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    Heaven Is Too Far Away
    Heaven Is Too Far Away
    Heaven Is Too Far Away
    Ebook713 pages10 hours

    Heaven Is Too Far Away

    By Louis Shalako

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    About this ebook

    Funnier than Kelly’s Heroes, darker in places than Catch-22, and more irreverent than M*A*S*H, this satirical WW I Royal Flying Corps memoir will leave the reader in stitches and historians shaking their heads. The most aggressive pilot wins. Lieutenant-Colonel Tucker racks up quite a score, and it's not just enemy aircraft either, for the tall and heavily decorated Will Tucker. He likes the ladies and they like him. The fact that he flies against the Red Baron and lives to write his memoirs is just a bonus.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherLouis Shalako
    Release dateSep 25, 2010
    ISBN9780986687105
    Heaven Is Too Far Away
    Author

    Louis Shalako

    Louis Shalako is the founder of Long Cool One Books and the author of twenty-two novels, numerous novellas and other short stories. Louis studied Radio, Television and Journalism Arts at Lambton College of Applied Arts and Technology, later going on to study fine art. He began writing for community newspapers and industrial magazines over thirty years ago. His stories appear in publications including Perihelion Science Fiction, Bewildering Stories, Aurora Wolf, Ennea, Wonderwaan, Algernon, Nova Fantasia, and Danse Macabre. He lives in southern Ontario and writes full time. Louis enjoys cycling, swimming and good books.

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      Book preview

      Heaven Is Too Far Away - Louis Shalako

      Chapter One

      S.E.5s over Valenciennes

      Major Jenkins and I were climbing, full throttle, at 14,000 feet. We were heading southeast over Valenciennes.

      The major waggled his wings. Enemy in sight! The signal, four fingers straight up.

      He pointed left and down. We could see them through the patches of white vapour, like minnows swimming in a pool of crystalline mountain spring-water.

      I gave him a nod and we kept climbing. Obscured by a thin layer of cloud, they were going west about 2,500 feet below. A couple more seconds now. I concentrated on keeping above and to his right, just close enough. I couldn’t drift too far back or I wouldn’t be able to see his signals.

      ‘Mad Dog’ glanced over. Holding the stick with both hands, ready to check the throttle, I watched him roll into a split-S. He must have been concerned about the inexperienced newcomer behind him. People always underestimate me.

      Don’t you worry, I’m right on you, I grunted.

      We had the sun at our backs. On to the foes! Four Albatros D-III’s, from a rather colourful unit we were all too familiar with. We had a score to settle. This was only my sixteenth patrol in a single-seat fighter.

      Focus, lad, focus!

      The voice of my first instructor rattled in my head and it was well.

      A sudden burst of smoke from Mad Dog’s plane startled me, but it was his guns. I could smell it. It was reassuring. Flying fifty yards behind as we plummeted, I kept in a good position. I had to follow the major and be able to see the bad guys too. One of the enemy aircraft, the one at the right and rear of the formation, burst into flames. It just dropped away. It folded up and started to burn.

      This was the worst part, for some reason. It’s like being caught cheating by the income tax people. A real gut-wrenching feeling.

      My engine was screaming. The airspeed indicator needle was getting close to the red.

      I throttled back a microscopic fraction of an inch.

      I crossed behind Mad Dog to fire at the second plane in from the far side. I don’t know if I got any hits. I was at extreme range. Altimeter 9,800 feet. Mad Dog was pulling away.

      The wild, white-rimmed eyes of a terrified human being pleaded in silent supplication.

      You bastards killed my buddy! I bellowed, plunging vertically towards him.

      I doubt if he was listening. The airframe juddered from the recoil, and I could see tracers smashing into the center of the looming target. There were a lot of struts and wires, but not much to hit. Nothing really significant happened.

      I was doing two-fifty-plus. It’s pretty exciting, diving at the earth while craning the head around to look for pursuit. The altimeter needle spun. As it went past the numbers, I tried to look and read, to figure out what it meant. It was impossible. Always looking behind.

      They’re coming down now, but already Mad Dog was pulling out.

      Grunting, ‘you son of a bitch,’ I pulled too.

      He was rolling hard to the right. If we went left, the enemy would have the sun behind them.

      Airspeed, a hundred-fifty miles per hour, at 11,000 feet and pulling hard in a climbing right turn.

      Everyone was firing all at once. They came down, a pair in front and the third one was diving, but hanging back. Mad Dog pulled even harder as the leading pair dove past. He rolled inverted and went after them. I was head-on with the wounded bird. Sure enough, he pulled a boner and broke up and away.

      You poor stupid bastard!

      I could hear myself, barely.

      He wouldn’t get away. Not this time. Practically hanging on the prop as I gunned him, I looked around in a hurry. If we could use the clouds for ambush so could someone else.

      Damn it!

      And there they were, too. Ruptured duck, riddled with holes, snapped into a spin and a lifeless body, spewing blood and trailing something that looked suspiciously like bloody, shitty entrails, fell into endless space, but I had to get out of there.

      Airspeed, ninety. A bad situation.

      A hard right rudder turn flipped her and we raced for the ground. Where the hell was Mad Dog? I had six, maybe seven sets of machine guns on my tail, barely five hundred yards back. No sense in weaving until they got closer. That’s a last resort. I had a need for speed. Whack! Something hit the strut ahead of me.

      Jesus help me now…little thuds from the airframe. Cringing inside of my skin.

      There was a cloud due west, about 4,000 feet below, and a mile on my left. Pull, pull, pull.

      Airspeed, one-seventy and accelerating, altitude, 7,000, half a mile to go, a little more left.

      Zip-zip-zip, clickety-smack, somebody’s on me! Another second. God damn you all to hell. I pulled into a hard loop as soon as I got into the cloud. If the enemy was smart, they would dive below the cloud, leaving top cover to watch the edges. I hoped Mad Dog wasn’t in here.

      Watching the instruments.

      Over the top.

      Roll out. Do it now.

      Out into the open again.

      Where is the enemy?

      They say there are no atheists in a foxhole. There’s not too many around here either. I pray all the time up here. Believe me, boys. No one was there. Point the nose of my plane at the sun and take a hard look. Look around my clenched fist. Nothing. I want to go west. Where is the major?

      Fucking asshole!

      Weave like crazy.

      Climbing into the sun in a hard right turn; when suddenly a plane appeared on the right. For some reason I was looking in every direction but that one. There was no one about, and then he just popped up. It gave me quite a shock, but then I saw it was my leader, the well-known Major Frederick ‘Mad Dog’ Jenkins.

      I breathed again, deeply.

      He grinned, presumably, for his mask shifted perceptibly, and he shook his head in mock shame. He held up two fingers. Then he tapped his goggles. In pantomine he licked the tip of a finger and marked one up in the air in front of his face. He pointed at me, then gave a thumbs-up and an approving nod.

      All this took but seconds. I spent the next twenty minutes scanning the sky all around. All I wanted was to get back to the aerodrome and have a really good shit. Over our own lines, suddenly we were engulfed by snarling puffs of ominous black smoke. Mad Dog sailed serenely on, and I had to resist the impulse to dive, to veer, to climb. Go anywhere but through, ‘Archie.’ It’s as safe as anyplace, actually. What you can see is scary.

      It’s the ones you can’t see that will kill you every time.

      It makes your skin crawl.

      It ended as quickly as it began. The gunners must have rubbed the sleep from their eyes by now. The watch attached to the instrument panel showed, ‘six fifty-two a.m.,’as the wheels touched the soft green paddock of our ‘drome.

      ***

      And I lived through another one. One had to admire the way Mad Dog maneuvered his plane, even on the ground. There was no hesitation, no wasted throttle blips or cranking of the rudder back and forth. Eventually, I got my machine parked beside his, which was, oddly enough; more of a reward than a confirmed kill.

      He stood beside the fuselage.

      I’ll give the report, he said. Off you go and wash your face, get a hot cup of tea into you.

      Yes, sir, I said tiredly, sweat cooling in the armpits and down my chest where the little rivers ran, even in the bitter cold of the upper air.

      We can fill in the details later, he said, not unkindly.

      He gazed at my face for a moment. I was busy taking off my headgear, and wanted to talk to the crew.

      That was a good landing, he added before turning away, his dark and sardonic face clouded by doubts.

      I liked the major. He was a nice guy. Too bad he got killed about ten or twelve weeks later, I’m not sure exactly when. He taught me a lot.

      My aircraft fitter and engine mechanic came over to the side of the plane to help me out of the cramped and confined cockpit. When you’re in it, you can get at everything pretty easily. When you see those big feet coming out of that little hole, knocking a clump of dried mud off going past the control stick, you realize just how small it all really is. Funny, the little things you remember.

      Careful. The safety’s on, but you never know, I told my ‘boys,’ who were probably five and ten years older than I.

      Watson was always a little impatient. He was a former businessman; and probably employed guys my age as junior clerks.

      Yes, sir. We know the drill, sir.

      He must have hated calling me, ‘sir.’

      I wanted to slap him on the shoulder, help him to like me in some way. It would just make him more uncomfortable. He could never respect me. Never even bothered to ask why, either. It didn’t matter. Not really. He did his job.

      I turned to Smitty, a more easy character.

      Well, we got one anyway. Thanks for your help, gentlemen, I said.

      That sounded awfully ‘cool,’ or, ‘flip.’ Or whatever. The working-class Englishmen had their own set of slang. It was quite distinct from the schoolboys on the squadron. The pilots I mean.

      As I walked towards the latrine there was one muttered oath and Smitty’s quick rejoinder.

      I’m sure it was kindly meant. And he did say he got one of the buggers.

      I ain’t exactly a gentleman either. Seated on the wooden bench over a rather frigid, yet still stinking hole in the ground, I pondered my own fate, and that of the other guy.

      Better than the infantry, said the bleary-eyed pilot next to me. At least we have a roof over our shit house.

      His name eluded me.

      How are you going to keep them down on the farm, after they’ve seen Paree? I asked, and his laugh had the stench of early-morning alcohol. You going to be all right?

      He was up for the next patrol.

      Of course. I have a little something in my boot, he replied.

      His tone clearly implied, ‘mind your own business.’

      It takes time to get to know these fellows.

      Sometimes the people around you are more difficult to understand than the enemy.

      I’ll take your spot. I feel lucky today. I think I’ll get me another one.

      I didn’t mean to offend the guy, ill as he was.

      I’m just a little hung over, old cock, he retorted, in no way mollified.

      At least we got to throw a shit together. He was a nice guy. Too bad he got killed on the mission. I wish I could have said something. What, I don’t know. Something.

      Anything. And you wish you had taken the time to get to know them a little better.

      When I got to the office, the adjutant had some papers to sign, and he congratulated me on my ‘victory.’

      The poor fucker was already dead, I muttered.

      He crossed out, ‘Albatros,’ and wrote in, ‘Fokker.’ A ‘combat incident report.’

      For some reason the words, ‘already dead,’ repeated in my mind.

      Wouldn’t worry about it, old chap, he said wryly. No one actually reads them anyway!

      Now, I knew that wasn’t true, having read a few of them myself, before becoming a flying officer. As an observer, you want to know what’s going on. Even if you have no control over the machine, or your fate.

      It helps when you go to brief your pilot.

      It was a mistake to leave myself vulnerable, with no airspeed, I allowed.

      Probably, he agreed. But it’s never a mistake to fire your guns at the enemy. Remember what Nelson said before Trafalgar…?

      Don’t give up the ship? I joked.

      No. I believe he said, ‘whoever lays his ship alongside of the enemy, shall be considered to have done his duty.’

      I gave him a goofy grin.

      When in doubt, ram? I asked.

      He chuckled at that one. The bottle came out.

      The Old Man’s pleased. That’s all that really matters, he reckoned, shoving a small glass of liquor over the desk.

      He put his cavalry boots up on the scarred surface and picked up another page.

      Over the top of it, he surveyed me through his pince-nez, squinting through the bluish smoke from a thin cheroot. Grey eyes, thick eyebrows. Wrinkled forehead, crow’s feet.

      Did you hear the one about the admiral? Oh well, the punch line is, ‘I’m sorry sir, I don’t think we have enough flags for that one…?’

      I was giddy, for no particular reason.

      No! Tell it in the mess sometime. I promise I won’t ruin it, he grimaced as the liquor halted suddenly in his stomach.

      I slumped a little more in the chair. The booze burned its way down my throat.

      What the heck is that stuff? I murmured.

      No reply. Apparently he had a lot of paperwork.

      You’ll be flying with ‘B’ Flight tomorrow, he advised. The Old Man asked me to tell you. He has to take a couple of the new boys up.

      That’s good, up to a point. The first squadron I was posted to, they never did get around to assigning me to a Flight. Although I did get in a few missions, I was bumped so somebody’s brother could fly with them.

      That may have been a mistake, but maybe he felt differently about his brother.

      I told my brothers to stay home.

      Thanks.

      I stood up.

      Have something to eat and have a good nap, this afternoon, he suggested.

      Yes, sir. I said.

      Run along and see Dinwiddie, or if he’s not there, Singh is sort of his unofficial deputy, the adjutant said, waving me away.

      I was only half listening.

      Singh is the one with the turban, he smiled.

      For some reason I didn’t laugh.

      I remember thinking, ‘I’m still alive, and tomorrow is another day.’

      Still, the thought of going up with anyone but the major was enough to cause some nervousness. At least the major could fly.

      When I got back to the hangar, the plane was already in the process of repair.

      A hundred and thirteen holes in the lower wing, said Smitty. That’s not a problem, but the strut will take a while to fix.

      A hundred and thirteen! I gaped. You’re shitting me!

      Watson seemed in a better mood now. He beckoned me over, and pointed at the strut, shattered by the impact of a bullet. His inquisitive blue eyes gleamed in mischief.

      That must have missed your ear by a half a fucking inch, he grinned, showing a gap between his upper front teeth.

      From the faint aroma on his breath, he had been eating garlic-sausage. Oddly enough, it reminded me of a certain girl I knew, briefly, when I was growing up in Canada. Was it only a year ago? No, a year and a half. Two years? Fuck it.

      I’ve been posted to ‘B’ Flight, I announced. I hear Dinwiddie is a stickler for the book, so I doubt if I’ll get to fly this one again.

      I didn’t give a shit if he liked me. He was a good mechanic, and that’s worth putting up with some crap.

      It’s not my place to comment, sir, quipped Watson with a funny little gleam in his eye.

      You’ve worked with him before? I asked.

      Actually, no! allowed Watson.

      We’ve worked for him, noted Smitty with a certain emphasis.

      It’s been a pleasure, and I hope my next machine is as well-prepared, I said a trifle awkwardly.

      Thank you sir, they said in unison, then looked at each other.

      The cook has just oodles and oodles of bacon and eggs for you, Smitty said.

      They were good lads.

      Chapter Two

      ‘B’ Flight

      Captain Mick Dinwiddie was on patrol with four planes of the flight. Other than the mechanics, sitting bored in the shade of a tree beside the hangar, there was no one to talk to. Singh was flying today as well. There were a few glances in this direction; but lieutenants outrank privates. We don’t have to explain our presence.

      With no aircraft to look at, and not much to talk about, there was time to observe the men around me. Most of them were older, although several were about the same age as I, and one poor little fellow looked about fourteen years old.

      Their lot could be worse. They often worked far into the night repairing aircraft.

      Sometimes their sleep was disturbed by the Hun’s ‘nightly bed check.’

      But at least they got to eat at a table and sleep in a bed.

      It’s better than a trench.

      Not that they weren’t ‘brave,’ or ‘courageous.’ But they looked somehow contented in this brief respite from the noise, the dust. The constant hazard of the whirling props, and all the machines maneuvering on the ground.

      I never seriously worried about being killed by a bomb. Not after the trenches. Not after April 22, 1915. I was at the Second Battle of Ypres. That was the first gas attack in history. But it must have been understood by these fellows that some might get killed by machine guns or bombs, artillery, or gas. They had seen it all before, and they would see it again. No doubt. Appalling as the losses in pilots were, it was like nothing compared to the trenches. At some point you just accepted that you probably will be killed by a bomb, a shell, a fragment of flying metal. Then it somehow feels better. The matter has been settled. It was the suspense that was killing you. It was the uncertainty that was eating you up inside.

      For now, the men were happy in each other’s company, with pipes comfortably held in callused palm, a chipped, enameled-tin mug of hot tea on an empty box. I didn’t know any of their names, but I didn’t feel like a stranger here. We heard engines in the distance.

      There’s only three of them, someone said quietly.

      They all stood up and shuffled out to the flight-line. I tagged along because there wasn’t much else to do until someone said otherwise. Anyhow, I didn’t want to be asleep when the Flight Commander called. Sure enough, one of the aircraft of our flight was missing. Believed shot down. Overhearing snatches of talk, it was said the plane went down in flames. To say the mood was somber was an understatement.

      The mood was ‘infectious.’

      I felt like a stranger, there on the verge of the crowd milling about the planes.

      Small groups of aircraftmen began to service and replenish them, while the three surviving pilots went to the office-hut to make their reports and get rid of their heavy clothes. I helped a few of the lads push planes around. They liked to have them just so; easy to refuel and re-arm, easy to dispatch, hard to hit from the air. Dispersed from enemy observation and enemy artillery.

      The S.E. 5 was probably the best aeroplane designed by the Royal Aircraft Factory.

      Certainly a couple of years of war experience benefited this machine. It was an exceptionally steady gun platform. Agility was good, although some enemy aircraft could out-turn it. It also possessed good performance without sacrificing structural integrity.

      The plane could take a few hits without folding up; as I had just proven.

      The S.E. 5 began to enter squadron service in April 1917. The early versions had an inline Hispano Suiza 150-h.p. engine. This was joined and replaced in the front line by the Wolseley Viper 200-h.p. S.E. 5a version. ‘B’ Flight was equipped with early variants of this airplane. This was much superior to the tired old machines I’d been flying.

      Is it any wonder that I wanted to get a closer look at my new mount? And hopefully, to at last have a personal aircraft and crew dedicated to me.

      Water cooled, very slick.

      A fairly effective machine.

      With that massive chunk of propeller out front, and the tail sitting down low, the impression it gave was one of speed and power. The plane was capable of surviving a two-hundred-fifty-plus mph terminal-velocity dive, if you believed the stories. It just won’t go any faster. That’s what ‘terminal velocity’ means. Too much wind resistance from the front of the propeller disc.

      As I stood looking at the plane, watching the chaps working on it, my ears were still ringing from the morning flight. The nearest plane, one with a white ‘4’ on the nose, had the bonnet open and the boys were tweaking the engine.

      It sputtered up and roared, then backfired and they shut it off.

      Smoke rolled away on the light breeze. One of the boys got his eyebrows singed by the carburetor backfiring. Curses and laughter.

      She sure was a beauty. I shuffled off to see if Dinwiddie or Singh were ready to talk yet.

      That’s when I noticed them. The kid, and another fitter or mechanic. The older one standing there disconsolately by the empty hangar door. And the kid sobbing. Like a kid.

      Oh, yeah. One plane missing. Another fellow sitting inside, on a stool by the workbench. His head was hanging.

      This may sound awfully self-centred, but I wondered if this was my new crew?

      And just exactly how good they were.

      I wanted them to be at their best.

      Chapter Three

      I sensed a little resentment…

      Seven has never been my lucky number. My first mission with Mick’s flight did nothing to contradict that assumption, and everything to confirm it. It all started off badly enough. Lieutenant Wilson-Pantry was very well liked by his squadron mates and he crashed and burned. I sensed a little resentment on the part of Dinwiddie and crew. Flight leaders are quite ruthless when dealing with members of their own flight.

      He’d always been friendly before. But back then I wasn’t his responsibility.

      There were five of us that morning. Mick managed to beg one replacement aircraft, and borrowed a spare from a luckier flight. Chris McKillen had been up with them before, but he was another new member of the squadron.

      I was assigned a plane with a big white ‘7’ painted on the nose. McKillen was flying good old number ‘13!’ He seemed happy enough, though. He was in the class ahead of me, beating me to France by a month.

      ***

      Dinner the night before was a pretty somber affair, as one might well imagine. The latest missing pilot, Jimmy Wilson-Pantry, was about eighteen. While he certainly wasn’t a born killer in any sense of the word, Jimmy survived twenty or thirty missions. And Jimmy was a hell of a nice guy. I guess people sort of got used to having him around. Some losses were harder to take than others. If some new guy was lost on his first or second mission, well; that’s just too bad.

      The squadron lost two pilots today. Jimmy and the other one, the one I saw for the last time in the latrine. And I couldn’t even hazard a guess as to his name. It’s a sad thing. I often wondered what the major would find to say in a letter to the dead boy’s mother.

      Any of them, really. Any boy, any letter. Any mother.

      Our squadron had twenty planes, at least on paper. We started today with seventeen, and now we’re down to fifteen.

      Who’s next?

      The mechanics have a busy night ahead.

      At some point the CO was having a quiet puff on his old briar when the putt-putt-putt of a motorcycle sounded in the distance. The rain beat quietly down outside the open window. Your guts begin to tighten up. This was when I learned to eat fast.

      You want most of it inside you.

      The dispatch rider strutted into the room, a little stiff from the ride, and no doubt quite conscious of the omen of ill tidings he brings. The ‘shoot the messenger’ school of thought was pretty popular lately.

      The CO signed for it, and said, ‘Thank you.’

      A snappy salute and the rider was gratefully gone. We were all holding our breath.

      Another beer, sir? murmured the adjutant.

      Yes, thank you, replied the Skipper as the evil envelope lay in state beside him, and it was almost like the candles and oil lamps were conspiring to spotlight it.

      Very casually, he opened it and perused the contents.

      Looking up, and scanning the room, he muttered, Ah, yes; who’s turn is it?

      Then he went back to the orders from on high.

      Singh slurped his tea noisily. He’s not a heavy drinker like some of the others. His turban looked a tad incongruous here in the mess, but it looked incongruous anywhere.

      Mad Dog spoke.

      ‘B’ flight gets the dawn patrol, a deep offensive patrol between six a.m. and seven thirty, and he muttered and read some more.

      All right. ‘A’ flight provides top cover to tactical reconnaissance around eight a.m. And other flights are to fly normal battlefield contact patrols throughout the day.

      So we’re for it then. The proverbial, ‘high jump.’

      Singh and Dinwiddie were studiedly casual. Singh called for another cup of tea and Mick fiddled with his cigarettes and matches. Dinwiddie looked at me, nodded at a couple of the others.

      Might want to make an early night of it, boys, he grinned. I want to see you bright-eyed and bushy-tailed first thing.

      I promise not to be too hung over, I promised him – and myself.

      How about a game of pool, Sid? someone asked.

      The room got a little noisier, as three or four of us drifted out the door.

      Tommy Watkins grabbed my shoulder.

      Hold up! he said. Let’s go to the armourer’s shack.

      Why? I asked.

      Have you ever had your guns jam up? Not yet? he asked.

      No… I said uncertainly. I could use a good long sleep. Twelve hours, if I can get it.

      I think Jimmy’s guns jammed up. That, and ‘Numbnuts’ leading us into an ambush.

      Alright, alright, I said. Well, I’m not going to sleep now. Let’s go to the fuckin’ armourer’s.

      Tom was quite short. He came up to about my shoulder as we strode through the gloom. Latched onto me, another lost soul.

      What do you think of the wing-mounted Lewis? I asked.

      Well, it’s light and automatic, he stated. Never got the hang of it, personally. I just keep one because it’s available. And the Huns know it’s there. They can see it.

      They’re always behind me anyway, he added, giving me a look.

      He opened up the door and we went into the armourer’s hut.

      A fresh blast of foetid air hit us in the face.

      You guys never change your socks? I griped.

      Criticism is a privilege of rank. No reply, just a grim look.

      Righty then. One for you and one for you, said the bald, sweating NCO in charge of the place. Links, Verey pistols and flares, et cetera and et cetera. What kind of rounds are you using?

      The Vickers, thank God, no longer used the old canvas ammo-belts which would stretch, or fray, ‘et cetera.’

      Sign the form, he added, as if we should forget.

      Someone owes the government for all this stuff.

      One third of each, said Tom. What about you?

      Give me a couple of boxes of everything, I said glumly. I need to think about this.

      We went to a side table and began to lay out our kit. I was checking every round and noted Tom hesitate and begin to do the same. The Lewis gun was gas-operated. The combustion gases of each cartridge forced the bolt back, and cocked a spring which shot it forward to fire the next bullet.

      Wonderful stuff, but the thing did occasionally jam. Fine if you’re on the ground, in a nice cozy hole in the muck. We checked the bullets for length, size of shell casing, size of bullet diameter. We checked the shoulder where the bullet fit the casing, and we checked the primer area as well. A lot of jam-ups were caused by dud rounds. That’s because the slug fits tightly in the chamber. If it doesn’t fire, it won’t cause gas pressure. It’s hard to withdraw. The retractor on the firing pin is meant for an empty casing, not a full cartridge, especially not one that has been whacked with the firing pin…this is a situation which requires manual re-cocking under intense psychological pressure.

      It’s better if the gun fires properly.

      Cleanliness is next to Godliness, when it comes to machine guns.

      I had a little block of metal, with holes drilled in it. One of the boys made it. The different-sized holes represented different parts of the cartridge. It speeded up the job. We collected a surprising number of funny-looking rounds.

      Interesting, very interesting.

      Tom and I were sort of awed. We hadn’t even started on my belt yet.

      I think we just bought ourselves a few more hours, or minutes, of life expectancy.

      He said it quietly and thoughtfully and introspectively.

      This is part of my routine from now on, I agreed. And you think Jimmy’s guns jammed?

      Welcome to the suicide club, quipped the NCO, from behind a thin wall where we could hear a kettle heating up.

      Yeah, said Tom with a sickly grin.

      He looked awfully young right about then.

      It takes a while to prepare two or three magazines for the Lewis, as well as a full belt for the Vickers. This was made up of separate aluminum links. We also had our pistols and flare guns. It was time well spent. I cleaned my pistol once daily. Just habit.

      I had a jam-up last week, Tom noted. Luckily, I opened up at extreme range. The thing misfired immediately. She got off a couple of rounds.

      What did you do? I asked.

      Shit razor blades and ran for it, skimming the mud all the way home! he said. Don’t try to turn with the fuckers.

      I’ll be right behind you all the way, I said.

      He laughed at that one.

      That’s up to Mick, he said. But I will ask for you. We fly on the right. We used to, Jimmy and I.

      I liked him, I said. I’m real sorry to see him go.

      You never get used to it, Tom said, then turned away.

      The armoury NCO offered me a cup of tea.

      He’ll be fine, he said as Tom stumped noisily out the door with his kit.

      Well, that looks good, I muttered. Where there is tea, there is hope.

      I started off my belt with three bullets, then a tracer, then three bullets, then a tracer; and followed it through for the whole five hundred rounds.

      This spring is weak, get me another magazine, I told the sergeant.

      I put about fifty of the Brock and Pomeroy incendiary rounds into the best of my Lewis drums, after starting off the drum with regular bullets; tracer every third round.

      Sooner or later it would be my turn to bust a balloon.

      Everyone has to take a turn. Maybe tomorrow, maybe not. If forced down in enemy territory, it doesn’t pay to have too many explosive-type bullets in your ammunition. It causes bad feelings. Pilots have been hanged, ‘et cetera.’ Or worse.

      It’s a kind of gentlemen’s agreement.

      Goodnight, sir, said the NCO, as a couple more of the boys came in looking thoughtful.

      Goodnight, I said as I stepped out into the moist cool breeze on the evening air.

      And so to bed, perchance to sleep.

      Chapter Four

      Seventeenth Mission

      Sitting in the cockpit, the clock said 4:55 a.m. I was wearing an unbelievable amount of clothing, standard issue by this point. Fur-lined boots, flying suit, gauntlets, goggles, silk underwear, wool underwear, vest, inner shirt, Army shirt, two sweaters. The flying suit was lined with lamb’s wool, the gloves with muskrat. You had to have proper gloves, although some guys tried five pairs of various sizes and thickness.

      What was truly unbelievable the first few times up, was that the layers of clothing were shockingly inadequate.

      Some guys didn’t use the face mask.

      They said it was too ‘restrictive.’ Like seatbelts.

      Ready? the anonymous figure of a burly mechanic bellowed through the gloom.

      Ready, I answered firmly.

      The same calls could be heard all up and down our flight dispersal area. My voice sounded muffled and funny. My breath smelled all too close.

      Is the switch off, sir? he asked more clearly and less loudly now.

      The switch is off.

      There was already an itch close in beside my nose.

      Suck in, sir? he asked.

      Suck in, I agreed.

      My heart began to pick up a beat or two. It was already pretty fast. This is it.

      He firmly and confidently rotated the propeller around to the accompaniment of a, ‘clonkety-clonk, suckity-fuck,’ from the engine bay.

      An engine with the air intake closed and the petrol supply turned on sucks in a rich mixture. A good mechanic should be able to tell by sound and feel. He nodded to the other fellow, who was standing by for safety. The second mechanic keeps a hand over the intake while the prop is rotated a couple of times.

      Contact! he barked.

      Contact, I responded, clicking the switch into place.

      Strong hands gripped the prop.

      One stout flip against the compression and the engine fired up with a clatter and a roar. Check the revs. Slightly reassured to see the gauges appeared to be operating.

      We had to wait for the oil and cylinder head temperatures. This engine sounded tired, but maybe some of the ticking would go away when she warmed up. Up went a green flare from about fifty yards away. Bizarre shadows slithered through the apple trees, as the first of our flight taxied up to the end of the row and out onto the end of the field.

      There wasn’t much wind. I was at the back of the line, which was good. My engine still seemed cold. I reviewed the little we knew about weather for today. The usual headwinds on our return flight.

      ‘How strong, no one can safely predict.’

      My own gut instinct, was that they would be strong.

      A droning came from the first couple of planes circling overhead, when I made it to the end of the grassy area which could be used for takeoff in any direction. Watkins took off ahead of me. His plane turned instantly grey-black as soon as it got about forty yards down the field.

      My plane was a piece of crap. It pulled hard; up and to the right on takeoff, and the throttle friction wasn’t set. I had to literally hold it in position. Finally, flying with my knees, I tightened up the nut with as much finger-pressure as I could muster. It took both hands, as I wanted full throttle for climbing. There I was, looking all around. Minor turbulence rocked the wings gently, left and right, and the nose bobbed slightly.

      To the west it was still a deep violet blue. There were stars and planets over there. To the east, a couple of purple clouds hung in the greenish yellow haze over the blank landscape. I couldn’t see a darned thing. Where was everybody? It’s a good thing the simple tools I kept buttoned-down in a side pocket included some pliers. But it mucked up my concentration for a moment. Little emergencies are bad in combat. Where were my squadron mates? They could only be above, that much I knew.

      I clawed for a little more sky.

      I saw another flare down below, and an aerial one from the south-south-east.

      That’s where Dinwiddie was. He was flying lower down, checking signal panels laid out on the grass beside the command hut. Some other idiot hit the panic button and fired off a flare when they couldn’t find Dinwiddie.

      Shit!

      Sure enough, a balloon has been tacked on to our shopping list. We all know whose turn it is, as I pulled in beside Watkins. He lifted his goggles and grimaced in sympathy.

      No one wants to fly with a real fuckin’ dummy. It’s hazardous to your health.

      The general rule of thumb, was that we would circle near the aerodrome and gain as much altitude as possible before the assigned start time of our patrol. Hopefully, one or two reconnaissance planes would show up at the rendezvous, but if not we would go on.

      Dinwiddie left us in no doubt about that.

      We’ll make visual observations, he told us. If nothing else; and show the flag over Kaiser Willy’s distressed urban proletariat.

      What the fuck have you been reading, Mick? I asked at the time.

      He always had a heavy book somewhere about. ‘Das Kapital,’ or something. Our Flight Commander was a bit of a ‘Bolshie,’ but no one cared about his politics or his religion up here.

      Achieving 8,000 feet, twenty minutes to six, my engine was still sounding ‘tickey-tickey,’ and I didn’t much like that. But the revs and power seemed normal. We kept up with the other planes no problem. About 8,500 feet, twelve minutes to six. Where were the two-seaters?

      A few minutes after six, we were just reaching the 10,000-foot mark, when we saw the two aircraft we were to escort. They were right on time, which is good.

      Our flight slid over them and dove in beside, and Mick made a signal similar to a cyclist putting on the brakes. We throttled back.

      The problem with escort duties; was that the fastest reconnaissance machines barely flew ninety miles per hour, flat out, empty. When you read in a book, ‘Top speed, ninety-eight miles per hour,’ that’s at sea level.

      The engine was all tuned up, the manufacturer had government officials standing by. One very small pilot. The fuel was top grade, and who knows, maybe something with a little extra kick tossed in, when no one was looking. On a mission like this, the photo boys had guns, ammunition, likely two cameras, extra film magazines, maybe even some water in a jug.

      Wish I had thought of that myself. They had bombs aboard, and two men. Our old B.E.2c’s wouldn’t even stagger off the ground, if you loaded them up to what the book said. Sometimes the book is wrong, but men die before anyone notices.

      Anyone with enough power to do anything about it.

      The R.E. 8’s were barely making seventy-five. We had to weave up-sun, slide back in, weave up-sun yet again. They flew straight and level, right through intermittent ‘Archie.’

      Stacking split us up as a target, at various altitude levels.

      A tougher problem for the gunners, who were very well practiced.

      We tried to make life hard for them.

      With our duration of about two and a half hours, it was better to start on time. The formation turned east at exactly 6:08 a.m. These aircraft, while a great improvement over the old B.E.2c’s, could barely manage 7,500 feet with their full war-load. We were stacked up several hundred yards off from them. Hopefully, they would climb a little more as we burned off fuel and the land heated the air with the morning sun. As usual, we’re heading downwind, which meant that the ground under us goes by quickly. Short notes on the clipboard, pencil in its place. Stuff flopping around in the cockpit is bad.

      The plane itself doesn’t understand about wind currents, but into an east wind we could have gotten higher sooner. I flew eighty-four missions in the B.E.2c. Fifty-one as an observer, the rest as pilot. A lot of cavalry officers went in for it. They had the training in reconnaissance.

      The powers that be drafted in a batch of machine gunners at the height of the ‘Fokker Scourge,’ in 1915. It was an awful fuck-up. A panic reaction, but then no one knew anything about aerial combat back then. Their pilots couldn’t hit anything, yet the Army gunners were wiping men out a hundred at a time.

      Perhaps it was because we could shoot? Maybe someone had trained us how to shoot?

      Maybe that was the difference?

      Maybe they were just desperate.

      Months after Second Ypres, when they went to give me a medal, they found out I was ‘grossly underage.’ Red faces all around. Solution? Send the boy for air training. Can’t have the lad getting killed too soon. Christmas in the trenches, New Year’s in London.

      Quite a shock to the old psyche. I got into more ‘trouble’ in London, than I ever did in a trench. But they were dumb enough to grab kids as young as fourteen and a half. They had this thing called, ‘apparent age,’ and the recruiting officer was in charge of the determination. At my height, they didn’t even read my age on the form! The seventeen-hair moustache and those big shoulders might have helped.

      Officials officially believed that people were showing up at recruiting offices and had somehow ‘forgotten,’ their birth certificates.

      I learned to fly because I hated being an observer. I had to get control of my fate. I know that sounds odd. But I figured I could do it better, and that sounds pretty self-assured. But I was right; after all. They had some real fucking dummies for pilots back then. They were selected for rank, or the social position of their fathers, or some such nonsense.

      ‘A gentleman can do anything.’

      That was the attitude.

      Jesus, it was cold up there. As the sun broke the horizon, it became almost impossible to see. Watkins was a vague shape composed of blackness and glaring highlights. There were only the shiniest details to break the outline. The rest of the formation, I took it on faith, was on his left. Think while you fly. Don’t daydream. Where will the lonely hunter be this fine morning?

      Probably not in the sun – it’s too low. Probably not behind us – he hasn’t the range.

      An observer in a balloon or on the front line would have spotted him.

      If I was the lonely wolf, where would I be? We should have heard him, at least before we got going ourselves. An aerodrome is a quiet place before anyone gets fired up. I scanned the sky like a hungry rabbit, all too aware of the eagle.

      At times like this, you learn to love and value the people around you in a way no person who hasn’t been there can ever imagine. You will throw your life in front of the enemy’s guns without a second thought.

      If you don’t believe that, you don’t belong up here.

      Go home.

      Looking down, this was no place for the confused or the uncommitted.

      The front line lay below, a ten to twenty mile wide swath of brown, shit-like earth, pockmarked like the craters of the moon. It had an evil smell even at 10,000 feet. The land boils like lava from the heat of shells exploding within it. Pin pricks of light caught my attention like flash photos. They’re not taking wedding photos down there. Two German aircraft well below us, but they were going west. As I did another quick scan of the sky above, and below, all around, presumably they have an escort.

      Don’t they?

      It’s not unusual to have a sky full of enemy aircraft and not be able to see even one of them. I wouldn’t say I was scared. I didn’t want to be made a fool of. That sounds unprofessional. I will not let my buddies down. And I prayed they don’t let me down.

      You could say that I didn’t want to die up there.

      We were at 13,000 feet when the lighter patch of a built-up area loomed ahead. While this was a bit low for the strategic type of photography, the shadows of the early morning sun perfectly highlighted the contours of the valleys and hills below.

      Vertical photography wasn’t feasible much below 2,000 feet.

      When the front was covered by cloud, we did oblique photography, which practically goes down to zero feet. We had to ‘fly the shot.’ We never had much choice about the avenue of approach or escape. The enemy gunners liked that.

      Shrouded in morning mist, the river showed up as a silver ribbon, carelessly tossed on a green rug. A hooked rug, one made out of scraps. A fairy-tale castle looked small and faint on a hilltop behind the town. Its roof shone golden in the sunlight. The enemy knows we’re here. We flew straight and level up the valley. There was some kind of military-industrial complex ahead.

      Mick was edging our way. We obligingly opened out and pulled about ten degrees to the right. Obviously, we missed our mark by a small margin of five or ten miles.

      Make a mental note of the cross winds. We must be drifting at several miles an hour.

      Five to ten miles an hour. Just a light breeze. The time was 5:46 a.m. A work day.

      There they are. I waggled my wings and Watkins, after a half a moment, waggled in acknowledgement. The Huns were cleverly coming in from the southeast, at about our own altitude. He and I pulled even harder to the right and I lined up my gun-sight on one of the frontal silhouettes. It was a very small target. I held my fire. Tom popped off a couple of rounds and they rolled and dove away, but another two were coming at us.

      Tom pointed to the right and I pulled a ways off. Divide the opposition and cut off the angles, just like a goalie. The observation planes have machine guns, and can defend themselves, but their mission is to get pictures.

      Here comes the next pair. Where are the first two? And I could see a half-dozen more just kind of circling off the starboard bow. Sharks smelling blood in the water.

      Every once in a while the flash of sunlight off of a wing caught my eye.

      The next attack was poorly timed, and Tom and I both got off shots.

      We immediately returned to the formation. I didn’t see any effect from my shooting. The enemy planes broke off at about three hundred yards range. I watched our tail as we nipped back into position. The enemy was climbing, and I didn’t want to lose track of them while maneuvering. Still, I had to make sure not to run into Tom.

      In between attacks, you just kind of sit, naked and exposed, with your heart beating its way up higher and higher in our chest. Sometimes you want to puke, but you swallow hard or even suck it back down out of your mouth and nose. You just don’t have time to take off the mask. When it’s in your nose you just have to suck it back down and swallow it.

      Of course I was scared. Anybody that says otherwise is full of shit.

      They came in from left and above next time. I saw them coming and Dinwiddie also anticipated this move. He dropped back a few hundred yards. When two enemy aircraft attempted to dive on him, Singh started turning at exactly the same time and got off a good full-deflection shot on one. It’s hard to describe. But Mick came back up to the rear of the formation. Maybe he got tired of using himself as bait.

      No damage to the enemy, but they know we’re not dummies.

      I guessed there was no Archie today because the German authorities knew they have fighters up here. And just then all hell broke loose as far as anti-aircraft artillery went.

      As we clawed for altitude, the German fighters were pulling well off to the south. My hands, especially all my finger-tips, were an agony of tingling pins and needles. My feet were stiff but fine. I was moving my toes and feet constantly.

      Someday I will invent a heater for an aeroplane.

      I have promised myself that much.

      Nothing more.

      Let life take care of itself, if I get that far.

      ‘Archie’ was behind and below as quickly as it started. Where are the enemy fighters?

      Hope them pictures turn out.

      We were well east of the target now, and it was turning into a milky, hazy day. There was danger in the deceptive emptiness. The R.E.’s turned homewards and began losing altitude at a gentle rate. They were going for all the speed their 140-horsepower engines could muster. Over the railway marshaling yards, they spiraled down to about 3,000 feet and then dropped their two 112-lb bombs. The bombs, just little black dots; almost instantly disappeared into the background.

      That should gain the formation about ten miles per hour…fuck.

      What a joke.

      Smoke and dust erupted from the center of the yard, but there wasn’t much down there to hit in the broad light of day. It seemed unlikely that our little attack would disrupt the slow, yet inexorable flow of men and guns to the front. The R.E.’s stayed down there.

      They felt safer down low for some reason. We drove on to the west, as Mick took us down to 8,000 feet, always scanning the sky for other planes. They have to be out there somewhere.

      The flight leader was now leading from the front of our five-plane formation, and the R.E.’s were about 5,000 feet below, a half a mile ahead on our right, down sun from us. The enemy had to go through us to get them, or give up the advantage of height, or sun, or both.

      I could see them now; despite the ring of ice around the edges of my vision. My gut felt very hollow, but that’s good. It’s better than excruciating pain from gas in the bowels.

      It was adrenalin, a heady wine. We went even lower, closer to our pair of sheep.

      Come on down, you lousy bastards, I bellowed upwards.

      What do we have here?

      Halberstadt and Albatros fighters, a good baker’s dozen. Maybe more, milling around, waiting to pounce. That one looks like a Pfalz D-II.

      From my hips down to my toes was one big pain. There was no way to stretch or to relieve the constant strain. Literally frozen in alertness. The only thing that moves is the head, swiveling on the neck. To take one hand off the stick and wiggle the fingers was about all you could do. Now the other hand. For some reason I was really pissed off at life, right then.

      Tickey-tickey-tickey, sounded the engine.

      Did that noise suddenly get louder or was it just my imagination?

      There were planes to the north, planes to the south, planes undoubtedly behind us.

      Two Halberstadts flashed past our noses, from high up on the left. They went for the two R.E.’s. Mick made a signal, and Singh followed them down. A few seconds later his wingman Chris dove as well. Three up high, two down low.

      Puffs of smoke indicated that the R.E.’s were defending themselves.

      They saved the attack for this point. We felt like quarry, now that we were finished with the photo-shoot. We were just praying to go home.

      Mick had a crack at another Boche as he flashed past our noses, but we stayed up there. God, I’d love to watch what was going on down there, but my eyes were glued to the great blue bowl of the sky, where there were just far too many black dots for my own personal comfort.

      Singh and Chris rejoined the flight. Keep together.

      Singh shrugged his shoulders. Apparently he missed. Live to fight another day, I guess. About this time we spotted the front lines in the murk under a rain cloud, which appeared with the ever-increasing headwind.

      We were hit by yet another attack.

      Once again the enemy, flying D-III’s or D-V’s, (Albatros,) concentrated upon the poor R.E. 8’s. The hindmost began to emit a thin vapour trail, but soldiered on without losing speed or altitude. This time Tom and I zoomed down to unload a few bursts, short ones, as the enemy sped past, in a beam attack from about the same altitude and from the right.

      It was getting really dark over there.

      We missed, and the front lines were taking on a new aspect in the gusty air and bursts of intermittent, spotty rain. The clouds were down lower upon us. What started off as a bright day, was now showing a moderately heavy north-western squall line.

      What’s our drift now?

      Arguably, to the left.

      Follow the leader.

      Back in formation.

      Suddenly Tom was beckoning for attention, even as I wracked my neck through another sweep of the sky. They were mostly behind us now,

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