He looked pained, a rare display of uncertainty. “Fluid on my seat, Bob. Can’t quite make out what it is, where it’s from.”
The main petrol tank was below us, so fluid on the seat meant that was not the problem, a relief. In that critical moment, we both looked up at the reserve gravity tank in the top wing. Wellsey showed alarm. I must have as well. If it had been hit, a vapor flash from petrol spilling onto spark plugs would engulf the wing fabric in flames.
My pulse quickened, but my mind was clear as I thought through the situation, rejecting thoughts of having to jump from a burning aircraft. Seconds seemed like minutes while I stared up at the top plane with empty blackness beckoning behind, taunting us to join it. As my gaze followed the struts down to the cockpit, I glanced at Wellsey, then behind him. In one of those moments not understood let alone explained, I knew I was staring at the problem: the Beardmore’s radiator!
I pointed, but Frank just looked puzzled. I yelled, spluttering out the words, “The radiator! The Beardmore’s radiator!”
As Wellsey stared at me, I jabbed my finger into the air in front of me. “The fluid, it must be water.”
He removed his glove and brushed his finger against the seat, bringing it to his nose. “Ja, no smell. It’s water, old man. Christ, the rad’s shot through!”
I let out my breath, feeling relieved, but then realized a leaking radiator couldn’t be good. “W-what does that mean?”
Wellsey shrugged, back to his composed self. “Fuck, I don’t know, but let’s get the hell home.”
We planned to make a straight run over the line, ignoring any Archie in our way. We had no choice. The engine was already running hot as water slowly leaked from the rad. As the storm’s effect increased, I had this irrational thought that perhaps its bitterness would have a cooling effect to keep the Beardmore running. With the machine bucking violently at times from gale-force winds and driving rain, it was impossible to look at the map, so I kept a keen watch for the Lys instead.
In time I made out the lake that formed part of Armentieres, knowing its source was the Lys River, our path home. Fighting against the gale coming hard at us, I was able to use compass and time to determine our distance to Trezennes. But that would only matter as long as the engine continued to help propel us there.
Wellsey bellowed, “Water holding, but temperature’s up more.
Distance?”
“I make forty miles, maybe forty-five minutes in this gale.” I hollered against the clanking of the engine and the howl. “Fuckin’ winds are a curse. In this squall, we could miss the lighthouse at Locre.”
“We have what we have,” quipped Wellsey.
I retorted, “Without Locre, we have little chance.”
“Understood. But we stay the course or face doom. Meander in these conditions, we could end up back over the line.”
I knew I was sounding concerned, perhaps panicky. It was one thing to be in the pilot’s seat with the belief of being in control. But to be up front in a gale with nothing to do except watch and wait was unnerving. Human nature was to control things, to use intellect to manage against peril. I forced myself to keep alert, at times standing straight up into the oncoming wind, supported by my Lewis gun while scanning each side of our small craft. We were being tossed about in the manner of a trawler caught in a North Sea squall. Anxious trembling was detracting from my will to stay warm, but I had to keep focused.
I could feel the engine struggling to propel us forward. The pistons were starting to miss, losing their natural purring. My mind was racing through many questions: How long could this craft keep going? What happens when a radiator runs dry? Could we safely force land? What would POW life be like, even if we survived a landing? Minutes seemed like hours. Although I knew checking my wristwatch would not quicken our progress, I kept looking, kept wishing for time to advance faster.
I couldn’t stand the wait. Conscious of short breaths emanating from my stomach, I sounded shrill. “All right back there, Wellsey?”
“Struggling. Water near boiling; gauge pointing up against its stop.”
I leaned over the low windscreen, making myself heard. “I make twenty miles out. Hit-and-miss river guidance is blotted out by driving rain, thick mist, but I can pick it up often enough to confirm we are on—”
Suddenly, the aeroplane bucked wildly, and the engine gave an angry loud bang.
“Fuck! Wellsey, wh—”
Frank offered a tentative smile. “She’s not happy, Bob. Water boiled away. Oil smells burnt; pistons pumping in its boil.”
“How long before the thing just melts away?”
“Fucked if I know, old man. Keep pushing the limit, whatever that is!”
I momentarily stood there looking backward behind Wellsey for any sign. Of what, I’m not sure, but I felt that by watching I could will that propeller to keep revolving, to take us home. Eventually I turned around to refocus on the ground below, looking for any landing opportunity. Mist obscured a clear view. I decided to pull the scrunched map from my Sidcot pocket, not caring at this point if it blew away. With the help of my torch, I found the lake at Armentieres, and with a frozen finger, followed the Lys to Aire. It was a guess, but there appeared to be farms and fields that might suit a forced landing.
Kneeling upright to again look over the side of the nacelle, relief washed over me as the mist cleared ever so slightly to reveal a welcome sight. The subtle straightening of the river where it met the canal, that very canal Hardy and I had sat beside a few weeks past. The Aire Canal! I jumped up and excitedly faced Wellsey. “The Aire Canal! Turn to port, follow canal, and descend to eight hundred. Wingtip lights on!” I barked out orders and directions in my excited state.
Wellsey sat there composed, only a slight smile giving away his cool demeanor. “No lighthouse, old man?”
“No idea how we missed it; don’t care, Frankie! We’re home, we made it!” Whether it was my excitement or that he himself was awash with relief, he chuckled, then broke into a full-on laugh.
When I was sure we were over Trezennes Aerodrome, I pressed a flare through the chute and quickly looked over the port side, then the other. What a sight, what an ecstatic feeling, to see the ground light up, the flare slowly descend under the guidance of its little parachute. Through the rain, familiar ground.
I was pointing left and yelling, “Still to port, Wellsey, keep turning.”
I could feel our turn. I watched the ground below, but my euphoria faded. No flare path, no aerodrome lights, no welcoming glow at all. But then Wellsey’s loud but gentle reprimand brought me back to reality. “Bobby, a little haste before they think we’re enemy.”
I realized I had forgotten the signal light, the landing request. I was breathing excitedly, but what was I thinking? Once the red Very light was propelled into the rainy sky, the flare path lit below us. We were not yet landed, but relief continued to rise within me. But then I turned and realized the Beardmore was silent.
“Wellsey, wha—”
He was struggling with the controls, trying to keep the craft balanced. “Engine seized . . . no prop . . . can’t circle; got to land this bucket on a straight drop. Wish us luck, Bob. We fucking need it.”
I felt my elation melt away as I thought about coming this far in these conditions only to die on our own airfield. We were to land without the leveling thrust and controlling balance of the propeller. My mind shot back to the crash on our first takeoff together.
The night sky was violent, but in the eerie silence of our aircraft, I could hear the rain hiss as it hit the melting Beardmore, no longer able to offer us comforting power. The whistling of the rigging did nothing but add to the tension. I felt like my head would explode, racing with ugly thoughts. Wellsey was totally concentrated, but I knelt up front, tormented.
A sudden drop out of the sky could see the 650-pound engine slam on top of us, mashing us into the ground. Landing without power could flip the machine over. I was terrified.
Still,
Wellsey managed a sideslip, keeping the front up and lowering the ailing machine toward the lit path. Flares whipped past as we touched the grassy field; we bounced upward ten feet, then twenty or more before slamming down again. The third bounce drove our machine straight down onto itself, buckling the undercarriage, a distinct crack as the wheel struts collapsed. Somehow, I hung onto the side as the Fee slid sideways on its belly out of control along the pathway, leaning to port, the lower plane digging into the rain-slicked field. Coming to a stop, we both sat there stunned as relief washed over us.
The air mechanics were all around in an instant. I felt arms in behind my shoulders lifting me up, while others took hold of my legs, easing me down off the mangled craft. The hissing sound of the Beardmore under the pelting rain spat out in the darkness, its unique death knell. They managed to lift Wellsey out. He was jammed tightly into the crumpled cockpit. Frenzied activity all around made us aware of the pending fire risk.
Stunned but largely unharmed, we sat upright in the Crossley tender on the way to the Casualty Clearing Station, where someone handed us each a flask of whiskey. The medic and nursing sisters looked us over, wiped grime, oil, and sweat off our faces, then cleared us for good health. Major Christie strode in, a frown on his face.
“You gents have a good flight?”
“We brought your old Fee back with all the parts you entrusted to us, sir,” Wellsey said while using his sleeve to wipe a whiskey spill from his lower lip. “Although on inspection you may find a few of them, ah, remodeled.”
I was surprised he had the gumption to respond back to the major with an equal dose of facetiousness, yet Christie laughed. “I earned that, Lieutenant Wells. Tempest tells me you two did very well with your second sortie in spite of conditions. I congratulate you, and I daresay we are pleased to have you returned safely, if shook up. Not so for Harmon and Stedman, or for Archibald.”
I interrupted a gulp of malt to ask, “What about them, Major?
Not bad news, I hope?”
“No sign of either machine, I’m afraid. Even under these conditions, threat of a retaliatory bombing of our aerodrome is forcing us to remain dark. Difficult on the return, I suppose. Possible they put down in some other ‘drome.”
Wellsey and I exchanged looks expressing our mutual feelings. That could have been our outcome, or worse. The storm had risen quickly, taking us all by surprise. Christie was under tough orders, and although protocol prevented him from expressing his feelings in front of his flyers, his anguish was clearly evident.
“That is rough, sir,” I said. “God, I hope they are safe.”
“Well, there is nothing you lads can do, any of us can do for the moment, so finish your whiskey and get some rest. There are plenty of ground troops searching for them. Sleep well.”
Chapter 33
September 1917
After waking in our sun-filled room, I lay about, thinking over the previous night’s events and about how Lady Luck had extended her hand once more. I appreciated the discretion to loll around in bed until we felt like facing the new day. Well, until a sharp rap on the door disturbed my reflections. I rolled over to see what urgency was visiting.
Wellsey murmured something unintelligible as he pulled a pillow over his face. Ace was at the door, pale as though he had not slept a wink. He was agitated, wanted to talk, so I swung my legs over the side of the bed and sat up. With deep emotion, Ace explained there was still no news of Harmon and Stedman and wondered when we last saw them. I recounted the horrific time we had wrestling ourselves away from the surprise machine-gun fire, but I did recall seeing their aeroplane behind ours as we climbed away. I had no idea what had happened to them after that except to speculate that they had faced the same intense tracer hate.
Wellsey pushed the pillow to the side of the bed and sat up, a little groggy. He looked at Ace compassionately, knowing he was a close friend of Stedman’s. “I’m sure the Germans would have reported by now if they had force landed behind the lines.”
Ace wrung his service cap in his hands as he stood there looking downcast, listening to Wellsey.
“The order of attack on the roadway last night was that Tempest and Barry led, followed by us.” Wellsey pointed to himself, then me. “Harmon and Stedman were in anchor, so there was no one behind them to see what happened. That is the hard reality, I’m afraid.”
I was struggling for comforting words but could only come up with the facts. “We had no time to stick around as we were badly shot up. We barely made it back. Perhaps in this case, no news is good news. Let’s hope for the best.” I knew my words were not coming across in the supportive way I intended and lacked the comfort Ace was seeking. Yet I connected with his feelings as they were the same as mine were for Perce. The unspoken despair was that the missing flyers had been shot down and were prisoners at best.
Ace remained discouraged. “Well, I was just wondering if you remembered seeing anything of them.”
“Remember,” said Wellsey, “conditions had deteriorated with visibility almost nonexistent in the gale. And with the intense German defense, we were not able to go back to—”
“I know, Frank, I do understand.” Ace was sad, but we were at a loss to provide the comfort he sought. “I understand survival was at stake for all of you. Still, I’m dreadfully worried for Alex. Terrible loss if he—well, the two of them have gone west.”
I looked over at Wellsey, who gave a slight nod in response to my hidden shoulder shrug. I tried to draw attention subtly away. “What of Archibald? Any news?”
Ace perked up a little. “Oh yes, Arch didn’t make it back, but he’s all right. He forced landed near here in a farmer’s field at Saint Venant. Managed to get to an army field post and ring the ‘drome in the wee hours. Lucky bloke, especially since he was flying solo.”
“Well, there you go; that gives hope for the others. You know, Ace, as difficult as this is, we must be positive. Our squad loses few compared with the fighter squadrons. I know that doesn’t make this easier, but losing comrades, well, is reality.” I gave Ace as big a smile as I knew how, but he still looked dreadfully busted up.
Ace merely nodded and said without conviction, “Oh, CO wants us assembled in the Ops Room at 1400 hours.”
We pulled ourselves together while the aching in every bone known to our Creator reminded us of our landing debacle. We managed to tie our ties and head over to the mess for some grub.
. . .
26 September, 1917
Dearest Robert Courtenay Pitman,
Hello, my Bobby. Forgive me for addressing you above with formal salutation. I wanted to see your name written out in full. I admit to you here and now that I repeat your name as I go about my factory work, driving my little train and willing away the constant clanging of machinery. Thinking of you, thinking of the time we spent together, of the sadness we shared that spawned the happiness we now share in our letters—well, that keeps me going. I know you cherish our closeness as much.
Oh, darling, as I rattle on I think about your last letter, so sad I felt for you and your squadron facing that wicked storm. It’s enough that you must fight off the heinous Hun, yet more intolerable that you boys must be placed at more risk.
Oh no, you do not bother me with your grief, my lieutenant. On the contrary, I am flattered that you treat me with equal deference as you would your male friends. Try not to feel distressed; you need all of your energy to maintain your courage. I know I couldn’t possibly put myself in your place to understand what it is like to fly into battle, but I try. Do not let doubt enter your mind as you need the pluck to carry on and win the war for us. All of you boys do.
If I can be of any help to you, it is to be your guiding light, to provide encouragement. Think of the happy places you’ve enjoyed. Think of a walk in Finsbury Park with birds chirping and children playing under billowy clouds, or perhaps a picnic on the grass alongside the banks of the Serpentine on a warm summer evening. You will enjoy these simple pleasures soon
. That works for me when war gloom seems overwhelming over here in our homeland.
So don’t be dismayed. You are fighting the good cause, for civilization and for liberty, for all of our citizens. Take the courage you say I inspire in you and build it higher and higher. And come back to me. I know you will.
Yours,
Cissy
. . .
The silhouette loomed large as Major Christie’s frame emerged out of the afternoon sunlight through the doorway into the dim room. He looked weary and strained yet retained a level of focus that most would have quickly lost under the severe demands coming out of London’s war office. “All right, officers,” he bellowed.
Silence fell over the room as Christie addressed the previous night’s nasty sorties and thanked the flyers and staff for their effort. His stressed demeanor made him sound a bit patronizing, but I took him as sincere. My interaction with him when arriving at the aerodrome had given me a glance into his soul, his kindness reflected in the way he handled my medical digression.
Christie broke out of his solemnness with a brief smile. “I’ve just heard that Harman and Stedman have been located and are being transported back to the aerodrome.” A roar went up across the room. To lose crew was bad, but not to know their fate seemed worse. I looked over at Ace, who was brimming.
“Let this be a hard lesson: we don’t take shortcuts.” We stood rigid as Christie explained Harman and Stedman took undue risk by returning on a shorter, unknown heading. In the gale, they not only missed the mark but veered off in a southerly direction before being forced down fifty miles off course near the Ardennes. Things could have been much worse, but I couldn’t help wondering if Christie might have taken a similar action in those circumstances.
“Now, brass has been pushing us hard.” That was the first time I heard the major admit to the stress he was receiving from above. As I surveyed the room, I saw that other officers held the same understanding look, a few nodding. “Allow me to review the current state.” The room was silent as Christie expertly stitched together events, which had either unfolded or were in the course of unfolding. German submarines had bombarded Yorkshire on the English coast, and their aeroplanes had bombed London by night. A developing revolution in Mother Russia was creating low morale among their soldiers, and they sometimes refused to leave their trenches to fight.
Seeking Courage Page 22