A collective groan was expressed in typical schoolboy fashion, completely ignored by the captain. We were encouraged to poke around the aerodrome, observe the aeroplane in all aspects of flight, from takeoff to landing, and learn its mechanics, its very fabric, before venturing skyward.
The discipline in the RFC was casual when compared to the infantry, yet all of the cadets took their training very seriously because if we didn’t, the chance of surviving the skies was diminished. The end of each day was a pleasure. We would retreat to the mess for a few beers and a great cook up, and continue to learn from one another’s experiences.
. . .
Mail was dropped daily, left in the mess in time for midday dinner. Since the moment Daisy had acted as go-between, the most special days were when Cissy’s letters arrived.
Lieutenant Robert C. Pitman
C/O RFC Headquarters
London, England
22 April, 1917
Dearest Bob,
It was wonderful this morning to receive your weekly letter in the post. You are such a sweet man, and I always look forward to hearing about your training exploits. It must be so exciting that you are to soon soar high up in one of those majestic biplanes!
You have been so kind to me over the past weeks with your thoughts and wishes that keep me going and get me through each long day. Nottingham is terribly different from London, but the girls are nice and we have many friendly ventures out to the pubs and such.
The factory is a monster, employing thousands in pursuit of the war effort. Even with the problems you and I faced, perhaps more so because of them, I continue to take up my support for women of all classes and the inevitable vote we will soon be granted. I believe that.
And thank you for recognizing the Silvertown horror, as I was close to a few of the girls who perished. After crying for them, we are compelled to pick ourselves up and continue the work. It remains risky, and the pressure continues to produce more and more explosives, but I’m sure that now the Ministry will increase safeguards.
Do keep writing, my darling. Does it feel strange to hear me call you that? We have known each other for longer by letter than in person, yet I feel closer to you as the days pass.
Take care and be safe, my strong flyer! I so look forward to a reunion just as soon as you can manage a reprieve from your work.
Yours,
Cissy
I wallowed in that one word, yours. I was thrilled. I had known what I had to do those many weeks ago and was proud I’d had the courage to follow through. Reaching out to Daisy was the first and most difficult part, as I knew she would get a message to Cissy and I wasn’t certain about the response. In that first letter I was very blunt about my disappointment with being infected since that unbearable memory had usurped such a pleasurable, intimate meeting between the two of us. But it had to be addressed.
Yet I had held out an olive branch, stating that I understood how such grief could happen and that I believed in her and cared, not just in my heart but for her safety. I knew she had been granted a healthy discharge but also that she was ordered to relocate to the National Shell Filling Factory at Chilwell, near Nottingham.
While we had not seen each other since our farewell at Mrs. Clarke’s, we so desired to. I could feel the passion in her letters, and I eagerly responded in kind. I dreamed of her beauty, of holding her. My days were filled—consumed—with thoughts of moving forward with each other. My training was enhanced as my heart was flying as high as the aircraft soaring above the aerodrome.
. . .
With the completion of classroom instruction, we were eager to get airborne. My first flight would forever be etched into my mind. The Avro 504J two-seater biplane was capable of traveling at ninety-five miles per hour, faster than any train I’d traveled in. I felt safe sitting in the seat behind my pilot, Captain Walker. It was almost like being enveloped in a cocoon except that there was nothing above my shoulders but open air.
The power of the 100 hp Gnome engine, as it noisily sparked to life after the air mechanic primed it with a spin of the propeller, was exhilarating. Vibration riddled the aircraft as the engine raced wide open until Walker “blipped” it down. I had been versed in this particular engine, which required the use of a Coupé button to continually blip the engine on and off, controlling its revolutions. While that now seemed awkward, I had been told that it made for smooth flying. The captain twisted to face me, giving a thumbs-up.
“Ready, Pitman?”
I felt the leather flying cap tighten against my forehead as I beamed a massive smile. “Yes, sir. Ready!”
“All right, let’s see what the heavens are up to today.” I hoped he meant the rhetorical version.
On command of Captain Walker’s controls and expert blipping, the craft moved forward across the flat, grassy plain. Racing toward the corner of the field, we cleverly spun around with a deft coordination of power blast and rudder control, facing into the wind. We momentarily sat there as the increased engine noise and a smoother vibration made it feel as though we were all-powerful, but going nowhere. Yet.
After straining, begging to move, the aircraft suddenly lurched forward and we were hurtling across the field toward the barracks. About two-thirds of the way across, the back end sank into the ground, or I thought it had, but it was the front end lifting up, and before I could think about anything else, we were above the barracks. Looking over the side, we seemed to be careening past the shoreline at a reckless pace, but that image slowed considerably as we gained altitude.
The sheer joy of losing myself in the moment was delightful, and looking at the billowy clouds set against the clear blue sky was breathtaking. As we increased height, looking down on those wisps of white was absorbing, making it feel as if we were floating in a timeless capsule. Turning this way and twisting that, dipping down and rising up, were all part of the experience. The wind sailing across my leather helmet and goggles and against my face was as pleasurable as anything I’d ever experienced. That is, once I learned to keep a closed mouth to avoid inhaling and gasping at the rushing air. At one point, Walker turned to look at me or to determine if I was still with him, I’m not sure which, but I gave a meek wave that he responded to with a determined thumbs-up.
Thoughts and feelings were buzzing through my mind at a speed seemingly as fast as the aeroplane. I felt free, as free as the birds I had watched for as long as I could remember, gliding through their own air space. In spite of this being the most dangerous thing I’d ever done, the flight gave me courage, a feeling of power. I realized that being aloft on that peaceful, lazy day would seem like child’s play against what was to come over enemy lands, but somehow I felt I’d be more in control flying over top of them than fighting on the ground.
Forcing my mind back to the task, I remembered to gaze at the few gauges and dials located in my seat, the observer’s office. I saw from the altimeter that at one point we reached eight thousand feet, and later, that the airspeed indicator registered seventy miles per hour!
After what seemed like five minutes, we began our descent. We had actually been airborne for thirty-five minutes. Approaching from the east along the English Channel coastline, we passed Dover, those white cliffs gleaming in the spring sunshine. Closer yet, we soared over the Martello Tower. We circled the aerodrome a few times, and with each pass, dropped lower until the people on the ground became larger than miniature toy soldiers. We were coming in off the sea, facing into the wind with the barracks in front of us.
Looking over the side, it seemed we were traveling at a horrific speed that could only end in a crash. We landed quite abruptly as the machine bumped down hard, flew up twenty feet into the air, and bumped hard again, followed by a series of smaller bumps until we were rolling across the grass in what I later learned was a perfect landing. We pulled up to the crowd of waiting men. After watching Walker climb down out of his cockpit, I copied his grace and also descended to the grass amid cheers and congratulations, the very sa
me as those offered to the lads who had gone up before me.
Chapter 24
23 June, 1917
I caught up with Sam Hardy’s RFC progress from a letter, which triggered in me the idea that I might be able to influence my own service. Hardy had completed his mechanics training weeks before and was now attached to the new 100 Squadron, the first to be formed exclusively for night bombing. He was posted to St. Andres-aux-Bois, their first French aerodrome, some thirty-five miles west of Arras.
Knowing I was training as an observer and hearing that his new squad was on a recruitment push, Hardy made clear in his follow-up letter that I would be a perfect candidate and encouraged me to put in a request. He was thrilled with his posting amid the constant excitement at the base. I could feel the enthusiasm in his words.
On a warm day in mid-June, we cadets assembled in a straight line on the grassy airfield, feeling very unfettered without our caps and tunics while standing at ease as the captain reviewed our progress. As aircraft buzzed in the background and lorries thundered by on their supply deliveries, my name was called first.
“Lieutenant Pitman?”
I took one pace forward, looking expectantly at the CO, knowing my future was about to unfold. “Yes, sir.”
The captain grinned knowingly. He had seen my hungry look hundreds of times before. “Pitman, I am pleased to advise that you have from this day been accepted as observer on probation, to be attached to the Royal Flying Corps in the field.”
The other cadets applauded, which continued for each officer cadet as the captain moved through the roster. We had all made it. We were all to be airmen! “Lieutenants, you will be based in western France as our initiative in Messines will continue for a while yet. Accordingly, you will report Monday, 19 June to the No. 1 Aircraft Depot at St. Omer for further instructions.
“It’s been a good class. Good luck, lads! Bonne chance!”
Chaos erupted as whoops and congratulations broke out; slaps on backs and good wishes were shared freely. When things settled down, I strode forward. “Ah, Captain, may I have a word?”
“Yes, of course.”
“I mean in private, sir.”
“Fine. Let’s stroll over to my quarters.” He moved quickly across the grass, seemingly to prove that his definition of stroll was different from mine. “What’s this about, then?”
I gathered my thoughts, choosing my words carefully. “Well, I’ve a friend who has been selected for 100 Squadron, and I would like to request a posting there.”
The captain stalled, thought about my request, then said with uncertainty, “Damned good of you to come forward, Pitman.” He looked me over, perhaps not wanting to spoil a great day. “I, ah, I’m afraid that’s not my decision. You’ll have to take that up with the Depot.”
“Yes, sir. Very well, sir.” I knew I looked downtrodden, disappointed that I couldn’t secure a posting right then and there. After saluting smartly, I turned toward the door, becoming aware of the mess, where there was a lot of cheering and celebration.
The captain’s voice stopped me. “But I say, old chap, there’s no harm in asking. I’ll send word on your behalf.”
I turned quickly, aware that my grin must have stretched from ear to ear. “Thank you, sir!”
After spending too long in the mess, enjoying too many drinks, I later lay in bed. The excitement made it difficult to sleep, so I just stared at the ceiling, mentally composing my next letter to Cissy. As I did, something triggered a thought in my mind that seemed to address a nagging feeling I’d had for a few weeks.
In spite of the excitement that flying brought, I knew the expected usefulness of an airman at this point in the war was perhaps a few weeks, maybe a couple of months. Word had it that lads quickly became fatigued and made mistakes, some literally going down in flames.
This thought of death was different from the infantry. Falling from an aircraft, or worse, having to jump into the skies to avoid being burned inside a flaming machine, was suddenly going to be a possibility. My mind was churning. I knew the workings of the aeroplane and knew its shortcomings as well. It was not difficult to visualize being hit by anti-aircraft shells—nicknamed Archie—or enemy fighters or simply losing power as an engine overheated. Or tumbling out on landing after hitting a rut!
Sleep would not release me from negative thoughts, and I lay there trying to get control of the anxiety. I remembered a trick Matron Kay had taught me, which was to be aware of my breathing to bring my heart rate down. As she had coached, I thought of a safe place, one where people believed in me for holding a calm, confident demeanor. Thoughts of Cissy and her many letters were calming, which brought the good feeling I was seeking. I drifted off to sleep sometime before the early-June dawn, and upon waking a couple of hours later, I felt refreshed. I knew I would have the pluck for the airman’s job.
. . .
The St. Omer Depot was an exciting hive of activity. Urgency seemed to be everywhere, with lorries lumbering and officers barking orders. This shouldn’t have been a surprise when twelve hundred aircraft were kept operational in western France and one thousand new ones were delivered each month to keep up with attrition. Feeling like bowling pins bouncing away from this rushing person or dodging that swerving motor car, we Hythe graduates made our way to the observers’ pool to be advised of our squadron postings.
Waiting in the stark, windowless reception area was nerve-wracking. One by one, the lads before me emerged from their interviews, smiling about their new assignments. I thought of Hardy as I waited, not wanting to jinx things with too much ambition, but I had enough hope that I would make it into 100 Squadron.
As the cadets dwindled to just a few of us, I pondered the CO’s name on the closed door—Lieutenant W.F.C. Kennedy-Cochran-Patrick—and wondered whether he had three mothers or was descended from a long line of aristocrats.
I was finally summoned with, “It must be Lieutenant Pitman.”
I thought that was very astute since I had just congratulated the only other cadet-lieutenant as he strolled out of reception. I saluted, and we shook hands. The CO exuded a pompous air, so I decided he must have had that aristocratic, triple-barreled pedigree.
I was curious, hopeful, and confident, all at the same time. “Yes, sir. Lieutenant Pitman reporting.”
Gesturing to a chair in front of his heirloom desk, Kennedy-Cochran-Patrick barked, “Sit, Lieutenant!” He looked up from the file with a thin smile. “Well, well. I see you’ve done well in your training.” It wasn’t what he said, but rather how. I concentrated on smiling since he held the cards to my future. “I enjoyed the time, sir.”
“So modest, Pitman. Come now, lad.”
Keeping cheerful, I pondered that this CO was about my age and of same rank, yet I was a lad?
“Dossier states you excelled at most of the aeronautic subjects and did really well at gunnery. And, my Lord,” he scoffed, “look at this—says here your airborne skill with the Lewis machine gun is excellent.” He waved my Hythe file in the air as if it somehow created my good record rather than my skills.
I was not sure why his tone was offhanded, but I thought it could be from envy because he was stuck behind a desk. No matter. I kept up my poise as I declared, “Well, yes, the Hythe CO was quite pleased. I was asked a few times to lead the team with training exercises in the Fee.” A plug for the FE2b was a shamelessly calculated comment since that was the only aircraft flown at 100 Squad and I wanted in.
K-C-P sat back to ruminate. “Ah yes, the FE2b with observer in front of the pilot. Sweeping skies in front of you, slipstream in your face.” He looked at me and smiled. But the sincerity of that expression was absent, subtly transformed into a pretentious grin.
I knew he was toying with me, knowing then that he was aware of my request. “Yes, an aeroplane which requires solid teamwork.” I explained I felt confident sitting in the front nacelle with the ability to maneuver the gun from right to left, from below the machine to above, and to raise the
rear-facing gun to shoot behind. All while the pilot commanded control of the aircraft.
He waved me off, agitated by my enthusiasm. “Very good, Pitman.
Now, you must be anxious to know what the future brings.”
Of course I was; he knew that. I instinctively, perhaps nervously, adjusted my seated position. “Yes, sir.”
“You are aware that the premier RFC night bombing unit is 100 Squadron?”
I grinned, knowing then that I was to team up with Hardy. Not able to hold back my joy, an unapologetic smirk covered my face.
“Well, Pitman, you have been selected to join them as an observer on probation.”
“Yes, sir. That is exciting, if I may say?”
“You may, Lieutenant,” offered the CO. “Mind, you will need to impress the squadron CO before you are awarded your observer’s wing. That means flying at night, in all seasons, over enemy territory before returning safely to your base aerodrome. A tough assignment for even the best, Pitman.”
I was impatient to join the other newly assigned flyers over at the officers’ mess. “Yes, sir. Understood, sir. This is great news! I can’t wait—”
“You won’t have to wait, Lieutenant. You are to report immediately to Trezennes. Good luck!”
“Tre-zens, sir? I understood the squad to be at St. Andres something.”
“No, no. Your friend has moved along with the squad to Trezennes in the Lys Valley, about six miles south.”
The emphasis on “my friend” felt like a slap, but I didn’t play in to this desk jockey. “Thank you, sir. I will report there tomorrow.”
I stepped into the summer sunshine and threw my hat straight up into the air. A couple of passing flyers looked at me as if I were crazy. Meeting up with my graduating class in the mess, we all agreed the CO was a prig, but we were too excited to give him more than one passing thought. I was the only observer going to 100 Squadron, but quite a few of the lads were joining a sister unit, the daytime bombers of 55 Squadron.
After again too many drinks, I did not feel like turning in early due to the long June evening. I took a full glass of whiskey and found a table in the aerodrome offices, where I sat for some letter writing. I wanted to have a clear mind, so my letter to Cissy was last. There was no use writing Hardy since I would see him sooner than a letter could be delivered. My letters to Issy and Minnie responded to their last writings, when I had found out Issy was still battling with the RCR, but Minnie had moved to the Princess Pats.
Seeking Courage Page 14