It was love at first sight. She was gorgeous, sleek and powerful. The moment I saw the RE8, I knew she was the plane for me.

‘Welcome back to Waddington, gentlemen,’ said Captain Ferguson. ‘Meet your new best friends.’

I couldn’t stop smiling.

‘These are new aircraft,’ said Ferguson. ‘Fresh from the factory. Do not break them.’

‘No, sir,’ we chorused.

‘I hope you’ve had a lovely rest in Scotland,’ he said. ‘You are now highly trained officers, God help us, and in the next few months here you will become so used to these planes you could fly them in your sleep.’

‘Months?’ spluttered Charlie beside me.

Ferguson twisted around to see who had spoken. ‘Is there a problem, Cadet Driscoll?’

Charlie had a look on his face that meant trouble. ‘Yes, sir.’

‘Let me guess,’ said Ferguson. ‘You want to fly over to France tomorrow and give the Hun a good punch in the nose, is that it?’

‘Exactly, sir,’ Charlie said. ‘All this practice—’

‘Is to help you stay alive and unharmed.’

‘But I know what I’m doing,’ said Charlie. ‘We all do.’

‘We’ll see about that.’

Captain Ferguson turned away. ‘Any more questions?’

Nobody spoke. Charlie clenched his fists and looked down, glaring at his boots as if they’d committed a crime.

‘Proceed, Sergeant,’ said Ferguson. He sat down at a folding table, took a pencil out of his pocket, and started scribbling in his log book.

The Flight Sergeant called out a few names and assigned each name to a plane. I knew which one I wanted. She was on the far end of the line, her nose gleaming in the morning sunshine. At last, he called my name.

‘That’s you, son, right down the end,’ he said. ‘Happy flying.’

I sprinted down the row and skidded to a halt in front of her, looking up.

‘You beauty.’

I walked the length of the plane, sliding my hands across the fuselage. It was tight as a drum, all the wires and frets gleaming, the timber freshly varnished. We’d spent weeks skimming around in flighty little scouts in the advanced course, so the RE8 seemed like a monster. Powerful engine, four-blade propeller, forty foot top wing span. A dragon. She’d easily do ninety miles an hour, maybe more, even with two blokes aboard.

I ducked under the propeller, reached up and patted her nose.

‘Hello, sweetheart,’ I said.

That was when Charlie started shouting.

He stood over Ferguson, waving his arms about. He let go a few choice Australian swear words as well. You could get court-martialled for less than that. I raced back.

‘Charlie! What are you doing?’

His face was so red he looked about to explode. ‘Ask him!’ He pointed an accusing finger at Ferguson.

I grabbed his shoulders and swung him round to face me. ‘What’s wrong with you?’

‘Everything, apparently,’ he said. ‘It seems I’m not good enough for the Royal damn Flying Corps.’

‘What?’

‘He won’t give me a plane,’ said Charlie.

I turned to Captain Ferguson. ‘There must be some mistake, sir.’

Ferguson didn’t even glance up. ‘Do you really think I’d make such a mistake, Cadet?’

‘But Charlie’s a splendid pilot, sir. Better than me.’

He closed the log book and struggled to his feet. Even leaning on his cane, he was a lot taller than me. ‘Is that what you think?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘That’s very loyal of you, Robinson. But you’re wrong.’ His gaze shifted between me and Charlie. ‘You underestimate your own abilities, and you overestimate young Driscoll’s.’

‘But, sir—’ Charlie started to argue but Ferguson silenced him with a wave of one hand.

‘Did I tell you there was no place for you in the Corps?’

Charlie’s shoulders drooped. ‘No, sir.’

‘No, I didn’t. I simply said you weren’t getting your own plane. That is because—and all your instructors agree—you will make a better observer than a reconnaissance pilot.’

‘But I don’t want to be an observer,’ said Charlie.

‘And I don’t want to be hobbling around with a walking stick,’ Ferguson snapped. ‘But we’re in a war. And you, Driscoll, will do as you are ordered. Understood?’

Charlie sighed. ‘Yes, sir.’

‘You got the highest marks for gunnery training, but the lowest for aeronautics,’ Ferguson said. ‘I hear you nearly killed yourself twice during the advanced course and tore the undercarriage off a very expensive Bristol.’

‘I was dodging a cow, sir.’

‘Really? And why were you flying at the level of a dairy herd?’

Charlie blushed. ‘Forced landing, sir. Ran out of sky.’

‘Exactly. But on the gun range, you are second to none. Much better than your friend here.’

I bowed my head. It was true.

‘So the decision was made for us. You will have to do what you can to stop people from shooting at your friend Robinson. And he will make sure the machine gets up and down without hitting any cattle. Is that clear?’

‘You mean, we’ll fly together?’ I asked.

‘For now.’ He sighed. ‘I’ve been told to rush my three best crews out of here, without any more training. Your orders should come through this week. Both of you. In the meantime, I suggest you get used to flying that huge bus. You’ll be taking it with you.’

I knew Charlie would argue until the cows came home, but there was no point. I tugged at his sleeve.

‘Come along, mate,’ I said. ‘We’ll sort it out when we get back to the squadron.’

‘Wrong again,’ said Captain Ferguson. ‘Lieutenant.’

I looked up. ‘Sir?’

‘You heard me,’ he said. ‘You two aren’t going back to your squadron. You’ve been promoted—and posted to the Front.’

May, 1917

Hotel Wellington,

London, England

By the time you read this, Mags, I’ll be in Flanders. Try not to worry, won’t you? It’s all happened pretty suddenly, so there was no time to warn you. We fly across the Channel and make landfall at a place called Dunkerque, then hop onward to our airfield near Ypres. I’m not allowed to say which one.

Charlie’s coming with me. He’s decided to be an observer, so he can look after me. We hope they’ll let us fly together.

We’ve been posted to a British squadron. The rest of our Point Cook boys are still in training all over the place, and won’t be coming across for a while yet.

Anyway, the brass seem to think me and Charlie have done enough practice, so it’s time to get stuck in.

We’re in London now, getting kitted out. Not much time for sightseeing, but we ride around on the buses and it’s amazing what you can see without trying. There was one street where a Zeppelin had dropped its bombs and all the houses and shops were just rubble. Scary to think of it, that instead of fighting armies, the Germans are aiming at families at home having dinner. There you are, then BANG! They counter-attack with incendiary ammunition—which is like it sounds. Ordinary bullets don’t work, so these ones set the gas on fire. It makes me shiver to think of it, but it must look like the most incredible bonfire in the sky. We’ve seen marvellous things too—the Houses of Parliament, St Paul’s Cathedral, London Bridge, thousands of ships and boats in the river, and the Tower! I try to remember it all so I can tell you when I get home. I’ve never seen so many people, Sis, all rushing from place to place.

Anyway, it’s a jolly expensive business being an officer. We have to pay for our own uniform and all this regulation kit, and then on top of that we need our flying gear and what-have-you. They must think we’re loaded. All right for the British flyers—they get a whacking great allowance, and most of them are genuine officer types anyhow. Not us, not on your life.

I spent two days trudging around the streets trying to buy gear that doesn’t look like it came up in a fishing net. Got back to the hotel and guess what? There, laid out on the bed like the King’s coronation get-up, was a brand new Sidcot flying suit and a pair of leather mittens. Stops you from freezing when you’re up in the air. Sheepskin lining and everything. Charlie swears black and blue he doesn’t know where they came from, but I have a pretty good idea. If I try to thank him, he tells me to shut my gob. Funny bloke.

So my next letter will be from Europe. How about that? Remember how I used to show you all those places in my school atlas—Paris and Rouen and Brussels? In a few days I’ll be there, swanning around in my lieutenant’s uniform and flash new boots. Can you believe that? Me neither.

Might even try some of that famous French food. We’ve been stuffing ourselves silly the whole time we’ve been in England. You never saw such meals. I’ll be lucky if my plane gets off the ground.

Tally-ho!