Wings of War by John Wilson

Author:John Wilson
Language: eng
Format: azw3, epub
ISBN: 9780385678315
Publisher: Doubleday Canada
Published: 2014-06-24T07:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 11

The Immelmann Turn—March 1916

“Okay, Kid,” Bowie says. In the past two weeks, my nickname has shortened from the Canadian Kid to simply Kid. We’re standing in the dawn light beside two Parasols with their engines warming up. A fitter and a rigger—the mechanics whose job it is to keep the Parasols repaired and flying—stand beside each machine. “Keep your distance,” Bowie instructs. “A couple of hundred yards behind and the same above. Never stop scanning the sky around you. I’ll not be flying flat out, so if you see something, pull up beside me and point.”

I’ve heard all this before, but this will be my first time flying over the trenches into enemy territory, so I listen hard. Most of the other pilots are out on reconnaissance duty. Bowie’s idea is for us to go hunting, as Mick does on his own.

“You’ve done good so far,” Bowie continues, “but this ain’t the same as pretending to shoot me down. I plan to climb as high as these things’ll go and see if we can surprise Fritz. Do exactly as I do, and if we get in a fight, try not to shoot me down. Get within one hundred yards of Fritz before you open fire, else you won’t hit a thing.” He turns to me and places a fatherly hand on my shoulder. “In a fight, you’re not going to remember any of this. It all happens too quickly. Just don’t let anyone get on your tail. Don’t fly straight. Keep turning and keep looking. You ready, Kid?”

I nod and we climb into our machines. I’ve taken to tying Horst’s Pour le Mérite to one of the exposed struts inside the cockpit. I figure that if it brings me luck in my pocket, it’ll bring even more luck out in the open. We’re all superstitious—Bowie takes his knives with him, Jock his bagpipes. Even Mick has a routine of walking round his plane three times and touching certain pieces before he climbs in. We all profess to believe it does no good, but we all do it every flight. Who knows?

I take off and climb into the lightening sky. At first I’m so nervous that all I can do is concentrate on keeping my position behind and above Bowie, but then I relax and look around. I’ve seen the front lines before—the zigzag network of trenches, the shell craters, the huge tethered observation balloons. It all looks so peaceful from up here. It’s hard to believe that just below, tens of thousands of men are cowering in holes in the ground, unable to lift their heads without being killed. I smile as I watch the lines drift past below me. I am over enemy territory now. Odd how it looks the same. I abruptly remember where I am and start scanning the sky around me. There’s little danger on our side of the lines—the Fokkers are forbidden to cross into our territory in case they crash and the secrets

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