way home,” he tells me.
Fortunately it’s not far to the dressing station and the lorry’s already there waiting for me. I say my goodbyes and thanks to Broughton. A doctor takes a cursory look at my wound, compliments the job done on it and tells me there’s nothing more he can do. He gives me a chit for the reserve hospital outside Amiens and tells me that there are no ambulances, so the lorry’s probably my best way to get there.
I persuade the lorry driver to stop off at the squadron, where I learn that while Bowie returned safely, the B.E.2c was shot down after Gordo. Everyone wishes me well and I set off for Amiens, in agony at every bump in the road, but worried most of all that I’ve lost Horst’s Pour le Mérite.
