Chapter 30

September 1917

14 September, 1917

My Dearest Bob,

I received your letter today and was so warmed by the thought that you wake with me in your thoughts. You are on my mind throughout each day, which helps me to get through the long hours, but at the same time gives pain to not know when we will meet. Oh, when we do, it will be heaven sent.

The news that you are to be yet busier flying sorties over German targets is worrisome. Sometimes I look up at the black night sky and wonder what it would be like to sail through the air toward a distant enemy. I imagine you doing so, and I sometimes try to work out the puzzle of how you guide your aeroplane in different conditions, whether moonlight, starlight, or cloudy darkness. Why, I can’t at all imagine what it would be like to fly!

Life up here in Chilwell is edgy as expected but teeming with wonderful people, some single like me, some grieving for lost ones, and some just accepting the moment, but all of us pulling together as a team. Lord Chetwynd has done such a marvelous thing with building adequate dormitories and feeding us well. Do you know there are ten thousand working at the National Shell Filling Factory, a majority of which are women? That makes for a lot of female talk in the local pubs! It’s fun and refreshing to go out, but oh, I do miss dressing up for the London crowd.

I am excited to tell you that for my two days’ leave last week, I traveled down to see Daisy. Eric is still off fighting “somewhere in France”, but as far as we know, safe. Little Stanley is growing up so fast and is such a gentleman. Do you know he put out his little hand to greet me? And on hearing your name, he jumped up and down while saying “Uncle Bob, Uncle Bob.” You left him with such warm feelings, as you do others!

Well, I must sign off. A few of us girls are going down to the Charlton Arms for a whist competition. Oh yes, we girls have penetrated an exclusive man’s domain and some of us are really quite good at it.

Be safe, my darling.

Cissy

. . .

19 September, 1917

Dear Cissy,

I received your letter this afternoon as I was sitting down to again write you. The squad is still grounded due to terrible weather blowing in off the North Sea. After seven straight days, everyone is fidgety. However, tonight we have been ordered back up to the skies. I am quite concerned but take solace in the fact that our CO would not send us into more danger than we usually face. I know you pray we will all be safe.

It is quite funny that you mention whist, for to pass some of the time, we have been playing too, along with gin rummy. The CO keeps a close eye on our betting as he feels too much can lead to bad morale. I do see his point, especially when one loses!

It is wonderful news to hear Eric is safe. I often think of the infantry stuck in those trenches, especially in the kind of weather that is now upon us. I wish there were better news about an armistice, but the commanding officers on both sides appear dug in with their beliefs that the stalemate will break—in favor of their particular side, of course.

But I digress. I am happy that you could spend time with Daisy. I can only imagine hearing you two catching up on this news and that scandal. Friendships are such precious things, often taken for granted, but not in the current troubled times. Our individual sacrifices make us sure to cherish what is dear to our hearts. And I am flattered that Stanley loves his uncle!

Well, sweetness, do take care. You, too, be safe. You are dealing with some nasty materials, which I hope your supervisors understand well enough so as to protect you. I know you understand that, but I do worry.

Bob

. . .

While watching Hardy and his crew push the Fee out of the hangar, I noticed the blustering wind lift the starboard wing and then ease off, gently rocking the craft in periodic gusts. The atmosphere was currently dry, but reports all day from the coastal weather station had alternated between dry and wet conditions with wind warnings.

Looking upward at the fast-moving clouds against a darkening sky, Sam commented that once airborne we would be carried quickly over the lines to our target. He intended it to be a helpful comment, but it made me mindful of the extra effort it would take to make the return. I would be watching our petrol supply with extra vigilance as flying into strong westerly winds would make the Beardmore work longer and harder than usual.

Sam and his crew ensured the Fee was shipshape—pistons turning over in their usual rhythm, propeller snug in its bearings, and wing fabric fastened against its ribbing. He had seen me gaze up to the windy conditions and would leave nothing to chance. I was just thinking about Wellsey, who had been quite some time in the Ops Room receiving final orders, when he came strolling across the field.

The usually calm Frank Wells had a look of determination on his face, but it changed to a smile as he approached Sam and me. He explained that there had been a heated conversation in the presence of Major Christie about conditions, but eventually the pilots had acknowledged the need to get up over the night’s target. This was to be a trade-off between bad weather and supporting our ground troops in the current offensive. In a show of support, Captain Tempest, whom we knew to be a rising star in the squadron, volunteered to be our wing commander.

We had clouds between three thousand and four thousand feet on the way out. It remained dry, but visibility was challenging. Being last in the roster meant we would learn from those ahead of us. For the journey over the lines, I kept sight of the distant wing lights of the Fee flying in front of us along the Lys River, then crossing over Armentieres, where the lighthouse could be seen a few miles away at Locre, our crossing point.

The thought of attacking enemy billets at Rumbeke and Hooglede was unnerving. Thus far we had bombed industrial plants and aerodromes, targets that did not house as many Hun soldiers as would be resident in sleeping quarters. While the military mind saw them as just another enemy target to be taken out, the thought of destroying so many lives at one time with a few bombs weighed heavy.

Yet I was in this. I knew what answer I would give to the question of what I would do if I were instead the enemy ordered to bomb France or England. Indeed, the Germans had done just that, except they included civilians.

We avoided the searchlights of Menin and Courtrai amid a sudden worsening of visibility through dank haze. Ground landmarks were now all but hidden, so as we dropped to twenty-five hundred feet, we relied on compass and time/distance to the target.

Heading northeast at seventy miles per hour with the wind was smooth, yet the filmy blackness of the night surrounding us was eerie—black above, misty sideways, and murky below. Our red-hot exhaust must’ve looked like a comet when viewed from the ground. I kept watch over the side for landmarks, but in the mist, none were obliging. In addition to poor navigation, we became aware that, although dressed in our warmest flying gear, the wind-boosted slipstream was creating extremely cold conditions. “Take her down, Wellsey. We are in vicinity.”

I turned to face Wellsey, nestled in front of the hot Beardmore radiator, and in the dim illumination saw his comforting smile. “Copy that, old man!”

We dropped to eight hundred feet where the billets at Hooglede ought to be, but had difficulty finding them. Our lead machines should have been over, placing the Hun on defensive. But here it was quiet. All lights were extinguished. Sailing through the quiet, dark canvas was ghostly, but then I heard the familiar rat-a-tat of a machine gun in the distance, its faintness growing louder. Then, the telltale sign.

“Tracer bullets, Wellsey! Ha! We got ‘em! Go around a second time, same bearing.”

I twisted my head and shifted my body around as the aeroplane made the tight turn, then craned in the other direction, refusing to lose sight of where I remembered the target to be. I then saw two other aircraft in the sky near us also circling, now in behind us observing our activity for guidance. The distinctive silhouette of the Fees instilled me with confidence, for even if we missed the target, our bombs would light the location for those that followed. Wellsey did not bother to cut the engine since the enemy knew we were right there on top of them, and we would want to climb out fast after bombs were dropped. “We are lined up exactly, Bobby. Give ‘em hell when you want. Nerves of steel, now!”

I could see the red tracers again, threatening to catch us or any of the Fee’s vulnerable engine parts. I couldn’t release too quickly, had to have steady hands, needed to fight back the urge to let loose. I managed to stay the course.

I could just make out the dark outline of buildings and tents as we came screaming in at the target. I pulled the release levers again and again to ensure all the pills dropped as planned, hearing each one rumble off the rack and away from the aircraft, imagining them guided down by their little spiraling propellers. We were up and away, but as I looked back, I could not see any obvious damage, just the explosions themselves.

I leaned over the small windscreen and grinned at Wellsey. “Fair target for the others now!”

“Well done, Bobby. We’ve done our bit tonight.”

“Yeah, the big work now is to get home in this bloody wind.” With the sheets of rain picking up amid the ceaseless gale, Wellsey decided to drop south to follow the Lys River, even though that placed us directly over the probing Menin searchlights. I crouched down as we battled forward, struggling to read the map under torchlight and directing Wellsey with finger points on a southwest heading. After a while, I saw blurred lights ahead.

I scrambled off my knees so Frank could hear me. “Menin, it has to be Menin, which means the Lys is coming up portside. From there we can run straight down to Armentieres and home.”

We managed to pick up the Lys, but the wind was severely hampering our progress. At times, it seemed as if we were standing still even when stressing the Beardmore at thirteen hundred revs. Sitting in the front was miserable with little to do but look out for enemy activity, albeit unlikely. With no windscreen and no protection from the blustering wind, driving rainwater streamed across my goggles. My flying suit was drenched, leaking into my underclothing in places. I battled the wind to keep my head above the lip of the nacelle when suddenly the sky lit up.

Wellsey leaned as far forward as he could and yelled, “What the fuck?”

Kneeling, I held the wind-whipped map in one hand and the torch in the other while I struggled to determine our location. I flipped my goggles up on my forehead to see properly, then turned and shouted, “Rough guess says we are over Wervicq, hostile batteries. Enemy must’ve been alerted by our earlier attack, perhaps by telephone. Amazing they can hear us.”

With the suddenness of the searchlights, I was vigilant, forgetting my numbness, instinctively knowing we had to remain and fight. Fleeing into the clouds could be fatal. I stood and, with fully extended arms, directed the Lewis gun straight down, pumping bullets five at a time into an unseen target. I was unable to stand upon the edges of the nacelle to increase the downward arc as it would have been suicide in such slippery conditions. I only had the handle of the Lewis to support the weight of my body, trying not to slip on the rain-soaked floor. Wellsey instinctively knew to keep the machine steady—no sudden moves—with the courageous nerves required to fly through puffs of Archie.

I slid in the wet oils of the smooth spruce nacelle flooring, losing grasp of the Lewis as I crashed to the floor. Damn the fastidiousness of the British mind that everything had to be perfect. Would it have been weak to have installed rough, unfinished planks that would allow a firmer footing?

The wind was howling as Wellsey shouted encouragement. I managed to first kneel and then stand to grasp the handle of the Lewis. I fought to hold firm, to stop the gun from whipping sideways, and to get it placed downward for a fair shot.

With small bursts, I pumped a full drum of bullets down into those lights, but they held us. As we ran through the gauntlet, their glow bounced off the low cloud ceiling, illuminating our little aeroplane from above as well. We pushed on, painfully slow into the wind and the pelting rain, expecting to be hit at any moment. As I knelt to change the Lewis drum, Wellsey was able to zigzag and sideslip our machine in an effort to wrench away from the menacing glare. He leveled the machine, but I stood too quickly, again losing balance. I slipped, wincing as I slid down on one knee, the Lewis swinging freely of its own accord, again whipped by the wind. I momentarily thought of the other Lewis, but realized it was only useful to shoot rearward. I staggered to my feet, reaching out over the nacelle to catch it, grabbing but missing. I slipped on the wet pine-tar flooring as my head bounced off the side of the nacelle, necessity causing me to ignore it. I heard the Beardmore throttle down as Wellsey took one hell of a chance by lowering speed to allow me to gather myself. Up on my knees then standing, it worked. I took hold of the handle and heard the engine rev up again. I pumped more bullets downward. After what seemed like hours in the Hun crosshairs, we freed ourselves by turning sideways across the wind into blackness, our nighttime friend. The balance of the journey back over the lines was not as perilous as over Wervicq, but the pace was unnervingly slow. I reflected on what had happened, suddenly gripped by the thought of falling over, out into the blackness and completely helpless. A disturbing sensation emanated from my groin, a feeling of exposed vulnerability forcing me to change my thoughts to those of getting home. Yet that physical feeling remained as those overriding panicky thoughts drove sickness up from my stomach, which I discharged into the slipstream.

Hearing the engine’s roar, seeing the red exhaust, and feeling the power of the thrust confirmed progress, which eventually settled me, even though forward movement remained painfully slow amid driving sheets of rain. Bitter coldness took over as I sank low in the nacelle, my back to the pilot’s cockpit. Wellsey kept checking on my spirit by patting me on my right shoulder, which I acknowledged by squeezing his hand. He was positioned cosily in front of the heat of the radiator, just inches from his backside. It spirited me to know he was safe and able to maintain control.

We pushed on until I saw faint light. “The lighthouse, Wellsey.

Starboard!”

“Give ‘em what they want, Bobby.”

With gloves off, I fumbled in the darkness for the Very pistol cartridge, feeling the correct rippled design that indicated red. I loaded and pulled the trigger of the wide-barreled gun, momentarily lighting the sky as the charge soared skyward. Our go-ahead response came quickly, opening the gate for the run to Trezennes.

Over the aerodrome we flashed code with our wing lights, a request for a lit flare path to guide our landing. I asked Wellsey if he might have got it wrong, and he flashed again. Nothing but darkness was the answer. I had been anticipating our landing and now felt colder due to the delay, but then I realized perhaps the ‘drome had been under attack. While we circled overhead, we watched our reserve petrol gauge and realized we had minutes before being forced to land. Suddenly the flare path lit up, went out, and lit up again. Something was wrong, but we had to get in. Facing west into the wind, the aircraft bucked like a prairie stallion as we reduced altitude, the vibration so strong I was sure it was about to break apart. At fifty miles per hour, the treetops and the huts disappeared behind us at a lightning pace. We bumped, catapulted straight up into the air, and then came down hard again. Surely this baby could stand the abuse; surely we weren’t going to come to a very nasty end.

Yet somehow Wellsey throttled down and kept the machine on the grass, rolling forward. With the path remaining lit, what we witnessed was alarming—two machines smashed, completely obliterated beyond recognition, pieces lying all around. It became clear that we had been held back because aircraft remains were scattered across the flare path, making it impossible to put down. We pulled up to the hangars and jumped from our machine, our souls filled with anxiety, dreading very bad news of the crew.

Major Christie held a focused, commanding presence. “Right, Wells and Pitman safe. Who remains?”

“Kemp and Scudamore, sir!” snapped his adjutant.

“Quite sure they are about to come in just now, sir,” I interjected. “Saw another Fee circling the ‘drome as well.”

“Very good, Pitman. You two file your report. We’ll take it from here.”

“What of the crew who were in the crashed Fees, sir?” asked Wellsey.

“Alive, Lieutenant Wells, alive. Captain Tempest was unhurt and is in the Ops Room, while Captain Barry and Lieutenants Carpenter and Reece were retrieved from their wreckage and are now in the hands of the Royal Army Medical Corps. Due to the blustery conditions, we anticipated trouble and had a motor ambulance on standby. Good thing, too.”

I wondered why, if he anticipated trouble, we were even flying tonight, but I kept silent. Wellsey read my mind, perhaps my body language, and shot me a warning look. “Bless them. I wish them well, sir.”

We filed our report and knew enough not to immediately inquire about the fate of the damaged machines since tensions were high. It was only 2000 hours, but it felt as if we had been on the sortie for a full night. We struggled out of our wet flying clothes, put on tunics, and dashed into the cold, wet night to the officers’ mess.

Shortly Kemp and Scudamore entered, joining the rest of the flyers. The questions asked around the hut were the same—why the devil were we out there flying in these conditions?

The mess fell silent as Major Christie joined us with a confident roar, “Eleven of you ventured out, eleven returned. I am relieved. Barry, Carpenter, and Reece are damn shook up, but no physical damage, no bones broken, and no internals. They are to remain at the clearing station overnight. I’m afraid we’ve lost three machines. Unfortunate, but c’est la guerre.”

“Sir?”

“Yes, Captain Tempest?”

“I’m speaking for the lads here. Some are wondering why a sortie was undertaken in these weather conditions and on a nonindustrial target, sir. It seems—”

“Yes, Captain, I understand and appreciate everyone’s concerns. Army HQ is unfolding a major plan that required our air support. Gentlemen, have a drink and get some rest. It will not be long before you understand the larger initiative, just not tonight.”

After the major left, the reaction to his words ranged from grumbling to outright anger. Captain Tempest attempted to reason with the ire, but some persisted. Tempers flared and emotions ran high. Every officer in the mess understood military authority, which contained the situation for the most part. Yet some were willing to speak out.

“I think you-a need to speak to the major,” said Lunghi. “You-a need to tell him we all have family and don’t need to be fucking-a sacrificed this way.”

“Second Lieutenant Lunghi, I understand your frustration, but as the major said, all our flyers returned tonight,” reasoned Tempest. “And he also reminded us that this is the way with war.”

“But tonight was just stupid-a. All of us could have gone down in the wind or gone off course to force land in the dark with no petrol.” Officers began to gather around, many siding with Lunghi, frustrated at the seeming ill regard for our safety.

“Now, look,” said Tempest as he scanned the group, looking with purpose at many of them, “you and the other flyers did God’s work tonight, finding your target and returning. It was a bad situation, but I ask you to consider that Major Christie is under intense pressure from Command.”

I could see Lunghi softening a bit, his face a little relaxed as the alcohol no longer directed him. Captain Scudamore stepped forward, leading him by his left arm as he murmured, “Charles, Charlie, let’s go outside for some air. Let’s call it a night and begin again tomorrow, what say you?” The group dissipated as Lunghi slowly nodded. Finishing what was left of our drinks, we all eventually drifted to our quarters for needful rest after a stressful night.

. . .

20 September, 1917

My Dearest Cissy,

Darling, I am sorry to bring you grief, yet I need to vent, and my family would not understand as they only receive milder news. I realize it appears I am saving them from anguish and using you for that selfish purpose. If I make you feel that way, please forgive me.

You see, last night a great number of aircraft were sent over the lines in an attempt to destroy enemy dormitories. While that itself is disturbing, it can be justified as a necessary act of war. What is troubling is that we were sent over with full knowledge that a wicked storm was blowing in, yet we were sacrificed for the good of the cause.

We are thankful that no lives were lost; however, machinery was written off. I am not permitted to disclose to what extent, but the wreckage was bad. There were times on the return from our target that I felt like giving up, as cold, miserable, and fearful as I was. It is uncanny to think an extreme situation could cause one to abandon caring. Yet a simple thing like feeling Wellsey’s hand on my shoulder was enough to bring me around. Some of the boys remain hopping mad this morning, and although I understand their feelings, we need to rally together as a squadron. I do believe Major Christie is a kind soul underneath his army façade, but that he is being pushed beyond all expectations. He needs his flyers’ support.

Yet perhaps the dismay we are feeling should be directed at the brass and, for that matter, at the politicians who are ultimately enabling them? Have they now become as careless about human life as to willingly sacrifice soldiers with little regard? I know even English citizenry are beginning to question the validity of this damn war. Yet I also know that we are fighting for our freedom against a nasty dictator, to push back crushing German tyranny. Oh, these are complicated and troubling times.

Cissy, I am so lucky to have you as my friend, my intimate friend who is as beautiful inside as out. Thoughts of you warm me to the core and bring me out of the despair I sometimes feel. You give me courage.

Until your next letter,

Bob