Chapter 13

October 1916

One day Matron Kay eased up to me as I was studying my Bible in the library. I was never disappointed to gaze into her lovely eyes. She bent over to whisper that there was an RFC sergeant arrived to see me.

An RFC sergeant? I had encountered flyers before, but I didn’t recall actually knowing anyone from the Royal Flying Corps.

Tucking the Bible into my tunic pocket, I rounded the corner to see none other than Sam. “My God, Sergeant Hardy! What the devil?” He indeed was in RFC khaki, dripping wet after coming in from a dank, rainy day. “Hello, Lieutenant. Just dropped around to see how you’re faring.”

In my enthusiasm, I shook his hand vigorously, thinking about that last day together at Mouquet Farm. Even though the memory remained aloof, I did know both of us could have met our maker. “By Jove, it’s so very great to see you! Come with me, there’s a little lounge just here.” I pointed the way.

We talked for a long while as Sam explained the concussion and arm wounds he had sustained. Barely three weeks after his injuries, he was assigned to the RFC to train as a sergeant-grade air mechanic. It was staggering how quickly things changed during the war. His reputation of having a natural ability to figure things out and to solve practical issues had earned him the recommendation.

Sam asked after my health, explaining that he had been reluctant to visit in case it caused me emotional stress. I assured him that his visit made me feel exhilarated. We talked more about his upcoming assignment, how exciting it was to apply his skills to aircraft mechanics.

After kibitzing for quite a while, Sam’s demeanor turned dour as if he was burdened with heavy thoughts. My mood followed, and on my prompt, I found out he had run into Issy in London.

“Lieutenant—ah, may I call you Bob? At least while we are not technically on duty?”

I almost offered a trade, that if he called me Bob, I should refer to him as Hardknocks, but his body language warned me off. “Of course. Call me Bob anytime.” I was anxious to find out what was on his mind. “Now, how about that Issy?”

With shaking hands, Sam slowly, deliberately, took a letter from inside his tunic as uneasiness spread across his face. I whispered, “Oh Lord, please don’t tell me something has happened to Issy. You mentioned you just saw him.”

“N-no, it’s not Issy, but the letter is from him and it’s bad. It’d be easiest if you just read it.” As he moved to the edge of the chair to hand me the letter, his head drooped, his eyes downcast.

Lieutenant Robert Pitman

Royal Canadian Regiment

C/O The Maudsley

Kings College Hospital, London

16 October, 1916

Dearest Bob,

I am just now catching up with correspondence, finding time for letters after the regiment was moved out of the front on 11 October. I trust that you are on the mend, my dear soldier, as you had a mighty blow.

A few days prior to leaving the battlefield, the RCR was deployed in the frontline trenches for a three-day battle beginning 7 October.

I am very sad to bring you news that our Perce fell on 8 October during the time we were ordered to relieve the 49s. Patrols were sent out to no-man’s-land to examine enemy barbed wire and advised there were sufficient gaps for a morning attack. Lining up under cover of darkness in the jumping-off point, waves of nine platoons drove across to set the Hun in retreat.

A part of Percy’s platoon was cornered at a portion of barbed wire that was discovered not to be broken, receiving intense machine-gun fire from both flanks. Unfortunately, he was among f ive officers that did not return.

Perce is dead, gone west. He was a fine soldier and a great friend to you and me. His confidence and strength will be sorely missed. He rests at one of the makeshift cemeteries.

We all look forward to your speedy recovery and return to the regiment.

Sincerely,

Malcolm (Issy) Isbester

I was shocked. Percy—the successful schoolmaster who inspired a smile from anyone he met, the one of us to marry just the right girl—was dead. He had become one of my closest friends in the regiment, a confidant in the field, and a leader to all. Cut down by German bullets, dozens of them in the blink of an eye. Oh, but why analyze that? Perce’s voice, his laughter, his humility, and his infectious love were gone, all gone.

Sam was so patient, staying with me right up until his train departure.

For days after the news, time went by slowly, and I became lethargic as an overwhelming grief consumed my energy and disturbed my sleep. I asked myself over and over how I had escaped death and how I had come to be hospitalized when not one single bullet had touched me.

My nightmares were vivid. I felt the hell he endured. I dreamed of Perce being cornered in barbed wire, no place to run, no cover, being struck again and again as multiple bullets riddled his being. Sometimes in slow motion, I saw the actual bullets as they penetrated his tunic and bore through him into his heart, his lungs, and his soul. Dr. Mott encouraged me to open up, to speak about these visions lest I lapse back into emotional shock. One discussion curiously helped me to climb up out of my funk. In one of our meetings, when we were referring to Perce’s death, I protested, “It’s not right!” Mott had immediately shot back, “It’s war. What’s it got to do with being right?” Reflecting on those shocking words was helpful in accepting that in war, reason gets swept aside.

Still, thoughts continued to gnaw at me, tempting me in a troubling way. I found myself hoping that I could delay my discharge. While good sense won over such emotions, there was momentary comfort in thinking I could prolong my stay in the comfortable atmosphere of the hospital, avoiding a return to the trenches. But I always turned to my commitment of loyalty, not just to the cause but to myself. Were thoughts of delayed recovery a form of betrayal?

I knew I would never go that far, but I wondered if even thinking about prolonging my illness amounted to the same thing.

I shared my doubts with Dr. Mott, who saw them as quite rational. “You have done a good job of facing down your fears, Bob. Except for the grief over Lieutenant Sutton’s death, you tell me your nightmares are fewer. And I can see you are more focused, more in tune with your surroundings.”

“Thank you, Doctor. I am pleased you recognize the improvements.”

“We should now be thinking about transitioning you toward discharge. You will need to adjust to the idea of shipping back to France. Subject to medical board review, of course.”

I instinctively shrank from the prospect of returning to the front, but checked the feeling in its tracks. “I understand and feel up to the task.”

“Good. I’ve set your discharge date for Monday, 30 October.”

“Thank you.” I laughed to mask my anxiety. “Nothing like a firm date.”

Mott leaned forward, studying me across his desk. “It’s the only way to do it, Bob. Now, have you access to lodgings in the London area?”

I sat up smartly. “Yes, there is a friend of the family, a lady I’ve always known as my aunt, up in Stroud Green.”

Mott smiled, extending his hands in a friendly gesture as if to indicate a great move forward. “Good, that makes the transition easier. We’ll see you over the next week. Please continue your cure program until your discharge.”

My feelings were mixed. Although I had shaken most of the shell shock symptoms, I still felt vulnerable to the stress and anxiety of the battlefield. Yet a sense of duty charged to the front of my thoughts that allowed me to admit that I was feeling better and fit to fight.

“Thank you, Doctor.”