Wellsey responded, “I’ve no idea. Some sort of initiation, maybe?”
We looked back at Schweitzer, his smile spreading from cheek to cheek. Before we could press him, the room erupted into song.
I’m sorry now that I’m a flyer;
I don’t want to get shot down.
Now, I’m really very willing
To make myself a killing,
Living on the earnings of obliging ladies.
I don’t want a bullet up the rear end;
I don’t want my bollocks shot away.
If I’ve really got to lose ‘em,
I’d prefer it was with Susan,
Or Dolly or Polly,
Or any whore at all!
This was getting raucous. I joined in with glass raised amid laughter and song, anticipation rising. Soon enough, we heard the tinkle of spoon on glass, growing louder as more airmen joined in. The squadron’s longest-term flyer, Boret, shouted, “It’s time, gents!” As he and Schweitzer moved toward us, I instinctively turned around to peer behind me to see who they were after, only to belatedly realize it was Wellsey and I. I chuckled as they jostled and taunted us, all of it friendly jesting. I was giddy, partly due to drink and partly due to being roughed up in a manner that I could imagine was from an older brother.
I burst out a guttural shout as we were set off balance and wrestled to the ground. Amid our half protesting, half laughing, we were de-shoed and de-socked, then carried to the brazier in the room’s center, its door now open. For a moment a wave of panic crossed over me. Surely they weren’t going to brand our feet? Dammit! I had never checked the feet of a 100 Squadron flyer.
I could hear Wellsey’s distinctive voice say, “Fuckin’ hell!” followed by robust laughing and shouting useless protests. The more he groused, the more he was jostled, so I decided to keep my mouth shut. Yet I couldn’t stifle continued laughter and grunts as I knew in my heart we were not to be harmed. Well, that was my belief. At one point I heard Ace protest, but he was upended on the other side of the brazier, too far for me to see due to the blurry tears in my eyes. Someone grabbed a blackened log from the firepit and began rubbing the soot on the bottoms of our feet. They held us upside down while a tall wooden stepladder appeared. As Wellsey and I were held down beside each other, a look of resignation passed between us. After all, we’d been through worse while aloft. Up, up, up I was hoisted until the ladder bearer grabbed my legs and stabbed them at the ceiling, others below holding me up by the shoulders. He held them in place on the ceiling while grinding them upward. I wriggled with laughter. Next was Wellsey, feet stabbing the ceiling. He was laughing so hard they almost dropped him. I thought, well, at least my feet aren’t ticklish!
We were released from this carnival as quickly as we had been captured, and the group of bandits moved on to other plebes. It was at that point when I believed we had truly become part of the squadron, our black footprints imprinted on that mess ceiling with those of all the other flyers who had been initiated since the beginning.
More of the captured were dragged to the brazier and stabbed up to the ceiling. What a display of chaos! In spite of our lingering laughter, sobs of joy, and related tearing of the eyes, we managed to return our footwear to its appropriate place. Wellsey and I agreed that if this was the extent of our initiation, we could take it in stride. “Can I buy you a drink, old man?” Wellsey asked.
“I’ll take a two-fister. Make it the vin rouge, s’il vous plait,” I said. Wellsey stood up off the floor, extending a hand to pull me up beside him. “Let’s sit at the bar for a minute and take the heat off our feet, if you know what I mean,” roared Wellsey. Our gaiety continued amid increased consumption as we compared the experience to growing up, to being accepted into this team or that club. Reliving the event and howling as we looked up at the ceiling was as much part of the camaraderie as the stunt itself. We both felt accepted and damn good about being part of one of the best squadrons in the RFC. Our kibitzing caught the attention of Schweitzer, who was sidling up.
“Well, lads, you’ve been added! Can’t say whose soles those are up there anymore, but I know mine are among that blackened mess.”
“Ah, I appreciate the double meaning.” Wellsey chuckled. “As long as our soles are protected in the mess, our inner souls will be protected in the dark night?”
Schweitzer laughed as he nodded approval. “Hadn’t thought of that one, my boy, but it stands to good reason.”
“I’ve got to say, Vik, that with all this whooping it up and acting silly, the boost to morale is wonderful,” I offered. “Makes you feel closely attached to 100, what with sharing moments like this.”
Someone yelled for “The Bold Aviator,” which was responded to in a rip-roaring breakout of song.
Oh, the bold aviator lay dying
At the end of a bright summer’s day (summer’s day!).
His comrades had gathered around him
To carry his fragments away.
The crate was piled up on his wishbone;
His Lewis was wrapped ‘round his head (his head!);
He wore a spark plug in each elbow;
‘Twas plain he would shortly be dead.
Schweitzer produced a song sheet with the lyrics bold enough to read in the dim light, so Wellsey and I joined in the discordant anthem.
He spat out a valve and a gasket
As he stirred in the sump where he lay (where he lay!).
And then, to his wondering comrades,
These brave parting words did he say:
‘Take the manifold out of my larynx,
And the butterfly-valve out of my neck (from his neck!).
Remove from my kidneys the camrods—
There’s a lot of good parts in this wreck.
Take the piston rings out of my stomach,
And the cylinders out of my brain (his brain!).
Extract from my liver the crankshaft,
And assemble the engine again!’
The inimitable Ace with his playful character decided to lie on the floor mimicking the dying aviator, pretending to pull aircraft parts from his body, creating more jostling and laughter as he did so.
‘Pull the longeron out of my backbone,
The turnbuckle out of my ear (his ear!).
From the small of my back take the rudder.
There’s all of your aeroplane here.
I’ll be riding a cloud in the morning,
No engine before me to cuss (to cuss!).
Shake the lead from your feet and get busy;
There’s another lad needing this bus!’
Around three in the morning, we somehow navigated our way to our hut. Lying on our beds in silent drunkenness, Wellsey unexpectedly felt the urge to speak. “That song was a sobering end to the night, eh, Bob?”
I rolled on my side, facing the edge of the bed. “Yeah, I was thinking the same. Can’t get the tune out of my head, and the lyrics were haunting . . . so much reality in their meaning. The facing down of death . . . that ballad made me literally see it. What do you make of it?”
Wellsey got drunkenly loud, but as articulate as a school master. “What I think? Being an airman, being a squadron member, is like being part of any team, say cricket or rugger. Someone gets hurt, he gets carried off the field, attended to, of course, but replaced with another. The game carries on all the same. Being sorry for oneself is not on. A sense of cheerfulness is demanded as a way to keep the morale strong for the bigger cause—ya know, the need to carry on, to play the game.”
I sat up, fighting an alcohol-induced spinning, looking at Wellsey’s profile illuminated by the full moon that filled the room. “That’s well thought through, eh?”
Wellsey continued his inebriated but lucid enlightenments: “That bold aviator who lay dying keeps the morale of the squad going. That’s his last responsibility. He makes sure the rest of us keep together, keep the ball rolling, that’s all. We face what we face, we fight for what we fight for, and if Go
d is with us, we continue. But the truth is that the squad carries on no matter if we live or die. We must! G’night, Bob.” Silence filled the dark room. “Bob? Hey old man, you awake? Ah, talkin’ to myself, am I?”
Chapter 30
September 1917
14 September, 1917
My Dearest Bob,
I received your letter today and was so warmed by the thought that you wake with me in your thoughts. You are on my mind throughout each day, which helps me to get through the long hours, but at the same time gives pain to not know when we will meet. Oh, when we do, it will be heaven sent.
The news that you are to be yet busier flying sorties over German targets is worrisome. Sometimes I look up at the black night sky and wonder what it would be like to sail through the air toward a distant enemy. I imagine you doing so, and I sometimes try to work out the puzzle of how you guide your aeroplane in different conditions, whether moonlight, starlight, or cloudy darkness. Why, I can’t at all imagine what it would be like to fly!
Life up here in Chilwell is edgy as expected but teeming with wonderful people, some single like me, some grieving for lost ones, and some just accepting the moment, but all of us pulling together as a team. Lord Chetwynd has done such a marvelous thing with building adequate dormitories and feeding us well. Do you know there are ten thousand working at the National Shell Filling Factory, a majority of which are women? That makes for a lot of female talk in the local pubs! It’s fun and refreshing to go out, but oh, I do miss dressing up for the London crowd.
I am excited to tell you that for my two days’ leave last week, I traveled down to see Daisy. Eric is still off fighting “somewhere in France”, but as far as we know, safe. Little Stanley is growing up so fast and is such a gentleman. Do you know he put out his little hand to greet me? And on hearing your name, he jumped up and down while saying “Uncle Bob, Uncle Bob.” You left him with such warm feelings, as you do others!
Well, I must sign off. A few of us girls are going down to the Charlton Arms for a whist competition. Oh yes, we girls have penetrated an exclusive man’s domain and some of us are really quite good at it.
Be safe, my darling.
Cissy
. . .
19 September, 1917
Dear Cissy,
I received your letter this afternoon as I was sitting down to again write you. The squad is still grounded due to terrible weather blowing in off the North Sea. After seven straight days, everyone is fidgety. However, tonight we have been ordered back up to the skies. I am quite concerned but take solace in the fact that our CO would not send us into more danger than we usually face. I know you pray we will all be safe.
It is quite funny that you mention whist, for to pass some of the time, we have been playing too, along with gin rummy. The CO keeps a close eye on our betting as he feels too much can lead to bad morale. I do see his point, especially when one loses!
It is wonderful news to hear Eric is safe. I often think of the infantry stuck in those trenches, especially in the kind of weather that is now upon us. I wish there were better news about an armistice, but the commanding officers on both sides appear dug in with their beliefs that the stalemate will break—in favor of their particular side, of course.
But I digress. I am happy that you could spend time with Daisy. I can only imagine hearing you two catching up on this news and that scandal. Friendships are such precious things, often taken for granted, but not in the current troubled times. Our individual sacrifices make us sure to cherish what is dear to our hearts. And I am flattered that Stanley loves his uncle!
Well, sweetness, do take care. You, too, be safe. You are dealing with some nasty materials, which I hope your supervisors understand well enough so as to protect you. I know you understand that, but I do worry.
Bob
. . .
While watching Hardy and his crew push the Fee out of the hangar, I noticed the blustering wind lift the starboard wing and then ease off, gently rocking the craft in periodic gusts. The atmosphere was currently dry, but reports all day from the coastal weather station had alternated between dry and wet conditions with wind warnings.
Looking upward at the fast-moving clouds against a darkening sky, Sam commented that once airborne we would be carried quickly over the lines to our target. He intended it to be a helpful comment, but it made me mindful of the extra effort it would take to make the return. I would be watching our petrol supply with extra vigilance as flying into strong westerly winds would make the Beardmore work longer and harder than usual.
Sam and his crew ensured the Fee was shipshape—pistons turning over in their usual rhythm, propeller snug in its bearings, and wing fabric fastened against its ribbing. He had seen me gaze up to the windy conditions and would leave nothing to chance. I was just thinking about Wellsey, who had been quite some time in the Ops Room receiving final orders, when he came strolling across the field.
The usually calm Frank Wells had a look of determination on his face, but it changed to a smile as he approached Sam and me. He explained that there had been a heated conversation in the presence of Major Christie about conditions, but eventually the pilots had acknowledged the need to get up over the night’s target. This was to be a trade-off between bad weather and supporting our ground troops in the current offensive. In a show of support, Captain Tempest, whom we knew to be a rising star in the squadron, volunteered to be our wing commander.
We had clouds between three thousand and four thousand feet on the way out. It remained dry, but visibility was challenging. Being last in the roster meant we would learn from those ahead of us. For the journey over the lines, I kept sight of the distant wing lights of the Fee flying in front of us along the Lys River, then crossing over Armentieres, where the lighthouse could be seen a few miles away at Locre, our crossing point.
The thought of attacking enemy billets at Rumbeke and Hooglede was unnerving. Thus far we had bombed industrial plants and aerodromes, targets that did not house as many Hun soldiers as would be resident in sleeping quarters. While the military mind saw them as just another enemy target to be taken out, the thought of destroying so many lives at one time with a few bombs weighed heavy.
Yet I was in this. I knew what answer I would give to the question of what I would do if I were instead the enemy ordered to bomb France or England. Indeed, the Germans had done just that, except they included civilians.
We avoided the searchlights of Menin and Courtrai amid a sudden worsening of visibility through dank haze. Ground landmarks were now all but hidden, so as we dropped to twenty-five hundred feet, we relied on compass and time/distance to the target.
Heading northeast at seventy miles per hour with the wind was smooth, yet the filmy blackness of the night surrounding us was eerie—black above, misty sideways, and murky below. Our red-hot exhaust must’ve looked like a comet when viewed from the ground. I kept watch over the side for landmarks, but in the mist, none were obliging. In addition to poor navigation, we became aware that, although dressed in our warmest flying gear, the wind-boosted slipstream was creating extremely cold conditions. “Take her down, Wellsey. We are in vicinity.”
I turned to face Wellsey, nestled in front of the hot Beardmore radiator, and in the dim illumination saw his comforting smile. “Copy that, old man!”
We dropped to eight hundred feet where the billets at Hooglede ought to be, but had difficulty finding them. Our lead machines should have been over, placing the Hun on defensive. But here it was quiet. All lights were extinguished. Sailing through the quiet, dark canvas was ghostly, but then I heard the familiar rat-a-tat of a machine gun in the distance, its faintness growing louder. Then, the telltale sign.
“Tracer bullets, Wellsey! Ha! We got ‘em! Go around a second time, same bearing.”
I twisted my head and shifted my body around as the aeroplane made the tight turn, then craned in the other direction, refusing to lose sight of where I remembered the target to be. I then saw two other aircr
aft in the sky near us also circling, now in behind us observing our activity for guidance. The distinctive silhouette of the Fees instilled me with confidence, for even if we missed the target, our bombs would light the location for those that followed. Wellsey did not bother to cut the engine since the enemy knew we were right there on top of them, and we would want to climb out fast after bombs were dropped. “We are lined up exactly, Bobby. Give ‘em hell when you want. Nerves of steel, now!”
I could see the red tracers again, threatening to catch us or any of the Fee’s vulnerable engine parts. I couldn’t release too quickly, had to have steady hands, needed to fight back the urge to let loose. I managed to stay the course.
I could just make out the dark outline of buildings and tents as we came screaming in at the target. I pulled the release levers again and again to ensure all the pills dropped as planned, hearing each one rumble off the rack and away from the aircraft, imagining them guided down by their little spiraling propellers. We were up and away, but as I looked back, I could not see any obvious damage, just the explosions themselves.
I leaned over the small windscreen and grinned at Wellsey. “Fair target for the others now!”
“Well done, Bobby. We’ve done our bit tonight.”
“Yeah, the big work now is to get home in this bloody wind.” With the sheets of rain picking up amid the ceaseless gale, Wellsey decided to drop south to follow the Lys River, even though that placed us directly over the probing Menin searchlights. I crouched down as we battled forward, struggling to read the map under torchlight and directing Wellsey with finger points on a southwest heading. After a while, I saw blurred lights ahead.
I scrambled off my knees so Frank could hear me. “Menin, it has to be Menin, which means the Lys is coming up portside. From there we can run straight down to Armentieres and home.”
We managed to pick up the Lys, but the wind was severely hampering our progress. At times, it seemed as if we were standing still even when stressing the Beardmore at thirteen hundred revs. Sitting in the front was miserable with little to do but look out for enemy activity, albeit unlikely. With no windscreen and no protection from the blustering wind, driving rainwater streamed across my goggles. My flying suit was drenched, leaking into my underclothing in places. I battled the wind to keep my head above the lip of the nacelle when suddenly the sky lit up.
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