Wings of War (2 page)

T
HE INSPIRATION FOR
B
ERTHA
.

“You would like to fly?” he asks, surprising me with his abrupt change of topic.

“I’d love to,” I say eagerly.

“Then I shall put two seats in my next Bertha. I will take you up. We will soar like the birds and laugh at the poor people on the ground below.”

“Will you?” My heart races at the mere thought of being up there with the birds, looking down.

“I promise,” Horst says with a smile. “But first I must rebuild.” My uncle stares down at
Bertha 6
’s remains. “Perhaps two wings is my mistake,” he muses quietly. “Maybe one wing—a monoplane—would be enough if it is designed correctly.” He fumbles in his overall pockets for a greasy notebook and the stub of a pencil. “And I know a man in Moose Jaw who says he might be able to get me a bigger engine, maybe fifty horses. It will need work, but …” Horst finds an empty page in his notebook and begins scribbling figures across it. His mumbled conversation with himself reverts to German.

I’ve seen this happen before. He’ll be lost to the world until he’s worked out whatever’s on his mind. If he doesn’t get the answer he seeks, he’ll still be standing in the middle of his field when it is too dark to see the page in his hand.

“I have to get back,” I say. “I have chores to do. The chickens need feeding, and Dad wants me to clean out
the stalls in the barn. He says now that I’m not going to school, I should be doing more work around the farm.”

Horst grunts at me and waves his hand vaguely. Staring at the sky, I walk over to Abby. Will my uncle build a flying machine that can take me up as well? What’ll it be like up there, diving and swooping hundreds of feet above the ground? What will the world look like? Will I be free?

I ride Abby the four miles home at a walk, wondering, dreaming and questioning. The late afternoon sky is clear, with only a few puffy white clouds hugging the horizon. It’s endless and so much more interesting than the flat land that stretches away from me on all sides. I focus on a red-tailed hawk far above, his broad wings motionless as he soars effortlessly in lazy circles. How far can he see? He owns the world. Of course, he doesn’t need a heavy, smelly engine thumping and roaring away to keep him up there, but that’s a price I would gladly pay to fly. “I hope Horst can build an aeroplane that can take me up there,” I say to Abby, who waggles her ears in response.

Uncle Horst came over to Canada as a child, more than forty years ago. His father was a button-maker in Berlin, Ontario. I guess making buttons didn’t seem that exciting to Horst, so he drifted out west, bought a quarter-section farm, married my dad’s sister, Martha, and settled down. Well, his body settled down, but his mind never
did. He loves machinery and is always the first in the county to buy the latest farming gadget—Mr. Ford’s gasoline-powered tractor, a new automatic milking machine or a reaper with a knotting binder.

My dad often tells Horst that he is the worst farmer west of Winnipeg, spending all his time tinkering with some new idea for a flying machine instead of filling his barn with bales of hay. Uncle Horst just laughs and says, “Ya, but I build the best flying machines!” Dad says Uncle Horst would have starved to death if he hadn’t married Aunt Martha to run the farm for him.

The first Bertha I met was number 3. That was in the summer of 1910, when I was twelve years old and nagging Dad to let me leave school to work on the farm.
Bertha 3
was a strange complex of wings, struts, wires and an odd box-like tail. She flew quite well, but not well enough for Horst.
Bertha 3
didn’t survive the winter; she was dismantled and rebuilt as
Bertha 4
. Unfortunately, something in number 4’s wings didn’t work, and she had a short and unhappy life.
Bertha 5
worked better and flew around the farm scaring the animals throughout 1912.

It took Horst most of 1913 to develop and build
Bertha 6
, which is why the crash I just witnessed is such a blow. Still, I have left my uncle with pencil and notebook in hand, and I am certain that
Bertha 7
is already
growing in his mind, rising like a phoenix from the wreckage of her predecessor. I sat in
Bertha 6
and even drove her around the field, but I have never left the ground. That is my dream.

In my daydream I’m up there with the hawk. I can see the railway line stretching off to the east and west, the grain elevators of Mortlach and Parkbeg rising up to break the monotony. The wheat fields are a patchwork quilt below me, and the occasional cows mere toys. There’s Old Man Dudek driving his buggy into town to sell eggs and pierogies. I feel as if I could reach down and pick him up. That would surprise him! I could even drop a bag of flour on him for a joke. Or a bomb.

My daydream becomes darker and I imagine armies marching back and forth across the fields—long, curving lines of men in red and blue uniforms snaking toward one another. Cavalry troops, their helmets and breastplates gleaming in the sun, sweep out in front, probing for the enemy. Cannons are unlimbered, and puffs of dark smoke rise from their muzzles. Shells explode bloodily among the soldiers. I can almost hear the thunder of the explosions, the crack of the rifles and the screams of the wounded. Is this what it would be like? Is this what aeroplanes are going to be used for?

My daydream is horrifying, but it’s exciting as well. After all, I’m not down there with the soldiers or the
cavalry, marching, fighting, dying. I’m far up above in the clean air, free, safe, detached. “If Canada ever goes to war,” I say to Abby, “I’m going to become a pilot. No marching and fighting for me!” Ignoring me, Abby continues her steady plodding pace toward home, a brush-down and a tub of oats.

CHAPTER 2

W
AR IS DECLARED
.

“W
ell, Horst, your predictions of war were correct,” my dad says. It’s August 6, 1914, and Canada declared war on Germany yesterday.
Horst and Martha have come over for dinner. Mom and Martha are gossiping in the kitchen, while Dad, Horst and I sit on the porch watching the sky turn blood red as the sun touches the far horizon. Dad and Horst nurse glasses of brandy. I have a glass as well, but even though my sixteenth birthday is mere weeks away, my brandy is heavily watered down. If I’m honest, I’m glad of the dilution. The harsh taste stings my throat, and I only demanded some so I wouldn’t feel left out.

“Ya,” Horst agrees, “but I was wrong about England. I thought she would sit to one side and watch. And now Canada is at war as well.” My uncle stares glumly into his glass.

“We couldn’t just let the German army march through Belgium,” Dad says. “Someone has to protect the small countries.”

Horst regards his drink for a moment longer. “I do not think it is just about Belgium,” he says eventually. “The German papers say that England is jealous of Germany’s navy and does not want competition for her empire.”

“Is that what you think, Horst?” Dad asks.

Horst smiles. “I have not talked with Kaiser Wilhelm recently. All I know for sure is that the world is much more complicated than the newspapers—English or German—tell us.”

“Indeed,” Dad agrees. “I’m grateful for a simple life
on the farm. Speaking of which, it will be a good harvest this fall if the weather holds.”

“And if enough young men stay behind to bring the crop in,” Horst adds.

Dad nods. “The French say they will be in Berlin by Christmas.”

“And the Germans say they will be in Paris by the same time,” Horst counters. “I think they are both wrong.” My dad opens his mouth to say something, but Horst stands and raises a hand to stop him. “Enough talk of war,” he says. “I must return to my simple farm. Thank you for a most pleasant evening, and let us hope the next time it will be in happier circumstances. Edward, would you be kind enough to inform Martha that I am readying the wagon?”

“Of course,” I say.

Amid more expressions of hope for better times, we say our goodbyes, and Horst and Martha disappear into the gathering dark.

Dad and I settle back on the porch as moths bang stupidly against the gas lantern and mosquitoes begin to discover us.

“Will all the young men really go off and fight in the war?” I ask.

“I’m afraid so,” Dad says. “They say there are lines at the recruiting offices in Toronto and Regina already.”

“But there won’t be time for them to get over to Europe before the war ends.”

Dad takes a sip of his brandy. “I’m not so sure. I suspect that this war’s not going to be like the ones you read about in books. It’s not going to be a thin line of British redcoats standing against a horde of poorly armed natives in some forgotten corner of the empire. It won’t even be the big battles that Napoleon or Wellington would recognize. The world has changed. France, Germany and Russia have millions of men on the march, and they have weapons that Napoleon could only dream of.”

“So the war will last into next year?”

“And then some. The war the Americans fought against themselves lasted four years, and this is a much bigger affair than that.” Dad tilts his head, furrows his brow and stares hard at me. “This war might even last long enough for you to be old enough to join up.”

I haven’t thought about this until now. I’ve been interested in what is happening in Europe—excited, even—but it is a distant place and doesn’t seem to have much to do with our little corner of the prairies. Will I join up when I’m old enough?

“Uncle Horst says that aeroplanes will be important in this war.”

“He may be right. New things are always tried out
in wars.” Dad looks at me questioningly. “What are you thinking?”

“I’m not sure. The war seems a long way off, but Canada’s in it now. If it goes on for a long time, I’ll have to do my part, but I don’t know if I want to be a soldier—at least not one in an army of millions. If Uncle Horst teaches me to fly, then I can be a pilot.” The instant I say it, I know it’s what I want to do. I’m thrilled by the idea of being far above the fighting, like an ancient Greek god staring down on mere mortals from Mount Olympus.

“That might be a good idea,” Dad says, nodding. “I don’t expect a soldier’s lot will be much fun in this war.” He stands up and stretches. “Meanwhile, let’s hope the papers are right and this madness is all over soon. I’m heading inside before the mosquitoes drain all the blood out of me. Goodnight, Edward.”

“Goodnight, Dad.”

Despite the mosquitoes, I sit on the porch for a bit longer, staring into the darkness. The stars are out—the same stars that the millions of soldiers mobilizing all across Europe can see. I feel excited to be alive to see these momentous events unfold, but if I’m honest with myself, I feel scared as well. Will this war get so big that I’ll be sucked in to become just another soldier? Not if I can help it. I resolve that as soon as possible, I’ll ride over and persuade Uncle Horst to
teach me to fly. In exchange, I’ll offer to help him build
Bertha 7
. Even if the war ends before I’m old enough to enlist, I’ll still have fulfilled my dream of rising in the air to soar with the birds.

CHAPTER 3