Chapter 46

August 1918

For weeks my thoughts and emotions had been aerobatic, like a Sopwith fighter caught in a constant loop-the-loop. Returning to the familiar hum and routine of the aerodrome not only invigorated my spirits but also provided grounding as I attended to my new routine duties.

The Vicar, Howie, and others were unconditionally supportive without overcompensating. I knew I was adjusting well when I felt a healthy jealousy over Vic and Howie forming that same pilot-observer bond that Wellsey and I had once had, having flown numerous sorties as a team. But I had made my own bed as a ground technician. My mind was geared for the challenge of understanding the intricacies of a new bird that was just then arriving to replace the Fee, the giant Handley Page O/400. While it had been employed in other squadrons since its introduction in April, 100 Squadron was just receiving these massive long-range bombers. The activity around our first arrival was frenetic.

I stood on the field, and after staring up at its foreboding height, I followed the long shadow of its underbelly. My eyes focused on the elongated propellers that gave the illusion of extending across the airfield to the mess. I thought how lucky I was to work with Hardy and his team on the new craft. I may have been appointed Technical Officer, but he was the brains of our technical unit.

Against the summer breeze, I waved the lit match over the fragrant tobacco that I had just packed snug in the bowl of my pipe before looking up to see Howie and Hardy waving. “Hello, Howie. Hey, Sam.”

“Checking out the big bird, are we?” asked Howie with a grin. “Those bastards over in Hun-land will not sleep under threat of these aerial dreadnoughts, wot?”

I again looked up and down the aeroplane to assess its alleged capability before locking eyes on the massive bomb racks. “Suppose you’re right when you put it that way.”

Hardy followed my line of sight. “Sixteen 112-pounders or eight 230-pounders. Now, that’s some firepower.”

“Slow as a Zep, though?” I asked.

“Oh no,” he said. “Two 360-horse Rolls Royces and a 100foot wingspan pulls her along at quite a clip. Can make Frankfort, perhaps even Berlin, from here.”

I laughed. “Sure, but can she make it back?”

Howie spoke up, “The factory lads say seven-hundred-mile range.”

“That’s comforting. Frankfort at two hundred miles is an easy in and out, but Berlin at five hundred miles would be fine if you were staying for dinner with the kaiser!”

Howie understood the flawed claim as he quipped, “Or unless our genius generals hatched a harebrained plan to refuel somewhere on the return.”

Hardy weighed in, “Or just plan to leave you to your own resources?” Realizing that sounded insensitive, he followed up quickly.

“Oh, that was not funny.” Howie pretended to proffer a schoolmaster glare before wielding a friendly punch on his coverall sleeve.

I turned to face Howie, grinning not because of the sideways joke but rather feeling exhilarated to be part of the squadron life again. “The flight roster shows you and the Vicar are getting some practice runs in this bird.”

“Somewhat. But as more HPs roll in, we’ll have more chance to become acquainted with the new gal. Meanwhile, we continue plugging along with sorties in our ole Fee.”

Hearing a thump above our heads, the three of us looked up to a bottom in blue coveralls beginning its descent down the ladder leading from the cockpit. With feet finally on the ground, the grinning mechanic turned to face us. “Hullo.”

Hardy picked up the initiative. “Charlie Crickmore, this is Lieutenant Pitman, our new Technical Officer, and you know Lieutenant Chainey, of course.”

“Ah, you’re First Air Mechanic Crickmore. I’ve heard good things,” declared Howie.

“Nice to meet you, sir! I’m Crick. Promoted to corporal when I transferred over from the 216s. I also passed aerial gunnery, sir.”

“Quite, Crick. My apologies, it slipped my mind what with coveralls hiding your rank and all.”

Crick beamed with enthusiasm. “That’s all right, sir. With three large squadrons on this aerodrome, it’s not easy to remember everything, wot?”

I studied Crick’s innocent-looking face and ruddy complexion, wondering if an officer’s mustache would provide more maturity. “You’re quite young, are you?” I asked.

His enthusiasm was catching. “No, sir. I recently turned twenty-one, but I was eighteen on enlistment. It’s been a long three years, I’ll say.”

“With that experience and as a trained gunner, I’m surprised you haven’t been selected for a commission,” I said.

“Oh, not possible, Lieutenant Pitman. You see, I’m only a brass fitter by trade, so I wouldn’t qualify as an officer.”

I thought about the ridiculous protocol the British military still practiced after four years of hellish war. It was shameful that university students with no military background were still being commissioned while a more capable type like Crick would forever be denied a leadership role. “Shame. You seem a good fellow with good intuition.”

His grin wouldn’t quit. “Thank you, sir.”

“Please call me Bob.”

“Crick, just so you know, Bob is a wizened flyer having performed numerous sorties for 100 Squadron over Hun-land since mid ‘17,” declared Howie.

“Pleased to serve with you, Bob. One of the originals, I’d say.”

Howie saw my embarrassment so cut in to change the focus.

“Explain this machine to Lieutenant Pitman, if you please.”

“Yes, Lieutenant—er, may I call you Howie?”

Howie nodded his approval as we walked the length of the O/400. Rounding the tail planes, all of us agreed this must be the largest aircraft ever produced. Crick was animated, full of excitement as he pointed up and along the starboard wing. “Hundred-foot wingspan, twenty-two feet from ground to that top wing, 360-horsepower twin engines, and weighs eight-five hundred pounds empty. You might think she’s black, but she’s actually olive green, which hides better in the dark. About seven feet to the bottom of the cockpit, Bob.”

“And fully loaded? Bombs, petrol, cooling water, crew—what’s it rated then?” I wondered.

“That takes her up to about thirteen thousand pounds, sir.”

“Speed?” asked Howie.

“Oh, maximum ninety-seven mph at five thousand feet, about eighty at maximum ceiling of eight thousand. Two hundred gallons of petrol in four tanks will keep her up for eight hours.”

Hardy had been quiet to respect his junior’s enthusiasm but showed encouragement. “And tell them about weaponry, Crick!”

“She can take up to five Lewises, two in front and three in the rear gunner’s station. And two thousand pounds of bombs. A real war machine, if I may say so.”

Hardy was proud of his air mechanic and grinned to show it. “Yes, you may say so, and we agree with you.”

Crick looked honored. “Would you like to go on up and have a look about, Bob?”

Standing in the cockpit, I was awed by the large steering wheel—similar to that of an automobile—that the pilot would use to control the aircraft. The full seat beside him gave the observer access to the same instrumentation. The design in the forward gunnery was closer to the Fee with two Lewises and the bomb release levers, but it seemed odd to access it through a small portal from the cockpit.

I turned to view the length of the aeroplane from the cockpit and was taken aback by its immenseness. The rear gunnery was located about two thirds of the way back, armed with two Lewises atop and one underneath for rear firing. Curiously, there was no capability for voice communication between the cockpit and the rear gunner.

Standing on the field below, Howie cupped his hands around his mouth for a stronger voice. “You two gonna wait out the war up there?”

I watched Crick easily navigate down the cockpit ladder, noticing just how high the drop was. It struck me that a crew in need after a forced landing would require a lot of pluck to descend, unlike the Fee where one could easily jump to ground.

“Quite the aeroplane,” said Howie. “We’re lucky to have you leading the mechanics pool and ordnance, someone to bust through the usual military bunk-de-bunk.”

I looked at Hardy before winking at Crick. “My task is made significantly more efficient with mechanics like these two, Howie!”

. . .

There was abundant reason to be buoyed by the turn of events in the war as the Hun continued to give up ground. Most promising was that General Pershing, with his American forces, was working well with Field Marshall Haig to prosecute effectively and eliminate enemy resistance. So quick were events changing that 100 Squadron ceased their attacks in order to move the aerodrome another fifty miles deeper into the Vosges at Xaffevillers during the second week of August. Yet, in spite of my concentration on work, I was weighed down with melancholy.

I was feeling good for a few days after that fine afternoon with Hardy over at Nancy, but the nights kept getting frightful. With dreams of explosions and bursts of flame, I relived the Somme, connecting my near death to Cissy’s savage demise. So real were the sensations that in slumbered wakefulness I could smell cordite and choked from smoke that was not there, before waking to realize I was safe. The cold sweat would dry quickly as I lay back, staring at the ceiling in the wee hours of the hot summer.

Howie was always there for me, my bunkmate who was turning out to be as much a dear friend as Wellsey, if not as easygoing. Before the recent aerodrome move, he and the Vicar had been active with many night sorties in support of the push, returning late, then bright and cheery in the morning.

On a hot, sticky morning toward the last week of August, we made our way to the mess, where many of the airmen had set up outdoor tables in the shade. The Vicar was reading a London newspaper he had pilfered from somewhere, probably Burge’s office.

“Why bother reading the news when we’re making it right here?” chortled Howie.

The Vicar looked up, always ready with a quip. “I like to read about it over and over, to stroke my ego, perhaps!” He smiled brightly and nodded. “Hello, Bob.”

“Mornin’. A fine one indeed.”

With platefuls of the ubiquitous eggs, chips, and toast that never seemed to vary for breakfast, we tucked in. I looked at the Vicar, then Howie. “You boys have been going at it hard since we resettled, eh?” Howie chewed while the Vicar considered the question. “Quite.

Enemy aerodromes, night after night over Morhange, Buhl, Freisdorf, and any others we can locate. And we hit them again and again.”

I visualized the Fees cutting their engines as they coasted down to drop their heavies. “Hun must be losing a lot of ground, eh?”

“And aircraft,” said Howie. “Albatross, Fokkers, and even a couple of Gothas have been smashed. Not to mention morale.”

“Yet the bastards won’t lay down their arms,” I declared. “Do we need to bomb Frankfort itself ?”

The Vicar suddenly looked at me with hard, questioning eyes. “Have you been brought into the fold, Pitman?”

He made me feel like a schoolboy caught dipping a girl’s pigtails in the inkwell, but I didn’t know why. “No,” I protested. “Just seems we may have to push that far to get them to surrender.”

The Vicar studied me before lowering his voice. “That is exactly the plan with the new O/400. If they don’t give in, we attack their urban homeland.”

I whistled. “That’s aggressive, but I see the point.”

I did from a military perspective, but I knew that attacking their cities was a new path we were crossing. I understood the rationale that we would target railways and other industrial sites—in spite of starving troops being defeated in an increasing manner, the Germans refused offers of armistice. Yet I also knew civilians would be employed in German factories and railway networks. Never mind that the Germans themselves had bombed our innocents in England and France. Thoughts of earlier bombing and strafing rose to my mind’s surface, the horror of it still real after all these months. Yet this was war, c’est la guerre.

. . .

That afternoon all officers were called to a special briefing; it was to be a historic day. The boyish-looking Major Burge stepped into the mess, his reputation as a fierce fighter of the skies preceding him as a commanding authority. Yet his gentlemanly, polished manner— honed during his Indian Army stint—was always precise. “At ease, officers. This is a particularly special evening, the first use of our O/400s on a sortie.” Brief applause broke out and spread across the room before Burge extinguished it with a raised hand. “Three Fees with crews of two will fly alongside three Handleys with crews of three. The six aircraft will join 97 and 215 Squadrons over Boulay.”

Burge’s adjutant announced the teams. Leading off was Box and Inches with Crick as their gunner. We all applauded Corporal Crickmore, who looked so proud to be chosen for his new gunnery skills and more so for being trusted on a historic run. It was not unheard of for a mechanic to fly a sortie, but unusual. The Vicar, Howie, and Jamieson would follow with the Savery, Gilson and O’Donoghue team as anchor. The CO’s assistant surveyed the room, then agitatedly asked, “I say, where are Box and Inches?”

Crick jumped at the opportunity to defend his officers. “They are out on a practice run and missed the announcement, sir.”

I looked over at Burge, who broke into a slight smile, perhaps realizing just how dedicated Box and Inches were. “Blast, they’re practicing again?” He knew that the two relentless flyers had flown together for a squadron record thirty-two sorties in only seven months’ service.

We all admired George Box and Bobby Inches for their unflinching courage and dedication to flying. They seemed to embody the British Isles, George with his fine Yorkshire manners, Bobby with his Scottish brogue, and tonight, Crick bringing his easygoing Kentish ways.

At 2000 hours, the six machines were set to meet those from the other two squadrons over the lighthouse before pushing on to the Boulay aerodrome, where they would drop thousands of pounds of explosives. All squad personnel who did not have duty assignments came out to watch 100’s inaugural HP mission. The Handleys would take off first, led by Box in the pilot’s chair and Inches beside him as observer. And there was Crick, beaming as he waved down to the crowd from the rear gunner’s slot.

The mighty Rolls Royces roared to life, the immense aeroplane sounding invincibly powerful as Box throttled up to test the pitch. Signaling their number by Morse, they waited and received their green light from the control tower for takeoff. Box from way on up gave a wave of his gloved hand to the crowd below and moved the machine forward to cheers of support. Gaining speed as he roared down the flare path into the wind, the machine lifted itself fifteen or so feet above the ground and leveled out. There was a collective gasp of relief as the wheels scarcely cleared the control tower before heading toward the line of poplar trees at the aerodrome perimeter, on toward skies beyond.

Yet the big bird remained level, ceased climbing. With less altitude than required, they soared directly at the poplars. No one breathed, dared not say anything, as the red engine exhaust alarmingly aligned with the trees. Get up, get up! Suddenly, the right wing hit one of the trees, causing the mighty machine to keel over onto its side, falling hard to earth, bursting into flames. It seemed like forever, those agonizing seconds before we all realized what was to be next, some men diving to the ground, others for cover, and still others just staring in disbelief. The bombs exploded with such intensity that the poplars blew back as if in a hurricane, pieces of machinery thrown hundreds of yards in every direction, fire raging high into the night sky. With increasing horror, a realization dawned about the outcome of the three, praying they had perished quickly. None of us could comprehend if death inside that fire trap had been instant or whether they’d had horrifying moments to think about their inevitable demise.

I stood in place, paralyzed by my thoughts. This was how Cissy had died, wasn’t it? This was the horror of Chilwell laid out in front of me. The Lord wanted me to understand, to struggle through the moment she perished. No, these soldiers were not sacrificed for that, but as long as their destiny was to offer their souls, I was to experience it. In that instant I ached again with grief, for Cissy and now for the brave three.

I snapped to, realizing I couldn’t remain in place in a state of self-pity. All my senses came alive in my will to help. With adrenaline coursing through me, I surged with other flyers and ground crew toward the sickening wreckage, assuming all bombs had been detonated, perhaps not caring if they hadn’t—so strong was the instinctive call to action. We saw bodies and pieces of bodies strewn all over, some charred beyond recognition, others thrown clear in their death but spared from burning. But there were too many bodies, too many pieces, when only Box, Inches, and Crick had been in the aircraft.

Time brought the answer. The armament division from 97 Squadron had been close by and had run toward the flaming wreck to help rescue our three. In the seconds it took to reach the wreck, they were cruelly met with the armament blasts and ensuing inferno. Eight were killed and fifteen seriously injured. This was the saddest day in the sqaudron’s existence and in the embryonic history of the newly formed IAF.

Everyone worked through the night with the cleanup, doing whatever they could, sharing an overwhelming need to do something, anything, to help the squadrons of the IAF move forward. Atrocities of war were expected, but not when accidents like this happened. In time we would know if an innocent mistake or mechanical failure was the cause.

. . .

Sleep did not come at first as I lay there tossing myself across the bed and turning over and over in muddled thought. I clearly imagined the horror that had been reality just a few hours before. Minute details emerged, scenes I did not realize I had noticed, menacing particulars that I attempted to verify in my mind—did they really happen? Howie lay across from me, a dark bulge under a thin blanket that I dared not disturb even though I wanted to talk, even with slumber beckoning.

Suddenly, I lurched violently. Howie was hovering over me, his hand tightly holding my shoulder while he whispered to me. My breathing, I couldn’t get my breathing under control. What was he saying? Why doesn’t he speak up if he wants to talk? Why is he shining that light on me, blinding me?

“Bob, Bobby!”

“Wha—”

Louder now, “Bobby, wake up. Wake up, old boy. You’re dreaming.” He shook me gently.

I sat bolt upright. “D-dreaming?” I heaved with short, shallow breaths. “I was dreaming?” I looked up at Howie, compassion in his eyes as I remembered bit by bit. “Oh God, it was awful. People screaming, burning as they ran through the darkness, looking like lanterns, horrible-shaped lanterns.”

I sat there a while as my breathing settled before again speaking. “Bloody fool I am, these dreams, nightmares. For the longest time I couldn’t sleep for thinking about last night, yet I must have dozed.”

“You’re no fool, not at all. You’re still in mourning, you know that. Last night would trigger nightmares in any of us, but especially . . .”

“You can say it, Howie. I know especially since Cissy died that way. I know I faced that reality while I stood there last night. Horrible business, fucking horrible.” I wrung my nightshirt, absentmindedly pulling it away from my clammy skin. “Not just the innocents like Cissy, like Crick, like my good friend Percy, but all of the horrible deaths, all of the disgust and terror.”

“Bobby, best you get yourself dressed, get washed and shaved. It will be light soon. I’ll do that too. No sense laboring over the vagaries and revulsions of war. We are almost at the end, got to see this through.”

I smiled weakly. “You’re right, Howie. Thanks for being a good friend.”