Seeking Courage

by Gregory P. Smith

  After field drill and ball-handling exercises, Cissy ran up to me, completely out of breath, her short hair askew and sweat dripping from under her bangs. I had never seen her look so casual, wearing men’s trousers and an oversize shirt. “What do you think? Do you think I’d make a good player, at least good enough to make the grade?” She stood erect, trying to get control of her breath. “What are you smiling about?”

  “You are so adorable working so hard for something you want.”

  “Argh! Men! I don’t want to be adorable. I want to make the team.”

  “I’m a cricketer. My football skills are not tops, but when I see you play, you are as good as or better than the others. Keep going, girl!”

  “Thank you, Bobby. I’ll show you all!”

  . . .

  Our Friday supper was special, as Cissy was on leave the next day, meaning we had no time restrictions for the evening. It was also only one full day before I was to travel to Dover to meet the Calais-bound ship. At the posh restaurant, the mellow ambiance of our window side table set the right tone for the candlelit supper presented by the family proprietors. The flickering on Cissy’s face accentuated her natural beauty.

  After local roast duck with all the trimmings and a nice bottle of Chianti, we were well fed and content. “Shall we stroll along High Street, perhaps settle our meal?”

  “I’d like that. Oh, it was so wonderful. You really know how to treat a girl.”

  I looked at her as the flame highlighted her eyes. “I’d like to take credit, but—”

  “But you know how to arrange things, Bob. Wonderful memories.” We strolled hand in hand, pausing at times to look into shop windows as my anticipation grew under unspoken expectations. Cissy pointed out her dressmaker’s shop, its window draped in rich cottons and silks, which she said had the same effect on her as a candy store had for children, especially for its diversity of fabrics. There were millinery shops, automobile garages, and cafés, whose wartime success was explained in the wealth created by the munitions factory. We were so absorbed in each other that we found ourselves in front of Chequers with no concept of time, taking little notice of the Friday-night patrons spilling into the street. Moving to the inn’s side entrance, Cissy looked at me before reaching for a kiss. No words were required, no need to ask, just a tacit understanding.

  There was something different, something less urgent about our lovemaking, allowing us time to cherish each moment, exploring one another. Time was irrelevant. Quietly, forcefully at times, we tossed and tumbled on the oversize bed, the only noises alternating from momentary laughter to pleasurable grimaces and finally to a shared quiver.

  We lay there half dozing, mumbling words of comfort amid total bliss. In time we heard the distant midnight whistle from the factory, causing me to instinctively look at my wristwatch in the dim light, perhaps wishing time to ebb back to earlier in the evening.

  “I should go. The guard will already look suspiciously at me.”

  “Don’t go. Stay here with me.”

  “I can’t. I want to, I do, but I just can’t.”

  “Sure?”

  “No, I’m not sure, but I can’t show up in the morning wearing my dress from the night before.”

  “I could lend you trousers and a shirt.”

  She slammed the pillow on my head while jumping squarely on top of me. We tumbled and struggled before I gained control and rolled her onto her back. The banter quickly turned to a kiss, then another before looks of desire and ultimately a repeat gift to each other before stumbling out of bed to get dressed. We took turns in the bathroom down the hall, creeping ever so quietly so as not to wake other guests.

  The guard was nodding off as we kissed good night, hardly aware of Cissy’s return as he dozily waved her through the gate before his head fell again to his chest. Although tired, I felt no urgency to rush back to an empty bed, so I strolled leisurely along High Street in the comfort of memories, images flashing across my mind. I ascended the stairs to my room, finding with a glance of my wristwatch that it was two thirty. We had little time left to enjoy each other. Perhaps in the afternoon we would stroll along the estuary before dining and Cissy’s early return to her dormitory. I looked forward to our parting kiss but not our parting.

  Chapter 40

  May 1918

  Hardy held his hand high to draw the Vicar’s attention. “Switches off, sir!”

  The Vicar leaned over, visually connecting with our head mechanic. “Switches off !”

  Sam pointed sharply at his men positioned behind the propeller, giving them the thumbs-up. The prop was swung around a few times, priming the Beardmore, coating the pistons with life-enabling motor oil. I knelt and looked over the windscreen facing the Vicar, confirming flight details that would take us forty-five miles north of our relocated aerodrome at Villeseneux to our target—Mohon Railway Station.

  “Switches on, sir!”

  The Vicar flipped the magneto to initiate the electric pulse in the Beardmore’s spark plugs. Francis Richard Johnson was a tall, blond, lithe individual with a quiet demeanor, the son of a priest at Oxford parish. He himself was a seminary student who had enlisted to do his bit and who readily accepted his nickname rather than his Oxford salutation, Francis.

  “Switches on!”

  Two thumbs up from Hardy, and the Beardmore roared to life. We were fourth in line with ten minutes to idle. I thought back to Wellsey, when I felt safe in the knowledge that our two-man team had survived so many challenges. The Vicar was an experienced pilot, but we were yet to be tested as a team.

  Flying out of Villeseneux was a new challenge, not just due to unknown bearings but because we were so far back of where we were in Ochey the previous winter. The German Spring Offensive led by General Erich von Ludendorff had created temporary havoc for our infantry and air corps, who scrambled to relocate far behind existing lines. However, in a matter of weeks we were successful in arresting that initiative, holding fast to Channel ports and protecting the key Amiens rail junction. The Huns were retreating back in the direction of Berlin, but burning and destroying as much in their path as they could. We were to stop them.

  I revisited my frustration at having been held back from 100 Squadron during the Hun initiative, assigned for months to No. 2 Aircraft Depot at Candas, which itself had retreated to a temporary location near coastal Le Havre. While the reasoning was sound— there was little point assigning me to a squadron that was on the retreat—the delay caused me to question my decision to return to the front at all. I could have opted for Home Establishment, nearer Cissy. The moments when it looked as if our troops might be pushed into the sea were the worst, until finally the tide had turned. Ludendorff had overextended and simply could not keep up a war of attrition when his troops were exhausted, hungry, and emotionally crushed.

  I was gratified when orders finally came through in April for me to report to Major Tempest, Christie’s replacement at 100. Very few of the original lads had stayed on, yet the new bunch was friendly and supportive. A few held me in esteem over my being on a second tour with the squadron, giving me a sort of elder statesman status.

  Hardy removed the chocks, allowing us to move forward. At the far end of the airfield, we spun 180 degrees to face the barracks. When the flare path lit up, we taxied to climb into the darkness. I felt great, soaring back into the night to rain justice on the malicious Hun.

  Traveling northeast, we crossed the Marne River before seeing the lights of Reims portside. It was a beautiful night for flying— light winds in the pleasant late-May air, cold at sixty-five hundred feet but bearable.

  My reverie was broken by advancing mist as we traveled toward Mohon, memories of being distraught in the previous year’s storms causing me to gulp down queasiness. I forced myself to be positive; this sortie was an easy run up to the target and back. That ground mist was not the same as torrential rain and gale-force winds. Arriving at the target was disorienting, as all we saw was light being dispersed up thr
ough the low cloud, an eerie greenish effect with no clear image of buildings or rolling stock.

  The offset to our angst was a lack of enemy searchlights and Archie since the Hun could not see us above the cloud, so we decided to immediately swoop down and drop our 230-pounder on whatever was below, then search elsewhere for an alternate target with the Coopers. With less weight, we quickly soared away and flew down to the nearby Juniville railway system. While this was a clearer target, it also provided the enemy with an equally clear view of us.

  As we approached in silence, light sprang up toward us in quick fashion. The Vicar yelled something unintelligible, but I had already grabbed my Lewis to rain bullets downward. We sideslipped to wriggle away, but then suddenly the lights were extinguished and the Archie silenced. We moved closer to the tracks looking for a train, for any worthwhile target.

  Seduced lower by the cover of darkness, we realized too late we had been fooled as the searchlights suddenly reappeared and with them, relentless Archie. We were trapped in bright crosshairs, the Vicar yelling to catch my attention. I turned as he signaled to get down to avoid tumbling out as he violently sideslipped to shake off the lights. It succeeded, and we were free, but free with our bomb load. Around we went, now aware of the cat-and-mouse game the Hun were playing; they waited, they listened, then slammed on the lights when we dove onto the rail tracks. Again breaking out of the clutch of the lights, we knew we had to go back and drop our load. I manned the Lewis in expectation, and as I peered into the darkness, the lights glared in my face, blinding me. I was not able to see anything as my pupils struggled to constrict. I had no accuracy in the face of the multiple lights aimed at us as I squeezed bursts of five, hearing the Archie pop around us, knowing tracer bullets were rising in an attempt to destroy us. It was as if we were in broad daylight! It would be only a matter of moments before the Hun’s machine guns ripped apart our Beardmore or hit the petrol tank.

  The Vicar clanged on the windscreen with his ring to attract my attention. I looked back to see him thrust his thumb skyward, signaling we needed to clear away, demanding that I sit on the nacelle floor. As the Vicar continued rapping on the windscreen, I peered over the side, then methodically pulled up the port bomb lever, one, two, three, and four as they fell away. I repeated the sequence for the starboard Coopers before tumbling down to the floor. The Vicar lowered the starboard wing as we swooped away into the darkness, shedding the lights without knowing where our bombs landed.

  Conversation was lively in the mess with flyers arguing differing opinions about the evening’s sortie—slight disappointment to some and complete failure to others. The ground mist over Mohon Railway Station had certainly inhibited accuracy, but for many of the aeroplanes to return to the airfield with their full complement of bombs was seen as abject failure. Major Tempest was furious at those who had compromised the aerodrome and its occupants, vowing that any team who repeated the act would answer to military court.

  The Vicar was on edge through our conversation, but I didn’t press him. “Just one thing before we retire, Bob,” he scolded. “We need to talk about your overlooking my order to sit.”

  “Our bombs remained intact, Vic. We needed to dispose of them, so some attempt on the target was necessary.”

  “We could’ve dropped them anywhere. Instead, you chose to delay our breakaway from the Hun lights. And besides, I gave an order.”

  “Just a moment, Vicar—we are a team up there, two minds who decide actions with like-mindedness. On our first sortie together, that cohesion might not have surfaced perfectly, but it will in time.”

  “Not about that. As I said, I called an order!”

  I held my patience, thinking the Vicar was speaking naïvely. “That’s my point: neither of us give orders when we are flying; rather, we work together. It is a necessity that we operate as equals, complement one another.”

  The Vicar held his gaze, a slight smile emerging. “But one of us has to rule, eh?”

  I wasn’t sure if the Vicar was dug in on the point, but decided that since he had phrased it as a question, I would respond firmly. “Look, Vicar—we are both lieutenants, equal rank. But that shouldn’t matter when we are looking out for one another. I dropped those bombs because we needed to dispose of them, and we also had an obligation to complete our mission with the best-possible effect.”

  “Even though we had enemy shells and tracers come up at us in broad illumination?”

  “Yes, under enemy fire we needed to complete our mission and then get the hell out of there. To have dropped them knowingly over French soil could have killed innocent citizens, a situation I won’t have.”

  He was suddenly thoughtful. “I see your point, but you need to see mine. We can’t both fly the aeroplane; one of us has to be in charge. I had the controls, so that puts me in charge.”

  I stared in his eyes for a moment, neither of us blinking. Standing down, I deferred. “All right. You are the pilot, and I accept your need to govern. That makes sense. I would ask you, though, to understand why I needed to dispose of those bombs while we were over a known target.”

  Vic relaxed a little, talking in a more conciliatory voice. “All right, I understand your reason and appreciate you seeing mine.”

  After this one sortie, this one altercation, I knew that flying with Johnson was to be different than with Wellsey. I didn’t begrudge his approach. In fact, I appreciated his focus on safety. I held a lingering doubt about whether a flyer that was inflexible would be able to react quickly in an emergency. Still, I had to respect Vic’s role as pilot, and any other pilot with whom I might fly. “Of course. I think we both want what’s good for the squadron. I trust, though, you feel good about our efforts tonight?”

  “Oh, of course. Just a misunderstanding. I’d say we’ll work well together.”

  I nodded. “Yes, we will.”

  Vic looked at me with a tired smile. “How about we drink up and hit the sack? I’m about done!”

  . . .

  Lieutenant Frank Wells

  25 Balfour Street

  Woodstock

  Cape Town, South Africa

  4 May, 1918

  Dearest Wellsey,

  I trust you are well and settling in to your life back in your native Cape Town and that your reunion with your wife was as pleasant a dream as you anticipated. I was not shocked to learn of your transfer. I suppose the rapid rise of Americans arriving in France gave the brass confidence in releasing such good flyers as you.

  I’ve returned to 100 Squadron for active duty. Your local papers will have written about the British, French, and now American successes pushing the Hun back toward Berlin, where they belong. Well, they damn well don’t belong in France and Belgium!

  There are many new airmen I am meeting at the squadron, all of whom are eager to do their bit, albeit some wet around the ears. Can’t say much more than that, old man (to borrow your endearment)! Yet I do miss you up here, mon pilote. Not the same, you know!

  Wellsey, as a flyer you know me better than most, so I confide in you that I’m experiencing a bit of melancholy. Not the sort that grounds good airmen, but rather that sits in the recesses of one’s mind, gnawing away in a subtle manner.

  My relationship with Cissy has blossomed, especially after spending time with her over an extended winter break. I should be pleased about my life! Yet doubts swirl. The shell shock in ‘16 is part of it, but it is the terrible loss of life that we rain down on the enemy that I question. Every so often guilt rears its head as I question the mass slaughter. Yet others see me as courageous. As I do them.

  At times I feel I have sorted things in my mind as to what is right and faced my actions as a flying fighter. Why does the guilt persist?

  When I think this through, I am able to dispense with the concern, as it is my responsibility as a gunner. But that satisfies my logical self, not my emotions. There are triggers that overcome a lucid sense of rightness, causing gnawing anxiety. You know, I volunteered to return to
the squad because I wanted to continue my service in honor of Canada. That alone promoted courage. But I now increasingly ask myself whether redeployment to Home Establishment might have been a better course.

  Be assured, none of this crops up during a sortie or blurs my accuracy over a bombing target. That’s when I’m at my best. Major Tempest paid me a grand compliment in the mess the other day by suggesting to some of the new lads that they could benefit from my experience. That shot of confidence should eliminate my doubts; I know you would believe that too.

  I also know you would advise me that it is all right to hold doubts, but that I ought to rely on my skill and experience to make success a part of my makeup, to seek peace with my soul that the deaths caused by my bombing and strafing are part of the cause to ultimately end all of the suffering.

  Wellsey, you are not here with me, yet it is because we went through so much together during ‘17 that I understand the former is what your guidance would be. Simply by posting this letter brings me peace, as your kindred presence makes me feel better.

  Do write if you can.

  Sincerely,

  Bob

  . . .

  5 May, 1918

  My Dear Cissy,

  I received your two letters today. You must really miss me, my favorite girl—I know by saying that you will now be asking out loud who my non-favorite girl is! There isn’t one, silly!

  I am so pleased that you made the grade with the football squad! Well done! I can see you pitched against the Carlisle Munitions or the Vaughan Ladies! Perhaps one day, take on the dreaded Blyth Spartans in a touch-and-go final? I am so proud of you, Cissy.

  Your letters were redirected to my new aerodrome at Villeseneux, as I was finally assigned last week back to 100 Squadron. While the depot at Candas kept me busy, it is in my beloved squadron that I wish to serve. I daresay that after my f irst sortie of ‘18, I experienced a touch of anxiety. It is minor, and I know I will be ready for whatever mission we are assigned, especially since we have that evil old lunatic Ludendorff on the run. Imagine thinking he and his ragtag army could run through our troops, now fortified by millions of beloved Americans.