1917

by Kelly Gardiner

  ‘Stand back,’ he said. ‘You don’t need to see this.’

  ‘Yes, they do.’ Captain Ferguson’s voice sounded behind us as he climbed out of his staff car. He limped over.

  ‘Take a proper look,’ he said. ‘It’s horrible, isn’t it?’

  It was. Both of Banjo’s arms were smashed, and blood streamed from his head and soaked his uniform in several different spots.

  ‘Some of you, I know, will grieve deeply,’ said Captain Ferguson. He sighed. ‘Cadet Boyd will be sorely missed. But this is reality. This is what happens, day after day, to young men just like you. You’ll need to get used to it, and you need to learn from it.’

  ‘That’s a bit harsh, don’t you think?’ Charlie’s face was wet with tears. ‘Banjo is our friend.’

  I expected Ferguson to snap at him, but instead he said softly, ‘I know, and he will be the first of many friends that you lose.’

  A wave of pain and sorrow hit me. I sank to my knees in the mud and watched while the crew lifted Banjo onto a stretcher. He was as broken as the plane. Never to be repaired.

  So this was flying. The heights and the depths. Ferguson was right. We had to get used to it. But not now. Not yet. Banjo deserved more than that. Planes can be replaced. Friends can’t.

  We buried him the next day in a small cemetery next to the airfield. I’d seen it from the air, but up close it too told a story. Most of the headstones were makeshift and new: the graves of young men like Banjo who’d crashed into trees or failed to clear the fence or fallen from the sky. Pilots. Killed in training. Nowhere near the Front.

  The chaplain read out all the usual words but I didn’t listen. I remembered Banjo making toast over the fire at Oxford, singing until his voice was hoarse on those long evenings on the troop ship, hanging about the workshop asking about air speeds and horsepower, and arguing into the night about aeronautics and engines. Banjo should have been a mechanic, not a pilot. He should have been safe on the ground, up to his elbows in grease.

  He should be alive.

  April, 1917

  Air Base Waddington

  Lincolnshire, England

  Oh, Sis,

  How can I say this? How can I write down the words? My friend Banjo is dead. He was killed last week on his first solo flight.

  Another chap, an Englishman, was killed this morning. He had ten hours of flying time under his belt, but he decided to try a loop and … well, it didn’t work.

  Don’t worry. I don’t try any fancy manoeuvres like that. I’m no daredevil. Never will be. And don’t say anything to Ma and Dad. They’ll only fret.

  But I needed to tell you. It doesn’t make it feel any better, but at least you know a little of what it’s like for me here. We move up to Scotland next week for gunnery training, and then on to advanced flying lessons. It’s all challenging and fascinating, but now we all feel pretty wretched. I hate it that we have to leave our friends behind in the cemetery.

  I keep expecting Banjo to walk into the hut any minute and start up about the new Sopwith. He was a good bloke, was Banjo. The best. I can’t believe he’s gone.

  Your brother,

  A

  May, 1917

  Station Street,

  Coburg

  Dearest Alex,

  You sounded so sad in your last letter that I wept and wept. I’m so sorry to hear about your friend, and especially to read the grief in your words.

  I won’t bang on now. Just sending you these few quick lines so you know I’m thinking of you. I enclose a little kangaroo I knitted especially for you—it’s a silly thing, really, but perhaps it will help you remember your home and everyone here who loves you.

  Our spirits here had been lifted a little in the last weeks, after hearing that the United States had joined the fight, declaring war on the German Empire. But that has now been dampened by more bad news. We’ve just heard that Ralphie was killed too, at a place called Bullecourt. We’re not sure exactly what happened—Dad has written to ask for more details—but there was a telegram from the Army which said Ralphie fell on the field of battle with honour. That’s all very well, Ma reckons, but honour is no compensation for the family. Not really. It turns out you were right—he was much too young to be fighting, and lied about his age to enlist. He wasn’t even eighteen. And now…

  So we know a little of what you must be feeling, and we send you all our love.

  Take care of yourself, please.

  Maggie

  PS What do you mean, gunnery training? I thought you were just going to take photographs?

  May, 1917

  Turnberry School of Aerial Gunnery

  Scotland

  Dear Sis,

  Don’t worry. We are here because we have to learn how to shoot so we can defend ourselves. Just in case. That’s all. What if some Hun took it into his head to attack me? What should I do? I can’t tell him my mother won’t let me play with guns. Or wave a white flag.

  We are going to be taking photographs, do not fear. That’s my job as pilot, once we get back to the squadron. The observer has to fend off enemy planes while I’m doing the hard work of flying and working the camera. So he’ll do all the shooting while I do everything else. Not that anybody will be firing at us. Unless they take us for grouse, which is what everyone shoots up here in Scotland. Or pheasant, or something. The rich people do, anyway.

  I miss Banjo terribly. He’d love it here. He used to sing all these sad ballads in a broad Scottish accent he learned from his grandma. Don’t think I’ll ever get used to him not being with us. I’ve named your little kangaroo after him. He’ll be my lucky charm. Thank you, Mags. It’s wonderful to know you’re there and alive.

  Sorry to hear the news of Ralphie. I suppose I was expecting it. Don’t expect to hear any particulars of what happened—everything is so confused once the shooting starts. Sad to say, that’s just how it is for the chaps on the ground.

  We’ve lost two of the best. But now the Yanks are to be fighting with us at last. It may take some time before they get here but I hope it’ll all be over soon, before many more lives are lost.

  With love to everyone at this sad time,

  A

  May, 1917

  Station Street,

  Coburg

  Dear Alex,

  You may think that I have gone completely mad, but I have thrown in my job selling calico and thread in thirty different colours. I don’t think the world of haberdashery and I were made for each other. You’ll never guess what I’m going to do instead. Wrong! I’ve got a job at an orchard.

  Yes, me. Don’t be so dismissive. I can hear you snorting from here. But I’ll have you know I’m very good at growing things. I help Dad in the vegetable patch all the time now. He says I have a gift for it. It’s certainly a lot more fun than measuring petticoat material for Mrs Brown down the road.

  One of Dad’s old friends needs a hand around the farm, now all the men have gone to the Front. So I volunteered. It’s part orchard, part market garden, out near Box Hill. Dad says the people who run it are ‘interesting old characters’. He used to work there at harvest-time when he was a lad. I need boots and everything. They’ll pay me in pumpkins, I expect. But never mind. You’re having an adventure and so shall I.

  If you’re lucky I shall send you a pumpkin.

  Love,

  Mags

  It was love at first sight. She was gorgeous, sleek and powerful. The moment I saw the RE8, I knew she was the plane for me.

  ‘Welcome back to Waddington, gentlemen,’ said Captain Ferguson. ‘Meet your new best friends.’

  I couldn’t stop smiling.

  ‘These are new aircraft,’ said Ferguson. ‘Fresh from the factory. Do not break them.’

  ‘No, sir,’ we chorused.

  ‘I hope you’ve had a lovely rest in Scotland,’ he said. ‘You are now highly trained officers, God help us, and in the next few months here you will become so used to these planes you could fly them in your sleep.’r />
  ‘Months?’ spluttered Charlie beside me.

  Ferguson twisted around to see who had spoken. ‘Is there a problem, Cadet Driscoll?’

  Charlie had a look on his face that meant trouble. ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Let me guess,’ said Ferguson. ‘You want to fly over to France tomorrow and give the Hun a good punch in the nose, is that it?’

  ‘Exactly, sir,’ Charlie said. ‘All this practice—’

  ‘Is to help you stay alive and unharmed.’

  ‘But I know what I’m doing,’ said Charlie. ‘We all do.’

  ‘We’ll see about that.’

  Captain Ferguson turned away. ‘Any more questions?’

  Nobody spoke. Charlie clenched his fists and looked down, glaring at his boots as if they’d committed a crime.

  ‘Proceed, Sergeant,’ said Ferguson. He sat down at a folding table, took a pencil out of his pocket, and started scribbling in his log book.

  The Flight Sergeant called out a few names and assigned each name to a plane. I knew which one I wanted. She was on the far end of the line, her nose gleaming in the morning sunshine. At last, he called my name.

  ‘That’s you, son, right down the end,’ he said. ‘Happy flying.’

  I sprinted down the row and skidded to a halt in front of her, looking up.

  ‘You beauty.’

  I walked the length of the plane, sliding my hands across the fuselage. It was tight as a drum, all the wires and frets gleaming, the timber freshly varnished. We’d spent weeks skimming around in flighty little scouts in the advanced course, so the RE8 seemed like a monster. Powerful engine, four-blade propeller, forty foot top wing span. A dragon. She’d easily do ninety miles an hour, maybe more, even with two blokes aboard.

  I ducked under the propeller, reached up and patted her nose.

  ‘Hello, sweetheart,’ I said.

  That was when Charlie started shouting.

  He stood over Ferguson, waving his arms about. He let go a few choice Australian swear words as well. You could get court-martialled for less than that. I raced back.

  ‘Charlie! What are you doing?’

  His face was so red he looked about to explode. ‘Ask him!’ He pointed an accusing finger at Ferguson.

  I grabbed his shoulders and swung him round to face me. ‘What’s wrong with you?’

  ‘Everything, apparently,’ he said. ‘It seems I’m not good enough for the Royal damn Flying Corps.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘He won’t give me a plane,’ said Charlie.

  I turned to Captain Ferguson. ‘There must be some mistake, sir.’

  Ferguson didn’t even glance up. ‘Do you really think I’d make such a mistake, Cadet?’

  ‘But Charlie’s a splendid pilot, sir. Better than me.’

  He closed the log book and struggled to his feet. Even leaning on his cane, he was a lot taller than me. ‘Is that what you think?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘That’s very loyal of you, Robinson. But you’re wrong.’ His gaze shifted between me and Charlie. ‘You underestimate your own abilities, and you overestimate young Driscoll’s.’

  ‘But, sir—’ Charlie started to argue but Ferguson silenced him with a wave of one hand.

  ‘Did I tell you there was no place for you in the Corps?’

  Charlie’s shoulders drooped. ‘No, sir.’

  ‘No, I didn’t. I simply said you weren’t getting your own plane. That is because—and all your instructors agree—you will make a better observer than a reconnaissance pilot.’

  ‘But I don’t want to be an observer,’ said Charlie.

  ‘And I don’t want to be hobbling around with a walking stick,’ Ferguson snapped. ‘But we’re in a war. And you, Driscoll, will do as you are ordered. Understood?’

  Charlie sighed. ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘You got the highest marks for gunnery training, but the lowest for aeronautics,’ Ferguson said. ‘I hear you nearly killed yourself twice during the advanced course and tore the undercarriage off a very expensive Bristol.’

  ‘I was dodging a cow, sir.’

  ‘Really? And why were you flying at the level of a dairy herd?’

  Charlie blushed. ‘Forced landing, sir. Ran out of sky.’

  ‘Exactly. But on the gun range, you are second to none. Much better than your friend here.’

  I bowed my head. It was true.

  ‘So the decision was made for us. You will have to do what you can to stop people from shooting at your friend Robinson. And he will make sure the machine gets up and down without hitting any cattle. Is that clear?’

  ‘You mean, we’ll fly together?’ I asked.

  ‘For now.’ He sighed. ‘I’ve been told to rush my three best crews out of here, without any more training. Your orders should come through this week. Both of you. In the meantime, I suggest you get used to flying that huge bus. You’ll be taking it with you.’

  I knew Charlie would argue until the cows came home, but there was no point. I tugged at his sleeve.

  ‘Come along, mate,’ I said. ‘We’ll sort it out when we get back to the squadron.’

  ‘Wrong again,’ said Captain Ferguson. ‘Lieutenant.’

  I looked up. ‘Sir?’

  ‘You heard me,’ he said. ‘You two aren’t going back to your squadron. You’ve been promoted—and posted to the Front.’

  May, 1917

  Hotel Wellington,

  London, England

  By the time you read this, Mags, I’ll be in Flanders. Try not to worry, won’t you? It’s all happened pretty suddenly, so there was no time to warn you. We fly across the Channel and make landfall at a place called Dunkerque, then hop onward to our airfield near Ypres. I’m not allowed to say which one.

  Charlie’s coming with me. He’s decided to be an observer, so he can look after me. We hope they’ll let us fly together.

  We’ve been posted to a British squadron. The rest of our Point Cook boys are still in training all over the place, and won’t be coming across for a while yet.

  Anyway, the brass seem to think me and Charlie have done enough practice, so it’s time to get stuck in.

  We’re in London now, getting kitted out. Not much time for sightseeing, but we ride around on the buses and it’s amazing what you can see without trying. There was one street where a Zeppelin had dropped its bombs and all the houses and shops were just rubble. Scary to think of it, that instead of fighting armies, the Germans are aiming at families at home having dinner. There you are, then BANG! They counter-attack with incendiary ammunition—which is like it sounds. Ordinary bullets don’t work, so these ones set the gas on fire. It makes me shiver to think of it, but it must look like the most incredible bonfire in the sky. We’ve seen marvellous things too—the Houses of Parliament, St Paul’s Cathedral, London Bridge, thousands of ships and boats in the river, and the Tower! I try to remember it all so I can tell you when I get home. I’ve never seen so many people, Sis, all rushing from place to place.

  Anyway, it’s a jolly expensive business being an officer. We have to pay for our own uniform and all this regulation kit, and then on top of that we need our flying gear and what-have-you. They must think we’re loaded. All right for the British flyers—they get a whacking great allowance, and most of them are genuine officer types anyhow. Not us, not on your life.

  I spent two days trudging around the streets trying to buy gear that doesn’t look like it came up in a fishing net. Got back to the hotel and guess what? There, laid out on the bed like the King’s coronation get-up, was a brand new Sidcot flying suit and a pair of leather mittens. Stops you from freezing when you’re up in the air. Sheepskin lining and everything. Charlie swears black and blue he doesn’t know where they came from, but I have a pretty good idea. If I try to thank him, he tells me to shut my gob. Funny bloke.

  So my next letter will be from Europe. How about that? Remember how I used to show you all those places in my school atlas—Paris and Rouen and Bruss
els? In a few days I’ll be there, swanning around in my lieutenant’s uniform and flash new boots. Can you believe that? Me neither.

  Might even try some of that famous French food. We’ve been stuffing ourselves silly the whole time we’ve been in England. You never saw such meals. I’ll be lucky if my plane gets off the ground.

  Tally-ho!

  It was a long way out to Box Hill, past market gardens and miles of fruit trees. I noticed some people living in tents beside the train line. Mr Cartwright stood on the railway platform waiting, nodded to me, and shook hands with Dad, who passed me over as if I were a prize heifer. Dad gave me a kiss, told me to behave, and ran across the lines to catch the next train back to town. And that was that.

  Mr Cartwright and I stood and stared at each other. He was about as old as God. Or Father Christmas. No wonder he needed help with the orchard.

  ‘Come on then, lass,’ he said.

  I picked up my bag and followed him out to the road, where an even older horse stood patiently, harnessed to a wagon that was probably used to build the pyramids.

  ‘In you hop.’

  I threw my bag in the back and climbed aboard. Four hundred hours later (I might be exaggerating here) we pulled up in front of a timber farmhouse painted a shade of bright blue I didn’t even know was possible.

  ‘Nice colour,’ I said.

  ‘Paint was on sale at the general store,’ said Mr Cartwright.

  He ushered me into the kitchen, where his wife bustled about making dinner.

  ‘Bring her in, bring her in,’ shouted Mrs Cartwright. ‘Don’t let her freeze, you old fool.’

  ‘Stop yer nagging,’ said Mr Cartwright.

  ‘Let me look at her,’ she said. She peered over her spectacles at me. ‘Skinny thing, isn’t she?’

  ‘Hope she’s strong,’ he said.

  ‘I am,’ I said, but it was as if I hadn’t spoken.

  ‘She looks like she needs fattening up,’ said Mrs Cartwright.