Chapter 39
January 1918
“Are you sure this is what you want, Wellsey? You were on top of your game when I last saw you.”
“I’m as sure as rain. Yes, I was on top, we were both in the thick of things, but by the time the squad stood down for the balance of the year, I had already begun questioning my resolve.”
The waiter placed our drinks on the round table, his a scotch and mine a G&T. I pondered the Savoy Bar, full of London patrons who were either in cheerful animated discussion or in serious negotiations of one sort or another. Looking back at Wellsey, I scolded, “You didn’t speak of this before, Frank.”
“That is true, but you were scheduled for leave and I didn’t want to do anything to delay it. And now, well, it’s only the first week of January, so you’re not too far behind with my news.”
“That’s thoughtful—”
“I wasn’t just thinking of you, old man. I knew that when the now Major Tempest took over as CO from Christie, he would be the one to better understand my request, as he was also an active flyer, perhaps also worn out. Well, he took the desk job for some reason.”
I smiled at the thought of Tempest being our CO, as he was such a good man. “You are worn out?”
“In a way, yes, I feel I have a kind of shell shock. I dunno, call it flying fatigue.”
Wellsey described difficulty in dealing with the intensity of the night-sky battleground and of losing some of his fervor. I knew there was talk that a wartime flyer was only good for a few months before becoming exhausted. I wondered what had happened to the happy warrior who had been my role model, that uplifting figure that so motivated me. His explanation that the surface did not always reflect its contents was understandable but a surprise, nevertheless. However, I respected his reasoning that high levels of anxiety and flying dissonance could affect his judgment.
Wellsey’s brown eyes seemed darker against flushed cheeks. “So I’m off to 48 Wing, Home Establishment, which is starting up on 1 February. I’ll serve by training recruits, providing coastal protection or other benign duties.”
“We won’t be all that far apart, then. What of the others?”
“Well, you know Lunghi was having the odd fit here and there, emotional outbursts at times. He’s been found permanently unfit for flying and posted to Home Establishment, a technician, I believe. Ace is in hospital for a minor case of nerves and will also be transferred to Home Establishment.”
I whistled, thinking about all that had occurred in just a couple of weeks. “Well, the lot of you are out. Looks rather like the break in action allowed for deep reflection and a turn in one’s outlook.”
“I suppose. What of you, old man? Where does your future lie?”
A second round of drinks was set in front of us as I confirmed that I would return to 100 Squadron. I felt I had more work to do there in spite of Wellsey’s stating that there was no shame in asking for a transfer since, after all, twenty-two of the squad’s fifty-two flyers had done so before year end. The news set me back since I had believed we would all return to the squad and resume our service. The war was wearing us down, which I hoped would not break up the will to win, the drive to overcome the evil before us.
I felt apprehensive as we continued our conversation. I knew a request to serve in RFC Home Establishment would likely be granted and would allow me to be closer to Cissy. But I still had a drive that influenced my compulsion to return to France, to the squadron. Wellsey questioned my need to prove myself, which made me a bit defensive. Was I acting out a childlike fear of not doing well enough when others saw that I did?
My papa had been hard on me. Small things such as accusing me of tripping my sister on the ballfield when she had fallen of her own accord or leaving the door open to mosquitoes when the latch was clearly broken. He would lay out the accusation, which I would deny, then admonish me for lying. One after another, day after day, the seemingly inane issues would bind together like a growing ball of elastic bands, straining with each small piece that was added. I’m sure my mama knew the truth, but she allowed him to continue using his eldest child to wage some unspoken internal struggle about power or insecurity.
My resolve to return to active battle—to honor those like Perce, who had fallen; like Jones, Godard, Archie, and Greenie, who were all rotting in a Hun prison camp—was as strong as ever. I knew that, in spite of my love for Cissy and my sisters and my fellow soldiers, this was the time for courage. Grit and determination to stay alive were part of that.
Wellsey leaned across the table, waving his hand in front of my face. “Bobby? Where did you go? I’ve been talking to you, but you went trance-like.”
I smiled to confirm I was still with him. “Not really, just something you said earlier causing me to be reflective.”
Wellsey stood up and, fetching his coat from the back of the chair, beseeched me with, “Do think about what I said. Sorry, I have to go.”
“I will, I promise, but don’t count on it.”
“All right. Look, I’ve also requested a return to Cape Town to serve with Home Establishment there. Should that come through, things could happen quickly. Here’s my address down there in case I go. Good luck, old man.”
He placed a card in front of me and put his hand on my shoulder as he had endearingly done so during the many times I sat in front of him, my back against the nacelle after we had just escaped harm. He smiled warmly and left as I looked down at the card. Frank William Wells, 25 Balfour Street, Woodstock, Cape Town, SA.
. . .
Via Royal Post Office:
MISS CISSY ANN TAYLOR
WOMEN’S DORMOTORY
NATIONAL SHELL FILLING FACTORY
CHILWELL
7 JANUARY, 1918
CISSY
MY ARRIVAL CHEQUERS INN 14 JANUARY AFTER MRS. CLARKE VISIT STOP LEAVE FOR DOVER 20TH FOR RETURN FRANCE ON 21ST STOP BOB STOP
. . .
I was enjoying a cigarette while passing the time standing in front of Chequers when she approached out of the dusk. “Darling, I came as quickly as I could.” Through her open coat, I could see that Cissy wore the knee-buttoned trousers and laced blouse whose effect was emblazoned on my mind from before and would be forever. I wondered if she knew only too well how that image stirred my passion. “As soon as the shift siren blared, I ran to the dorms and cleaned up quickly.”
With my hand gently on her back, I guided her into the Chequers pub. “You look as beautiful as ever. Shall we have a drink before dinner?”
Sitting at a corner table away from the noisy factory crowd that was beginning to enter, Cissy gazed at me through deep blue eyes. “You’re so sweet, Bob. You’re always so sweet to me. I’ve so missed you.”
“Sweetness comes naturally in your presence.”
“You are flattering me. Do you still love me as much as you did at the train station?”
“More, but do you need to ask?”
“No. Well, yes, because I like to hear you say it with your Canadian accent.”
“Canadian accent?”
“Well, more Canadian than English.” Cissy giggled. “So, how was your time in London since Christmas?”
Over our dinner of meat pie and chips, I held Cissy’s interest with tales of adventure over the past days. I had gone with Daisy and Eric to see Chu Chin Chow at His Majesty’s Theatre on Haymarket, a comedy and pantomime musical based on the tales of Ali Baba. The excitement, especially for the soldiers in the audience, was the many scenes that involved big dance routines and exotic costumes.
Seated between Eric and me, Daisy teasingly squeezed my hand and grinned when the pretty, scantily dressed slave girls entered the stage.
Cissy contrived a pouty, mischievous look. “How scantily?”
“Enough!” As I grinned, she leaned across the table and kissed me.
While Cissy leaned forward with keen interest, I continued my story that Daisy said she felt the wartime climate needed such distractions as Chu Chin Chow to keep soldiers’ thoughts away from the trenches, even for an evening. Eric and I were quick to agree.
Sitting back contemplatively, Cissy asked, “And how is Mrs. Clarke? She was so kind to me when I came to supper. So long ago . . . over a year, I think.”
“Yes, she is a very considerate person. She’s been like an aunt to me for most of my life.” Chequers became crowded and patrons stood between tables as beer swished out of pint glasses. Moving closer to Cissy for more intimacy, I told her about spending rainy evenings with Mrs. Clarke going through old photos while reminiscing about my life in Walthamstow, and how she brought out the good in everything. “Being in her presence is a shelter for me, a safe place in times of stress.”
Cissy rubbed the back of my hand as she stared compassionately. “I saw a flash of frustration in your face as you were saying that. Do you want to talk? Will you talk to me about that?”
“There are things one doesn’t talk about, things there is no need to talk about. They are past.”
“It’s good to talk, Bob. I sense you have scars. Emotional scars?” I fought back a tear of frustration, not wanting to open up.
“What makes you say that?”
“Well, women talk. Before I met you that day at the Strand a year ago, Daisy told me a little about your admission to the Maudsley.”
“She shouldn’t have—”
“She’s my family, and she cares. The reason she told me was because I persisted in knowing why you were away from the front for so long.”
I laughed nervously and looked at Cissy in a gentle way, thinking I should not be surprised that she of all people would probe. I was not mad at Daisy nor irritated with Cissy, but rather concerned about being judged for failing my troops. I knew Cissy was a bright, intuitive lady with compassion, but I wanted nothing to upset our burgeoning relationship. I knew I had been forthcoming with others, but I was uneasy—perhaps irrationally—about opening up to the one I had so passionately fallen in love with.
“There is that look of anguish again. I don’t wish to force you, but it might be good for you to talk about things.”
“I wonder if I have the courage for that.”
“I think you do. You are strong, my darling, and caring. I think you must have been just as caring in battle with your troops. That is who you are.”
“I don’t want to say much, but it was awful. We were pinned down in a heavy barrage, unable to get to each other, to hear each other, and especially to even help each other.”
Cissy was drawing me out as I realized she was all compassion, even when I became involuntarily frustrated. She remained calm, not judging—in fact, quite the opposite as she stroked my hand in kindness.
I continued, “The central thing is that I was not able to help my troops. I felt like I failed them.”
“Daisy said you were buried, knocked down many times.”
“That’s true.”
“Well, my darling, how could you help them? You know in your heart that your injuries were severe, taking many weeks for you to recover. Try to stop being so hard on yourself.”
I looked at her, deeply into her eyes, as my heart beat faster, thumping with passion as the love I felt took hold, dominating the moment. “Oh, Cissy, you sound like an angel.”
“You’re changing the subject, but that’s all right. I’ve pressed you enough for one night. You’ve been a good sport.”
“If you want to press me some more tonight, I—”
“Ah-ah! You can’t use that as a way to beguile me to your room!”
“I’m not sure what you mean by this thing, beguile?”
“Ha! You’re to be a lawyer and you’ve a short vocabulary.” She let out a mischievous tsk-tsk. “Really, now!”
I walked Cissy to her dormitory under a near-full moon peeking out from high cloud cover, thinking it was a perfect night for flying. We strolled quietly arm in arm while I reflected on my pending return to the squadron, wondering what it would be like with so many colleagues having moved on to other ventures and what tasks I would be assigned.
“Penny for your thoughts, Lieutenant?”
“Oh, just thinking about returning to France and thinking what a lovely evening it is, already missing you.”
“We’ve a few days yet. Let’s make the best of them.”
When I finished a deeply intimate and lasting kiss, Cissy pulled away from under my arms, breathing heavy. “Good Lord, Pitman! What’s got into you?”
“Thinking about pressing things.”
“Now look, buster, it’s time for you to return to your hotel and me to get some rest. Early shift for me, remember? Same time tomorrow?”
I looked squarely at her with a mile-wide grin. “Looking forward to it.” I turned to go.
“And don’t forget—stop being hard on yourself. You’re a good man.”
. . .
The few days at Chilwell were special, as I slept late and enjoyed leisurely breakfasts while pouring over the newspaper. Some townsfolk who were delighted to have a soldier in residence were curious about when I thought the war would end. None seriously thought I knew the answer, but enjoyed the debate. The innkeeper, whom I had considered to be eerie, actually had good sense as he engaged me in discussion about when munitions production would wind down in favor of a return to the local industries of coal mining and lace making. I knew it was more about his concern for the effect on jobs, and therefore on his business, when thousands of munitions workers in the area would leave. He was astute.
And during conversations with him and other locals I learned more about the munitions factory. When I tried to draw Cissy out about the working conditions, she was stubbornly resistant, claiming that it was soldiers at the front who were most at risk. Yet I gathered that the Ministry was pushing its employees to produce more arms faster in order to keep up with demand. That left open the chance that corners were being cut and the risk of accidents rising.
. . .
One evening Cissy asked if I wouldn’t mind accompanying her to football practice. Lord Chetwynd—founder and supervisor of the filling factory—so graciously allowed use of a small pitch located immediately adjacent to the east wall of a warehouse. His benevolence was manifested by allowing the electric lights on the exterior walls to be illuminated for the evening practice until the season began in the longer days of March.
After field drill and ball-handling exercises, Cissy ran up to me, completely out of breath, her short hair askew and sweat dripping from under her bangs. I had never seen her look so casual, wearing men’s trousers and an oversize shirt. “What do you think? Do you think I’d make a good player, at least good enough to make the grade?” She stood erect, trying to get control of her breath. “What are you smiling about?”
“You are so adorable working so hard for something you want.”
“Argh! Men! I don’t want to be adorable. I want to make the team.”
“I’m a cricketer. My football skills are not tops, but when I see you play, you are as good as or better than the others. Keep going, girl!”
“Thank you, Bobby. I’ll show you all!”
. . .
Our Friday supper was special, as Cissy was on leave the next day, meaning we had no time restrictions for the evening. It was also only one full day before I was to travel to Dover to meet the Calais-bound ship. At the posh restaurant, the mellow ambiance of our window side table set the right tone for the candlelit supper presented by the family proprietors. The flickering on Cissy’s face accentuated her natural beauty.
After local roast duck with all the trimmings and a nice bottle of Chianti, we were well fed and content. “Shall we stroll along High Street, perhaps settle our meal?”
“I’d like that. Oh, it was so wonderful. You really know how to treat a girl.”
I looked at her as the flame highlighted her eyes. “I’d like to take credit, but—”
“But you know how to arrange things, Bob. Wonderful memories.” We strolled hand in hand, pausing at times to look into shop windows as my anticipation grew under unspoken expectations. Cissy pointed out her dressmaker’s shop, its window draped in rich cottons and silks, which she said had the same effect on her as a candy store had for children, especially for its diversity of fabrics. There were millinery shops, automobile garages, and cafés, whose wartime success was explained in the wealth created by the munitions factory. We were so absorbed in each other that we found ourselves in front of Chequers with no concept of time, taking little notice of the Friday-night patrons spilling into the street. Moving to the inn’s side entrance, Cissy looked at me before reaching for a kiss. No words were required, no need to ask, just a tacit understanding.
There was something different, something less urgent about our lovemaking, allowing us time to cherish each moment, exploring one another. Time was irrelevant. Quietly, forcefully at times, we tossed and tumbled on the oversize bed, the only noises alternating from momentary laughter to pleasurable grimaces and finally to a shared quiver.
We lay there half dozing, mumbling words of comfort amid total bliss. In time we heard the distant midnight whistle from the factory, causing me to instinctively look at my wristwatch in the dim light, perhaps wishing time to ebb back to earlier in the evening.
“I should go. The guard will already look suspiciously at me.”
“Don’t go. Stay here with me.”
“I can’t. I want to, I do, but I just can’t.”
“Sure?”
“No, I’m not sure, but I can’t show up in the morning wearing my dress from the night before.”
“I could lend you trousers and a shirt.”
She slammed the pillow on my head while jumping squarely on top of me. We tumbled and struggled before I gained control and rolled her onto her back. The banter quickly turned to a kiss, then another before looks of desire and ultimately a repeat gift to each other before stumbling out of bed to get dressed. We took turns in the bathroom down the hall, creeping ever so quietly so as not to wake other guests.
The guard was nodding off as we kissed good night, hardly aware of Cissy’s return as he dozily waved her through the gate before his head fell again to his chest. Although tired, I felt no urgency to rush back to an empty bed, so I strolled leisurely along High Street in the comfort of memories, images flashing across my mind. I ascended the stairs to my room, finding with a glance of my wristwatch that it was two thirty. We had little time left to enjoy each other. Perhaps in the afternoon we would stroll along the estuary before dining and Cissy’s early return to her dormitory. I looked forward to our parting kiss but not our parting.