Wings of War (6 page)

T
HE
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

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 Whitehall, 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

A
fter 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.