Yours with love,
Bob
Chapter 49
15 September, 1918
“Pitman, enter. Thank you for coming at a moment’s notice. I trust my adjutant managed a smile when he rousted you.”
With a salute I looked upon Burge sitting at his desk with none of the disquiet he had shown the other day, looking as authoritarian as ever with a strong physique evident under his tight-fitting, impeccably tailored tunic. London money and title were well alive!
“Sit, please.” Burge motioned to the area behind me as he moved across the floor with purpose.
I turned and was startled to see Vic and Howie casually sitting around a meeting table with wide, discerning grins. The Vicar warned, “No gawking, Bobby. Not becoming at all.”
While my two comrades cast a breezy look, I was suspicious as I took the only seat remaining. I decided a friendly tone was best. “Hello.”
Burge seemed impatient. “Look, I’ve been reviewing a bold plan with your cronies here. It’s time you are brought into the fold.”
I intuitively knew why I was brought into this meeting, but decided to deflect as nicely as I knew how. “Yes, sir. The shortage of supplies and parts may absolutely be affecting, ah, bold plans, but I assure you we have a healthy parts-trading arrangement with 97 and 215 Squadrons on the opposite side of the aerodrome.”
Howie humorously winced at my feeble attempt to avert Burge’s plan, immediately seeing through my ruse. Vic looked at him to share a knowing smile as I looked back at the major.
“That’s not quite the issue, Lieutenant. We are sending two O/400 crews over to Frankfort. That is about a six-hour run that has not been attempted before. Idea is to force the Hun’s hand, deliver shock and terror, if you will.”
I ran my fingers along the side of my khaki side cap, turning it from end to end, unable to stop a building nervousness. I became aware that the rapid thoughts shooting through my head gave me an anxious countenance. I refused to look at Vic and Howie, as they would grimace at my further protest. Yet I persisted: “I don’t understand my connection—”
“Well, Jamieson is out. I think you know that. I’ve been pressuring these flyers here to provide alternates for their rear gunner. Your name kept surfacing.”
I then had to look, first at Vic and then Howie, hoping for some recognition that this was some sort of prank. Their pan faces answered it wasn’t.
The Vicar assumed a serious tone. “Look, Bob, you are an excellent observer, extremely proficient on the Lewis, proving that time and again in the Fee.”
“We need you,” added Howie. “We understand each other, how we act as a team.” I knew I looked worried, knew the three understood my overriding thought—I had not expected to sortie again. “In these new O/400s, we have considerable protection from the Hun’s fire, whether ground defenses or enemy aircraft.” But I also knew that when I was permitted to pursue technical ground duties, I could be ordered into the sky at any time.
As Howie and the Vicar attempted to ease me into the assignment, Burge stepped in. “Lieutenant Pitman, I’m afraid that unless you provide a suitable reason for not accepting this order, it stands.” I did not wish to irritate the major with the trepidation I was feeling. My mind was rebelling since I had allowed myself to believe I would be grounded for the balance of the war. Yet there I was, being ordered into the largest aeroplane ever built, to fly to the enemy’s front yard with a bomb load that could raze the Palace of Versailles in one go.
“Well, sir, I’ve not seen duty in the Handley Page, so perhaps that brings a risk to the other crew members.” I could not stop my drivel. “The Box-Inches disaster has been explained as exceptional, but just Saturday, the American lad Gower was forced to land his Handley with a shot-out propeller.” Bloody hell, I was not sounding very much an officer, and I hoped that Burge overlooked my indiscretion at referring to the Box-Inches disaster.
“Understood, Lieutenant; however, you have not convinced me to stand down my order. You will be supported by Johnson and Chainey here, whom you will join for a practice run this afternoon.” Knowing I had been committed, I needed to move beyond my doubts by showing a confident military persona, to promptly accept the assignment. “Yes, sir. I am honored that you and my fellow flyers have such confidence in me.”
“Noted. This sortie will take place tomorrow evening, so I suggest you get cracking.”
We stood and collectively saluted. “Sir!”
“Dismissed, gentlemen.”
. . .
I held my curiosity as we crossed the field in silence to the front of the mess, where we were able to take advantage of a nicely set lunch table in the late-summer sun. I was reflective of the major’s conversation, of his orders now that they had been exercised. I took a moment to glance up at the willowy clouds separated by spaces of deep blue, rising majestically as if to beckon me back to their domain. We sat, and with thoughts of returning to flying I broke the quiet.
“Burge commented that my name kept popping up. What’s behind that?”
In a deferential manner, Howie looked at the Vicar, his extended hand urging him to respond. “You’re respected, Bobby, not just for your character but for your skills. You know the Lewis, you know bombing accuracy, that sort of thing.”
“You’ve got lasting experience to help get us into Germany and back,” added Howie.
I contemplated their shameless compliments as I decided whether they were truly sincere or just serving the immediate cause. Yet I knew in times of war that really didn’t matter since courage and survival were the overriding precepts. I wondered if my earlier request to step back from flying was subconsciously spawned by a need to survive for Cissy. That was when she was still alive, and I perhaps subconsciously knew that our future lay together. But I was to be flying again. And she was gone.
“Your words are kind, but surely—”
“Bobby,” said Howie, “we spent a thorough time discussing many candidates, but for this length of show, we cannot risk deficiency.” He stopped chewing and made an awful face. “What is this concoction, anyway?”
The Vicar smiled knowingly. “Meat pie mixed with sauerkraut. We’re in German-influenced France now. Listen, don’t know about Jamieson, but I do know his lack of confidence presents risk. You don’t, old boy. Be honored!”
I contemplated, sighed, and forced a smile before confirming, “We will be a formidable team over Frankfort, I daresay.”
. . .
“Hey, Bob! Heard you are flying again.” Hardy looked at me with a grin, his blue eyes sparkling in the bright sun.
I grinned back with an easy demeanor, having fully accepted my assignment. “Yes, I’m the chosen one, as they say. Ha!”
“Let’s show you around before your practice run.” I followed Sam and ambled up into the rear gunner’s station, lower to the ground than the front section. Standing up, the view forward to the cockpit was some distance, far enough to deny any conversation with the pilot and observer, especially when the Rolls Royce engines would be at high pitch. As I waved to Howie standing in the cockpit, I realized the isolation would be daunting.
Sam studied me. “I’m reading your mind, Bob. Happens to all gunners the first time. Take notice of the communication system just there.” He pointed to a steel wire that ran around pulleys and extended from the gunner up to the observer with a small container attached to send messages back and forth.
Hardy again contemplated my thoughts. “I know. At eight thousand feet, the slipstream and freezing air will make it difficult to write messages, so there are also two torches on board for Morse exchange.”
“All right, that’s civilized,” I said. “The rear-facing seat makes sense, I suppose, yet it seems to increase the isolation, don’t you think?”
“You’re only really sitting there for takeoff and landing. Other gunners have said they are too busy organizing the Lewises and watching for threats to bother with too much sitting.” Hardy showed me how the hi
nged seat lifted out of the way to reveal a platform from which the gunner was able to stand with a good view of the rear and sides while swinging the machine guns into any position in a 270-degree arc.
The setup was quite remarkable, from the massive amount of machine-gun drums efficiently stacked in the sidewalls to the ventral gun placement at the bottom for rear protection and for directing at searchlights. I kneeled down to peer through the floor opening with a clear view to the rear and then turned forward to see the daunting bomb rack that would vertically hold either eight 230-pounders or sixteen 112-pounders. There was even a small pocket with a recessed shelf that held emergency food supplies in the event of a forced landing. The practice flight went off without a hitch. The Vicar commanded the warm skies over friendly landscape, which allowed me to become comfortable with the feel of the aircraft and the gunner’s operations. Hardy met us on landing. “Feel good to you?”
I felt much better about things, actually brimming with excitement after soaring in such a powerful, daunting machine. “Oh sure, I feel better. I’ve tried everything out, well, as best I can without actually engaging the enemy. Yet!”
“You’ll do well.” He held a saucy grin. “Say, how about a coffee in the village? The ole Douglas is raring to go.”
“The village?”
“Oh sure, a new village just down the road, a place called Baccarat.”
I smiled warily, thinking of Hardy’s exploits at local French estaminets. “Afraid I’m under orders not to leave the aerodrome, Sam.
Unusual, I know, but related to tomorrow’s mission.”
“Unfortunate, but I won’t probe. I may take a ride over there myself.”
“What, another Bernadette?”
The grin spread a mile wide, covering his face. “Not yet, Bob. Looking, perhaps!”
. . .
I lay in bed listening to Howie’s contented breathing across the room, myself again dozing but unable to find deep sleep. The moonlight streaming in through the top of the drapery illuminated the shadow of a dragonfly, which danced against the opposite wall. Its flight was with purpose, seeking a way through to safety. I thought of rising to help it but realized the inevitable stumbling in the dark would disturb the night. The distressed night flyer would remain unaided, left to its own devices for survival.
I thought of the many sorties I’d flown, how I slept well the night before knowing I had the next day to keep myself busy preparing for flight night. This was no different, yet I was wakeful with a gnawing anxiety that I needed to identify if I were to get any rest. As the early dawn replaced the brightness of the moon, it hit me: I had always had Cissy with me when I was about to fly, right from my first training flight. No, not in person, but in my heart, she had been there. Her presence made real by the knowledge that on next leave or with the next letter, she was there. Not this time.
I was to fly alone without my true love, yet I had her memory. While generally a realist, I believed, truly believed, that I would be closer to touching her in heaven while traveling up to eight thousand feet. Memories flooded in with that first time our hearts connected at Mrs. Clarke’s. The tea kettle whistling as I answered the door, pleasantly surprised to see her in mauve and black silk, her eyes beaming at me from under that wide brim hat. Although I pushed back tears, one or two dripped onto my pillow. Vividly seeing, feeling, her being in my mind was at once intense pleasure and bitter pain.
Remembering the joy she had brought to everyone and her strong, determined character made me wonder why she had been chosen and why I had been spared after countless nights wreaking havoc over our enemy. I had to reject guilt; I knew that was not the character Cissy had fallen for. She had sought the best out of life, and it was for me to honor that. In my recent letter I had committed to Daisy that I was walking alongside her in accepting Cissy’s death, and I needed to dignify that. Eventually, I felt peaceful enough to close my eyes in slumber.
Feeling a presence, I opened my eyes to the grinning Howie inquiring whether I was to remain in bed all day or join him for a late breakfast. With his hand squeezing my shoulder, his gentle grip of compassion told me he knew yet wouldn’t break into my thoughts unless I invited it. Friends don’t get closer than that.
Chapter 50
16 September, 1918
Twenty hundred hours. Darkness had set in after a fantastically warm day on the aerodrome, but the air temperature tonight would be frigid. Annoying sweat permeated our Sidcot suits and hip-length sheep-lined boots, but we would soon need them.
Our Handley Page O/400 loomed large just outside Hangar No. 3, its tail illuminated under misty lights that showed our registration, D8302. Hardy appeared from under the framework, holding that familiar wrench as if it were an extra limb. “Howdy, Bob!” He embarrassingly looked down. “Er, Lieutenant Gower from Colorado taught me that!”
I grinned, always admiring his enthusiasm, and teased, “Hmmm, not becoming for a flatlander like you! Am I the first?”
“No, the others are on the opposite side.”
We caught up with Howie and the Vicar to walk the perimeter of the Handley as Hardknock’s crew dodged and ducked in their tinkering before flight time. After inspecting this and questioning that, we halted at the bomb cage. Packed in were four crates of Baby Incendiaries with thermite cores that would ignite fires after the detonation of the 112-pounders, which were also racked up.
The Vicar motioned for us to gather as Hardy eased away in respect of privacy. “Look, Bob, it’s time you understood the raid we are about to undertake.” I stood erect, attentive under his somber tone as he continued. “The Cassella dye factory in the Fechenheim sector of Frankfort.”
I looked at Howie, puzzled. “Why would we bomb a dye factory?”
“I know—I asked the same question. An honorable German company, Cassella originally manufactured artificial dyes. But the same coal by-product, something called aniline, is being used by the Hun to make chlorine gas.”
I whistled. “The very stuff being used to choke our boys to death in the trenches. Well, I’ll be damned. We are going to eliminate that weapon.”
Vic seemed to take in what I had just said, pondering his response. “Well, one source, but who knows how many more factories producing all sorts of chemical weapons there are? Our spy network found this one, and now with long-range aircraft, we are able to deal with it.”
Howie interjected, “The factory is right on the deep curve between the river Main and the Frankfort rail tracks, kind of like in a salient, so we will be well guided. You will need to be at the ready with your ventral gun. Searchlight duty.”
I nodded as the nearby firing-up of surrounding aircraft broke our contemplation of the raid. After exchanging handshakes in the twilight, I walked to my separate rear entrance, musing that it felt as if we were departing in separate aeroplanes. Standing in my station, I could see Howie and Vic make cockpit adjustments before turning to give the thumbs-up. Two mechanics guided by torchlight ambled up the ladders leading to each massive wing.
The silhouette on the starboard side shouted to Howie while cranking a handle on the giant Eagle engine before it sputtered, emitted black smoke, then whirred to life. Once the port engine harmonized with its twin, the technicians descended their ladders and disappeared into the night. The Eagles hummed in a powerful concert as Vic thrust forward the throttles.
I pushed down the hinged seat as the big bird lurched forward for the taxi downwind to the end of the field. It felt odd to be facing to the rear, yet I was grateful to have a seat at all after so many sorties kneeling in the front of a Fee. And the slipstream would be behind me!
A familiar apprehension gripped me as we swung around into the wind. The Rolls Royce Eagles were powered to maximum strength as we picked up speed down the flare path, barely feeling the bumps and dips below our great weight. I could feel the tail rise when the aircraft leveled itself as we gained lift, soaring into the darkness toward Frankfort.
With lighthouse approval,
we rose over the Meurthe River and into the mountainous Vosges darkness. I stood to face the front cockpit and saw the figures of Howie and the Vicar illuminated by instruments, huddled over in animated discussion. It was daunting not to be able to speak to them, yet there was no reason to be concerned. I had my station to attend to in preparation for the attack.
Nothing had shaken loose on the takeoff; the Lewises were securely mounted. I pointed one downward to check the sighting then raised it to the sky to check its balance in the slipstream. Peering along the barrel, my eye caught the cloudless night sky. Against the black canvas were endless stars ranging from port horizon across to starboard. The magic at eight thousand feet was mesmerizing, an exhilarating feeling as my mind expanded with thought.
Buried alive at Mouquet Farm two years before, gasping for air. The confusion in the clearing station where I woke, then ending up at the Maudsley. Happy thoughts about meeting Eric and Daisy, little Stanley, Wellsey, letters from my family. Sad thoughts about losing Perce, shell shock, disease, and flyer fatigue. And foremost of those thoughts spinning around my head were memories of Cissy.
The peaceful setting with stars twinkling in the dark vastness brought calm, which gave me the courage to believe her spirit was somewhere out there and that she wanted me to be all right. At that moment, I knew I would pursue life to its fullest, take the course I desired, and allow myself the freedom to make choices, but Cissy would never travel far from my heart.
I was jolted back to attention as we traveled through an air bump. Looking forward, I saw an illuminated Howie turn with a reassuring thumbs-up, but didn’t know if he saw my dark shrouded acknowledgment. The moonlit silver line below was the Rhine. My watch and a rough calculation of time told me the lights to starboard were Mannheim. Although my navigational training was not required for this flight, it gave me peace of mind to follow our course.
Thoughts of being well into the German heartland kept me standing on my platform, gazing keenly, looking out for threats of enemy aircraft, and knowing that in a short while we would approach Mainz, fifteen minutes this side of Frankfort. The purpose of our visit was fast approaching.
Seeking Courage Page 35