Chapter 42

June 1918

100 Squadron continued to pour bombs down onto the Hun infrastructure into June as the German Spring Offensive continued to break down, and our infantry kept up a relentless drive to push them ever farther backward. As French and Belgian citizens returned to their homes and towns and villages, the damage caused by the enemy seizure of staples and their burning of buildings was apparent, and it was hideous. Every bomb we dropped was justified by its destruction of Hun resources.

The mixing of new and experienced flyers finally resulted in increased precision, assisted by an escalated focus on dropping the 230-pound bomb. I flew with a Captain Bright and alongside the Vicar—with Howie as his observer—on tours that disrupted the railways in Thionville and the Metz-Sablon triangle. Britain knew Kaiser Wilhelm obsessed about keeping the direct Metz-Berlin line open, so we particularly enjoyed battering them at its western terminus. While the sorties were successful and the teams worked well together, I didn’t settle into harmony; more than ever I desired a transfer to ground responsibilities.

In my letters, I didn’t tell Cissy of my requested change, as I felt it would be worse to provide bad news later than good news earlier. Our letters were full of love and desires, sometimes scheming for ways to see each other. I prayed that I could see to that sooner than she might expect.

After the sortie on the night of 6 June, the squadron’s bombardments were suddenly halted when it was announced that the RAF had created a new Independent Air Force under the command of Major-General Sir Hugh Trenchard. We were now part of a strategic initiative composed of five squadrons that would concentrate on around-the-clock bombing of German targets deep within the Rhineland.

. . .

“That’s it, Sam? That’s as far as you’ve gotten? Just a name, ‘Bernadette’?”

“These things take time, Bobby!”

In fine early-summer weather, the track from Ochey was hard packed, and that allowed the Douglas to dart through the forests and along the fields in good time for us to secure a place on the Café Impérial patio. Although evening, the long seasonal solstice offered bright sunshine, bathing us in warmth. “Hmmm. The war will cease and all you’ve got is a name and a place.”

“Worth waiting for when you look into those exotic eyes and—oh là là!—the way she sways that—”

“Ahem!” I dropped my voice to a whisper. “Incoming at your left shoulder.” Hardy stopped himself just as Bernadette approached with her winning smile that could disarm any soldier anywhere.

“Bonsoir, Messieurs. Êtes-vous bien?” Without waiting for an answer, Bernadette grinned while looking into his eyes and said with a heavy accent, “Hello, Sam. It’s nice to see you again.” I began to understand Hardy’s infatuation as the whispered voice itself oozed sensuality.

“Et toi. Où est ton papa?”

“Dans la cuisine.” I caught Hardy’s momentary disappointment in knowing that her papa’s presence meant no evening walk with Bernadette, but he quickly regained his infectious smile.

“Ah bien,” jested Hardy.

As Bernadette walked back toward the estaminet door to fill our drink order, I watched his obsession with Bernadette’s delightful derriere. “She’s a beauty.”

Our talk turned to speculation about the new IAF and whether my role would be in the air or on the ground, as I had requested. Hardy was supportive of my request to serve as a technical officer and felt I would be a good teacher, an experienced coach. Shortly our conversation was interrupted by the laboring engine of an approaching lorry, becoming louder as its tires squelched over rough cobblestones. Sam’s attention focused behind me over my shoulder, and as I turned in my chair, I saw a Crossley tender emerging from the southwest corner of the town square.

“See who I see, Bobby?”

I squinted into the setting sun. “That’s the Leeds boy driving, your air mechanic Blythe, but who is sitting up there beside him?”

Sam clipped me on the shoulder. “That’s the Vicar, Bobby!”

“Say it’s not true.”

As the Crossley came to a stop in the center of the town square, we walked over to investigate. Some in their new blue RAF uniforms, our flyers began to jump down from the back of the lorry as if invading Nancy at its center. I called up to the open cab, “What the devil is this about, Vicar?”

“Celebration! We looked for you but couldn’t hold the commandeered tender any longer. But here you are!”

“Celebrating what?” Hardy asked.

The Vicar now stood with us. “Word came through that Brown and Johnson have been located, much alive but in a German POW camp. With that good news and our being grounded, we figured it was best to enjoy an estaminet dinner. C’mon, let’s go!”

With Hardy catching up after he said au revoir to Bernadette, there were sixteen of us marching our way down narrow, twisting cobblestone streets lined with two and three-story stone buildings. We stopped at a bistro known to one of our flyers. He assured us the proprietor was a good sort, but to be doubly clear he gave him a substantial advance of francs to ward off any wariness and compensate for any unplanned but very possible collateral damage. One could never be too careful. An outbreak of gaiety and frolicking—perhaps altering a wall here or crushing a table there—could lead to the summoning of military police. The francs would help allay such an eventuality.

A couple of hours enjoying fine food were followed by more drinking. Everything from vin rouge to Champagne to bière to Armagnac and even absinthe was consumed in copious amounts. It was good to let loose.

Equally outrageous was my hope that our dinner celebration would cap the night and we would travel back to the aerodrome in various states of consciousness. But I was not surprised with the sudden call from one of our finest, “Off to see the girls!” was met with hurrahs and a breakout of “God Save the King.” The Vicar caught my eye with a look of concern, perhaps prompted by his proper Oxford upbringing and ties to the Church. However, I knew he faced no vows of celibacy. Nevertheless, I interposed my thoughts on the way out by explaining that, while one is obligated to follow the pack in the spirit of esprit de corps, nothing is required but to join the forthcoming sing-along.

I caught up with Hardy to ask if he knew where we were going. His impish grin was all the confirmation I needed, but he answered anyway. “Two blocks down and three over.” We laughed knowingly at our inside joke, the Vicar looking at us in puzzlement.

We marched down streets and up alleys until we arrived at the plain black door over which the blue lamp hung; the discreet sign that this brothel catered to officers. Didn’t we feel special, not having to queue up under a red lamp? After a sharp knock, the eye-level slide in the door was pulled aside to reveal a beaming, rouge-tinted smile. “Bonsoir. Qui est là? Who is there?” queried a sultry yet gravelly voice.

“100 Squadron from Ochey reporting for duty, Madame Dodu,” answered one of our finest, apparently a regular.

The door opened immediately, exposing a madam clad in a loose robe of silk draped off her shoulders. “Ah, les aviateurs Anglais! Bienvenue!” It seemed she was a merchant with a keen head for finance.

We filed into the cramped foyer and up the stairs behind Madame, whose plumpness, only partially hidden under her silks, filled a good portion of the staircase. As we followed her into a vast room, looks of delight mixed with expectation filled our faces, some frozen in surprise and others of wanting after so long in the war arena. For in that opulent room amid the chairs, settees, erotic hangings, and mirrored walls sat some of the most gorgeous women any of us had ever seen. Certainly, our collective intoxication and desire made the girls that much more exquisite, but seeing them draped in sheer tulle, stockings, and heels—some only partially tulled from the waist down—painted a man’s fantasy of the true Venus masterpiece.

It wasn’t long before someone was tapping away on the rickety piano tucked away in the corner, causing the rest of us to break into song.

There is a tavern way down in Brittany

Where weary soldiers take their liberty.

The keeper’s daughter, whose name is Madelon,

Pours out the wine while they laugh and carry on.

Our troop sang the patriotic verses with passion, some belting out the lyrics while others sang softly to one mademoiselle or another. So passionate was the classic French ballad that many of the f illes sang along in its native French style.

Oh, Madelon, you are the only one;

Oh, Madelon, for you we’ll carry on.

It’s so long since we have seen a miss;

Won’t you give us just a kiss?

But Madelon, she takes it all in fun;

She laughs and says, “ You see it can’t be done;

I would like, but how could I consent

When I’m true to the whole regiment?”

The girls worked their way through the room, some sitting in laps while others stared dreamlike into officers’ eyes as they swayed to and fro, still others kissing passionately in darkened alcoves. The combination of scent, powder, and the haze of cigar smoke made the large room unmistakably erotic. Madame kept drinks refreshed while deftly ensuring each flyer subtly handed over the one franc cover for the privilege of being here. Other, heftier donations would be settled more discreetly.

Time seemed to evaporate amid the euphoria made present by the sexually charged atmosphere. Within an hour or so, many of the mademoiselles, lads in tow, disappeared through a pair of hardly visible doorways, presumably leading to chambers. Madame was never far away, making sure her business enterprise was funded according to the rules. But the Vicar and I, with the exchange of a discrete look, agreed we had done our bit in support of the team and needed to take our leave.

We thanked Madame graciously, smiling lavishly against her protestations that we had not been duly provided the love that her establishment so delightfully dispensed, but nonetheless, we sidled toward the door carrying wide grins. Making our way out into the cool night air, we had a good laugh at the whole escapade. I looked up at the Vicar and said in poor imitation, “Oh, my ‘andsome ahvia-tor, do you not want a leetle loove before you take your leeve of mon boudoir?” We stumbled along the cobblestones in laughter.

It was good for the team to experience such release, even for those who did not partake in any bordello love. Glancing at my watch as we returned back to the town square, I noted we had another hour before the corporal was to drive the commandeered Crossley back to the aerodrome. We caught up with him dozing in the driver’s seat. “Leeds, is it?” I asked.

He bolted upright. “Yes, sir!”

“Listen, Leeds, tell Sergeant Hardy—y’know, Hardknocks— that the Vicar and I have returned ahead with the Douglas, all right?”

The Vicar stood tall in a pose of incredulity. “I can’t handle that damned thing, Bobby.”

“I can, Vic, and I will.”

I walked over and straddled the Douglas motorcycle, pushing it off its rear wheel stand just as I’d seen Hardy do many times before. After jumping on the kick-start lever a few times, I realized I had not flipped the magneto switch. Once done, she fired up and purred like a kitten.

“Jump on, Vicar!”

He hesitated before taking a stride forward, then looked back at Leeds, who was holding his stomach in laughter. “C’mon, Vic, get aboard before Mr. Funny over there tells the squad that we couldn’t bloody well get airborne on a 9 hp motorcycle.” That did it, and the Vicar straddled the rear seat.

We cautiously moved forward before I realized the acetylene headlight was not illuminated, so after squeezing the brake lever a little too hard, we lurched to a stop. The Vicar slammed up against my back. Neither of us looked back at Leeds, as there was no sense giving him more fodder. And then we were off, bumping over the cobblestones before we reached the dry, flat roadway. I guardedly changed to a higher gear after staying in the lower one too long, the engine screaming its protest. Once gaining speed, I felt as if the entire world’s problems had been lifted, and I bellowed out a boyish “Woo-hoooo!” as we barreled along.

We arrived safely back at the aerodrome with the Vicar clutching the back of my flying jacket just as I had done with Hardy. He was in much need of a nightcap, so we headed over to the mess, where we compared stories of the evening shenanigans. We knew that a few of the lads would not make their ride back, but men as resourceful as RAF flyers would figure out what it took to report to the aerodrome by the next morning.

I lay in bed and thought of Cissy, trying not to compare her to the f illes in Madame Dodu’s brothel. Yet I did, and although I felt a twinge of shame, I wallowed in the knowledge that, on a physical level, she outshone them. But above all, I knew she was special. She was smart and witty, and she valued and fostered women’s courage. I fell asleep in the knowing comfort that I loved her so much.