Chapter 21

January 1917

“Pitman, is it?”

I saluted sharply. “Yes, sir. Lieutenant Pitman reporting, Major Deedes.”

Major Henry Granville Deedes was born into the Indian British Service and later immigrated to the Dominion of Newfoundland. Now at thirty-five, with military tattoos on both arms and piercing blue eyes, he looked a formidable CO.

“Please sit, Pitman, let’s talk. Welcome to the 12th Reserves.”

“Thank you, sir!”

Crumpling the top of the report he had fished out of my file, Deedes peered at me. “I have reviewed your medical history. Quite a scare you had at the Somme, eh?”

I shifted in my seat, anticipating a reference to the other hospital stay. “Yes, it made me understand just how mechanized this conflict is.” The major smiled, perhaps with fond memories of past service.

“Quite so. Not like sepoy command in India, I daresay.”

“I suppose not, sir.”

“Lieutenant, we need to speak frankly. Please be at ease.”

I felt a twang of dread about what was coming, about how it would affect my next assignment. Only God knew how much I didn’t want to be a paper-pushing adjutant. “Yes, sir. Yes, of course.”

“Most of our Canadians discharged from 39 General are sent up here to the 12th Reserves, a great number of which have been afflicted in a similar manner as you, so I’ve heard the usual apologies, remorse, and wishes of turning the clock back.”

Would it sound too defensive to, well, defend myself ? “It’s not—”

Deedes peered up from my file. “Your service record tells me that you’ve had legal training, so you understand frankness. You had a dalliance, you paid dearly for it, and we need to move on. Are you following?”

Through the staccato of Deedes’s voice, I realized what he was doing. A feeling of relief swept from my brain to my feet, causing a slight sweat but eliminating the dread I had felt only moments before. “Sir, very much so.”

“Good. Now, the RCRs have moved north. You’ve missed them, I’m afraid. Their next initiative will be months ahead, but we cannot keep you in reserve waiting for some unknown request to backfill casualties, as inevitable as that will be.”

I looked at him hopefully. “Sir, are you thinking of assigning me to an alternative battalion?”

“In a manner. You see, Pitman, the war in the air is key to achieving our victory. Sadly, the Somme conflict seriously reduced the number of available flyers. Just now, transfers to the Royal Flying Corps are a priority, and I believe you would be a good fit.”

Gads, I was not expecting that. My mind flooded with thoughts and images. “With respect, sir, the life expectancy of a flyer is known to be quite short. Are you suggesting this because of my recent condition, a sort of penalty for my dalliance, as you mentioned?” Damn, I didn’t mean to sound defensive again.

The major grinned. He was really quite affable. “Not at all, it is not as simple as that. You’ve had a devil of a time dealing with shell shock, but you pulled through. Some would not be as willing to return to the front. Many agitate for Home Establishment duties.”

I looked down as I twirled my hat in my hands, thinking that this was the moment to ask for home duty, to be safe in England if that was what I wanted. I quickly dismissed the thought. “I consider it my duty to return to the front, sir.”

“You’ve obviously a way of overcoming the things that must haunt you, the things that haunt all of us. You’ve a logical mind that is capable of grasping map reading, mechanics, reconnaissance, and bombing techniques, so you profile as a pretty good RFC candidate.” My mind was reeling. I was flattered to be spoken of in such high regard, but I wondered why I gave the impression of managing affairs so well. I had heard that before—that I portrayed confidence even while my gut was churning over some event or other.

I remembered back to when I first became aware of that. It was after immigrating to Saskatoon, when I was up at Redberry Lake Camp with a few school chums in the summer of ‘09. During routine riding lessons, we had taken turns on a young stallion that had barely been broken. All the lads had difficulty staying in the saddle, and when my turn came, the beast had not at all settled down.

Climbing up onto an old harvesting machine, I had slipped over the saddle while others held him steady. When they let go, he bucked and kicked like the devil, and in short order, I was thrown to the ground. I was trembling, and my heart raced; sweat dripped off my forehead and down behind my ears. I inwardly sobbed as I could hear the others chanting my name, over and over, as I kneeled in the dust. Pitman, Pitman, pity Pitman! Somehow, I rose and, without looking at anyone, climbed that harvester and sat right back in the saddle. I was not going to quit.

Later, the lads had gathered around and congratulated me on my persistence. What they hadn’t known was just how afraid I was, how it took all of my gumption to get back on that horse. I guess it was pure determination that had given me strength; it looked like courage when really I was full of fear.

“I understand, Major Deedes. I appreciate the acknowledgement.”

“Bluntly, Pitman: we have a shortage of flyers and you’re a damn good candidate. The type that can grasp the concept, absorb details, and survive in the skies. And you are a fully trained machine gun officer.”

Deedes shuffled through a file in front of him, evidently finding what he was seeking. “Let me see . . . Lewis Machine Gun Course at the Canadian Military School, Shorncliffe, and another Lewis course at the 2nd Army School, British Expeditionary Force in France. You’ve been squeezing the ole trigger with zest. That gunnery expertise is quite valued in the skies!”

My mind was flashing through so many thoughts, so many scenarios, about what this type of commitment would bring—a completely different form of fight, both exciting and differently dangerous. One that would see me acquire new skills and catapult me into the heavens, flying over the enemy at speeds as fast as a train, maybe faster. Controlling an aircraft while fighting, risking the likelihood of being shot down or just crashing. Perhaps being flung out of a cockpit with arms flailing while soaring to a horrible death. But as quick as those thoughts came, a more calming sense took over. I had thus far survived by keeping focused, by being busy in order to find courage. Yes, this flying assignment would work.

I looked at the major with a huge grin. “All right, sir, I’ll give it a show. I’m ready to be a flyer.”

“Well done, Pitman! I’ll have my adjutant draw up the papers and see if RFC HQ over at St. Omer agrees with my recommendation. Meanwhile, you will remain in active duty here at Le Havre assisting in the training of freshly arrived troops.”