we can meet up somewhere.
It’s very strange getting letters from home and from Alec. They seem to be from a different world, and my world is about to change even more. Tomorrow, February 29 of this leap year, I am to travel south to Bapaume, to join No. 8 Squadron and the real war.
CHAPTER 10
The Canadian Kid—February 1916
E very bone in my body aches from hours spent in the back of a lorry bouncing over rough roads, but we have at last arrived. I am the only pilot joining this squadron. I climb down, retrieve my gear, wave goodbye to the driver and look around. I’m not sure what I expected, but this is certainly not it. London was indeed a shock for a farm boy from Saskatchewan, but everywhere I have gone from there seems to take me to an even stranger place. It has been a long journey, but now I’m almost at the war—and oddly, it looks more like home.
About a dozen single-seater Parasols are scattered haphazardly around a farmyard. The stone farmhouse looks abandoned, but there is activity around the large barn, with several figures coming and going. Tents of various sizes are spread around, and a few mechanics are working on a Parasol outside a ramshackle wooden hut. I assume that the closest field is the airstrip, but the only real clue is the worn grass in the center. My impression of having returned to Horst’s back field is reinforced by the sight of a solitary cow placidly grazing nearby. A regimented line of plane trees runs along the country road and marks the end of the airstrip. Wondering what I’m getting into, I hoist my pack to my shoulder and head toward the barn.
I’ve got only about halfway when a terrifying racket breaks out. It sounds like an animal is being tortured, but the noise quickly resolves itself into a tune of sorts. A figure emerges from the barn and strides toward the airstrip, where it marches back and forth in the fading evening light. It’s someone playing the bagpipes.
Feeling confused, I continue on. When I’m almost at the barn, a man detaches himself from a small group to my right and approaches. He’s tall and skinny, and sports a thick mustache. Instead of a regulation uniform, he’s wearing riding breeches and a tweedjacket with a bright green silk scarf knotted round his neck. He holds out his hand and smiles broadly.
“You must be the new chap.”
I shake his hand. “Edward Simpson, sir.”
“Oh, we don’t much bother with the ‘sir’ thing here,” he says with a dismissive wave. “Only if some of the top brass are coming—and they don’t get out here much. I’m the CO, Captain Neville Fowler, but most of the chaps call me Wally. They think my facial hair makes me look like a walrus.”
A particularly loud bagpipe tune interrupts him. I look over.
“Don’t worry about Jock,” Wally says. “He loves those bagpipes of his. Plays them every evening, whatever the weather. Even takes them up in the cockpit with him. Says they bring him luck on patrol. Some of us think they’re his secret weapon. If his Lewis gun jams, he just plays the pipes and Fritz thinks a host of demons are after him.”
“Who’s Fritz?” I ask.
“That’s just our nickname for the enemy—same as Jock’s our nickname for our mad Scottish piper. But old Jock’s not the craziest we have here. Come on in. Let me show you where your bunk is.”
I’ve only just entered the barn when I’m startled by a loud thunk beside my head. I look round to see a long,evil-looking knife protruding from the wooden wall. On a very tattered sofa in the middle of the barn sits a massive bear of a man. He’s dressed in uniform pants and a leather jacket, and has one leg thrown casually over the sofa’s arm. He’s cleaning his fingernails with the point of another knife.
“Meet Bowie,” Wally says casually. “He’s our American. Best we can do until his government sees the error of its ways and pitches in to help. He’s good with a knife. In fact, some of the fellows think he
It’s very strange getting letters from home and from Alec. They seem to be from a different world, and my world is about to change even more. Tomorrow, February 29 of this leap year, I am to travel south to Bapaume, to join No. 8 Squadron and the real war.
CHAPTER 10
The Canadian Kid—February 1916
E very bone in my body aches from hours spent in the back of a lorry bouncing over rough roads, but we have at last arrived. I am the only pilot joining this squadron. I climb down, retrieve my gear, wave goodbye to the driver and look around. I’m not sure what I expected, but this is certainly not it. London was indeed a shock for a farm boy from Saskatchewan, but everywhere I have gone from there seems to take me to an even stranger place. It has been a long journey, but now I’m almost at the war—and oddly, it looks more like home.
About a dozen single-seater Parasols are scattered haphazardly around a farmyard. The stone farmhouse looks abandoned, but there is activity around the large barn, with several figures coming and going. Tents of various sizes are spread around, and a few mechanics are working on a Parasol outside a ramshackle wooden hut. I assume that the closest field is the airstrip, but the only real clue is the worn grass in the center. My impression of having returned to Horst’s back field is reinforced by the sight of a solitary cow placidly grazing nearby. A regimented line of plane trees runs along the country road and marks the end of the airstrip. Wondering what I’m getting into, I hoist my pack to my shoulder and head toward the barn.
I’ve got only about halfway when a terrifying racket breaks out. It sounds like an animal is being tortured, but the noise quickly resolves itself into a tune of sorts. A figure emerges from the barn and strides toward the airstrip, where it marches back and forth in the fading evening light. It’s someone playing the bagpipes.
Feeling confused, I continue on. When I’m almost at the barn, a man detaches himself from a small group to my right and approaches. He’s tall and skinny, and sports a thick mustache. Instead of a regulation uniform, he’s wearing riding breeches and a tweedjacket with a bright green silk scarf knotted round his neck. He holds out his hand and smiles broadly.
“You must be the new chap.”
I shake his hand. “Edward Simpson, sir.”
“Oh, we don’t much bother with the ‘sir’ thing here,” he says with a dismissive wave. “Only if some of the top brass are coming—and they don’t get out here much. I’m the CO, Captain Neville Fowler, but most of the chaps call me Wally. They think my facial hair makes me look like a walrus.”
A particularly loud bagpipe tune interrupts him. I look over.
“Don’t worry about Jock,” Wally says. “He loves those bagpipes of his. Plays them every evening, whatever the weather. Even takes them up in the cockpit with him. Says they bring him luck on patrol. Some of us think they’re his secret weapon. If his Lewis gun jams, he just plays the pipes and Fritz thinks a host of demons are after him.”
“Who’s Fritz?” I ask.
“That’s just our nickname for the enemy—same as Jock’s our nickname for our mad Scottish piper. But old Jock’s not the craziest we have here. Come on in. Let me show you where your bunk is.”
I’ve only just entered the barn when I’m startled by a loud thunk beside my head. I look round to see a long,evil-looking knife protruding from the wooden wall. On a very tattered sofa in the middle of the barn sits a massive bear of a man. He’s dressed in uniform pants and a leather jacket, and has one leg thrown casually over the sofa’s arm. He’s cleaning his fingernails with the point of another knife.
“Meet Bowie,” Wally says casually. “He’s our American. Best we can do until his government sees the error of its ways and pitches in to help. He’s good with a knife. In fact, some of the fellows think he
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