Wings of War (14 page)

“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?

A
BOVE 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.

I look at my watch—7:15. I swing over Beaumont-Hamel for a final glimpse before I head back up to five thousand feet. The village has been heavily shelled, and several of the buildings are ruined. Trenches around it are still recognizable but deserted. Time to head back up. As I take one last glance, a patch of ground in front of the village appears to bulge up toward me. With fascinating slowness, the bulge explodes into a mass of dirt and rock that expands impossibly high, hesitates for a moment and then falls back to the earth. The column of dirt doesn’t reach me, but the shock wave throws the Parasol to one side as if it’s a dry leaf in a fall breeze.

I fight for control of the bucking plane. Luckily, the explosion has thrown me up, so I have some altitude to work with. Eventually, I’m back in charge and flying level. I look at my watch. It’s only 7:23. The attack’s not supposed to start for another ten minutes. I scan around. I’m some distance behind the front line. I can see German trenches, but they’re the reserve lines. Behind me the artillery bombardment still engulfs the front lines.

As I begin to climb, the engine sounds rough and misfires a couple of times. I slow my climb to a series of gentle spirals. I’m almost back at five thousand feet when the Fokkers attack. There are four of them, coming from high and to the east. They have the advantage of position and speed. If I try to run, especially with a dodgy engine, I’m dead. I turn and fly straight at the lead plane.

With a combined speed of over one hundred miles an hour, we close quickly. I can see the flashes from his gun, but he’s firing too early and, head on, I’m a small target—I hope. The trick is to keep my nerve. The pilot who turns aside exposes his full profile to the enemy at close range. At least that’s what I’ve heard. I’ve never done this before.

I concentrate on flying straight. I clutch the handle of my Lewis gun and carefully hold my finger away from the trigger. The urge to pull out of this suicidal move is almost overwhelming, but if I do, I’m dead for
sure. Finally, I slide my finger through the trigger guard and squeeze. At that instant, the other pilot dives beneath me. I see his windshield shatter and a line of holes appear down his fuselage, then he’s gone. I twist round to see the Fokker fall into a spin, a stream of dark smoke pouring from his engine.

I don’t have time to follow him down because there are three other Fokkers around me. I move the stick, kick the rudder and snap the Parasol round in a tight turn. My engine protests loudly. A Fokker flashes in front of me. Instinctively, my finger tightens on the trigger—but nothing happens. My gun’s jammed. I lean forward and hammer the side of the weapon, and as I do, I catch a glimpse of another Fokker coming at me and feel a splash of hot oil as a bullet thuds into my engine. I throw myself back into my seat and wrench the stick over to turn toward the attacker. The move surprises him and he flashes above me, but with a last protesting cough, my engine dies into silence.

That’s it. With no power, I can’t maneuver. If I go into a spin, I won’t be able to get out of it. The Fokkers have me at their mercy. All I can do is dive for home and prolong the process. I turn west and push the nose down, expecting to feel the bullets tearing into my back at any minute. Nothing happens. I twist back to see why. The three Fokkers aren’t following me because
they are fully engaged in a twirling, twisting dogfight with two Parasols. Already one of the Fokkers is spiraling down in flames.

I ease out of the dive to maintain altitude. I fiddle with the controls and my engine kicks back into life, but it sounds horribly rough. I glance back over my shoulder. One of the Parasols is snaking and weaving, trying to throw off a Fokker clinging to his tail. The last Fokker is already running for home, and the second Parasol is closing in to help his mate. The uneven fight doesn’t last long; the Fokker’s wings fold and he drops.

The two Parasols catch me easily and fall into formation, one on either side. I look left to see Bowie beaming at me and giving the thumbs-up. I wave back.

I look right and see Mick staring determinedly ahead. I wave, but he doesn’t acknowledge me. Still, relief floods through me. I’m alive. I have enough height to make it over the lines, and I’m protected by the two best pilots in the squadron.

I laugh out loud and, even though he can’t hear me, shout over at Mick. “Cheer up! We’re alive, and we got three Fokkers.” As if in reply, Mick’s head slumps forward onto his chest and the Parasol’s nose lurches into a steep dive.

I twist round to see who’s attacking us, but the sky’s empty. I look down. Mick’s plane has gone into a
wild spin. Bowie is following him down, but there’s nothing he can do. Mick must have been wounded in the fight and either died or passed out from loss of blood. I can’t watch him crash, so I concentrate on getting home.

I’m still over the German lines, so I throw out the two twenty-pound bombs to lighten the plane. The panorama below me has changed in the last hour. Now there are flashes of guns below me. German guns. The ones that our artillery was supposed to have destroyed. Our barrage is still firing, but the shell bursts are over the German reserve trenches, not their front lines. Does that mean the attack’s going according to plan?

I risk flying lower as I cross the German front lines. They’re badly battered, but there are men in them—ours or theirs? The helmets don’t look quite right, and some of the men shoot at me. I curse the sputtering engine that prevents me from maneuvering lower to be sure. I flash over the German wire, which is intact apart from occasional gaps. A few shells are exploding in no-man’s-land, but there’s no sign of life. All I see are dark hummocks spread through the grass. Most are scattered, but some lie in puzzling straight rows. What does it all mean?

Shells are also exploding over the British trenches, which are packed with soldiers preparing to go over the top. I fly over St. John’s Road and see the Newfoundlanders waiting too. Are Raleigh and Broughton down there? If so, what awaits them?

S
OLDIERS EMERGING FROM THE TRENCHES
.

CHAPTER 17

I
don’t see Bowie again and assume he has resumed his work spotting the infantry advance. I’m able to land without incident, and Wally hurries over to see what happened. “Are you all right?” he asks.

I nod. “Engine’s gone, though.” As we walk over to the chateau, I tell him about Mick. Wally doesn’t say anything. “How’s the attack going?” I finally ask.

“As far as I can tell, well. One of the new pilots returned to tell me that he’d seen khaki uniforms in the German reserve trenches outside Beaumont-Hamel. I radioed it in to headquarters.”

I get a hollow feeling in the pit of my stomach. “I’m not sure that’s right,” I say. “I couldn’t get low enough to be certain, but I thought I saw Germans in their front line trenches. Their artillery is certainly shelling our trenches, and there are a lot of bodies in no-man’s-land, which must be ours. Why would Fritz be in no-man’s-land?”

Wally looks thoughtful. “I need more than ‘I thought I saw’ before I can radio in a report.”

“Is the pilot who reported still here?” I ask.

“Yes. That’s his Parasol being refueled over there. He must be in the chateau.”

We hurry over the grass. As we approach, the pilot comes out the main door.

“What did you see?” I shout at him.

He looks like a startled rabbit.

“When you flew over the lines,” I demand. “What did you see?”

“I saw men in the German trenches in front of Beaumont-Hamel.”

“Are you certain they were
our
men?” I’m standing in front of him now. He looks nervous.

“Yes,” he says, but his eyes don’t meet mine.

“What height were you flying at?” My voice is rising and the pilot’s shifting from foot to foot.

“Low,” he says.

“Five hundred feet?”