by John Wilson
CHAPTER 15
Preparing—June 1916
My last hope for retrieving Horst’s Pour le Mérite is crushed when I arrive back at the chateau after my short spell in hospital at Amiens. I’m excited when Wally tells me something was delivered from the Newfoundlanders while I was away, but it’s only a scrawled note from Lieutenant Raleigh.
I hope your wound has healed, but I’m afraid I have some bad news. After you left with Broughton, Fritz targeted your plane relentlessly with machine-gun fire and trench mortars. Just before evening stand-to, they hit it square on and started a fire. All we could do was watch as it burned. I sent a patrol out that night, but they could salvage little. They brought back the Lewis gun, although it was in bad shape. Perhaps we can rescue some parts. As you requested, I had the patrol search for your medal. Unfortunately, there was no sign of it. The fire was hottest around the cockpit, and there was little left that was recognizable. Even if your medal survived and was missed in the dark, it must have been badly damaged by the fire. I am truly sorry we could not find it. I know how important these things are.
We are out of the line at present, but we’ll return in a few days for the big attack. I wish you well and all luck in the upcoming affair.
Again, my apologies.
Jim Raleigh
I feel like I have failed Horst. He entrusted me with this important family heirloom and I allowed it to be destroyed. Why didn’t I take the medal out of the cockpit with me? I know the answer to that—if I had stayed to untangle the Pour le Mérite, I would probably be dead now. But I’m filled with conflicting emotions. On the one hand, the medal didn’t seem to bring me luck on my last flight. I was, after all, wounded and shot down. On the other hand, I survived and managed to get home. Maybe I stopped believing in my lucky charm when I heard that Max Immelmann had been awarded one. But still, I can’t help wondering where my luck will come from now.
“Did you hear?” I turn to see Wally standing in the doorway. “Immelmann’s gone. He was shot down and killed near Lenz a few days back.” I guess I look more miserable than I should, because Wally goes on to say, “You don’t look too happy to hear the news.”
“I’m glad we won’t have to worry about Immelmann anymore,” I say, trying to force a smile, “but I’ve lost my lucky charm. It’s silly, but I feel miserable without it.”
“It’s not silly,” Wally says. “This war isn’t rational and we have no control over our fate. Archie explodes below you, an engine fails at three thousand feet, a wing folds in a dive, a Fokker comes at you out of the sun—there’s a hundred things that can kill you and sometimes luck’s all that keeps us alive.”
“And I’ve lost mine.”
“No, you haven’t. Luck’s up here.” Wally taps his temple. “The charms are just what we link the luck to. When Jock’s luck ran out, having his bagpipes in the cockpit didn’t help him.”
“I suppose you’re right. I’ve never seen you with a good luck charm.”
Wally looks a bit sheepish. “I have one, but it’s much sillier than yours.” He lowers his voice to a whisper. “I sing.”
“Sing? What do you sing?”
“Do you know that music hall artist who died last year, Billy Williams?”
“The Man in the Velvet Suit?”
“That’s him. My mom and dad took me to see him once at the Oxford Music Hall. It was a bit lower class for our family, and I think Mom was quite uncomfortable, even in one of the balcony boxes, but I adored every minute of it. Williams was my favorite and I learned every one of his songs: ‘When Father Papered the Parlour,’ ‘I Wish It Was Sunday Night,’ ‘There’s Life in the Old Dog Yet.’ If I sing one of them as I take off, I know I’ll be fine. And you thought taking a medal with you was eccentric!”
We both laugh. The image of Wally singing music hall songs makes me feel better.
“So your wound wasn’t bad enough for a spell in England?” Wally asked.
“It might have been. My thigh became infected and I ran a high fever for a few days. It still hurts, actually, but I asked to come back here and they were only too happy to oblige with the big attack coming.”
“I’m touched that you missed us,” Wally says with a smile. “You’ll see a few new faces, but all the old hands are still here. Bowie got two in one day, so he’s our second ace. Mind, they wouldn’t give him leave because of the attack.”
“Second ace?”
“Yes. Mick’s back.” I must look surprised, because Wally adds, “I didn’t court-martial him or report him. We need all the good flyers we can get, and he is the best we’ve got at killing Fritz. He’s bagged another two since he returned. I can’t control him, and maybe I shouldn’t try. He flies alone and all I do is tell him which direction to go.”
“Is he all right?” I ask, remembering his anger and his obsession with getting his fifth kill.
“To be honest, he worries me a bit. You know Mick—he’s always been a bit of a loner, likes to keep himself to himself. I don’t mind that so much—we all do what we must to handle this business—but the last Fritz he shot down has changed him.”
“How so?”
“It was a Fokker. The pilot didn’t see Mick until he was right on him. First burst hit the gas tank, and the Fokker flamed. Mick followed him down to make sure. Now, he’s never said what happened, but I think he watched the pilot burn to death on the way down. In any case, Mick’s carried a revolver with him in the cockpit ever since. I don’t think he plans to burn.”
We stand in silence for a minute, thinking. It’s always dreadful, watching someone go down. It takes a long time to fall from five thousand feet and pilots are often aware of what awaits them, but fire is a particular horror.
I try to change the subject. “You haven’t got your fifth yet?”
“I don’t get to fly too much these days. Always off at some conference learning what we’re supposed to do in the coming attack. Speaking of which, it’s been postponed.”
“I heard it was scheduled for tomorrow, June 29.”
“That was the plan. Five days of intense bombardment, then the attack. But the weather’s not cooperating, so it’s July 1 now. Gives us more time to see if the artillery’s done its job—destroyed Fritz’s guns, collapsed his trenches and cut the wire. That’s what you’ll be doing tomorrow: escorting reconnaissance planes photographing the damage we’ve managed to do to Fritz’s guns. I think we’ve got most of them. There’s certainly not much return fire coming over these days.”
“Sounds like the same old routine,” I say.
“Not quite. We put four Parasols up now to cover a two-seater. It gives us and the observer more protection. Fritz’s not pushing us too hard at the moment, but that’ll change as soon as the attack goes in. The main danger at the moment’s being hit by our own shells. It’s the strangest thing. You’re up there, thousands of feet in the air, and you can see these big howitzer shells turning as they reach the top of their arc and begin to go down. You can follow them for a long way. Of course they’d make a mess of a machine if they hit you. Even the turbulence if you’re too close can tear off a wing.
“But our role will change as well as soon as the attack starts. When the infantry goes over the top, we go down to support them. A whole system of signals has been worked out, and it’ll be our job to recognize those signals and let HQ know how far units have advanced so we don’t shell our own men. We’ll also do ground attack at targets of opportunity. Say you see Fritz massing for a counterattack. A few well-placed bursts from the Lewis gun might just discourage him. We’ve also received some small bombs that we can take up and drop by hand. We all have to play our part to make this thing a success and end the war.”
I’m pondering what Wally’s said when I’m interrupted by a loud thunk. It startles me, but I know just where the knife sticking into the wall comes from.
“Hi, Bowie,” I say, turning. “I see you still can’t hit anything with those things.”
“I can
hit something if I want to. How you doing, Kid?”
“I’m doing well. I hear you’re an exalted ace now.”
“Yeah, but I still got to hang out with the likes of you. If I’d known that, I wouldn’t have tried so hard to be a hero.”
“Or spent so much energy telling everyone what a hero you are,” Wally says.
“You’re just jealous,” Bowie responds. “Come on, Kid. I’ll introduce you to the new faces.”
The parlor is filled with pilots waiting for dinner to be called. I recognize a few of the faces, but many are new to me. They all look very young, which is odd, because many of them are older than me. I suppose it’s because they haven’t yet acquired the tired look around the eyes that marks those of us who have been here longest.
There’s a forced cheerfulness to the room as everyone works at getting rid of the tension from the day and tries not to think about tomorrow. Only Mick, alone in a corner cleaning his service revolver, is silent. I go over and say hello. Mick looks up and nods, but goes on with his obsessive cleaning. I turn away, trying not to think what it must be like falling from the sky in a burning plane. Perhaps Mick’s revolver makes more sense than bagpipes or an old medal.
The reconnaissance patrols on June 29 and 30 are not much use, and we lose one of the new pilots. One of his wings folds while he’s over the front lines. Whether it was thanks to one of our shells or simply a structural failure, I don’t suppose we’ll ever know. He never stood a chance.
There’s low cloud most of the two days. Even when we go up, we can see very little through the fog that blankets much of the ground. We do the best we can, but I don’t know how useful our work is. Everyone is tense with anticipation. It’s not helped by a lack of sleep. Every night is a racket of lorries and marching feet. Add to that the sound of the guns. We can hear the barrage above the noise of our engines, and they say it can be heard as a low rumbling as far away as London. I almost pity the German soldiers beneath it. Surely there can’t be much left of their defenses after this.
On the afternoon of June 30, the clouds and fog finally clear and we get busy with final tasks. As we return to base, the lowering sun paints the landscape a gentle orange. It almost looks beautiful, the green countryside dotted with small farms and cut by straight roads and the zigzag lines of the trenches. Even the explosions—the white puffs of shrapnel bursts and darker columns rising from the earth where high explosives detonate—look magnificent from thousands of feet above.
I wonder what Alec is doing. His mining work must be finished by now, so has he been moved elsewhere or does he get to stay and watch the result of his labors? And what about Lieutenant Raleigh and Broughton? Are they ready for tomorrow? I decide to fly over the piece of no-man’s-land where I crashed. I tell myself it’s because that’s where I’ll be tomorrow, spotting signs of our advance, but really I’m just curious. I signal to Bowie and dive away.
It’s easy to find the spot. Beaumont-Hamel stands out, and there is a distinctive Y-shaped ravine as part of the German front lines. I can even see the lone tree I almost hit, the Danger Tree, but there’s no sign of the remains of my plane.
I’m surprised by how unscarred the land looks. After a week’s intense bombardment, I had expected to see total devastation, but there is still grass on the ground and leaves on many of the trees. Of course, there are also many round shell holes, and new ones being created as I watch, but between the brown craters, the ground looks almost peaceful. What I find more disturbing is the state of the German trenches. They are collapsed in many places from direct hits, but long stretches look in frighteningly good shape. What scares me most is that the German wire still seems to be intact. I tell myself that the last part of the barrage tomorrow morning is probably designed to destroy the wire so the Germans won’t have time to rebuild it before the advance. Since there has been virtually no return fire from the German artillery, I’m certain the first waves will have a fairly easy time of it.
Our trenches, both front line and reserve, are busy with troops, many eating around small fires. Several wave as I zoom low overhead. “Good luck tomorrow!” I shout, although there’s no way they can hear me.
CHAPTER 16
The Attack—July 1, 1916
I don’t think I would have slept much last night even if there had been no artillery barrage or traffic on the road. The tension is too much. Are we about to take part in the beginning of the end of the war? I think everyone feels the same, as we are all up before dawn, drinking coffee and checking over our equipment. By 5 a.m. the sun is crawling above the horizon and we are out inspecting our planes, making sure the guns are loaded and deciding how many of the twenty-pound bombs we can carry. It’s unnecessary, of course—the fitters and riggers are as tense as we are, and they’ve made sure everything is ready.
“This morning we will not be escorting reconnaissance craft,” Wally intones. He has gathered us round the table beneath the chandelier in the parlor. We went over everything last night—examining maps, familiarizing ourselves with our piece of the front line and learning the signals we can expect to see from the advancing troops—but it won’t hurt to go over it once more. “We are to carry out contact patrols and attack targets of opportunity. On the ground, that’s any concentration of enemy troops, supply convoys or trains, either moving or stationary; in the air, that’s any enemy craft, regardless of number. The philosophy is ‘Attack everything.’ We must do our utmost to support the troops on the ground and make this attack a success.
“Our responsibility will be the 29th Division front line, from the Ancre river to Beaumont-Hamel. Most of you should know it like the back of your hand by now. The attack will begin all along the front at 7:30 a.m., and in our sector it will be signaled by the explosion of the mine beneath the Hawthorn Redoubt.” Wally looks at me. “Let’s hope your friend from Newfoundland did a good job. The mine’s huge. It’ll blow a big hole in the German lines, but it’ll also throw a lot of stuff up in the air, and the shock wave will spread a long way. You’ll need to be careful. The shock wave could rip your machine apart.”
Wally waits for nods all around before he continues. “We take off at 7 a.m. Go above five thousand feet and get your bearings. When you see the mine go up, that signals the attack. Drop to between five hundred and a thousand feet so you can see what’s going on. After that, use your discretion. Your primary role is to watch for the signals from the troops on the ground. The first waves have been given red flares, but I’ve heard that they don’t want to use them because they will give away their position to Fritz, so watch for anything that might be a signal. Most units will have ground sheets to lay out, but watch for equipment arranged to form the division or battalion number. If you’re not sure, go low enough to recognize the uniforms.
“When you see something—and you’re sure of it—mark what you see on your map, put the map in the weighted bag, fly back to infantry headquarters and drop the bag. If for some reason you can’t drop the bag, head back here and I’ll radio the report in. Clear?”
“You’re not flying today, Wally?” Bowie asks.
“Unfortunately not. Someone has to stay here and coordinate you lot. And one last thing: keep an eye on your time. You will use more fuel than you expect at low altitude, so don’t run out. Good luck.”
We’re all ready well before 7 a.m., and Wally lets us go up on the understanding that we stay high until the attack starts. As I rise into the perfect blue summer sky, I have a feeling I’ve rarely had in all the bustle and chaos of the war. Despite the shells thundering past as the final bombardment reaches a crescendo, it’s peaceful. This is how I felt that first day so long ago, when I went up solo above Horst’s farm. It reminds me how much I love flying. I adore the sense of freedom up here in the clean air, far above the petty chaos that we puny humans make of the world below. What will I do if the optimists are right and the battle that’s about to begin ends this war? I’ll keep flying somehow. Horst is right—flying will change the world
, and I want desperately to be a part of that. I wonder if it will be hard to go back to just flying? I think of the friends I’ve lost—Cecil, Jock and even the newcomers, like Gordo. We’ve shared things that no one who hasn’t been through this can understand. Will I ever make friends like them again? Will I miss the life I am leading now? I shake my head before I drift into a dangerous distracted reverie. I have work to do.
I glance at my watch. It’s 7:05. I scan the sky around me in quadrants. I can see Bowie to my south and slightly above, and Mick to the north. Others are scattered farther away, waiting. I can see no sign of any Fokkers. Are they here? I look to the east and the rising sun. Are they waiting for the battle to begin as well?
ABOVE THE CLOUDS.
I look down. Five thousand feet below is Beaumont-Hamel, and somewhere underneath it is Alec’s mine. The German trenches are invisible beneath the smoke and debris from the continually exploding shells. There can’t be much left of the trenches or the defenders. It’s going to be a great victory.
I can see our lines clearly. They look peaceful, but I know they are crammed to overflowing with the first wave of soldiers waiting to go over the top. I want to go lower to get a better look. My watch says 7:10, which is still twenty minutes before the attack. Plenty of time to go down and come back up again. I ease the Parasol into a gentle descending spiral.
At two thousand feet, I level out. From this height, the bombardment of the German trenches appears less intense. I can see individual explosions, as well as shrapnel in the air and gouts of earth where the high explosives embed themselves in the ground before detonating. The air is vibrating and there is a constant thunder. I strain to see what state the German defenses are in. Much of their front line has been reduced to a jumble of shell holes. The barbed wire still looks disturbingly intact, but there are large gaps and the lack of activity in the German trenches suggests that opposition will be light.
