Torchlight caught my attention—Howie indicating something, flashing out a signal: dash-dash, dot-dot-dot, dash-dash-dot. M, S, G. Ah, a message! I felt down behind the raised seat to open the container and directed my torch to the note. Approach target in twenty, engines cut two miles out, glide in, be alert be safe, no need reply. I waved my torch to and fro, and Howie waved his back.
Those twenty minutes felt like an eternity while standing on my platform in tense anticipation of an enemy attack bounding out of the darkness. I fingered the trigger of the port Lewis. Thoughts of searchlights suddenly illuminating our underbelly to make us the target instead of the other way around rose up from my stomach.
Suddenly, the night was eerily quiet except for the whistling of wires and the slight humming of wing fabric as the mighty engines were cut. For an instant in the silent blackness, memories flooded in about the many nights coasting toward our prey in the smaller Fee. Except this time I was secure in an aircraft office with high sides and a plethora of weaponry at my reach. With our downward descent, I had a full view in front of the Handley, amazed to see the Fechenheim industrial center beside the river Main lit as if on exhibition. I thought it such an unsuspecting spectacle.
With movement in the forward cockpit, I watched Howie’s outline bend over the bomb sight. Rapid calculations of wind, air speed, and drift would instruct him. Or would he rely on visual instinct to drop the bombs? It didn’t matter since I heard the first bomb release from the rack as we lined up over the factory compound. Wanting to do my bit, I pointed the rear-facing Lewis down onto the target, squeezing the trigger that rapidly projected round after round of random destruction onto the enemy. Excitement soared through my body from fear, power, or perhaps something else.
As each of the heavy bombs dropped, I felt the seven-ton aircraft lift away from their weight. Archie exploded around us; no need for Hun searchlights as we were illuminated as clear as day by the factory lights, our monster bird bouncing and bucking with each explosion. I sweated, felt the beads of water from under my leather helmet streaming down my face. I leaned down to open the V hatch below as I knew I would soon need the lower Lewis. Each heave of my chest felt like that fist punching up from within as I struggled to control my erratic breathing, to swallow back my heart that had disgorged into my throat.
The roar of the engines coming back to life was a relief, propelling us away as I lay down to dispense machine-gun fire through the bottom hatch, strafing everything in the area. We soared into the freedom of darkness, but we were not to be released, not yet. Searchlights flooded the sky and caught us, Hun machine guns spraying upward, bullets thwacking into the wooden frame and pinging on struts. I aimed for the lights, shooting irregular spurts of fire as I fought to control my breathing. Through the din, the roar of the engines, I could hear Howie’s guns doing the same at the front, welcome proof that he was equally alive and well.
The pull of the engines was strong, taking us upward and away from the menace—that threat of our own instigation—as we soared south toward Darmstadt before the planned turn west over the Vosges. We were out of machine-gun range now, but not Archie. Puffs continued exploding around us, the lumbering machine climbing slowly, not with the agility of the Fee. We were tons of material straining upward, slowed by our own weight, lumbering into the night. The Vicar steered the craft to port sideways with a graceful southerly turn that would take us back down toward the Vosges and home.
As suddenly as the lights had caught us, we were in blackness. Relief seared through me as we pulled away from danger, my breathing coming back under control, nerves relaxing their grip. Pulling up from the V hatch, the thought came to me—this was a historic night. We were the first British bomber to attack an industrial target deep within German territory, as far as the city of Frankfort!
I felt good, but wished I were up front with my comrades to share congratulatory smiles. I instinctively turned toward them, cherishing my lone grin in the darkness.
As attentive as ever, Howie was peering over into the bomb crate. I could see into it as well, could see that all bombs had cleared, but perhaps from his angle he could not. The ever-attentive Howie! But then the Vicar stood up, with his figure illuminated by the rising moon, tapping Howie on the shoulder before pointing to starboard. My gaze followed his finger to its engine, and my smile faded to an anxious frown. The propeller was stationary, not moving. What did this mean? Could we fly forward with one propeller, with the strength of only one engine?
Howie stood up and carefully leaned toward the engine, one leg in the cockpit, the other braced on the starboard wing, yanking on the propeller while risking his life against a strong slipstream and unbalanced aircraft. The engine was not reacting, remaining frozen in the night. My mind raced with thoughts about the engine failure Wellsey and I had endured, of our shot-up Fee limping home. But back then we were not hundreds of miles away in German territory. Was this happening again, could this happen twice to one flyer in the same long war? With Howie returned to the cockpit, Vic was trying to correct the listing of our ship, manipulating the wheel to keep us stable. I became aware of sweating again, my heart pounding in my chest.
Howie leaned over the Vicar, an animated silhouette whose flailing arms belied the hurried speech and the intensity of the situation. In an instant, Howie stood tall, waving to gain my attention, shining his torch against his left hand, signaling, pointing downward with his index finger. Fuck, we were force landing! On German soil! Just after bombing them, attacking their very soul at Frankfort!
This was the moment of truth about dealing with the fear that had stalked me throughout the war. My mind raced, recalling words such as bravery and grit and fortitude. I had flashes about the inner strength that would be needed to survive the landing, then to deal with the inevitable German retribution. About the courage to find strength, the sheer drive to work with Howie and Vic to ensure we survived. Unless . . . Was evasion possible?
I peered over the side and saw flat fields, but couldn’t see directly in front of the aircraft. Damn! Nothing I could do but wait. With the port engine shut down for stability, we coasted at a helpless clip, with wings vacillating from side to side. I knew the Vicar was struggling to keep the aircraft stable. Bloody hell, we were losing altitude quickly; any choices for landing were going to be made for us. I was tense, focused on hope. The Vicar must have been feeling the same fear and trepidation, possibly worse. But abruptly it happened. He set our broken machine down in a ploughed field as if it were the one safe place destined for us, rocks and debris flying up high, smashing at the nacelle as the massive airship shivered under stress, eventually lurching to a stop. We were alive, safe! Except that we were in fucking hostile Germany. Survival depended on our next move. We had to act quickly.
Chapter 51
17 September, 1918
I glanced at my wristwatch, presented to me by Judge McLorg of the Saskatchewan law courts upon commending me for enlisting, a moment forever engraved into my mind. It had endured years in the mud, in the air, in Cissy’s arms, and now told me it was thirty-five minutes past midnight.
I was the first to alight, dropping the short distance onto the soft, dark soil before running to the front to assist Howie and Vic in their seven-foot drop. At this point we did not need leg or foot injuries. We stared momentarily in disbelief, processing the last fateful twenty minutes that had changed our destiny. Looking beyond our little circle, the Vicar broke the silence, alarm in his voice: “Fuck, there are torches approaching; looks like civilians.” I had never heard the Vicar swear.
That the ground temperature was significantly warmer became painfully evident as we sweated in the confinement of our bulky Sidcot suits. “Await their arrival and help, or flee—what do you think?” I barked.
With beads of sweat pouring down his face, I had seldom seen the Vicar look so worried. “How can we bloody trust them, Germans loyal to their kaiser? It’s obvious that we are an enemy bomber!”
Howie peer
ed behind us through the darkness. I followed his sightline and saw the same dark mass that he did. “Over there, looks like a forest. Let’s run for that, make our plans from there.”
We ran. Reaching the trees, we threw off our flying clothes while catching our breath. The locals had now reached the Handley, their torches shining all over it, some trying to climb up. We were blessed for a moment, as they were more curious to look over the large machine than to find its crew.
Unanimously, we agreed not to give ourselves up, but debated the regulations that required us to set fire to the aircraft and its armaments. The idea of waiting out the locals’ curiosity was not enticing, so we agreed to forgo the burn and concentrate on a prompt escape—we weren’t even sure if our matches worked. We pooled our meager provisions, pulling goods out of our Sidcots that were stored for just such an event: a torch with a battery box, Nestle’s milk chocolate, bully beef, biscuits, and soap. The Vicar looked amazed as I uncovered two maps that were strapped at the back of my knees, one for German territory down to the Swiss border, the other showing the Dutch frontier. Gathering the tiny compasses we each had secured in the heels of our shoes, we set out.
Nervously, we moved across the field, constantly looking back at the excitement that was still occupying the Germans, buying us time to move away. We stopped behind shrubbery to risk shining a torch on the map. “It looks like we are 130 miles east of the French lines, but crossing the Vosges could be nasty. Besides, the whole region is crawling with German soldiers,” whispered the Vicar.
I knew we were in serious trouble. My mind was working fast, trying to think of ideas for a solution. “Remaining east of the Vosges will avoid bad weather, but any way we look at it we are going to encounter German citizens—starving, resentful, angry Germans.”
Damn, this was pointing out problems, not helpful. I stabbed at the map. “But look, the Swiss border is directly south.”
Howie frowned as he measured the map by finger lengths. “But that looks like 175 or so miles, longer than walking to the lines.”
“Howie,” I protested, “it is flat land, no mountains, and although we could encounter German citizens, we are less likely to be seen by soldiers this far back.”
The Vicar remained silent, letting us fret out the options, but then Howie placed a hand on my shoulder. “All right, I agree. Our best shot is to remain clear of armed soldiers. Little use our Webleys will be if we had to engage.”
“All right, it’s agreed. We make our way to the Swiss border,” said the Vicar. “But even if we cover fifteen miles each night, it will take over ten days. We’ll have to forage and plunder whatever we can.”
“Thank goodness it’s harvest time, then,” snickered Howie. “And perhaps we could stow away on a train. I saw hobos do it on the Canadian Prairie.” Howie and the Vicar shot a glance at me for my attempt to lighten the stress.
We traveled about nine miles before sunrise, when we settled in a small but dense wood. The biscuits, tinned beef, and chocolates that we had pooled didn’t last the morning, as the three of us were famished.
Chapter 52
September 1918
After sleeping through the day, we awoke with intense thirst and set out as soon as the cover of darkness allowed. Quenching ourselves was frustrating since all stream beds were seasonally dry. Eventually finding a roadside pump, we approached it with caution, pumping it painfully slow to avoid the squeaking of the handle as much as possible. It alarmingly wanted its high pitch to burst out. At that moment, the taste of fresh water was better than the best French wine. Passing through yet another village and doing our best to remain extremely quiet, we again settled into a nearby wood just before daybreak.
The wood was dry and the vegetation rich, so we had an easy time hiding. But the lushness of the foliage also brought gnats, clouds of nasty, buzzing, biting pests, which caused erratic waving of arms and slapping of skin. “Bobby,” whispered Howie, “you’re gonna get us noticed, eh?”
My whispers were even softer due to exhaustion after forty-eight hours of little sleep and gnawing hunger. “Sorry, lads, it’s just that I’m going to go crazy. I wonder if giving ourselves up to the hostile Hun would be better than swatting these invisible creatures.”
The Vicar looked alarmed. “No, don’t say that.” We settled back to an irritable rest. But then at midday, women and children arrived to forage in the wood, their innocent voices creeping closer. “Hier, Mama, ein Pilz!” we heard as they located mushrooms in their bid to provide for their starving families. To avoid being spotted, we moved deeper into thick shrubbery, avoiding threatening thorns as best we could.
At dark, we continued our southbound trek. In a field, we were able to lay our hands on some turnips and beans that filled us for the moment, raw as they were. We stumbled upon another roadside pump, which again provided a good long drink of quenching fresh water. Howie stood up from our crouched position but quickly dove onto his stomach. The Vicar and I were startled but raised our heads above road level to see a parallel-running railway line. The Vicar silently pumped his fist, and I smiled at the thought that perhaps we could snatch a stolen ride down to Mannheim or further. We would be hobos in Hun-land!
With hopeful promise, we followed the line, eventually coming to a dilapidated guardhouse appearing vacated. But a dim porchlight was suddenly illuminated as an elderly man, perhaps a gateman, not heretofore visible behind a Dutch door, jumped out at us. “Halt! Wer sind Sie? Wohin gehen Sie?”
I shrugged my shoulders and looked for any evidence of a gun on the old fellow while the Vicar turned to Howie and asked, “You understand?”
“No, but based on his tone my guess is he wants to know who we are and where we are going.”
Even in our shabby, dirty uniforms that made us look like ghosts coming off the fields, the Vicar steeled himself with the most confidence he could muster. “Hello, we are Swiss ah, Schweizerisch, gut ya?”
The Vicar looked from Howie to me, nervousness showing in his eyes. “I don’t know about this, fellows.”
The silence was deafening as the old guard stood there sizing us up, looking from one of us to the other, but saying or doing nothing.
“I don’t think he’s armed, so I say we keep moving south like we are walking home to Switzerland,” I said.
We took a few steps backward under the gatekeeper’s protests before he waved a hand in disgust. He was probably aware we were not German. Perhaps he thought English was the dominant tongue in Switzerland. Or he may have been simply too tired of conflict and poverty to care, since he shook his head back and forth as he re-entered the gatehouse. We walked on and did not turn around.
There was no activity on the rail tracks, but by map I reckoned it was another twelve miles to Mannheim where we were sure to link up with southbound trains. But we were overcome with fatigue, causing us to stop short of the target. We holed up in yet another small shrubbery for the entire next day. Again, we were almost spotted, this time by young boys picking berries. Worse, the weather turned into blustery rain, which caught us in nothing but our summer khaki uniforms.
That night, the third after our forced landing, we started out again, determined to get to Mannheim and that southbound train. But very quickly we were soaked to the skin, hungry, and losing spirit. We huddled under a lone tree, looking at one another, wondering what the other was thinking. I knew we were determined to get to safety, but at the same time knew in our hearts that this walk to Switzerland was becoming increasingly improbable. In the cold and wet—let alone the hunger—I was losing resolve, so I decided to cautiously broach the situation. “Fact is we are weak, cold, and tired. We can’t deny it.”
“We are that,” Howie put in, his teeth chattering against the cold, driving rain.
I pushed a little more. “Out here we could get sick, unable to help ourselves. We don’t know what is ahead of us as we continue walking. If we do find a train, we don’t know if it will be heavily guarded.”
“Are yo
u giving up, Bob?” whispered the Vicar, himself looking glum.
“No, not giving up as much as being practical so that we can survive and return to our families. I don’t know which way is best, but we need to talk this through, that’s all I’m saying.”
Howie stepped in. “If we surrender, they will have to feed and shelter us, correct?”
“Technically, yes,” said the Vicar. “If they have food. You saw those women and children foraging. And they were farmers, closer to food than most.”
I knew we all felt conflicted but close to admitting we were seriously run-down and likely losing the physical ability to make the walk to the Swiss border. Howie offered, “Let me float this idea— how about we stop at the next village and simply knock on some doors, see what reception we get?”
“Could be hostile, but I’m in,” said the Vicar. “And I’m definitely in,” I added.
. . .
We pushed forward, slouched against the driving rain. Making a decision seemed to energize us to move forward, no matter what the outcome. Within hours we came upon a village, thankful that the first person we encountered was a civilian. The Vicar asked him to take us to the nearest police station. To him we must have appeared alarming, looking like wet refugees sprung out of the dusk, but he thankfully remained calm. Polizei, ja? He understood and led us away, first making a stop at his home, where his wife kindly gave us some bread.
While that German citizen and his wife were a blessing, the village jailers were not, locking us up for the night and refusing us food. We were chilled to the bone in our drenched uniforms. The next morning the local police brought a British POW from a nearby factory to speak to us. But we defiantly provided no information other than our names and ranks. And we remained famished.
Seeking Courage Page 36