Seeking Courage

by Gregory P. Smith

  The squad tomorrow begins a move back to a prior aerodrome, closer to the fleeing Hun. Things are changing so quickly. I can feel victory, perhaps more than I would feel if I were in merry old England. This belief keeps me going and helps bring my spirits up.

  My darling, I so wish for us to be together, to hold one another the way we did last winter. I remember my hunger for you while flying last October, being satiated only when we finally met. Well, I feel the same desires, the same wish to hold you in my arms and to whisper over and over and over that I love you!

  Stay safe, my darling.

  Bob

  Chapter 41

  May 1918

  With the Hun on the retreat, the elation of our mid-month return to Ochey felt good, similar to the spirit and camaraderie in the fall of ‘17. The swift move to regain our old aerodrome brought drama, but the most rewarding sight was seeing French and Belgian citizens reclaim their villages and their homes. The personnel makeup of 100 Squadron kept changing with new faces, but most noticeable was our synthesis as a completely different force. On 1 April, the RFC joined with the Royal Naval Air Service to become the Royal Air Force. Sam Hardy’s return with me to the familiar aerodrome provided comfort. Well, mostly.

  I swung my leg off the back of the Douglas motorcycle and chuckled as I looked at Hardy’s impish grin. “Ahhh, I think it’s safer to fly a Fee over hostile enemy territory than to sit on the back of that thing holding on for dear life, Sam!” We had just traveled the twelve miles through woodlands and past farmers’ fields, flying over potholes as big as bomb craters, to get to the Nancy café that was a favorite of our airmen.

  We took a table on the Café Impérial patio overlooking the shopping area in central Nancy. “You’re such a baby,” said Hardy. “Squealing and whinging at every turn and over every bump.”

  “Ha! I’m as bold as Jack Johnson, only he doesn’t fight lunatics!”

  “You need to lean into the curves, Bob. You need to relax. And speaking of Americans—”

  “Who’s speaking about Americans?”

  “You did. Just then you mentioned Jack Johnson.”

  “Oh.” I scrunched up my face in a confused smile—I had used a euphemism out of habit instead of its underlying meaning—as the waitress set our espressos down. Hardy was sizing her up somewhat hungrily. “Sam! She’s someone’s daughter.”

  Sam held his gaze on her as she sashayed her way back to the bar. “She sure is. Must be a damn good-looking family, I’d say.”

  I waved a hand in front of Hardy’s face. “Hey, get your eyes off her ass. What about the Americans?”

  “Oh ya, my point. That jackass Brown who just joined treats us like servants, treats all the mechanics that way.”

  “I’ve heard things myself. The fly-boy from Jamestown. Acts like he was the very first English settler in America, that he alone began the colony three hundred years ago. You’d think he was handpicked to lead this war on behalf of the Americans.”

  “He’s dangerous, Bob. I’ve seen that type in this war and I saw it at the Boer. All about him. Sweet as pie to the major, then a downright cruel ass to the rest of us.”

  I grimaced. “You know I’m flying with him tonight?”

  Hardy held up his hands, palms out defensively. “What? Bob, you can’t; you need to say no. This isn’t just a motorcycle ride; it’s a sortie, and a dangerous one across the German lines.”

  “I don’t think Tempest would put me in excess danger, Sam.”

  “Or the major’s testing you, perhaps. See if you can tame the bloke.”

  “We’ll see. I suppose—” Sam’s eyes had wandered away again, looking over my shoulder dreamily. I turned to take in his view. “Sam! She’s beautiful, I know, but we’re due back soon.”

  A blissful Hardy pretended to melt into his seat, letting his arms fall to his side in a gesture that meant he was helplessly in love. “Perhaps another Genevie. So sweet, so beautiful.”

  “So come back later, maybe tomorrow.”

  “I may just do that.”

  I felt like throwing a wrench in the works, a little mischief. “Or maybe find a red lamp or even a blue one. Take the edge off?”

  Sam stopped me in the tracks of my teasing by pointing to the cobblestone street just in front. “Done that, Bob. Two blocks down and three over.”

  . . .

  The sortie to the strategic Thionville Railway Station was considered a success, as all aeroplanes dropped their bombs on the building and tracks around it, returning safely. For me it was a failure. I was angry, livid at the cowboy style of flying demonstrated by my pilot, Brown, not to mention his smug attitude about it.

  As Hardy placed the chocks against the wheels, I climbed down the port side of the aircraft and onto the grass. I paced away, thinking of all the tough returns I had experienced with Wellsey and the need for the two of us to work as a team, without which we would not have survived. I thought of the misunderstanding with Vic, which was sorted in a civilized manner. Tonight was to be straightforward flying. If we had faced weather issues or enemy aircraft, we could have had a fatal outcome. I was mad, fucking mad.

  Brown jumped confidently from the aeroplane, brimming with delight. “What’ya think of that ride, huh, Pitman?”

  I raged at him, “I think you’re a bloody loose cannon, Second Lieutenant Brown! Not fit to fly with 100.”

  Grinning, Brown crowed, “Whoa, pardner, settle down a bit.

  No need for drama here.”

  I put my face inches from his, seething. “It’s not drama, you fool. I’m up front in the nacelle without a cozy seat like yours, kneeling as best I can. Standing, balancing in the slipstream to drop our bombs. And you, you decide to have a joy ride on our return.”

  Brown rose up, standing over me to intimidate. “No harm done, friend. Let’s say we go have a drink.”

  I glared, held his stare for a moment before speaking. “I am not your friend. Clearly you don’t understand. Swerving and sideslipping and diving like that, all for your personal joy. It’s my job to keep us safely—”

  The Vicar came over, listening to the exchange. He cut in. “My gunner and I were immediately behind and are equally appalled at your flying.”

  Responding to the growing sentiment, he took on an authoritative stance. “I’m a fucking good flyer. Listen to you both—a couple of stuck-up Brits who don’t know that practicing sudden maneuvers makes us more agile, increasing our ability to outfox the enemy.”

  “We are bombers, you clown,” spat the Vicar. “If you want to be a fighter pilot, join a fighter squadron where you can fly alone and risk your own life.”

  Brown rotated his body toward the Vicar as Hardy moved in closer, clenching his fists. “I attended the best flying school in the US, so you listen—”

  “None of us care to listen to your pretentious attitude,” retorted Hardy. “God knows I put up with enough of it in the hangars.”

  “You’re an air mechanic; stay the hell out of this discussion.

  What the fuck do you know?”

  The Vicar turned to Brown, teeth clenched and hands curled into fists. “Stand down, Brown. I’m a senior officer to you, and I order you to your hut. Go sleep it off.”

  Brown stared at the three of us, shaking his head in apparent disgust before sauntering across the dark airfield.

  “What now?” asked Hardy.

  Breathing heavily, the Vicar spoke quickly and decisively. “I’ll speak to the major in the morning. This can’t go on.”

  We avoided the mess, as the tone had turned so sour. I lay in bed for a long time unable to sleep, tossing the sortie around in my mind. This was not what I had signed up for. We had enough grief just surviving this war without having to deal with the Browns of the world. I knew a lot of Americans, knew them to be a proud lot, fair, kind, and always jovial and positive. Brown was none of those things at all, which had nothing to do with his nationality.

  . . .

  Night after night we conti
nued to target the Thionville railway system, as well as its blast furnaces and electric power station, at the border apex of France, Belgium, and Luxembourg to keep constant pressure on the movement of German troops and transport that were protecting nearby coal mining and steel production in the Saar Basin.

  The Vicar’s talk with Major Tempest had its effect, as I was assigned the next night to fly with John Chambers, a respected pilot who had joined 100 Squadron back in January. Brown remained flying but with Naylor, a novice lieutenant-observer. Our mission was for twelve aeroplanes to each carry two 112-pound bombs onto the Kreuzwald power station, which was the first sortie inside sovereign German territory. As Hardy and I walked the perimeter of the Fee, I mentioned my anxiety.

  “I can’t quite finger it,” I admitted. “I don’t know if it’s the emotional effect of flying across the German border or whether my courage may be slipping away.”

  “You’re not losing your courage. You’ve been outstanding in your service to this squad. Don’t let that Brown affair throw you off.” I relaxed a bit. “You’re right, yet last night I lay awake questioning my role. Things have changed. You know, having to fly with different pilots each time.”

  “You know the reason for that—the increasing number of new replacement pilots that need to build experience.”

  “Ha! That doesn’t inspire confidence, as it implies others have either had enough, have been reassigned, or are now POWs!”

  Hardy touched my sleeve. “Sorry, Bob. Didn’t mean to cause more anxiety, just trying to help.”

  “Oh, I know. It’s not your fault. You are correct; it’s just the way things are now.”

  “Chambers is a good pilot. I’ve spent time with him on practice runs. Solid chap.”

  I shook Hardy’s hand, appreciating his understanding. “Thanks for the comfort, old friend. I’d better get up there.”

  “Good luck, good sortie! Give ‘em hell!”

  The beautiful moonlight made the ground underneath radiant as we flew north, up the valley and over the rounded peaks of the Vosges while following the silver ribbon of the Moselle River. Meadows and lakes were easily distinguished from the dark pools of forestland. The peaceful scene gave me thoughts about perhaps returning there after hostilities ended, mingling with its French inhabitants, who would want nothing but to exist in peace. While I could imagine the peacefulness of Cissy hiking along with me—dressed in the fashion of the day, of course—on this sortie, I couldn’t shake the foreboding that radiated from my stomach and traveled the lengths of my limbs.

  I turned to look at Chambers, who offered a reassuring smile and a nod that signaled we were united. Angling starboard just south of Metz on our course for the German border, I pondered my apprehension. I felt confident with my flying skills, bombing precision adapted to a science. The old excitement was gone, though, leaving behind an impatience to get the job done and fly home. I wondered if my angst symbolized an unconscious change in my attitude to a kind of defensive preservation.

  Crossing the border, we cut the Beardmore for the long, silent glide into the station, wires and planes whistling through the cool spring air. I fought back equivocal thoughts to fully focus on dropping our 112-pounders onto the electrical station. Nine in our sortie were ahead of us, already headed home after dropping their pills, the Hun by now amply warned. Searchlights were swinging wildly across the skies, searching for us while we hid behind our only surprise, silence.

  I stood up in the front nacelle, extending my Lewis down toward the intimidating light, holding back until they locked on. The station had erupted in spot fires, signifying where the squad’s bombs had hit. As the lights caught hold, I dispensed regular short bursts—five rounds, release. I was confident Chambers had the resolve to hold the ship steady in the face of the attack even though I felt dryness in my mouth, anxiety churning in my stomach.

  Five rounds, release. I hammered away on the lights as we continued our glide to the target, holding back the bombs to strike at Kreuzwald’s heart, its power house. Five rounds, release. With its silhouette outlined by moonlight, the large square building finally loomed in front of us, so I let go of the Lewis and, with steady hands and full concentration, grabbed for the release levers.

  I heard the pills clank as I yanked up the wires to release them, the aeroplane lurching with split-second uplift when their weight pulled away. As the Beardmore roared to life, we were away, climbing quickly. I turned and took a fleeting look at Chambers. I nervously smiled at him as I grabbed the rear Lewis, pulling it up on its swivel over the top of the plane. I used the gravity created by the upward angle to lean against the wing strut, firing down into the lights.

  Steady, Chambers, was my only thought as I balanced precariously with one foot on each side of the nacelle. As we broke free of the lights, darkness left me standing still for a moment, suddenly aware of my racing heart and quick, short breaths. Facing backward against the slipstream, the red exhaust seemed comforting, a sign of power surging through the black sky. I let my eyes adjust, needing the moment to ensure a safe return down into the nacelle.

  . . .

  28 May, 1918

  My Darling Cissy,

  I think about you all the time. In the air and on the ground, you are on my mind. I close my eyes and see us walking along the estuary, absorbed arm in arm in the warm spring air with birds soaring and butterflies flitting from flower to flower.

  I’ve heard from flyers new to the squad that Englanders are able to hear artillery from where you are in the Midlands, from London too. We’ve done our bit to keep you safe, my love, as the Hun continues his retreat back to his homeland. Do not worry, as we are keeping the pressure up and the enemy’s guns will eventually be silenced.

  I miss you, and I miss a stable life and routine. Perhaps it is the spring air, or perhaps I’m just getting tired. It has been two and a half years since I left my Canadian home, enough time to wonder how much things must have changed there, how much my sisters have grown, and what this war may have done to Canada. Lest I sound emulous, I try not to compare British men’s home leave except to say that most Canadian, Anzac, South African, and Indian soldiers haven’t seen their homes for a long, long time.

  I know I’m getting tired, perhaps because those of us in the fight for civilization can smell success, if that word can be used to describe utter horror. Sometimes with expectant success one loses the sharp edge. I wonder if my decision to continue flying into ‘18 was a good one, wonder if changing to technical service might have been better. Yet I do remain committed to the cause. I know you don’t hold the answers to my questions, and I adore you for letting me sound off in our letters. I’m glad you are getting out with the munitionettes, girls whom you’ve grown close to. I was delighted when you described in your recent letter that during your last football match you were awarded a foul when defending the ball. That shows the grit you bring to the game. I lay on my bed holding that letter thinking about you dressed in knickerbockers and jersey with grime smeared across your face. Against your protests, I do imagine you as adorable!

  I miss you, Cissy, and long to be with you, to hold you. Be safe, my darling.

  With deepest love,

  Bob

  . . .

  As a weather system blew into the Vosges, we were grounded for a few days. While Hardy worked to entice me to ride on the back of the Douglas into Nancy, I declined to get soaked in the constant drizzle and fog just for an espresso. I told him that his Café Impérial beauty would just have to wait for his dazzling blue eyes. Besides, Tempest had told all flyers to remain close to the aerodrome, an order I decided was not worth defying.

  When I entered the mess, the Vicar was comfortably seated in one of two overstuffed armchairs facing the old French filigreed brazier. After stomping the wetness off my shoes at the entrance, I wandered over to see him speaking quietly to another flyer, one whom I had not yet met.

  The Vicar smiled warmly as he said, “Bobby, how are you, old chap? Do com
e sit down.” He pointed to a third chair, a wooden dining seat. “Bob, I’d like you to meet Howie—Frederick Howard Chainey.”

  Before sitting, I shook hands. Chainey was one of those men who held an over-firm grip for an extended period while confidently looking into your eyes without blinking. His were dark brown, a coloring which complemented the rest of his complexion. His lanky frame, defined cheekbones, and longish, middle-parted hair gave him an aristocratic air. “My pleasure, Howie. Just join the 100s?”

  “To a degree. Did one sortie a few weeks back; I believe you were just arriving. I went back to Hythe to complete Night Flying Aerial Navigation. Army style ass-before-head kind of schedule. You know, assign the chap, then send him back for training, wot?”

  “We’re not the army any longer. Now the RAF, dear boy,” said the Vicar.

  “Right,” said Howie. “And Bob, you’ve been around for a while, I hear.”

  “Uh-huh. Seems I was one of the few to return in ‘18.” I paused to think for a moment. “Say, that a London accent you carry?”

  “Of a sorts. Chingford, actually.”

  The Vicar lit a Gitane as Chainey and I worked through our introduction, the extraordinarily strong tobacco smell filling the area. It was a smell I knew would always remind me of France, of the war. It turned out Howie’s family home was less than three miles from my Walthamstow neighborhood. Our shared Essex background quickly established a bond. Also similar was our infantry action before becoming flyers, he with the Suffolk Regiment.

  Talking about Essex took me back to childhood, fond experiences that would always be a safety zone and which brought forth comparison of memories past. The Vicar sat forward and turned to me in a friendly manner, knowing that if he allowed, I would reminisce all night. “Spoke to Tempest the other night before I set off to bed with this damn cold.”