Boy, has this been quite the expedition. After some very tough sledding, I think I'm through to the other side. Let's hope I don't have to do that much research for one entry again.
Apologies for the length of the installment below but chopping it up when I'm still 9 days behind didn't make much sense._______________________________________________________
28 March 1917,
Boulogne to St. Omer
The train moves ponderously. I doubt we’re making more than 10 mph. At this rate I won’t arrive until mid-afternoon. Dear Lord, another stop…
________________________________________________Quite the send-off my final night at Gosport. Much singing and toasting in the mess. I think the others know they'll ship out soon. The Old Man himself presented me with my wings, of which I am immensely proud.
Off to London on the 23rd. At Fortnum & Mason and I arranged a care package of tea and other goodies for Eliza. Treated myself to a fine dinner. A night out in London beckoned, but my thoughts were elsewhere, so I contented myself with a visit to Trafalgar square and Picadilly Circus, then spent the remainder of the evening with Father’s Iliad. Morning train to Folkestone.
29. March 1917Pilot’s pool
St. Omer, France
Didn’t arrive yesterday until 1700. Nine hours on that awful train. One bright spot though. My late arrival got me a freshly vacated billet here. Most of the replacement pilots are staying in town.
The Aircraft Park at St. Omer is a sprawling, haphazard looking complex of support buildings, Nissen huts and scores of hangars, practically a small city unto itself. I’ve never seen so many aeroplanes in one place before. There must be well over a thousand men working here.
Met with the CO this morning.
“Gosport…some hours in Bristols…not many in the DH, none in the Nieuport. He paused and continued reading my logbook. “Eight whole hours in Sopwiths … nearly enough to make you dangerous, Winningstad. But to whom? You’ve logged more time than many of the chaps coming through here. I’m surprised you didn’t get orders sooner. Let’s get you a little more time in something you might actually fly. Take up one of the Pups over there and get familiar with the countryside, then this afternoon have a go in a Bristol. To the West, Winningstad, always to the West is that clear?”
I have a chance, anyway. The Bristol seems a fine machine, but she’s no Pup.
30 March, 1917St. Omer, France
Up at dawn and off in the Pup. When I returned, several pilots collecting aircraft for their squadrons dropped into the mess. They weren’t sugar coating anything about the situation at the front. We listened intently as they spoke about recent losses, and the new V-strut Albatros scout which is so much faster than our machines.
High winds cancelled all afternoon flights, so with 7 fellow replacement pilots I headed into St. Omer to their favorite estaminet. Over several bottles of a lovely red, Petrus I think it was called, we kicked about the revelations of the ferry pilots. A couple fellows called it a ploy to frighten the new lads. I didn’t think so, and neither did most of the others. Those pilots were recounting events they’d witnessed first-hand and men they’d known, now Gone West. These weren’t sea stories to frighten the greenhorns.
31 March, 1917St Omer, France
Flying as the weather permits. This morning I was happily stunting about in the Pup, surveying my aerial domain, when some sneaky #%&*$# crept up on me unawares. Never saw him until his Pup drew alongside. Gave me a terrible shock. He sat there for a long moment smiling, then waved and peeled away. By now I’d recovered some of my composure and angrily gave chase, but he was gone. Vanished completely. Where the hell did he go?! Rage cooled and reason returned. My visitor was just skylarking and having some sport, but as they say in Olde Blighty, it put the wind up me something fierce. I slunk back to St. Omer, thoroughly chastened, knowing full well I’d been caught woolgathering.
If he were a Hun, Oliver? “Dear Mr & Mrs Winningstad, it is my sad duty to report… “
Up in the Bristol I spent the entire flight gently changing heading, craning my neck about with the sole purpose of sighting other aeroplanes. I saw three separate flights – two below and one high, high above. My God! Have there always been this many aircraft aloft?
1 April, 1917St. Omer, France
Summoned to the Adjutant this afternoon. I’m posted to No. 54 Squadron! Sopwith Pups. Fortuna be praised! They’re sending transport for me tomorrow morning. 54 Sqn. are in Chipilly near the Somme. I think Eliza is in that area with 55 CCS, but I’m not entirely sure. The censor, ever vigilant, consistently blacks anything in her letters hinting at location. I dashed off a quick note to Eliza with the good news, and then wrote Mother and Father a long letter.
2 April 1917St. Omer, France
Waiting. Waiting. Morning come and gone.
After lunch, a pilot at the next table held forth on a wide variety of subjects ranging from aerial tactics to the proper conduct of the war. I hadn’t seen him before. An Irishman, by his accent. When his companions excused themselves, we set to talking. He wasn’t shy about sharing his opinions, and he had some rather unorthodox ideas about air fighting.
“You’ve seen front line service before I take it?” I asked.
“Not yet,” he said.
Confident fellow. At that moment, a sergeant approached and announced that my transport had arrived.
“Well, I’m off. My name’s Winningstad, by the way.”
We shook hands.
“Mannock,” he replied. “Good luck to you.”
Chipilly lies almost 70 miles south of St. Omer as the crow flies, and nearly 100 miles by road. Transport turned out the be the observer’s seat of a DH. Quite the stroke of luck. The thought of 100 miles in a Crossley on these crowded mud-churned roads, or another adventure on a French train was not a pleasant one. Approaching Chipilly from the East, we flew over a small lake and touched down at a field surrounded on three sides by low hills.
All flights were away on afternoon patrol and the aerodrome felt deserted. I sat in the squadron office with Major Kelham Horn, OC, answering his many questions about my background, and my flying hours, but most of his inquiry concerned my time at Upavon and Gosport.
“The Major give you those wings himself?”
“He did, sir.”
“Very good, Winningstad,” he said. “Welcome to 54 Squadron. Corporal Biggins here will show you to your billet. Tomorrow we’ll get you acquainted with the lay of the land.”
Very high spirits in the mess after dinner. I went round the room with Captain Nicholson, our Adjutant. As he introduced me to the squadron, I discovered the cause for celebration. This morning Sutton bagged his first Hun and confirmation had just come through.
Another surprise, Strugnell, is here. Captain Strugnell now, and as it turns out, my new Flight Commander.
“Still floating in midair, Winningstad?” he said with a slight grin.
“No sir.”
“Let’s get you another drink, then.”
3 April 1917Chipilly, France
Rain this morning. All flights grounded. Maybe I can get out this afternoon.
I settled into the mess and spent the morning studying the sector map the Adj gave me.
Around 1030 Strugnell walked past and seeing the map and my scattered notes, he stopped.
“Be able to draw this from memory. Remember to map into Hunland as well. There will be a test later,” he said with an amused smile.
I wasn’t sure if he was joking. Sure enough, an hour later he returned, turned the sector map over on the table and handed me a blank sheet of paper. You have 10 minutes, Winningstad. Begin.”
“Time!” Examining my work, he scowled. “You missed quite a few forward aerodromes. You must know where the forward fields are. All of them. Continue Winningstad, except this time,” he rotated the map a quarter turn, "draw it from Hunland, so you can find your way home.”
Rain all afternoon. No flight for me today.
Returning the map to Captain Nicholson, I asked if he knew where 55 CCS were.
He thought for a moment and said, “Grovetown. South of Meaulte. About 3 or 4 miles away.”
He saw my face light up but said nothing.
“The road Northeast from Morlancourt,” he said dryly, and returned to his reports.
Eliza so close! I must see her and soon. My plans for arranging transport died in the cradle, however, as Major Horn approached and introduced me to Flight Sergeant MacDonald, the Chief Mechanic. This latter worthy took me on a long, looping tour of the maintenance facilities, gun butts and finally to the hangar where I met my Pup. There he left me in the keeping of Corporals Mitchell and Johnson, my mechanic and rigger, respectively.
A6215 had a weathered look to her and given the number of sailmaker’s patches, she’d seen some action. Corporal Mitchell followed me as I walked around the aeroplane.
“She may look a little worn, sir” he said, “but the motor’s tip top and she’ll fly true.”
“Aye, that she will, sir,” added Corporal Johnson. “Wires are all nearly new, but not so new that they’ve not stretched a wee bit. Ah trued ‘em up this very morning. Ye must tell us, sir, after each flight how she goes.”
4 April 1917Chipilly, France
After another morning of map study with Professor Strugnell, I have a better sense of the territory, or so I believe. Most of the squadron spent the day in the village, but talk is brewing of a trip to Corbie if rain continues tomorrow.
5 April 1917Chipilly, France
Morning rain. By early afternoon all flights cancelled for the day. The Corbie Expedition was on and I gratefully tagged along.
“I say, where are we going? Corbie’s that way. In the
opposite direction.”
“We’re dropping off Winningstad first.”
"Why? He's new. He can walk."
At Grovetown I hopped off the lorry to some hooting and choice comments.
“I see now. A recce of the local nurses, eh Winningstad? You’re a quick operator. Or have you got clap?”
Grovetown was quiet in the late afternoon. That wouldn’t last, not with what was coming. I found the reception tent. A Sister informed me Eliza was out but would return within half an hour. I walked the grounds marveling at the number of large tents serving as hospital wards, almost seventy all told. No. 55 Casualty Clearing Station lay spread out across fields near a small wood. A rail spur of the main line from Albert ran through the site. This way the wounded would travel to the main rear area hospitals. No trains today but a constant stream of trucks delivering supplies, then heading north towards Albert.
Completing my circuit, I stood outside the reception tent. The weather was clearing. We’d be flying tomorrow. Not far away, I saw two people emerge from the railway garden. They looked as lovers, arm in arm, returning home after a stroll. It was Eliza, accompanied by an infantry officer.
As they drew near, I saw Eliza’s companion to be a Major. I didn’t recognize his collar badge. He was tall, well over 6 feet, fair of face, with large blue eyes that looked out on a world he no doubt considered his own. Phoebus Apollo come down from Olympus. The Major was an incredibly handsome man and knew it. He approached wearing an easy smile.
As I saluted the Major, Eliza recognized me, and in some shock and surprise, cried, “Oliver!”
“You know Miss Ludlow, Leftenant?”
“Yes, sir. We sailed from America on
Laconia.”
“Ah. How interesting that must have been for you.”
Apollo returned his attention to Eliza.
“My dear, I must depart. Thank you for a delightful afternoon.”
He raised her hand to his lips and kissed it. My thoughts turned to murder.
Training his Olympian gaze upon me, he nodded slightly, as one might when acknowledging an inferior.
“Good day Leftenant.”
“Good day, sir.” I saluted. Was I supposed to do that?
He smiled his easy smile, returned my salute, and walked off to a waiting car.
That smug, condescending SOB! He saw how I looked at Eliza right off, and wasn’t remotely concerned. He thinks he’s
there with her! Sing Goddess the anger… Eliza’s voice drew me back.
“Oh Oliver, how are you here?” She took both my hands in hers. “I only got your note this morning. You are so close by and…” Smiling, she stepped back, appraising me as if for the first time. “You have your wings. How Marvelous!”
Same old Eliza! How long had I rehearsed this moment? Inspire me, oh Muse…
“I had to come see you,” was all I could manage. I just stood there, holding her hands and smiling. Dolt!
“I know, Oliver. I missed you too.”
“Wait here,” she said, and dashed inside, emerging a short while later wearing a greatcoat. Her sisters could cover her for an hour perhaps two. She took my hand and we set off for a low rise. Descending the hill beyond, we reached the edge of the nearby wood, and following the path came to a clearing. A small bench lay here. Despite the rain the carpet of leaves and old acorns was almost dry.
We sat, holding hands like children, laughing often, excitedly asking questions, and recounting our recent adventures. Occasionally her attention went elsewhere for stretches of time. At the last, I just stopped talking and let her softly return from wherever she'd gone.
Eliza didn’t look tired so much as drawn. Her face was thinner now and a little paler. The full lips, her smile and the laughing glance were still as I remembered, but tiny lines of creased her forehead where none had before. And in her eyes, something altered, as when gazing into an antique mirror that is ever so slightly out of true. Imperceptible to anyone who had not known her on Laconia, but there, nonetheless.
Presently she looked at her watch.
“I’m sorry Oliver but we must head back.”
As we walked up the path, she took my arm.
“Do your ‘poor boys’ still write you heaps of letters?”
“They do indeed. I have a new correspondent though. A certain “Leftenant” of the Royal Flying Corps,” she said.
“And the Major?” I inquired, keeping my voice as level as I could.
“Major Harding-Royce comes weekly to visit those of his men too badly wounded to travel.”
Blast Apollo anyway. How dare he have any human decency!“He sounds like a fine officer, but surely that’s not the only reason he visits.”
“What do you mean?”
“Does he kiss the other Sisters’ hands?
“Oh, that’s just his manner, Oliver. It’s not what you think. It’s…” She struggled for the words.
“He understands. We see things through the same lens. I can’t explain it.”
Whatever does that mean? Understands what? He thinks Eliza belongs to him, but she doesn’t see it.
We started down the hill toward the camp.
“When can you visit again, Oliver?”
“I don’t know. The show’s going to start soon, and when it does, we’ll both be hard at it for who knows how long. No time for visits then, even when it’s raining.”
Nearing the rows of tents, a brief rain shower caught us in the open. I took her hand and we raced to the shelter of a solitary oak tree. I put my hand to her cheek, caressing the side of her face. She leaned her head toward it. I felt the warmth and pressure. She softened as I drew her to me, but then suddenly stepped back, taking both my hands in hers as she had earlier.
“I’m sorry. I can’t” she whispered.
“God keep you safe, Oliver.”
Before I could respond, she stood on her toes, kissed me on the cheek, and walked quickly into the station
_____________________________________________________________________________________________________
*Note: While the reader may scoff and cry “deus ex machina,” if not “pfffffft!”, at Oliver’s good luck in finding himself 4 miles from Eliza, the author pleads innocence in this case. Knowing from the start that Oliver would go to 54 Sqn, Eliza’s attachment to 55 CCS was based on that unit’s arrival in France just prior to the Fall Offensive, and a desire to let historical events drive the narrative. Finding the two in such close proximity came as quite a surprise. A costly surprise at that. The Grovetown visit was a scene meant for Summer (should Oliver live so long…) when several months of additional writing experience might render it a far less daunting task. A case of write first, research later. Perhaps not the best practice in the long run, but it made for some highly ”immersive,” if challenging days.