In spite of the heavy rains that created unsuitable conditions, our infantry had been making headway in the Ypres Salient.
“Yes, flyers, the Hun is stomping up to our front door at home, and we have all but lost our Russian ally. The Americans are on their way, but it will take time for them to fully deploy.”
Christie had always made it known that these briefings were open, that the men were free to probe. Bean stepped forward. “How long before they arrive, Major?”
“I am not privy to that, Lieutenant, but I’d be surprised if they were not a dominant ground force within a few months. 1918 could see significant change in the prosecution of this war.”
I wondered how they might be an influence in our bombing drive, how they would integrate. “Major,” I queried, “will the Americans be bringing their own aircraft? Will they add bombers to our forces?”
“Well, Pitman, that’s sticky business. The US doesn’t have bombers to speak of—a few fighters, perhaps. Where they will bring strength is with fresh, well-trained flyers. And we will welcome them.” I appreciated the candor but wondered if there would be conflict if the fresh American flyers pushed aside British and French officers, yet there was no denying we needed their help. Perhaps the Americans would be most effective with their ground forces. Christie continued, “Study your bearings, know your navigational aids, and stick to known practices. We wrote off three aircraft last night. Let’s keep ourselves safe.”
In the sobering moment it took the officers in the Ops Room to reflect on the fragility of both men and machine, Captain Tempest moved to the front of the room. “No offensive tonight. Poor weather and battle fatigue are grounding us. Spend time with your mechanical crew and get rested.” The reprieve was an unexpected gift.
. . .
The Pitmans
426-8th Street East
Saskatoon, Saskatchewan
Dominion of Canada
26 September, 1917
My Dear Family,
Papa, Mama, Ethel, and Hilda, I think of you all the time.
It is approaching two years since I enlisted to fight in this war, but it feels like I’ve aged twenty.
Thank you for continuing to send me copies of the Saskatoon Star, keeping me current with local events. Harvest festival in England was last week, reminding me that Thanksgiving will soon be celebrated in Canada. I just need to close my eyes to see the miles upon miles of golden wheat fields, I suppose now just harvested.
Remember, Hilda, that in the September before I left we would roar across the open prairie, you on your little pony trying to keep up. I would race ahead, only to turn back to fetch you or to await your catch up. We would laugh, and then I would cajole you into accepting another race, which you would also lose. But you were always a good sport and learned from those experiences! And afterward, I would take you to Delaney’s for one of the new ginger ales. You must look very grown up now that you’re seventeen and working at the oil company!
I won’t carry on too much, but the memories help me get through this war and give me pleasant thoughts, a safe place in my mind. Since earning my observer’s wing as an RFC flyer, I have so far been across the lines on one bombing sortie or another for a total of eleven times. I won’t pretend that each one isn’t daunting, but I do have the comfort of knowing that each night I return there is a warm bed waiting.
Our CO, Major Christie, gave us a long briefing during which he sounded upbeat about our prospects. We are pushing the Germans back in places, although they are still firmly rooted in France. We do our bit by punishing them when they bring troops forward and by bombing their factories and airfields. We will continue to do so with the spirit of bringing peace to all of the democratic powers.
Your loving son and brother,
Bob
Chapter 34
September 1917
In the final week of the month, we resumed our bombing attacks in the Wervicq and Menin areas in a continued effort to thwart German troops from reinforcing their Ypres Salient ground effort. Wellsey and I felt these raids were purposely subdued, likely a strategy by Christie to rebuild 100 Squadron’s confidence and esprit de corps.
But after a couple of nights attacking those easier marks, we were ordered to a more difficult and dangerous target. For the first time, we were to venture farther east of the front lines into longheld German territory to attack Hun infrastructure and stop its use against our ground troops and innocent citizens.
Army intelligence and air reconnaissance had identified the Gontrode Airship Sheds near Ghent as housing a large number of zeppelins and Gotha bombers that had bombed Paris and London many times. We were ordered to rain terror down on those sheds, to pound them into oblivion. Night after night we were active with little sleep, but the squad shared a sense of euphoric victory as we flattened aircraft and sheds with relentless tenacity.
The last day of September was a beautiful Sunday with sunshine splashing across the grassy airfield and glistening through the red and gold leaves of the nearby woods. Through the stubble of harvested wheat fields, Hardy and I returned from a walk to the canals, his Genevie remaining close to her papa’s estaminet these days.
Sam left me in front of my hut and wandered off to coordinate the servicing of the Fees for the night’s sortie. I sat on the small steps, leaning back against the doorframe with the southern sun caressing my face while birds chirped above me on the peaked roof. I thought of Cissy, dreamed about how we would love to share a moment like this. We had only been with each other during winter when time together indoors was enduring, but summer moments were meant for deeper memories, which surely must come. I ached to be with her, to feel the wisps of her hair against my cheek as she laid her head on my shoulder. I closed my eyes and thought of her tender skin as my hand brushed her arm and the feel of her lithe body as we walked arm in arm. Although I had never felt this way before, I knew I was in love.
Suddenly yanked from my reverie, I heard the South African singsong. “You in love, chappie? Just look at that dreamlike smile.” I opened my eyes to a grinning Frank who was nothing short of mischievous.
“Perhaps, Wellsey. Perhaps in love with life itself, eh?”
He chuckled. “Ja, my friend. I’m just snaaks about this weather, you know. Shall we go poke and prod our Fee?”
The orders were for the 100s to head out over Locre Lighthouse for an all-out punch on the Gontrode sheds. I released my rancor about involving citizens in war since the Germans were violating that in spades when they terrorized women and children. A punishing attack was appropriate; we knew 101 Squadron would be following our charge later in the night, which meant there would be thirty-three aeroplanes involved.
We flew over the lines under a bright full moon, where the trenches were a visible reminder of our infantry. Knowing firsthand the mud, rats, lice, and prolonged struggle of wits gave me a momentary shiver. Following the Lys River led us to the Scheldt, where we would turn north to approach Gontrode from the southwest.
Within minutes, I saw explosions flash in the distance as our forward aeroplanes dropped their bombs. Searchlights scanned the darkness as Archie exploded in puffs of black. I knew this was going to be a hot one. I felt good.
Wellsey signaled for my attention. “We’ll glide to eight hundred and drop our 230.”
“Right. See there ahead? That’s Bean and Ace flashing their wingtip lights. They are dropping in ahead of us. We’ll follow.”
Frank cut the engine as I kept watch, grasping the spade-like handle of my Lewis, ready for any threats. Suddenly, the forward machine flew erratically, zigzagging back and forth over the target as Archie shells burst on both sides of his Fee. I yelled, “By God, Bean’s under attack! We’ve got to concentrate on that shed.”
“Let’s get ‘em, Bobby!”
Our top and bottom planes gave out little shudders of protest as their fabric strained in the wind, wires whistling and struts creaking as we descended through the night air. I knew our protection�
��the only shelter we had against Hun Archie—was surprise, to swoop down out of the darkness in spite of their knowing we were somewhere out there. As seconds ticked away, I alternated my focus between defending with the Lewis and attacking with our bombs.
Even as we remained in obscurity, Archie was coming up thick as the Germans were anticipating our squadron’s continued attacks. To direct Wellsey, I pointed to the southwest corner of the giant shed where Ace had evidently just scored a hit, a fire lighting the surrounding area, giving us a clear target. It also gave the enemy a clear view of our Fee.
Having moved their attention away from Ace’s fleeing machine, searchlights locked on us. Kneeling for protection but looking over the nacelle, I was half blinded by the massive lights that were dangerously close. Yet I could clearly make out the fiery shed, enticing us to blast it to bits, to raze it once and for all. The intense danger spurred me to action, focussed for a direct hit as I yanked the lever to release the large bomb. As I turned my attention to the Coopers, my brain registered vibration as the Beardmore sprung to life. Wellsey was getting us the hell away. As we began our climb, I released the small pills over the airfield itself.
But just as we were climbing into the black night, two searchlights crossed, holding us in their grip. I stood up, pulling the Lewis with me, pointing downward and pumping bursts into their glare, moving the gun across the arc as we swung up portside to get away as quickly as we could. A shiver of relief flooded through me as the lights turned away to focus on the next attacker. I barely had time to think about their fate when Wellsey bellowed, “Fuck! Bobby, turn around! Fire at port—lower plane, I think!”
Hearing the panic in his voice, I turned around quickly but could see nothing. He did say port, didn’t he? That wing wasn’t visible in our banked turn. I released my grip on the Lewis to kneel and, against all logic, allowed my weight to shift me into the portside turn, gravity pulling me against the low nacelle where it would be easy to tumble out into the night.
Looking intently to focus on that side, I saw it. Brightness had spread to illuminate the whole lower wing. I looked back and yelled, “Damn, you’re right, but I can’t see flames! Level ‘er so I can get a look.” With a rush of momentary relief, I felt the aeroplane straighten itself, allowing me to relax my grip.
We knew this was perilous since a burning aeroplane meant sure death, either by burning in situ or by jumping away from the flames.
My mind raced with thoughts of parachutes with which I could jump to safety. While provided for those in observation balloons, they were forbidden to flyers lest courage be squandered. I wish we had them now! Fighting back panic, I continued to search the wing, determined to find the cause. Every second it did not break into flame was a blessing. Survival instinct consuming his thoughts, Wellsey did the only thing he could: he pointed down with his middle finger as he plunged the little aircraft into a steep dive. Grasping the Lewis handle with one hand and the nacelle with the other, I peered down to scan the moonlit landscape for a landing.
Fixated on the glowing wing, I hung on, praying we’d land safely, my mind racing with thoughts of pending disaster. I was barely aware of the sweat escaping from the edges of my leather helmet or my heart pumping anxiously through my whole being. Would we crash? Would we burn? If we did land so far behind the lines, would we be taken prisoner or shot on the spot for having just rained terror on our very captors? Yet I allowed a tiny sliver of hope to rise from my churning stomach as the thought of landing seemed possible.
Hurtling downward, my sight was steeled on the ground, ready to give Wellsey the sign to level out at the right time, a race to land before flames erupted. His altimeter would give him our elevation, but he wouldn’t be aware of any hills before we smacked into them. I was so focused on observing the ground that I didn’t see the sudden change at first. It was only when Wellsey screamed, “Bob, Bobby, we’re clear,” that I looked at the port wing. I felt the change as Wellsey leveled the aircraft. The flame was gone, mysteriously gone.
I peered portside to see that the once-bright wing was just as dark as the others. Wellsey throttled up to regain altitude. I looked over the nacelle and, with the most incredible relief, saw a parachute flare drifting downward on its illuminated journey to the ground.
I faced Wells and swore in sheer relief, “Ah, fuck! It was one of our parachute flares. Bloody hell, that was absurd!” I exhaled heavily, expelling all the grief of the past few minutes.
Wellsey leaned forward and yelled above the accelerating engine roar, “You mean to say that nasty little flare was lit while still on the wing?”
“Yes, I saw it drifting toward the ground. Enemy fire must have hit the damn thing and set it alight!”
Wellsey cried out, again loud enough to be heard above the fully throttled Beardmore, “Ohhhhhh Lordy! Let’s go home. We are survivors, my dear man.”
I stood up and leaned back against his cockpit, turned my head toward him. Heavy breathing made speech impossible, yet we managed to laugh in relief.
. . .
Beginning at the entrance, then fanning out across the room, voices dropped and silence prevailed as Christie strode into the mess. Unusual for the time of night. “Officers, I regret to inform you that Second Lieutenants Bushe and Colbert failed to return to the aerodrome. We are doing our level best to locate them.” He nodded and abruptly left with his adjutant trailing him.
The reaction was mixed. Some retreated into silent reflection. Any of us could have force landed or been shot down. Others talked quietly in small groups, while still others carried on playing games of whist or rummy. But the room was quiet as everyone said a silent prayer for our two colleagues.
Our little group talked, musing about what might have happened. After all, it was a bright, moonlit night with little wind and no gale to blame. The intensity of the raid could have resulted in many outcomes for our flyers, but one team distinctly remembered them climbing away from the shed after their bombs dropped. We knew there was little we could do and that army intelligence would not rest until they determined the outcome, however grim.
It had become expected that, with so many active 100 Squadron flyers now operating increasingly dangerous night raids, there were bound to be losses. None in our close group knew Bushe or Colbert very well, but we did know the grief of losing friends. “Another grim reminder that not all of us will make it home, Bob,” said Wellsey. “Not all of us will get back to our loved ones.”
I stared at Wellsey, assessing his mood. He was seldom this somber. “I suppose, but we mustn’t let ourselves get run down. We really are forced to take every day as it comes, to live in the moment so as not to worry over what may or may not come in the future.”
The reason for his gloom became evident. “Right, but that’s not easy when one has a wife to provide for.”
Taking the pipe from my mouth in a contemplative gesture, I thought about that for a moment. I wondered if there was more will to live if one had a spouse or whether the desire to survive for the sake of oneself was equally important. Wellsey needed support at the moment. “Quite so, but your comment makes me think we all have reasons to survive—desires to fulfill and achievements to attain regardless of marital status.”
I remembered having to sit down with my father on a hot summer’s day to hear one of his forced life lessons. With birds chirping and kids playing in the streets, he wanted me to know that a man needs to build his nest, to make something of himself before entering family life. He awkwardly explained in a cold and mechanical manner that seeking a heart’s desire, a one true love, before earning those responsibilities would make them later unattainable.
I didn’t often pay much attention to my father’s prophecies, but this particular talk resonated. Perhaps it was hidden frustration at being pulled away from my friends at the time that heightened the memory. Or perhaps it did make sense— well, until this war changed everything. I thought of the flipside—for a man on the front lines to achieve success but t
o die loveless was a dour thought.
Frank continued his thought pattern: “Do you think this war has stolen so much time and energy that your plans are rattled, or do you think you will slide right back into your studies and carry on?”
“I dunno, Frank. I’ve so concentrated on surviving that I’ve lost my sense of the future, of how it will be possible to go back and simply sit down at a desk to read law again. You?”
“Ja, I think about it. I think about how my vrou, my wife, exists on my measly war salary. So I force myself to think about a return to the clerking job I was pursuing, building my career as an insurance professional.”
I put my hand on his arm and gave him a supportive smile. “You know, I was envious of you lads who have wives back home. When I was in hospital with shell shock, I wished I had a sweetheart to write to, so lonely and depressed I was then.”
Wellsey put his hand over mine. “Yet you have your Cissy now; you have your sweetheart. You just said to take each day as it—”
“Oh, I know. I do that. But when thinking of the future, where then does our relationship lie? I can’t just take her over to Canada. ‘Hey, Papa, hey, Mama, look who I brought back from the war.’ Well, can I?”
Wellsey moved his hand to my cheek and gave me a fond pat. “Why not? More than anything, this war has upended all chance of attitudes and beliefs returning to how they were. Things have changed forever. Unlock your wishes. You—we all deserve it.”
“We’ll see. Funny, I know I’m in love with her, but we haven’t spent much time together. So far it’s been a long-distance affair, just characters on a page.”
Seeking Courage Page 23