Wellsey yelled into the slipstream above the engine noise, “Catch your breath, old man! Steady your breathing!”
I hollered back. “Quite, Wellsey. I’m focused.”
“Deliver us to the next phase, Bob. Let’s go get ourselves some steely rail, shall we?”
I sat there for a moment, not wanting to get up and let Wellsey see my tightened face that marked anxiety. We had achieved our objective, so why would we run off looking for trains and railway tracks? Why would we go looking for more danger? I owed Wellsey a response even if I thought he was being cavalier. I clambered to stand up as I confirmed, “Right, then!” Looking at him as I leaned over the windscreen, I forced a smile. I would not let him or our squadron down.
We flew south of Courtrai, knowing we would pick up the Scheldt River as we got closer to Tournai. I thought back to the many times I had tested my memory, visualizing the map lines that represented the river and canal systems of France and Belgium, mentally comparing the weaves and turns to make sense of the ribbons in the darkness below. Very shortly, I saw the definitive right turn of the Scarpe River where it broke off from the Scheldt.
I turned backward against the slipstream, cupping my hands to be heard. “Bank starboard. We can pick up the river over toward Ascq. Stay at two thousand.” The Scarpe was a navigator’s blessing with its numerous east-west canals cutting a straight line to Lille, whose subdued lights we could just make out in the distance. The double rails of the German-controlled Lille-Tournai line soon appeared before us, but I was unsure what I was looking at. “Keep steady. I can see something down there. Wait, is that a rocket? What the devil?”
Eagerly standing up in the front nacelle, I was amazed at what I was looking at. It was the unmistakable silhouette of a Fee strafing a moving train, but the powerful blast from its cockpit was unfamiliar. There were bursts of red from its tail as it accelerated then slowed, and another fiery blast from its front. I turned to speak to Wellsey, seeing his wide grin illuminated by his cockpit lights. “Fuckin’ crazy, Bobby! That’s Schweitzer with his pom-pom. Look at that baby go! Who knew that one-pounders could carry such a wallop? Damned rocket launcher, that Fee is!”
As Schweitzer blasted the train from five hundred feet, Wellsey swooped down to join the fray as I momentarily crouched, clutching both sides of the nacelle. We leveled at one thousand feet, and I ensured both my Lewises were ready, focused for the attack. We circled over the moving train as it attempted to accelerate away from Schwietzer’s threat. Tracer machine-gun fire spat from between a couple of its carriages in an attempt at retaliation.
I was excited as seeing this new weapon sent spurts of adrenaline through my veins. “Pull up five hundred yards behind Schweitzer. When he blasts the next pom-pom, the machine gunners will pop up and I’ll try to mow them away.”
“You got it, Bob!” We were at five hundred feet, and I was ready to pounce. The next pom-pom missed the target, but we provided cover against the retaliatory machine-gun response.
Wellsey was yelling, waving a free arm for emphasis. “Good shooting, Bobby! Short, steady bursts! You held ‘em down. Schweitzer turning port; I’m turning starboard. Hold on, old man!”
We swung around to see Schweitzer blink his starboard wing lights in acknowledgment of our presence. Wellsey throttled back to allow him to line up once again behind the train, determined to immobilize it. We flew in at five hundred feet, again trailing Schweitzer. Seeing the pom-pom rocket blast, I opened up with short bursts whether or not the machine gunners were returning fire. Schweitzer launched a second one-pounder, this time straight into the steam engine, before circling off into the night. Wellsey’s high-pitched yell marked his excitement, as frenzied as mine. “I’m staying the course, Bob. Keep the strafe up; keep the pressure on.”
I kept blasting my Lewis, balancing against the rocking of the aeroplane. I knew I had enough ammo to keep the bursts up before changing drums.
Suddenly, an eruption came from the locomotive, its force bucking us up as if we had been shot from underneath. I fell backward into the nacelle and then kneeled up as we veered off, my Lewis swinging wildly in the slipstream. Peering over, I noticed the locomotive falter along the dirt, derailed from the track, before it lay over onto its side, taking with it the firebox full of red-hot burning coal. The train had hissed to a standstill by the time we disappeared into the darkness.
I remained kneeling, facing Wellsey as he yelled the obvious, “Schweitzer got that last one directly into the loco, old man. I’m going around to keep up the pressure. It must be a troop train; otherwise, ammunition stocks would have blasted skyward by now.”
I managed to stand ready with my Lewis when I saw Schweitzer come around just ahead of us, roaring to the left side of the train and unloading pom-pom shells into the carriages as fast as he could reload. Wellsey and I were on the starboard side, blasting machine-gun fire into the carriages. Our two Fees were like a couple of wolves moving aggressively on a felled deer.
Dark figures ran in every direction away from the train as we continued strafing aside Schweitzer, but it was not long before the Hun organized ground-based retaliatory machine-gun posts. We veered away as our job was done and our ammunition running low.
Chapter 28
September 1917
I relaxed my vigilance as we neared the lines, standing with my back against Wellsey’s cockpit. With the aftereffects of the adrenaline rush, I remained warm even with the frigid slipstream pushing into me. I turned and said, “We’re a damn good team, Wellsey! And Schweitzer, whoa boy! Gutsy man!” Wellsey grinned as he nodded, pointing ahead.
“Ah, 21-Lighthouse at starboard.” I loaded the Very pistol with green shot.
“Right-o, Bobby. Homeward we sail.”
We arrived at the aerodrome and blinked our wing lights. The landing T lit up the welcoming flare path, and at about fifty feet, I released the parachute flare to light up the grassy field. We bounced twice before taxiing up to the hangars, the last aeroplane to arrive.
Hardy and another mechanic helped us out of our sweaty Sidcots and fur boots, leaving them hanging over the tail of the Fee to air out. After we filed our report in the Ops Room, we met up with Schweitzer in the mess. Although it was after 0100 hours, we were looking forward to a drink or two.
Tonight was typical of any after a sortie—glasses raised, pipes lit, and conversation robust as small groups sat or stood facing each other. The brazier held a crackling fire, but I couldn’t imagine being chilly after tonight’s excitement. I walked from the bar to catch up with Wellsey and Schweitzer, who were with Ace and Bean. Schweitzer turned to open the circle for me.
“Successful night, Bobby! Good backup on that train. I wasn’t sure if I could continue alone until you showed up. Thought I might have to abandon a precious target!” Captain Viktor Schweitzer was of German heritage, and his family resided in Winnipeg. His broad figure, blond hair, and blue eyes told of his ancestry, and his humble demeanor was indicative of his family’s Canadian background.
“Oh yeah, Vik, what a night! Damn, I was taken by surprise when we came out of the dark to see you blasting those one-pounders. Never would have thought they could destroy a train.”
“And when I first saw them last week, I never thought the ole Fee could withstand the pom-poms’ strong kickback, what with bucking around like that,” reiterated Wellsey, “let alone being able to shoot accurately.”
Schweitzer looked around our excited circle, not used to being in the spotlight as the night’s hero. “Yes, but be mindful that it takes a very lucky hit to do what I—er, what we did tonight,” he said humbly. “Only one shot in ten strikes the target, so it’s especially hard to take out a loco.”
The captain had us all riveted to his story as he explained that the pom-pom had to be lined up from behind the locomotive’s firebox and aimed as conditions allowed. The gun had no lateral movement, so the aeroplane itself had to adjust the aim. And the Maxim one-pounder shell without shrapnel was inef
fective against anything but a direct hit on a target. Another challenge was the inability to carry an observer since the gun muzzle protruded through the front nacelle, which meant the pilot needed to fly and shoot at the same time, with little accuracy.
Schweitzer continued, “So, you see, the gun can level a train, but it needs perfect conditions and teamwork from additional, uh, support Fees. Having Wells and Pitman work along to distract the loco engineer and keep their machine gunners subdued allowed me just enough time to line up and shoot.”
Wellsey, who had seen the gun work before, continued the narrative that, although the nature of the cannon’s pom-pom sound can strike terror into the enemy, its cumbersome need of reloading and re-aiming was why the weapon was seldom used. His perspective was that a skilled shooter operating the Lewis gun was much more effective.
As the conversation had become technical, and the hour late, it died away. Characteristic of his perpetual wakefulness, Wellsey was game for another drink. I cheerfully obliged. We walked over to the bar that was bereft of officers, and although exhausted, we found our second wind and digressed into family matters. “What of your wife, Frank? How does she deal with being all the way back in Cape Town while you’re here in Europe?”
“Ah, that’s the thing. Letters and packages go only so far, you know. Having a wife far away where you cannot visit on leave is damn difficult.”
“Not being tied down myself, I’m not sure what it’s like for you.
Did you marry long before the war?”
He chuckled. “Ja, we were married young, before war clouds massed over Europe. I wanted to be a flyer down home, you know. Got my Royal Aero Club ticket, was on my way.”
“You could have stayed, yes? Could have served in a South African home establishment?”
Wellsey stood up straight, confident in his answer. “Nah, wasn’t going to be. It was my wife who encouraged me to do my bit. I don’t know. I don’t know at all if she regrets that now. Still, we don’t question it, just reassure each other there will be an end to this chaos and I’ll be returned home.”
I looked thoughtfully at my friend. “I suppose that’s all you can do. I can’t imagine what it feels like for her, not knowing whether you are safe, trying not to think of some dreaded telegram.”
“You have your Cissy, and you have family far enough away that you can’t visit on leave, either.”
I thought that over, knowing it was true but having buried its reality. “Quite so, yet it’s not like I’ve made a life commitment to a lady. Cissy and I haven’t known each other long and are still in the beginnings of—of what, I’m not sure. It’s difficult to develop a deeper relationship through letter writing, as you can imagine.” Glancing across the now almost empty room, I looked dreamily back at Wellsey. “I do know I care for her a whole bunch.”
He affectionately slapped me on the shoulder. “That’s obvious, old man! Your pondering her letters is striking. She’s certainly got your attention.”
“Oh yes, Wellsey! She’s beautiful, has a sharp mind, and stirs me like I’ve never felt before. Quite the suffragette. A strong woman, which I think is a good part of my attraction for her. And so I’m rambling now, mon pilote. Time we retire, don’t you think?”
. . .
Miss Hilda R. Pitman
426-8th Street East
Saskatoon, Saskatchewan
Dominion of Canada
10 September, 1917
My Dear Hilda,
Plain and simple, I miss you so. I imagine that at this time when summer is coming to a close you will be thinking of fall activities. I miss the autumn in Saskatoon, and I imagine it to be colorful and beautiful as always.
France has autumn, of course, but much of its beauty has been marred by the destructive forces of war. It makes me pine for the peacefulness that defines Canada. I’ll see you just as soon as we put an end to this madness.
I’m so pleased you are there to be with Mama and Papa. It must mean a lot to have their youngest child with them. You are seventeen now, my little darling. In spite of war, these are the best years a young lady has. (I pause as I reflect on now referring to you as a lady, as it seems we were playing hopscotch together not so long ago.) Enjoy them!
I am doing well, as well as expected in the thick of things here in western France. We are flying sorties over German territory in an attempt to wrench from them the very land that they so destructively stole from France and Belgium in 1914. I’m forbidden from telling you more or where I’m based, but be assured I’m safe. As safe as possible.
Do take care of yourself and stay well. If you feel up to it, another tin of that Saskatoon berry jam would be most welcome.
Love to you,
Bob
. . .
10 September, 1917
My Dearest Cissy,
As always, I woke this morning with you on my mind. Wellsey and I returned from a successful sortie last night and sat up talking about relationships and distance.
Wellsey’s wife is alone in South Africa, for which I feel sad as he cannot see her due to the great distance. Even with leave, there is insufficient time to travel home. That is the fate of Commonwealth soldiers, I’m afraid.
Their situation is not different from ours as circumstances dictate our emotional distance must remain wide. Yet we are lucky being only a few hundred miles from each other, and there must come a time when I am granted leave. I’ll be in Chilwell before you know it.
I only need close my eyes to see you, and I only need to think of you to get through the most difficult moments of our increasing number of sorties. I do trust you are keeping well and keeping that tractor on an even keel as you send more bombs to us at the front. I am proud of you, Cissy, and I told Wellsey that. You mustn’t think I go around talking to others too much about you, but they are curious about our frequent letter writing. Not much is private on an aerodrome. Mere distribution of the weekly mail brings teasing questions!
Around the airfield, word has it that 100 Squadron is to be quite busy supporting the ground offensives reported in the newspapers. Our job is to cease or at least slow the ability of the Germans to move matériel to the current struggle at Passchendaele. We have been successful in our own small way and will continue to bring justice to our foe. So please be patient with me if letters are not as regular. And please do not worry, as we are camouflaged nicely in the blackness of night.
Well, my canary girl, I wanted to let you know you are in my thoughts. There is nothing that could change my feelings for you.
Yours especially,
Bob
Chapter 29
September 1917
After the night of the train, the squadron was quietly thankful to be grounded as weather conditions worsened over the following days, providing a reprieve from the intense strain and tension of prior nights. Major Christie decided on a little in-house celebration. I was to learn of the small blessings that separated junior officers of the Royal Flying Corps from those in the rest of the British Army—a fine table, wine, spirits, and joviality.
I felt spoiled, pampered, and gluttonous as I looked across the table, catching Vik’s eye during a rare moment of silence in an otherwise uproarious couple of hours. “That was one of the best poached-fish dinners I’ve ever had, Vik. Is this typical of squadron custom?”
“This is just the beginning.” I donned a puzzled look.
“Yeah, the beginning of a squadron tradition every once in a while.”
“Ja, I’ve heard,” said Wellsey. “It’s jolly tonight, I’ll say that.”
In the momentary quiet, Wellsey probed Schweitzer about his accomplishment of completing twenty sorties to date, no small feat as the squad had only been operable since the spring. Schweitzer felt that, in spite of the tension that came with our bombing campaigns, he was driven to build on that record. “As long as the major promotes cheery evenings like these,” he offered.
Schweitzer continued a strange—and seemingly morbid—li
ne of discussion by adding that these soirees were where aviators came together to accept their mortality, to accept that they flirt with the leading edge of danger, and to understand that bravado is needed to boost courage. As he did so, he had a wide grin while he encouraged us to join in and keep to the spirit of the night.
The happy tension built as I looked at Wellsey. “He’s right, you know. Just let go and see what the night brings!”
Major Christie rose grandly from his seat at the head table, instantly causing the room to silence. “Gentlemen, the Airmen’s Toast!”
“The Airmen’s Toast!” roared the room.
That was evidently the signal to chug our drinks back and continue standing as we sang “God Save the King.” Cheers went up immediately after the anthem concluded, making it reminiscent of an English football game opener. The evening was opened for festivity.
Ace wandered over to where Wellsey, Schweitzer, and I were gathered and whispered, “Keep your wits about you.”
We studied him for sincerity. “Now, why is that, dear Ace?” snickered Wellsey.
“I’ve been secretly warned there is a ritual for us squad newbies, and I understand that the more you resist, the more ribald the act. I must warn the others. Gotta go, cheers.” He staggered off.
“What the devil? Secret warning?” I questioned. Wellsey and I looked pointedly at our veteran, Schweitzer, who was not even trying to hide the smirk on his face. Something was afoot. For me it was exciting, similar to joining the Saskatoon Fusiliers with their induction or the boyish behavior directed at university freshmen by seniors.
Seeking Courage Page 18