Wings of War (4 page)

Horst grins broadly. “Ya. I felt exactly the same, the first time I went up alone.”

We sip our drinks and watch the clouds grow.

“You are going to the war, now that you can fly?” Horst asks eventually.

“Yes,” I reply. “As soon as I’m old enough, I will be a pilot.”

“Canada does not have an air force,” Horst points out.

“I know. But I will go to Britain and join the Royal Flying Corps. Dad is English.”

“An expensive proposition.”

“I’ll manage,” I say defensively, although I have no idea how.

“Hmm.” Horst looks at me and strokes his chin. “Have you spoken with your father on this?”

“Not yet,” I admit, “but I will.”

“And do you know that the Royal Flying Corps will not accept anyone without a pilot’s license?”

“Then I’ll get one.”

“That too costs money.”

Suddenly angry, I slam my lemonade glass on the table between us and stand up. “If all you can do is point out the obstacles, then I’m going home.”

“Sit down,” Horst says gently before I’ve taken a step. His calm tone of voice and the half smile on his lips drain the anger from me as quickly as it appeared.

“I’m sorry,” I say, propping myself against the porch rail. “That flight today was the most incredible thing I have ever done. Joining the Royal Flying Corps will allow me to follow my dream
and
do something for my country in the war.”

Horst nods. “If I were your age, I would feel exactly the same. But it seems to me that you have four difficulties: a pilot’s license, the money to get that license and travel to England, your age, and persuading your father to let you go.”

“I know.” I sit back down. The path to my dream seems impossible when the difficulties are laid out like that.

“Do not look so miserable,” Horst says. “Difficulties are put in our way to be overcome. And some are easily dealt with. For example, did you know that the Royal Flying Corps accepts pilots at the age of seventeen?”

“I’ll be seventeen in a few months.”

Horst nods. “And with some other difficulties, I may be able to assist. I could talk to your father, for instance.”

“That would be great,” I say. “But why will you help me go to war?”

Horst looks at me for so long that I begin to feel uncomfortable. “There are two reasons,” he says eventually. “First, you are young and strong-willed. You will find a way to follow your dream regardless of what your father and I say or do. Standing in your way will only make you angry at us.”

I open my mouth to deny it, but before I say anything, I realize he’s right. I
will
go somehow, regardless of how difficult it may be.

“Second,” Horst continues, “already some people are saying we will have to bring in conscription.”

“What’s conscription?”

“A law that would force all men of a certain age to become soldiers. It will not happen this year, but the war will not end this year either. It will be better for you to join voluntarily. Then you will have the choice of doing what you want and are good at, rather than being just a soldier like all the others.”

“And you will tell my father all of that?”

Horst nods once more. “I will. Also, I know of a small flying school outside Glasgow, just across the border in Montana. I know the owner, and we have communicated for many years on the subject of flying machines. I am sure he would take you.”

“Which only leaves the money,” I say, overwhelmed by the speed with which things appear to be moving. “Thank you.”

“There is another reason I will help you, Edward,” Horst says, staring into the distance. “Martha and I have not been blessed with children. You are the closest to a son that I have.” My uncle blinks rapidly a number of times and I shift uncomfortably in my chair at Horst’s unusual display of emotion. “I mean it when I say that you have a talent, Edward. I have never seen anyone take to flying the way you have. It is
your
dream, as it
was mine. I cannot stop you going to war, but I can help feed your dream.”

Thunder rumbles in the distance.

“The storm comes,” Horst says gloomily. He turns to look at me. “If you wish, I will send a letter to my friend in Glasgow and talk with your father.”

“Yes, please,” I say softly.

Horst nods as if I am merely confirming what he already knows. “Then go and saddle your horse. I do not think it would be fitting if the world-famous flyer was struck by lightning on his way home.”

I stand and look down at my uncle. There is a tear in the corner of his eye. “Thank you,” I repeat.

“Ya, ya. Thank me when this is all over.” He hauls himself out of his seat. “You wait here,” he orders, disappearing into the house.

A moment later he returns carrying a small, rectangular black box.

“You are determined to go to war?” he asks.

“I am,” I say.

“Well, then. I give you this for luck.”

Carefully, I open the box. Nestled on deep red velvet is an ornate blue-and-gold cross. The top arm of the cross has a crown and the letter
F
. The other three arms have the words “Pour le Mérite” written on them in gold letters.

“It’s beautiful,” I say.

“Ya. My father won it in the war against France in 1870. It is the Pour le Mérite, Germany’s highest military honor. Very rare.”

“What did he win it for?” I ask, turning the wonderful object over in my hand.

“He captured an entire troop of French dragoons at the Battle of Sedan. In doing so, he was wounded—a bullet through his right lung that left him always short of breath.”

“I can’t accept this,” I say. “It’s too valuable.”

“What is the value of a piece of metal with some blue enamel on it? It is people who are important, and maybe this will bring you luck in whatever adventures you meet with.”

“Thank you,” I repeat.

Horst waves dismissively. “Thank me when the Pour le Mérite brings you back. Now go.”

I close the box, tuck my new treasure into my pocket and walk to the barn. I saddle Abby and, with a final wave to the figure on the porch, head out onto the road. My emotions are in utter turmoil. Joy, excitement, sadness, confusion, fear—all fight for my attention. But
there is one thing I am certain of: today is the most important day of my life. Everything I have been doing for my first sixteen years is finished. I don’t know where the road in front of me is going, but I am certain it is a different path from the one I have been on. In a single day, I have realized my dream of flying and decided to go to war.

CHAPTER 5

“O
kay, so how much flying you done?” Ted Barnham is a big, gangly redheaded guy. Oddly, on this hot July morning only two weeks after my conversation with Horst, he is wearing a heavily padded jacket, scarf, boots and a cloth cap set backward on his head. I feel underdressed in my patched sweater, canvas work pants and scuffed shoes.

“I’ve made five solo flights in Bertha,” I reply. Ted and I are walking across a field at his aero school outside Glasgow, Montana, toward a large, sturdy biplane. The plane’s fuselage is enveloped in doped fabric, and
the engine is covered by a broad, smooth cowling. Solid wooden struts hold the wings together and support the two wheels. Strong wires run out to control the ailerons on the upper and lower wings, as well as the elevators and rudder on the tailfin. The engine cowling is painted silver, the wings a light tan and the fuselage a bright green. The plane is beautiful.

“Bertha’d be Horst’s latest invention?” Ted asks.

“Yeah, his seventh, I think. She’s a monoplane.”

“Like a Blériot?”

“Yeah.”

“Did you crash her?”

“No,” I say indignantly.

Ted laughs. “Good, ’cause I don’t want you wrecking my Avro 504.”

“I won’t,” I say with more confidence than I feel.

“Good,” Ted says again. “Fortunately, the 504’s as stable as a battleship.” We’ve reached the plane now, and Ted’s pointing out features to me. “She’s powered by a French Gnome rotary engine. The whole engine turns when it’s running—all seven cylinders flying around. Scared the bejeezus out of me first time I saw it, but it gives you a lot of power, enough to do a full loop. Can you fly a figure of eight?”

“I’ve never done one, but I’ve done turns.”

“Ever do a landing with the power off?”

“Once,” I say, swallowing in embarrassment. “But that was because I wasn’t paying attention and ran out of fuel.”

Ted laughs. “I’ll bet Horst doesn’t bother with luxuries like a fuel gauge. Well, that’s all you need to do for a license, so you’re near enough there. Let’s have a look in the cockpit.”

We walk around and peer into the rear cockpit. I’m amazed at the complex of dials and levers.

“Bit fancier than Horst’s?” Ted asks, seeing my jaw drop. “Rear cockpit’s where the pilot sits, front’s for the student. You recognize the rudder bar and the control stick?”

“Yes,” I say, “but that’s all.”

“Horst’s plane have a throttle?”

“Yes,” I reply. “Why do you ask?”

“Well, a rotary engine don’t need a throttle. Engine runs at full power all the time.”

“How do you slow it down?”

“These here.” Ted points to two small levers on the instrument panel. “The right one’s called the blip switch, and it stops the fuel flow to the engine. You don’t want to use that one much—it’ll cause the spark plugs to clog, and she might not start again. Only use the blip switch when you’re coming in to land. The other one’s the air valve, and it adjusts the fuel-to-air
ratio to the engine. The engine keeps spinning, but you reduce or increase the power. Simple.”

I have my doubts, but I don’t say anything.

“Those three dials”—Ted points above the switches—“will help you once you’re aloft. Left one tells you your speed through the air. It’s pretty accurate, as far as I can tell. Right one tells you the speed your engine’s turning at. Not much use, since you’re running a rotary flat out most of the time anyway. Middle one gives you your height above the ground, or it’s supposed to. I never reckoned it worked too well. Better to look over the side and judge for yourself.”

“What’s that?” I ask, pointing to a ball that seems to float in some liquid behind a glass dial.

“That tells you if you’re flying level. Useful if you can’t see the horizon. The line across the middle’s an artificial horizon, so the ball tells you how level you are. And you’ll find these useful.” Ted indicates two vertical glass tubes, almost full with a pale amber liquid. “They’ll tell you if you’re about to run out of fuel. There’s two fuel tanks—a big one in behind the engine and a small gravity one on top of the wing.” He points to a long silver tube above my head. “The level in the glass tube tells you how much is left in each tank, and the levers below allow to you switch off the fuel and move from one tank to the other.”

“It’s amazing,” I say, taking in the dials, the polished wood controls and the leather seat.

“She’s a beauty, right enough. But the front’s not quite so fancy,” he says, moving to the forward cockpit. “Same rudder and stick controls, but none of the impressive array of dials. Only the air valve and blip switch to control the engine. Probably looks more like what you’re used to.”

“It does,” I say, looking in at the sparse cockpit interior.

“One more thing: these rotary engines take a lot of oil and spit it out once it’s been used. That’s why there’s these windshields, but some oil always gets past. Two problems with that. One, the oil’s hot, so you have to wear goggles at all times. Two, it’s castor oil. You know what that does if you swallow it?”

“I do,” I say, remembering too many times spent perched in the outhouse after my mother had given me castor oil for an upset stomach.

“Best to keep your mouth shut if the oil’s coming at you,” Ted advises. “Well, put these on and hop in.” He hands me a pair of worn leather motorbike goggles. “Let’s take her up for a spin.”

He doesn’t need to ask me twice. I begin to clamber into the front cockpit, but Ted stops me with a hand on my shoulder.

“You take the back one,” he says. “Might as well get used to all the fancy stuff.”