Chapter 35

October 1917

The Crossley tender was idling on the side of the airfield, waiting for a final safety check before pulling out on the 235-mile journey south. Sitting up in the cab on the passenger’s side, I had an expansive view of the bright-green airfield and the eighteen Fees lined up outside their respective hangars. They would follow in a couple of days with their pilots and air mechanics. Hunched over in close examination of our Fee, Wellsey and Hardy were busy adjusting the rudder. We had said our goodbyes a few minutes earlier.

Now a few days into October, we were heading down to our new aerodrome at Ochey, in the Nancy area near the Vosges Mountains. Our work at Trezennes was done, as the battle at Menin Ridge had wound down and the Gontrode Air Shed lay in ruins. Ochey was close to the Alsace-Lorraine region where the German industrial base lay and where we were to now wreak havoc.

The lorry driver had stepped up into the cab, and we were ready to follow those pulling away just ahead. I took a last look across the field and saw one of our flyers, I think it was Bean, talking excitedly to Wellsey and Hardy, others gathering around. Sam looked over to our lorry convoy, hesitated, then broke into a run toward us.

The driver looked mildly annoyed as I ordered him to wait, holding the convoy lined up behind. Hardy approached from the front with arms held up, signaling for us to wait. He was out of breath, his chest heaving, as he jumped onto the running board. “Good news! They’ve been located. Bushe and Colbert are alive!”

“By God, that is great news! Wonderful, indeed!”

“Seems they force landed near Thielt, missing the Lys River before engine trouble set in,” said Wellsey, who had caught up with Hardy.

“Are they returning to us soon?” I asked.

“Ah shit, Bob, that’s the bad news. Surrounded by German troops, they gave themselves up. POWs, I’m afraid. The major just received a telegraph from the Swiss Red Cross.”

“Damn shame. They will be in for a rough time of it.”

The lorry driver signaled his impatience and pulled out as Hardy jumped down with a wave. I sat in the opposite seat for a couple of hours, reflecting on just how close Wellsey and I had come the other night to being POWs ourselves. The driver looked over a few times but remained silent in respect of my pensive mood. I tried to imagine what the future would be like for Bushe and Colbert since it was known that the Germans were facing severe food shortages, even in their home country. POWs must surely be at the bottom of the food chain.

. . .

“Is there an emergency, Lieutenant?” asked Major Christie.

I thought quickly. I couldn’t lie, but the need was overwhelming. “No, sir. I have some business in England I’d like to attend to. Perhaps I’d say it’s an urgent request for leave, but no, not an emergency.”

“I’ve got my whole fleet absent. Now located, thank goodness, but sitting up north waiting for this weather to clear. And two Fees at Remy if you don’t mind!” 100 Squadron’s Fees, which had left Trezennes three days prior on a flight that ought to have taken eight hours, had temporarily vanished in bad weather. 101 Squadron finally located them in a farmer’s field way north at Fismes.

I should have anticipated his mood. “Yes, of course, Major. I was putting myself first.”

“Look, Pitman, I know others have had leave. Yours is in the queue. You’ve put your squadron ahead of everything else, and I appreciate that. But my hands are tied. We have an aerodrome to set up and sorties to fly.”

I walked out of squadron HQ into a light drizzle that reflected my mood. I had known the chance of leave was remote, had guarded myself against a probable denial, but its confirmation was disheartening.

I settled in to assist with assembling the aerodrome at Ochey, one of the largest in France. It was home to 100 Squadron’s night-bombing Fees as well as 16 Squadron’s Handley Pages and 55 Squadron’s DH4s, both day bombers. There was also a French Escadrille. It was a pretty setting located just outside of the Ochey village of a few dozen houses. Being so close to the Vosges, the surrounding countryside was hilly and thickly wooded. About seven miles to the north was the army center of Toul, which had quaint cobblestone streets and an architecturally stunning cathedral with lots of shops.

I constantly thought of Cissy, wishing I could see her, talk to her, but I respected Christie’s denial of my leave since assembling the aerodrome was a major undertaking. Already two Fees in the fleet had been destroyed while landing in bad weather, which sent shivers through me as yet another reminder of how fragile war flying was.

We were settled in by mid-month, but bad weather postponed the start of operations, leaving plenty of time to participate in leisure opportunities. The officers’ mess was a large and airy space. In the middle was a massive brazier, larger than at Trezennes and composed of a big, open basket of wrought iron that could host a very large fire. A phonograph with song cylinders such as “Auld Lang Syne” and “Keep the Home Fires Burning” was in one corner and a relic of a piano in the opposite. Cuttings from English and French illustrated papers were posted on the walls showing recent news. Scattered throughout were card tables—at least, tables where cards were played.

The rainy days were long, and we looked forward to the evenings when we enjoyed dinner followed by sing-alongs until the wee hours. I joined in by leading with a few tunes. We had English, Scots, Canadians, Afrikaners, Australians, Indians, and the like, so there was no lack of colorful song material. When words were not understood, we just hummed the cheery tune. During breaks in the singing, tall tales came from a good repertoire of experience, mixed with gales of laughter.

During the third week of October, restlessness crept in. It was twenty miles into Nancy where the lads knew of a brothel reputed to welcome Allied flyers. Well, didn’t they all? I thought it uncanny how news of such service traveled so quickly into an RFC squadron; Ochey aerodrome had only been in existence for a few weeks. The problem of transportation was solved by Hardy, whose resourcefulness would be well rewarded. With three sitting up front of the lorry and ten crammed under the canvas cover of the cargo area, we made our way through the hilly farmland into Nancy in less than an hour. Our evening meal was exceptional, duck and potatoes at Le Coq, a bistro, followed by a Calvados digestif.

Hardy put his hand on my shoulder. “What do ya say, Bob?

You coming along for some more dessert?”

“I’ll follow in a bit, but only for a look, my friend.”

His grip tightened as if to emphasize his sincerity. “Cissy won’t have to know, Bob. Besides, it’s been a long time for us.”

“Thought you had your Genevie up in Aire?”

“You mean the girl with the papa attached to her sleeve? Not a chance with her!”

I laughed heartily. “I could have guessed.”

“C’mon. They offer protection, you know. Don’t have to worry about things. The French are open and sophisticated about such matters.”

I smiled and shook my head. “Just the same.”

But I joined in to support the team; they moved in formation down the street to the blue light above the ornate door. The madam greeted us with a warm, “Bienvenue, aviateurs Anglais!” At the same time she cleared the tables by shooing away her regular French patrons. All was fair in love and war, oui?

I was dazzled by the rich décor seemingly from a bygone palace, or perhaps the bordello was indeed one hundred years old. Amid the velvet curtains and ornate finery decorating the walls and ledges, the mademoiselles happily flitted among the lads in an attempt to flourish affections that would lead to important business transactions. In time, the population of flyers in that room dwindled as did the f illes. I winked at Hardy as he grinned his way to a cloistered door, a laceclad belle with matching headband clutching his elbow.

I sat with Wellsey and quipped about whether they would emerge in time to catch the Crossley back to the aerodrome. We devised a backup plan in case Hardy required liberating from the delayed clutches of love since he was the driver and needed by 2200 hours. We bided our time while Madame offered encouraging prompts. But after tipping an affectionate brunette for emancipating my lap, we proffered polite smiles and made our way behind the thick curtain out to the street.

We walked in silence back to the estaminet for a drink while we waited. The cool, misty air felt good against my face, for I was mildly troubled to have been in that amorous atmosphere. The lads needed their ardent adventure and release after each had felt the tension build up over weeks of service, knowing he might not have another day to live. I wondered if I would have joined them, enjoyed the temporary comfort of a female companion, if it weren’t for my previous circumstances. And even more fundamental to my state were thoughts that perhaps there was promise with Cissy, and I wouldn’t jeopardize that for the world.

Yet those thoughts were clashing. I knew she was a wonderful girl whom I wanted to be with. Perhaps tonight’s exploits were intensifying my feelings as the longing in my heart extended to physical needs as well. I thought of being with Cissy in that exciting way. But then a burst of shame befell me because of the doubt I held about her innocence, albeit meager doubt. I wanted her, wanted us to be together with trust and respect and all the things that come with love. I needed to see her, needed to talk, to touch, and to understand her.

. . .

Next morning, the participants of the Nancy venture had aching heads and poor memories, to no one’s surprise. It was unfortunate, for the major ordered practice runs. Although raining, I looked up to the skies and saw clearing patches. It was time to familiarize ourselves with outgoing and incoming landmarks surrounding Ochey.

Sam peeked out from behind the propeller of our Fee, breaking into a boyish grin as Wellsey and I approached. “How’s your head this morning, Hardknocks?”

His grin grew wider while his chest, under loose coveralls, seemed to expand with pride. “Fine, just fine. Didn’t drink so much. You know it affects your, ah, shall we say accomplishments?”

“You are a naughty one, Hardknocks,” said Wellsey, “but a good air mechanic. Our baby in tip-top shape for our run today?”

We traveled east at thirty-five hundred feet for about twenty miles until Luneville, eight miles from the lines. We saw the sadness of that devastated town, as it had been shelled for three straight years, the spire standing before a burned-out church and châteaux in the countryside reduced to rubble. I then realized that Pozieres and Thiepval must have looked the same from the air while I was fighting on the ground a year before at the Somme.

I scribbled notes, documenting landscape and landmarks, how to distinguish the Moselle River from its tributary, the Meurthe, and where the distinct chalk lines of the zig-zag trenches demarked the lines, which mountain peaks belonged to each village, and how to identify the Toul cathedral for the return to Ochey.

It was refreshing to fly during the day, a totally different perspective than at night. While locating silver ribbons of river and dark blobs of wood presented a clandestine element to our night sorties, seeing the farmland and mountains in the light of day was a thrill. After an easy landing, our Fee was pushed back into its hangar while we made our way to the mess.

Our days were filled with similar practice runs and reviewing bombing targets. The task was to delay, destroy, and interrupt the flow of German resources from the Alsace-Lorraine area. Its Saar Valley was the industrial and transport center of a massive coal basin that provided the Germans with much-needed iron and steel products. Direct attacks on the Völklingen Steelworks along with the destruction of trains, junctions, and sidings between Falkenberg and Saarbrücken would support our troops in the northern battlefields. The trouble was the weather, which continued to hamper our ability to fly at night.

During the last few days of October, the weather finally cleared. I hadn’t expected that I would welcome the change as much as I did, and I looked forward to our anticipated sortie. Perhaps it was the comfort of having learned the aeroplane’s complexities or my hardened experience after many near misses, but I became emboldened. For the first night’s return to the skies, 16 Squadron, with its giant Handley Pages, were assigned the Burbach works in Saarbrücken, while 100 Squadron’s FE2bs were to attack railways in the nearby Rhine and Lorraine regions.

Hardy stood behind our Fee. With switches off, he swung the propeller to prime the engine. With switches on, the Beardmore roared to life. That feeling always put a jab in my stomach and a lump in my throat as adrenaline coursed through my body. I adjusted my position on the floor of the nacelle as the tower gave the green light. Taxiing to the flare path T, we spun around 180 degrees and throttled into the pitch-black sky, climbing into a night filled with stars. It felt good to be back doing our job after such frustrating weather delays.

The silver line of the Moselle four thousand feet below looked peaceful. It was a fleeting vision as we journeyed once again to pour devastation onto an enemy we had never seen and would never see up close; we just knew he was the enemy.

I triggered our Very pistol as we passed C Lighthouse at Nancy, climbing to eight thousand feet. Farmland and hills dotted the ground below, the dark blotches of woodlands becoming more prevalent. Kneeling against the slipstream while peering over the side, I thought how different from the Somme it would be to wage a ground war on that forested, mountainous terrain. Wellsey brought my thoughts back inside the aeroplane with a tap on the shoulder and a baritone voice.

“Flashes of light ahead, Bobby. What do you make of it?”

“Been periodic for a few minutes now. I reckon it’s the Burbach Steelworks.”

“Ja, that’s 216’s work, old man. We’ll save ours for the darkness of Saarbrücken Station.”

In time I knelt taller. Turning to Frank, I bellowed, “Approaching. In five minutes we drop to four thousand. Follow Drummond and Ace. I saw their wing lights flickering through broken cloud; they’re descending now.”

The glide a few miles out of Saarbrücken began with that familiar silence but grew to a pitching whine as gusts of wind pushed us forward in an erratic manner, making the Fee rock back and forth. Abandoning a surprise approach, Wellsey fired up the Beardmore for better control as we leveled out at twelve hundred feet. I stood up and fired bursts from my Lewis when the Saarbrücken searchlights caught us in their crosshairs.

Dodging puffs of Archie and ground machine-gun fire, we surged in for the kill. I pulled up the middle bomb rack lever, but it didn’t respond. It wouldn’t budge, wouldn’t release, the cable cutting into the webbing between my ungloved fingers. With frustration building, we raced over the target.

Wellsey had urgency screaming out in his voice. “Drop the pills, Bob, drop the fucking bombs!”

I yanked up on the lever and released it quickly in an attempt to loosen the bomb spring, irked that I could visualize but not see it below the nacelle, willing it to release. I felt it give a little but not release as I yanked up on it again. I realized I was perspiring in spite of the cold, feeling the sweat roll down from under my leather helmet. With no support, nothing to hold on to, I grabbed the lever with both hands, pulling up again and again as the cable grew slippery with my blood. Finally, the spring underneath moved, and I felt the missile break loose of the rack for its journey down to the enemy. But I knew it was too late. We had missed our mark.

“Damn!” I yelled. “Wasted. Totally fucking wasted.”

“Ah-ah, no time for that; we still have work to do with those Coopers.”

That ah-ah made me feel silly, as if my grandma had just scolded me, but he was right. “Just so, but it would be foolish to go back on that station. Too hot and too angry now.”

“Understood.”

“I say we swing around and follow the Saarbrücken line back toward Falkenberg where there’s bound to be opportunity lurking!” It was satisfying that, although this was new territory, I had managed to memorize and recognize key landmarks.

I became aware of a squishy feeling as I replaced my gloves and calmed down after that rush of energy, realizing that my frustrated method of releasing the bomb lever could very well have resulted in a totally different and devastating outcome. If my hands had suddenly slipped when I violently yanked on the release, it could have resulted in me flailing through the dark sky to face certain death. It was not a courageous action; it was stupid, and I was lucky.

I shouted as we headed westward, “This wind is turning into a gale. Do we have ample petrol?”

Wellsey nodded. “Yes, and the going will be slow.”

“All right, I’ll guide us along the rail lines as best I can. We need to drop the Coopers before too long. I’m not happy to land with them attached.”

Wellsey took his hand off the controls, offering a gloved thumbsup. “Check, old man. You find the target, then let’s get home.”

We maintained low altitude in the building storm, keeping below the cloud bank that was obscuring the previously clear sky. I scanned the ground, watching the tracks as their steel periodically reflected random light. As a blade of moonlight broke through parting clouds, I saw movement ahead and a flash of brightness. My mind struggled to process what I saw in the brief moment.

I stood up off my knees and turned to yell over the windscreen, “Ahead! I’m sure that’s a train!”

He shook his head. “Nothing from here, Bobby. Nothing I see on the tracks.”

“Yes, for an instant it flared red. Must have opened its furnace door. Lower, Wellsey, drop us down. It’s down there and won’t hear us coming from behind!” We dropped lower, and, in time, there it was. We soared out of the blackness onto the rear of a long cargo train. These were the opportunities our major had spoken of. Redemption for tonight’s missed opportunity.

At five hundred feet we slowed to pace the train, the wind acting as a brake. With hands on both release levers, I waited patiently, the wetness gone as the blood had absorbed into my gloves. Not too quick. We have one chance, must hold back. We crept up on its back, seeking its vulnerable neck, the rear of the locomotive and its fuel car. Patience. Now! I pulled each lever once, twice, and again until the Coopers dove onto the back of that iron horse. I had a good feeling. I knew we had struck since the explosion was louder than our bombs. Wellsey acted quickly, rising up away from the impact as I signaled for us to go around to view our attack, aware of the danger of retaliation but too curious not to.

I released a parachute flare to light up the area, and there it was—the train hissed as steam escaped its burning corpse, lying there with its front completely destroyed. I stood up, grasping the Lewis with both hands, awaiting machine-gun hate that would surely come up if we overstayed our visit. But none came.

I turned to face my pilot for an instant. “Wellsey, what a team! Let’s beat it back to safety, fight these winds.” He raised his right thumb in agreement and took us home.

We pulled ourselves out of our wet Sidcots. I headed to the infirmary, where the nursing sister bandaged my hands, shaking her head in wonderment at how I’d made such a mess in the folds between my fingers. I had elevated expectations as I headed to the mess to meet up with Wellsey and to kibitz with the others.

I met a somber tone. Eerily the same as our last sortie out of Trezennes, this first out of Ochey ended with a cloud over our heads. Flyers were again missing, this time four. Archibald, Archie, who had experienced a forced landing just back in September. Greenslade, poor Greenie. Tonight was his first sortie since engine failure near Trezennes. Would luck hold again for these two flyers, or had they realized their ultimate fate?

And then there was Jones, our new lieutenant on his maiden sortie, now missing. As was his observer, Godard, who had just returned from extended leave since August. Surely not all four of our fine squadron had gone west tonight?

. . .

16 October, 1917

My Dearest Bob,

Oh, how I fretted when I didn’t hear from you, but today I received your last three letters all at once. I now understand that your squadron moved to a place called Ochey and the mails got delayed. I think it was a good idea for the RFC to acknowledge that since the enemy knows of our squadron locations, our civilians should as well. I attended the local library to look at a map of France, and it was exciting to be able to see where you are. Well, at least on a piece of paper.

I trust you are f it, my dear, as fit as can be expected in war conditions. You keep up a brave front in your letters, but I do worry for you because of the responsibilities you must endure. And yes, I, too, wish to see you as soon as possible! I have taken little leave lately in the expectation that I will have banked time to spend with you when that does happen.

Life at the factory is bearable. I covet my driver’s position even when a few women scorn me. Some accuse me of using my femininity to savvy favors. Well, they are wrong and are typically the same women who threaten to strike over poor wages and who cause trouble by getting in arguments at the pub. I don’t think it fair that women are paid only half that of men either, but striking is not the answer. Do they not think about how the much-needed bombs are to be made, about loyalty to our soldiers?

No, I prefer to hold my head high and work well, which adds cash to my pay packet. “Performance bonus” they call it. Well, I’m not at all sure what I will do when this dreadful war is over and I return to London, but at least I have been able to sock away some savings and have acquired some very useful skills. Have you thought recently about what you will do after the war, Bob? Return to Canada, I suppose.

Oh, an exciting activity happening here at Chilwell and at some other munition factories is the formation of a women’s football team. And yes, I am trying out for a position! It’s so thrilling and makes twelve-hour work days more bearable. As you can imagine, there are many more girls trying out than positions, so I work hard at it. They say there are enough teams to perhaps form a league, and there is also talk of a Munitionette Cup.

Well, my darling, I reluctantly must go, but I look forward to your next letter. And do keep working for leave. I hunger to see you.

Cissy