Seeking Courage

by Gregory P. Smith

“All right, I’ll guide us along the rail lines as best I can. We need to drop the Coopers before too long. I’m not happy to land with them attached.”

  Wellsey took his hand off the controls, offering a gloved thumbsup. “Check, old man. You find the target, then let’s get home.”

  We maintained low altitude in the building storm, keeping below the cloud bank that was obscuring the previously clear sky. I scanned the ground, watching the tracks as their steel periodically reflected random light. As a blade of moonlight broke through parting clouds, I saw movement ahead and a flash of brightness. My mind struggled to process what I saw in the brief moment.

  I stood up off my knees and turned to yell over the windscreen, “Ahead! I’m sure that’s a train!”

  He shook his head. “Nothing from here, Bobby. Nothing I see on the tracks.”

  “Yes, for an instant it flared red. Must have opened its furnace door. Lower, Wellsey, drop us down. It’s down there and won’t hear us coming from behind!” We dropped lower, and, in time, there it was. We soared out of the blackness onto the rear of a long cargo train. These were the opportunities our major had spoken of. Redemption for tonight’s missed opportunity.

  At five hundred feet we slowed to pace the train, the wind acting as a brake. With hands on both release levers, I waited patiently, the wetness gone as the blood had absorbed into my gloves. Not too quick. We have one chance, must hold back. We crept up on its back, seeking its vulnerable neck, the rear of the locomotive and its fuel car. Patience. Now! I pulled each lever once, twice, and again until the Coopers dove onto the back of that iron horse. I had a good feeling. I knew we had struck since the explosion was louder than our bombs. Wellsey acted quickly, rising up away from the impact as I signaled for us to go around to view our attack, aware of the danger of retaliation but too curious not to.

  I released a parachute flare to light up the area, and there it was—the train hissed as steam escaped its burning corpse, lying there with its front completely destroyed. I stood up, grasping the Lewis with both hands, awaiting machine-gun hate that would surely come up if we overstayed our visit. But none came.

  I turned to face my pilot for an instant. “Wellsey, what a team! Let’s beat it back to safety, fight these winds.” He raised his right thumb in agreement and took us home.

  We pulled ourselves out of our wet Sidcots. I headed to the infirmary, where the nursing sister bandaged my hands, shaking her head in wonderment at how I’d made such a mess in the folds between my fingers. I had elevated expectations as I headed to the mess to meet up with Wellsey and to kibitz with the others.

  I met a somber tone. Eerily the same as our last sortie out of Trezennes, this first out of Ochey ended with a cloud over our heads. Flyers were again missing, this time four. Archibald, Archie, who had experienced a forced landing just back in September. Greenslade, poor Greenie. Tonight was his first sortie since engine failure near Trezennes. Would luck hold again for these two flyers, or had they realized their ultimate fate?

  And then there was Jones, our new lieutenant on his maiden sortie, now missing. As was his observer, Godard, who had just returned from extended leave since August. Surely not all four of our fine squadron had gone west tonight?

  . . .

  16 October, 1917

  My Dearest Bob,

  Oh, how I fretted when I didn’t hear from you, but today I received your last three letters all at once. I now understand that your squadron moved to a place called Ochey and the mails got delayed. I think it was a good idea for the RFC to acknowledge that since the enemy knows of our squadron locations, our civilians should as well. I attended the local library to look at a map of France, and it was exciting to be able to see where you are. Well, at least on a piece of paper.

  I trust you are f it, my dear, as fit as can be expected in war conditions. You keep up a brave front in your letters, but I do worry for you because of the responsibilities you must endure. And yes, I, too, wish to see you as soon as possible! I have taken little leave lately in the expectation that I will have banked time to spend with you when that does happen.

  Life at the factory is bearable. I covet my driver’s position even when a few women scorn me. Some accuse me of using my femininity to savvy favors. Well, they are wrong and are typically the same women who threaten to strike over poor wages and who cause trouble by getting in arguments at the pub. I don’t think it fair that women are paid only half that of men either, but striking is not the answer. Do they not think about how the much-needed bombs are to be made, about loyalty to our soldiers?

  No, I prefer to hold my head high and work well, which adds cash to my pay packet. “Performance bonus” they call it. Well, I’m not at all sure what I will do when this dreadful war is over and I return to London, but at least I have been able to sock away some savings and have acquired some very useful skills. Have you thought recently about what you will do after the war, Bob? Return to Canada, I suppose.

  Oh, an exciting activity happening here at Chilwell and at some other munition factories is the formation of a women’s football team. And yes, I am trying out for a position! It’s so thrilling and makes twelve-hour work days more bearable. As you can imagine, there are many more girls trying out than positions, so I work hard at it. They say there are enough teams to perhaps form a league, and there is also talk of a Munitionette Cup.

  Well, my darling, I reluctantly must go, but I look forward to your next letter. And do keep working for leave. I hunger to see you.

  Cissy

  Chapter 36

  October 1917

  The black cloud of anxiety that cloaked the officers’ mess reflected the rain clouds that hung over the aerodrome. Losing four colleagues in one evening was devastating, and it showed in the faces of the flyers. I felt an urge to get out for a walk. Perhaps the wind and rain echoed my mood in the same manner that sunshine would entice a cheerful stroll. I gathered Wellsey.

  “I am having trouble, Wellsey. With my feelings, I mean. Fear for our lost boys makes me obsess about our fate. Over and over I think, what if it was me and you? It seems cowardly to put my worry ahead of our missing.”

  “I’m not an expert on feelings, but I know when I am in the presence of a coward. You are not a coward.”

  “How do you know? How can you tell? Do you have these thoughts as well?”

  “Seems not as deep as you, old man, not so much. But a coward does not move willingly into genuine risk, does not accept the real possibility of being killed. You do, we both do. We do that every night we are up there flying over enemy lands.”

  I kicked a pebble along the field. “I see. I understand that, but my emotions sometimes trump reason, clouding my thoughts, making me crazy with fear, with—oh, I don’t know.”

  We walked on. “If we were cowards,” said Wellsey, “we would not line up our Fee toward the enemy, fight off inner demons and stomach cramps to dive at their throats as we did last night on the back of that train. That, old boy, is not cowardice.”

  “Hmmm.”

  Frank grabbed my arm, stopping our stroll for a moment. “You are a precision machine yourself, operating that Lewis and lining up those bombs, yanking the hell out of the bomb lever at the precise moment, don’t you see that?”

  I looked at him, blessed to have his perspective. “Yes, I do keep focused under stress, on what needs to be done without thinking consciously about it. Even as a little boy, I would think ahead, kind of an instinct about how not to fail.”

  We turned back in the direction of the mess. “That’s your survival technique. We all act differently, yet we get things done in the manner that we are comfortable with and in support of each other. That is the courage which creates success. Never doubt that, for doubt will blind you to courage.”

  “Thank you, Frank. I guess I just needed to be reminded.” He shoved me into a massive rain puddle as he casually strolled around it, and with me now sporting flooded flight boots, we made our way back to the mess in a much-l
ighter mood than when we left.

  “Where have you two sweethearts been, eh?” Major Christie seemed in a cheerful mood given the loss of four men.

  “Taking a breath or two of the French air,” said Wellsey as he smiled.

  “I have news of our missing flyers, which I’ve been explaining to the others here.”

  “Oh, what say, sir?”

  “All have been accounted for. Jones and Godard force landed near Saint-Avold, straight into enemy-held territory. Taken as POWs, I’m afraid.”

  “But they’re alive and well, sir?” I asked.

  The Swiss Red Cross confirmed that Jones walked away from the crash, but Godard was reported injured, now in the hands of the Germans. Archie and Greenslade were hit west of Saarbrücken, forced down and immediately surrendered to the Hun. As Christie spoke, I thought about the prospect of being confronted by hostile Germans on the return from a bomb attack on their facilities, about how they would react knowing that some of their brothers would have just been hurt or killed. I silently wished them well, as prison camp would test them to the extreme.

  . . .

  25 October, 1917

  My Dear Cissy,

  How are you, my darling? I received your letter in which you sound full of life, full of energy. I think that perhaps working in a munitions factory is not really your life’s desire, but as it supports the cause and gives you a sense of accomplishment, then I am so happy for you. But I know you are destined for bigger accomplishments. I feel poorly for you with having to deal with others’ jealousies, so try to ignore them and surround yourself with those who bring you affection.

  My day is brightest when I receive your heartwarming letters. Thank you for being such a devoted and caring friend. It sounds like you are having a bit of fun pursuing football in your spare time. That is exciting, and I have fun imagining you in football boots and trousers, when you were in heels and lace the last time we met!

  My family write regularly, so I am able to keep up with news from Canada. Things are well for them, although they are subject to food and goods rationing as much as you are in England. They, too, have many women working in factories for the war cause, although my sisters are fully employed in their own pursuits, which they sought before the war broke out. The Pitman women are strong ones! You would get along swell.

  I remain devoted to securing leave, as I desperately wish to see you, yet the weeks go by without its granting. Thank you for thinking ahead to bank a few days’ leave as they will be precious. I sense my time will come in due course since the weather for flying is becoming seasonally poor. I do trust the brass will see to it to allow us to stand down a bit for the coming winter.

  Until then,

  Bob

  . . .

  Before posting it the next morning, I read and reread my letter, as I did not wish to sound too determined. I wanted Cissy to know of my need to see her, to speak with her, but at the same time I did not want to portray a sense of urgency. I remained conflicted between my growing love for her and concern over betrayal. I again felt ashamed to even think she would lie to me, yet my emotions continued to drive my need to hear her tell me she was innocent. There was nothing my intellect could do to overcome that emotionally driven feeling, even though I knew all possible reason pointed to innocence. And I knew that if I sounded or behaved accusingly, I could destroy our relationship and lose what I really felt: love.

  I heard a loud yawn behind me. “Ah, Pitman,” said Wellsey, “why is that electric light radiating across the room?”

  I turned in my seat. “Good morning, Frank. Not very often I greet the morning before you, eh?”

  He sat up. “What the devil are you doing hunched over like that?”

  “Finishing some paperwork.”

  Swinging his legs off the bed, Wellsey chuckled. “Aha, letters to your girl are now just paperwork, old man?”

  “Just an expression. You ready for some grub?”

  The mess was busy as flyers awoke early, there being no prior night sorties. Discussions were lively due to the announcement of a new ground attack near Passchendaele, where Canadians relieved the exhausted Anzac Corps. The push was to gain higher observation positions and win drier land in preparation for the coming winter.

  Listening to the chatter again took me back to thoughts of a rain-drenched, cold and miserable infantry knee-deep in mud, waiting for the whistle to send them over the top directly into the aim of the Hun’s deadly machine guns. How many men—boys, mostly—would give up their lives, lose limbs, sight, or their mental well-being in order to gain a few feet of better positioning, ready for more slaughter in the springtime? The horror of it—the lives lost, the distraught families, the waste—was deplorable.

  Feeling restless, I withdrew from the table to walk about the mess, thinking it unfortunate the rain kept us indoors. Taking pleasant pulls on my pipe, I moved slowly around the adjacent reading room, glancing at the various front pages posted across the wall. With so many flyers receiving newspapers from their home countries across the world, we always had an interesting display. I passed by the ragged page that was ripped from a Punch magazine when something caught my eye. I retraced my step and focused on “Take up our quarrel with the foe, To you from failing hands we throw, The torch . . . ,” reading it with new reflection.

  The late Canadian military doctor Major John McCrae beseeched us, ordered us through his burial service poem “In Flanders Fields,” to continue our fight for freedom even with individual sacrifice. Taking a contemplative draw from my pipe, I stared at the quote, realizing it was for me a sign that, although there was more death to come, victory was imaginable.

  “Ah, there you are, Bobby. I guess you heard?” Wellsey asked as he entered the room.

  I turned away from my reflections. “No, I stepped away.”

  “Well, no surprise that we are not flying again tonight. At this rate we won’t see many sorties before the end of the year, I’d say.”

  “You may be correct. We may be stuck for a while.”

  “Or granted leave, old man, or granted leave.”

  We remained grounded but kept on alert through to the last day of the month, which we were to find out was indeed the squadron’s last sortie of the year. Wellsey and I joined nine other aircraft to lay down bombs on the Völklingen Steelworks just over the French-German border near Saarbrücken. The factory was brightly illuminated from some distance, presumably shedding caution after many attack-free nights. One after another we swooped down in the customary silence, pounding their infrastructure right through their belated reactionary blackout.

  I decided to concentrate on the powerhouse, where we dropped our 230-pounder. Smoke and machine-gun fire prevented a clear observation of the results, but we were sure the enemy’s electrical power was disrupted. Swinging west for the return, we saw a stark difference from our incoming flight: the whole Saar Basin was now in blackness, which confirmed the Hun had developed an emergency communication system, perhaps born from fear-filled defensiveness. While we were ordered to remain on alert for possible bombing opportunities through November, the month was quiet, as the four-month battle at Passchendaele had mopped up for the winter stalemate. Movement of German troops and transport had quietened down as a result. For most of 1917, the Germans had avoided attacking heavily defended British and French aerodromes, but that changed. In the middle weeks of November, the Luftstreitkrafte targeted our aerodromes, hitting Ochey on three occasions. When the lighthouse alerted us to their approach, we would take refuge in the nearby woods. There was little damage and no lost aircraft, but the terror effect was profound.

  PART III

  Chapter 37

  December 1917

  In spite of bitterly cold Channel winds, I was content to stand at the prow of the ship overlooking our progress toward the great white cliffs rising vertically from the blue waters. I had been entertained during the afternoon watching destroyers circling our troop ship, now silhouettes against the lights
of Calais behind us that twinkled in the late-afternoon dusk. From Dover I would take the train into London to lodge with Mrs. Clarke for a couple of days until Cissy’s leave commenced. Her supervisor was most gracious in allowing her a few days’ family leave on top of her banked days, even though I was not at all the brother she said was visiting through to late January!

  The wind whipped at my greatcoat as I thought about what was to come, nervous but looking forward to a harmonious reunion. I knew there would be emotion; there had to be considering our history. Her letters were so caring, so delicate, and so full of energy that I felt things would go smoothly. I just needed to get that gnawing question behind me.

  Darkness fell as I reluctantly made my way inside the ship, loathing the idea of sharing the stateroom with three other officers. Not because I did not like them—I had exchanged polite introductions when I dropped off my bag—but rather dreading the inevitable swapping of war stories. I knew I had to return at some point, even if to offer a perfunctory good night before retiring. But not quite yet.

  I packed my pipe as the bartender quietly placed a whiskey on the table. I nodded a thank you as I glanced at the front page of The Telegraph, which offered a detailed analysis of the Passchendaele battle with its recent two hundred thousand British and Commonwealth casualties. The packed page also contained various articles about Lenin’s withdrawal from the war and his freeing up of much-needed resources to feed and control the Russian people. A good omen was the increased support of the Americans, finally declaring war on Austria.

  Sipping a second whiskey and well into the newspaper, I turned to a long article by a British war correspondent who was traveling through the Western Front. In addition to the reference to the German bombings of our aerodromes in November and the continued air attacks on London, the chap did a good job at describing the nature of the war to this point. While his editors closely censored what could be printed in the British newspapers, I was struck with the level of detail printed about the comparative difficulties in prosecuting the war at both the Somme in 1916 and Passchendaele a year later. Both battles were extensive in duration, horror, and casualties. As the ship gently bumped the dock in the early hours, I was already up and dressed, bidding my bunkmates adieu. With my duffel bag over my shoulder, I stepped lively through the dimly lit deck to the gangway.