Wings of War (8 page)

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.

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.”

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

E
very 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.”

I drop my pack and work the two blades out of the wood. As I hand them back to him, I say, “Whereabouts in the States are you from?”

“Kansas,” he says in an exaggerated drawl as he takes the knives from me.

“So what are you doing over here in the RFC?”

“Was bored looking down on that flat prairie all the time. Thought I’d come and see what a bit of history
looks like from up there.” He jerks his thumb toward the barn roof. “But you’re no limey yourself, kid.”

“Canadian,” I say.

“The Canadian Kid. This place’s real international. Ever heard of a place called Moose Jaw?”

I can hardly believe my ears. “My dad’s farm is thirty-five miles west of there.”

Bowie hauls his leg back over the arm of the sofa and leans forward with interest. “Then you must know Horst.”

“He’s my uncle!” I say, amazed to hear his name here. “How do you know him?”

“Well, I’ll be.” Bowie jumps to his feet, and in two strides, he has me in a bear hug. When he lets me go, he looks me up and down. “This Canadian Kid is Horst’s nephew,” he says in wonderment, ignoring my question. “How is the old German?”

“He was fine, according to the last letter I received. How do you know him?” I repeat.

“Oh, he sent me a letter, must be seven or eight years ago now. He’d got my name from somewhere and knew that I had worked with the Wrights. He wanted to know how to build a flying machine.” Bowie laughs, a deep, resonant sound. “Like it was some kid’s toy. Still, I put him onto some things, and before I know it, he writes back to say he’s flown his
homemade machine. Strange name—Bessy or Bella, or something like that.”

“Bertha,” I say.

“Yeah, that’s it. Bertha! Anyway, we’ve been writing back and forth ever since. I don’t build my own machines, but Horst sure gave me lots of advice when it came to modifying the ones I had. Did he teach you to fly?”

“He did. Him and Ted down in Montana.”

“Ted still run that flying school?”

“He did.”

“Did?”

“He died a few weeks back. Went down in a storm coming home from Bismarck.”

“Aw, now that’s a shame. He was a good guy, and a fine pilot.” Turning to Wally, Bowie says, “You look after the Canadian Kid. If he’s half the flyer Horst is, he’ll run rings around any of that crowd of lunatics you call a squadron.” Bowie suddenly tilts his head to one side and listens. “Speaking of lunatics, here’s one coming now.”

I can’t hear anything, but I follow the other two outside. The bagpipes have stopped and everyone is staring off to the east. Eventually I see a black dot against the darkening sky. The dot grows until I recognize it as a Parasol flying just above the treetops. Silence descends as the engine cuts and the Parasol glides in and bumps to a halt. Everyone rushes forward, but they stop when
the pilot lifts his goggles onto his forehead, sticks his arm out of the cockpit and gives a thumbs-down. Grumbling, the others turn and head back to the barn.

“That’s Mick,” Bowie says as the pilot hauls himself out of his cockpit. “A mad Irishman, but a fine flyer. Right now he’s the squadron’s best chance of getting an ace. Only man here who actually enjoys the war. That right, Mick?”

“I’m thinking I should be back in Ireland fighting the English,” Mick says. He’s short and powerfully built, with a shock of ginger hair. “Now
that
I would enjoy. I got nothing against Fritz personally, but I didn’t like the way he invaded Belgium without so much as a by-your-leave. We small countries got to stick together, and the Irish know what it’s like to be invaded. And once you decide to fight, there’s no point in going at it halfway. You don’t start a fight, but if one breaks out, you fight to win.”

Mick has carried on walking as he speaks and I can barely hear what he is saying by the end.

“See what I mean?” Bowie says. “Mad as a hatter. Thinks the kaiser was trying to annoy him personally by invading Belgium.”

“What did you mean when you said Mick was the squadron’s best chance of getting an ace?”

“An ace is someone who’s shot down five enemy planes,” Bowie explains. “Squadron’s been here five
months now. Be nice if we had an ace on the roster. I’ve got two kills; Wally and Jock, the bagpipe player, have three each. But Mick’s got four. One more and he’ll be an ace. We all want to get there, for the pride of the squadron”—Bowie winks at me—“and because you get leave when you reach five. Anyway, Mick’s our best chance.” His brow furrows in worry. “Trouble is, he’s taking it too serious. He’s always taken risks, but he’s becoming obsessed. Goes up every chance he gets, flying deep over the lines looking for something. Does crazy things. Dangerous things. I’ve seen him come back with a lot less plane than he left with. We all pray that he gets number five soon.” He looks uneasily at Mick’s plane. “But listen to me, whining on about our problems when you just got here. Come on over to the barn and meet the others. And I want to hear some stories about Horst.”

I follow Bowie back across the field, feeling overwhelmed. The talk of kills is jarring. I’ve thought a lot about shooting down enemy planes, but calling victories “kills” reminds me that there’s another human being flying the opposing aircraft, even if he is a Fritz. I suppose it’s something I’m going to have to get used to.

I also wonder if everyone in the RFC is as eccentric as the characters I’ve met here so far—a fanatical Irishman, a knife-throwing American and a Scot who takes his
bagpipes on patrol for luck. Well, maybe the last isn’t
that
crazy. After all, I plan to take Horst’s Pour le Mérite up with me. I shrug. It doesn’t matter. I’m here for better or worse. These are the men I’m going to have to live and fight with. This is my family from now on.

CHAPTER 11