Chapter 47

August 1918

Major Burge and the other COs at Xaffevillers aerodrome understood that morale was dangerously low and immediately grounded all sorties for a few days. Attempting to break the gloom, Major-General Hugh Trenchard, commander of the IAF, addressed the personnel on the airfield. His unusually loud voice was a stark reminder of his nickname, Boom.

“Good afternoon, RAF flyers and ground crew. It is with sadness that I stand here today to formally acknowledge the loss of one of our new O/400s along with the crew who perished, including those of 97 Squadron who ran in pursuit of rescue. I daresay those heroes will be remembered alongside all who have given their lives for King and Country.

“Yet these events do happen in times of war. It is with much pride that I can confirm there are trained flyers to fill in behind and plenty of Handley Page’s rolling out of factories as we speak. We wage war in all circumstances and at all costs if we are to gain the peace. That we will do.

“We will continue to prosecute my targets with assets that are delivered on time and in top shape. You will not be short of aircraft, matériel, or supplies. Armed with such power, we will get cracking! Thank you, and God save the King.”

While the airmen respectfully returned a murmured “God save the King,” they stood there dumbfounded. Major Burge had listened with his head bowed to the gridiron flooring, unable to look at his squadron. In the priority of shame, Trenchard seemed to have felt it was more important to have lost an aircraft than its crew. Evidently to him there was a ceaseless supply of airmen and crew at his disposal, a disgusting reference to the commodity that was human lives.

All men and the few nursing sisters standing there that day felt the bad taste of his seeming lack of remorse. His targets! His aeroplanes! Get cracking! All during a memorial for irreplaceable lost souls.

The next day I was summoned to Major Burge’s quarters. “At ease, Pitman. Sit, please.”

“You requested my presence, sir.”

Burge appeared uncertain, which belied the image he crafted of himself with carefully Brilliantined hair, heavy but well-groomed eyebrows, and dark authoritarian eyes, all of which hid his youthful face. Yet there he was, acting nervous. Did Trenchard light into him for something? “Yes, quite, things to discuss. I’ve spoken to your fellow Lieutenants Conover and Darby as well. Lay of the land as it were.”

Would he jolly well get to the point? “Yes, sir.”

“You’re one of my longest-term officers, my technical man with a strong moral compass too. It has come to my attention that there may be some discord among the flyers. That true?”

Which way was he leaning? Was I to be a rat scurrying along the grassy field to squeal tasty bits of discord for the major just so he could come down hard? I couldn’t read Burge well. “Sir, the disaster put the wind up, you know.”

“Come now, Pitman, I know that. What is the tone, the morale, just now?”

I needed to ease into this, aware that Trenchard’s mighty ego might have forced Burge to seek out any dissonance. “Talk of the Handley Pages perhaps not being battle ready, maybe as a result, you know, of the brass pushing the aircraft to be ready when there may still be development work to be done.”There, it had been said, and I hoped without attributing any blame other than to those up top.

“Speak freely, Lieutenant.”

“The lads are scared, sir, fearful of another disaster. There are many rumors circulating that the cause of the crash was mechanical, not pilot error. No one wants to blame poor dear Charlie Box, sir, nor Bobby Inches, instead of believing the crash was caused by a malfunction of some sort.” Damn! Did I just implicate the ground crew?

Burge was stoic. “Any theories?”

“Well, sir, there is word that the rear elevator controls may have accidentally been kept strapped down, you know, such that they would remain stationary while on the ground to avoid damage.”

“Yes, I know why they’d be strapped down.”

Finally, the known Burge was emerging, the one who wanted to get on with the story. That was a good sign. I resumed, “Well, if the straps hadn’t been removed before flight, the aircraft would have little lift, perhaps forcing the nose down, entangling the aircraft in the poplars.”

Burge stood, pondered what I had just stated while moving across the room. His back was to me while he stared out the window, before turning.

“Cigarette, Pitman?”

Why was he stalling? What had I said that might be worth mulling? “Definitely, sir.”

He studied me as I moved forward to suck in the draft, lighting the Gitanes from his silver lighter that showed the words “Gott mit Uns” emblazoned on the side. The irony of “God with Us” on an enemy lighter raised the question of how our good Lord could be with both sides of the conflict. The story of why Burge even owned this implement would have to wait for another time.

Burge evidently trusted my judgment, as he disclosed the possible cause. “The aeroplane was so badly burned that our mechanics have little evidence from which to make a determination. What you are saying and what I believe is that there was indeed ground crew error.”

“There are some that would agree, some not, sir.”

He pressed on: “However, and you know this from your many sorties, Pitman, the pilot and observer have equal responsibility to inspect their aircraft.”

“I agree, sir. It could have been that Box and Inches had been out in the aircraft most of the afternoon and perhaps assumed it would not be banded.”

“I won’t carry this any further, Lieutenant, except to bless Box and Inches, and the young lad Crickmore. Bloody sad turn. This is terrible business, and we must get this squadron on its feet, so I ask you to keep our discussion quiet. That’s the end of it. No fault laid.” That was not an order, instead a confirmation of trust and mutual respect. “Yes, Major. I’ll do everything I can to assist with tonight’s sortie.”

“Good, good.” Burge looked pensive and again turned to the window, uncertain of further comment, but then seemed to relent as he shifted inward again. “Ah, one other thing, Pitman. I’m aware of the effect the major-general’s words had on the squad. I’m also aware that he is a man of keen dignity, of loyalty to his airmen. His position is very difficult, trying to be seen as a caring parent, if you will, yet run an air force during the worst conflict mankind has ever seen. He did not express his sorrow in a manner that was easily interpreted; however, he has the best interests of every one of us at hand. I’d like you to help me support him, Lieutenant.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Dismissed, Pitman. And ah, well done!”

So I was to be a trusted ally to watch over the squad’s morale, but also an unwitting recruit to allay any animosity toward the brass. That was an ugly torch to carry since I couldn’t withhold breakdowns in the squad’s resolve, yet I had no inclination to be—what was I thinking in that meeting?—that scurrying rat. And if that weren’t enough, my guts still churned and nightmares persisted about the agony of this war and of losing Cissy.