Seeking Courage

by Gregory P. Smith

  Shortly thereafter, Sam arrived. As expected, he fit in well with everyone and soon had them laughing about tales of the war and other exploits. I envied how he could go through the same experience yet retain such lightheartedness. Perhaps it was because he was a career soldier, or more likely it was his inherently pleasant, breezy demeanor.

  Sam was relating a story about training in boot camp, making the bayoneting of straw-filled sacks seem as interesting as a night at the pictures, when I saw Cissy rise from the other side of the table and move toward me. “Well, Lieutenant Pitman, I suppose if you are not going to ask a girl to dance, then a girl must do the asking!”

  I knew I was blushing—again—but eagerly stood up to take the challenge. “Of course, Cissy. How inconsiderate of me to leave you sitting there listening to war stories.” It was obvious that Daisy had arranged this meeting, but I didn’t mind one bit. We laughed to mask the bit of awkwardness as we stepped onto the dance floor.

  Cissy and I danced a couple of numbers until Tom excused his way in to dance the one-step, which was fine as I needed to direct some attention to my friends. In this way, Eric, Sam, and I were able to catch up. The conversation migrated at times to more somber talk about the dread of war and of returning to France. Sam enlightened all of us to the excitement of serving in the RFC with its fast-paced tempo and less formal regimen, at least compared to the infantry.

  Yet I wasn’t going to let any of the men steal away my chance of having the last dance with Cissy. I joined her on the floor for a slow waltz that allowed us to talk. Holding her, feeling her toned body—presumably from laboring at the factory—was tonic better than a month’s stay at the Maudsley. We spoke of her lifelong friendship with Daisy and their enjoyment together while attending sewing club or stepping out to London nightlife. We agreed to have tea the next day. We both knew things were moving fast, but that was expected in war-torn Europe when family and friends didn’t know when they would again see each other, if at all.

  Sam and I left the Strand together for the walk to the Underground, both of us taking the Piccadilly Line, he traveling west while I was headed north to Finsbury Park. “You didn’t tell me about your cutie, you ole dog, you!”

  “I had nothing to let on about, at least until this evening when Daisy introduced me to Cissy.”

  Sam lightly punched my arm in objection. “Aw, come now. She was all over you! There must have been some history there, chappie!”

  “No, really,” I protested. “Although I admit that Daisy let on about a friend of hers who was quite fun—”

  “That she is, Bob!”

  I smiled mockingly. “Truthfully, when Daisy mentioned a munitionette friend, I expected a well-built bruiser dressed in trousers and carrying a wrench!”

  “Ahem,” Hardy scolded. “If you didn’t see for yourself, she is well built!”

  “Not in that manner, you silly goat,” I kibitzed back. “Soooo?”

  I grinned from ear to ear. “So what, Hardy?”

  He jumped in front and turned, walking backward with the mischievousness of a Cheshire Cat. “So, when will you see her again?”

  “Uh, perhaps tomorrow?”

  “I knew it, you sly dog! I knew there was something there.”

  “Well maybe, but we have a war to fight, don’t we?”

  He moved beside me again. “A little diversion is a good thing, Pitman!”

  We entered the station while still in animated discussion. Sam’s train was pulling up to his side of the platform. “Enjoy, my friend, do really enjoy yourself. For once let things go and throw caution to the wind. I needn’t tell you that we only have one life, Bob. Seize everything about this girl.” He grinned as he saw me recognize his double meaning.

  “All right, Sam. Let’s stay in touch. And thanks for being a good friend!”

  Chapter 18

  November 1916

  “Earl Grey, please,” said Cissy, “with a little lemon and sugar on the side?”

  The waiter glanced at me. “The same for me, thank you,” I said, “Perhaps some savories and scones?”

  “Very well,” said the waiter. “It shan’t be a moment.” Awkwardness hung in the air, each of us feeling a little nervous being alone without the crutch of surrounding friends. We both looked around, taking in the ambience of the room; it was filled with small tables covered by white lace tablecloths and other patrons conversing in lively and gay whispers. Our eyes caught and lingered on each other for a confident moment. “I know I said this, but it’s so wonderful to meet again, Cissy, and exciting to get to know you.”

  “I’m as pleased, Bob. I’d be fibbing if I said I wasn’t looking forward to it,” gushed Cissy, “and at such a posh tea house!”

  “My grandfather Crippen would bring me here to Fortnum & Mason as a child. He would pick up his bulk tea and treat me to a sweet.”

  “That is sweet. Oh, sorry to be silly. You meant candy as you would say in Canada.” Her laugh was so natural.

  “It’s all right. It was always an exciting train journey from Walthamstow on a Saturday, fond memories which I still cherish.”

  The silver tray of pastries and rolls with butter and jam on the side was deftly placed on the table. I was famished but held back, allowing Cissy to make her first choices. The ham salad was exquisite.

  We momentarily ate in silence, each of us careful not to clumsily drop anything. “Do you have a close family, Bob?”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t say that, not so much. I was close to my mother’s parents, the Crippens, and, of course, Cousin Eric. He lived with us for a while and was a great mentor to me. But my papa’s parents were not there as they both died before my time.”

  “Oh, that is sad.”

  “Not really, I didn’t know them. But now I have a wonderful closeness to my grandma Crippen, my mama, and my two darling sisters, all back in Canada.”

  I pondered Cissy’s eyes, which flashed a sadness that made me cautious before asking after her family. “Do you have a large family, Cissy?”

  She examined the petit fours delicately held between her thumb and index finger. A glimmer of concern that I was probing too deep crossed my mind, but then she raised her flickering eyes to meet mine.

  “I don’t know who they were. I was raised in a home for girls— oh, there were so many of us. But when I was fourteen, I was taken in by a wonderful family in Belgravia, the Beauchamps. For a few years, I was groomed as an au pair. Well, they called me that even though I’m not from France, of course. When the children arrived, I became their caregiver.”

  I finished a last bite of buttered bread. As I held Cissy’s gaze, I was gushing with compliments about her, but at the same time didn’t want to sound desperate and foolish. “Well, you certainly are a wonderful and fun lady. So smart, and beautiful too.” I flushed, but in the spirit of Sam’s admonition to throw caution to the wind, I simply had to say it. “Oh, Bob. Daisy did say you were kind, but really, you flatter me.” The waiter returned to ask how we were getting along and if we would like anything else. We both indicated no. “Just stating what I see and how I feel. And your work? You are down at Silvertown, at the munitions factory?”

  “Yes, at the Brunner Mond, doing my bit for the cause. Not as much as you boys over in France, but doing something.”

  I leaned in to the table to emphasize my sincerity. “And as much as we are doing our bit, we appreciate the bravery you and your sisters are showing. Not a very safe occupation, I’d say.”

  She beamed with thanks at the recognition. “It’s allowing us sisters to contribute in ways we ought to have long before the war. We are grateful for that now, but we should have been able to do so before this.” I pondered how strong and articulate Cissy was.

  We absently sifted through the remains of the food left on the table as we talked, neither of us wanting the afternoon to end. While our discussion took a rather serious turn, it was energizing to understand Cissy’s beliefs.

  “Well, you’ll be voting soo
n enough. That’s the assent you deserve.”

  After contemplating the leftover crumbs, she looked up from her empty plate. “Yes, we will. Why, some of your own Canadian provinces allowed the female vote just this year.”

  Recent economic advances across the Western world had provided a platform for women to be inspired, to demand what was their right. It was with some pride that Canada was among the leading nations to grant women the vote, and I hoped the war did not close down this liberal process from developing to its fullest.

  “Quite so. You are well informed. And there is talk in Parliament just now about granting women the right to vote federally.”

  “Oh, yes, there have been charged times! We actively honored the brilliant Emily Davison after her tragic death with our march in the summer 1913 Women’s Suffrage Pilgrimage, which gave her legacy definite purpose.”

  “You marched in the Pilgrimage, Cissy?”

  “Not the national trek, just the Hyde Park portion; Mrs. Beauchamp was so gracious to grant me some free time.”

  I looked into Cissy’s pensive eyes and ruminated, “Let’s keep the hopes up. However, I fear the war cause will dominate the English government for the moment.”

  “Mother England will do the right thing. She must!” Cissy insisted. Glancing at the fashionable watch strapped to her left wrist, she declared, “Oh dear, just look at the time.”

  I peered out the vast multipaned windows and realized we had been sitting at the table for a long time, pleasantly immersed with solving the world’s concerns. The afternoon was turning to a winter’s early dusk. “Golly, we’ve been here for almost three hours.”

  Cissy extended her lower lip to mimic a sad look. “I’m so sorry, but I must return to the factory dormitory. Thank goodness for the new Bakerloo Line.”

  After seeing Cissy to her Underground station, I reflected on how giddy I was feeling. She seemed so interested in me, which was exciting. But was it happening too quickly, especially when I knew I was to return to war soon enough? Ah, but throw caution to the wind.

  Cissy ensured that I understood her work days were a long twelve hours, but her weekly leave was every Wednesday and Thursday. She also just happened to mention that she and her factory friends went to the Strand for evenings of fun and dancing on most Tuesday and Wednesday nights.

  I felt exalted. To be friends with Cissy would bring me that sense of hopeful passion for a sweet girl that I had wished for. How quickly things can change!

  . . .

  For a Tuesday night, the Strand dance floor was packed. “I feel so very safe in the arms of one of our King’s officers. Somehow the woolen khaki gives a lady great security.”

  I instinctively drew her closer. “I’m pleased, and I attest that an officer also feels safe being held by the slender arms of a British munitionette.”

  “It must be terribly frightful being in a shell bombardment. I don’t know how you men don’t just curl up and weep. Daily, I see the munitions leaving Brunner Mond, and to see how many are shipped is itself a dreadful thing.”

  “Yes, fear is so very much a part of this war. The business of being able to avoid funk is part of survival.” Cissy made me feel comfortable, and I felt that I could trust her with my feelings. “That’s why we only go into the front trenches once every few weeks. Before going into battle for the first time, I thought I was in touch with my feelings. Yet I have never felt as frightened as I did over in France, a feeling you don’t recognize until the possibility of death is real.”

  “Oh, Bob . . .”

  We moved together across the floor, at one with each other in both touch and emotion.

  “So many have fallen, yet the men go bravely forward when ordered,” I said.

  “You are strong. I can see that in your eyes. They are so very kind.”

  “I try to bury my angst by keeping busy at what I do, persisting at a task. Like right now, to keep busy swaying to and fro with you should be continued for as long as possible. The burdens of war will not overcome me!”

  We laughed, both having so much fun. Her carefree way took me away from the war and gave me strength. For her, it took her away from the monotony of twelve-hour workdays. We danced and talked and talked and danced. It didn’t matter where this was leading or how things might develop. My medical board was on Saturday, which meant when declared fit, I would be quickly shipped overseas.

  The next night we again met at the Strand, she arriving with her factory friends. The dancing and talking was as wonderful and memorable.

  Cissy accepted my invitation to supper the following Thursday at Mrs. Clarke’s home, who had encouraged me to bring friends around. I would invite Eric, Daisy, and Stanley since Mrs. Clarke would remember Eric from our Walthamstow home. I wrote out the address for Cissy, mentioning I would send word if my return to France was accelerated. Cissy boldly suggested she would make the visit in any event, as she was confident I would still be in England.

  . . .

  “Lieutenant Pitman,” said the Royal Army Medical Corps staffer, “you may go in now for your review. Follow please.”

  I entered the dark-paneled room, made darker by limited natural light due to the late, overcast November day. Three somber medical board officials were seated behind a wide desk. I saluted smartly.

  “Right. Sit, please.”

  I nodded and took the only seat in front of the desk. The first to speak was a sullen-looking man of about fifty with veins protruding from his red cheeks and an unkempt mustache that was in keeping with his balding head. “Now, Lieutenant, we have in front of us the proceedings of the board which met on 25 October, finding you unfit for general service for one month, and also your assessment from Dr. Mott of the Maudsley. You’re feeling how, Lieutenant?”

  “I’m feeling very well, Major Donald. Despite the severity of the shell shock injuries I sustained at Mouquet Farm, I feel completely mended under Dr. Mott’s care.”

  Seated beside the major was a younger, sprightly officer who carried a caring smile that made his gray eyes seem to dance. “Indeed,” Captain Davis cut in, “Dr. Mott speaks very highly of your progress and your health. Are you able to describe how your demeanor is and how you feel about returning to battle?”

  I confidently sat forward, connecting with Davis. “I am ready to return to the front, back to my regiment.”

  Two things were clear: One was that Major Donald and Captain Davis were conducting the Board. Perhaps Major Brown was merely clocking time. The second was that Captain Davis, a medical doctor, seemed endeared to my cause.

  Davis continued in a clear, compassionate tone. “How are the nightmares and the general malaise you were feeling just after the injuries? You are aware it is difficult for a board to assess, ah, psychological disabilities, Lieutenant.”

  “Yes, I would imagine it is difficult to become of one mind with me; however, I assure you I am very fit for service.”

  Major Donald blustered into the conversation with a commanding voice. “No loss of masculinity, Lieutenant? No open dread? No risk of breaking down in action?”

  Of course I had fears—lots of them—but I also had sense enough not to speak of them to a medical board. I smiled to project a positive countenance, checking any irritation as I answered confidently, “No, none, sir.”

  “You didn’t wangle your way into convalescence to the detriment of your service and your duties?” Donald bristled.

  I held my smile, forbidding this naysayer from getting to me. I slowly drew out my response. “No, sir. I believe the record shows clearly that I was subjected to intense bombardment under enemy shelling. Few in that circumstance would have kept up the pluck and the concern for the platoon that I did, Major.”

  I glanced at a nodding Captain Davis to maintain a calm demeanor in front of the implacable major, who himself had probably not been in the front lines, at least not in this war.

  The captain interjected, “Lieutenant, you understand this board must interview soldiers like you w
ho suffered from severe trauma and exhaustion while under fire, but also identify soldiers who use shell shock to wangle, using the major’s term, their way out of duty by feigning shock when, in fact, they are malingerers with invented or imitated symptoms.”

  Captain Davis’s steady and empathetic voice was calming. I held my direct contact with him. “Captain, I assure you that had I not lost consciousness on the battlefield, I would have remained steady in my duty.”

  “Thank you, Lieutenant.”

  Major Donald cut Davis off. “Right, the fifteen minutes have lapsed. Let’s convene, shall we?”

  He rang a service bell. Immediately there stood the staffer, beckoning me to follow him out of the room. I visited the toilet and upon return was escorted straight back into the boardroom.

  “Lieutenant Pitman,” snarled Major Donald, “you may remain standing. You are informed that this medical board finds you to be in A1 condition and fit for general service in the British Army.”

  I remained at attention but gave a slight bow, acknowledging the confirmation. “Thank you, sir. I am relieved and pleased.”

  “Now,” said Captain Davis, “let’s discuss your integration back into service. We acknowledge your request to rejoin the RCR in the field, and we will do our level best to secure that for you. Meanwhile, you are assigned to the casualty company at Brighton, where you will train and harden up before shipping back to France. The company there specializes in remedial gymnastics and physical training. Welcome back to the army, Lieutenant.”

  Major Donald looked up at me and exhorted, “You will have a few days to get your affairs in order and report to the CO, Brighton, on Friday, 1 December.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  I saluted and took my leave into the dreariness of the Strand, where I strolled through the drizzle without umbrella in the direction of Trafalgar Square. I was relieved to again be fit for active service, but felt a slight gnawing in my stomach at the thought of returning to the mud and slaughter in France. As I’d done in the past, I steeled myself with the personal understanding that I had signed up to fight and to maintain the will to honor that commitment.