by Terry Deary
Contents
Chapter 1 Secrets and spies
Chapter 2 Kitbag and kites
Chapter 3 Flying and floss
Chapter 4 Camels and clouds
Chapter 5 Dawns and Deathtraps
Chapter 6 Biffs and Baron
Epilogue
Chapter 1
Secrets and spies
Somewhere in the South of England
Wednesday 13 December 1916
Dear Lucy
Hello, little sister. I promised I’d write while I am away fighting for Britain. The trouble is, the army is worried there may be spies around. If I tell you where I am, and where I am going, then a spy could read this letter and be waiting for me when I arrive.
But I can tell you I am still in England and waiting to sail across the English Channel. You know I trained to fight in the trenches. Just before I left home we read the newspapers together. You cried as we read about the terrible battle at the Somme. Brave British men walking across the mud into the teeth of German machine guns. They were tangled in the barbed wire and thousands died or were wounded. You were terrified to think that could happen to me. ‘I’ll pray every night,’ you promised.
Soldiers who came home from the war said they didn’t do a lot of fighting. Most of the time it was just cold, wet and boring. Still, you were frightened. I can tell you, I was frightened too. I tried to put on a brave face for you, but I had nightmares. What would happen when the sergeant blew his whistle and told us to walk towards the machine guns? Would my legs carry me over the smashed earth and the deep pools of slime? Or would I collapse with fear and have to be dragged by my mates?
But now I don’t have to worry any more. And you can sleep well too. The most amazing thing has happened.
All the men were lined up to have their photographs taken by an old fellow. The pictures would be printed and sent home to our families.
Well, I know something about photography! Do you realise, I’ve been taking photographs since I left school six years ago, and I’ve had a studio for two whole years now?
I remember that last summer before the war started. The most beautiful summer of our lives. We went to Brighton beach and my photos of the swimmers in the glittering sea won prizes. You were so proud of me.
Well, as I was saying, this old bloke came along – and he had a pocket Kodak camera! Can you believe that? Even you have a better camera than that. I think Mrs Noah used a pocket Kodak on Noah’s Ark.
He was shaking so much, poor fellow, he took forever to take one photo – and there were a thousand men to get through. So I said to the colonel that I had my Zeiss camera with a Tessar lens. My pictures would be quicker and much clearer.
The colonel didn’t like it much because it’s a German camera, of course. But after the old chap had fumbled around for ten more minutes everyone was freezing.
‘Here, Private Adams,’ the colonel sighed. ‘You take over.’
I’d finished in three hours. The old bloke would still have been snapping till New Year. And by that time the troops would all be in the trenches. But not me. That’s really what I am writing to tell you about.
I am going to war but not in the trenches. It’s amazing what happened. It was all because of my camera. I’d love to explain, but remember what I said about spies and secrets? I will have to ask the colonel if I can tell you what I am doing before I write anything else.
I have to start printing off the thousand pictures of the troops now. The colonel says I don’t have to go marching on the parade ground – the most boring and tiring thing in the army. When I tell you about my new post you’ll see why I may never have to march again. Ever. Hurrah!
Will you take a photo of Mum and Dad and send it to me when you reply? Just a small picture so I can carry it in my wallet when I have my great adventure – the one I can’t tell you about just yet.
Love to you and the family, the dogs, and of course your dolls.
Your loving brother
Alfred
Chapter 2
Kitbag and kites
Somewhere in the East of England
Monday 18th December 1916
Dear Lucy
Thank you for your lovely letter, the photo and your prayers.
I’ve been moved 150 miles on the slowest troop trains in the world. The railways are crowded with men and machines being sent all over the country. We spent a horrible hour waiting in a tunnel while the engine steamed and tried to choke us.
It took me twelve hours to get here and I arrived in a darkened station around midnight. The whole town is dark because of the blackout.
I stumbled around outside looking for a taxi and found one when I walked into it. It was a black taxi on a dark night. The driver was grumbling I’d scratched his paint with my kitbag. I was more worried about my camera in the bag.
He was still grumbling when he dropped me off at my new camp. This is the East of England. There are no hills to shelter us from the wind that roars down off the North Sea. The camp is as flat as the pond at the bottom of our garden and bald as Dad’s head – not a tree to hide behind.
But I’m here now with a bed in a barn. The north wind cuts through the planks and through my blankets. I think I’ll wake up as a block of ice tomorrow morning.
Thanks for the Christmas present. I’ll open it on Christmas Day, wherever I am. I have no idea where that will be.
My big news is that in future you must send your letters to Lieutenant Alfred Adams. Yes, I have been made an officer in record time! Only officers can do this new job and I am one of the best at it.
I bet you’re amazed. I bet you’re saying, ‘What is our Alfred so good at? Is it his shooting?’
No, it’s not. My shooting is so bad I’d have more chance of hitting my sergeant in the trenches than the Germans. (Hitting the sergeant is a nice idea. He never stopped shouting at me for six weeks at training camp.)
‘Is it his marching?’ you’re asking.
No. Sergeant said I had two left feet.
Last guess. ‘Is it because the men adore the handsome young warrior Alfred Terence Adams, and want him to be their leader?’
No. I will be an officer with no men to lead!
All right, I will stop teasing you now, little sister, and tell you. I have been made an officer for my photography. And I have been sent from the army to join the men in the kites. I am in the Royal Flying Corps.
Yes, I know I can’t fly an aeroplane, but I don’t have to. I will be what they call an observer. We sit in a two-seat plane. The pilot flies it while I lean over the side and take photos of the battles a thousand feet below.
It is an exciting sort of job, and a lot safer than being down on the ground in the trenches. When you are in a trench you can’t see what the enemy is doing. Is he creeping round the side? Is he sending his big guns to a special place so he can blast our barbed wire away and break through? Is he building new railway lines that we need to smash with our big guns?
We can’t see that from the trenches so we send up fliers in aeroplanes to take photographs.
Of course the Germans know how important those pictures are. They have special guns called anti-aircraft guns to shoot at the planes. We call anti-aircraft fire ack-ack or archie for short. You see? I am learning the new language of the airmen already.
But don’t worry. The pilots who are training us say the ack-ack gunners are rotten shots, and so long as we stay higher than a thousand feet off the ground the machine guns in the trenches can’t get us either.
There are also German fighter planes who want to shoot us down. I’m sure you’ve heard about Manfred von Richthofen, the Red Baron.
They say he has shot down fifteen British planes. But the sky over France is vast. There isn’t
much chance of running into him. And of course they will give me a machine gun as well as a camera. So if that Red Baron comes within a mile of me, I’ll shoot him down. (I know what you’re thinking. I will have to practice my shooting if I want to hit anything smaller than Buckingham Palace.)
I still have a lot to learn.
Tomorrow I take my first trip in an aeroplane, over the fields of England. After six weeks of training I’ll be sent over to France and join the war at long last.
Have a peaceful Christmas if I can’t write to you before then.
Love
Alfred
Chapter 3
Flying and floss
Somewhere in France
Wednesday 3 January 1917
Dear Lucy
I have so much to tell you and so little time.
Your gift of woollen socks was perfect. You would not believe how cold the air is above the clouds. I hope you liked the leather gloves I sent you for Christmas.
We had goose for Christmas dinner, just like you! We officers get well fed. It’s not at all like being a private.
Being a private all seems so long ago now. Flying may be cold but it is the most exciting thing I’ve ever done.
That first day of training in England was one I’ll never forget. The commander told us we were needed desperately in France.
There is a big, big attack planned in the spring. (That’s not a secret. But only the generals know where it will be.) We will be needed to take photos every day, three times a day.
Our lads have been sitting in trenches for more than two years. Now we are going to break through. The lines will change every minute and only the fliers can keep up with it.
First we were paired off – each observer with a pilot. I was given a young Scottish man as my pilot. You may think I am young to fight but he is just 18 years old.
His name is Donald Stewart and he’s the nicest fellow I’ve ever met. He says, ‘You’re not bad, Alfred… for an Englishman.’ Cheek. He is always smiling.
You will be pleased to hear he is also a great pilot.
After we were paired up, each pair was paired up again, with their machine. Donald and I were given a flying machine called an FE2b. I’ll try to draw you a picture of it.
These are the planes we’ll be flying now we are in France. You can see the propeller is at the back. What they call a ‘pusher’. I get to sit in the front so I have a clear view to take my photos. I also have a machine gun to drive off any German fighters.
That part we sit in, the fuselage, is just wood and canvas, so it’s cold once we rise above the clouds. The rest of the plane is wooden spars with wires to hold the bits together. It looks like a giant stick insect perched on the wheels of your doll’s pram.
One day, when this war is over, you may get to fly. It is amazing.
Donald set off along the grassy field faster than Dad’s Morris Cowley car. When we reached 45 miles an hour Donald pulled back on his control stick and we lifted into the air.
The clouds were slate grey and full of snow. But when Donald took us above them it was a sight like no other.
The sun shines down on the tops of the clouds. Remember that candyfloss you ate at the seaside fair in 1913? Well, the clouds are like white candyfloss. Then when we came down below the clouds and I could see the patchwork of fields below, I could practise taking pictures.
Of course it’s easy when there are no Germans firing archie or machine guns. Now I am in France it will be a lot harder. But Donald is such a great pilot I know he’ll always see us home safe.
Your flying brother,
Alfred
Chapter 4
Camels and clouds
Somewhere in France
21 January 1917
Dearest Lucy
I know I promised to write every week but I am so weary I can barely eat before I fall asleep. This is Sunday and my rest day.
Our training did not warn us it would be as bad as this. We set off each dawn with just a hard-boiled egg and a cup of tea for breakfast. Donald and I drag ourselves out of our beds. We don’t speak much before we set off. He isn’t quite so cheerful these days.
The FE2b planes are kept in a hangar and are warmer than us. Even in our sheepskin and leather, some of the fliers get frostbite after an hour in the air. The trouble is, the FE2b engines won’t start if they get too cold. Some of our mechanics wrap them in blankets overnight. There is even a story of a mechanic in the north of France who lit a fire under the engine to keep it warm. Guess what happened? The fuel in the plane exploded, the whole hangar caught alight and twelve precious flying machines were turned to scrap metal and ashes. One British mechanic had destroyed as many machines as the famous Red Baron.
Yesterday we took off at first light with three other FE2b planes. It wasn’t like the training flights in England. We didn’t climb above the brilliant white cotton-wool clouds – if we did that we wouldn’t be able to take pictures.
And the earth below wasn’t patchwork shades of green like England. It is a grey wilderness. No leafy trees or cosy houses or living animals. Only a shattered ocean of mud and shell-holes filled with icy water. Last year our armies invented a machine called the tank to crawl over the waste-land. A few wrecked ones lie there like grey litter along with smashed guns. We can even see a few broken bits of planes, but we try not to think about them. A pilot like Donald will get us home safely every time.
I have learned that the FE2b is a very slow aeroplane and easy for fighters like the Red Baron to attack. Old pilots call the FE2b a ‘Flying Bathtub’ or a ‘Dawdling Deathtrap’. But of course those pilots are still alive to insult the planes, so they can’t be that deadly, can they?
We flew east towards the German trenches but we didn’t cross them. When the cloud is low we have to fly even lower. The archie on the ground can reach us. Even enemy soldiers with rifles and machine guns can reach us.
That cloud can hide a thousand devils above us – German fighter aeroplanes with strange names like Halberstadt and Rumpler and Pfalz. But the most evil name of all is Spandau – the machine guns that they carry. When we hear the rattle and the chatter of a Spandau we head for home.
As I say, we didn’t cross the battle lines at first. We had to meet up with a flight of British fighter planes, the ones called Sopwith Camels. Can you picture a camel trying to fly? Who thinks of these names?
The Camels fly above us and act like a shield against the German fighters to stop them diving down on us. Once our Camels are circling over our heads, Donald cries, ‘Time to take our pictures. Say cheese, my German friends.’
Yesterday the German gunners were very good. I’d only taken a handful of pictures before there was a burst of archie just ahead of us. I could feel the warmth and smell the explosive. The splinters of metal ripped into the plane but I had ducked down behind my machine gun so I was safe.
Donald was supposed to fly straight ahead so I could get pictures five miles over the German lines but I felt him turn the FE2b towards the west. I twisted round and shouted over the roar of the engine, ‘Where are we going, Donald?’
He pointed to his right. The canvas on the wing was torn and flapping and the wires cut through by archie.
The plane was wallowing like a whale. If we didn’t get back there was the danger the Dawdling Deathtrap would fold like a piece of paper.
We headed home, and of course we landed safely. Donald had a grin on his face as wide as the Firth of Forth. (That’s the river near his home town.)
‘That was a close thing,’ I said.
‘Close enough but it will take a day to patch up the Bathtub. We get the rest of today off. Every cloud has a silver lining.’
Maybe it’s as well that we did turn back. Maybe we are lucky. It seems the other three planes in our flight met a force of German fighters, the ones called Albatros.
None of our pals came home to base.
I hope they landed safely. But if they’d landed on our side of the lines t
hey’d have been home for tea last night. They’re still not back. So they must have landed on the German side and been taken prisoner. Three pilots and three observers lost. We are losing them as fast as England can send them from the training camp. But not your brother, my dear.
I think the Germans look after the prisoners well. Of course, with Donald for my pilot I will never be taken prisoner.
I will have to hurry to catch the post now. This war will soon be over. Once we make that big attack in spring it will be over in no time. Make sure the kettle is on, Lucy. I’ll be home before you know it.
Your weary brother,
Alfred
Chapter 5
Dawns and Deathtraps
France
Sunday 4 March 1917
Dearest Lucy
I hope the spring has arrived in England. I have been told I will get some leave and be home in April. Forgive me when I get home if I just manage to say ‘Hello’, and then sleep for a week.
The days are getting longer. That means we get up even earlier and finish even later on the flights.
We are still losing airmen as fast as they send them out from England. They arrive one day and go on patrol, and they don’t come back. So many come and go I can’t even remember their names.
And so young. I’ll be 21 on the first of June and I am an old man in number 48 squadron. Donald is still just 19 and he is now a flight leader. The last leader was wounded when his Bathtub crashed into a tree as it took off. Still, you mustn’t worry about me. These young pilots only have about twelve hours’ flying before they are sent out to France. They are like children driving a fast car, out of control.