Writing to Cissy was more intimate, and it helped me fight back my still-raw emotions about Percy, knowing they were made more intense by the alcohol. After writing to my circle of friends, I felt sad with the painful recognition that he was not among them. Yet letters to Cissy always took me away to hope for a better world to come.
I gulped a mouthful of scotch before putting pen to paper. I thought about Cissy’s last few letters to me, imagining her settled in with friends who introduced her to fun and activities during time off. I could feel her infectious laughter when she wrote about boating trips on the River Trent or dressing up for a night on the Strand at Chilwell.
My letter was full of excitement and optimism as I described my posting to a new flying unit located in France and how I was going to give the Hun what for in order to do my bit to win the war. I was careful not to say too much about when the two of us might meet, for I would be weeks in practice, having little idea about when leave might be possible.
I followed Cissy’s lead in the salutation, opting for her word Yours instead of risking something more intimate. I felt proud that this would be the first letter she would receive from me postmarked “France.”
Chapter 25
June 1917
“Lieutenant Pitman, welcome to 100 Squadron,” greeted Major Malcolm Christie. “I trust you’ve been shown your quarters?”
“Yes, Major, and in passing met 2nd Lieutenant Frank Wells.”
“Quite so. Frank is one of our best, and a gentleman at that. He’ll be a good roommate.” Christie assessed me with an up-and-down look. “Welcome to Aire!”
“Thank you! But Aire, sir? I understood we’re in Trezennes.”
“Yes, yes. Trezennes is located in Aire-sur-la-Lys, the Lys River area. Ha, the French! They are a confusing crowd. Easier to say Aire, don’t you think?”
I grinned, more at feeling comfortable with my new surroundings than with the immediate conversation. “I agree, sir.”
“Now, Bob, you might drop some formality, loosen up a bit. Flyers are a little more relaxed than other units of His Majesty’s whatnot. Prefer our lads to think on their feet, well, in the air, as it were.”
I noted that in spite of the admonition to be less formal, I was not given permission to respond to him as Malcolm. “All right, Major. Less formal it is!”
Christie surrendered to deep thought, which I took to mean I was dismissed. Without waiting for a reply, I saluted and excused myself. As I walked across the aerodrome grass to my hut, I thought about what an intense man he was. His vivid black eyebrows over dark eyes gave him a mysterious persona. At the same time, he spoke softly and had gentle mannerisms, supporting his reputation as a fair commander who was respected immensely. I liked that.
“Howzit, Pitman?”
The voice emerged from the bright sunlight as I was unpacking my meager belongings, a soothing accent that was both sing-song and uplifting. Hearing footsteps, I turned around to a grinning boyish face. “Hello, Frank. Just moving my things in.”
“They call me Wellsey. You will too. And they call you . . . ?”
“I’m Bob to my friends, just Bob.”
“All right, Bobby, what say you get finished up there and we go for a suds?”
Our two-person hut was one of many that were erected along the west side of the airfield, downwind of the officers’ mess and the CO’s headquarters. I was intrigued by the wooded area behind, which appeared to be teeming with birdlife among the thick vegetation. Wellsey saw it as a great place to hide if we received a surprise visit from enemy aircraft. I was anxious to walk over to the opposite side of the field, where the aeroplane hangars were and where I knew I would find Hardy. But Wellsey, in his affable manner, convinced me to join him. Walking over to the mess, he explained that on nonflying days, officers were encouraged to enjoy a drink or two.
The mess was alive! From the entrance, I looked around and saw flyers sprawled all over, some lounging on couches, others standing engaged in animated discussion, and still others sitting erect playing whist or leaning against the long bar. In the middle of the room was a massive wood-burning brazier with mesh screening around its circumference and armchairs pulled up. I could see how important that would be during cold, rainy nights.
Wellsey led me over to the bar, where the duty soldier poured us each a whiskey. I learned that Wellsey had enlisted in his native Cape Town in a similar manner to my enlisting in Canada. However, he was focused from the get-go on joining the RFC, having obtained his pilot’s certificate from the Royal Aero Club in South Africa. “And you, Bobby, what’s your story?”
I knew straightaway that this was going to be such a different experience than the infantry, and the much less formal manner of the RFC was welcome. “English by birth and Canadian by transplant. Fought at the Somme, where I sustained injuries, and here I am.”
“Major says you did well at training, is it? You’ve got balls, do ya?” Wellsey didn’t probe about my injuries or my hospitalization. I didn’t elaborate, at least for now.
“I did well with the machine gun, also scored high on navigation.”
“Come on, Pitman, loosen up. Ya did great, chappie.” His voice was full of mirth, teasing me along. “You’re such an old man, Pitman!”
The bartender was hovering, listening to the banter. “You twins need a top-up?”
Wellsey and I looked at each other as we broke into laughter. “There’s something there, Bobby!” I, too, saw the connection, the sharing of similar, if not quite twin-like, features. While the mustache generally gave officers a homogenous look, in our case we also shared hair and eye color, as well as skin tone and build.
I grinned. “Another, Wellsey?”
“You bet!” I noticed the drink had brought out his Cape Dutch brogue. After a while chatting, another couple of flyers entered the mess and made their way to the bar. “Wellsey, how you doing? Knew we’d find you here!” jested one of them. He turned to me, overtly sizing me up. “So, this is our new boy?”
“I’m hundreds, Ace, and ja, this’s the new one, my bunkmate. Careful, he’s an old man!” Wellsey’s infectious laugh had us all chuckling.
I was introduced to Ken Wallace and Charles Lunghi, both observers in the squadron. Like so many of us, their RFC appointments followed time in the infantry. Before the conflict, Ken had been a practicing engineer, while Charles had been an engineering student, typical of the type of background we all shared.
Ken was the more outgoing. “So, we have another old man from the trenches to loosen up, do we?” With a winning smile, he extended his hand. “Welcome to 100 Squadron, Bob. We were briefed about your arrival.”
Charles also stepped forward, his Italian accent dominating. “Welcome Bob, we are-a looking to you for good-a friendship here.”
“Thank you, Ken, Charles. Wellsey, you referred to Ace—”
“Ah yes, old man. Ken here is our token squadron ace.”
I scrunched a puzzled expression.
“Ja, token because we are a bombing squad. Ha! We wouldn’t knock out five enemy aircraft no matter how hard we tried!”
“All right, but why Ace?”
Wellsey looked at Lunghi and sang, “Lunghi, do tell.”
Lunghi had a shy smile. “Well-a, they have-a fun with my accent. I met-a Ken, and I called him Wall-ace! Not like the Wall-ass you would-a say. So-a Ken is our Ace.” Lunghi was pleased with himself, willing to take in stride the ribbing about his accent.
I offered a warm smile to Ken. “Well, Ace, I’d say camaraderie is as good as or better than any medal or title!”
“Quite, good way to put it,” said Ace.
We talked for some length, and I thought the warm relationship that was quick to develop was indicative of what would become a close bond. We had a daunting task ahead of us with dropping bombs in the dark on industrial targets behind enemy lines, and knowing there was an esprit de corps made the task more sufferable.
. . .
Crossing
to the opposite side of the grassy airfield in the bright July sunshine, I was excited to seek out Sam and reconnect after so many months, and after our near-death experience on the Somme. Enjoying my pipe, I approached the Bessonneau hangars, which were erected along the eastern side of the field, all looking identical in their darkgreen canvas coverings.
I entered the first amid the drone of an aircraft engine and the bustle of activity as mechanics clambered on top of, over, and behind the various FE2bs being serviced. Yelling over the din, one air mechanic knew exactly where Hardy was, directing me to the third hangar down the line. However, he diplomatically requested I remove the lit tobacco from the area, correctly citing the danger of explosion. I was new and green.
Coming in from the bright sunlight, my eyes adjusted momentarily before distinguishing Hardy from the rest of the blue coveralls buzzing around. His joyful voice bellowed from the middle of the structure. “Bob, over here! Hey, guys, this here’s my old platoon officer!” I felt a little overwhelmed as Hardy and his mechanic friends gathered around to greet me, all so cheery and welcoming that one would hardly believe they were the least bit troubled by an annoying war waging a few miles east. As they drifted back to their work, Hardy said he had arranged with his lieutenant for a break to see me settled in. I was learning the ways of the RFC with its emphasis on teamwork and somewhat-flexible work arrangements.
Sam indicated he would fetch me in an hour and we would find a suitable tavern.
I was chatting with Wellsey in our hut when I heard the pitched whine of a downshift. I looked out, and there was Sam astride one of the black Douglas motorcycles that were plentiful around the aerodrome. “Hop on, Bob!”
I looked somewhat quizzically at him astride the one-seater, but quickly determined I was to sit across the metal carryall over the rear tire. I waved at a grinning Wellsey as we roared off, leaving a veil of summer dust behind.
While I attempted to determine exactly where he was taking me, talk was near impossible over the pitch of the two-cylinder engine. Besides, I needed to hold on. The four-horsepower machines could top out at seventy miles per hour, and I knew Hardy was more than capable of trying. I soon saw the parish church steeple over Sam’s left shoulder as we pulled up safely to an estaminet near the Aire-sur-la-Lys bell tower, which hadn’t been rebuilt after a fire in 1914.
The inside of the tavern was homey with walnut-paneled walls, beige tiled floors, and wood tables for two that could be pulled together for larger groups. We chose one of the two tables alongside the open French-paned windows, brightened by the evening summer sun amid a cool breeze. Sam placed the flower vase on the sill as it annoyingly blocked our conversation.
It was good to experience Hardy’s lightheartedness again, his cheery disposition had so positively affected all of us in the RCR, even when a dark cloud hung over the battlefield. Explaining his new vocation, he talked with excitement about being responsible for preparing the powerful aeroplanes sent to the skies each day. So much good had happened to him since we talked at the Maudsley some months before.
As we caught up I waited for the inevitable question, knowing it was finally coming after a pause in the conversation when Hardy grinned warmly. “So, tell me about Cissy. What’s the story, old sly one?”
If Sam knew, was aware of the whole story, what would he think? Not just of me, but of Cissy. I stalled by lingering over the vin rouge, sipping it slowly. “Well, we write to each other regularly. You know, ‘can’t wait to see you’ and ‘do keep safe’ kind of stuff.”
“Come on, now! There must be more to the story. When I left you at the Strand, you were as lively as a boy who just got a first kiss.
Well?”
“Well, what?”
“Oh, you are difficult! How many times did you see her again? Did you get that kiss, you know, that kiss?” Hardy studied me for a moment, a sparkle in his eyes that betrayed his thoughts. “You did, didn’t you?”
I grinned, buying into Sam’s mischievousness. “Did what, Sam? I respected her like I would any lady, you know that.”
“You did, I know it. You did, you ole charmer!”
In spite of the effect of the wine, I felt stressed, my countenance changed to reflect my anxiety.
“Ah, but why suddenly so glum, my friend? Has something happened?”
I was on the verge of spilling everything, thinking it would be a relief to have a confidant to share my grief about what exactly did happen. Yet I just couldn’t open up, not now. I had to deflect.
I did my best to smile even though I knew it was a forced grin. “Sam, Sam, Sam. I grant you are perceptive, but let’s talk about the aerodrome. Tell me about the Fee.” We talked about 100 Squadron and how, in spite of being such a new squad, an incredible team had been built up. This was especially significant because of its newness as the first RFC night-bombing unit. Sam felt I was incredibly lucky to be bunked with Wellsey since he was one of the most competent pilots at the base and simply a nice person.
After finishing our second bottle of wine, we roared back to the aerodrome with the last bit of daylight disappearing behind us. Although the long summer days made it seem early, it was actually nearing 2200 hours, so we walked the motorcycle from the entrance to avoid waking anyone. We slapped each other’s backs as I thanked Sam for a very warm welcome on my first day. “Good night, Sam.”
“Good night, Bob. It’s great being together again.”
“It sure is, and thanks for inspiring me to request the 100 Squad. It all worked out so well.”
“I knew the post would come through—I worked on Christie enough!”
“Sam, you devil!”
“Ha ha!” He started to walk off but then turned. “And oh, I should tell you that the lads here have figured out my nickname, so I’m Hardknocks to the squad. Yup, I let that loose under the duress of a glass or two!”
Chapter 26
September 1917
I had been at the aerodrome for two months, through my twenty-fifth birthday in July, which was now a fond memory. Birthday wishes had arrived at the aerodrome every day for a week, mainly from family at home, but also from Issy, Minnie, and a special card from Cissy. How my mama was able to package up an angel food cake in a tin to arrive whole was nothing less than magic.
I had built up knowledge about the workings of the FE2b, the bathtub with wings fondly known as the Fee. It wasn’t just the daytime practice runs but also an understanding of the inner workings of the aeroplane that were important. To force land in a farmer’s field without basic mechanical knowledge could make the difference between life and death.
The evening of my first official sortie, I was nervous while walking toward Hangar No. 2, which housed our assigned aeroplane. In the Ops Room, Wellsey and I had reviewed area maps, memorized our sortie notes, and synchronized with the other flyers for the mission.
“You set the pace here, Wellsey,” I deferred. “You’re the veteran.”
“Ja, rare comment as I’ve only been on two priors!”
“That’s two up on me, mon pilote!”
“Fair ‘nuf, now let’s get this baby looked over, eh?” We walked the circumference of the machine, looking for obvious defects— cracks in the struts, fraying of the wires, or tears in the delicate wing fabric. We did not expect to find any since the mechanics were ever so thorough in their preparation. Still, flyers wanted to see for themselves.
The Farman Experimental FE2b began war service as a fighter due to its rear-mounted propeller that allowed a 180-degree forward gun range. But after the invention of the synchronized gear—which allowed a machine gun to fire through the propeller while aiming the newer, faster single-seaters straight at the target—the Fee became obsolete as a fighter. Yet the old girl won back admiration for her phoenix-like reputation as a strategic bomber, a solid, worthy, and accurate workhorse.
Amid the late-day shadows that were cast over the Fee’s starboard side, a cough emerged. From the lit portside, we peered into the darkness to
see Hardy lift himself up, grinning. “All well with this bathtub? Find any flaws, gents?”
“Ah, Hardknocks,” said Wellsey, “you serviced this machine, ja?”
“I and the other mechanics, yes.”
“Good on ya, Sam—er, Hardknocks,” I corrected. “We’re blessed to have your hands on our safety.”
He looked over at Wellsey, who confirmed, “I’ll say. You mechanics with your dedication and commitment are a godsend.”
Hardy grinned proudly as he asked, “May I help?” Without waiting for an answer, he showed us how he had inspected the propeller and the parachute flares, and also the wingtip flares. We crouched down under the nacelle to ensure the center 230-pound bomb and the wing-fastened Cooper bombs were secured. Hardy showed me how to lightly pull on the bomb cable release to ensure it was taut. Failure to release the bombs at the precise time would result in a wasteful, blundered sortie.
The warning buzzer from the CO’s barrack warned us we were to dress for takeoff. While we were not yet to bear the weight of the winter Sidcot suit, we did require warm protection. Suddenly, air mechanics came from behind crates and out of the shadows, forming teams to roll the Fees out to the grassy field in front of the hangars.
Dusk was advancing as I looked up toward the cockpits. Standing on the landing gear strut, then onto the tire, I remembered to avoid getting caught up around brace wires and control cables. From there, I ambled up onto a higher strut to then heft myself onto the wing root, being ever so careful not to crush one of its ribs or puncture the linen fabric. I swung my leg onto the pilot’s seat in the rear cockpit before rotating my other leg into the front section of the nacelle, using the edge of the ammo box for support. With no seat or bench up there, I knelt on the floor.
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