Seeking Courage

by Gregory P. Smith

  As I passed the Strand Palace, my mind was swept up with images of Cissy. I was to meet her on Thursday at Mrs. Clarke’s, a day before my travel to the Brighton coast. That was a blessing I would cherish.

  Chapter 19

  30 November, 1916

  An unexpected rap on the door roused me from the thoughts of joy I was feeling about dinner. I jauntily crossed to the front hallway, wondering who was calling in midafternoon. “Cissy, you’re here? I wasn’t expecting you until 5:30 with Eric, Daisy, and little Stanley.” I had just returned from a walk to the High Street market, where I collected the necessary vegetables and trimmings for the roast that I planned to slow cook starting at three, two hours before Mrs. Clarke arrived home from work.

  She was beaming at me with that beautiful smile. “Well, Daisy told me that you will be departing for Brighton tomorrow morning. Having all day to myself, I thought I would sightsee in one of the better neighborhoods, and, well, that led me to your door!”

  The smile, the surprise, and the delight all pounced on my emotions as I became aware of my heart thumping inside my chest and my breathing quickening. “It’s Mrs. Clarke’s door, and I’m just not sure it’s proper for you to arrive unaccompanied.” I didn’t mean for that to sound surly. I was nervous. Oh God, she was beautiful!

  Cissy ever so confidently stood at the threshold, her fingers interlaced at her front. “Daisy knows where I am,” she teased, “and besides, it’s 1916, not the fuss and feathers of the Victorian times, I daresay.”

  I suddenly became aware of the kettle whistling with impatience. “All right. As long as Daisy knows, then I guess we are in good hands.” At that moment I knew all too well that I was in very good hands. “I was just brewing some tea. Would you like to join me in a cup?”

  “If that is an invitation from a gentleman to enter, then I accept.”

  “Oh, I’m very sorry. I completely forgot my manners. Do come in.”

  Cissy looked ravishing as she passed me at the door, her eau de cologne sensuously following. She was wearing a fashionable silk dress in mauve and black, buttoned at the front below an oversize white open collar, low enough to expose her long neck. The dress was pleated below the waist, stopping mid-calf, while the ribbon belt accentuated her lithe body. The wide-brimmed hat, with ribbon to match her belt, highlighted her bangs, while her high-heeled shoes and caped overcoat made her look as much high fashion as any of the lady shoppers at Selfridges.

  “Would the lieutenant relieve me of my cape?”

  I was still trying to work through my nervousness and become comfortable with Cissy’s sudden arrival, her stunning looks, and, above all, the confidence she exuded. I felt like a little boy in the presence of a sophisticated lady.

  “Y-yes, of course, forgive me.”

  We sat in the front parlor, sipping tea and engaging in small talk. The conversation turned to Cissy’s interest in how my medical board went, where my service would next take me, how long I thought the war would last, and if we would win.

  She was most outspoken about her work at the munitions factory, stating that women deserved better working conditions and increased safety protection. While she had somehow escaped the dreaded yellow skin coloring that afflicted some of those who handled the sulphuric acid embedded in TNT, many of her friends did show such signs. She was also articulate about the high risk of explosion.

  We were eased out of such somber discussion by the sun peeking through the rain clouds that were rapidly clearing away, and decided to go for a walk to nearby Finsbury Park. “I’ll just get your cape. I placed it in my room.”

  “Thank you. I’ll need that, unless you are offering your tunic?” she teased.

  We laughed as I went to my room at the back of the home. Lifting the cape off the bed and turning around, I was surprised by Cissy standing right there in front of me. “I was only gone for a moment. Is everything all right?”

  “Everything is just wonderful. For you as well?” She placed a white-gloved hand on my tunic, running her fingers across its brass buttons. She reached to my shoulder with her other hand, moving her face in closer to mine. Her rouge-tinted lips hovered razor close. I was at the same time frozen and very excited. “Kiss me, Lieutenant. Or shall I have to kiss you?”

  I leaned across to lightly brush her lips, afraid of smearing her rouge.

  Cissy’s voice dropped to a whisper. “That’s hardly a kiss, Bob. Let me show you how a lady is to be kissed.”

  Before I could take a breath, her lips were on mine. It was heaven, it was passion, and it was like I’d never been kissed before.

  “There, that’s better. Did you like that, Bob?”

  My whole being, every sense I had, was roused as I stood there in a shiver. “Yes, I did,” I whispered nervously. I wanted more, wanted to again feel the softness of her lips, but realized where we were. “I-I’m not sure about being so intimate in Mrs. Clarke’s home. She will be home at five and—”

  Cissy affected a coy look as she murmured, “I’ve seen the way you look at me. I know you like me. Besides, five is more than two hours away. A lifetime.”

  I gave in, losing all inhibition, becoming absorbed in Cissy as I looked into her gorgeous blue eyes, her round face bordered by those full bangs, and her assertiveness being as desirable as her physical appearance. I kissed her tenderly, she responding with her own kisses, sometimes briefly, other times for long, passionate, breathless moments. Two became one, clutching and holding and caressing. The only noise being lip upon lip and the crinkle of silk as we became entwined.

  I was scarcely aware of how we became prone on the bed, looking into each other’s eyes, bodies pressed close, so close. The world outside our shared aura did not, for that moment, exist. I pressed myself into her, testing, looking for approval. She didn’t resist. With tunic off, my tie loosened and askew, there was no stopping. Cissy helped me lift her dress, petticoat included, and guided the way.

  Later, after catching our breaths, we both lay there staring at the ceiling. Cissy began laughing. I turned to her, grinning in complete satisfaction. “And what is so funny, Miss Cissy Anne Taylor?”

  “Oh, I am thinking that you had no idea how your day was to turn out. Did you?”

  “No, but the question is, did you?”

  She gazed at me from under chaotic bangs. “Not exactly as things happened, but I’d be lying if I didn’t tell you I arrived here this afternoon with a very open mind. Do you think less of me for that?”

  I propped myself up on one elbow and stroked her rosy cheek. “Of course not. It’s just that I’m not familiar with the new demeanor of London women, what with me now living in the backward Canadian Prairie.”

  Kissing my hand, she breathed, “That’s what is intriguing about you. You are so experienced and smart, but you have an innocence about you that is so very attractive. Not like so many of the London men I encounter.”

  “I hope by ‘men you encounter,’ you don’t mean—”

  Cissy held her smile, feigning a punch to my shoulder. “I am pushy, yes, but I hold strict values. I am very selective, Bob.” She clasped my hand and lifted it to her lips for another delightful kiss.

  I noticed on my wristwatch that the time for the roast to be put on had passed. With a “Sweet Jesus!” I jumped off the bed and extended my hand for Cissy to join me. She straightened her dress, then excused herself for the toilet. I attended to the dinner before we left for the walk to the park. We had decided to meet Eric, Daisy, and Stanley at Finsbury Station.

  The dinner went very well, everyone pitching in with the preparation as well as the cleanup. Eric and I had a chance to speak about the days to come, he traveling directly to France in two days and myself leaving for Brighton in the morning.

  At about nine I walked the Pitmans and Cissy to Finsbury Station. At the last moment before the train departed, Cissy placed her hand on my tunic as she had earlier in the afternoon and kissed me ever so briefly, ever so tenderly. I looked up and caught Dai
sy looking at me with an all-knowing smile, the kind that a woman displays when she, well, just understands.

  I walked back to Mrs. Clarke’s home with a cascade of emotions. It was too early to say I was falling in love—unless it had been love at first sight? I felt strongly about returning to war, but now I felt a new closeness. Neither Cissy nor I made any further commitment, but it was Daisy’s knowing look that told me there might be something there to pursue. I felt ever so good.

  Chapter 20

  December 1916

  Amid the winter bluster of English Channel winds, I had arrived at the Brighton Training Grounds. The second week of the month had me fully engaged in gymnastics and training offered by their professional staff, and it felt good to be active. In addition to daily runs along the seacoast, prison-like push-up drills, and calisthenics, we got out onto the playing fields for house-league matches, both football and cricket. The high skill levels shown by some of the men—from bowlers and spinners to strikers—made the games quite competitive.

  However, one morning I felt off. It wasn’t a headache or fever, but rather a general feeling of malaise. Upon rising from a good night’s rest, I noticed a little smarting while passing water. I hoped this was a fleeting issue since I didn’t want to miss my reporting to the RCR Depot at Le Havre, where I was scheduled to sail from Southampton in a week. Since the regimen did not require me to attend every activity, I opted to remain in quarters that morning and write Cissy a letter.

  Miss Cissy Ann Taylor

  C/O Brunner Mond Munitions Dormitory

  Silvertown, West Ham

  8 December, 1916

  Dear Cissy,

  I trust you are well, working hard for the cause, and enjoying your one or two nights out with your friends. I am doing well, settled in at the Brighton training facility. It is such a nice feeling to think that I can write to you while I am deployed, remembering the tenderness we shared.

  I have thought about you often, about your wonderful sense of humor and your quick intellect. You are a beautiful person, and I am so privileged to have spent such intimate time with you. Daisy was so right to make the introduction. Now it is up to us to decide how the rest is to unfold.

  It is a comfort to hold intimate thoughts about you as I proceed to France and back into battle. No matter the outcome and no matter what future is written for you and for me, fond memories will endure.

  You may write me C/O Royal Canadian Regiment, Headquarters Le Havre. Correspondence will be forwarded from there to wherever I may be in the field.

  Yours,

  Bob

  I thought about my words for quite some time, wondering whether they were too forward for such a new relationship or perhaps too rigid in my desire to avoid sounding wanting. Cissy and I had shared an experience that most couples would have been more cautious about, but we had succumbed to it because of wartime circumstances. I decided to post the letter and see what response I would receive, if any.

  Strength training and outdoor physical exercise continued into the new week despite the wintry coastal rains that at times pounded the fields. I preferred these strenuous workouts to Maudsley bed rest. However, the smarting that began a number of days before had developed into outright pain and burning while passing water and was now keeping me up nights.

  I checked with the Brighton doctor. He turned me away, stating that he only dealt with training mishaps such as sprained ankles. In fact, he was completely uninterested in being involved in my internal issue and suggested I await diagnosis when transferred to the RCR Depot.

  . . .

  I was picked up from the bustling Le Havre port by the CO’s adjutant, who drove me to HQ. As it was just the two of us in the army car, I decided to explain my condition. When I looked over I saw his face had turned an angry red. “You mean to say, Lieutenant Pitman, that you have had a burning sensation down there for a week now?”

  I felt I could trust this staffer and that opening up was the right thing to do. “Yes, as well as having to get up three or four times during the night.”

  He snapped his head in my direction. “Why didn’t you check yourself into a hospital?”

  “I tried to get medical attention at Brighton but was advised that, unless it was a military emergency, the two hospitals there would not see me, being reserved for the Imperial Indian Army and for the Aussies.”

  The vehicle lurched to a stop in front of the HQ building. I felt demoralized as we walked in silence until we arrived at the adjutant’s office, where he lit up again. “Dammit, Pitman. Caught quickly, this could have been nipped in the bud. Now it likely means you will have extended hospital downtime.”

  “Caught what, sir?”

  “Venereal disease! Gonorrhea. VDG! You have the classic symptoms, which if caught within three or four days, well—”

  “Gonorrhea? Are you sure?”

  “No, I’m not sure! I am not a damned doctor, but I’ve seen so many cases come through this depot I’m familiar with the symptoms.” I was shaken, stunned by his prognosis. “But how could . . .” I trailed off, feeling stupid. My thinking became like mush, wondering if the emotion triggered in the adjutant was born from intense morality or from a secret checkered past. But it didn’t matter. He began to speak between clenched teeth, forcing the words out through puffed, reddened cheeks.

  “You tell me, Lieutenant! Just when we had you traveling up to Arras to rejoin the regiment, you bring me this news. Dammit!” He stood two feet away, staring directly at me. “We need officers in the field. You’ve let your regiment down.”

  I felt a need to explain, as awkward and embarrassing as the situation was. “I was with a girl only once, a couple of weeks ago. A good girl.”

  The adjutant stood rigid. “Well, not that good a girl, is she? Tell me, where did you find this whore?”

  I had to control my emotions so as not to make things worse. While I wanted to protect Cissy, I had to have the understanding of the commanding officer’s assistant. I breathed purposely, trying to be calm. “Sir, she is a friend of a friend, actually a friend of my cousin’s wife. We met during my convalescence. It was innocent, things happened.”

  “I am spitting mad. You recovered from shell shock, which I understand. However, with leave on your hands, you couldn’t seem to keep your—your pants—well, your health straight. Get yourself over to Number 39 and let them deal with you.”

  . . .

  I was admitted to Number 39 General in Le Havre, where the diagnosis of gonorrhea was confirmed. I felt horrible and disgusted and spent a fitful night worrying over the circumstances that placed me back in hospital. The frustration was not so much about the disease itself, but rather the shame of not being a good officer who was expected to show leadership.

  My mind was in turmoil. I had been in training and then saw action with no leave for a year, not dating any girls and certainly not seeking any professional love. Unless there was some immaculate process at work, I could only have contracted the disease from Cissy. Had she known she was infected and simply didn’t care enough to inform me? Had she lied about encounters with male companions, about her holding strict values and being selective about whom she embraced? Could she perhaps not have known that she was infected? Many more troubling thoughts attacked my overactive mind.

  At my initial examination, I was bristling at being questioned about Cissy and lost control of my demeanor. However, after a level of mutual trust was built concerning the circumstances of my activity, and after a sensible discussion, the doctor and nursing sisters were understanding and professional. I learned that a woman is sometimes unlikely to know she has that particular disease.

  As my thoughts turned from frustration to grief, I became concerned about Cissy. The medical staff assured me she would be contacted at the Brunner Mond factory to “have a word,” but I was under military order not to contact her for fear she could react “irresponsibly, perhaps run.” That was harsh, and I felt trapped.

  After another bedri
dden day, the adjutant arrived, turning my pensiveness to anxiety. Sitting up in bed, I tried to smile and remain humble. Donning the hospital blues made that easier.

  “Lieutenant Pitman,” barked the adjutant,”I have come around to discuss your situation.”

  “Captain, I . . .”

  He looked at me with a level of haughtiness and an impersonal distance. “No need to explain or justify. I’ve done this dozens of times. The examining doctor has apprised me of the circumstances, and although he is convinced you had a somewhat innocent dalliance only once with your little munitionette, you have let your regiment down.”

  My smile waned but not my humbleness. “I am so truly sorry.”

  “I am not here for that, Lieutenant. What occurred was unfortunate but not in violation of military law. As you did not conceal the disease, there is no offense, but you will be subject to hospital stoppage. Since your disorder was not connected with military service, deductions from your pay will offset the medical costs. Is that clear?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Captain Hume advises that you will likely be resident here in Number 39 for up to four weeks, after which you will be assigned according to CEF needs in the field. I am afraid you lost your appointment back to the RCR.”

  After the adjutant left, I felt a little better, the same way perhaps a school boy would feel after having his punishment completed. I was still left with guilt, but not completely sure why.

  Had I not sacrificed a lot for King and Country? Was I not willing to continue that pledge? Were changing societal morals allowing for physical contact between unwed couples not gaining a level of understanding, if not acceptance? Was there no consideration that soldiers who could die at any moment might take sexual risks?

  I reflected on where I was laid up: Le Havre, the Haven of Grace. While the physical location of a hospital is meaningless, there seemed some solace in being surrounded by grace.

  I was sitting up, reading an old copy of The Telegraph, which a sister had so graciously found for me, when the doctor appeared at my bedside. “Good morning, Lieutenant. Captain Hume, I’m head physician and will be taking over your case. I understand the adjutant has dealt with your military issues. Let’s dispense with that and work on getting you better. We don’t judge here, just treat.” Hume seemed genuinely nice, not just in a doctorish way.