Chapter 49

15 September, 1918

“Pitman, enter. Thank you for coming at a moment’s notice. I trust my adjutant managed a smile when he rousted you.”

With a salute I looked upon Burge sitting at his desk with none of the disquiet he had shown the other day, looking as authoritarian as ever with a strong physique evident under his tight-fitting, impeccably tailored tunic. London money and title were well alive!

“Sit, please.” Burge motioned to the area behind me as he moved across the floor with purpose.

I turned and was startled to see Vic and Howie casually sitting around a meeting table with wide, discerning grins. The Vicar warned, “No gawking, Bobby. Not becoming at all.”

While my two comrades cast a breezy look, I was suspicious as I took the only seat remaining. I decided a friendly tone was best. “Hello.”

Burge seemed impatient. “Look, I’ve been reviewing a bold plan with your cronies here. It’s time you are brought into the fold.”

I intuitively knew why I was brought into this meeting, but decided to deflect as nicely as I knew how. “Yes, sir. The shortage of supplies and parts may absolutely be affecting, ah, bold plans, but I assure you we have a healthy parts-trading arrangement with 97 and 215 Squadrons on the opposite side of the aerodrome.”

Howie humorously winced at my feeble attempt to avert Burge’s plan, immediately seeing through my ruse. Vic looked at him to share a knowing smile as I looked back at the major.

“That’s not quite the issue, Lieutenant. We are sending two O/400 crews over to Frankfort. That is about a six-hour run that has not been attempted before. Idea is to force the Hun’s hand, deliver shock and terror, if you will.”

I ran my fingers along the side of my khaki side cap, turning it from end to end, unable to stop a building nervousness. I became aware that the rapid thoughts shooting through my head gave me an anxious countenance. I refused to look at Vic and Howie, as they would grimace at my further protest. Yet I persisted: “I don’t understand my connection—”

“Well, Jamieson is out. I think you know that. I’ve been pressuring these flyers here to provide alternates for their rear gunner. Your name kept surfacing.”

I then had to look, first at Vic and then Howie, hoping for some recognition that this was some sort of prank. Their pan faces answered it wasn’t.

The Vicar assumed a serious tone. “Look, Bob, you are an excellent observer, extremely proficient on the Lewis, proving that time and again in the Fee.”

“We need you,” added Howie. “We understand each other, how we act as a team.” I knew I looked worried, knew the three understood my overriding thought—I had not expected to sortie again. “In these new O/400s, we have considerable protection from the Hun’s fire, whether ground defenses or enemy aircraft.” But I also knew that when I was permitted to pursue technical ground duties, I could be ordered into the sky at any time.

As Howie and the Vicar attempted to ease me into the assignment, Burge stepped in. “Lieutenant Pitman, I’m afraid that unless you provide a suitable reason for not accepting this order, it stands.” I did not wish to irritate the major with the trepidation I was feeling. My mind was rebelling since I had allowed myself to believe I would be grounded for the balance of the war. Yet there I was, being ordered into the largest aeroplane ever built, to fly to the enemy’s front yard with a bomb load that could raze the Palace of Versailles in one go.

“Well, sir, I’ve not seen duty in the Handley Page, so perhaps that brings a risk to the other crew members.” I could not stop my drivel. “The Box-Inches disaster has been explained as exceptional, but just Saturday, the American lad Gower was forced to land his Handley with a shot-out propeller.” Bloody hell, I was not sounding very much an officer, and I hoped that Burge overlooked my indiscretion at referring to the Box-Inches disaster.

“Understood, Lieutenant; however, you have not convinced me to stand down my order. You will be supported by Johnson and Chainey here, whom you will join for a practice run this afternoon.” Knowing I had been committed, I needed to move beyond my doubts by showing a confident military persona, to promptly accept the assignment. “Yes, sir. I am honored that you and my fellow flyers have such confidence in me.”

“Noted. This sortie will take place tomorrow evening, so I suggest you get cracking.”

We stood and collectively saluted. “Sir!”

“Dismissed, gentlemen.”

. . .

I held my curiosity as we crossed the field in silence to the front of the mess, where we were able to take advantage of a nicely set lunch table in the late-summer sun. I was reflective of the major’s conversation, of his orders now that they had been exercised. I took a moment to glance up at the willowy clouds separated by spaces of deep blue, rising majestically as if to beckon me back to their domain. We sat, and with thoughts of returning to flying I broke the quiet.

“Burge commented that my name kept popping up. What’s behind that?”

In a deferential manner, Howie looked at the Vicar, his extended hand urging him to respond. “You’re respected, Bobby, not just for your character but for your skills. You know the Lewis, you know bombing accuracy, that sort of thing.”

“You’ve got lasting experience to help get us into Germany and back,” added Howie.

I contemplated their shameless compliments as I decided whether they were truly sincere or just serving the immediate cause. Yet I knew in times of war that really didn’t matter since courage and survival were the overriding precepts. I wondered if my earlier request to step back from flying was subconsciously spawned by a need to survive for Cissy. That was when she was still alive, and I perhaps subconsciously knew that our future lay together. But I was to be flying again. And she was gone.

“Your words are kind, but surely—”

“Bobby,” said Howie, “we spent a thorough time discussing many candidates, but for this length of show, we cannot risk deficiency.” He stopped chewing and made an awful face. “What is this concoction, anyway?”

The Vicar smiled knowingly. “Meat pie mixed with sauerkraut. We’re in German-influenced France now. Listen, don’t know about Jamieson, but I do know his lack of confidence presents risk. You don’t, old boy. Be honored!”

I contemplated, sighed, and forced a smile before confirming, “We will be a formidable team over Frankfort, I daresay.”

. . .

“Hey, Bob! Heard you are flying again.” Hardy looked at me with a grin, his blue eyes sparkling in the bright sun.

I grinned back with an easy demeanor, having fully accepted my assignment. “Yes, I’m the chosen one, as they say. Ha!”

“Let’s show you around before your practice run.” I followed Sam and ambled up into the rear gunner’s station, lower to the ground than the front section. Standing up, the view forward to the cockpit was some distance, far enough to deny any conversation with the pilot and observer, especially when the Rolls Royce engines would be at high pitch. As I waved to Howie standing in the cockpit, I realized the isolation would be daunting.

Sam studied me. “I’m reading your mind, Bob. Happens to all gunners the first time. Take notice of the communication system just there.” He pointed to a steel wire that ran around pulleys and extended from the gunner up to the observer with a small container attached to send messages back and forth.

Hardy again contemplated my thoughts. “I know. At eight thousand feet, the slipstream and freezing air will make it difficult to write messages, so there are also two torches on board for Morse exchange.”

“All right, that’s civilized,” I said. “The rear-facing seat makes sense, I suppose, yet it seems to increase the isolation, don’t you think?”

“You’re only really sitting there for takeoff and landing. Other gunners have said they are too busy organizing the Lewises and watching for threats to bother with too much sitting.” Hardy showed me how the hinged seat lifted out of the way to reveal a platform from which the gunner was able to stand with a good view of the rear and sides while swinging the machine guns into any position in a 270-degree arc.

The setup was quite remarkable, from the massive amount of machine-gun drums efficiently stacked in the sidewalls to the ventral gun placement at the bottom for rear protection and for directing at searchlights. I kneeled down to peer through the floor opening with a clear view to the rear and then turned forward to see the daunting bomb rack that would vertically hold either eight 230-pounders or sixteen 112-pounders. There was even a small pocket with a recessed shelf that held emergency food supplies in the event of a forced landing. The practice flight went off without a hitch. The Vicar commanded the warm skies over friendly landscape, which allowed me to become comfortable with the feel of the aircraft and the gunner’s operations. Hardy met us on landing. “Feel good to you?”

I felt much better about things, actually brimming with excitement after soaring in such a powerful, daunting machine. “Oh sure, I feel better. I’ve tried everything out, well, as best I can without actually engaging the enemy. Yet!”

“You’ll do well.” He held a saucy grin. “Say, how about a coffee in the village? The ole Douglas is raring to go.”

“The village?”

“Oh sure, a new village just down the road, a place called Baccarat.”

I smiled warily, thinking of Hardy’s exploits at local French estaminets. “Afraid I’m under orders not to leave the aerodrome, Sam.

Unusual, I know, but related to tomorrow’s mission.”

“Unfortunate, but I won’t probe. I may take a ride over there myself.”

“What, another Bernadette?”

The grin spread a mile wide, covering his face. “Not yet, Bob. Looking, perhaps!”

. . .

I lay in bed listening to Howie’s contented breathing across the room, myself again dozing but unable to find deep sleep. The moonlight streaming in through the top of the drapery illuminated the shadow of a dragonfly, which danced against the opposite wall. Its flight was with purpose, seeking a way through to safety. I thought of rising to help it but realized the inevitable stumbling in the dark would disturb the night. The distressed night flyer would remain unaided, left to its own devices for survival.

I thought of the many sorties I’d flown, how I slept well the night before knowing I had the next day to keep myself busy preparing for flight night. This was no different, yet I was wakeful with a gnawing anxiety that I needed to identify if I were to get any rest. As the early dawn replaced the brightness of the moon, it hit me: I had always had Cissy with me when I was about to fly, right from my first training flight. No, not in person, but in my heart, she had been there. Her presence made real by the knowledge that on next leave or with the next letter, she was there. Not this time.

I was to fly alone without my true love, yet I had her memory. While generally a realist, I believed, truly believed, that I would be closer to touching her in heaven while traveling up to eight thousand feet. Memories flooded in with that first time our hearts connected at Mrs. Clarke’s. The tea kettle whistling as I answered the door, pleasantly surprised to see her in mauve and black silk, her eyes beaming at me from under that wide brim hat. Although I pushed back tears, one or two dripped onto my pillow. Vividly seeing, feeling, her being in my mind was at once intense pleasure and bitter pain.

Remembering the joy she had brought to everyone and her strong, determined character made me wonder why she had been chosen and why I had been spared after countless nights wreaking havoc over our enemy. I had to reject guilt; I knew that was not the character Cissy had fallen for. She had sought the best out of life, and it was for me to honor that. In my recent letter I had committed to Daisy that I was walking alongside her in accepting Cissy’s death, and I needed to dignify that. Eventually, I felt peaceful enough to close my eyes in slumber.

Feeling a presence, I opened my eyes to the grinning Howie inquiring whether I was to remain in bed all day or join him for a late breakfast. With his hand squeezing my shoulder, his gentle grip of compassion told me he knew yet wouldn’t break into my thoughts unless I invited it. Friends don’t get closer than that.