Fire in the Sky

  For Tim Rourke — a man of honour

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter 1: August 1916

  Chapter 2: August 1916

  Chapter 3: August–September 1916

  Chapter 4: October 1916

  Chapter 5: October 1916

  Chapter 6: Mid-October 1916

  Chapter 7: October–November 1916

  Chapter 8: November 1916

  Chapter 9: January 1917

  Chapter 10: February 1917

  Chapter 11: February–March 1917

  Chapter 12: April–May 1917

  Chapter 13: June–September 1917

  Chapter 14: September–November 1917

  Chapter 15: November 1917–March 1918

  Chapter 16: March 1918

  Epilogue

  Historical Note

  Images and Documents

  Credits

  Author’s Note

  Acknowledgements

  Other books in the I Am Canada series

  Copyright

  Prologue

  I cannot claim to have known the Red Baron or even met him, as some of my friends have boasted. But I have seen him pass through the sights of my Lewis .303 machine gun on a blustery day above the fields of France. And I have glimpsed him racing for my tail, his bullets ripping the fabric off my wings. Nothing could have prepared me for such a sight. But then again, no one could have imagined the horrors unleashed on Europe in 1914, when I was just seventeen.

  * * *

  Robert and I were finishing raking a line of hay when our little sister came racing out to us.

  “Daddy says to come,” she said, her eyes wide with excitement and worry.

  Robert mopped his brow. “Why so worried, Sarah?”

  “There will be war,” she said at last. “Germany has invaded Belgium and the doctor says England will get involved.” Her lip trembled. “The doctor came in a car to see Momma. He said the story is all over the newspapers.”

  Robert drove his pitchfork deep into the earth, then grabbed me around the shoulders. He swung me in an arc till my feet caught and we tumbled to the ground. I flung a fistful of hay and caught his open mouth. He tackled me and, as always, I ended up on my back.

  “You hear that, little brother?” he shouted. Straw slipped from his curly hair. “Some excitement at last!”

  The endless prairie sky suddenly called out the infinite possibilities of faraway lands and adventure instead of hay and heat and toil — farm work that went on forever.

  When we were little, Robert once told me that the sky ended at the horizon somewhere beyond Winnipeg. “One day,” he said, “we’ll get on the train and step out of the bubble. We’ll see what it’s like outside!” That day had come with the announcement of war.

  But Sarah shouted, “Stop it! Stop it!” Tears ran down her cheeks. “You’ll both be gone away.”

  “We won’t leave you so easily,” I assured her.

  “Paul can’t leave anyway,” Robert said. “He’s only seventeen. But I promise to write you both!”

  We chased him all the way to the house.

  My father waited on the porch steps. With one hand he held his wide-brimmed hat and the other he ran through his hair. From a distance he looked just like Robert, his tall frame leaning against a porch post. He flashed a brief smile as we approached, but his mood was serious. My mother sat motionless on the porch swing.

  “It’s true?” Robert asked. “War?”

  Father nodded. “So they say. Canada will follow Britain.”

  “I want to enlist,” Robert said.

  On the way to the house my thoughts had been spinning with so many questions. Now, in front of my father, it was obvious what the conversation was going to be about.

  He cleared his throat. “Your mother and I thought that might be the way of it. I won’t try to change your mind, son. It is your right. But I was hoping you might stay with us till Christmas.”

  Looking beyond my father, Robert said to my mother, “It might be over by Christmas!”

  “No one knows that,” she said quietly.

  There was a long silence. My excitement drained away and I felt the first pangs of worry.

  “Well,” Father said presently. “There’s a lot of hay to get in the barn before anyone can enlist. Might as well get to it. Won’t help the cows any if we dawdle.”

  My brother enlisted in the second week of September and joined one of Winnipeg’s regiments in the Canadian Expeditionary Force. It was the loneliest moment of my life. I spent the next two years thinking of how I would join him.

  We had not been apart from the day I was born. Although he was two years my senior, I was the steady one, the planner. I made sure we didn’t get into trouble. And who would do that if I was not with him?

  No one was surprised that Robert joined the army. He was impulsive — a man of action, my father said. I remembered many of Robert’s quick decisions. I glanced at a sketch I had made and tacked to the wall. It was the day the mayor’s deputy crashed his car on our farm and ignited the gas in the can he’d fastened to the running board.

  In the picture I stood frozen, staring at the smoke and the flames. Robert was climbing through the window to rescue the driver. The picture was not exactly what happened, but it was what I’d felt like: frozen in the face of danger.

  I closed my eyes and remembered. It was the first time I’d seen a car, and it was frightening to watch the flames creep over it.

  “Paul!” Robert had shouted. He shook me. “We’ve got to get him out!” He shook me again and I came out of my shock.

  “Try the door!” I said. Robert ran right up to the car with his face half covered by his shirt to protect him against the smoke.

  “It’s stuck!” he choked out.

  I stumbled into the ditch. Inside, the driver had slumped far over to the passenger’s side.

  “Punch out the window,” I shouted. Robert’s fist shattered the glass. Blood smeared the paint as he brushed against the doorframe. “Lift me higher!” he commanded. He heaved himself up on the window. I caught his legs and hoisted him into the car. There was a loud grunt, and then Robert was dragging the unconscious man out. “Hurry!” I shouted.

  Flames leapt around the cab as we hauled him to the top of the bank.

  The deputy survived, and Robert and I were declared heroes. But I knew there was only one hero: my brother.

  As always, I drew just about everything that happened. When Robert saw my sketch, he touched the picture and then said something that changed me: “Always move towards the fear. Even if your knees shake. Just walk towards it. Half the time the fear will run the other way. The other half … well, take it as it comes.” He ruffled my hair. “You’re smart, Paul, but sometimes you think too much.”

  Chapter 1

  August 1916

  The war did not end at Christmas. Robert’s letters indicated that he had finally seen action and, based on the newspapers, we guessed that his division had been at Ypres in April of 1915, where the enemy first used chlorine gas. Mother and Father were greatly worried until his next letter arrived to say that all was well.

  His letters home, spotty though they were — and many of them censored — spoke of some of the same hideous details we got from the newspapers. His words about the agony of the soldiers who were gassed by the Germans, and the horror of learning that the Lusitania had been sunk by a U-boat in May of 1915, were difficult to read. My hands shook when I read about the devastating bombardments at Mount Sorrel in June of 1916. But the setbacks only seemed to spur Robert on.

  Time went by agonizingly slowly on the farm while Robert remained determined to d
o his bit and help England win the war. Father had asked that I stay through the haying season when I turned eighteen, and without Robert around, I had honoured his request, even though the determination in Robert’s letters was contagious. Mother nervously watched me as my nineteenth birthday approached. But it was something far different from anything my parents could have guessed that made me decide how I would join Robert in the war. And it happened in the same month as my birthday.

  Father and I were loading haystacks into the wagon on a blistering August day. Suddenly something burst into view and split the silence of the summer. It was in the sky and coming low over the trees. I did not know what it was until it was within 50 feet of us. It was an airplane, a sleek-winged wonder that roared above our heads. From the stunned look on my father’s face, I knew he was just as surprised as I was. Like a knight fighting a dragon, he raised his pitchfork to ward off the monster.

  But the airplane was no monster to me. It was as graceful as a bird. The pilot dipped his wings and waved. I waved back. From that moment I knew what part I wanted to play in the war.

  Another year went by and, much to my mother’s dismay, on my nineteenth birthday, in August, 1916, I decided to leave for Ontario to join the Royal Naval Air Service. My timing wasn’t the best: only one month earlier, almost a whole regiment from Newfoundland had been lost in just one battle. My father shook my hand and told me he was proud. “Say your prayers every night, son,” he said. “We’ll do the same for you here.”

  Leaving the farm was one of the most difficult decisions I have ever made. And Robert was not there to shake me from my indecision.

  Sarah didn’t help either. She cried and held on to me at the train station. I gave her a bear hug and promised to write her often. “You won’t,” she accused me through her tears.

  I tweaked her nose. “Didn’t I just say that I would? And I’ll draw you pictures of flying machines and of France!” In the end I stepped on to the train and for the first time stepped out of the bubble and into the world beyond our town.

  The Royal Naval Air Service immediately sent a group of us to the Curtiss Aviation School in Toronto for flight training. The train ride was long and there seemed no end of fields and forests. As we approached the Great Lakes I was stunned at how big they were and wondered if the ocean might look the same.

  On the train I met Billy Miller and we struck up a friendship immediately. Although only a year older than me, he already had a full moustache. He winked at me when I said I was unable to grow either a beard or a moustache. Then he gave the ends a twirl and said, “Hurrah!” It was a phrase that stuck and he used it quite frequently from then on.

  When I asked him why he chose the RNAS, Billy said, “I lost a brother in the trenches. Didn’t seem like a decent way to die. Besides, I saw a flying machine at the Winnipeg Industrial Exhibition in 1914 and it struck me that the pilot was a man in control of his own destiny. That’s how I want to fight. Not caught like a rat in a stinking trench.”

  Billy told me that we ought to consider ourselves lucky. The lads that had come to the flying school a few months earlier had had to pay their own tuition and as much as four hundred dollars! He also said that hundreds of them had been turned down and had to join the regular army. There simply weren’t enough planes or experienced pilots to train the large numbers of men enlisting.

  There was much excitement when the wood and canvas buildings that housed the planes of the Curtiss Aviation School came into view. Our enthusiasm did not lessen, not even when we saw that our huts were small and contained only beds and a stove. I didn’t care. My attention was held by something on the dirt field that stretched out for a half mile beyond the huts.

  There, in all its glory, was a flying machine, touching down in a cloud of dust and showing off for our arrival. Two men in overalls hurried out from the hangar and ran alongside the plane, holding onto the tail.

  The plane bumped along the field and came to a stop not far from the first huts. It had two sets of wings — a biplane — and was so much sleeker than the plane my father and I had witnessed above our farm. I recognized the shape. It had two cockpits, one for the pilot and one for the trainee. I felt a rush of excitement that this might be the plane used for our own training.

  The moment the train stopped, Billy and I grabbed our bags and raced onto the field towards the plane. “What a beauty!” Billy shouted.

  The pilot stepped down, raised his goggles and removed his leather flying gloves. Then he stretched his legs and arms.

  “Hello, boys,” he greeted us. I wasn’t surprised by his American accent. We had been told that most of our training pilots were American and so were our planes. On the train, I’d read everything they gave me at the recruiting office, and had already begun to sketch the planes from the briefing papers.

  “She’s gorgeous,” Billy said, running his hand over the canvas of the wing.

  “She’s a Curtiss Jenny,” I said quietly. “A JN-3.”

  “Hurrah,” said Billy, and he twirled his moustache at me.

  The pilot nodded and slapped me on the shoulder. “What’s your name?”

  “Paul Townend, sir.”

  “Well, Paul Townend. My name is Fred Martin. It seems you’ve got a jump on your mates here. I think you’ll be the first one in the air with me. I’ve never had a student who could name the Jenny on first sight.”

  I looked up eagerly. “Right now, sir?”

  He laughed. “I’ve just flown from New York State, my boy. My feet are numb and I need coffee.” He nodded towards the plane. “This is your trainer. We’ll start in the morning, all right?”

  Mr. Martin stamped some life back into his feet and then headed for one of the huts. Billy gave me a shove and called me a show-off. I crashed into two others and a wrestling match broke out. I ended up on the bottom of the pile, laughing. Mr. Martin stopped and watched us from a distance.

  I could not eat supper that night. All I could think about was flying the Curtiss Jenny in the morning. “Here’s to wee Paul,” Billy said as he raised his glass. “The first flyer among us.”

  In my bunk that night, after I’d said my prayers, I whispered down to Billy, “Did you see the way Fred pushed his goggles up so smartly and tucked his gloves under his arm? A real pilot!”

  “Shut up, Paul,” was the only reply.

  Chapter 2

  August 1916

  Mr. Martin met us early, on the field. There was no bugle, as the Curtiss Aviation School was privately owned and not an army institution. It was strange to be in our uniforms when there were no officers in charge. Even Fred Martin was not military and we called him “Mr. Martin,” not “sir.”

  Mr. Martin stood with his arms folded and stared out at the rising sun. His gloves were tucked under his arm. A waft of cigarette smoke met us as we approached.

  “Good morning, boys!” He tossed his cigarette to the ground. “Hardly a breath of wind; sun’s up. You’re in for a good ride, Mr. Townend.”

  I straightened my uniform and tried to stop my hands from shaking. “I’m ready, Mr. Martin.”

  He looked me up and down. “Not in that, you’re not,” he said. “We’re going up six thousand five hundred feet, son. It’s a tad colder at that altitude. And there will be wind.” He pointed to a set of benches against the nearest hut. We walked over and Mr. Martin began our first lesson.

  “I am not a fighting pilot, lads,” he said. “But I can tell you that unless you are prepared for the skies, you will be useless for your cause. Whether you’re operating a camera to see what the Germans are up to, or chasing an enemy plane, you can’t afford frozen hands.” He raised an eyebrow at me. “You would not want frozen fingers when it comes time to squeeze the trigger, would you, Mr. Townend?”

  “No, Mr. Martin,” I replied.

  He gripped Billy’s shoulder. “And what would you do if your friend Paul here has an Albatros on his tail and your eyes are covered in castor oil spray from the rotary engines they use ove
r in France?”

  Billy winked at me. “Isn’t it bad luck to shoot an albatross, Mr. Martin?”

  Mr. Martin did not laugh. “Albatros, as the Germans say,” he replied. “And you will need all the luck you’ve got, son. Because that particular bird carries synchronized machine guns and fires continuously until your plane is full of holes.”

  There was a long silence. Mr. Martin pointed to the bench again. “Now, you’ll need a helmet, gloves and a coat. In the winter you will wear a good deal more and it still won’t be enough. If you’re lucky,” and he gave Billy a stare, “they’ll have battery-operated heaters in the jackets over in France.”

  Someone muttered something about electric underwear but the laughter was quelled by a glare from Mr. Martin.

  I hurriedly buttoned on the leather coat and tightened the belt around my waist. There was a large pocket stitched diagonally across the chest. I eyed it with interest.

  “That’s for your maps. It’s very easy to get lost in the air,” Mr. Martin said. “Especially at night. A flyer must pay attention to landmarks. Things look different from the heights.”

  The gloves were enormous and clumsy and came up to my elbows. They didn’t look as sleek and fancy as our instructor’s and were clearly for keeping the passenger warm. “You’ll be thankful for those soon enough,” Mr. Martin said.

  Finally, I put on the helmet and goggles. The helmet was more like a cap with flaps that came down over my ears. Billy fastened my chinstrap. He was serious now but he still clapped my shoulder and gave me a grin. I walked stiffly to the plane, my heart racing. All the gear I had on left me feeling a good deal warmer.

  Mr. Martin indicated a step strategically indented into the body of the plane between the two flier seats. “Up you go, Mr. Townend.”

  I placed my foot and stepped onto the lower wing, making for the cockpit closest to the rear.

  “No, no,” Mr. Martin said to me. “The pilot sits aft. The trainee sits fore. At least for the first time. After a few hours of instruction in the days ahead, you’ll sit in my seat.” I swung my leg up and climbed clumsily into the front seat. A control stick protruded from the floor, and seven or eight gauges with numbers and needles stared back at me. I looked at them helplessly and wondered suddenly if Mr. Martin actually intended for me to fly the plane.