Chapter 43
June 1918
16 June, 1918
Dear Wellsey,
I trust you are well, dear old friend. I miss you at the squadron amid all of the new faces and its ever-changing character as flyers come and go. Yet I have met and flown with some decent lads in our endeavor to end the conflict.
It will be some time before you receive these words, and there will surely be more developments in this war by the time you do, but update you I will. Today Major Tempest left 100 Squadron on a promotional posting to London. It seems 100 Squadron is graduating majors to senior brass at a brisk rate. Major Cyril Burge, a career military man at the tender age of twenty-six, has replaced him. While we don’t yet know much about him, we all agree he has large shoes to f ill, as both Tempest and Christie were solid chaps.
I have been granted a reassignment for ground duty as a technical officer. While not Home Establishment, it will keep me active behind the action in my service to 100 Squadron. I know that you more than anyone will understand. After returning to the squad in early May and flying eight sorties, protracted fatigue set in. Sure, I was concerned about letting the squad down, but felt I could no longer keep up a façade of false confidence while in the air.
So I am off to Henley-on-Thames, the RAF Technical Officers’ School, for a few weeks of training before returning to France. Of course, I was cautioned that if necessity presented itself, I would be returned to flying duties. One would hope that hostilities cease before that could occur.
The presence of the Americans continues to advance as they pour into the trenches and the skies. I am, of course, forbidden from speaking of specifics, but I can disclose an exciting development: the American flyers at nearby Neufchâteau Aerodrome have taught us to play American baseball. It’s a bit like rounders, but with a longer bat used with two hands instead of one. The friendly rivalry is tops, and they beat us every time, but with practice, the Ochey crew may yet win a game or two.
Much as you were excited to reunite with your wife, I am over the moon about seeing Cissy for a couple of days before my training. I’m quite sure as an act of benevolence before he left the aerodrome, Major Tempest subtly manipulated my timing, as he has released me from the squad effective Tuesday, yet I don’t report to Henley until the following Monday.
It is wonderful to write to you, Wellsey. You are dearly missed, and I’d like you to know you will forever remain a close friend. Do take care and protect your homeland.
Bob
. . .
Summer was in full bloom as I sat at a small bistro table outside Chequers listening to the song of a nearby oriole. She confidently approached from the left. Standing, I reflected that my Cissy outshone any French f ille or Bernadette. Her smile was wide, as engaging as I’d come to appreciate but would never get too much of. “Hello, Bobby,” was all she needed whisper to melt my heart.
Wrapping my arms around her, I whispered, “Hello, darling.” Keeping hold of her shoulders, I stood back and said, “You look wonderful. What a beautiful dress, and in my favorite color, blue.”
She giggled, then murmured, “I know.”
“You’re naughty, Ciss, you know that?”
“Uh-huh.”
When the excitement of our greeting waned a little, I noticed a small, well-worn carpetbag lying at Cissy’s feet. Following my eyes, she bent over to lift it by its leather handles so that it became concealed by her flowing skirt.
I grinned with expectation. “What’s that, Ciss?”
She proffered a schoolgirl grin. “Oh, a bag to carry just a few of my things, much like you would use for a day trip.”
“Or an overnight trip?”
“Yes, I suppose.” She was now nervously swinging the bag from one hip to the next.
“Are you thinking of traveling today?”
“Mm-hmm. And I’ve arrived. Why are you making me feel nervous?”
“Because I love to see you vulnerable, just a little!”
Cissy clouted me on my leg with her bag. “You are rotten. Rotten, rotten, rotten!”
I pulled her to me, kissing her lightly, denying her accusation without any need for words.
I extended my hand to the bag. “Here, let me put this in my room before we walk. I’ll be quick.”
We talked excitedly as we strolled down High Street. I listened to Cissy’s stories of life at Chilwell over the intervening weeks. She was most animated about her developing football skills and her scoring a goal. It was invigorating to listen to her speak, to hear about the basics of life away from war. Absorbed in her presence, I lost my sense of time, yearning to pay attention against nagging thoughts about having to leave in a mere two days.
Suddenly Cissy looked grim, her sweetness melting away to angst. “Bobby, I have something to tell you. Should I say it now?”
My mind raced with thoughts of what could have happened. Could Cissy be with child, reinfected, or something else? “Of course you should say it now.” I tried to sound calm.
After studying the ground with intensity, she looked at me with flushed red cheeks. “Well, I can’t do anything.”
“Do anything?”
“Well, you know. It’s a woman thing. The need for a pause, you know . . . in activity. I’m so sorry, darling, but I can’t change the timing, and well, you were only able to provide short notice—”
I felt relieved and put my finger to her lips. “Shhh, it’s all right, it’s fine. You know the best times I have are when I’m just holding you.”
“I’m relieved, Bob. I thought I would be a disappointment to you.”
“No, my love for you goes way beyond just that. But thinking about it, hmmm . . .”
She wound up her arm and hit me on the shoulder. “Oh, you are rotten!”
With grins and giggles like adolescent lovers, we continued our stroll down High Street with arms locked before turning toward the estuary, our favorite walk. As the sun began to throw longer shadows from the west, we turned up to the sixteenth-century Wollaton Hall located behind the University of Nottingham, admiring the estate’s roaming deer. We remained well east of the arms factory, as Cissy preferred to seclude herself, having told her manager that she was making an overnight visit with an aunt and felt I would not fit that bill if seen with her.
We lingered over dinner, as these were the longest days of the year, sharing a bottle of claret on the patio of a restaurant near the university. The setting reminded me of my beloved University of Saskatchewan, and I could feel the anxiety and stress of bombing over nighttime Germany melt away in the moment.
One of Cissy’s gifts was to allow me momentary private thoughts, having an intuitive sense to remain silent to allow me periods to think. I appreciated her understanding of the sometimes brief moments that I drifted into deep thought. She looked over at me with such compassion, studied me until she felt I was ready to resume our talk.
“You went far away, darling. Do you want to talk about it?”
“I’m so sorry. I was just reflecting on how long I’ve been away from home. This university reminds me of Saskatoon, of what I was doing with my life before the war.”
“You miss that, I know. But you’ll get back to it, dear.”
“I miss it, yes, and I miss my sisters. I’m confused about what I should do about my education, and you, as we’ve not spoken about our future.”
“Oh, there is time for that, love. I’ve learned to take one day at a time, as there is so much in this wartime that fills our minds with loss and grief. We mustn’t expect too much. I love you, Bob, and I know you love me, but do let us see an end to war before we make plans.”
“It wouldn’t hurt to make plans, something for each of us to hang on to.”
“Don’t you see, darling? We are of two classes from two countries. There is much to work through—”
Spreading my hands out for emphasis, I protested, “No, don’t say that. The English class system was breaking down before the war, and it will never return. But aside from that, you and I are the same, think the same, and share the same values. I just had a better break than you. And I am also English as sure as you are.”
“Yet our roots are different. Well, I don’t really know my roots. Employed by the Beauchamps in Belgravia, I was so lucky, but I have no family history.”
I smiled and leaned into the table. “There, see? You are refined by the same training as any society girl! And you’re smart, smarter than most, with a fiery character as well.”
Cissy looked pensive, doubt spreading across her face. “I don’t know. All of this is unexpected. Can we not let it go for now? See what happens?”
“Of course, but I want you to know that my love for you is deeper than I’ve ever felt before, and I want us to be together.” As the setting sun highlighted the flawlessly smooth skin across her high cheek bones, Cissy leaned across the table to kiss me, a long, smoldering kiss.
. . .
Saturday was a whirlwind of activity, as Cissy wanted to complete another estuary walk before she turned up for football practice later in the afternoon. We had spent a marvelous night in our Chequers bed snuggled in close, with me tucked in behind her after we took about an hour to kiss good night. I felt so intimate, so close, and so protected when lying as one.
We did not rise until ten, missing breakfast but managing to enjoy a scone with espresso at a café near the university. We walked over to the Wilford Suspension Bridge before heading to the Old Ground, disappointed not to see a Saturday-morning Nottingham Forest FC match. Making it back to Chequers by one, we had time to relax in my room.
Feeling the fresh-air goodness that comes with summer exercise, we fell back onto the bed in our undergarments, again tight with each other, Cissy in front. While we dozed for a bit I couldn’t help but think about having to leave, not sure when we would again share these intimate moments. Cissy pushed into me while nestling the back of her head into my face, her hair tickling me, an erotic moment created by unbound intimacy.
She whispered softly, “I’m so sorry.”
“For what? What could you be sorry for at a time like this?”
“For making you feel like this.” She pushed her behind into me even farther. “For getting you that way and not being able to . . .”
“It’s all right, I’m fine with—”
As she turned toward me, she flourished that naughty Cissy smile and murmured, “I think I know how to make it right, darling. Roll over onto your back.”
. . .
We agreed to meet at the football pitch at four. Cissy preferred to return to the dormitory with her carpetbag in tow, explaining that the jealousies exchanged among the women lodgers meant it was best to keep our overnight visit a secret. Besides, she was to have been with an aunt!
The practice match was a thrill to watch. The energy on the pitch, as well as the incredible skill shown by many of the women, was outstanding. I would dearly love to have seen a scheduled match, but this was a bye week. Cissy played both thirty-minute halves, delighting me with her ball-maneuvering skills. After bathing and changing she was to meet me in front of Chequers at seven for our supper, after which we would have to separate once again.
Cissy arrived at Chequers in splendor, wearing a chic white dress flowing slightly out from her waist and a taupe corseted top, both of which perfectly outlined her figure while off-white heeled shoes and wide-brimmed hat provided unspoken elegance. I smiled at the contrast of a couple of hours before when she was in football shorts and jersey.
Her warm smile was alluring. “Hello, darling. Ready to stroll to dinner?”
“I am. You look so beautiful.”
She beamed. “Thank you, Bobby. I love to look nice for you.” We dined at the same restaurant as the previous night, cherishing the time together before we had to part after saying good night. I had an early-morning train, and Cissy’s shift began at six. The lamb chops and mash were a special treat when so much was being rationed, but we wanted to honor our love. I drank most of the wine, as Cissy wanted to have a clear head for the morning, which took extra time but was a perfect excuse for lingering on such a beautiful, warm evening. The night was magical!
The next morning, I was absorbed with thoughts of Cissy as the train unhurriedly steamed down the line toward Paddington where I would transfer to Henley. Pure bliss was how I would forever describe my two-day diversion from military duties.
. . .
The RAF Technical Officers’ School was pleasantly located at the Imperial Hotel on the banks of the river Thames with both theory and practical classes held in various locations within walking distance. Although the full syllabus was eight weeks, Major Burge used my flying experience to justify an abridged version. Stripping away such topics as accounts, property surveys, paymaster duties, and mess organization, my lessons focused on procurement and maintenance of engines, aeroplanes, gunnery, bombing, radio, and photography. I was expected back at 100 Squadron by mid-July.
I attended classes and worked on advancing my skills with the fervor of a schoolboy. Without the burden of bombing sorties and with thoughts of Cissy constantly on my mind, I settled in to contentment about the future. With the Hun being defeated in battle after battle and rumors of attempted peace talks, some were suggesting that the end could be in sight before 1918 turned over to a new year.
Over the following couple of weeks, I wrote to Cissy every few days when I had time alone from the three officers I was lodged with. As we were all Canadian, we hatched a plan to celebrate Dominion Day at the Little Angel pub on the opposite shore of the Thames, across the Henley Bridge near the cricket grounds. Whether the other fourteen officers were interested in how we celebrated our 1 July confederation or just wanted a reason to party didn’t matter; all were welcome.