The next month became known as Bloody April. We flew even more than usual and I found myself getting a little careless when we entered dogfights. In the skies I felt less and less fear and far more exhilaration, as if the air itself were intoxicating. The very carelessness that we warned new pilots about was creeping into my day-to-day flying. On the ground I was bone-tired and often depressed. Sleep did not come easily, especially when some of our pilots did not return from sorties. I saw men die horribly that month. Both sides sustained a high rate of casualties. Every week we were raising our glasses to honour another fallen friend.
I became so sick of writing home, or to Nellie, about another death that I stopped recording them. Instead, I wrote about the soccer matches and the indescribable coffee that we adored in the French towns. More than anything I wrote about how dearly I wanted to see each of them.
On April 6 some shocking news arrived: the United States had finally declared war on Germany! Angry at the Germans’ continued use of U-boats against passenger and merchant ships, the United States was entering the fray. Needless to say, the news made a splash among the men.
“The Americans are boasting that they’ll put twenty thousand planes in the air against the Hun,” I heard one pilot say on our way out to the field.
“I’ll believe it when I see it,” said another.
Our captain snorted. “Won’t help us today, will it? We could use a hundred more planes — and better ones — to face off against these wretched Albatroses.”
I wrote to Sarah that night:
I wonder if this might mean the end of the war. America is a big country and the Germans must be shaking in their boots at this announcement. I only wish they had come sooner. There are a lot of good men who might still be alive. But if the United States entering the war allows me to go home, then I can only hope that they advance quickly. And if you are very good I might bring someone home with me.
Less than a week after America joined the Allies, we cheered when news came of the incredible Canadian victory at Vimy Ridge. They had taken a hill, a strategic and well-fortified high ground used by the enemy to rain down shells on Allied troops. Yet our elation began to die away when news of the number of casualties started to come out. The rumours said well over three thousand dead and up to ten thousand injured during the battle. It was still a stunning achievement, but at such cost.
* * *
Billy and I were so exhausted that by the third week of April, we were granted leave. Our service since January was deemed enough to warrant the rest, and our mistakes certainly showed that we both needed a break. In the last week alone, Billy had ruined the undercarriage of two planes while landing. Twice I had drifted into enemy territory, once with two inexperienced pilots under my protection.
At the time of the second incident I told myself that the wind was extreme and that I was just trying to hem in the new pilots. It was the partial truth. In fact, for several minutes I had stopped looking at my maps and at the landmarks for direction. It was a moment of fatigue, of “mind drifting” — a curse that plagued all of us when we were too tired. We were fortunate enough to return whole, with the new pilots intact, but it did not come as a great surprise when the commander decided that Billy and I needed a rest, or we were going to make more costly mistakes.
My intention was to get to Redcar and Grimsby as quickly as possible. The commander permitted us to fly a two-seater to England provided that we brought him something better than an old R.E.8 reconnaissance plane in return. It was much faster than taking the train and then the boat across the Channel and we jumped at the chance. Billy agreed to stay with me at Mrs. Baxter’s. “It’s about time I see that Nellie of yours,” he said.
On the field I looked over our transport with a critical eye. “Some caution with that beastie, if you please, sir,” a mechanic said as he walked over to me. He wiped his greasy hands on an equally greasy cloth. “She’s been sputtering a fair bit and is given to bouts of power loss. It’s good that you’re flying on our side, sir, or you’d be a sitting duck.”
The R.E.8, nicknamed “Harry Tate,” was often used for reconnaissance and photography missions. I had seen them many times on the base. They were steady machines, but had little manoeuvrability compared to our fighters. This particular Harry Tate had seen a great deal of action. Only a few days earlier, six R.E.8s had been tragically shot down near Douai by Jasta 11. The Baron had registered over 40 kills.
“Caution taken!” I answered and thanked him. How could I explain that I would have flown it with one wing if it could take me to Nellie? And after months of constant stress and action, I cared little about the dangers of a slightly faulty plane travelling over friendly ground.
Billy stopped me as I tossed in my bag. “We’re stopping in Middlesbrough.”
“Why?”
“To pick up a ring, you twit.”
And we did. I bought a gold band — slender, yet great in significance.
A few days into our leave Billy and I took the train to Grimsby.
“You look as if you’re off to fight Jasta 11,” Billy teased.
“It’s a different sort of worry,” I answered.
“Let me warm up the old man,” he said. “I’ll give you your cue.”
We approached the farm at teatime and our arrival was greatly heralded. Billy fell right into telling stories, and within minutes he and Mr. Timpson were laughing and taking sips of beer. They wandered to the porch, where their voices quieted.
“That’s curious,” said Nellie as she eyed the two men through the window.
Standing in front of my beautiful Nellie, I nearly offered her the ring on the spot. I was saved by her youngest brother, who charged at me with his head down and tackled me.
“Off!” Nellie commanded him. I gave him a playful punch and let him go. As I stooped down to retrieve my hat it struck me like a thunderbolt that my head was exposed. Nellie reached out and touched my hair.
“Is that a wound?” she asked worriedly.
I was tempted to tell her a wild tale, but with Nellie that would never do. “It’s a stress spot,” I said. “The doctor says it’s caused by tension and will grow back naturally enough. It’s part of the reason I’m on leave.”
She tapped her lips with her fingers and regarded me thoughtfully. Then she said, “If it doesn’t grow back then I’d like you to shave a spot on the opposite side so that you match.”
I laughed, pulled her to me and kissed her.
“Not here!” She giggled and looked around nervously.
The door to the porch opened and Billy beckoned. “Over here, Master Townend,” he quipped.
I swallowed hard, glanced one more time at Nellie and then went out to the porch. Billy put a mug of beer in my hand. I took a swig without even thinking.
Mr. Timpson regarded me as he had the first day I’d met him in his field, when he’d walked towards us carrying a shotgun. I took a second swig of beer. “Mr. Miller informs me you have something of importance to say.”
I stared hard at the beer swirling in my mug. “Well, yes, sir. I do. I do have something of importance to ask you.”
Billy stared at the porch.
“You may,” Mr. Timpson said.
I choked on my beer. “I … I … may?”
“You may ask me this thing of importance.”
Billy made an indistinguishable sound and wrapped his arms around his chest.
When I looked up at Mr. Timpson, I saw the tiniest creases in the corners of his eyes, the faintest hint of humour.
“Sir?” I asked stupidly.
He leaned forward and whispered. “Ask me.”
“Would you permit me to marry your daughter?” I said.
Billy and Mr. Timpson burst out laughing and turned away from me to grasp each other’s shoulders. When Mr. Timpson looked at me again, he had regained his composure. “With my blessings, my boy,” he said. “There’s not much to think about on the farm in January and February, and Mrs. Timpson’s been chatting up the topic non-stop.”
I set down my beer to shake his hand, and then reached down to pick it back up, in the same instant that he offered his own hand. Eventually we managed to shake hands. Nellie appeared at the door, watching us curiously.
“Go,” Mr. Timpson said to me and nodded towards his daughter. I took Nellie outside in the gathering dusk, knelt in the mud and asked her to marry me. Mr. Timpson agreed to our marriage when Nellie turned nineteen, in less than a year’s time.
It was difficult to leave the farm that evening. The whole family accompanied us to the station for the last train. When I kissed Nellie goodbye, she did not pull away or appear embarrassed as she had earlier that night. Our lives had changed with the coming of a slender ring that sat so beautifully on her finger.
* * *
Our return to France was considerably different than our departure. In the first place, I felt a wave of hope through my engagement to Nellie. It somehow eased the weight of the war. For almost an entire day my hand stopped shaking. I wrote to my parents and to Robert with the news and could hardly wait for their replies. The shaking returned, however, when we received word that we were to ferry a fighter over to an RNAS base at Dunkirk.
The Bristol F.2b fighter was a powerful beast and superior to the Harry Tate. It had a Vickers forward-firing machine gun for the pilot and a twin Lewis machine gun on a Scarff ring for the rear cockpit. The Scarff ring ran around the perimeter of the cockpit like an elevated miniature train track, allowing the gunner a great deal of manoeuvrability in order to shoot at the enemy.
Billy was wide awake this time and somewhat refreshed, although he was still exhausted. He certainly looked better after long hours of sleep and Mrs. Baxter’s cooking. And my engagement to Nellie had become a feather in his cap.
“Couldn’t have done it without me, Paulie,” he boasted. “I had the old man eating out of my palm. You’re lucky I didn’t decide to marry the girl myself.”
I experimented with the Bristol F.2b while travelling over the Channel, rolling and banking more often than Billy liked. “It’s a good plane,” I shouted.
“Yes, it is,” he roared back. “And as revenge for your stomach-turning tricks, I ate the rest of Mrs. Baxter’s cookies. Hurrah!”
Our new orders were to ferry yet another plane, this time a Bristol wanted at Dieppe, and then find transport back to our squadron. It was a smooth flight and without incident.
On delivering the Bristol, we were informed of our reassignment to a squadron near Dunkirk.
“I wonder what they’re flying over at Dunkirk,” Billy commented.
“Pups, most likely,” I answered.
“I meant the Hun.”
* * *
In May, news of British ace Albert Ball’s death reached us at Dunkirk and kept us all sombre for days. The word around the aerodrome was that he’d flown into a cloud and then crashed to the ground. Exactly why he’d crashed was still unknown. He’d been a brilliant pilot, the pride of the Royal Flying Corps, scoring 44 victories. The British officers were crushed by the news.
Late that month came the rumour of daylight bombing raids against England. The threat called for increased caution along the coasts.
Daylight bombing was risky, as the anti-aircraft gunners could easily see the planes. But the Hun had created an agile new bomber, the Gotha, and they had confidence in their aircraft. On May 25, the Gothas attacked the English coast and the town of Folkstone, killing over ninety civilians.