PRAISE FOR SEEKING COURAGE
“Seeking Courage by Gregory Smith brings to life the plight of a soldier during the Great War, one who moves from the trenches to take flight over them. As an Aviator myself I can relate to the desire to slip the surly bonds of earth and take to the air over the grit and horrors faced by infantrymen on the ground. This story is more than a tale of one Aviator, it is the story of humanity and the choices we make. Seeking Courage is a dynamic historical novel which describes in great detail the life of a young Canadian driven to defend democracy. Fighting on foreign soil he is inspired by love and compassion. This brings him to the realization that he has the chance to pursue life to the fullest and the freedom to make his own choices. At times, this novel is a painfully honest factorial portrayal of what life was like when the world was at war a hundred years ago. The first mechanized war was promoted to be over swiftly as a result of new killing technology and machines, but war dragged on; lives were interrupted, families destroyed, and empires ended. Gregory Smith ably demonstrates the changes in one mans values and his growth through personal experience. I am impressed with the way the subject matter has been handled, it is not overly technical nor ghoulishly morose; it is not bound up with politics or military minutia, rather it balances both the historical and technical details with a humane and honest portrayal of life at this time in history. This biographical work is highly thorough yet refreshingly easy to read with the just the right mix of drama and detail.”
Gene Demarco—Aviation Consultant & FE2b Pilot
“This is a wonderful novel. It is exciting, engaging, gut-wrenching, enjoyable, and sorrowful to read. I looked forward to continuing the story each time I picked it up again. The best thing about it is that it brings to life what people were experiencing in the First World War. Like Stephen Crane’s The Red Badge of Courage, this novel gives us truths about being in war that you’ll never get from any history text. I could tell that the author had insights -from actually being in the cockpit of an FE2b -that I’ve never picked up in 25 years of studying WWI bombing campaigns.”
Steve Suddaby—Past President, World War One Historical Association
Copyright © 2019 by Gregory P. Smith
All rights reserved. No portion of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or any other—except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
Indigo River Publishing
3 West Garden Street, Ste. 718
Pensacola, FL 32502
www.indigoriverpublishing.com
Editors: Justyn Newman and Regina Cornell
Cover Design: Robin Vuchnich
Ordering Information:
Quantity sales: Special discounts are available on quantity purchases by corporations, associations, and others. For details, contact the publisher at the address above.
Orders by US trade bookstores and wholesalers: Please contact the publisher at the address above.
Printed in the United States of America
Library of Congress Control Number: 2019936676
ISBN: 978-1-950906-55-0
First Edition
With Indigo River Publishing, you can always expect great books, strong voices, and meaningful messages. Most importantly, you’ll always find . . . words worth reading.
CONTENTS
PART I
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
PART II
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
PART III
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Historical Note
Glossary
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Since a boy, war intrigued me; not the gore and devastation, rather a curiosity about why mankind repeatedly engages in it, and why soldiers, especially volunteers, are so willing to fight on behalf of their countries. I turned to my maternal grandfather’s war experiences for lessons about fear and courage, for an understanding of why or how one man came to the decision to lay his life on the line and enlist in 1915. Sadly, I had deferred to family taboos (“Hush, he doesn’t want to talk about the war”) so did not ask him enough direct questions before he died in 1976. Gladly, there exists plentiful reference material covering the war in general, his regiment and squadron, and specifically to himself: one person among millions of young men engaged in the ‘war to end all wars’ that lasted from 1914 to 1918.
I began to create a documentary style accounting of Robert Courtenay Pitman’s war history based on official service records, but eventually found the story lacked flow due to periods where some information on time and people was missing. I decided to write in novel style, which gave me license to develop more flow without sacrificing the very important historical background. But as with most things in life I could not proceed without the assistance of willing institutions and informed experts.
Such resources include The Library and Archives Canada, Ottawa, The National Archives, Kew, the Royal Air Force Museum, Hendon Aerodrome, London, Cross & Cockade International, Kettering, the Imperial War Museum, London, the Canadian War Museum, Ottawa and the Saskatoon Library. Although it is not practical to mention the names of all those who assisted, I can assure you that without exception every person at every institution was exceptionally pleasant, professional and helpful.
In addition to general acknowledgments there are a few professionals who provided very specific expertise on key topics. For pretty much everything about the FE2b, from its handling in flight to its complex makeup I thank Gene DeMarco, Aviation Consultant and FE2b pilot. For detailed historical data regarding the RFC/ RAF in general and 100 Squadron in particular, I thank Trevor Henshaw, author of The Sky Their Battlefield, Grub Street Books and contributing author to other publications such as the FE2b Monogram, Cross & Cockade International. Steve Suddaby, Past President World War One Historical Society was incredibly helpful in the final stages of the manuscript with putting me straight on many details about aircraft manoeuvres and bombing operations. See Steve’s extensive database by entering Suddaby in the search box at https://www.overthefront.com/. Finally, I thank the person who gave me the confidence to believe this book would one day come to fruition, war historian Norm Graham. Experiencing Norm’s depth of knowledge while attending one of his WW1 Battlefield Tours in w
estern France and reviewing many of his books and DVDs provided an insight into the Great War not otherwise accessible. See https://battlefields.ca/. Finally, my supportive publisher! In the competitive world of published works Indigo River Publishing believed in me; not only to sell books but in allowing me freedom to meaningfully participate in the process. Bobby Dunaway leads a great team. Editors Justyn Newman and Regina Cornell both provided a critical eye with a sensitive approach. And the one who found me, Georgette Green.
For all those test readers, you know who you are and know how appreciative I am of your critical feedback. Thanks everyone!
PART I
Chapter 1
16 September, 1916
“Whoa, Pitman! You did it again. You kicked me in the shin.” My eyes burst open at the sound of his jesting voice. I had been sitting across from Issy over the arduous journey from Boulogne—eighty miles that lasted thirty-six hours. The hiss of steam and slowing of the train was further bringing me back to consciousness.
In the dark dream, I had kicked helplessly at a faceless, cloaked attacker. I lifted my head off the carriage windowsill and dabbed the beads of sweat tickling my brow as I noticed his typically playful grin. “Sorry, Issy. I am truly sorry. Dunno, I sometimes fall into a deep sleep with visions of being attacked, flinging my feet for protection.” A little more relaxed, I forced a smile to rid what I knew was a bellicose look. “That’s all right, I understand. Just try to keep your kicks for the Hun!”
I straightened up and instinctively smoothed down invisible creases in my tunic as the train came to rest at the Somme railhead. The squeal of iron wheels on the rails and smoke wafting sulphurous vapor into the station’s vast glass roof warned onlookers of our arrival. Perce sat beside me, his slumped head stirring toward wakefulness with the slowing momentum.
“You ready for this, Perce?” It was really a reflection, a way to face my feelings about going into war. With no prior military experience, I was nervous; we were all nervous. This trepidation was something that officer training couldn’t have prepared us for. Soon enough I would be leading a platoon of fifty soldiers. For that, I would need pluck and confidence.
Perce yawned. “No, not really. I don’t think any of us will be ready until we face our baptism—you know, out there in the mud.”
I mulled on that as I peered out the partially open window. There were young women scattered across the Amiens platform waving white handkerchiefs of welcome. Businessmen bustled here and there, perhaps looking for opportunities to profit. Voices accented in both English and French called out to many of the disembarking soldiers amid the smell of freshly baked baguettes. I expected this would be a pleasant but short-lived contrast to the battlefield climate. Remaining in my seat while Issy and Perce organized their duffel bags, I continued taking in the activity outside. Eager young men brimming with innocence piled off carriages, each clutching the worldly possessions assumed to see them through these charged times. I knew from my officer’s briefing that most had never traveled farther than the outskirts of the small towns and villages which they had so recently left.
I leaned over to the floor and zipped my duffel bag. Issy stood above, looking at me quizzically. “Is that why you have bad dreams, Bob? You know, facing the war and all?”
I thought about the connection between my dreams and my childhood. “I can’t really say that’s what’s prompting them now, but I’ve had them since I was young.” I often wondered if the dreams reflected the timidness I felt in front of my controlling father. He would hold me responsible for the sometimes naughty behavior of my sisters, my status as eldest child making me somehow accountable. He was always too busy to understand, so he would just yell. I suppose it was my ineptitude at defending myself that led to my doing so in nightmares. But in spite of such personal issues, I knew it was now time to practice courage and to do my bit to defend against threats to our democratic way of living.
I put my hands on my knees and looked up. I liked Issy’s cheerful demeanor. Now arriving at the front, I was curious about how he viewed our imminent deployment. “Do you ever get afraid about the unknowns of war?” I asked him. “Will we be brave, or will we panic? Will we lead our soldiers into no-man’s-land with confidence?”
Perce’s hesitant nature came through as he stood beside Issy. “Well, I do. I’ve been constantly thinking about coming battles and losing a leg, or worse.”
“Ha! Me as well, but I’m not going to let you two know that,” Issy confidently mused.
I remained reflective. “We are going into the severest war ever known to mankind. Enjoy each day as if it’s your last. That’s what I say.”
Issy had a way about him; he could make the dourest subject upbeat. “Robert Courtenay Pitman, as your mother would say—put a smile on that cherubic face, young man!”
I knew what Issy was on about. Since I was a child, I had been recognized and even teased for my near round face of olive tones, some saying that my hazel eyes were of matching roundness. I was always thankful that my naturally wavy, even unruly, brown hair gave me more of a rambling look. Yet now, with officer standards for oiled-back, Brilliantined hair and a full mustache below my quite prominent nose, I had gained a more mature, manly look.
“Listen here, Lieutenant Malcolm Isbester, you’re not going to get my goat with that motherly talk, although you do make me smile.” Issy smirked at the uncommon use of his full name.
Perce lazily moved toward me. “Good sport, Bob. Shall you and I do our uniform check now?”
I grinned about our little ritual and faced him. “All right, let’s look you over. Khaki tunic buttoned correctly, trousers tucked nicely into riding boots, mm-hmm.” I walked around Perce, who pretended to stand at attention. “Sam Browne squared, cap sitting straight, and brass Canada tab fastened properly to epaulettes. Lieutenant stars clipped appropriately to each sleeve. I’d say you pass. Barely.”
“You two sound like finicky women,” Issy scolded.
“Uh-huh. But you didn’t say that when you got a complete dressing down from the Captain for—now how did he say it?—’poor manner of dressing,’ did you?” I said.
We all laughed. As I glanced into the mirror to adjust my military tie to a more centered position, I felt I looked older and more authoritative than my twenty-four years. I regretted such fussiness as my reflection gave me a start. Was I ready for this? Months of training in Canada and England, and now the imminent reality of war in France rather shook me.
I held the image of my mother’s pained and anxious face as I peered out the window of the train leaving Saskatoon station so many months before. She had pleaded with me to stay safe and to return to my two sisters, Ethel and Hilda. I had to maintain decorum among the others that were also leaving that day. Yet holding back tears was so very difficult; using my white hanky to wave goodbye, I knew it was also there to wipe them away.
That memory lingered as I considered the promise I made on enlistment, the commitment to lead my platoon bravely into battle. I already understood the smell of fear as it wafted up from practice battlefields with the stench of cordite. I had felt its sting as smoke blinded my eyes. I had felt the concussion of explosion and knew the taste of mud. I knew what was expected by my superiors and, more importantly, by my soldiers: a courageous leader in the face of a war like no one—no army, no society—had ever fought before. A leader who could transfer practice skills to muddy trenches, which held deadly machine guns that could spit five hundred rounds per minute, lethal flamethrowers that burned men alive, and toxic gas that lulled victims into a sleepy death.
. . .
All right, the long wait was over.
I was the first of our small party to descend the wooden steps from the carriage, relieved to be rid of the stress and strain of the journey. Falling in behind a couple of jovial soldiers, the three of us looked at each other and grimaced upon hearing their innocent bragging about all the women they would meet and the medals they were going to bring back. If onl
y they’d had the briefing we did.
Amid a sea of soldiers and civilians scattered across the platform, a young corporal was holding up our colors, those of the Royal Canadian Regiment. Freeing myself of previous somber thoughts, I broke into an oversized smile and strode toward him, relishing the instant feeling of familiarity and inclusion. “Minnie,” I yelled over the din.
“Bob! Er, Lieutenant Pitman, it’s great to see you. I saw your name on the roster and could hardly believe you were among the arrivals.”
I lowered my voice to a whisper as we firmly shook hands. “Don’t worry, we’ll be on first-name basis while out of the range of the brass. We’re all friends.”
“Wow, it was November we last saw each other, right? When you left the rest of us to take some course or other in Winnipeg?”
“Yeah, that long. It was disappointing not to stay with our gang of ten from Saskatoon for the Halifax departure.”
“We arrived in Liverpool on 15 December. Most stayed with the Princess Pats; I was assigned this May to the RCR.”
“Ahem,” someone grunted behind us.
I shifted to open up space, forming a circle. “Sorry, lads. This here is Corporal John Campbell Forbes, RCR adjutant.”
“Hello, Corporal. I’m Perce, and this here is Issy—Lieutenants Percy Sutton and Malcolm Isbester on your roster. You are, uh, Minnie?”
Issy was on cue. “Minnie? As in the nickname for the German trench mortar, Minenwerfer?”
“Oh no, no,” Minnie said with a laugh. “I would never allow a German nickname!”
Issy grinned as he shrugged. “Then what could your nickname mean, Corporal?”
“Well, it’s a long—”
I jumped in. “Listen, chaps, let me help. You see, when we enlisted together back in Saskatoon, our features were recorded—you know, the attestation description. Well, the enlisting officer peered at John for the longest time before recording ‘flaxen hair.’ There were ten of us that day, all in a spirited mood, so I blurted out, ‘Oh, like Minnie,’ and it stuck.”
Issy and Perce exchanged quizzical looks, simultaneously asking, “Who’s Minnie?”
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