I've been rushed to catch up on all the marvellous adventures of the DiD campaigners and will struggle to remember everything here in detail, so a general thank you for your stories to Dark Canuck, Carrick, Fullofit, MFair, and Robert. Hope I didn't miss anyone! Thanks again to Banjoman and Lou for making this campaign so gripping with your continuing contributions and encouragement.

This installment should bring me to the end of Corderoy's leave. I'm dying to get back into the air. Watch the "OT-visit to the Front" thread for more pictures. I've finished Waterloo and will start on Verdun, the airfields, the Somme, Ypres and Passchedaele, and then Bruges and Brussels. A little bit every day or two...

Diary of Capt. Geoffrey Corderoy, RFC
Part 34: 9-22 October 1917

9 October 1917 – London

Stepping onto the platform in Victoria Station was like alighting from a ship in some exotic and bustling port – a return to a home that was no longer quite home. Small kiosks on the platform advertised currency exchange stations for officers or other ranks, and I took advantage of one of them to exchange my little pile of francs for a fistful of Bank of England notes.

Across the platform a hospital train disgorged its sorry cargo of shattered bodies, and teams of stretcher-bearers carried the poor fellows through the main archway to waiting ambulances. Around me the men disgorging from the Dover train stared wide-eye and uncomprehendingly at women in fine dresses who searched the crowd, all the while clutching mugs of tea proffered by one of the YMCA canteens on the platform. From somewhere an NCO bellowed incomprehensible instructions to them.

I found a Cox and Co. agency in the station and cashed a cheque to add to my little bundle, and then Caldwell and I made our way to a station bar for a British beer and a pie and chips. The beer was somewhat weaker than I remembered, but tasted of home. Caldwell was bound for the Cavendish Hotel, while I took my leave and hailed a cab for my father’s flat in Fitzrovia.

The first two hours were spent luxuriating in a warm bath with one of my father’s pipes and a copy of Punch. From there it was off to dinner in Piccadilly and a couple of hours simply wandering the streets of the city.

10 October 1917 – London

Met Caldwell at the Savoy bar and went to the shows – we were unable to get tickets for Chu Chin Chow and went instead to see The Maid of the Mountains at Daly’s [1]. After the show I went back to the Cavendish on Jermyn Street with Caldwell, for there was a near-perpetual party there hosted by the charming proprietress of the place, who blended a fondness for RFC pilots with the acquaintance of a great many attractive young socialites. The champagne flowed and the music and dancing carried on into the early hours. [2]

Tomorrow I shall make my way homewards, as I shall have to be back here soon enough.


The Cavendish Hotel today

11 October 1917 – South Moreton

Arrived here in time for dinner. Uncle Tom joined us, Billy was home from Wellington, and Mummy and Dad were splendid. Dad is proud as a peacock about my getting the DSO and my recent run of luck in the air. He is done his staff job in London and is being given command of a training establishment in Reading. He exhausts me with his questions about the air war, but I must measure my responses, for Mummy listens in and is terrified for Reg, who is at Netheravon. I chatted with Dad about pulling strings to have Reg posted to Egypt instead of France.

13 October 1917

Have spent two wonderful days working the sheep farm with Uncle Tom. The rams were out tupping the ewes, which is a wonderful occupation. I think if I am a very good lad I should come back as a ram.

15 October 1917

Borrowed Dad’s car and drove up to Oxford to deliver Scarborough’s personal things to his wife. The address took some finding, and it turned out to be a lovely little stone cottage in nearby Wheatley. His wife was a lovely girl named Catherine. When I arrived she was all in black, as was Scarborough’s mother who had come from Ireland. Given Scarborough’s pristine virtue, I was somewhat surprised to learn that he and Catherine we not in fact husband and wife! They had eloped, it seems, but hadn’t time to get married before he shipped for France. The chap’s mother seems to have taken it all in good grace. And I thought the Irish were wedded to their rosaries!

I stayed for tea and scones, and despite the occasion starting out mournfully we were all laughing by the time I had to go. Scarborough’s mum even teased Catherine that she might do worse than to stay with the RFC types, and a major at that.

16 October 1917

I was awakened this morning by Mummy’s screams downstairs. A cyclist had arrived with a telegram and she was sure that my brother Reg had killed himself. My father ripped it open before realising that it was addressed to me. It read simply:

REPORT COL VICKERS RFC GENERAL HQ NLT 17 OCT 1917 STOP IMPORTANT NEWS STOP.

17 October 1917 -- London

I borrowed the Vauxhall again and had and enjoyable ride into the city, although I must confess to some nerves, wondering about the Important News.

I was made to wait in a hallway for nearly forty-five minutes before being ushered in to meet an elderly but very gracious colonel who began, curiously, by stating that it was an honour to meet me. He sent for tea and began by saying he assumed I knew what this was all about, but did I know how much my life would change?

“With respect, sir,” I interrupted at last. “I have no bloody idea what you’re talking about.”

The colonel cocked his head. “You do realise, Major, that you have been recommended for a decoration.”

“I’m aware that I’m to receive the DSO at the Palace on Saturday, and Major Patrick did say I’d been recommended for another decoration of sorts.”

The colonel now offered me a cigarette, and a young corporal arrived with tea. It was a couple of minutes before he responded. “Then let me clarify things. The King will indeed be conferring the DSO on you, but I’m afraid that will happen only after he pins on the Victoria Cross.”

My tea cup was barely off the saucer and I put it back down immediately, having splashed the tea across the colonel’s desk. “Good God!” I said. “What the hell for?”

Colonel Vickers read the citation, but little sunk in. The thing was beyond comprehension. I’d certainly had a run of serious Hun-getting, and my 26 official victories was a good bag, but it was far from unprecedented. Even Ball didn’t get the VC until after he was dead, and he’d bagged nearly fifty. It made no sense to me. I protested that the VC was not a good attendance medal.

But apparently it had been done. I was to be briefed on protocol and the responsibilities of a VC by a general officer whose name I immediately forgot, and I was then ordered to sit for an official portrait by a Hungarian fellow named Laslo [3], an unpleasant task that was to take up much of the next two days.
I then was informed that my orders had been to assume command of No. 16 Squadron, a two-seater unit. But in consideration of my newfound status, this was being reviewed. If needed, I was to report to 1 AD in St-Omer and my orders would follow.

When I finally escaped the headquarters, I telephoned my mother and father with the news. They agreed to make their own way to the city, sans automobile, and meet me at the flat on Friday afternoon. Dad was overjoyed and insisted that I accept a gift of cash with which to celebrate, and that he would call Coutts & Co. to make the arrangements. I protested enough to be decent but not enough to be effective. I then made my way to the Cavendish to find Caldwell.

Caldwell, alas, had met a young woman and headed for Devon or somewhere, so I contented myself with drinking Miss Lewis’s champagne. She arranged for the dry cleaning of my best uniform, and I settled in nicely.

20 October 1917

The investiture was nerve-wracking and boring at the same time. There were several VCs, including two splendid fellows from the Kings Own Scottish Borderers [4]. I listened to their citations for actions during the Ypres push in August and felt rather like the schoolboy who wins the best handwriting prize after it is announced that two of his chums have won open scholarships to Oxford.

Dinner with the family at Rules followed, and we entertained friends of the family in Fitzovia.

22 October 1917 -- en route to France

I left London this morning, bound for Dover and France. The leave felt as though it had been truncated by the events of the past few days, with nearly none of the blissfully idle time I craved. The purple ribbon did, however, work wonders in ensuring seating on a crowded train.

Notes:

[1] The Maid of the Mountains was a musical comedy which premiered in London on 10 February 1917 and ran for 1352 performances, a record outdone by Chu Chin Chow’s 2238 performances.

[2] Rosa Lewis, owner of the Cavendish Hotel at Jermyn and Duke Streets, was a warm friend to the RFC. Escoffier taught her to cook and she soon became known as the “Queen of Cooks,” her skills praised by Edward VII (with whom she might have had a relationship. Sholto Douglas refers to her warmly in his Years of Combat, and her Wikipedia entry is worth a read. She was the inspiration for the BBC drama "The Duchess of Duke Street."


Rosa Lewis, the Queen of Cooks, aka "The Duchess of Duke Street"

[3] The resulting portrait of Corderoy is still held in the family. The artist was Philip Alexius de László. De László studied in Budapest, Paris and Munich before receiving his first significant commission from the Bulgarian royal family in 1894. In 1907 he settled in London, embarking on a successful and prolific career painting royalty and members of the aristocracy. His success led to his being known as the 'Who's Who Painter'. He was naturalized as a British subject in 1914.

[4] This would have been CSM J Skinner and CQMS W. Grimbaldeston, both of whom earned their VC at Wijdendrift in August.