My stomach felt taut and my pulse raced at the thought of actually going into battle. I tried to calm myself by thinking about Ace and Lunghi, who had been up on their maiden sorties over the past two nights and returned safe. Still, my gut churned. I made myself busy, checking and rechecking the two Lewis guns, ensuring the mechanisms were clear of jams, and that the shell collection bags were fastened tight. Shells blowing behind would destroy the propeller, a mistake that could be fatal.
Seeing that my flying clothes were cinched tight so as not to flap in the slipstream and that my leather flying helmet with goggles was fitted, I said a prayer and thought of Cissy. She was my talisman, my safe place, my inner courage that would bring us home. I gave Wellsey the thumbs-up he was waiting for.
Hardy was ready at the propeller.
“Switches off !”
“Switches off. Suck in now,” thundered Wellsey.
Sam swung the propeller around a few times, priming the engine for ignition.
“Switches on!”
Away went the propeller at one thousand revolutions per minute before Wellsey throttled it back to an idling six hundred, giving it a few minutes for warmup. As we awaited the go signal, I could feel the Beardmore run up again to full revs as the throttle was pushed forward. I turned around to gaze behind Wellsey, and my attention was caught by the fiery red flare that was shooting out from behind the twin exhausts, highlighted against the blackness of the night. A powerful signal of His Majesty’s air strength.
We were signaled to follow the fifth machine. With the first four now circling the aerodrome to gain altitude, we swung around into the wind for takeoff. Feeling the full force of the throttle, I leaned back against the wooden cockpit interior, my hands tightly gripping the side of the nacelle in anticipation of takeoff. After a few bumps we were skimming along the field, then climbing into the darkness.
Suddenly, I heard Wellsey wail something. Exactly what, I’ll never know. But instantly I knew from the tone of his voice that things were not good. As I was gulping down my panic, realizing the heavily laden Fee wasn’t climbing, there was a sharp crack like an electrical zap. Amidst sparks flying all around I heard the engine quieten as it was throttled back. Being out front, I knew we had burst through telegraph wires and could do nothing but watch as Wellsey steered the wobbly craft through the darkness. In an instant we slammed into a ditch!
I was dazed, not really sure what had happened, but I knew I was alive. Wellsey was out first, holding a hand out to me as I climbed onto the field. I momentarily stared at the broken aeroplane, nose down with a crumpled and splintered nacelle. He jabbed his left fingers forward, pointing to a broken undercarriage, and then at the heavy engine lying behind, making me realize how close we came to being crushed. He abruptly pulled me away with his right hand. “The bombs, Bob!”
In a fog of confusion, I looked at him as the events of the past few moments tumbled through my mind. Why was he concerned about not dropping our bombs? We were obviously done for the night and weren’t going anywhere in that mess. As Wellsey yanked on my sleeve, I stared in bewilderment at the front of the aircraft, its front pointed into the ground. My eyes moved toward the rear, saw it was elevated in an unnatural way, and my mind caught up with the scene. The Beardmore engine was weighing heavy on the explosives. “Oh fuck, the bombs could go off ! The bombs are triggered for detonation!”
“My point, old man!” We ran like stink across the farmer’s field back to the aerodrome, meeting the ground crew who had run out to assist. With enough distance, we looked up to survey the situation and saw that we had failed to clear the telegraph wires above the farmer’s land. They were now dangling dangerously onto the ground.
Hardy ran up. He ensured we were not injured, then explained the bombs would not detonate in their current condition as there was no fire and nothing touching their fuses. However, it would be a delicate operation to defuse and dismount them in the recovery process. He joined the other mechanics that were cautiously approaching the downed aeroplane.
Wellsey delicately touched my head. “How are you? You’re bleeding above your ear!”
I instinctively touched my head and then stared at the blood on my fingers while I gathered my thoughts. “A little dazed and perhaps a little bruised. Christ, I think I whacked the side of my head on the front of the cockpit as we hit. I’ll be all right. You?”
He winced, seemingly not wanting to draw attention to himself. “My reputation is severely bruised, old man! I hadn’t expected that damn crate would fail to climb; it seemed all right during warmup. We checked her over thoroughly and we know she was serviced properly. I’ll make my report straightaway, get this behind us.”
Walking back to the Ops Room, I realized that the other eleven aircraft had carried on with their planned sortie. Not so for our registration 4936, a complete wreck. The ones taking off after us must have wondered, uncertain. Lunghi and Ace behind us must have been worried sick but realized that war stops for no one.
The medic gave Wellsey a clean bill, observing that he was better protected, positioned immediately in front of the engine. I was ordered to sit out the next few days to ensure my little head bump didn’t turn into something worse. Privately, I was all right with that. I needed to get my pluck back before the next mission.
. . .
Miss Cissy Ann Taylor
Women’s Dormitory
National Shell Filling Factory
Chilwell
5 September, 1917
My Dear Cissy,
Your letters are such blessings. They keep me going, and I look forward to them in each mail drop. And if I daresay, I know my return letters are as welcome! I know you understand that I am unable to verify just where I am located other than somewhere in northern France.
If you saw me just now, you might laugh as I have gauze wrapped around my head! Oh, don’t fear—it is only a superficial wound. My pilot, Wellsey, was taking me up on my first sortie when we encountered engine trouble and crash landed. The aeroplane has gone to heaven, I’m afraid, but we are all right.
As my confidante, I will tell you I was scared out of my wits. With the occurrence of a split-moment life-ending possibility, I realize how those few seconds of terror can affect one’s whole being. The medics must be used to that since they ordered me grounded for a few days.
I lay upon my bed that whole evening not sleeping a wink, living and reliving the moment. Even by morning the fear had not subsided, with nausea welling up from deep in my stomach. Yet I managed to hold things in.
I won’t say I am chomping at the bit for the next sortie, but I will tell you that I am looking forward to getting back up on the horse and riding with purpose. It is my duty and sacrifice to do so with courage.
Well, I must go meet Wellsey for a hearty breakfast and heartier chat. That bloke is always up and feeling chipper by dawn, even if he spent half the night flying over German territory! Take good care of yourself, Cissy. I always look forward to your precious letters.
Until we are able to meet, I am yours.
Bob
. . .
I wandered over to the mess. Approaching the side of the building, I was greeted with, “Well, time you got outta that warm bed and joined us, old man!”
It was such a pleasantly warm fall morning that Wellsey, Ace, and Lunghi had commandeered a table set up in front on the lawn. I took the only vacant chair as they all grinned at me. Ace quipped, “You look like one of the battle-fatigued officers in those silent pictures they are showing.”
Everyone was laughing, and I laughed along. “You three are damned comedians, eh? Doc says the headgear comes off today, getting ready for more follies.” Wellsey and I had spoken of the need to get airborne again after our disaster, the sooner the better. I listened to the murmur of their conversation, eating bacon, eggs, and kidneys, while reflecting on Wellsey’s affectionate reference to me as “old man,” as he had branded me so quickly those few months back. Not only was I a little
younger than him, but he was married while I was not. Yet I knew he was referring to my old-soul attitude compared to his less serious, take-things-asthey-happen approach. He captured my character so well, exposing it kindly, which allowed me to permit myself to be a little more lighthearted.
“Look, we’ve lost him,” said Ace. I took my gaze away from the airfield and looked back at my friends at the table.
Lunghi grinned. “Oh ya, just-a look at his frown.”
Wellsey remained grinning. “I tell you, he is an old soul,” he said as he leaned toward me. “But you are a champ, walking away from your first crashed aeroplane—and on your first sortie! I think there must be some kind of a medal for that, what say?”
As we laughed, I could see the fondness in Wellsey’s eyes. “Quite,” I said breezily. “But you ought to have a medal for not flipping that old Fee on top of us or detonating those pills.” I looked around our little table, eyeing Ace and Lunghi. “That, my friends, is the skill and courage of a medal-winning pilot.”
. . .
“The old man’s back!” yelled Wellsey as he strode in through the mess door. “Thought I’d find you here, Pitman.” Flyers in the mess raised their heads, some recognizing the quip he directed about me, others frowning in confusion about what he was on about.
A week after the crash, eight Fees were to attack aerodromes in the Lys Valley. Wellsey had since gone on a short sortie, but the squad had been grounded for a few days due to dud weather. He bounced over to join me and Ace.
“Feeling fit as a fiddle.” I grinned confidently in my desire to ensure those around that I was in fit flying form. “Wouldn’t sacrifice a sortie for the sake of a little more downtime if I felt I needed it.”
Ace chimed in. “Yeah, good on you for facing the devil in this.”
“We’ve got an easy enough sortie tonight, gents,” said Wellsey.
“A little run across the valley over the lines into enemy aerodromes, the Lys River our guide. Good way to ease back into things, Bobby.” I understood what Wellsey was doing, his gentle demeanor providing encouragement in support of my professing readiness. I was up for it, but Wellsey knew me well enough to sense I was hiding a residual bit of fear.
A baritone voice broke the moment as the CO’s adjutant inserted himself in our tranquility and bellowed across the mess. “Attention, officers!” Major Christie’s arrival for dinner was always announced, signaling our need to stand-to.
The fifty-two of us shuffled to the main table, quietly listening for Christie to begin his flying-night sermon. He admonished us to keep vigilant as it was to be a dark, hazy night. He warned that enemy aerodromes would be heavily defended with searchlights and Archie. Our leader, Lieutenant Kent, had made the run up and down the Lys Valley many times, so we were to follow his guidance closely.
“Any questions, gents?” The major’s pause was not long enough to even beginning moving one’s lips. “No? Well, let’s get to our supper, shall we? First wheels up at dusk, 1940 hours. Lieutenant Lunghi, your blessing, please?”
“Come-a, Lord Jesus, be our guest and bless what you-a bequeathed us.”
Lieutenant Hyde, a new recruit thundered in with, “Father, Son, and Holy Ghost, the one who eats the fastest eats the most!”
“Ah-ah!” said Christie, barely hiding a burgeoning grin.
. . .
The eight black bombers had been pushed out onto the field in front of their respective hangars. Dusk set in, but few lights were illuminated to keep the aerodrome safe from the chance of a Hun attack. The bombs were inspected by observers, four 20-pound Coopers to each wing.
Amid the chatter and banter under torchlight that preceded our sortie, I was buoyed by the camaraderie of the flyers, the mechanics, and the ground crew. We were a true team, all depending on each other. But none depended more on that teamwork than the flyers who had to get airborne, drop bombs, and return to the airfield, all in darkness. While the blackness made it too dangerous to fly in formation, we did follow the same direction at five-minute intervals, keeping a distant watch on each other.
Standing in front of our newly assigned A796, Hardy raised his right arm to alert us as he yelled a blessing for the flight home. I responded with two thumbs up. He called up, “Switches off, sir!”
Wellsey checked that the engine ignition switches were indeed shut off. “Switches off. Suck in,” he yelled.
Amid the wires and tail booms, a couple of mechanics strained at the big four-bladed propeller to turn over the pistons of the 160 hp Beardmore, coaxing it to suck in petrol. After forcing it around a few times, the mechanic raised his thumb to Hardy, who then yelled up to Wellsey.
“Switches on, sir!”
“Switches on.”
I could hear the ignition switch click behind my right ear; then Wellsey began winding the starting magneto. I heard the first cylinder fire, and then the other five came to life in quick succession as vibrations rippled through the craft. Wellsey opened the throttle as I looked behind to see blue smoke followed by the red flame firing from the exhaust. With the engine and coolant up to temperature, Wellsey signaled for Hardy to pull the chocks away from the wheels. As we traveled across the rutted field, I could feel the tension build from the top of my stomach to my chest, then spread across my body. Wellsey tapped me softly on the head as he sensed my apprehension. He yelled something that included “old boy,” but I couldn’t hear. The words didn’t matter, but his soothing voice did.
From the far corner of the aerodrome and facing into the wind, Wellsey opened the throttle, testing the engine again for any sign of misfire. We were damn well not going into the telegraph wires tonight. Suddenly, the flare path lights were thrown on from blackness and we were speeding along the field back toward the hangars. With a feeling of lift, we were away.
The warm breeze flowed through me, settling my stomach. After circling the aerodrome to gain altitude and await the last two aircraft, our eight teams zoomed into the blackness—and it was black!
I directed us on a safe heading to cross the lines at 21-Lighthouse near Ypres, signaling in Morse and receiving a “good to go” response from the tower. Peering over the nacelle at eight thousand feet, I could see a few campfires and the odd artillery burst, unlike the daytime view of zigzag trenches. Time seemed so distant, yet it was only one year before that I, too, had sat down there shivering with my platoon, wondering about the aeroplanes we frequently heard. I was now in that proverbial aircraft, feeling more cheerful than if leading a ground platoon. Each presented different risks, but my feelings dovetailed much more with those in the air. I was confident and secure at eight thousand feet.
Yet thoughts of platoon life brought the sadness of Perce’s life’s being snuffed out, as did the thought that he was buried down there in that mud where his family would never know, could never know, the brutality and horror that defined his death. That his loss was repeated over and over with a devastation conscripted upon a whole generation of young men could not be understood by folks back home.
I fought back tears lest they mist up my goggles. I needed to concentrate on getting us safely to our target. The thirty-eight miles to the Hun aerodrome at Courtrai took only forty minutes; however, because the enemy was keeping things in blackout, we circled for quite some time with wingtip lights extinguished. I kept watch on both sides of the aeroplane for the green bombs-away signal from our leader, Kent. I knew the enemy aerodrome could hear the roar of our machines but were disguising their location by not opening up their searchlights or firing their Archie.
The tension mounted as the minutes passed and our flight leader still did not signal with the Very pistol, the other bombers circling in the same hazy blackness. I stood up in the face of the slipstream and pointed out to Wellsey the red signal from Kent’s aeroplane, the indication we were to abandon the target and follow him to the prearranged alternate. I felt a little relief as the tension waned, but I knew all that had been achieved was to delay an attack. I remained with my ha
nds on the Lewis gun in anticipation of encountering enemy aircraft.
A few miles farther we found the German aerodrome at Marche Sterhoek, its illumination signaling it was waiting to receive its own returning night flyers. Their bad luck, as we now had a line on a target.
Searchlights sprang to life as the enemy realized they had been made. Kent gave the green light. We were circling, circling, waiting. After what seemed like an age, it was our turn to dive.
About half a mile from target, Wellsey began the descent and cut the engine. With Hun searchlights flicking back and forth, we sailed through the blackness in silence, dropping altitude quickly. I was terrified and excited at the same time. The whistling of the wires as they vibrated against the night air brought an eerie presence, but the thought of dropping my bombs on enemy aircraft and facilities for the first time was somehow intoxicating.
But suddenly we were caught by searchlights, trapped in a flood of brightness. Too late to sideslip, to escape sideways, we had to stay on target. My training kicked in as I aimed my Lewis as best I could at the lights. I had to shoot for the middle no matter how much it blinded me. Short bursts from the Lewis; no need to overheat or, worse, jam the barrel. Five rounds, release. Five rounds, release.
Wellsey was yelling, “Prepare to drop the pills, Bobby, prepare to drop.”
To concentrate on the bomb release wires, I had to let go of the Lewis, which made it feel as if I might as well stand up in the cockpit and flail my arms around to alert the enemy of my now-exposed self. Got to get the bombs dropped; waiting for Wellsey’s signal. Could he see anything through this blinding light? Was he simply acting on impulse, perhaps counting the seconds that he knew it took to descend to the correct altitude, the right place? Worse: Would we get a direct hit before we drop and pull away?
“OK, now. Go. Fucking now! Pull up on the releases!”
Seeking Courage Page 16