Fire in the Sky

by David Ward

  “Hold on, Harry!” I shouted. “I’m taking us back.”

  Bullets whined through the canvas of my top wing. An Albatros had slipped in just behind us. “Shoot, Harry!” I shouted.

  Glancing over my shoulder, I saw the checkered plane swing out wide from our tail and open fire again. Any closer and the Albatros would strike our fuselage. I banked sharply both to escape from the barrage and to catch a glimpse of our attacker. “Harry!” I shouted uselessly against the wind. “Shoot him!” Harry’s gun remained silent and I could only guess that he was changing cartridges. I had to buy him time.

  The Albatros was still right on our tail. I stayed in the turn and then glanced sharply behind to see how Harry was managing. He was slumped grotesquely over his gun.

  More bullets whizzed around me, bringing me back sharply to the moment. I banked to starboard and downward, still unable to shake the Albatros, which stayed tight behind me. Only my constant turns kept the gunner from filling me full of holes. A couple of rough patches of air helped as well, for it was difficult to shoot accurately in the turbulence. Still, he had already got Harry. The thought made me so angry I increased throttle and banked sharply. It was time to loop and turn my guns on the enemy. I was just about to dive when I saw Billy coming at me from my starboard side. He opened fire on the Albatros and then roared overhead. The pilot slumped and the German plane fell away with smoke billowing from its fuselage.

  “You got him, Billy!” I shouted, raising my hands. “Don’t you worry, Harry-boy. Billy took him down for you!”

  We neared the French border and the German planes disengaged suddenly, pulling up and heading for home, probably low on fuel or unwilling to cross into enemy territory.

  I rejoined Ashcroft behind the bombers. Billy joined us a moment later and I gave him a wave. Watson was missing and so was one of the bombers. The German attack had taken its toll. Ashcroft and his gunner shook their heads solemnly when they saw Harry. There was nothing I could do for him but bring him back to the aerodrome. He was still in his safety belt, so there was no danger of him falling out. At least I could bring his body back.

  All the way home my mind was filled with images of our walk into Luxeuil the other day. I thought of Harry sipping his coffee, anxious for us to return to base. Anxious for what? A faster death? I said a prayer for him and for his family back in Nova Scotia.

  Chapter 7

  October–November 1916

  We buried Harry in Luxeuil, in a graveyard near where we had taken our walk. A French priest said the eulogy. Harry was surrounded by all the pilots and gunners who had been on the bombing raid. Many others from the aerodrome walked in procession with us to the graveside. A few people from the town stood and watched. Afterwards I wrote a description of what had happened the day Harry died, and included a sketch of where he was buried in my letter to his parents.

  I stared at the letter for some time and thought hard about Harry’s death. I wondered again and again if we all should have been more vigilant. Harry had seen the enemy first. Perhaps if I had manoeuvred faster and gained altitude instead of banking away to escape, he might still be alive. The possibilities were endless. The horrible image of poor Harry slumped in his seat haunted me.

  Billy came and sat by my bed on the night of the funeral. “What could I have done differently, Billy?” I asked.

  “Nothing,” he answered. “And don’t be an idiot. It’s not as if you ran away. You were firing just as hard as he was. It could easily have been you or me who took the bullet. We’ve been lucky so far. Harry’s time was up. That’s all you can say and then you put it behind you.”

  Robert had said the same thing. But it was not easy to stop thinking.

  We found out several days later that Watson and his gunner had been killed as well. Their plane crashed behind enemy lines. A letter from a German pilot indicated that both men had been buried with honour.

  Through the next few weeks, I wrote daily to Nellie, to my parents and Sarah, and more than ever to Robert, with Harry’s death filling my thoughts.

  Partly to take our minds off such deep losses, we also played a good deal of soccer when the weather permitted. The ground was hard, and before each match we picked up any of the larger stones. Regardless of our efforts to clean the field of rocks, I received more wounds from soccer than from flying, a fact for which I was eternally grateful.

  One day I received a photograph from Nellie. It was a newspaper clipping showing her knitting socks for soldiers. Girls and women all over England were lending their knitting and stitching skills to help the war effort. The picture had been in my hands for hardly a minute when Ashcroft stole it and handed it to Billy, who ran out the door.

  When I finally got hold of the picture I saw that someone had pencilled in, Ooooh, Paulie! Look at me stitch, on the margin. Billy swore that it wasn’t him. And then he burst out laughing. “Ashcroft came up with a new name for you,” he added when he recovered. “Stitch.” The name stuck and from that moment on I was known as Stitch.

  But that was one of the light moments in a difficult few weeks. One day an RNAS officer named Raymond and a reconnaissance photographer, Peters, went up to take some practice shots at the new aerodrome targets that had been set up so that pilots and gunners could practise shooting from various heights and angles. At barely 100 feet from takeoff the propeller cut out and the Strutter went into a nosedive. Raymond was killed instantly. He was only twenty. And Peters, who had simply gone up for the ride, was taken to hospital with what they assumed were internal injuries. And then Ashcroft wrecked the undercarriage of his plane — twice — while landing.

  Even our ground crews were not exempt. One of the mechanics received a serious injury when the damaged undercarriage of a reconnaissance plane collapsed, pinning his legs.

  I kept waiting for misfortune to strike. I did not have to wait long. Days later we received news that we were moving to a more forward position, to Ochey, a town near Tantonville. We were detailed to ferry our planes to the new base. Billy, Ashcroft and I set out on the same day. There was a skiff of snow on the ground, but the ceiling was quite high and there was little chance of precipitation.

  As we made our way along, Ashcroft suddenly spotted enemy fighters. We were close to the border and I couldn’t tell if they were on the French side or headed back to Germany. They changed course when they saw us, six of them, and turned in our direction. As they approached I recognized the Albatros and the Iron Cross insignia.

  They came straight for us. Five hundred feet away they broke formation and roared past without firing a shot. As one of them flew parallel to my Strutter, he saluted me. I was so astonished I just stared as he went past. A moment later they came around again, now on our tails. Of all the cheek! Their first pass had simply been to get a good look at us! Billy increased throttle.

  The German planes opened fire. I flitted from side to side to make myself a more difficult target. With one more glance behind I banked sharply to port and opened fire as the Albatros passed by. He was so close that I could see bullet holes appear on his tail section.

  Although I hit him several times, his plane remained on its course. The bullets had passed right through the wing and registered no fatal damage. The Albatros on my tail veered off to face Ashcroft, who had made a loop and returned to the fray. I looked all around to keep track of everyone near me. We were fighting so closely that a single miscalculation could put me directly in the line of fire of an enemy plane, or a collision with one of my own.

  I increased throttle and turned to help Ashcroft. This time, on a hunch, I opened fire before the Albatros came fully into my view. While the first burst missed, the second found its mark. Holes appeared near the fuselage. Within seconds, smoke began to billow from the front of the plane.

  There was no time to celebrate, for bullets whined around my cockpit once more. Suddenly something hit my shoulder and threw me forward. I wondered if the top wing had collapsed and landed at the base of my neck. Eve
ntually I realized that I had been hit by a bullet. My first instinct was to touch the wound, but I resisted. There was a plane coming at me from above and I needed to manoeuvre. I pushed the control stick forward and went into a dive. He followed. Using the speed from the dive, I manoeuvered into a loop and pulled back smoothly on the stick. The pain in my shoulder was unrelenting.

  As I came around again I was stunned to see three German planes breaking off the attack. The plane chasing me also veered off. Far below, a smoking Albatros spiralled downward. The others sped towards it. Moments later the smoking plane pulled out of the spiral. There was no sign of the sixth plane.

  Billy and Ashcroft pulled alongside me. Ashcroft pointed at me and then at his shoulder. I glanced down. Blood was soaking my coat. Now that my nerves had settled from the fight, I began to feel the pain even more acutely. I clamped my right hand down on my left shoulder and flew left-handed. Billy hovered anxiously. He made a fist. Be strong! I did not feel strong. I felt dizzy and sick.

  For the rest of the flight, Billy and Ashcroft checked on me every few minutes. They flew parallel to my plane, one at a time, spelling each other off and giving a thumbs-up. I couldn’t return the sign but I nodded. My hand felt frozen to the stick. My shoulder throbbed. I wondered if the bullet was lodged inside or had passed through. The thought made me woozy so I focused on Nellie. I thought of her sitting on the wagon and talking to me. In my last letter I’d promised to try and see her when I went on leave.

  Ashcroft banked slowly to starboard and we began our descent. Twice I nearly passed out. It felt as if someone had stuck a pitchfork into my shoulder. In the last few minutes of our descent I could no longer hold the control stick with my left hand. I had to let go of my shoulder and steer with my right hand. Billy flicked his wings from time to time to catch my attention. I nodded and tried to focus. I knew what he and Ashcroft were thinking because I was wondering the same thing myself: How was I going to land the plane without crashing?

  Soon the aerodrome came in sight and the hope of it made me more alert. Ashcroft shot ahead and zoomed low over the field, waving his wings to let the ground crew know that something was up. Then he rejoined us. We came down together, with Billy just a little ahead of me. I reduced speed. My plane listed and I forced her steady against the wind with my rudder pedals.

  Dust kicked up from Billy’s wheels.

  “A little closer,” I said to myself. “Just a little more.” The ground came up quickly and I eased back the throttle. Adjusting the tail caused terrible pain: every time I pushed with my left foot against the rudder bar, it sent a shock wave through my shoulder. I landed unsteadily on one wheel and had to fight nausea to get the other wheel down. The landing wreaked havoc on my shoulder. I felt the undercarriage go.

  The Strutter slid along the ground on its belly and began turning in a slow circle. A moment later it came to a stop. Someone leaned into the cockpit and switched off the throttle. I stared numbly at the control panel.

  “Sir?” someone shouted. “Sir, can you hear me?”

  Chapter 8

  November 1916

  The bullet had passed right through my shoulder. It tore through muscle but thankfully did not shatter the bone. Billy and Ashcroft stood beside the stretcher as the ground crew loaded me into a truck. My shoulder hurt so badly I felt my legs go weak. “Sorry, son,” a man said as he applied a pressure bandage. “But this will keep you alive. You’ve lost a lot of blood and I won’t let you lose a drop more.”

  “You’ll be all right, Stitch!” Billy said.

  “Good as new!” Ashcroft added.

  “We’ll let Nellie and your family know,” Billy said. He sounded very worried.

  I couldn’t find my voice or even nod.

  I was taken to a hospital in Ochey. They administered an injection of morphine and the pain eased considerably. Sometime later I woke up in a bed with my arm and shoulder completely immobile. My uniform was gone, replaced with a hospital gown. My arm ached dully.

  For the next few days I lay in discomfort, with the doctor checking on me every few hours. One morning a nurse peered down at me. “Bonjour, monsieur,” she said quietly. “You have friends to see you.”

  Billy and Ashcroft swept up behind the nurse, grinning like idiots. “Hurrah!” Billy trumpeted before being shushed by the nurse. They told me that I had been sleeping on and off for four days.

  “Luxury!” Billy said in a loud whisper. “You sitting here with pretty nurses feeding you by hand day and night. I want to get shot too.”

  “You’re not as good-looking as Stitch,” Ashcroft countered. “You’ve got to shave off that moustache. Or at least half of it.”

  Billy wiggled his moustache at Ashcroft and said, “Hurrah.”

  I was so happy to see them I felt a tear squeeze out.

  “None of that now, Stitch,” Ashcroft said with a grin. “We don’t want to make Nellie jealous.”

  Before I could say a word Billy held up his hand. “Yes, we wrote to your Nellie and to your parents. No pranks. Told them the whole story.” There was not an ounce of humour in his voice and I knew he meant every word.

  “It’s coming up to Christmas before too long,” Ashcroft said. “The lucky man might get to enjoy the season with mistletoe while the rest of us have the Hun as company.”

  Both of them looked tired. Billy’s eyes were dark and his face haggard. “There’s more action. We’ve been up a few times since your injury,” he said. “They tell us a leave is coming shortly, and God knows we need it.”

  A couple of days later another flyer stopped by my bedside — a fellow Canadian, from British Columbia. He had sandy blond hair and a marvellous smile. He was visiting a wounded friend. “Townend, aren’t you?” he asked.

  I nodded.

  “Raymond Collishaw.” He held out his hand. “You did well up there, so they tell me,” he said. “You’ve been given credit for taking down an Albatros.” He smiled when my eyebrows went up. “And best of all, you’re on leave.”

  “How long?” I stammered.

  “Not for me to say,” he responded. “Where will you go? They’ll pretty much let you go where you like — if it’s within reason.”

  “Redcar,” I said without hesitating.

  “I did my flight training there,” he said. “It’s not exactly a resort, you know.”

  I didn’t respond.

  He nodded. “Ah! A girl then, is it? Good man. Just make sure you come back fit. We’ll see you in January.”

  “I will!”

  Two days later I was issued leave papers and was transported to England. The train stopped at Grimsby on the way to Redcar and I could not resist stepping off the train. I was due at my billet before nightfall, but with trains operating on schedule I was certain I could make it to Redcar on time, even with a short visit to Grimsby.

  I bought a large box of chocolates and found a farmer in the town who was willing to take me to the Timpson farm. Nellie and I had been sending each other letters regularly. But was it enough to mean anything? I certainly knew how I felt about her. We told each other so much in our letters that I felt I knew her so well, more than our one and only visit had afforded. I could hardly contain my excitement.

  The farmer let me off at the top of the Timpson lane. As I approached the farmhouse I saw a stooped figure mending a fence.

  Nellie looked up. She shaded her eyes from the sun and looked at me long and hard. Then she ran. Without a word she threw her arms around me and kissed me. My doubts were gone.

  Her brothers stepped onto the porch and made their way towards us. Nellie slipped her arm around my waist to support me. The boys ran up to us like pups, yelping and asking so many questions I hardly knew where to begin.

  Mr. Timpson appeared at the midday meal. He shook my good hand firmly. “Welcome, lad,” he said. He glanced over my shoulder. “How is it with Mr. Miller?”

  “He’s well, sir,” I replied. “Still flying until the end of the week. He hopes to join
me at Redcar.” I told the Timpsons about France and had to repeat the story of my injury three times before the boys were satisfied. On a suggestion from Nellie, I attempted to sketch the skirmish. It was a poor try, left-handed, but the boys held up the picture like a trophy. Mr. Timpson asked for details about Europe and about the progress of the war. Seems they couldn’t get enough news, and sometimes had to wait until they went into town or to church. Nellie seemed as interested as he was.

  “It’s bad then, is it?” Mr. Timpson asked. “At the Front.”

  I thought of Robert’s letters, of the friends he had lost. “Yes, sir,” I replied. “Very bad.”

  He cast an eye on his eldest son. “Do they think it will last another year?”

  I shook my head. “No one knows.”

  He nodded and said they had lost quite a few boys from the town. He changed the topic after that and asked about our farm in Winnipeg. He was pleased with my knowledge of farming and curious about some of the techniques we used in Canada.

  As the afternoon lengthened I glanced out the window.

  “I’ll need to go soon,” I said with regret.

  Mr. Timpson took me to the station on their wagon and once again Nellie was allowed to come. This time the three of us shared a blanket. Nellie slipped me her hand and I held on tight. She gave me a hug when we reached Grimsby Station and whispered, “I’ll find a reason to come to Redcar.”

  Arrangements had been made for me to billet with the Baxters, a family who lived near the centre of town. The home was small but cozy, and Mrs. Baxter fussed over me as if she were my own mother. Once a day I went to the base hospital, where they changed the dressings on my wound. I refused further morphine injections, based on warnings I’d received from a pilot back at Ochey. It was easy to become addicted to such a strong drug, and some of the men had fallen prey to it.