I stood in place, paralyzed by my thoughts. This was how Cissy had died, wasn’t it? This was the horror of Chilwell laid out in front of me. The Lord wanted me to understand, to struggle through the moment she perished. No, these soldiers were not sacrificed for that, but as long as their destiny was to offer their souls, I was to experience it. In that instant I ached again with grief, for Cissy and now for the brave three.
I snapped to, realizing I couldn’t remain in place in a state of self-pity. All my senses came alive in my will to help. With adrenaline coursing through me, I surged with other flyers and ground crew toward the sickening wreckage, assuming all bombs had been detonated, perhaps not caring if they hadn’t—so strong was the instinctive call to action. We saw bodies and pieces of bodies strewn all over, some charred beyond recognition, others thrown clear in their death but spared from burning. But there were too many bodies, too many pieces, when only Box, Inches, and Crick had been in the aircraft.
Time brought the answer. The armament division from 97 Squadron had been close by and had run toward the flaming wreck to help rescue our three. In the seconds it took to reach the wreck, they were cruelly met with the armament blasts and ensuing inferno. Eight were killed and fifteen seriously injured. This was the saddest day in the sqaudron’s existence and in the embryonic history of the newly formed IAF.
Everyone worked through the night with the cleanup, doing whatever they could, sharing an overwhelming need to do something, anything, to help the squadrons of the IAF move forward. Atrocities of war were expected, but not when accidents like this happened. In time we would know if an innocent mistake or mechanical failure was the cause.
. . .
Sleep did not come at first as I lay there tossing myself across the bed and turning over and over in muddled thought. I clearly imagined the horror that had been reality just a few hours before. Minute details emerged, scenes I did not realize I had noticed, menacing particulars that I attempted to verify in my mind—did they really happen? Howie lay across from me, a dark bulge under a thin blanket that I dared not disturb even though I wanted to talk, even with slumber beckoning.
Suddenly, I lurched violently. Howie was hovering over me, his hand tightly holding my shoulder while he whispered to me. My breathing, I couldn’t get my breathing under control. What was he saying? Why doesn’t he speak up if he wants to talk? Why is he shining that light on me, blinding me?
“Bob, Bobby!”
“Wha—”
Louder now, “Bobby, wake up. Wake up, old boy. You’re dreaming.” He shook me gently.
I sat bolt upright. “D-dreaming?” I heaved with short, shallow breaths. “I was dreaming?” I looked up at Howie, compassion in his eyes as I remembered bit by bit. “Oh God, it was awful. People screaming, burning as they ran through the darkness, looking like lanterns, horrible-shaped lanterns.”
I sat there a while as my breathing settled before again speaking. “Bloody fool I am, these dreams, nightmares. For the longest time I couldn’t sleep for thinking about last night, yet I must have dozed.”
“You’re no fool, not at all. You’re still in mourning, you know that. Last night would trigger nightmares in any of us, but especially . . .”
“You can say it, Howie. I know especially since Cissy died that way. I know I faced that reality while I stood there last night. Horrible business, fucking horrible.” I wrung my nightshirt, absentmindedly pulling it away from my clammy skin. “Not just the innocents like Cissy, like Crick, like my good friend Percy, but all of the horrible deaths, all of the disgust and terror.”
“Bobby, best you get yourself dressed, get washed and shaved. It will be light soon. I’ll do that too. No sense laboring over the vagaries and revulsions of war. We are almost at the end, got to see this through.”
I smiled weakly. “You’re right, Howie. Thanks for being a good friend.”
Chapter 47
August 1918
Major Burge and the other COs at Xaffevillers aerodrome understood that morale was dangerously low and immediately grounded all sorties for a few days. Attempting to break the gloom, Major-General Hugh Trenchard, commander of the IAF, addressed the personnel on the airfield. His unusually loud voice was a stark reminder of his nickname, Boom.
“Good afternoon, RAF flyers and ground crew. It is with sadness that I stand here today to formally acknowledge the loss of one of our new O/400s along with the crew who perished, including those of 97 Squadron who ran in pursuit of rescue. I daresay those heroes will be remembered alongside all who have given their lives for King and Country.
“Yet these events do happen in times of war. It is with much pride that I can confirm there are trained flyers to fill in behind and plenty of Handley Page’s rolling out of factories as we speak. We wage war in all circumstances and at all costs if we are to gain the peace. That we will do.
“We will continue to prosecute my targets with assets that are delivered on time and in top shape. You will not be short of aircraft, matériel, or supplies. Armed with such power, we will get cracking! Thank you, and God save the King.”
While the airmen respectfully returned a murmured “God save the King,” they stood there dumbfounded. Major Burge had listened with his head bowed to the gridiron flooring, unable to look at his squadron. In the priority of shame, Trenchard seemed to have felt it was more important to have lost an aircraft than its crew. Evidently to him there was a ceaseless supply of airmen and crew at his disposal, a disgusting reference to the commodity that was human lives.
All men and the few nursing sisters standing there that day felt the bad taste of his seeming lack of remorse. His targets! His aeroplanes! Get cracking! All during a memorial for irreplaceable lost souls.
The next day I was summoned to Major Burge’s quarters. “At ease, Pitman. Sit, please.”
“You requested my presence, sir.”
Burge appeared uncertain, which belied the image he crafted of himself with carefully Brilliantined hair, heavy but well-groomed eyebrows, and dark authoritarian eyes, all of which hid his youthful face. Yet there he was, acting nervous. Did Trenchard light into him for something? “Yes, quite, things to discuss. I’ve spoken to your fellow Lieutenants Conover and Darby as well. Lay of the land as it were.”
Would he jolly well get to the point? “Yes, sir.”
“You’re one of my longest-term officers, my technical man with a strong moral compass too. It has come to my attention that there may be some discord among the flyers. That true?”
Which way was he leaning? Was I to be a rat scurrying along the grassy field to squeal tasty bits of discord for the major just so he could come down hard? I couldn’t read Burge well. “Sir, the disaster put the wind up, you know.”
“Come now, Pitman, I know that. What is the tone, the morale, just now?”
I needed to ease into this, aware that Trenchard’s mighty ego might have forced Burge to seek out any dissonance. “Talk of the Handley Pages perhaps not being battle ready, maybe as a result, you know, of the brass pushing the aircraft to be ready when there may still be development work to be done.”There, it had been said, and I hoped without attributing any blame other than to those up top.
“Speak freely, Lieutenant.”
“The lads are scared, sir, fearful of another disaster. There are many rumors circulating that the cause of the crash was mechanical, not pilot error. No one wants to blame poor dear Charlie Box, sir, nor Bobby Inches, instead of believing the crash was caused by a malfunction of some sort.” Damn! Did I just implicate the ground crew?
Burge was stoic. “Any theories?”
“Well, sir, there is word that the rear elevator controls may have accidentally been kept strapped down, you know, such that they would remain stationary while on the ground to avoid damage.”
“Yes, I know why they’d be strapped down.”
Finally, the known Burge was emerging, the one who wanted to get on with the story. That was a good sign. I resumed, “Well,
if the straps hadn’t been removed before flight, the aircraft would have little lift, perhaps forcing the nose down, entangling the aircraft in the poplars.”
Burge stood, pondered what I had just stated while moving across the room. His back was to me while he stared out the window, before turning.
“Cigarette, Pitman?”
Why was he stalling? What had I said that might be worth mulling? “Definitely, sir.”
He studied me as I moved forward to suck in the draft, lighting the Gitanes from his silver lighter that showed the words “Gott mit Uns” emblazoned on the side. The irony of “God with Us” on an enemy lighter raised the question of how our good Lord could be with both sides of the conflict. The story of why Burge even owned this implement would have to wait for another time.
Burge evidently trusted my judgment, as he disclosed the possible cause. “The aeroplane was so badly burned that our mechanics have little evidence from which to make a determination. What you are saying and what I believe is that there was indeed ground crew error.”
“There are some that would agree, some not, sir.”
He pressed on: “However, and you know this from your many sorties, Pitman, the pilot and observer have equal responsibility to inspect their aircraft.”
“I agree, sir. It could have been that Box and Inches had been out in the aircraft most of the afternoon and perhaps assumed it would not be banded.”
“I won’t carry this any further, Lieutenant, except to bless Box and Inches, and the young lad Crickmore. Bloody sad turn. This is terrible business, and we must get this squadron on its feet, so I ask you to keep our discussion quiet. That’s the end of it. No fault laid.” That was not an order, instead a confirmation of trust and mutual respect. “Yes, Major. I’ll do everything I can to assist with tonight’s sortie.”
“Good, good.” Burge looked pensive and again turned to the window, uncertain of further comment, but then seemed to relent as he shifted inward again. “Ah, one other thing, Pitman. I’m aware of the effect the major-general’s words had on the squad. I’m also aware that he is a man of keen dignity, of loyalty to his airmen. His position is very difficult, trying to be seen as a caring parent, if you will, yet run an air force during the worst conflict mankind has ever seen. He did not express his sorrow in a manner that was easily interpreted; however, he has the best interests of every one of us at hand. I’d like you to help me support him, Lieutenant.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Dismissed, Pitman. And ah, well done!”
So I was to be a trusted ally to watch over the squad’s morale, but also an unwitting recruit to allay any animosity toward the brass. That was an ugly torch to carry since I couldn’t withhold breakdowns in the squad’s resolve, yet I had no inclination to be—what was I thinking in that meeting?—that scurrying rat. And if that weren’t enough, my guts still churned and nightmares persisted about the agony of this war and of losing Cissy.
Chapter 48
September 1918
The weather remained stable, and for the most part the Fees had been retired, picked up for domestic use by the United States Air Service, or sent to air depot graves. Bombing power increased as a smaller number of giant O/400s ferried larger amounts of explosives over to German targets. All of this meant that the Vicar and Howie had been busy in the air most days since the beginning of the month. One evening, the mess was a hive of activity as they arrived after a raid, the other aviators having a night free.
Howie stepped up to the bar, while the Vicar strolled over to the corner table where I was glancing through a newspaper. I chortled, “Hello, Vic. Was it lonely being the single aircraft flying over to Metz tonight?”
“Bobby, how are you? Thanks to your chaps for seeing us in safely.”
“Pleasure is mine, Vic. Successful?”
“Uh-huh. Sixteen 112-pounders on the railway leading into the station will keep them busy with repairs. I know the kaiser wants his bloody line kept open to Berlin, but why don’t they just give up the ghost, eh?”
“Speaking of the kaiser, I’m hearing the Austrians want to sue for peace, but he won’t have it.”
“What maniacal mind would keep throwing men at a losing cause? The rumor is that he is dragging convalescents and Spanish flu victims out of hospitals and sending them to the front.”
Listening as he arrived with three pints, Howie interjected, “Terrible business. We’re pushing them hard north of here, and they’re ceding ground at Amiens and Bapaume, but still their generals remain stubborn.”
“And the Americans were successfully engaged at St. Mihiel in a similar vein,” added Vic.
Vic and Howie were really wound up, and I fed their egos. “Not to mention the hate you two are raining down on their transport capabilities.”
“Thanks, Bobby, but somehow they seem to recover in short order.”
I sipped my ale, pondering the perspective of the Germans. They were with little food and supplies, but still able to keep their airfields and railways operational after our continual bombing onslaughts. “Say, what of Jamieson? I saw you subbed Blakemore in as gunner tonight?”
“Jamieson’s a trooper. He rode with us on the Handley straight through until tonight,” said Vic.
Howie put down his glass, quick to intercede. “Even troopers get tired, though.”
I thought about how tired I myself had become while flying last spring, night after night in a wood-and-fabric aeroplane, on watch for enemy aircraft and Archie shrapnel through weather that played havoc, or mechanical hiccups that constantly gnawed at my nerves. The spraying arc of gunfire that chopped down the enemy from five hundred feet was merciless, injuring and maiming in open spaces or killing them, if they were lucky. Only that unique soldier, the one who flew on those sorties, would ever truly know the horror and the success wrapped into the same bundle of emotion. Yes, the term trooper was appropriate.
The Vicar looked over at me, compassion in his smile. “You all right, Bob?”
“Oh, yes, yes. Just thinking about ole Scottie Jamieson. Hope he’s not burning out.”
“He’s grounded for now, I’m afraid,” said the Vicar. “Blunt thing is he can’t properly protect our rear when he’s tired, run down as it were.” He drew himself in closer to the table, which Howie and I instinctively followed, somehow knowing there was to be secrecy. “The inaugural Frankfort raid is due to proceed in a few days. We’re just waiting to hear from London. We need a seasoned gunner for a sortie of that magnitude.”
I was feeling a bit defensive of myself. “Well, there’s any number of qualified observers—Segner, Pascoe, and Shillinglaw for instance.”
“Sure, there is a pool,” said Howie, “but it all depends on their condition and availability. This will be a long, arduous journey, and we need the right gunner.”
The Vicar wore a knowing look and canny grin. “We’ll see how things pan out.”
. . .
Daisy and Eric’s letter was a boost I needed, full of compassion, love, humor, and understanding. It wasn’t that letters from home didn’t offer those, but theirs provided a different level of understanding, one that only a shared love for Cissy could grasp. Due to the pain, I had decided not to tell anyone in the family about my relationship until after the war. If at all.
13 September, 1918
My Dearest Cousins Daisy and Eric,
I was elated to have received your letter dated 25 August, finally catching up to me at a new aerodrome. Being located ever more easterly than at any time in this war is certainly a good sign of our progress. To see the end of the conflict this year would be heaven sent.
It was so heartfelt of you to inquire after my health, especially my frame of mind. Daisy, you mentioned you were beginning to accept Cissy’s death, replacing it with fond memories of who she was instead of what she could have been. I feel I, too, am beginning to remember her in that manner. Although I miss her in the most infinite way, I feel lucky to have been touched by such a loving so
ul. She will never be far from my thoughts.
Thank you for visiting the gravesite at St. Mary’s Attenborough and for remembering me to Cissy. You describe such a peaceful setting with the tree canopy and flower gardens I know she adored. I will visit myself just as soon as I am able.
Eric, it is wonderful that you have been re-employed at the newspaper, and getting your old job back as development editor is tops! As I remember from Walthamstow, you would sit up nights writing and writing. We had such a creative household between music, writing, and that bit of cabinet making. Our current reality makes one appreciate those times when we had such enviable choices.
I laughed at the image you described of young Stanley marching up and down your street as an officer of our King’s army. I am pleased, Eric, that you and I had such an impact. I only hope and pray he never has to fight for the liberty we are struggling to protect. May this be the war that ends all conflict. Please give my youngest cousin a great-big, loving squeeze for me.
Well, my dearest cousins, I must sign off now with a promise to visit just as soon as any leave is granted. I am not holding my breath since, in this latest push, all British, French, and American soldiers are engaged to the fullest. May this then be the final surge to victory!
Seeking Courage Page 34