Seeking Courage

by Gregory P. Smith

  I yanked the starboard release lever to feel the first bomb fall away, then yanked it three more times in rapid succession. I quickly swung the Lewis out of the way to grab the portside releases. One-two-three-four and they, too, were away. I gave a thumbs-up without turning around and then concentrated on my Lewis. The Beardmore kicked into life, and as we lifted away, I stood in the cockpit to fire downward, continuing to fight off the searchlights. At this vulnerable altitude of five hundred feet, I saw tracer bullets rising, miraculously missing me even though I heard the odd ping against the engine block and whistling as a few ripped through the wing fiber.

  I continued firing short bursts—five rounds, release—then suddenly we slipped again into the blackness. We had broken clear of the lights and were free to continue our ascent, to gain altitude on the homeward course. A shiver of relief overtook me, as though I had withstood a great scare. Well, I had! Still standing, I turned to look at Wellsey, who was illuminated by the cockpit lights. He was smiling, actually laughing.

  “You did it, Bobby, you old bird! You fought off the blasted Hun! Let’s go home.” The silver ribbon of water—our guide, the Lys River—was easily found reflecting the now-moonlit night sky. I knelt in the front nacelle, feeling joy, relief, and courage for facing the enemy and doing our bit for victory. We fought the wind blowing in from the faraway English Channel, slowing our pace. But the worst was over. Crossing the lines, we re-engaged with 21-Lighthouse.

  I thought of how quickly the bombing had started and then was over. In the moment, it had seemed as if time had stood still, yet only minutes had passed. Sitting up front of the aeroplane, staring into the wind, I began to choke up thinking of my family. What if I had died? Would my sisters have been proud to tell their friends they’d had an older brother who fought in the war but was shot down while bombing German territory? Would my parents have erected a small memorial somewhere in Saskatoon, perhaps on the banks of the Saskatchewan River, remembering a son who fought for freedom?

  But there was no need for such thoughts. Shaking them off, I realized we were over top of our aerodrome. Wellsey signaled with the correct wingtip lighting, which caused the flare path to light up for landing. Bumping a few times across the field, we taxied to the sheds for the welcome by the mechanics and the other flyers that’d arrived before us. It was 0100 hours, and under a well-lit moon, all eight bombers pulled up to the hangars, returned safe.

  Chapter 27

  September 1917

  I was aware of Wellsey lying on his bed, watching me sit at the little writing desk in front of the hut window. “Are ya gonna read that damn letter hundreds more times, Bobby? She must be a right doll for you to gloat over her words like that.”

  It was only when we had checked in with the Ops Room after our sortie that the adjutant handed me the letter. Major Christie had a rule that no personal mail was to be distributed during the day of a sortie in the event bad news might affect a flyer’s focus.

  5 September, 1917

  Dearest Bob,

  How are you, my darling? Your letter arrived this morning. How quickly the mails are keeping us in touch. I was so distraught about the news of your crash that I wept. Not just for that accident, but also for the reminder that you are in constant peril for what you are doing over in France. Oh, how do you flyers do those sorties, taking such risk?

  I am so glad you are all right. Do look after yourself and don’t let that Hun do anything to you. My sisters and I at the factory are working hard to ensure arms are manufactured and sent to you at the front. Straightaway!

  You would laugh a little if you saw me just now, for I have taken on a slight yellowing of my once lily-white skin. Nothing drastic and nothing permanent, just a little side effect of the TNT we handle—your own little canary girl! Yet I am one of the lucky ones, being promoted to trolley train driver. Oh, I can see your questioning eyes! I drive around the factory floor pulling flat cars on a track, loaded with bombs ready for shipping. In my fantasies I pretend I am you, soaring high above with my bombs loaded. Yet I daren’t take my mind off things lest I crash. Oh dear, I am rambling. I do keep up the happy façade, for losing it to the sadness which surrounds us – the grief of women who’ve lost brothers, sons, husbands, and the crippled warriors who still want to work for the cause – would be to give up caring and feeling and, mostly, hope.

  I know you are not able to tell me when we will see each other, yet it keeps me going to know that there will come a time when that will happen. Isn’t it interesting, dear Bob, that we have been able to develop such a closeness more through letter writing than being with each other? As they say where you are, “C’est la guerre!” Perhaps with winter coming in a couple of months, you will get leave. Let’s have faith in that.

  It is so sweet of you to tell me as much as you do about your life over there and to trust me in that way. And yes, I do want you to continue because I am interested, and as long as it helps you survive to talk about it. I know you cannot confide such details to your parents or sisters for fear of worrying them silly. That wouldn’t be fair as they are at such a great distance from you, whereas I am close. Be safe, my darling.

  Yours,

  Cissy

  “Yes, my good man. It keeps me going, keeps my spirits up, as you do, but in a different way.” I turned around and winked at him. We had only known each other for a few months, yet it occurred to me that when one works with another in the face of death, friendships becomes good, strong, and wholesome. “A nice balance, I’d say.”

  “Yes, old man, you are a balanced one.” There was that endearing phrase that I’d come to enjoy. And in this case, it was ironic since he was as excited as I to read and reread letters from his wife and family back in Cape Town. We all reread our letters.

  We were interrupted by a tap on the open door.”Hello, chappies. Having a little rat-a-tat with each other, are we?” Hardy was leaning on the door frame, listening for how long, I didn’t know. “Fine day for such camaraderie, I suppose.”

  I knew that air mechanics seldom got time away from their hangars, especially in the early afternoons. “Hello, Hardknocks. What brings you out of the hangars so early?”

  “Our technical lieutenant feels we all need a little R&R once in a while, and I got tapped today. Say, you chaps want to take a walk in the woods down by the Aire Canal? It’s similar to the woods back in Blighty, quite pleasant.”

  “Ah, you fellows go,” said Wellsey. “I think I’ll rest up for tonight’s follies. Besides, I have a letter to write!” When I shot him a look, he jutted out his chin in mock defiance.

  Hardy and I strolled across the fields through the afternoon sunshine, finding the wooded trail leading to the canal while sharing home news along the way. Coming out onto the narrow flats that edged the canal was like finding magic, a little natural heaven that defied the existence of wartime France. Wildflowers were in late-summer bloom, richly colored against the green grass over which they swayed. The glass-like water waited in anticipation for the inevitable ripples that would break out from passing canal barges.

  We didn’t break conversation as we sat on the flat granite surface of a large boulder situated beside an outcrop stream that flowed lazily into the canal. The peaceful scenery and the understanding that had built up between Hardy and me through shared battle experiences provided the setting for us to talk about anything and everything.

  “Things are going well with your Cissy? Wellsey says you sure perked up when handed her letter last night.”

  I could feel the blush of embarrassment rising from my neck into my cheeks. Sam talked of relationships, whether for overnight or longer, as if they were just part of natural conversation. It made me wonder why the rest of us recoiled in embarrassment with emotional issues. “Things are wonderful with her. She and I write regularly, way more than with my family.”

  “I think that’s expected. Ya know a sweetie like Cissy doesn’t just come along with the regular tide, eh? Lots of time to write home
, but you need to cherish that one for now.”

  I nodded, accepting that advice. “Quite so. What about you?

  Any steadies in your life?”

  Hardy thought for a moment, then threw a pebble that he had been kneading out into the water. “Nah, too busy knocking around aeroplanes. Don’t really want the commitment just now. Besides, there’s lots of girlfriends a bloke can chase in the French villages, my friend.” I felt him looking at me, studying my face. “Except, if I had a Cissy . . . say, wait a moment.”

  I jerked my gaze away from the canal, forcing a smile. “What is it?”

  “You’ve turned as glum as a nun caught in a bad habit! Ha!”

  “Aw, it’s just a bit of stress, nothing really.”

  “I’m not buyin’ it. C’mon, what’s on your mind?”

  Looking at Sam, my closest friend in France, I deliberated. “I don’t know. Really, I don’t. Yet I’m caught in a trap of silence. No one to confide in.”

  Sam momentarily touched my shoulder, confirming our connection. “All right, now we’re getting somewhere. Next move is yours. Time to open up.”

  I stared at him, studying his bright eyes, his optimism confirming trust. “Not a word to anyone, Sam. Not a word, I say.”

  Hardy nodded, assuming a sincere look to show me he understood the graveness that was etched on my face.

  “I have—or had—VD. Gonorrhea. Shameful, I know, but that’s the truth.” I searched Sam’s face for his reaction as I so very much wanted a sincere one, even if judgemental.

  “My God, I’m so sorry. Now it makes sense why you were delayed in your assignment after being hospitalized—for shell shock, I mean. How are you now?”

  “I’m fine, but it’s not that. It’s the feelings that linger, the reputation, the shame.”

  “Listen, many of the lads have experienced this. You’re not alone. I remember talking to Captain Logan before you arrived about why so many apparently healthy lads were being shipped off to hospital. He told me that as many as twenty percent of Commonwealth troops had been infected in this war.”

  I bowed my head thoughtfully. “I can understand that, but being an officer, that’s cold comfort as I’m supposed to be leading by example.”

  “You are, Bob. Look at how many rally around you, who like being with you and respect you. They respect your confidence.”

  I looked up and cautiously nodded at a grinning Sam. He could get anyone to smile at any time.

  “Say, is Cissy involved?”

  My head shook back and forth as I confirmed, “Oh no, Cissy is fine. She is healed as well.”

  I explained the whole situation from the encounter at Mrs. Clarke’s to the awful response by the doctor at Bristol, the attitude of the RCR adjutant, and the convalescence at the French hospital. Sam was surprisingly well informed about the issue and had heard that women were sometimes not aware of carrying the disease and were therefore victims in a worse way than men. Our talk gave me comfort. We sat there for a while, gazing at the water in quiet reflection.

  Sam broke the silence. “Who knows? Does Wellsey?”

  “No, you are the only one, and I’d prefer to keep it that way. Except Major Christie, of course.” I grimaced. “It’s in my service record.” With his hand back on my shoulder in empathy, he said, “I’m so sorry to hear about this. But listen, my chum—it’s over. You must look forward. And going through this with Cissy, well, having her comfort and understanding, and yours for her, is very special.”

  “You know, that’s a very good point. In these circumstances, she and I share a very unique intimacy.”

  . . .

  Wellsey was spinning a tale about his grandfather teaching him to hunt guinea fowl in the Western Cape when the adjutant strode into the mess, his presence signaling there was a sortie planned for the night. “The following flyers are to report to the Ops Room at 1700 sharp!”

  We continued tea until reporting time, Ace, Wellsey, and I debating where our sortie would take us. Lunghi was booked off again, a concerning pattern, but we decided not to judge him as we all had tolerances and we were not going to question his.

  We walked across the soggy grass to the Ops Room. I glanced skyward and declared, “A haze is building, which I hope won’t develop into anything serious. Difficult navigation in that stuff.”

  “Yes, old man, just enough to provide cover for us as we zoom into tonight’s target.” There he was again, Wellsey always seeing the positive side.

  Major Christie stood in front of the long table, absorbed in the large map of France and Belgium. I followed his eyes, scanning locations marked with colored flags, identifying first the sentry lighthouses, then the trenches at the lines, and finally some of the enemy’s aerodromes. So that was it—we were to return along the Lys Valley. The officers fell quiet as his booming voice broke through their chatter.

  “I am handing around reconnaissance photographs of tonight’s targets, which begin with the Bisseghem Dump in Courtrai and continue with stations and trains south of Lys Valley. The identifiable landmarks are clearly shown, so please memorize them. Questions?”

  Ace questioned, “Sir, what exactly does an ammunition dump look like? I cannot see anything obvious in these photographs.”

  The major stood tall, smiling at the scrutiny. “Well observed, Wallace. The enemy is not going to place out welcome flags for your benefit. Their ammo is purposely obscured.”

  Christie explained the use of natural landscape as camouflage, yet distinguishable to the trained eye. A shallow excavation was typically covered with a wood frame roof and packed over with loose sod and earth. Less evident in the dark, except that the existence of the fresh earth lying next to the aerodrome was a giveaway.

  Captain Scudamore added detail. “A word from the wise—drop your pills from a sensible height, and don’t linger. A direct hit will blow sky-high, and you don’t want to be in that brouhaha!”

  “Very good, Captain,” said Christie. “You have the flight lineup. Bushe and Colbert will lead, locate the target. Their phosphorous bombs will light up the skies. When you see that, get in and get out!”

  Scudamore again: “And be aware Captain Schweitzer will be following behind with his pom-pom rig. Dismissed.”

  We met Hardy at Hangar No. 2 for a walk-around of our Fee, and when satisfied it was in top form, walked across the grass to our hut. As tonight was to be freezing at eight thousand feet, we decided to suit up well. For the moment, the fur-lined flying boots and Sidcot suits made us hot and sweaty, but this was a minor irritant compared to the cold slipstream we were soon to encounter.

  We got off at 2035, Ace and his pilot, Bean, just ahead. I kept vigilance through the haze and increasingly cloudy skies. Peering through the darkness, I found what we needed and yelled behind to Wellsey, “There’s our signal; there is 21-Lighthouse.”

  I followed each blink of the Morse, dot-dot-dash-dash-dash followed by dot-dash-dash-dash-dash. With twenty-one being the correct number, I signaled green from the Very pistol to indicate our friendly status. We were cleared to sail through to the lines, following the Lys River as best we could in the haze, backed up by compass and wristwatch navigation.

  Thirty minutes brought us closer to our target, when I lifted my left arm above Wellsey’s small, curved windscreen and pointed to my wrist.

  “What are you thinking, Bob?”

  “It’s time, time to descend. Luck be with us, eh?”

  We dropped speed and descended to twenty-five hundred feet, just in time to see the wing lights of the aeroplane ahead of us. “There’s Ace and Bean, dead ahead.”

  “Right you are. Any action?”

  That was right—we were out there looking for action! With the calm ride over the line, I had momentarily shed the angst that comes with flying a sortie, but it was never far behind as we prepared to dive into battle. “Not yet, we’re just a little too far to see, but they must be dropping their pills about now. Thing is, everyone ahead must have missed the mar
k. No fire, no phosphorus, but the searchlights are active. Puffs of Archie as well!”

  “I’ll drop to fifteen hundred. Keep your guns ready, eyes on target. When over it, drop ‘em quick. Damn, there must be a dozen searchlights looking for us. Our boys in lead gave the Hun lots of notice.”

  Wellsey cut the Beardmore to silence. It wasn’t that the Hun weren’t aware there would be more of us following, but if they couldn’t see or hear us in the darkness, we had a better chance of surprise. Through the eerie quiet, the rigging strained and the wing fabric whistled. My senses reacted, involuntarily causing my pulse to race and stomach to churn. Somehow a roaring engine provided a sense of power, of being more in control and able to zoom away from danger. Yet that was just the point: we were not there to sidestep danger. There was no time to indulge fear since so many were depending on us. Our task was to maintain the courage to fly into the face of it, to conquer. I steeled myself to focus.

  I caught Wellsey’s attention. “Lewises ready, bombs ready, hand on release lever. I’ll raise my left hand as soon as my right releases.”

  “Steady on, old man, steady on.”

  We were moments away from release when suddenly one of the searchlights caught us, completely blinding our sight. Timing was critical lest the target be lost. Archie streamed up at us, not very accurately, thank God. The little Fee bucked and bumped in the brightness, catching us in its clasp. Another and another as the lights triangulated our presence. Hope and prayer were our only friends now. As I yanked up the starboard bomb lever with my right hand, I shot my left arm skyward and then dropped it to the port release. The two 112-pounders broke free just as Wellsey fired up the engine, allowing us to climb away. Lady Luck was holding.

  Locking my flying boots into the metal ringlets on the sides of the nacelle, I stood up to lean precariously over the front, balanced only by my Lewis. I felt us lift away from danger, bursting shots down onto the direction of the lights. I trembled at the thought that, should the gun mounting give way, I would be hurled off into the night, German soldiers below following my silhouetted figure with their lights and applauding my demise. I refocused on the rising machine, which offset my downward fire, but I kept blasting in five-shot bursts. The searchlights persisted as we attempted to escape their grasp, Archie bursting around but still miraculously missing us. Blackness couldn’t arrive fast enough, finally showing its emptiness as we broke free of the lights. I caught a rearward look at the flaming red exhaust against the inky sky and slumped hard onto the floor of the cockpit, exhaling in one deep breath followed by short shallow ones.