The Vicar now stood with us. “Word came through that Brown and Johnson have been located, much alive but in a German POW camp. With that good news and our being grounded, we figured it was best to enjoy an estaminet dinner. C’mon, let’s go!”
With Hardy catching up after he said au revoir to Bernadette, there were sixteen of us marching our way down narrow, twisting cobblestone streets lined with two and three-story stone buildings. We stopped at a bistro known to one of our flyers. He assured us the proprietor was a good sort, but to be doubly clear he gave him a substantial advance of francs to ward off any wariness and compensate for any unplanned but very possible collateral damage. One could never be too careful. An outbreak of gaiety and frolicking—perhaps altering a wall here or crushing a table there—could lead to the summoning of military police. The francs would help allay such an eventuality.
A couple of hours enjoying fine food were followed by more drinking. Everything from vin rouge to Champagne to bière to Armagnac and even absinthe was consumed in copious amounts. It was good to let loose.
Equally outrageous was my hope that our dinner celebration would cap the night and we would travel back to the aerodrome in various states of consciousness. But I was not surprised with the sudden call from one of our finest, “Off to see the girls!” was met with hurrahs and a breakout of “God Save the King.” The Vicar caught my eye with a look of concern, perhaps prompted by his proper Oxford upbringing and ties to the Church. However, I knew he faced no vows of celibacy. Nevertheless, I interposed my thoughts on the way out by explaining that, while one is obligated to follow the pack in the spirit of esprit de corps, nothing is required but to join the forthcoming sing-along.
I caught up with Hardy to ask if he knew where we were going. His impish grin was all the confirmation I needed, but he answered anyway. “Two blocks down and three over.” We laughed knowingly at our inside joke, the Vicar looking at us in puzzlement.
We marched down streets and up alleys until we arrived at the plain black door over which the blue lamp hung; the discreet sign that this brothel catered to officers. Didn’t we feel special, not having to queue up under a red lamp? After a sharp knock, the eye-level slide in the door was pulled aside to reveal a beaming, rouge-tinted smile. “Bonsoir. Qui est là? Who is there?” queried a sultry yet gravelly voice.
“100 Squadron from Ochey reporting for duty, Madame Dodu,” answered one of our finest, apparently a regular.
The door opened immediately, exposing a madam clad in a loose robe of silk draped off her shoulders. “Ah, les aviateurs Anglais! Bienvenue!” It seemed she was a merchant with a keen head for finance.
We filed into the cramped foyer and up the stairs behind Madame, whose plumpness, only partially hidden under her silks, filled a good portion of the staircase. As we followed her into a vast room, looks of delight mixed with expectation filled our faces, some frozen in surprise and others of wanting after so long in the war arena. For in that opulent room amid the chairs, settees, erotic hangings, and mirrored walls sat some of the most gorgeous women any of us had ever seen. Certainly, our collective intoxication and desire made the girls that much more exquisite, but seeing them draped in sheer tulle, stockings, and heels—some only partially tulled from the waist down—painted a man’s fantasy of the true Venus masterpiece.
It wasn’t long before someone was tapping away on the rickety piano tucked away in the corner, causing the rest of us to break into song.
There is a tavern way down in Brittany
Where weary soldiers take their liberty.
The keeper’s daughter, whose name is Madelon,
Pours out the wine while they laugh and carry on.
Our troop sang the patriotic verses with passion, some belting out the lyrics while others sang softly to one mademoiselle or another. So passionate was the classic French ballad that many of the f illes sang along in its native French style.
Oh, Madelon, you are the only one;
Oh, Madelon, for you we’ll carry on.
It’s so long since we have seen a miss;
Won’t you give us just a kiss?
But Madelon, she takes it all in fun;
She laughs and says, “ You see it can’t be done;
I would like, but how could I consent
When I’m true to the whole regiment?”
The girls worked their way through the room, some sitting in laps while others stared dreamlike into officers’ eyes as they swayed to and fro, still others kissing passionately in darkened alcoves. The combination of scent, powder, and the haze of cigar smoke made the large room unmistakably erotic. Madame kept drinks refreshed while deftly ensuring each flyer subtly handed over the one franc cover for the privilege of being here. Other, heftier donations would be settled more discreetly.
Time seemed to evaporate amid the euphoria made present by the sexually charged atmosphere. Within an hour or so, many of the mademoiselles, lads in tow, disappeared through a pair of hardly visible doorways, presumably leading to chambers. Madame was never far away, making sure her business enterprise was funded according to the rules. But the Vicar and I, with the exchange of a discrete look, agreed we had done our bit in support of the team and needed to take our leave.
We thanked Madame graciously, smiling lavishly against her protestations that we had not been duly provided the love that her establishment so delightfully dispensed, but nonetheless, we sidled toward the door carrying wide grins. Making our way out into the cool night air, we had a good laugh at the whole escapade. I looked up at the Vicar and said in poor imitation, “Oh, my ‘andsome ahvia-tor, do you not want a leetle loove before you take your leeve of mon boudoir?” We stumbled along the cobblestones in laughter.
It was good for the team to experience such release, even for those who did not partake in any bordello love. Glancing at my watch as we returned back to the town square, I noted we had another hour before the corporal was to drive the commandeered Crossley back to the aerodrome. We caught up with him dozing in the driver’s seat. “Leeds, is it?” I asked.
He bolted upright. “Yes, sir!”
“Listen, Leeds, tell Sergeant Hardy—y’know, Hardknocks— that the Vicar and I have returned ahead with the Douglas, all right?”
The Vicar stood tall in a pose of incredulity. “I can’t handle that damned thing, Bobby.”
“I can, Vic, and I will.”
I walked over and straddled the Douglas motorcycle, pushing it off its rear wheel stand just as I’d seen Hardy do many times before. After jumping on the kick-start lever a few times, I realized I had not flipped the magneto switch. Once done, she fired up and purred like a kitten.
“Jump on, Vicar!”
He hesitated before taking a stride forward, then looked back at Leeds, who was holding his stomach in laughter. “C’mon, Vic, get aboard before Mr. Funny over there tells the squad that we couldn’t bloody well get airborne on a 9 hp motorcycle.” That did it, and the Vicar straddled the rear seat.
We cautiously moved forward before I realized the acetylene headlight was not illuminated, so after squeezing the brake lever a little too hard, we lurched to a stop. The Vicar slammed up against my back. Neither of us looked back at Leeds, as there was no sense giving him more fodder. And then we were off, bumping over the cobblestones before we reached the dry, flat roadway. I guardedly changed to a higher gear after staying in the lower one too long, the engine screaming its protest. Once gaining speed, I felt as if the entire world’s problems had been lifted, and I bellowed out a boyish “Woo-hoooo!” as we barreled along.
We arrived safely back at the aerodrome with the Vicar clutching the back of my flying jacket just as I had done with Hardy. He was in much need of a nightcap, so we headed over to the mess, where we compared stories of the evening shenanigans. We knew that a few of the lads would not make their ride back, but men as resourceful as RAF flyers would figure out what it took to report to the aerodrome by the next morning.
I lay in b
ed and thought of Cissy, trying not to compare her to the f illes in Madame Dodu’s brothel. Yet I did, and although I felt a twinge of shame, I wallowed in the knowledge that, on a physical level, she outshone them. But above all, I knew she was special. She was smart and witty, and she valued and fostered women’s courage. I fell asleep in the knowing comfort that I loved her so much.
Chapter 43
June 1918
16 June, 1918
Dear Wellsey,
I trust you are well, dear old friend. I miss you at the squadron amid all of the new faces and its ever-changing character as flyers come and go. Yet I have met and flown with some decent lads in our endeavor to end the conflict.
It will be some time before you receive these words, and there will surely be more developments in this war by the time you do, but update you I will. Today Major Tempest left 100 Squadron on a promotional posting to London. It seems 100 Squadron is graduating majors to senior brass at a brisk rate. Major Cyril Burge, a career military man at the tender age of twenty-six, has replaced him. While we don’t yet know much about him, we all agree he has large shoes to f ill, as both Tempest and Christie were solid chaps.
I have been granted a reassignment for ground duty as a technical officer. While not Home Establishment, it will keep me active behind the action in my service to 100 Squadron. I know that you more than anyone will understand. After returning to the squad in early May and flying eight sorties, protracted fatigue set in. Sure, I was concerned about letting the squad down, but felt I could no longer keep up a façade of false confidence while in the air.
So I am off to Henley-on-Thames, the RAF Technical Officers’ School, for a few weeks of training before returning to France. Of course, I was cautioned that if necessity presented itself, I would be returned to flying duties. One would hope that hostilities cease before that could occur.
The presence of the Americans continues to advance as they pour into the trenches and the skies. I am, of course, forbidden from speaking of specifics, but I can disclose an exciting development: the American flyers at nearby Neufchâteau Aerodrome have taught us to play American baseball. It’s a bit like rounders, but with a longer bat used with two hands instead of one. The friendly rivalry is tops, and they beat us every time, but with practice, the Ochey crew may yet win a game or two.
Much as you were excited to reunite with your wife, I am over the moon about seeing Cissy for a couple of days before my training. I’m quite sure as an act of benevolence before he left the aerodrome, Major Tempest subtly manipulated my timing, as he has released me from the squad effective Tuesday, yet I don’t report to Henley until the following Monday.
It is wonderful to write to you, Wellsey. You are dearly missed, and I’d like you to know you will forever remain a close friend. Do take care and protect your homeland.
Bob
. . .
Summer was in full bloom as I sat at a small bistro table outside Chequers listening to the song of a nearby oriole. She confidently approached from the left. Standing, I reflected that my Cissy outshone any French f ille or Bernadette. Her smile was wide, as engaging as I’d come to appreciate but would never get too much of. “Hello, Bobby,” was all she needed whisper to melt my heart.
Wrapping my arms around her, I whispered, “Hello, darling.” Keeping hold of her shoulders, I stood back and said, “You look wonderful. What a beautiful dress, and in my favorite color, blue.”
She giggled, then murmured, “I know.”
“You’re naughty, Ciss, you know that?”
“Uh-huh.”
When the excitement of our greeting waned a little, I noticed a small, well-worn carpetbag lying at Cissy’s feet. Following my eyes, she bent over to lift it by its leather handles so that it became concealed by her flowing skirt.
I grinned with expectation. “What’s that, Ciss?”
She proffered a schoolgirl grin. “Oh, a bag to carry just a few of my things, much like you would use for a day trip.”
“Or an overnight trip?”
“Yes, I suppose.” She was now nervously swinging the bag from one hip to the next.
“Are you thinking of traveling today?”
“Mm-hmm. And I’ve arrived. Why are you making me feel nervous?”
“Because I love to see you vulnerable, just a little!”
Cissy clouted me on my leg with her bag. “You are rotten. Rotten, rotten, rotten!”
I pulled her to me, kissing her lightly, denying her accusation without any need for words.
I extended my hand to the bag. “Here, let me put this in my room before we walk. I’ll be quick.”
We talked excitedly as we strolled down High Street. I listened to Cissy’s stories of life at Chilwell over the intervening weeks. She was most animated about her developing football skills and her scoring a goal. It was invigorating to listen to her speak, to hear about the basics of life away from war. Absorbed in her presence, I lost my sense of time, yearning to pay attention against nagging thoughts about having to leave in a mere two days.
Suddenly Cissy looked grim, her sweetness melting away to angst. “Bobby, I have something to tell you. Should I say it now?”
My mind raced with thoughts of what could have happened. Could Cissy be with child, reinfected, or something else? “Of course you should say it now.” I tried to sound calm.
After studying the ground with intensity, she looked at me with flushed red cheeks. “Well, I can’t do anything.”
“Do anything?”
“Well, you know. It’s a woman thing. The need for a pause, you know . . . in activity. I’m so sorry, darling, but I can’t change the timing, and well, you were only able to provide short notice—”
I felt relieved and put my finger to her lips. “Shhh, it’s all right, it’s fine. You know the best times I have are when I’m just holding you.”
“I’m relieved, Bob. I thought I would be a disappointment to you.”
“No, my love for you goes way beyond just that. But thinking about it, hmmm . . .”
She wound up her arm and hit me on the shoulder. “Oh, you are rotten!”
With grins and giggles like adolescent lovers, we continued our stroll down High Street with arms locked before turning toward the estuary, our favorite walk. As the sun began to throw longer shadows from the west, we turned up to the sixteenth-century Wollaton Hall located behind the University of Nottingham, admiring the estate’s roaming deer. We remained well east of the arms factory, as Cissy preferred to seclude herself, having told her manager that she was making an overnight visit with an aunt and felt I would not fit that bill if seen with her.
We lingered over dinner, as these were the longest days of the year, sharing a bottle of claret on the patio of a restaurant near the university. The setting reminded me of my beloved University of Saskatchewan, and I could feel the anxiety and stress of bombing over nighttime Germany melt away in the moment.
One of Cissy’s gifts was to allow me momentary private thoughts, having an intuitive sense to remain silent to allow me periods to think. I appreciated her understanding of the sometimes brief moments that I drifted into deep thought. She looked over at me with such compassion, studied me until she felt I was ready to resume our talk.
“You went far away, darling. Do you want to talk about it?”
“I’m so sorry. I was just reflecting on how long I’ve been away from home. This university reminds me of Saskatoon, of what I was doing with my life before the war.”
“You miss that, I know. But you’ll get back to it, dear.”
“I miss it, yes, and I miss my sisters. I’m confused about what I should do about my education, and you, as we’ve not spoken about our future.”
“Oh, there is time for that, love. I’ve learned to take one day at a time, as there is so much in this wartime that fills our minds with loss and grief. We mustn’t expect too much. I love you, Bob, and I know you love me, but do let us see an end to war before we make plans.”
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“It wouldn’t hurt to make plans, something for each of us to hang on to.”
“Don’t you see, darling? We are of two classes from two countries. There is much to work through—”
Spreading my hands out for emphasis, I protested, “No, don’t say that. The English class system was breaking down before the war, and it will never return. But aside from that, you and I are the same, think the same, and share the same values. I just had a better break than you. And I am also English as sure as you are.”
“Yet our roots are different. Well, I don’t really know my roots. Employed by the Beauchamps in Belgravia, I was so lucky, but I have no family history.”
I smiled and leaned into the table. “There, see? You are refined by the same training as any society girl! And you’re smart, smarter than most, with a fiery character as well.”
Cissy looked pensive, doubt spreading across her face. “I don’t know. All of this is unexpected. Can we not let it go for now? See what happens?”
“Of course, but I want you to know that my love for you is deeper than I’ve ever felt before, and I want us to be together.” As the setting sun highlighted the flawlessly smooth skin across her high cheek bones, Cissy leaned across the table to kiss me, a long, smoldering kiss.
. . .
Saturday was a whirlwind of activity, as Cissy wanted to complete another estuary walk before she turned up for football practice later in the afternoon. We had spent a marvelous night in our Chequers bed snuggled in close, with me tucked in behind her after we took about an hour to kiss good night. I felt so intimate, so close, and so protected when lying as one.
We did not rise until ten, missing breakfast but managing to enjoy a scone with espresso at a café near the university. We walked over to the Wilford Suspension Bridge before heading to the Old Ground, disappointed not to see a Saturday-morning Nottingham Forest FC match. Making it back to Chequers by one, we had time to relax in my room.
Feeling the fresh-air goodness that comes with summer exercise, we fell back onto the bed in our undergarments, again tight with each other, Cissy in front. While we dozed for a bit I couldn’t help but think about having to leave, not sure when we would again share these intimate moments. Cissy pushed into me while nestling the back of her head into my face, her hair tickling me, an erotic moment created by unbound intimacy.
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