As we completed the mission and flew away, I realized I had unloaded three drums. I didn’t recall reloading; I had been in a trance, grasping at the need to do my part in putting an end to this struggle. The thought rolled around in my head that we were trained to fight this way because that is what war had become: mechanized slaughter.
I sat down and leaned back against the cockpit framework, breathing heavy, sweating in spite of my Sidcot. My pulse raced as we made our way toward the lines. A couple of times Wellsey tapped me on the shoulder as a signal of support, but I’m sure he also wanted to see that I was alive. I knew we would be commended for courage under fire, but the thought somehow felt shallow.
I was alert for enemy retaliation, perhaps aeroplanes from one of the nearby Jasta squadrons, but my mind could not shed thoughts of the chaos a few miles back. There would be injured men screaming for help as field medics attended to as many as they possibly could, prioritizing those they could save. There would be dead infantry, leaving behind mothers, fathers, sisters, girlfriends, and wives in Germany, Austria, and perhaps Istanbul. Dead horses, maimed horses, and mules with broken legs. What a mess, what a bloody fucking mess this whole business was.
Yet those thoughts were unlikely to be shared by some of the others at the squadron, who might protest that striking first and fast was essential. That there was simply no alternative when facing an enemy as determined to obliterate your life as you were his. I remembered a career soldier who had said we were not the top species on this planet because we were nice; as humans, we were wired to kill when survival was at stake.
I was so deep in thought that Wellsey had to control the aircraft while leaning far forward to rouse me when we crossed the lines. “Hey, Bobby. Yoo-hoo! Pitman. Anyone home?”
I scrambled to my feet to shoot the Very pistol as we approached the lighthouse. On landing, we were not surprised to learn that another sortie had been ordered. After all, it was a beautiful night for flying, wasn’t it?
After warming sips of cocoa, we were airborne again by 0130. I was thankful Wellsey let me be without any focused discussion, talking only about aeroplane operational issues like refuelling and makeshift wing repairs. He definitely had an intuitive mind, knowing when to engage, what to say, and what not to say. I appreciated that.
On the way out I thought of Lunghi, who had committed himself to the infirmary after the first sortie that night. Everyone knew he was feeling the stress; I had certainly seen it when he left the mess the other night. Symptoms of shell shock were evident, an infliction of fatigue increasingly affecting flyers. Perhaps a few weeks in Blighty and an assignment to Home Establishment were in his future. Once an airman becomes overwhelmed, a recovery back to flying was improbable.
The skies remained crowded with aircraft as both 100 and 101 Squadrons completed second sorties. It was a godsend that the Germans did not deploy their fighters to counteract our initiatives. We reached our target, Menin Station, and returned to Trezennes in good form just before 0400.
We struggled out of our flying suits in a state of exhaustion, put on our night clothes, and tumbled into bed. I was tired but not sleepy, and when I drifted off, would wake in a sweat, drenched with nightmares of war. Dreams of the menace were manifested by images of horror—falling over the nacelle, being burned by enemy fire, bullets slamming into me like Perce’s final experience—that kept me on edge. I lay there thinking about the night’s first sortie, about our “success.” Wellsey was snoring, not as shook up. From his cockpit behind me, he could not have seen the carnage five hundred feet below our Fee. But I saw, and it was I that faithfully prosecuted this new form of automated war, mowing down tens if not hundreds of souls in one sweep. Scything machine guns, lethal long-range artillery, chlorine-gas-laden artillery shells, and fearsome mass tank formations had all changed the face of war forever. It was easy to see that this was to be a race among nations to invent ever-worse instruments of death under a new discipline of military science.
In those wakeful moments I asked myself over and over if I had guilt. Never mind that annihilation was being done by all of us on both sides of the conflict. What mattered was whether I had committed an offense by carrying out destruction on behalf of my leaders. Did it make a difference if everyone was committing the same atrocities that were justified behind the veil of warfare? In the rising dawn I convinced myself that what we were all doing was validated and would continue to be until an armistice was declared. There was no other way for a sane man to feel about this; since the declaration of war on that August day in 1914, this was the reality of our abyss.
. . .
Bumping along the wet road was fine if one was in control of the handlebars, but for the passenger holding on, it was a challenge to stay seated. Still, I laughed heartily at every swerve Hardy took to miss the muddy puddles, which sent me unbalanced toward the wrong side of the Douglas. But he managed to keep us upright. I grimaced and chuckled as he hooted and hollered like a boy on a Ferris wheel.
It was such a fine September afternoon that we took a table on the front terrace of the estaminet and ordered a bottle of claret. The rain and wind that Major Christie had submitted to, finally grounding us for two days, was clearing away. But we were still not to fly, not yet.
Taking a moment to calm down after the wild ride, we contemplated our surroundings for a few moments, admiring the stateliness of the belfry at the end of the cobblestone street and the fountain in the square in front of us. Hardy broke the silence with small talk about my health, paying particular attention to the despondency I had been showing. I acknowledged my funk over the past couple of days, but I was feeling quite cheerful at the moment. What I liked most about him was that he had a direct manner when asking about sensitive personal issues while being most pleasant about it.
“I see your spirits are up, but you looked like a troubled tiger for a while, and it wasn’t just the rain getting you down.”
I smiled back at Hardy’s blue eyes, sparkling in the sun. “Yes, I was, although I’m not sure what a troubled tiger looks like.”
“Figure of speech. Are you going to tell me?”
“You already know most of the story. After the sortie a couple of nights back, my mind was left with the horrible images of men scurrying away from danger, from death by rapid fire. Bombing them does not seem as bad, but I don’t know why as it’s the same fucking thing!”
“Well, I’ve seen a lot of destructiveness in a lot of fighting, from the Maxim in the Boer to the Lewis in this war. Sure, the thought of a machine gun mounted to an aeroplane was unthinkable just a few years ago, but it’s become routine now.”
“That’s what bothers me: these weapons of destruction are now routine.”
“I know what you are feeling. Same as I did in the earlier parts of this war and others. You are a good man with a solid focus on right and wrong, and you are being asked to do things you wouldn’t in peacetime. Few would.”
“I’ve thought about that thoroughly and dispensed with any guilt for what I’m being asked to do, but this whole nasty business still leaves me feeling sad. For both sides.”
We debated the vagaries of war and its immediacy that had spurred some brilliant inventions, except for the irony of their purpose—effectiveness to kill. Some would likely be put to peaceful uses when the war ceased. Still, it was difficult to understand how such inventions as the Lewis automatic machine gun—used with high-speed airborne vantage—could possibly find peacetime uses. It was easy to agree that the means of warfare had changed forever, but the same principle of kill or be killed remained.
It was a beautiful afternoon with the sun shining down on our exposed faces, which constrained our discussion and kept it brief. I was describing the flyers’ black-feet initiation ceremony and had become so engrossed with mirth that I failed to notice the jolie f ille who had been filling our wine glasses and keeping the aperitif plate full. But not Hardy! On one pass by our table, I caught him eyeing her and she boldly eyeing
back with a beautiful smile.
I leaned in and waved to get his attention. “You listening to me?”
“Of course I’m listening. But I can do that and make use of my eyes, can’t I? Genevie is the oldest daughter of the tavern owner. Pretty girl, eh?”
I grinned with both palms facing up in a questioning gesture. “What? You know her?”
“I don’t ‘know her’ know her. Just the few times I’ve popped over here for a visit, well, we—”
“We what, Hardknocks?”
“We’ve gone for walks. Nothing serious, we just talked—well, tried to talk as my French is not good.”
“I can see you two have ‘talked’ all right. Sparkling eyes tell everything, my friend. Good on you, Sam. How does her papa feel about this?”
“Cautious. We’re allowed to walk over to the canal, but I know and she knows that every villager and farmer around Aire is watching. So we . . .” Hardy sighed heavily. “Well, just talk!”
“Sam looking for love, eh?”
“Whoa! Look at you—you and your Cissy.” I smiled broadly, proud that she was my girl.
“See? You’re grinning like the devil himself. And you ask me of love!”
It was great to kibitz with Hardy; he was a good friend who reminded me of the good things about life. After a time, we needed to report back to the aerodrome for dinner. He gave Genevie a couple of intimate kisses on each cheek, while those I gave her were a little more perfunctory. We raced off into the afternoon brightness as I clung to the back of his jacket.
Chapter 32
September 1917
The next evening presented clear conditions and a bright moon, perfect for flying. We arrived at the hangar to help Hardy and his team finalize the check of our A796. The squad was sending up seventeen aircraft, each loaded with one 230-pound and various four-finned Coopers, the agile twenty-pounder that was the first high-explosive bomb adopted by the RFC. 101 Squadron were equally equipped and coordinated their sorties with ours.
I felt the calming vibration of the synchronized pistons with Wellsey seated in his office and Hardy positioned on the ground waiting for the ground tech’s flash of light to signal our good-togo. I felt good, well rested, as I checked the swivel of both front and rear Lewises, their mountings secure.
As soon as the aeroplane in front gained altitude and disappeared over the hangars, the tower flashed our number. Taxiing out to the T end of the flare path, we gyrated into the wind. At about fifty-five miles per hour, I felt the ground cease to rumble, and we were off once again into the heat of war.
Through the moonlit night, we brushed past gathering mist on our approach into Wervicq station. On the way over, I reflected on my building confidence with these sorties. Anxiety, yes; angst, sure, but as my experience and skills continued to build, I became better able to manage the perils that accompanied any mission. Yet the trepidation of facing unknown dangers lingered.
Cutting the engine, we dropped to twelve hundred feet amid heavy Archie, but I maintained my concentration on dropping our pills, ignoring the threat. The involuntary fast breathing and the punching within my chest were both there—couldn’t be helped— but I leaned far over the front of the nacelle to get an eye on the lit train station.
“Hold on, Bob! Keep steady, old man,” shouted Wellsey from behind.
I waited, mentally calculating the distance and trajectory, anticipating a hit on the station and tracks together.
Damn! Enemy searchlights locked on us, making it difficult to eyeball the situation. Without the advantage of our descending from blackness, I had to guess at the correct angle. I yelled without turning around, “Here goes!” I pulled up the middle bomb lever to release the 230-pounder and then methodically yanked up the others to release the Coopers, four to port, four to starboard. With a clunking surrender from the rack, they were behind and dropping fast when I realized I had been holding my breath.
Expelling air from my lungs, I felt the Fee swing around. I grabbed at the Lewis, pumping rounds into the luminescent glare on the return over the station. We knew the ole bathtub was too slow to easily escape their grip, so the best defense—the only defense—was to turn into the light and dive. The going was precarious, and after leveling out over the station, Wellsey again drove the machine in a tight turn. “Lean, Bobby!” he demanded. With my stomach pressed tightly against the gun post, I forced the Lewis downward as far as it would extend. Ignoring the threat of a jam as I held the trigger fast, pumping rounds down into the blinding illumination. Breathe. Remember to breathe!
I shot out one light, which caused the second to momentarily waver. I had the curious thought that perhaps its operator was astonished, wondering how this Englishman could have scored a direct hit! Miraculously, he lost us in his instant of hesitation. I quickly kneeled back down into the nacelle, knowing that Wellsey would level out at full throttle to soar away from the danger.
I clung to the port side of the nacelle while sticking my head over to peer behind. Catching my breath, I saw a raging fire. It looked as though we hit the station directly, which added to the brash feeling from taking out the searchlight. Relating the news to Wellsey, he sported his infectious Cheshire cat grin. I smiled back at his confidence and tremendous instinct for survival. With adrenaline-filled bodies, we headed home to Trezennes.
With a quick refueling, we were back over the Locre Lighthouse at 2300 hours. Christie had ordered a few of us to return to raid the Menin area, particularly German transport facilities. We were one of three aircraft to join Captain Tempest on a strafing exercise over the Ypres-Menin road to interrupt the flow to the front. We were to again strafe infantry and equipment at high velocity. As we closed in, I checked my two Lewises while feeling my belly wrench and my pulse quicken, a bead of sweat trickling from my forehead down my cheek. Yet I was prepared, knowing what was expected.
We knew the Hun would be on alert due to our earlier sortie, so I focused on searching the sky for enemy aircraft, unlikely in the starlight. Something, or some thought, pulled at me, causing me to turn around. Looking backward in the direction from which we came, I peered between the top and bottom planes and could not believe my eyes.
Silhouetted against the subdued moonlight were rising towers, the bulging threat of cumulus clouds that were moving in from the coast. I waved at Wellsey with alarm, catching his attention. “Threat at our tail, and it’s ugly!”
He held his composure. “If it was threatening aircraft, you would be on the gun by now. What’ve we got?”
I swung my arms in a wide circle as if drawing the immense blobs. “Dark clouds stretching above us up to who knows how high, with a flat base low enough to bring more damn rain—looks like lots of it.”
Frank Wells wasn’t alarmed, seldom was. “We best get in and out quickly, old man. I’m peddlin’ this crate as fast I can.”
The threat of another rain-driven return to the aerodrome seemed at odds with the starlit night into which we flew, and the thought of flying back toward the storm nagged at me. We followed Wing Commander Tempest as he veered south before Ypres to pick up the road to Menin, Harmon behind us some distance. Tempest flashed his wing lights before extinguishing them, which we did for Harmon in turn. Tension built as we all knew we were upon the target.
Wellsey slowed the Fee and dropped level with Tempest at eight hundred feet, the ribbon of dark road rising up to us. Suddenly, a great flash burst ahead of us, followed by tracer bullets rising up in response to the threat. Tempest was climbing away as I steadied myself to pull up on the bomb releases, apprehensive. Being first, the Tempest bombs stirred up a hornet’s nest, so I knew we were flying straight into Hun hate.
I looked quickly back at Wellsey, who gave me a supportive thumbs-up. I held back, saving the release for the string of lorries I could see along the road, thinking how painfully slow we seemed to be traveling. Machine-gun tracer was slamming up at us, trying to find our altitude, not quite able to pin us down. Thank God!
W
e moved in closer, just ahead of the ground vehicles coming toward us, timing just about perfect. I pulled the lever up, then another and another, dropping our load to explode one after the other along the roadway. As the upward blast from the explosions reached us, ground machine-gun fire increased. It came from both sides of the road, perhaps hidden in the shrubbery. The Hun had quickly set up emergency nests after Tempest had attacked.
I grabbed the Lewis and returned fire, not sure where to aim in the dark. I began to panic as I realized I couldn’t defend both sides of the aircraft. Wellsey was softly rocking us back and forth, perhaps in an attempt to shake off the tracer, I wasn’t sure. My senses were keenly alert; I heard bullets ripping through wing fabric, yet I couldn’t possibly tell from which direction. I swung the Lewis from side to side and across the front of the nacelle, blasting downward in blind defense.
Just as my gun ran dry, I heard pings as bullets hit metal, bullets stopped dead. They had to have struck our only metal component, the Beardmore. Yet I had no time for those thoughts. That would come later. I had to control my breathing, to steady my hands as I fumbled with a new drum. I slammed it down onto the top of the barrel, hearing the click as it fell into place. I stood up again and rained down hate, not seeing any target, just pelting shots down.
With relief, I realized we were fast gaining altitude as Wellsey hammered on the throttle. Slowly gaining control of my senses, I turned to glance at him, at the same time noticing through the planes that Harmon was now descending on the roadway target, an unnerving scene as his Fee gleamed under starlight. I shuddered to think we had thought all along that we were shrouded in darkness when we were so clearly outlined in silhouette.
We had to make the run across the lines to the aerodrome. My mind turned to the weather, seeing the cloud mass looming in the night that we were now racing toward. I leaned over the small windscreen to work out the plan with Wellsey and saw concern, so rare from the effervescent South African. “You all right, Wellsey?”
Seeking Courage Page 21