Seeking Courage

by Gregory P. Smith

  She whispered softly, “I’m so sorry.”

  “For what? What could you be sorry for at a time like this?”

  “For making you feel like this.” She pushed her behind into me even farther. “For getting you that way and not being able to . . .”

  “It’s all right, I’m fine with—”

  As she turned toward me, she flourished that naughty Cissy smile and murmured, “I think I know how to make it right, darling. Roll over onto your back.”

  . . .

  We agreed to meet at the football pitch at four. Cissy preferred to return to the dormitory with her carpetbag in tow, explaining that the jealousies exchanged among the women lodgers meant it was best to keep our overnight visit a secret. Besides, she was to have been with an aunt!

  The practice match was a thrill to watch. The energy on the pitch, as well as the incredible skill shown by many of the women, was outstanding. I would dearly love to have seen a scheduled match, but this was a bye week. Cissy played both thirty-minute halves, delighting me with her ball-maneuvering skills. After bathing and changing she was to meet me in front of Chequers at seven for our supper, after which we would have to separate once again.

  Cissy arrived at Chequers in splendor, wearing a chic white dress flowing slightly out from her waist and a taupe corseted top, both of which perfectly outlined her figure while off-white heeled shoes and wide-brimmed hat provided unspoken elegance. I smiled at the contrast of a couple of hours before when she was in football shorts and jersey.

  Her warm smile was alluring. “Hello, darling. Ready to stroll to dinner?”

  “I am. You look so beautiful.”

  She beamed. “Thank you, Bobby. I love to look nice for you.” We dined at the same restaurant as the previous night, cherishing the time together before we had to part after saying good night. I had an early-morning train, and Cissy’s shift began at six. The lamb chops and mash were a special treat when so much was being rationed, but we wanted to honor our love. I drank most of the wine, as Cissy wanted to have a clear head for the morning, which took extra time but was a perfect excuse for lingering on such a beautiful, warm evening. The night was magical!

  The next morning, I was absorbed with thoughts of Cissy as the train unhurriedly steamed down the line toward Paddington where I would transfer to Henley. Pure bliss was how I would forever describe my two-day diversion from military duties.

  . . .

  The RAF Technical Officers’ School was pleasantly located at the Imperial Hotel on the banks of the river Thames with both theory and practical classes held in various locations within walking distance. Although the full syllabus was eight weeks, Major Burge used my flying experience to justify an abridged version. Stripping away such topics as accounts, property surveys, paymaster duties, and mess organization, my lessons focused on procurement and maintenance of engines, aeroplanes, gunnery, bombing, radio, and photography. I was expected back at 100 Squadron by mid-July.

  I attended classes and worked on advancing my skills with the fervor of a schoolboy. Without the burden of bombing sorties and with thoughts of Cissy constantly on my mind, I settled in to contentment about the future. With the Hun being defeated in battle after battle and rumors of attempted peace talks, some were suggesting that the end could be in sight before 1918 turned over to a new year.

  Over the following couple of weeks, I wrote to Cissy every few days when I had time alone from the three officers I was lodged with. As we were all Canadian, we hatched a plan to celebrate Dominion Day at the Little Angel pub on the opposite shore of the Thames, across the Henley Bridge near the cricket grounds. Whether the other fourteen officers were interested in how we celebrated our 1 July confederation or just wanted a reason to party didn’t matter; all were welcome.

  Chapter 44

  1 July, 1918

  It was hot and sticky in the late afternoon, but our student delegation decided to sit outside in the shady side of the pub’s garden. We were of diverse backgrounds but had all seen the war front, some infantry, some flying corps, and some both. Most admitted to being war fatigued, yet none were mired in grief; they all believed the war’s end must come soon.

  I was explaining what I knew of Canada’s confederation, although I stumbled when questions arose about the status of Newfoundland. Why was it still considered a British colony and not part of the confederation? We were discussing this nuance when there was a faint boom that was matched by a slight rumble of the earth. Because it was instantly over and not repeated, the moment was lost on the majority of the pub’s civilian patrons.

  Yet, as we were veteran soldiers, the moment resonated since the sound had the familiar characteristics of artillery. There was neither a second nor a third clap nor any discernible flash, so after discussing it briefly, the celebrations resumed. For unknown reasons, though, the moment unsettled me. I tossed it off as lingering anxiety about shell explosions.

  The next morning, I walked into the hotel’s restaurant, taking in the seductive smell of hot breakfast, eggs, chips, oatmeal, and toast. Sitting down with my plate full, the officer opposite me pushed the Henley Standard across the table. I froze, feeling all the blood drain from my face as I took in the front page. The three-inch headline read, MIDLANDS SHELL FACTORY EXPLOSION! 134 Lives Lost at Chilwell. Approximately 100 to 150 Injured.

  Fuck! Oh God, Cissy! Was she all right? How would I find out?

  I headed out the open door to the gardens, wanting solace, seeking relief from the sudden fever, newly formed sweat spreading down my face. Outside in the summer air, I leaned back against a wall, fumbling with a cigarette in one hand, my other shaking so badly I couldn’t line up the flame to light it. As I threw it to the ground, I felt a churning in my stomach, a deep, intense pressure from within, that didn’t dissipate as I bent over and retched.

  Gathering my thoughts, I stood back up, thinking about the likelihood of harm coming to my girl, reminding myself there were some ten thousand employees up there. The chances were good that she was unharmed, alive but shaken by the blast. Cissy was a survivor, could handle just about any threat, having shown courage in many ways. But this was not about courage; it was about being randomly selected by our Lord. That was why dull anxiety continued to overtake my whole being.

  How would I know for sure? Her employer from before the war wouldn’t know, and neither would the innkeeper at Chequers. I suddenly realized there was no next of kin to contact, no family who would be notified. Cissy was alone in this world, except for her dorm mates, me, and Daisy. Daisy! Cissy would have registered Daisy as a contact, wouldn’t she? I had to talk to her.

  I brushed past my fellow officers who had stepped outside to see that I was all right, leaving them staring at me in wonderment. I banged on the bell at the reception desk until the clerk emerged from the hotel office.

  “All right, I know it’s brass, but don’t break my bell!” He scanned my face. “Are you all right?”

  I wasn’t. I knew I was a pale-faced, nervous, shaking wreck. “Yes, f-fine,” I stammered. “I need you to ring a friend.” I paused to breathe, to think. “In London.”

  “Do you have the number?”

  I struggled to think, to focus. “Yes! Well no, not just now.”

  “All right, could you please write the name and address down here?”

  I quickly scribbled the contact information: Mr. Eric Pitman, 34 Honor Oak Park, London.

  “All right, sir, I’ll have the operator locate Mr. Pitman’s number and place the call. That will be a tuppence for the three minutes, please.”

  I placed the coin on the desk and sat at the edge of the guest chair, anticipating immediacy. “Ahem. Mr. Pitman, it could be a while for the post office operator to locate the number and place the call.”

  “Oh” was all I could think of saying.

  “I will have a junior come find you when we have successfully connected.”

  I wandered out into the bright sunshine, stunned, not remembering when I h
ad felt this impatient. Forced to remember my responsibilities, I walked over to the ballroom where engine theory was being presented, thankful we were not away from the hotel on a field trip. My anxiety peaked and waned as the morning wore on and I overthought the situation, only half hearing the wear factors of pistons and valves.

  Finally, toward eleven a young boy holding up a small chalkboard with my name on it entered the large room. “Phone call,” he bellowed. “Phone call for Lieutenant Pitman!” I jumped up and impatiently followed him over to the reception area. Can’t he bloody move faster?

  “Daisy, you know why I called?”

  “Oh yes, Bob, yes, Eric and I heard the bitter news this morning. I’ve heard nothing.”

  “We must go there; we must find out if she’s—”

  Daisy raised her voice over my edginess. “Bob, please listen to me. Eric inquired up at the Metropolitan Police. The Nottingham authorities won’t let anyone near the area; it’s been sealed off. Even if we could get there by train, they wouldn’t allow us to go near the factory.”

  I sobbed, pleading over the telephone, “We could try. We must try.”

  We spoke as long as we were allowed. I was desperate to find a way to get to Chilwell, even on the pretense of military business. Yet I knew Daisy made sense; I would not be allowed access. The question stabbed repeatedly at my mind: Why has Cissy not sent word, why has she not contacted Daisy? But I knew things there would be chaotic.

  The operator interrupted with her practiced nasal tone, “You have thirty seconds left, thirty seconds to complete the call.”

  “Daisy, are you there?” Without waiting for a response, I asked her to promise to contact me as soon as she heard anything. She confirmed she was Cissy’s next-of-kin contact. “Daisy, you will let me know as soon—”

  She was crying. “Yes, y-yes I will. I know how much you love Cissy. We will find out—” The call ended abruptly with a click as the timepiece in the telephone exchange reached exactly three minutes. I held the phone receiver in my hand for a long time, frozen in thought.

  “Sir, may I take the phone?”

  “Oh. Yes, of course.”

  I stumbled out into the bright sunshine, the type of day that Cissy and I loved to enjoy strolling along the Chilwell estuary. My mind reeled with emotion, hoping she would turn up all right but at the same time fraught with grief about the possibility of a dire outcome. And being one whose nature is to dive in, I was frustrated to think she was in peril and I could do nothing to help her.

  Chapter 45

  July 1918

  The following days brought increased agony as I worked to convince myself that Cissy was fine, willed her to be fine. In the chaos of the situation, she could not possibly get a phone call or telegraph out. Could she? Yet I knew the longer time marched, the bleaker things looked. As the nation became embroiled with the disaster, speculation grew as authorities released scant bits of information: sabotage, spy work, poor safety practices, and negligence—it was all there. My classmates came to understand the situation and tried to protect me from the news, but on the third day, the headlines spoke of the intensity of the blast—eight tons of TNT. I foolishly got myself worked up as I calculated that eight tons would fill 450 of the 112-pound bombs we were dropping on Germany. The news reported those who perished were buried in a mass grave, so mutilated were their bodies. I wept silently.

  That afternoon the young clerk approached with a telegraph, marked from Eric Pitman.

  4 JULY, 1918

  REGRET TO INFORM CONFIRMED CISSY ANNE TAYLOR PERISHED STOP WARNING NOT TO TRAVEL TO AREA STOP ERIC AND DAISY SYMPATHIES ON TRAGIC LOSS STOP YOU MUST VISIT BEFORE REDEPLOY STOP

  I sat completely stunned. Silence cloaked the room as my classmates inferred the news, the instructor canceling the class for the remainder of the day. I was vaguely aware of muttering as they passed by, some gently placing their hands on my shoulder. When the room emptied the instructor pulled up a chair in front of me.

  “Lieutenant, do you wish to talk?” With my arms wrapped around my stomach, I leaned forward in the chair and studied the floor, noticing for the first time the elaborate rose pattern in the carpet but keeping my silence. “She must have been very special, holding the tenderest place in your heart. I am so sorry for your loss.”

  I nodded, watching my tears drop onto the roses, making the petals darker, somehow more intense and prettier.

  The instructor honored my moment with silence. After rocking a bit, I sat upright, looking into his face for answers I knew he didn’t have. But I could see his compassion, feel his warmth. “Have you lost a girl, sir?”

  “Yes, Bob. Yes I have. My wife died of cancer in 1912. I’ve learned to live life alone, but never a day goes by without my thinking of her. Perhaps I’ll remarry after the war.”

  “I’m sorry, sir. My situation must seem trivial—”

  “No, not trivial. Love is love, and you need to grieve. Do you have anyone to assist?”

  “Yes, my cousins in London.”

  “Look, it is almost Friday afternoon. You can miss the weekend activities. I’d like you to go into London, try to deal with things, and return Sunday night.”

  I looked at my instructor, not saying anything, my emotions choking me. At that moment, with news so raw, I felt relief at my instructor’s incredible gift. I knew he was setting aside a war in respect of my personal anguish. Eventually, I stood to shake his hand and thought there really were some good sorts in this military. I mumbled, “Thank you, Captain. You are so very kind.”

  . . .

  Late Friday, Daisy and Eric met me at the Honor Oak Park station. We walked slowly along the largely deserted street in the dark. Few words were spoken. I had kept a shell around me on the train down from Paddington as the Friday-night revelers came and went at each station, but now felt compelled to fill the void. I squeezed Daisy’s hand. “Are you doing all right?”

  “Thank you for asking. I’ll be fine. I’m worried about you. Love between couples is different, at times stronger than between girlfriends.”

  “Maybe different, but the loss is equally painful.”

  Eric put out a bottle of Chianti with bread and cheese. We spoke of the tragedy in whispers, about the mechanics of the blast but avoiding the tender discussion about Cissy. Yet I went to bed holding a horrible image of the way Cissy died, she now lying in a cold mass grave at St. Mary’s Church. I knew there was nothing else they could have done, being unable to identify the bodies, but it hurt to think she could not have been honored better.

  My head was pounding as I lay on the bed questioning. Why had Cissy been chosen out of thousands of others? When flying sorties I had selfishly feared for my life so many times, and now Cissy had been taken, when she hadn’t once complained? Like Perce, why were the good ones taken so violently?

  I forced myself to think fond memories of Cissy, to fill the emptiness that was now such a painful reality. My eyes filled with tears and my breathing shortened, chest heaving up and down as I imagined her as a lively, happy, and beautiful being. I needed time to soak up those memories, carry them in capsules I would never forget, and to bury the sorrow—time which war did not accommodate.

  I didn’t hear Daisy creep into the room to kneel beside me. I hadn’t realized, didn’t at all remember moving to the floor, nor my uncontrollable sobbing that woke her in the early dawn hour. She held me, stroking my head, as I leaned against the wall, knees to my chest. “Shhh, shhh.” It felt comforting as I opened myself to her compassion, realizing this was her manner of grieving as well.

  At dinner Saturday, I confided in Eric and Daisy something that I hadn’t fully realized but that seemed inevitable once the war ended, something that I had tried to engage Cissy in. “You really loved Cissy enough to marry her?” asked Eric.

  Emotion raced through my veins, coursing into my heart, as I gulped back the urge to cry, even though I had already sobbed myself dry. “Yes, I know I did, and I know we would have figured out
a way to make that work, different countries and all.”

  Daisy filled my glass, which I eagerly accepted though I had drunk enough Chianti. “You deserved her, and she you. Time heals, and as sure as I will nurture more friends, you will too as life cycles forward.”

  I left for Henley at noon on Sunday and returned to classes Monday morning, feeling as good as I could expect. I respected Daisy’s prophecy, loved her for energizing my strength with thoughts of a future someone else, but not for now. My love for Cissy was too strong to think that anyone else could hold my heart the way she had.

  . . .

  It was a beautiful summer morning as I stepped from the Crossley tender that had fetched me from the Nancy train station. All was as I had left it, the familiar conjoining of chirping birds with whirring engines, and the green grassy airfield lying under a deep blue sky while insects buzzed and airmen scurried. This was my home, my refuge, my stability.

  Following an afternoon walk alone in the woods, I was returning to my hut that Howie and I now shared when I heard my name called out from Hangar No. 2. “Bob! Hey, Bobby!” Hardy raced toward me. “How are you? How was training?” he yelled before he got close enough. “Are you all right? You look—aw, bloody hell, you don’t look so good.”

  In spite of my puffiness, I looked straight at him. “It’s all right; I know I look terrible. I expected to be asked.”

  “Something happen? Don’t mean to press, but is your family well?”

  If there was anyone at the aerodrome who could help me transition back, it was Hardy. I trusted him, trusted his understanding. “It’s Cissy. She’s dead.” I knew my voice sounded barren.

  He looked at me, absorbing my grief, then stammered, “D-dead?