“Yes,” I said. “Seems he listened since I was partnered with Chambers. It was a solid and safe mission. What a difference.”
“From the one with the American, the one who’s causing issues?” asked Howie.
“Quite,” I said. “The lad Brown. He took me on a joyride that risked both of us. I was hopping mad. No need for that kind of lunacy.”
“What’s his game, then?” asked Howie.
“We don’t know,” exclaimed the Vicar, “and we don’t care. He needs to toe the line before he hurts his observer and himself.”
“Yet Tempest’s hands are tied,” I interjected. “He can’t get new flyers over here fast enough.” I ignored the mess door closing immediately behind me. “Still, we can’t wait for—”
“Ahem.” The Vicar’s finger was jabbing forward from the arm of his chair, a warning that someone was approaching from behind. Brown was with Larry Naylor, his observer on the last sortie, who evidently looked beyond the foolish flying. “Evening, lads,” said Brown. Naylor held back in a deferential pose, mumbling a greeting. “Evening,” we repeated in chorus, but Howie only nodded his head.
Brown began to walk away toward the bar before turning on his heal, Naylor following so close as to bang into him. The American looked defiant as he snarled, “You know Tempest has me sitting out the next sortie, whenever that will be.”
We stared, all of us struggling to respond but failing to find empathetic words, so we held back. The Vicar broke the deafening silence. “Does that mean anything to you? Did he explain why?”
“Yes, he spoke of respect for my fellow officers and respect for me.” I looked at Brown, wondering where his smugness came from, wondering why in the face of disdain from most 100 Squadron flyers he kept it up. “Do you?” I asked.
Brown swung his head to glower at me. “Do I what?”
“Respect yourself?”
Through clenched teeth, he responded irritatingly, “I told you, Pitman, I was just practicing flying essentials in the event we need to escape enemy aircraft.”
The conversation continued in this manner, Brown checking his temper but not altering his position, certainly not apologizing to me for his recklessness. His arrogance was unbroken, making it unlikely any of us would be willing to ever fly with him again. He was well spoken and held a nice smile, yet there was something in it that on close examination gave away a cunning, better-than-thou attitude. First me, then Dyson—and I suspected Naylor too—as his observers, all saw him as a bully with an unsafe lust for power when controlling an aircraft. I sat there after Howie and the Vicar said good night, thinking about how wars could be lost through such individualism.
. . .
27 May, 1918
My Dear Sisters, Ethel and Hilda,
Thank you for your sweet letters that both arrived today. It is taking more time for them to reach me perhaps because we are increasingly on the move. I am so happy that you are both well and working hard at your jobs. Soon enough Europe and the rest of the world will see peace. I am sure of it.
Papa’s latest letter said you two had grown so much, inwardly as well as physically. In that case, I now have two beautiful young women as sisters that I haven’t yet met! Can you believe it is now over two and a half years since I’ve seen either of you, since we’ve been able to talk about our lives and laugh with one another?
I think often of the day we will all meet again, when we can enjoy life as free citizens of the world. I know that sounds dramatic, but over here in Europe that is on everyone’s mind, at least among our fighting men. We are all tired, tired of the mud and the slaughter and the starvation we see across France and Belgium. It surely has to end soon with one side or the other suing for peace.
Ah, but I am showing sadness when I should be expressing the best for our future. It is out there, my sisters, lest we believe otherwise.
God bless and love to you both,
Bob
. . .
The next sortie went as planned on Monday, 27 May with Brown sitting out like a child sent to the corner for some thoughtful reflection. Chainey was a welcome addition as he joined the sortie over to Kreuzwald. With a couple dozen 112-pounders dropped, we knew we had done extensive damage, with a few aircraft actually witnessing the power station on fire.
The next night the squad was assigned to a precision strike on the Metz Railway Station, forty-five miles northeast of Ochey; however, only four aeroplanes were on the raid. As neither the Vicar, Chainey, nor I were included, I decided on a stroll across the field to the hangars after dinner. The dusk sky was dark blue against a bright western horizon.
Hardy emerged from the mechanics’ mess with a brimming smile. “Hey, Bob!”
“Hello, Sam. The machines primed to go over?”
“Not tonight. Quiet for me, I’m afraid.”
“Hmmm. Thought you might know what’s what.”
Sam looked puzzled. “In terms of?”
“Well, there are four machines being sent over what is known to be a benign target, but flown by new crew. Chambers and Brown have some experience but limited. And choosing one of your air mechanics to sit observer for Brown? What the devil is Tempest up to?”
Hardy held his palms up in question. “Unusual, I know, but it’s only a twenty-five-mile run up the Moselle after all. Surely nothing could go wrong. Perhaps Tempest is testing them.”
In a pensive mood, I chewed on my pipe stem as I wandered back to the mess to join the growing festivities of those squadron flyers who had the night off. Howie and the Vicar were playing bridge with Box and Inches, the latter two holding the squadron record for the most sorties flown.
I alternated into the Vicar-Howie partnership, but even with changing tactics, we still consistently lost to the formidable Box-Inches duo. The hours passed with enough ale consumed to mellow everyone, some eventually drifting away in retirement for the night. The flyers that remained witnessed a late-night commotion at the door as an ashen-faced Chambers emerged into the dimly lit, smoky room and was immediately surrounded with curiosity.
John Chambers had been charged by Tempest to be the squadron leader for the sortie. Vic, Chainey, and I had earlier speculated that he might be tasked with watching Brown’s flying technique. Chambers explained that the bombing unfolded according to plan, that he had followed Brown over the target and ensured he stayed the course along the narrow corridor just west of enemy lines. We knew others had flown that run countless times in and out of Ochey. It was easy to determine the demarcation line by sighting the string of nighttime trench bonfires. All you had to do was stay west of them.
Yet somehow Brown and his observer, Private Second-Class Johnson—one of Hardy’s air mechanics—disappeared in that corridor. They reportedly just vanished. Chambers had flown up and down looking for evidence of a forced landing but with no success. He reported that Tempest was livid, giving him a thorough up and down, yet we all knew Chambers was not to be held responsible. Night bombers don’t fly in formation and are trained to individually navigate themselves to and from the target.
No one in the mess wished one of ours ill, but we had all silently believed Brown was a disaster waiting to happen. It apparently just had. And it was Private Johnson whom we were most upset about, a teenage lad who had no idea of the danger he was put into, nor had the choice to avoid it. Both were gone, and in the absence of a fiery crash, we held on to a dubious hope the team was at least picked up as prisoners of the Hun.
I processed the news with more foreboding, tossing and turning in a fitful sleep filled with dreams and the acting out of terror. Perhaps I was subconsciously fearful of my own vulnerability. My dreams took me back to the Somme trenches, the artillery barrage raining down, being buried alive and not breathing.
I awoke at daylight in a cold sweat with erratic breathing, a headache, and unclear thoughts. I lay there staring at the parallel planks in the ceiling, following their line from wall to peak, thinking about my dreams, the morning quietness all
owing me to recall them clearly. I knew I was getting tired, emotionally tired. I kept telling myself that I must hold on for the end of the war, which surely must come soon, and that then I would be released from these horrors.
I arose to face a beautiful spring day, the chirping birds confirming that, with all things considered, life was good. The others had arisen and gone to the mess some time before. I knew what I would do, had to do, if I was to hold onto sanity. I walked to the mess with a relief that comes with having made one’s mind up. I would enjoy breakfast with my colleagues and then act.
. . .
I savored my meal with the other flyers amid small talk but discussed my plan with no one, stifling it inside my overactive mind. I guarded against the possibility that my colleagues could intervene with convincing me of some alternative course of action. After breakfast when the others drifted away, I strode across the grass toward squadron headquarters while working up positive thoughts to portray confidence and commitment for what I was about to do. I entered into a hive of busy activity, aides plotting over maps, sergeants in intense discussion, and the unbroken clicking sound of the telegraph machine.
The CO’s adjutant gave a cold, suspecting stare. “Yes, how can I help?”
“I’d like a word with Major Tempest, please.”
The adjutant studied me for a moment, not sure how to react to this unannounced intrusion on a busy HQ. “Is he expecting you, Lieutenant?”
I authoritatively squared my shoulders. “No, I am arriving on the strength of his open-door policy, Sergeant.”
Locking eyes, neither of us said anything for a few moments. I knew that once in front of Tempest the tone would be conciliatory; I just needed to get beyond this pencil pusher. “Indeed, let me see if he has a moment.”
I glanced at the wall maps and looked at piles of documents lying on tables behind the adjutant’s desk and the files he was working on. It occurred to me this war was creating reams of documents that would all have to be filed somewhere after it was over. These would be documents the King’s clerks would not be willing to part with.
I watched as the sergeant returned, weaving his way past soldiers and aides who took no notice of his presence. “Major Tempest will see you now, Lieutenant Pitman.”
I noted the change to the more formal, respectful salutation, which meant that Tempest was quite open to an impromptu meeting. With renewed confidence, I made my way past the desks, tables, and stand-up hallway meetings to arrive at the major’s office at the rear of the building. “Well, this is a surprise. What brings you in on this fine morning? Not ill, I daresay?”
I saluted and then stood at ease when told to. “Oh no, sir, I’m feeling fine. It’s my mind, really. Just dreadfully tired, nightmares, cold sweats, lack of sleep.”
“That’s expected, Lieutenant. You lads are striking hard at our enemy; I know firsthand how it knocks you down.”
I poured out my feelings with little concern that I was in front of my senior officer, explaining that recent sorties had become increasingly stressful since we were flying directly into enemy country with inexperienced crews. Yet that wasn’t the whole issue—after two and a half years, fatigue was becoming a dysfunctional force. While I knew I was being selfish and knew many soldiers had endured longer terms of service, I wanted a change.
Tempest offered a well-grounded response by acknowledging that the long stalemate on the Western Front was affecting morale, but used the fact that the Hun were being pushed back to the Hindenburg Line to lay out a strong appeal: experienced flyers were needed more than ever.
I smiled to show my confidence. “Major Tempest, it has taken a lot of courage to come forth like this, but in my heart, I know it would be cowardly to carry on by, well, simply burying my concerns.” I looked directly at the major, his empathetic expression giving me the determination to go on. “I believe I would be more valuable behind the scenes, where I could coach the newer chaps, or perhaps serve at Home Establishment.”
The major remained quiet with a look of thoughtful contemplation in his eyes. I wanted to give him space, time to digest what I had just requested, so I busied myself by gazing over to the wall photographs and military paraphernalia.
“I see where you’re driving this, Pitman. Tell me, though—is it this Brown business, is that the dour effect?”
I had hoped that topic would not surface. “Certainly got to me, sir. I as well as many others worried it was coming, but no, my concerns have been developing for a while.”
Tempest seemed pensive as he whispered, “Yet his actions did bother you?”
“Of course, sir. Losing any of our team is of concern. That is why I feel I could better serve the squad as a coach to new flyers, perhaps in a technical role, sir.”
A more authoritative looked appeared on the major’s face. “Very well. But I need to weigh the alternatives, consider what is best for the squadron. For now you will continue to fly, is that understood?”
“Yes, sir, with as much dedication as ever.”
“Have a safe flight tonight, Lieutenant. Dismissed.”
I saluted. Passing the smiling adjutant, I left HQ for a stroll over to the hangars for a chat with Hardy, my trusted friend, who I knew would support my initiative but keep it confidential.
Chapter 42
June 1918
100 Squadron continued to pour bombs down onto the Hun infrastructure into June as the German Spring Offensive continued to break down, and our infantry kept up a relentless drive to push them ever farther backward. As French and Belgian citizens returned to their homes and towns and villages, the damage caused by the enemy seizure of staples and their burning of buildings was apparent, and it was hideous. Every bomb we dropped was justified by its destruction of Hun resources.
The mixing of new and experienced flyers finally resulted in increased precision, assisted by an escalated focus on dropping the 230-pound bomb. I flew with a Captain Bright and alongside the Vicar—with Howie as his observer—on tours that disrupted the railways in Thionville and the Metz-Sablon triangle. Britain knew Kaiser Wilhelm obsessed about keeping the direct Metz-Berlin line open, so we particularly enjoyed battering them at its western terminus. While the sorties were successful and the teams worked well together, I didn’t settle into harmony; more than ever I desired a transfer to ground responsibilities.
In my letters, I didn’t tell Cissy of my requested change, as I felt it would be worse to provide bad news later than good news earlier. Our letters were full of love and desires, sometimes scheming for ways to see each other. I prayed that I could see to that sooner than she might expect.
After the sortie on the night of 6 June, the squadron’s bombardments were suddenly halted when it was announced that the RAF had created a new Independent Air Force under the command of Major-General Sir Hugh Trenchard. We were now part of a strategic initiative composed of five squadrons that would concentrate on around-the-clock bombing of German targets deep within the Rhineland.
. . .
“That’s it, Sam? That’s as far as you’ve gotten? Just a name, ‘Bernadette’?”
“These things take time, Bobby!”
In fine early-summer weather, the track from Ochey was hard packed, and that allowed the Douglas to dart through the forests and along the fields in good time for us to secure a place on the Café Impérial patio. Although evening, the long seasonal solstice offered bright sunshine, bathing us in warmth. “Hmmm. The war will cease and all you’ve got is a name and a place.”
“Worth waiting for when you look into those exotic eyes and—oh là là!—the way she sways that—”
“Ahem!” I dropped my voice to a whisper. “Incoming at your left shoulder.” Hardy stopped himself just as Bernadette approached with her winning smile that could disarm any soldier anywhere.
“Bonsoir, Messieurs. Êtes-vous bien?” Without waiting for an answer, Bernadette grinned while looking into his eyes and said with a heavy accent, “Hello, Sam. It’s nice to see y
ou again.” I began to understand Hardy’s infatuation as the whispered voice itself oozed sensuality.
“Et toi. Où est ton papa?”
“Dans la cuisine.” I caught Hardy’s momentary disappointment in knowing that her papa’s presence meant no evening walk with Bernadette, but he quickly regained his infectious smile.
“Ah bien,” jested Hardy.
As Bernadette walked back toward the estaminet door to fill our drink order, I watched his obsession with Bernadette’s delightful derriere. “She’s a beauty.”
Our talk turned to speculation about the new IAF and whether my role would be in the air or on the ground, as I had requested. Hardy was supportive of my request to serve as a technical officer and felt I would be a good teacher, an experienced coach. Shortly our conversation was interrupted by the laboring engine of an approaching lorry, becoming louder as its tires squelched over rough cobblestones. Sam’s attention focused behind me over my shoulder, and as I turned in my chair, I saw a Crossley tender emerging from the southwest corner of the town square.
“See who I see, Bobby?”
I squinted into the setting sun. “That’s the Leeds boy driving, your air mechanic Blythe, but who is sitting up there beside him?”
Sam clipped me on the shoulder. “That’s the Vicar, Bobby!”
“Say it’s not true.”
As the Crossley came to a stop in the center of the town square, we walked over to investigate. Some in their new blue RAF uniforms, our flyers began to jump down from the back of the lorry as if invading Nancy at its center. I called up to the open cab, “What the devil is this about, Vicar?”
“Celebration! We looked for you but couldn’t hold the commandeered tender any longer. But here you are!”
“Celebrating what?” Hardy asked.
Seeking Courage Page 30