“Go ahead, Bob, give your Cissy a hug,” said a beaming Eric. “Daisy told me all I need to know about you two. I can wait.”
I almost ran across the floor of the small room, tears welling up as I embraced her. After a few unabashed moments, we released as Cissy urged me over to Eric. I took his hand, then pulled him to me for another embrace, different, of course, from the one I had given Cissy. “Eric, I am surprised, so pleasantly surprised, to see you here at your home.”
“On home leave, Bob. Invalided with wounds. Afraid I lost a leg at Langemarck back in August. Oh, I’m doing all right. I’m just so happy my discharge from Le Havre was in time to be home for Christmas!” He hobbled across the room and back, showing that his wooden leg allowed ample mobility. “And I’m glad to be here with my Daisy and my Stanley, Bob. Damn happy!”
“I’m sorry, Eric. I admire your pluck. I know things could have been worse.”
“And indeed they are for many others, both men and their families. Now go and catch up with your girl. Daisy and I have a few things to do in the kitchen.”
Fussing with my cap between my thumb and forefinger, I turned to Cissy just as she was about to speak. “Well, Lieutenant, do I have to ask for a kiss hello?” Snapped out of my fog of disbelief, I embraced her tightly. “Whoa, fella! I need to breathe.”
I pretended to pout as if I were a scolded schoolboy. “Oh, sorry.
I’m excited to see you, and puzzled.”
“It’s simple: the factory is closed for Christmas Day in a gesture of compassion by the Ordnance Board. On Daisy’s invite, I caught the train this afternoon and, well, here I am.”
I again squeezed her hard. “For how long are you here, darling?”
“First train back in the morning, Bobby. My supervisor was not pleased when I said I would arrive at noon. Of course, I received his scolding, ‘only because it’s Christmas.’”
We laughed as I stood back to look at her, never a disappointing sight. An ankle-length red dress wrapped across her chest in a bow before falling in two layers, a black fringe made up the shorter front, and all was complemented by a solid rose-colored chemise. Its sheer full-length sleeves were also fringed in black. A thin fabric headband and matching shawl, both in black, were offset by very light brown shoes. “Cissy, you are a sight—such an adorable, beautiful sight. How do you manage such fashion at these times?”
“I make my clothes.”
I looked at her in disbelief. “You make—”
“Yes. Butterick posts me the pattern, and Mrs. Crawley at the dressmaker’s is able to bring in fabrics of many choices. For the parts that I cannot finish by hand, she allows me to use her Singer.”
Holding her left hand, I stood back to again admire her dress. “You look wonderful, my darling.”
Eric hobbled around the corner. “Dinner is served, you two.”
We said grace, and I extended my apologies for Mrs. Clarke’s absence, as she had prior arrangements with a neighboring family. Dinner was grand, especially when food was severely rationed. Daisy winked when I inquired as to her source. The highly animated chat allowed us rare moments of levity, but as expected, the conversation eventually returned to the war. Our final toast over a wonderful Christmas trifle was the wish that 1918 would see an armistice.
Although it was late, Cissy accompanied me to my Finsbury train before she retired. Her morning would come early, as she had to rise at four to be organized for her Beeston train. We strolled slowly in an attempt to delay our inevitable separation, basking in thought about our few stolen hours together. Standing on the platform, we embraced. I promised to again return to Chilwell before my leave was up, even though Cissy’s had run out. The inevitable whistle forced us apart. From the window, I waved my white hanky as Cissy turned to leave. As we chugged forward, I glanced Eric leaning on a walking cane just outside the station gate. The gentleman had arrived to escort the lady home. Cissy was sure to give him hell.
Chapter 39
January 1918
“Are you sure this is what you want, Wellsey? You were on top of your game when I last saw you.”
“I’m as sure as rain. Yes, I was on top, we were both in the thick of things, but by the time the squad stood down for the balance of the year, I had already begun questioning my resolve.”
The waiter placed our drinks on the round table, his a scotch and mine a G&T. I pondered the Savoy Bar, full of London patrons who were either in cheerful animated discussion or in serious negotiations of one sort or another. Looking back at Wellsey, I scolded, “You didn’t speak of this before, Frank.”
“That is true, but you were scheduled for leave and I didn’t want to do anything to delay it. And now, well, it’s only the first week of January, so you’re not too far behind with my news.”
“That’s thoughtful—”
“I wasn’t just thinking of you, old man. I knew that when the now Major Tempest took over as CO from Christie, he would be the one to better understand my request, as he was also an active flyer, perhaps also worn out. Well, he took the desk job for some reason.”
I smiled at the thought of Tempest being our CO, as he was such a good man. “You are worn out?”
“In a way, yes, I feel I have a kind of shell shock. I dunno, call it flying fatigue.”
Wellsey described difficulty in dealing with the intensity of the night-sky battleground and of losing some of his fervor. I knew there was talk that a wartime flyer was only good for a few months before becoming exhausted. I wondered what had happened to the happy warrior who had been my role model, that uplifting figure that so motivated me. His explanation that the surface did not always reflect its contents was understandable but a surprise, nevertheless. However, I respected his reasoning that high levels of anxiety and flying dissonance could affect his judgment.
Wellsey’s brown eyes seemed darker against flushed cheeks. “So I’m off to 48 Wing, Home Establishment, which is starting up on 1 February. I’ll serve by training recruits, providing coastal protection or other benign duties.”
“We won’t be all that far apart, then. What of the others?”
“Well, you know Lunghi was having the odd fit here and there, emotional outbursts at times. He’s been found permanently unfit for flying and posted to Home Establishment, a technician, I believe. Ace is in hospital for a minor case of nerves and will also be transferred to Home Establishment.”
I whistled, thinking about all that had occurred in just a couple of weeks. “Well, the lot of you are out. Looks rather like the break in action allowed for deep reflection and a turn in one’s outlook.”
“I suppose. What of you, old man? Where does your future lie?”
A second round of drinks was set in front of us as I confirmed that I would return to 100 Squadron. I felt I had more work to do there in spite of Wellsey’s stating that there was no shame in asking for a transfer since, after all, twenty-two of the squad’s fifty-two flyers had done so before year end. The news set me back since I had believed we would all return to the squad and resume our service. The war was wearing us down, which I hoped would not break up the will to win, the drive to overcome the evil before us.
I felt apprehensive as we continued our conversation. I knew a request to serve in RFC Home Establishment would likely be granted and would allow me to be closer to Cissy. But I still had a drive that influenced my compulsion to return to France, to the squadron. Wellsey questioned my need to prove myself, which made me a bit defensive. Was I acting out a childlike fear of not doing well enough when others saw that I did?
My papa had been hard on me. Small things such as accusing me of tripping my sister on the ballfield when she had fallen of her own accord or leaving the door open to mosquitoes when the latch was clearly broken. He would lay out the accusation, which I would deny, then admonish me for lying. One after another, day after day, the seemingly inane issues would bind together like a growing ball of elastic bands, straining with each small piece that was added. I’
m sure my mama knew the truth, but she allowed him to continue using his eldest child to wage some unspoken internal struggle about power or insecurity.
My resolve to return to active battle—to honor those like Perce, who had fallen; like Jones, Godard, Archie, and Greenie, who were all rotting in a Hun prison camp—was as strong as ever. I knew that, in spite of my love for Cissy and my sisters and my fellow soldiers, this was the time for courage. Grit and determination to stay alive were part of that.
Wellsey leaned across the table, waving his hand in front of my face. “Bobby? Where did you go? I’ve been talking to you, but you went trance-like.”
I smiled to confirm I was still with him. “Not really, just something you said earlier causing me to be reflective.”
Wellsey stood up and, fetching his coat from the back of the chair, beseeched me with, “Do think about what I said. Sorry, I have to go.”
“I will, I promise, but don’t count on it.”
“All right. Look, I’ve also requested a return to Cape Town to serve with Home Establishment there. Should that come through, things could happen quickly. Here’s my address down there in case I go. Good luck, old man.”
He placed a card in front of me and put his hand on my shoulder as he had endearingly done so during the many times I sat in front of him, my back against the nacelle after we had just escaped harm. He smiled warmly and left as I looked down at the card. Frank William Wells, 25 Balfour Street, Woodstock, Cape Town, SA.
. . .
Via Royal Post Office:
MISS CISSY ANN TAYLOR
WOMEN’S DORMOTORY
NATIONAL SHELL FILLING FACTORY
CHILWELL
7 JANUARY, 1918
CISSY
MY ARRIVAL CHEQUERS INN 14 JANUARY AFTER MRS. CLARKE VISIT STOP LEAVE FOR DOVER 20TH FOR RETURN FRANCE ON 21ST STOP BOB STOP
. . .
I was enjoying a cigarette while passing the time standing in front of Chequers when she approached out of the dusk. “Darling, I came as quickly as I could.” Through her open coat, I could see that Cissy wore the knee-buttoned trousers and laced blouse whose effect was emblazoned on my mind from before and would be forever. I wondered if she knew only too well how that image stirred my passion. “As soon as the shift siren blared, I ran to the dorms and cleaned up quickly.”
With my hand gently on her back, I guided her into the Chequers pub. “You look as beautiful as ever. Shall we have a drink before dinner?”
Sitting at a corner table away from the noisy factory crowd that was beginning to enter, Cissy gazed at me through deep blue eyes. “You’re so sweet, Bob. You’re always so sweet to me. I’ve so missed you.”
“Sweetness comes naturally in your presence.”
“You are flattering me. Do you still love me as much as you did at the train station?”
“More, but do you need to ask?”
“No. Well, yes, because I like to hear you say it with your Canadian accent.”
“Canadian accent?”
“Well, more Canadian than English.” Cissy giggled. “So, how was your time in London since Christmas?”
Over our dinner of meat pie and chips, I held Cissy’s interest with tales of adventure over the past days. I had gone with Daisy and Eric to see Chu Chin Chow at His Majesty’s Theatre on Haymarket, a comedy and pantomime musical based on the tales of Ali Baba. The excitement, especially for the soldiers in the audience, was the many scenes that involved big dance routines and exotic costumes.
Seated between Eric and me, Daisy teasingly squeezed my hand and grinned when the pretty, scantily dressed slave girls entered the stage.
Cissy contrived a pouty, mischievous look. “How scantily?”
“Enough!” As I grinned, she leaned across the table and kissed me.
While Cissy leaned forward with keen interest, I continued my story that Daisy said she felt the wartime climate needed such distractions as Chu Chin Chow to keep soldiers’ thoughts away from the trenches, even for an evening. Eric and I were quick to agree.
Sitting back contemplatively, Cissy asked, “And how is Mrs. Clarke? She was so kind to me when I came to supper. So long ago . . . over a year, I think.”
“Yes, she is a very considerate person. She’s been like an aunt to me for most of my life.” Chequers became crowded and patrons stood between tables as beer swished out of pint glasses. Moving closer to Cissy for more intimacy, I told her about spending rainy evenings with Mrs. Clarke going through old photos while reminiscing about my life in Walthamstow, and how she brought out the good in everything. “Being in her presence is a shelter for me, a safe place in times of stress.”
Cissy rubbed the back of my hand as she stared compassionately. “I saw a flash of frustration in your face as you were saying that. Do you want to talk? Will you talk to me about that?”
“There are things one doesn’t talk about, things there is no need to talk about. They are past.”
“It’s good to talk, Bob. I sense you have scars. Emotional scars?” I fought back a tear of frustration, not wanting to open up.
“What makes you say that?”
“Well, women talk. Before I met you that day at the Strand a year ago, Daisy told me a little about your admission to the Maudsley.”
“She shouldn’t have—”
“She’s my family, and she cares. The reason she told me was because I persisted in knowing why you were away from the front for so long.”
I laughed nervously and looked at Cissy in a gentle way, thinking I should not be surprised that she of all people would probe. I was not mad at Daisy nor irritated with Cissy, but rather concerned about being judged for failing my troops. I knew Cissy was a bright, intuitive lady with compassion, but I wanted nothing to upset our burgeoning relationship. I knew I had been forthcoming with others, but I was uneasy—perhaps irrationally—about opening up to the one I had so passionately fallen in love with.
“There is that look of anguish again. I don’t wish to force you, but it might be good for you to talk about things.”
“I wonder if I have the courage for that.”
“I think you do. You are strong, my darling, and caring. I think you must have been just as caring in battle with your troops. That is who you are.”
“I don’t want to say much, but it was awful. We were pinned down in a heavy barrage, unable to get to each other, to hear each other, and especially to even help each other.”
Cissy was drawing me out as I realized she was all compassion, even when I became involuntarily frustrated. She remained calm, not judging—in fact, quite the opposite as she stroked my hand in kindness.
I continued, “The central thing is that I was not able to help my troops. I felt like I failed them.”
“Daisy said you were buried, knocked down many times.”
“That’s true.”
“Well, my darling, how could you help them? You know in your heart that your injuries were severe, taking many weeks for you to recover. Try to stop being so hard on yourself.”
I looked at her, deeply into her eyes, as my heart beat faster, thumping with passion as the love I felt took hold, dominating the moment. “Oh, Cissy, you sound like an angel.”
“You’re changing the subject, but that’s all right. I’ve pressed you enough for one night. You’ve been a good sport.”
“If you want to press me some more tonight, I—”
“Ah-ah! You can’t use that as a way to beguile me to your room!”
“I’m not sure what you mean by this thing, beguile?”
“Ha! You’re to be a lawyer and you’ve a short vocabulary.” She let out a mischievous tsk-tsk. “Really, now!”
I walked Cissy to her dormitory under a near-full moon peeking out from high cloud cover, thinking it was a perfect night for flying. We strolled quietly arm in arm while I reflected on my pending return to the squadron, wondering what it would be like with so many colleagues having moved on to other ventures and what tasks I
would be assigned.
“Penny for your thoughts, Lieutenant?”
“Oh, just thinking about returning to France and thinking what a lovely evening it is, already missing you.”
“We’ve a few days yet. Let’s make the best of them.”
When I finished a deeply intimate and lasting kiss, Cissy pulled away from under my arms, breathing heavy. “Good Lord, Pitman! What’s got into you?”
“Thinking about pressing things.”
“Now look, buster, it’s time for you to return to your hotel and me to get some rest. Early shift for me, remember? Same time tomorrow?”
I looked squarely at her with a mile-wide grin. “Looking forward to it.” I turned to go.
“And don’t forget—stop being hard on yourself. You’re a good man.”
. . .
The few days at Chilwell were special, as I slept late and enjoyed leisurely breakfasts while pouring over the newspaper. Some townsfolk who were delighted to have a soldier in residence were curious about when I thought the war would end. None seriously thought I knew the answer, but enjoyed the debate. The innkeeper, whom I had considered to be eerie, actually had good sense as he engaged me in discussion about when munitions production would wind down in favor of a return to the local industries of coal mining and lace making. I knew it was more about his concern for the effect on jobs, and therefore on his business, when thousands of munitions workers in the area would leave. He was astute.
And during conversations with him and other locals I learned more about the munitions factory. When I tried to draw Cissy out about the working conditions, she was stubbornly resistant, claiming that it was soldiers at the front who were most at risk. Yet I gathered that the Ministry was pushing its employees to produce more arms faster in order to keep up with demand. That left open the chance that corners were being cut and the risk of accidents rising.
. . .
One evening Cissy asked if I wouldn’t mind accompanying her to football practice. Lord Chetwynd—founder and supervisor of the filling factory—so graciously allowed use of a small pitch located immediately adjacent to the east wall of a warehouse. His benevolence was manifested by allowing the electric lights on the exterior walls to be illuminated for the evening practice until the season began in the longer days of March.
Seeking Courage Page 27