Chapter 32

September 1917

The next evening presented clear conditions and a bright moon, perfect for flying. We arrived at the hangar to help Hardy and his team finalize the check of our A796. The squad was sending up seventeen aircraft, each loaded with one 230-pound and various four-finned Coopers, the agile twenty-pounder that was the first high-explosive bomb adopted by the RFC. 101 Squadron were equally equipped and coordinated their sorties with ours.

I felt the calming vibration of the synchronized pistons with Wellsey seated in his office and Hardy positioned on the ground waiting for the ground tech’s flash of light to signal our good-togo. I felt good, well rested, as I checked the swivel of both front and rear Lewises, their mountings secure.

As soon as the aeroplane in front gained altitude and disappeared over the hangars, the tower flashed our number. Taxiing out to the T end of the flare path, we gyrated into the wind. At about fifty-five miles per hour, I felt the ground cease to rumble, and we were off once again into the heat of war.

Through the moonlit night, we brushed past gathering mist on our approach into Wervicq station. On the way over, I reflected on my building confidence with these sorties. Anxiety, yes; angst, sure, but as my experience and skills continued to build, I became better able to manage the perils that accompanied any mission. Yet the trepidation of facing unknown dangers lingered.

Cutting the engine, we dropped to twelve hundred feet amid heavy Archie, but I maintained my concentration on dropping our pills, ignoring the threat. The involuntary fast breathing and the punching within my chest were both there—couldn’t be helped— but I leaned far over the front of the nacelle to get an eye on the lit train station.

“Hold on, Bob! Keep steady, old man,” shouted Wellsey from behind.

I waited, mentally calculating the distance and trajectory, anticipating a hit on the station and tracks together.

Damn! Enemy searchlights locked on us, making it difficult to eyeball the situation. Without the advantage of our descending from blackness, I had to guess at the correct angle. I yelled without turning around, “Here goes!” I pulled up the middle bomb lever to release the 230-pounder and then methodically yanked up the others to release the Coopers, four to port, four to starboard. With a clunking surrender from the rack, they were behind and dropping fast when I realized I had been holding my breath.

Expelling air from my lungs, I felt the Fee swing around. I grabbed at the Lewis, pumping rounds into the luminescent glare on the return over the station. We knew the ole bathtub was too slow to easily escape their grip, so the best defense—the only defense—was to turn into the light and dive. The going was precarious, and after leveling out over the station, Wellsey again drove the machine in a tight turn. “Lean, Bobby!” he demanded. With my stomach pressed tightly against the gun post, I forced the Lewis downward as far as it would extend. Ignoring the threat of a jam as I held the trigger fast, pumping rounds down into the blinding illumination. Breathe. Remember to breathe!

I shot out one light, which caused the second to momentarily waver. I had the curious thought that perhaps its operator was astonished, wondering how this Englishman could have scored a direct hit! Miraculously, he lost us in his instant of hesitation. I quickly kneeled back down into the nacelle, knowing that Wellsey would level out at full throttle to soar away from the danger.

I clung to the port side of the nacelle while sticking my head over to peer behind. Catching my breath, I saw a raging fire. It looked as though we hit the station directly, which added to the brash feeling from taking out the searchlight. Relating the news to Wellsey, he sported his infectious Cheshire cat grin. I smiled back at his confidence and tremendous instinct for survival. With adrenaline-filled bodies, we headed home to Trezennes.

With a quick refueling, we were back over the Locre Lighthouse at 2300 hours. Christie had ordered a few of us to return to raid the Menin area, particularly German transport facilities. We were one of three aircraft to join Captain Tempest on a strafing exercise over the Ypres-Menin road to interrupt the flow to the front. We were to again strafe infantry and equipment at high velocity. As we closed in, I checked my two Lewises while feeling my belly wrench and my pulse quicken, a bead of sweat trickling from my forehead down my cheek. Yet I was prepared, knowing what was expected.

We knew the Hun would be on alert due to our earlier sortie, so I focused on searching the sky for enemy aircraft, unlikely in the starlight. Something, or some thought, pulled at me, causing me to turn around. Looking backward in the direction from which we came, I peered between the top and bottom planes and could not believe my eyes.

Silhouetted against the subdued moonlight were rising towers, the bulging threat of cumulus clouds that were moving in from the coast. I waved at Wellsey with alarm, catching his attention. “Threat at our tail, and it’s ugly!”

He held his composure. “If it was threatening aircraft, you would be on the gun by now. What’ve we got?”

I swung my arms in a wide circle as if drawing the immense blobs. “Dark clouds stretching above us up to who knows how high, with a flat base low enough to bring more damn rain—looks like lots of it.”

Frank Wells wasn’t alarmed, seldom was. “We best get in and out quickly, old man. I’m peddlin’ this crate as fast I can.”

The threat of another rain-driven return to the aerodrome seemed at odds with the starlit night into which we flew, and the thought of flying back toward the storm nagged at me. We followed Wing Commander Tempest as he veered south before Ypres to pick up the road to Menin, Harmon behind us some distance. Tempest flashed his wing lights before extinguishing them, which we did for Harmon in turn. Tension built as we all knew we were upon the target.

Wellsey slowed the Fee and dropped level with Tempest at eight hundred feet, the ribbon of dark road rising up to us. Suddenly, a great flash burst ahead of us, followed by tracer bullets rising up in response to the threat. Tempest was climbing away as I steadied myself to pull up on the bomb releases, apprehensive. Being first, the Tempest bombs stirred up a hornet’s nest, so I knew we were flying straight into Hun hate.

I looked quickly back at Wellsey, who gave me a supportive thumbs-up. I held back, saving the release for the string of lorries I could see along the road, thinking how painfully slow we seemed to be traveling. Machine-gun tracer was slamming up at us, trying to find our altitude, not quite able to pin us down. Thank God!

We moved in closer, just ahead of the ground vehicles coming toward us, timing just about perfect. I pulled the lever up, then another and another, dropping our load to explode one after the other along the roadway. As the upward blast from the explosions reached us, ground machine-gun fire increased. It came from both sides of the road, perhaps hidden in the shrubbery. The Hun had quickly set up emergency nests after Tempest had attacked.

I grabbed the Lewis and returned fire, not sure where to aim in the dark. I began to panic as I realized I couldn’t defend both sides of the aircraft. Wellsey was softly rocking us back and forth, perhaps in an attempt to shake off the tracer, I wasn’t sure. My senses were keenly alert; I heard bullets ripping through wing fabric, yet I couldn’t possibly tell from which direction. I swung the Lewis from side to side and across the front of the nacelle, blasting downward in blind defense.

Just as my gun ran dry, I heard pings as bullets hit metal, bullets stopped dead. They had to have struck our only metal component, the Beardmore. Yet I had no time for those thoughts. That would come later. I had to control my breathing, to steady my hands as I fumbled with a new drum. I slammed it down onto the top of the barrel, hearing the click as it fell into place. I stood up again and rained down hate, not seeing any target, just pelting shots down.

With relief, I realized we were fast gaining altitude as Wellsey hammered on the throttle. Slowly gaining control of my senses, I turned to glance at him, at the same time noticing through the planes that Harmon was now descending on the roadway target, an unnerving scene as his Fee gleamed under starlight. I shuddered to think we had thought all along that we were shrouded in darkness when we were so clearly outlined in silhouette.

We had to make the run across the lines to the aerodrome. My mind turned to the weather, seeing the cloud mass looming in the night that we were now racing toward. I leaned over the small windscreen to work out the plan with Wellsey and saw concern, so rare from the effervescent South African. “You all right, Wellsey?”

He looked pained, a rare display of uncertainty. “Fluid on my seat, Bob. Can’t quite make out what it is, where it’s from.”

The main petrol tank was below us, so fluid on the seat meant that was not the problem, a relief. In that critical moment, we both looked up at the reserve gravity tank in the top wing. Wellsey showed alarm. I must have as well. If it had been hit, a vapor flash from petrol spilling onto spark plugs would engulf the wing fabric in flames.

My pulse quickened, but my mind was clear as I thought through the situation, rejecting thoughts of having to jump from a burning aircraft. Seconds seemed like minutes while I stared up at the top plane with empty blackness beckoning behind, taunting us to join it. As my gaze followed the struts down to the cockpit, I glanced at Wellsey, then behind him. In one of those moments not understood let alone explained, I knew I was staring at the problem: the Beardmore’s radiator!

I pointed, but Frank just looked puzzled. I yelled, spluttering out the words, “The radiator! The Beardmore’s radiator!”

As Wellsey stared at me, I jabbed my finger into the air in front of me. “The fluid, it must be water.”

He removed his glove and brushed his finger against the seat, bringing it to his nose. “Ja, no smell. It’s water, old man. Christ, the rad’s shot through!”

I let out my breath, feeling relieved, but then realized a leaking radiator couldn’t be good. “W-what does that mean?”

Wellsey shrugged, back to his composed self. “Fuck, I don’t know, but let’s get the hell home.”

We planned to make a straight run over the line, ignoring any Archie in our way. We had no choice. The engine was already running hot as water slowly leaked from the rad. As the storm’s effect increased, I had this irrational thought that perhaps its bitterness would have a cooling effect to keep the Beardmore running. With the machine bucking violently at times from gale-force winds and driving rain, it was impossible to look at the map, so I kept a keen watch for the Lys instead.

In time I made out the lake that formed part of Armentieres, knowing its source was the Lys River, our path home. Fighting against the gale coming hard at us, I was able to use compass and time to determine our distance to Trezennes. But that would only matter as long as the engine continued to help propel us there.

Wellsey bellowed, “Water holding, but temperature’s up more.

Distance?”

“I make forty miles, maybe forty-five minutes in this gale.” I hollered against the clanking of the engine and the howl. “Fuckin’ winds are a curse. In this squall, we could miss the lighthouse at Locre.”

“We have what we have,” quipped Wellsey.

I retorted, “Without Locre, we have little chance.”

“Understood. But we stay the course or face doom. Meander in these conditions, we could end up back over the line.”

I knew I was sounding concerned, perhaps panicky. It was one thing to be in the pilot’s seat with the belief of being in control. But to be up front in a gale with nothing to do except watch and wait was unnerving. Human nature was to control things, to use intellect to manage against peril. I forced myself to keep alert, at times standing straight up into the oncoming wind, supported by my Lewis gun while scanning each side of our small craft. We were being tossed about in the manner of a trawler caught in a North Sea squall. Anxious trembling was detracting from my will to stay warm, but I had to keep focused.

I could feel the engine struggling to propel us forward. The pistons were starting to miss, losing their natural purring. My mind was racing through many questions: How long could this craft keep going? What happens when a radiator runs dry? Could we safely force land? What would POW life be like, even if we survived a landing? Minutes seemed like hours. Although I knew checking my wristwatch would not quicken our progress, I kept looking, kept wishing for time to advance faster.

I couldn’t stand the wait. Conscious of short breaths emanating from my stomach, I sounded shrill. “All right back there, Wellsey?”

“Struggling. Water near boiling; gauge pointing up against its stop.”

I leaned over the low windscreen, making myself heard. “I make twenty miles out. Hit-and-miss river guidance is blotted out by driving rain, thick mist, but I can pick it up often enough to confirm we are on—”

Suddenly, the aeroplane bucked wildly, and the engine gave an angry loud bang.

“Fuck! Wellsey, wh—”

Frank offered a tentative smile. “She’s not happy, Bob. Water boiled away. Oil smells burnt; pistons pumping in its boil.”

“How long before the thing just melts away?”

“Fucked if I know, old man. Keep pushing the limit, whatever that is!”

I momentarily stood there looking backward behind Wellsey for any sign. Of what, I’m not sure, but I felt that by watching I could will that propeller to keep revolving, to take us home. Eventually I turned around to refocus on the ground below, looking for any landing opportunity. Mist obscured a clear view. I decided to pull the scrunched map from my Sidcot pocket, not caring at this point if it blew away. With the help of my torch, I found the lake at Armentieres, and with a frozen finger, followed the Lys to Aire. It was a guess, but there appeared to be farms and fields that might suit a forced landing.

Kneeling upright to again look over the side of the nacelle, relief washed over me as the mist cleared ever so slightly to reveal a welcome sight. The subtle straightening of the river where it met the canal, that very canal Hardy and I had sat beside a few weeks past. The Aire Canal! I jumped up and excitedly faced Wellsey. “The Aire Canal! Turn to port, follow canal, and descend to eight hundred. Wingtip lights on!” I barked out orders and directions in my excited state.

Wellsey sat there composed, only a slight smile giving away his cool demeanor. “No lighthouse, old man?”

“No idea how we missed it; don’t care, Frankie! We’re home, we made it!” Whether it was my excitement or that he himself was awash with relief, he chuckled, then broke into a full-on laugh.

When I was sure we were over Trezennes Aerodrome, I pressed a flare through the chute and quickly looked over the port side, then the other. What a sight, what an ecstatic feeling, to see the ground light up, the flare slowly descend under the guidance of its little parachute. Through the rain, familiar ground.

I was pointing left and yelling, “Still to port, Wellsey, keep turning.”

I could feel our turn. I watched the ground below, but my euphoria faded. No flare path, no aerodrome lights, no welcoming glow at all. But then Wellsey’s loud but gentle reprimand brought me back to reality. “Bobby, a little haste before they think we’re enemy.”

I realized I had forgotten the signal light, the landing request. I was breathing excitedly, but what was I thinking? Once the red Very light was propelled into the rainy sky, the flare path lit below us. We were not yet landed, but relief continued to rise within me. But then I turned and realized the Beardmore was silent.

“Wellsey, wha—”

He was struggling with the controls, trying to keep the craft balanced. “Engine seized . . . no prop . . . can’t circle; got to land this bucket on a straight drop. Wish us luck, Bob. We fucking need it.”

I felt my elation melt away as I thought about coming this far in these conditions only to die on our own airfield. We were to land without the leveling thrust and controlling balance of the propeller. My mind shot back to the crash on our first takeoff together.

The night sky was violent, but in the eerie silence of our aircraft, I could hear the rain hiss as it hit the melting Beardmore, no longer able to offer us comforting power. The whistling of the rigging did nothing but add to the tension. I felt like my head would explode, racing with ugly thoughts. Wellsey was totally concentrated, but I knelt up front, tormented.

A sudden drop out of the sky could see the 650-pound engine slam on top of us, mashing us into the ground. Landing without power could flip the machine over. I was terrified.

Still, Wellsey managed a sideslip, keeping the front up and lowering the ailing machine toward the lit path. Flares whipped past as we touched the grassy field; we bounced upward ten feet, then twenty or more before slamming down again. The third bounce drove our machine straight down onto itself, buckling the undercarriage, a distinct crack as the wheel struts collapsed. Somehow, I hung onto the side as the Fee slid sideways on its belly out of control along the pathway, leaning to port, the lower plane digging into the rain-slicked field. Coming to a stop, we both sat there stunned as relief washed over us.

The air mechanics were all around in an instant. I felt arms in behind my shoulders lifting me up, while others took hold of my legs, easing me down off the mangled craft. The hissing sound of the Beardmore under the pelting rain spat out in the darkness, its unique death knell. They managed to lift Wellsey out. He was jammed tightly into the crumpled cockpit. Frenzied activity all around made us aware of the pending fire risk.

Stunned but largely unharmed, we sat upright in the Crossley tender on the way to the Casualty Clearing Station, where someone handed us each a flask of whiskey. The medic and nursing sisters looked us over, wiped grime, oil, and sweat off our faces, then cleared us for good health. Major Christie strode in, a frown on his face.

“You gents have a good flight?”

“We brought your old Fee back with all the parts you entrusted to us, sir,” Wellsey said while using his sleeve to wipe a whiskey spill from his lower lip. “Although on inspection you may find a few of them, ah, remodeled.”

I was surprised he had the gumption to respond back to the major with an equal dose of facetiousness, yet Christie laughed. “I earned that, Lieutenant Wells. Tempest tells me you two did very well with your second sortie in spite of conditions. I congratulate you, and I daresay we are pleased to have you returned safely, if shook up. Not so for Harmon and Stedman, or for Archibald.”

I interrupted a gulp of malt to ask, “What about them, Major?

Not bad news, I hope?”

“No sign of either machine, I’m afraid. Even under these conditions, threat of a retaliatory bombing of our aerodrome is forcing us to remain dark. Difficult on the return, I suppose. Possible they put down in some other ‘drome.”

Wellsey and I exchanged looks expressing our mutual feelings. That could have been our outcome, or worse. The storm had risen quickly, taking us all by surprise. Christie was under tough orders, and although protocol prevented him from expressing his feelings in front of his flyers, his anguish was clearly evident.

“That is rough, sir,” I said. “God, I hope they are safe.”

“Well, there is nothing you lads can do, any of us can do for the moment, so finish your whiskey and get some rest. There are plenty of ground troops searching for them. Sleep well.”