“Now you don’t need to be afraid of a spin. Most pilots are terrified of spinning. They think it’s a death sentence. But it can actually save your life.”
“How?”
“Imagine you’re in a fight and you’re losing. Say your Lewis gun’s jammed and there’s a Fokker on your tail.” He shrugs. “Throw the Parasol into a spin. Chances are good the Fokker pilot will assume he’s got you and go after someone else. Spin as long as you can, then level out and head for home.”
I take Jack’s lessons to heart and practice spinning until I’m confident going into one and coming out. I also learn to shoot well—all those hours hitting gophers on the farm have given me a good eye. Of course, a gopher sits still while you aim, unlike an enemy plane that’s moving rapidly and unpredictably through three dimensions, but Jack assures me that a good eye is critical for a successful pilot. By the end of my training, I’m winning almost all my mock dogfights against the other pilots at St. Omer. I even manage to beat Jack once or twice.
At St. Omer I receive almost weekly letters from Mom giving me all the news from home, the gossip about our neighbors and the goings-on in Moose Jaw.Sometimes the letters are in parcels containing knitted socks and tins of candy, and a couple of times Mom even persuades Dad to add a few curt lines at the end. I also receive two letters that I didn’t expect. I’m delighted to receive them both, but the first contains bad news.
Hello Edward
,
I hope that you are learning to fly well, and that Father’s Pour le Mérite is bringing you luck. I envy you your youth and the chances you have to fly
.
Poor Bertha is no more. I flew last month in too much cold and wind, and she landed in a tree instead of a field. But I am building another in the barn. I have many ideas on how I can run the wires to better control the flight. In the spring, Bertha will soar once more
.
I am afraid now that I must pass on some sad news. Ted died some weeks ago. He was flying back from Bismarck and became caught in a storm. The wings came off the Avro and he fell in a field only a few miles short of his home. It is a great loss
.
If you have time, please write and tell of the planes you have seen
.
I wish you all the best
,
Uncle Horst
I’m terribly sad to hear of Ted’s death. He was very kind to me and taught me a lot. His accident brings home how dangerous flying is, even if you don’t go to war.
Of course I write back to Horst immediately, telling him of my adventures, describing the machines I’ve flown and wishing him luck with the new Bertha.
The other letter is even more of a surprise and it’s taken quite a while to find me. It’s addressed simply to “Edward Simpson. Pilot. Royal Flying Corps. England.”
Hello Eddie Boy
,
I hope this reaches you and all is well
.
I never got to Gallipoli. By the time I reached Egypt, the invasion force was being withdrawn, so I had to sit in Cairo and wait for them to return. The training here was boring, and I don’t imagine it will be of much use in France, where we are headed next. I’ve put in a request for a transfer to the Royal Flying Corps, so maybe we’ll meet up somewhere
.
Cairo is a strange place. Everything and anything is for sale in the bazaars and the place is full of Australians, so it seems as if there’s a fight every night. I saw the pyramids, though. They sure beat anything I ever saw in Coachman’s Cove!
We board ships for Europe in a day or two, and Idon’t know where I’ll be after we arrive. Still, if this reaches you, try writing back c/o the Newfoundland Regiment. It should get to me eventually. I would like to hear your news
.
Don’t fall out of the cockpit!
I look forward to catching up and sharing a tale or two
.
All the best
,
Your friend, Alec
I’m glad Alec didn’t make it to Gallipoli. I’ve heard stories about what a disaster it was over there. I write back giving my news and tell him I also hope
“How?”
“Imagine you’re in a fight and you’re losing. Say your Lewis gun’s jammed and there’s a Fokker on your tail.” He shrugs. “Throw the Parasol into a spin. Chances are good the Fokker pilot will assume he’s got you and go after someone else. Spin as long as you can, then level out and head for home.”
I take Jack’s lessons to heart and practice spinning until I’m confident going into one and coming out. I also learn to shoot well—all those hours hitting gophers on the farm have given me a good eye. Of course, a gopher sits still while you aim, unlike an enemy plane that’s moving rapidly and unpredictably through three dimensions, but Jack assures me that a good eye is critical for a successful pilot. By the end of my training, I’m winning almost all my mock dogfights against the other pilots at St. Omer. I even manage to beat Jack once or twice.
At St. Omer I receive almost weekly letters from Mom giving me all the news from home, the gossip about our neighbors and the goings-on in Moose Jaw.Sometimes the letters are in parcels containing knitted socks and tins of candy, and a couple of times Mom even persuades Dad to add a few curt lines at the end. I also receive two letters that I didn’t expect. I’m delighted to receive them both, but the first contains bad news.
Hello Edward
,
I hope that you are learning to fly well, and that Father’s Pour le Mérite is bringing you luck. I envy you your youth and the chances you have to fly
.
Poor Bertha is no more. I flew last month in too much cold and wind, and she landed in a tree instead of a field. But I am building another in the barn. I have many ideas on how I can run the wires to better control the flight. In the spring, Bertha will soar once more
.
I am afraid now that I must pass on some sad news. Ted died some weeks ago. He was flying back from Bismarck and became caught in a storm. The wings came off the Avro and he fell in a field only a few miles short of his home. It is a great loss
.
If you have time, please write and tell of the planes you have seen
.
I wish you all the best
,
Uncle Horst
I’m terribly sad to hear of Ted’s death. He was very kind to me and taught me a lot. His accident brings home how dangerous flying is, even if you don’t go to war.
Of course I write back to Horst immediately, telling him of my adventures, describing the machines I’ve flown and wishing him luck with the new Bertha.
The other letter is even more of a surprise and it’s taken quite a while to find me. It’s addressed simply to “Edward Simpson. Pilot. Royal Flying Corps. England.”
Hello Eddie Boy
,
I hope this reaches you and all is well
.
I never got to Gallipoli. By the time I reached Egypt, the invasion force was being withdrawn, so I had to sit in Cairo and wait for them to return. The training here was boring, and I don’t imagine it will be of much use in France, where we are headed next. I’ve put in a request for a transfer to the Royal Flying Corps, so maybe we’ll meet up somewhere
.
Cairo is a strange place. Everything and anything is for sale in the bazaars and the place is full of Australians, so it seems as if there’s a fight every night. I saw the pyramids, though. They sure beat anything I ever saw in Coachman’s Cove!
We board ships for Europe in a day or two, and Idon’t know where I’ll be after we arrive. Still, if this reaches you, try writing back c/o the Newfoundland Regiment. It should get to me eventually. I would like to hear your news
.
Don’t fall out of the cockpit!
I look forward to catching up and sharing a tale or two
.
All the best
,
Your friend, Alec
I’m glad Alec didn’t make it to Gallipoli. I’ve heard stories about what a disaster it was over there. I write back giving my news and tell him I also hope
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