Wings of War Read Free

until now. I’ve been interested in what is happening in Europe—excited, even—but it is a distant place and doesn’t seem to have much to do with our little corner of the prairies. Will I join up when I’m old enough?
    “Uncle Horst says that aeroplanes will be important in this war.”
    “He may be right. New things are always tried outin wars.” Dad looks at me questioningly. “What are you thinking?”
    “I’m not sure. The war seems a long way off, but Canada’s in it now. If it goes on for a long time, I’ll have to do my part, but I don’t know if I want to be a soldier—at least not one in an army of millions. If Uncle Horst teaches me to fly, then I can be a pilot.” The instant I say it, I know it’s what I want to do. I’m thrilled by the idea of being far above the fighting, like an ancient Greek god staring down on mere mortals from Mount Olympus.
    “That might be a good idea,” Dad says, nodding. “I don’t expect a soldier’s lot will be much fun in this war.” He stands up and stretches. “Meanwhile, let’s hope the papers are right and this madness is all over soon. I’m heading inside before the mosquitoes drain all the blood out of me. Goodnight, Edward.”
    “Goodnight, Dad.”
    Despite the mosquitoes, I sit on the porch for a bit longer, staring into the darkness. The stars are out—the same stars that the millions of soldiers mobilizing all across Europe can see. I feel excited to be alive to see these momentous events unfold, but if I’m honest with myself, I feel scared as well. Will this war get so big that I’ll be sucked in to become just another soldier? Not if I can help it. I resolve that as soon as possible, I’ll ride over and persuade Uncle Horst toteach me to fly. In exchange, I’ll offer to help him build
Bertha 7
. Even if the war ends before I’m old enough to enlist, I’ll still have fulfilled my dream of rising in the air to soar with the birds.

CHAPTER 3
Escaping Gravity—June 1915
    “Y ou must concentrate,” Horst tells me. “If you break your neck, your father will be angered at me.” I am sitting in
Bertha 7
at one end of Horst’s field. The building, the testing, the adjusting, the practicing—all these are over. I’m sixteen, and I’m about to fly an aeroplane on my own for the first time.
    My heart is thumping like a steam hammer. I’m scared and excited at the same time. The multitude of wires holding Bertha together make me feel as if I’m in the center of a web, but am I the spider or the fly? Am I in control or am I trapped?
    “Remember your axes, Edward,” Horst says seriously, forcing me to concentrate. “You have three of them going through you—one up and down, one side to side, and one forward and back. Forget left and right. You control only the spin of yourself and the plane around each of those three axes. You are not the
pilot
of the plane—you are
part
of the plane. I have told you this many times. Imagine the axes are running through your body, head to toe, elbow to elbow, spine to belly button. What is rotation around the head-to-toe axis called?”
    “Yaw,” I reply.
    “And the elbow-to-elbow axis?”
    “Pitch.”
    “And spine to belly button?”
    “Roll. I know all this, Horst,” I say in exasperation.
    “Ya, ya, you know. But you must
remember
.”
    “I’ve been up a dozen times.”
    “Only twelve, and I was with you to stop your mistakes. This time I will not be there to get you out of trouble. And Bertha, she will be different without me—lighter, faster.”
    The past ten months have been hectic. Every moment that Dad has been able to spare me from the farm, I’ve been Horst’s dogsbody, holding, carving, gluing pieces of wood, stretching control wires and lifting heavy engines. I have countless scars and bruises, and anannoying cough from hours spent inhaling the foul fumes given off by the glue that holds Bertha together and the liquid—dope, Horst calls it—that is used to cure the fabric