Wellsey leaned as far forward as he could and yelled, “What the fuck?”
Kneeling, I held the wind-whipped map in one hand and the torch in the other while I struggled to determine our location. I flipped my goggles up on my forehead to see properly, then turned and shouted, “Rough guess says we are over Wervicq, hostile batteries. Enemy must’ve been alerted by our earlier attack, perhaps by telephone. Amazing they can hear us.”
With the suddenness of the searchlights, I was vigilant, forgetting my numbness, instinctively knowing we had to remain and fight. Fleeing into the clouds could be fatal. I stood and, with fully extended arms, directed the Lewis gun straight down, pumping bullets five at a time into an unseen target. I was unable to stand upon the edges of the nacelle to increase the downward arc as it would have been suicide in such slippery conditions. I only had the handle of the Lewis to support the weight of my body, trying not to slip on the rain-soaked floor. Wellsey instinctively knew to keep the machine steady—no sudden moves—with the courageous nerves required to fly through puffs of Archie.
I slid in the wet oils of the smooth spruce nacelle flooring, losing grasp of the Lewis as I crashed to the floor. Damn the fastidiousness of the British mind that everything had to be perfect. Would it have been weak to have installed rough, unfinished planks that would allow a firmer footing?
The wind was howling as Wellsey shouted encouragement. I managed to first kneel and then stand to grasp the handle of the Lewis. I fought to hold firm, to stop the gun from whipping sideways, and to get it placed downward for a fair shot.
With small bursts, I pumped a full drum of bullets down into those lights, but they held us. As we ran through the gauntlet, their glow bounced off the low cloud ceiling, illuminating our little aeroplane from above as well. We pushed on, painfully slow into the wind and the pelting rain, expecting to be hit at any moment. As I knelt to change the Lewis drum, Wellsey was able to zigzag and sideslip our machine in an effort to wrench away from the menacing glare. He leveled the machine, but I stood too quickly, again losing balance. I slipped, wincing as I slid down on one knee, the Lewis swinging freely of its own accord, again whipped by the wind. I momentarily thought of the other Lewis, but realized it was only useful to shoot rearward. I staggered to my feet, reaching out over the nacelle to catch it, grabbing but missing. I slipped on the wet pine-tar flooring as my head bounced off the side of the nacelle, necessity causing me to ignore it. I heard the Beardmore throttle down as Wellsey took one hell of a chance by lowering speed to allow me to gather myself. Up on my knees then standing, it worked. I took hold of the handle and heard the engine rev up again. I pumped more bullets downward. After what seemed like hours in the Hun crosshairs, we freed ourselves by turning sideways across the wind into blackness, our nighttime friend. The balance of the journey back over the lines was not as perilous as over Wervicq, but the pace was unnervingly slow. I reflected on what had happened, suddenly gripped by the thought of falling over, out into the blackness and completely helpless. A disturbing sensation emanated from my groin, a feeling of exposed vulnerability forcing me to change my thoughts to those of getting home. Yet that physical feeling remained as those overriding panicky thoughts drove sickness up from my stomach, which I discharged into the slipstream.
Hearing the engine’s roar, seeing the red exhaust, and feeling the power of the thrust confirmed progress, which eventually settled me, even though forward movement remained painfully slow amid driving sheets of rain. Bitter coldness took over as I sank low in the nacelle, my back to the pilot’s cockpit. Wellsey kept checking on my spirit by patting me on my right shoulder, which I acknowledged by squeezing his hand. He was positioned cosily in front of the heat of the radiator, just inches from his backside. It spirited me to know he was safe and able to maintain control.
We pushed on until I saw faint light. “The lighthouse, Wellsey.
Starboard!”
“Give ‘em what they want, Bobby.”
With gloves off, I fumbled in the darkness for the Very pistol cartridge, feeling the correct rippled design that indicated red. I loaded and pulled the trigger of the wide-barreled gun, momentarily lighting the sky as the charge soared skyward. Our go-ahead response came quickly, opening the gate for the run to Trezennes.
Over the aerodrome we flashed code with our wing lights, a request for a lit flare path to guide our landing. I asked Wellsey if he might have got it wrong, and he flashed again. Nothing but darkness was the answer. I had been anticipating our landing and now felt colder due to the delay, but then I realized perhaps the ‘drome had been under attack. While we circled overhead, we watched our reserve petrol gauge and realized we had minutes before being forced to land. Suddenly the flare path lit up, went out, and lit up again. Something was wrong, but we had to get in. Facing west into the wind, the aircraft bucked like a prairie stallion as we reduced altitude, the vibration so strong I was sure it was about to break apart. At fifty miles per hour, the treetops and the huts disappeared behind us at a lightning pace. We bumped, catapulted straight up into the air, and then came down hard again. Surely this baby could stand the abuse; surely we weren’t going to come to a very nasty end.
Yet somehow Wellsey throttled down and kept the machine on the grass, rolling forward. With the path remaining lit, what we witnessed was alarming—two machines smashed, completely obliterated beyond recognition, pieces lying all around. It became clear that we had been held back because aircraft remains were scattered across the flare path, making it impossible to put down. We pulled up to the hangars and jumped from our machine, our souls filled with anxiety, dreading very bad news of the crew.
Major Christie held a focused, commanding presence. “Right, Wells and Pitman safe. Who remains?”
“Kemp and Scudamore, sir!” snapped his adjutant.
“Quite sure they are about to come in just now, sir,” I interjected. “Saw another Fee circling the ‘drome as well.”
“Very good, Pitman. You two file your report. We’ll take it from here.”
“What of the crew who were in the crashed Fees, sir?” asked Wellsey.
“Alive, Lieutenant Wells, alive. Captain Tempest was unhurt and is in the Ops Room, while Captain Barry and Lieutenants Carpenter and Reece were retrieved from their wreckage and are now in the hands of the Royal Army Medical Corps. Due to the blustery conditions, we anticipated trouble and had a motor ambulance on standby. Good thing, too.”
I wondered why, if he anticipated trouble, we were even flying tonight, but I kept silent. Wellsey read my mind, perhaps my body language, and shot me a warning look. “Bless them. I wish them well, sir.”
We filed our report and knew enough not to immediately inquire about the fate of the damaged machines since tensions were high. It was only 2000 hours, but it felt as if we had been on the sortie for a full night. We struggled out of our wet flying clothes, put on tunics, and dashed into the cold, wet night to the officers’ mess.
Shortly Kemp and Scudamore entered, joining the rest of the flyers. The questions asked around the hut were the same—why the devil were we out there flying in these conditions?
The mess fell silent as Major Christie joined us with a confident roar, “Eleven of you ventured out, eleven returned. I am relieved. Barry, Carpenter, and Reece are damn shook up, but no physical damage, no bones broken, and no internals. They are to remain at the clearing station overnight. I’m afraid we’ve lost three machines. Unfortunate, but c’est la guerre.”
“Sir?”
“Yes, Captain Tempest?”
“I’m speaking for the lads here. Some are wondering why a sortie was undertaken in these weather conditions and on a nonindustrial target, sir. It seems—”
“Yes, Captain, I understand and appreciate everyone’s concerns. Army HQ is unfolding a major plan that required our air support. Gentlemen, have a drink and get some rest. It will not be long before you understand the larger initiative, just not tonight.”
After the major le
ft, the reaction to his words ranged from grumbling to outright anger. Captain Tempest attempted to reason with the ire, but some persisted. Tempers flared and emotions ran high. Every officer in the mess understood military authority, which contained the situation for the most part. Yet some were willing to speak out.
“I think you-a need to speak to the major,” said Lunghi. “You-a need to tell him we all have family and don’t need to be fucking-a sacrificed this way.”
“Second Lieutenant Lunghi, I understand your frustration, but as the major said, all our flyers returned tonight,” reasoned Tempest. “And he also reminded us that this is the way with war.”
“But tonight was just stupid-a. All of us could have gone down in the wind or gone off course to force land in the dark with no petrol.” Officers began to gather around, many siding with Lunghi, frustrated at the seeming ill regard for our safety.
“Now, look,” said Tempest as he scanned the group, looking with purpose at many of them, “you and the other flyers did God’s work tonight, finding your target and returning. It was a bad situation, but I ask you to consider that Major Christie is under intense pressure from Command.”
I could see Lunghi softening a bit, his face a little relaxed as the alcohol no longer directed him. Captain Scudamore stepped forward, leading him by his left arm as he murmured, “Charles, Charlie, let’s go outside for some air. Let’s call it a night and begin again tomorrow, what say you?” The group dissipated as Lunghi slowly nodded. Finishing what was left of our drinks, we all eventually drifted to our quarters for needful rest after a stressful night.
. . .
20 September, 1917
My Dearest Cissy,
Darling, I am sorry to bring you grief, yet I need to vent, and my family would not understand as they only receive milder news. I realize it appears I am saving them from anguish and using you for that selfish purpose. If I make you feel that way, please forgive me.
You see, last night a great number of aircraft were sent over the lines in an attempt to destroy enemy dormitories. While that itself is disturbing, it can be justified as a necessary act of war. What is troubling is that we were sent over with full knowledge that a wicked storm was blowing in, yet we were sacrificed for the good of the cause.
We are thankful that no lives were lost; however, machinery was written off. I am not permitted to disclose to what extent, but the wreckage was bad. There were times on the return from our target that I felt like giving up, as cold, miserable, and fearful as I was. It is uncanny to think an extreme situation could cause one to abandon caring. Yet a simple thing like feeling Wellsey’s hand on my shoulder was enough to bring me around. Some of the boys remain hopping mad this morning, and although I understand their feelings, we need to rally together as a squadron. I do believe Major Christie is a kind soul underneath his army façade, but that he is being pushed beyond all expectations. He needs his flyers’ support.
Yet perhaps the dismay we are feeling should be directed at the brass and, for that matter, at the politicians who are ultimately enabling them? Have they now become as careless about human life as to willingly sacrifice soldiers with little regard? I know even English citizenry are beginning to question the validity of this damn war. Yet I also know that we are fighting for our freedom against a nasty dictator, to push back crushing German tyranny. Oh, these are complicated and troubling times.
Cissy, I am so lucky to have you as my friend, my intimate friend who is as beautiful inside as out. Thoughts of you warm me to the core and bring me out of the despair I sometimes feel. You give me courage.
Until your next letter,
Bob
Chapter 31
September 1917
We were sitting on the step of my hut. Hardy slid his plate to the ground to let one of the stray hangar dogs finish up the balance of his egg and chips, after which we watched it happily trot across the field in search of some other treat. “These are the moments when I miss home,” he mused. “Just seeing the in-themoment joy of a dog. Even if it is a French dog!”
“What’s that mean, Hardknocks?”
Hardy tugged at his oily coveralls, thinking through his comment. My question had caught him off guard. “Oh, just thinking French dogs should carry a little attitude, but they are just like English dogs, don’t you think? Slurp up anyone’s leftovers.”
I laughed. “Yes, always scrounging, never tiring of food, making us feel like it’s us they come to see. But that reminds me of people—French, Germans, Canadians, the whole lot. At the end of the day, we are all quite the same, what with our needs and wants and wishes.”
Hardy looked at me with a frown as he was not inclined to deep discussion. “Better sortie last night than the one before, eh?”
“Yes. Weather still violent at times, but at least Christie held us back until there was a clearing period.” In spite of the major’s difficult position with respect to the prior disastrous sortie, he showed empathy by ensuring conditions were acceptable the previous night. “We got up and down just fine. This morning our reconnaissance reported twisted track in the Wervicq area.”
Hardy turned to look at me. “Ha! They’ll have that repaired in no time, I suppose. Your machine was still warm when I took my shift at 0600 hours. Late night?”
“Yeah, we were last to return, 0540, I think. Is she in shape for tonight?”
“Almost, just waiting for the wing dope to dry. You took some machine-gun fire, a few rips in the fabric to patch up.”
I shook off the alarm. “Ah well, you’re the man for it!”
“You all right, Bob? You sound a bit unsettled this morning.”
“I’ll be all right, just having a bit of a blue time. Happens to the best of us. Weather spooks me, I suppose.”
I lit a pipe as we spoke of the coming onset of winter and how the poor weather would become more frequent. While most of 100’s flyers were annoyed at being sent up in treacherous conditions, Hardy and I agreed that we’d all best get used to it. The only reprieve would be when the generals decided to dig in for the winter stalemate, yet even then it was possible that air attacks could continue.
“As I’ve said, you have the best in Frank Wells. If anyone is capable of surviving violent skies, it’s you two as a team.”
Hardy was offering too much credit, typical of his nature. “Bloody kind of you, but you are part of our team, my friend. Without you boys on the ground servicing our machines as well as you do, well, I don’t want to think what might happen.”
“All right, I’ll take that. Remember you have Cissy to buoy you too—isn’t that right? Perhaps if you write to her—”
I perked up, feeling the smile spread across my face. “Done that.
Done that many times over!”
We strolled over to Hangar No. 2 as dusk laid itself across northern France. Conditions were much improved, as was my state of mind after talking things through. Wellsey was already at the Fee, walking its circumference with Hardy’s team while other flyers were descending on their machines. I suited up as this was to be an early sortie.
Hardy climbed up on the port foot step and yelled, “Bonne chance!” over the noise of the Beardmore, giving Wellsey and me a thumbs-up before jumping down to remove the front wheel blocks. Standing in front of the machine, he gave Wellsey the all-go. The other mechanics let go the wings, and we were down the flare path and away.
The night sky was full of activity with sister squadrons, reflecting a massive coordinated initiative. Crossing the lines at the lighthouse, we were quickly over Ypres. We kept an eye on Tempest and Barry in front, who led the way to our target, the Menin-Ypres road. At times we could see enemy movement but were not given clearance to drop bombs. As we approached Gheluwe, however, Tempest signaled with a Very green. We were free to attack.
Tracer fire rose from the ground as I assessed for maximum effect. Troops and transport were lined up along the road. Bottlenecked, they were bloody sitting targets! As Tempest dove, I saw Huns s
catter into any possible cover, fleeing his threat. Looking over each side and then in front as Wellsey descended toward the road, I needed to quickly seize a target. No time to defend against the tracer coming at us. Thankfully, there were no searchlights out on the country road.
And there it was, a particularly narrow section of road with open fields on each side, exposing an enemy who had fled seconds earlier, now with no cover.
I yelled behind me, “Steady, Wellsey, steady . . . Keep at eight hundred feet.”
Machine-gun fire was streaming around but somehow did not get a fix on us. I released just ahead of target, feeling the 230-pound heavy clank away from the rack underneath. I immediately pulled on the secondary levers, setting free the twenty-pounders. Our objective of ripping wide holes in the road, trapping the enemy with no ability to move their heavy equipment—lorries, cannon, and weaponry— was successful. Yet I knew the night’s job wasn’t finished. Wellsey climbed up out of tracer range. “I’m circling back so we can strafe them with Lewis fire.”
It dawned on me what Wellsey instinctively knew: if we didn’t keep up the pressure on the Hun, he would pick himself up and keep moving toward his objective of obliterating France and England. “All good up here in front. I’m going to give ‘em hell. Fly over and leave it to me.”
As we approached the road with its newly made craters, I opened up the Lewis with constant bursts, ignoring the possibility of a jam. Tempest and Barry were doing the same. I fired down onto the road, arcing the gun back and forth over men, horses, and machinery, at times standing up to mow down everything we flew above. Somehow, we managed to evade a serious hit from their guns even as we made a second pass.
Seeking Courage Page 20