We buried Harry in Luxeuil, in a graveyard near where we had taken our walk. A French priest said the eulogy. Harry was surrounded by all the pilots and gunners who had been on the bombing raid. Many others from the aerodrome walked in procession with us to the graveside. A few people from the town stood and watched. Afterwards I wrote a description of what had happened the day Harry died, and included a sketch of where he was buried in my letter to his parents.
I stared at the letter for some time and thought hard about Harry’s death. I wondered again and again if we all should have been more vigilant. Harry had seen the enemy first. Perhaps if I had manoeuvred faster and gained altitude instead of banking away to escape, he might still be alive. The possibilities were endless. The horrible image of poor Harry slumped in his seat haunted me.
Billy came and sat by my bed on the night of the funeral. “What could I have done differently, Billy?” I asked.
“Nothing,” he answered. “And don’t be an idiot. It’s not as if you ran away. You were firing just as hard as he was. It could easily have been you or me who took the bullet. We’ve been lucky so far. Harry’s time was up. That’s all you can say and then you put it behind you.”
Robert had said the same thing. But it was not easy to stop thinking.
We found out several days later that Watson and his gunner had been killed as well. Their plane crashed behind enemy lines. A letter from a German pilot indicated that both men had been buried with honour.
Through the next few weeks, I wrote daily to Nellie, to my parents and Sarah, and more than ever to Robert, with Harry’s death filling my thoughts.
Partly to take our minds off such deep losses, we also played a good deal of soccer when the weather permitted. The ground was hard, and before each match we picked up any of the larger stones. Regardless of our efforts to clean the field of rocks, I received more wounds from soccer than from flying, a fact for which I was eternally grateful.
One day I received a photograph from Nellie. It was a newspaper clipping showing her knitting socks for soldiers. Girls and women all over England were lending their knitting and stitching skills to help the war effort. The picture had been in my hands for hardly a minute when Ashcroft stole it and handed it to Billy, who ran out the door.
When I finally got hold of the picture I saw that someone had pencilled in, Ooooh, Paulie! Look at me stitch, on the margin. Billy swore that it wasn’t him. And then he burst out laughing. “Ashcroft came up with a new name for you,” he added when he recovered. “Stitch.” The name stuck and from that moment on I was known as Stitch.
But that was one of the light moments in a difficult few weeks. One day an RNAS officer named Raymond and a reconnaissance photographer, Peters, went up to take some practice shots at the new aerodrome targets that had been set up so that pilots and gunners could practise shooting from various heights and angles. At barely 100 feet from takeoff the propeller cut out and the Strutter went into a nosedive. Raymond was killed instantly. He was only twenty. And Peters, who had simply gone up for the ride, was taken to hospital with what they assumed were internal injuries. And then Ashcroft wrecked the undercarriage of his plane — twice — while landing.
Even our ground crews were not exempt. One of the mechanics received a serious injury when the damaged undercarriage of a reconnaissance plane collapsed, pinning his legs.
I kept waiting for misfortune to strike. I did not have to wait long. Days later we received news that we were moving to a more forward position, to Ochey, a town near Tantonville. We were detailed to ferry our planes to the new base. Billy, Ashcroft and I set out on the same day. There was a skiff of snow on the ground, but the ceiling was quite high and there was little chance of precipitation.
As we made our way along, Ashcroft suddenly spotted enemy fighters. We were close to the border and I couldn’t tell if they were on the French side or headed back to Germany. They changed course when they saw us, six of them, and turned in our direction. As they approached I recognized the Albatros and the Iron Cross insignia.
They came straight for us. Five hundred feet away they broke formation and roared past without firing a shot. As one of them flew parallel to my Strutter, he saluted me. I was so astonished I just stared as he went past. A moment later they came around again, now on our tails. Of all the cheek! Their first pass had simply been to get a good look at us! Billy increased throttle.
The German planes opened fire. I flitted from side to side to make myself a more difficult target. With one more glance behind I banked sharply to port and opened fire as the Albatros passed by. He was so close that I could see bullet holes appear on his tail section.
Although I hit him several times, his plane remained on its course. The bullets had passed right through the wing and registered no fatal damage. The Albatros on my tail veered off to face Ashcroft, who had made a loop and returned to the fray. I looked all around to keep track of everyone near me. We were fighting so closely that a single miscalculation could put me directly in the line of fire of an enemy plane, or a collision with one of my own.
I increased throttle and turned to help Ashcroft. This time, on a hunch, I opened fire before the Albatros came fully into my view. While the first burst missed, the second found its mark. Holes appeared near the fuselage. Within seconds, smoke began to billow from the front of the plane.
There was no time to celebrate, for bullets whined around my cockpit once more. Suddenly something hit my shoulder and threw me forward. I wondered if the top wing had collapsed and landed at the base of my neck. Eventually I realized that I had been hit by a bullet. My first instinct was to touch the wound, but I resisted. There was a plane coming at me from above and I needed to manoeuvre. I pushed the control stick forward and went into a dive. He followed. Using the speed from the dive, I manoeuvered into a loop and pulled back smoothly on the stick. The pain in my shoulder was unrelenting.
As I came around again I was stunned to see three German planes breaking off the attack. The plane chasing me also veered off. Far below, a smoking Albatros spiralled downward. The others sped towards it. Moments later the smoking plane pulled out of the spiral. There was no sign of the sixth plane.
Billy and Ashcroft pulled alongside me. Ashcroft pointed at me and then at his shoulder. I glanced down. Blood was soaking my coat. Now that my nerves had settled from the fight, I began to feel the pain even more acutely. I clamped my right hand down on my left shoulder and flew left-handed. Billy hovered anxiously. He made a fist. Be strong! I did not feel strong. I felt dizzy and sick.
For the rest of the flight, Billy and Ashcroft checked on me every few minutes. They flew parallel to my plane, one at a time, spelling each other off and giving a thumbs-up. I couldn’t return the sign but I nodded. My hand felt frozen to the stick. My shoulder throbbed. I wondered if the bullet was lodged inside or had passed through. The thought made me woozy so I focused on Nellie. I thought of her sitting on the wagon and talking to me. In my last letter I’d promised to try and see her when I went on leave.
Ashcroft banked slowly to starboard and we began our descent. Twice I nearly passed out. It felt as if someone had stuck a pitchfork into my shoulder. In the last few minutes of our descent I could no longer hold the control stick with my left hand. I had to let go of my shoulder and steer with my right hand. Billy flicked his wings from time to time to catch my attention. I nodded and tried to focus. I knew what he and Ashcroft were thinking because I was wondering the same thing myself: How was I going to land the plane without crashing?
Soon the aerodrome came in sight and the hope of it made me more alert. Ashcroft shot ahead and zoomed low over the field, waving his wings to let the ground crew know that something was up. Then he rejoined us. We came down together, with Billy just a little ahead of me. I reduced speed. My plane listed and I forced her steady against the wind with my rudder pedals.
Dust kicked up from Billy’s wheels.
“A little closer,” I said to myself. “Just a little more.” The ground came up quickly and I eased back the throttle. Adjusting the tail caused terrible pain: every time I pushed with my left foot against the rudder bar, it sent a shock wave through my shoulder. I landed unsteadily on one wheel and had to fight nausea to get the other wheel down. The landing wreaked havoc on my shoulder. I felt the undercarriage go.
The Strutter slid along the ground on its belly and began turning in a slow circle. A moment later it came to a stop. Someone leaned into the cockpit and switched off the throttle. I stared numbly at the control panel.
“Sir?” someone shouted. “Sir, can you hear me?”