The Burning Sky

Reginald Alexander John Warneford VC (15 October 1891 - 17 June 1915).

When the Great War broke out I was living in Canada, working for the British-India Steam Navigation company. I had a decent position there, and I had almost earned enough money to return to my family in India. When news of the war and its enormous scale reached my village through radio telegram I packed my things, resigned from my job and booked the first available ship back to England. I was lucky I booked passage early, because in the coming days and weeks, every single boat leaving the port was crammed to capacity. The moment I arrived in England, I made a beeline for the nearest army recruitment office. A few days after I had signed up I met a pilot at a small smoking bar. He said that Britain's strong investments in new airplane technology was, "gonna win the war before it started". He described the feeling of flying hundreds of feet in the air with full control of a flying machine and he suggested that I transfer to the Flying Corps with him to become a combat pilot. It sounded too good to be true and I fully expected them to reject my application. I imagined flying for the navy, being in control of my own aircraft, not living in the trenches where it rained artillery and disease and bullets swept through leaving thousands of bodies in the bloody mud - instead flying through the fresh cool air, having a choice in my own fate.

A deep sense of pride and determination coursed through my body as I read my terms of enlistment into the British Royal Flying Corps. I was honestly shocked that they had accepted me. I had already come to terms with life in the trenches and dismissed the pilot idea as just an unrealistic dream. As I began my training it became more and more clear to me that my destiny was to fly. Less than a week after my training began, I had my first solo flight. It was in a decommissioned B.E.2 biplane. I circled the beautiful machine, it was so much smaller than I expected, maybe two times my body length. A durable weatherproof canvas was tightly strung around the wooden frame, to give it it's sleek, aerodynamic shape. I was surprised to find that the single pilots seat was only barely large enough for my body. The smell of spent aviation fuel filled the otherwise cool, pristine air. The peaceful unworn sky was interrupted by nothing but the comforting but powerful growl of my engine, as I looked out on the beautiful landscape of Hendon and the surrounding woods and lakes. Taking off was not particularly hard, but free flying was mindlessly easy. Or at least this was true without the unwelcome addition of barrage balloons, machine-gun fire, fused anti-air artillery, shrapnel and enemy aircraft! Landing was somewhat harder. Upon inspection I even noticed a small crack in one of the wooden wheels, but overall, I did well for my first time in control of an aircraft.

A few weeks after my first flight I was transferred to Upavon to finish my fast tracked training. I knew I was good, and I was confident that I could impress an officer or commander, and be deployed within the month. When I first met my new squad mates, I could tell that they thought I was being cocky. I couldn't say I blamed them, they must have seen people like me all the time, thinking they are special because they got transferred to the Upavon training base, like that means they're in the same boat as all the good pilots. When my new instructor, Captain Merriam saw what I could do, his opinion of my over confidence changed drastically and he said if anything I should be teaching him. My squad mates however, didn't show any signs of warming up to me. The next morning, news of the Zeppelin bomb raids in Sheringham and Great Yarmouth reached Upavon. Flying didn't feel the same that day. The second half of the day was a clear schedule for me. I decided to take the opportunity to get to know some of my squad mates. It took me at least half an hour to find Joseph. He was sitting at a small pond near the grass runway, "Joseph, hey, where is the rest of the squad?" I asked "They're doing an endurance training exercise over West Wick, and you can call me Wulstan." he replied "Oh, I forgot that was today, why aren't you with them? Has it got anything to do with those damned Zeppelins?" "Yeah," he sighed, "I had family in Sheringham." "Oh, I'm so sorry. I'm sure they're okay." I said. "Yeah, me too." He trailed off. "It's just that, they send me a letter every fortnight, and the last one should have arrived by now." "I'm sure it's on it's way, it could even be waiting at our barracks right now," I say, but I'm not convinced. The thought of a giant airship full of German soldiers, emerging from the clouds like a dreadnought warship in a sea that can't be sailed. Raining fire down on innocent men, women and children as they slept, turned my organs to ice. "We can shoot them down you know, it's been done before, by ground based artillery guns in Italy," he said, his voice thick with optimism, like he was talking more to himself than to me.