Seeking Courage

by Gregory P. Smith

  “Thanks, I appreciate you sayin’ that.” <block>

  But you’ll look sweet upon the seat

  Of a bicycle built for two!

  In the silence that followed the end of the song, I looked around the room to see many of the soldiers assembled around the piano, some still giggling with the fun of the infectious tune. Others were sitting sullen, withdrawn into themselves. Still, they had made their way to the event. Others, like Sarge and I, were engaged in conversation. It was when Dr. Mott caught my eye, nodding me over, that I realized I had best set an example and lead some of the singing.

  I beckoned Sarge and we strolled over to the piano. I still marveled at the thought of such an eminent doctor breaking into song while playing the ivories. He glanced at me, smiled, and then peered around the lounge, seemingly trying to connect with the patients, to encourage participation. While a few of the men avoided his gaze by looking elsewhere or down at their shoes, most had edged toward the piano after that first tune.

  While playing a soft melody, Dr. Mott looked this way and that in the image of a real showman, addressing his patients. Taking the tune to a whisper, he ruminated, “Now, many of you have come to know me over the past days, weeks, and, God forbid, months.” There was a hesitant outbreak of laughter. “You know my beliefs about the healing benefits of song and how it works to diminish fear through expressing yourselves with simple pleasantries. Much like the soothing baths that I insist upon, I want you to consider these moments as bathing each other’s ears with the soothing rise and fall of your communal voices.”

  This time the laughter was more comfortable, louder. Mott’s voice cheerfully rang out. “All right, let’s move to a little ditty that was kindly struck by our Irish friends back in ‘12. Come on, boys!”

  It’s a long way to Tipperary;

  It’s a long way to go.

  Ah yes, it was so comforting to hear this marching song that meant so much to so many soldiers, each in their own way. Whether it was a Tipperary for all those Irish who had left their homes for opportunities in England before the war, for Aussies who missed Melbourne, or for me longing for a Canada thousands of miles away, it was a long, long emotional distance for all.

  It’s a long way to Tipperary,

  To the sweetest girl I know.

  As I heartily sang along, I felt a slight watering in my eyes, not at the passion for leaving behind a sweet girl but perhaps for not having one to leave behind. While I was perfectly happy to be free of a steady date while at university, in the moment I longed for the love of a sweetheart to whom I could write, someone to whom I could return.

  Goodbye, Piccadilly;

  Farewell, Leicester Square?

  It’s a long, long way to Tipperary,

  But my heart’s right there.

  The chorus was repeated twice at the end, as the men were enjoying the catchy tune, and the doctor was reluctant to stop a good time. But after a few more tunes, he suggested that a good night’s rest and reflection were in order. However, one young soldier boldly suggested a tune that he and his platoon had sung along the roads of Picardy during a recent march.

  Private Perks is a funny little codger

  With a smile, a funny smile.

  Five feet none, he’s an artful little dodger,

  With a smile, a sunny smile.

  Flush or broke, he’ll have his little joke;

  He can’t be suppressed.

  All the other fellows have to grin,

  When he gets this off his chest, Hi!

  Pack up your troubles in your old kit-bag,

  and smile, smile, smile!

  While you’ve a Lucifer to light your fag,

  Smile, boys, that’s the style.

  What’s the use of worrying?

  It never was worthwile.

  So pack up your troubles in your old kit-bag,

  And smile, smile, smile!

  “I must say,” said Mott, “that tune always brings up thoughts of making the best of life, whatever cards we are dealt. I wish you lads the best, wherever and whenever your travels take you, for the rest of this war and beyond.”

  “Hear, hear.” The collective voices of the men fell away as they filed out of the lounge.

  Mott called after them, “Have a restful sleep.”

  Chapter 13

  October 1916

  One day Matron Kay eased up to me as I was studying my Bible in the library. I was never disappointed to gaze into her lovely eyes. She bent over to whisper that there was an RFC sergeant arrived to see me.

  An RFC sergeant? I had encountered flyers before, but I didn’t recall actually knowing anyone from the Royal Flying Corps.

  Tucking the Bible into my tunic pocket, I rounded the corner to see none other than Sam. “My God, Sergeant Hardy! What the devil?” He indeed was in RFC khaki, dripping wet after coming in from a dank, rainy day. “Hello, Lieutenant. Just dropped around to see how you’re faring.”

  In my enthusiasm, I shook his hand vigorously, thinking about that last day together at Mouquet Farm. Even though the memory remained aloof, I did know both of us could have met our maker. “By Jove, it’s so very great to see you! Come with me, there’s a little lounge just here.” I pointed the way.

  We talked for a long while as Sam explained the concussion and arm wounds he had sustained. Barely three weeks after his injuries, he was assigned to the RFC to train as a sergeant-grade air mechanic. It was staggering how quickly things changed during the war. His reputation of having a natural ability to figure things out and to solve practical issues had earned him the recommendation.

  Sam asked after my health, explaining that he had been reluctant to visit in case it caused me emotional stress. I assured him that his visit made me feel exhilarated. We talked more about his upcoming assignment, how exciting it was to apply his skills to aircraft mechanics.

  After kibitzing for quite a while, Sam’s demeanor turned dour as if he was burdened with heavy thoughts. My mood followed, and on my prompt, I found out he had run into Issy in London.

  “Lieutenant—ah, may I call you Bob? At least while we are not technically on duty?”

  I almost offered a trade, that if he called me Bob, I should refer to him as Hardknocks, but his body language warned me off. “Of course. Call me Bob anytime.” I was anxious to find out what was on his mind. “Now, how about that Issy?”

  With shaking hands, Sam slowly, deliberately, took a letter from inside his tunic as uneasiness spread across his face. I whispered, “Oh Lord, please don’t tell me something has happened to Issy. You mentioned you just saw him.”

  “N-no, it’s not Issy, but the letter is from him and it’s bad. It’d be easiest if you just read it.” As he moved to the edge of the chair to hand me the letter, his head drooped, his eyes downcast.

  Lieutenant Robert Pitman

  Royal Canadian Regiment

  C/O The Maudsley

  Kings College Hospital, London

  16 October, 1916

  Dearest Bob,

  I am just now catching up with correspondence, finding time for letters after the regiment was moved out of the front on 11 October. I trust that you are on the mend, my dear soldier, as you had a mighty blow.

  A few days prior to leaving the battlefield, the RCR was deployed in the frontline trenches for a three-day battle beginning 7 October.

  I am very sad to bring you news that our Perce fell on 8 October during the time we were ordered to relieve the 49s. Patrols were sent out to no-man’s-land to examine enemy barbed wire and advised there were sufficient gaps for a morning attack. Lining up under cover of darkness in the jumping-off point, waves of nine platoons drove across to set the Hun in retreat.

  A part of Percy’s platoon was cornered at a portion of barbed wire that was discovered not to be broken, receiving intense machine-gun fire from both flanks. Unfortunately, he was among f ive officers that did not return.

  Perce is dead, gone west. He was a fine soldier and
a great friend to you and me. His confidence and strength will be sorely missed. He rests at one of the makeshift cemeteries.

  We all look forward to your speedy recovery and return to the regiment.

  Sincerely,

  Malcolm (Issy) Isbester

  I was shocked. Percy—the successful schoolmaster who inspired a smile from anyone he met, the one of us to marry just the right girl—was dead. He had become one of my closest friends in the regiment, a confidant in the field, and a leader to all. Cut down by German bullets, dozens of them in the blink of an eye. Oh, but why analyze that? Perce’s voice, his laughter, his humility, and his infectious love were gone, all gone.

  Sam was so patient, staying with me right up until his train departure.

  For days after the news, time went by slowly, and I became lethargic as an overwhelming grief consumed my energy and disturbed my sleep. I asked myself over and over how I had escaped death and how I had come to be hospitalized when not one single bullet had touched me.

  My nightmares were vivid. I felt the hell he endured. I dreamed of Perce being cornered in barbed wire, no place to run, no cover, being struck again and again as multiple bullets riddled his being. Sometimes in slow motion, I saw the actual bullets as they penetrated his tunic and bore through him into his heart, his lungs, and his soul. Dr. Mott encouraged me to open up, to speak about these visions lest I lapse back into emotional shock. One discussion curiously helped me to climb up out of my funk. In one of our meetings, when we were referring to Perce’s death, I protested, “It’s not right!” Mott had immediately shot back, “It’s war. What’s it got to do with being right?” Reflecting on those shocking words was helpful in accepting that in war, reason gets swept aside.

  Still, thoughts continued to gnaw at me, tempting me in a troubling way. I found myself hoping that I could delay my discharge. While good sense won over such emotions, there was momentary comfort in thinking I could prolong my stay in the comfortable atmosphere of the hospital, avoiding a return to the trenches. But I always turned to my commitment of loyalty, not just to the cause but to myself. Were thoughts of delayed recovery a form of betrayal?

  I knew I would never go that far, but I wondered if even thinking about prolonging my illness amounted to the same thing.

  I shared my doubts with Dr. Mott, who saw them as quite rational. “You have done a good job of facing down your fears, Bob. Except for the grief over Lieutenant Sutton’s death, you tell me your nightmares are fewer. And I can see you are more focused, more in tune with your surroundings.”

  “Thank you, Doctor. I am pleased you recognize the improvements.”

  “We should now be thinking about transitioning you toward discharge. You will need to adjust to the idea of shipping back to France. Subject to medical board review, of course.”

  I instinctively shrank from the prospect of returning to the front, but checked the feeling in its tracks. “I understand and feel up to the task.”

  “Good. I’ve set your discharge date for Monday, 30 October.”

  “Thank you.” I laughed to mask my anxiety. “Nothing like a firm date.”

  Mott leaned forward, studying me across his desk. “It’s the only way to do it, Bob. Now, have you access to lodgings in the London area?”

  I sat up smartly. “Yes, there is a friend of the family, a lady I’ve always known as my aunt, up in Stroud Green.”

  Mott smiled, extending his hands in a friendly gesture as if to indicate a great move forward. “Good, that makes the transition easier. We’ll see you over the next week. Please continue your cure program until your discharge.”

  My feelings were mixed. Although I had shaken most of the shell shock symptoms, I still felt vulnerable to the stress and anxiety of the battlefield. Yet a sense of duty charged to the front of my thoughts that allowed me to admit that I was feeling better and fit to fight.

  “Thank you, Doctor.”

  Chapter 14

  October 1916

  A few days later I woke with melancholy. While nightmare-free for a while, I became plagued with a sadness turning over in my mind about Percy’s death. I needed a change of routine. Never mind the public seeing me in my hospital blues, I wanted to connect with outside life. I was confident the matron would issue a pass as my discharge was pending anyway.

  It was the sing-along that had kindled my thoughts about my cousin Eric, about the closeness we had shared before I immigrated to Canada. I knew he and Daisy lived close to the Maudsley. The matron helped me locate an address in Kelly’s Post Office Directory for a Mr. Eric Pitman, a residence about one hour’s walk from the hospital. That had to be it!

  I easily found the home and instinctively smoothed down my flannel jacket, straightening my tie. “Good afternoon. Daisy, Daisy Pitman?”

  The woman had been laughing and playing with a child in front of the house. The boy seemed about six years old, so he had to be young Stanley, whom Eric had often written about. “Hello. May I help you?” she asked with a bright smile.

  I became flush with happy memories at the sight of her. My face must have lit up as I blurted, “Daisy, it’s Bob. Robert Pitman. I apologize for just appearing like this, but I thought I should come around to say hello.”

  “Oh, Robert, how did I not recognize you? It’s so nice to see you.” Surveying my hospital attire, she frowned. “Are you well?”

  I decided not to correct her reference to Robert, as that is how she and Eric knew me. “I’m fine, but I had a little scare over at the front and have been convalescing at the 4th General.”

  “Oh dear, you must come in for tea. You know, I’m so constantly worried for Eric, who is ‘somewhere in France’ as we have learned to say. Stanley, this gentleman is your cousin Robert from Canada, and he has come to say hello.”

  “Is that how they dress in Canada, wearing pajamas and a tie?” Stanley asked.

  She laughed, rather embarrassed, and leaned down. “No, dear. Cousin Robert has been in the hospital, near the one where you were born.”

  “Oh.” Stanley curled behind his mother’s skirt.

  “Come in, Robert. Please come in out of the chill.”

  I followed her into the kitchen at the back of the tidy house as Stanley skipped ahead. “Thank you.”

  “Oh gosh, it’s so nice to see you. I know you and Eric have corresponded, but I haven’t seen you since our wedding in 1908!”

  A reflective thought shot into me with images of battlefields. “Is Eric well?”

  Daisy smiled, her uncertainty showing. “As far as I know. Thankfully, he is not involved in that damn Somme affair. I’m not sure where he is stationed, and his letter last week didn’t provide any clues, I’m afraid.”

  I found out over tea that Eric had enlisted in late 1915 and shipped off to France almost immediately. Daisy showed me the recent letter in which he expected his first home leave in early November. I explained to her the circumstances of my war wound and my pending discharge.

  She regained a tentative smile. “Oh, I’m glad you’re all right, but I am constantly worried about Eric. Stanley just wouldn’t grow up the same without his daddy.”

  Reaching across the table, I placed my hand over the back of hers and quietly consoled, “I do understand. I know my mama worries about me. Can’t imagine little Stanley losing—but let’s rather think on his home leave coming up.”

  Daisy began to tear up, so I changed the course of the conversation. “What do you and Stanley do to pass the time? I imagine he is a handful, looking at his energy.”

  “Ohhh yes, Stanley is active all right. Well, let me see, we go out for walks as much as we can, as long as the weather holds up. I home teach him, so our days are filled with lessons. And we visit friends as well.”

  “Sounds like both of you are very active, then.”

  With an infectious smile, she said, “Yes, and my mum looks after him when I am able to step out with my girlfriends.”

  I brightened at her expression and the thought o
f friends. “I’m glad you can get out. Are there any friends I might know from the past, from the ole Walthamstow crowd?”

  Daisy gave me a teasing, almost mischievous, look. “No, I don’t think so, Robert. But as you’re a single man, and a charming one at that, I think you might find my friend Cissy, shall we say, interesting.”

  “Oh, Daisy. I’m over here to fight a war, and then I’ll return to my studies back in Canada. Not sure—”

  “I didn’t say marry the girl, just said she might be of interest, you old stick-in-the-mud.”

  “Well, who is she?”

  “A munitionette. Just since the war began, of course. She was in service before, an au pair. And such a sweet soul with a genuine, happy demeanor. Being with her lets me forget for a moment. You know how this war occupies one’s mind.”

  I held my hands out in affected surprise. “She makes bombs?”

  “In a manner, yes. Doing her bit, I’d say.”

  “She must be quite the character, leaving service for work in an arms factory.”

  “She likes her independence,” declared Daisy. “And the new level of income certainly provides for a grand life as a single girl.”

  With increasing interest, I pursued, “I’ve not met a munitionette. That does sound intriguing . . . but it is wartime.”

  “Now, keep an open mind,” scolded Daisy.

  And we left it at that, no firm plans but both of us feeling a little awkward about how to proceed. If there was anything to proceed about. Trailing off to small talk, I thoroughly enjoyed the catch-up as well as the tea and sandwiches.

  I pressed Daisy to have Eric call when his leave began, writing down the telephone number of Mrs. Clarke.

  As I walked back to the hospital, I thought about meeting a girl, especially an exciting, adventurous one. I felt so much better than I had that morning, better than I had felt in a long time.

  Chapter 15

  October 1916