Maeran - a narrow escape for Lindley and O'Grady. Sometimes the Brave, Brave Sir Robin thing is the correct move.
Raine - Vogel on an absolute tear. Ripping stuff indeed and ace in a day! Impressive. Nice work staying on MVRs good side. Congrats on 31 and the meteoric rise to the PLM. Excellent pics. Shame about poor Bilhardt.
MFair - Ivan off to a solid start. Nice story with poor Bilhardt. What timing for an engine failure and then another crazed Ramflieger squadmate. Yikes!
Fullofit - Congrats Herr Leutnant on the promotion and the Gong! Again with the Ramflieger! At least it was just a hangar this time. Vogel is out of the gate quickly but slow and steady gets it done too. Wolff is calling it a career. A tough blow for Ziggy.
Lou - Strong move with the reappearance of the Gong Fairy. Almost like the Spanish Inquisition. Hope all goes smoothy and we see Freddy and Thomas again soon.
Carrick - Noooo! [Howl. Howl. Not Fido!] Chased the bouncing ball into traffic he did. A shame. My condolences.
So much to catch up on. My apologies if I missed anything truly spectacular among all of your recent adventures.
À la Recherche du Temps Perdu - Part 13 of many
14 July 1917Royal Automobile Club
London, England
Biggins, driving like the wind, had me to the St. Pol railway station by 6:45. The train wouldn’t leave until 9 so I had time on my hands. Large crowd formed up over the next hour. Air filled with energy of two hundred plus all buzzing with the excitement of our impending leave. I found a few other RFC types and we boarded together taking over the penultimate coach. As predicted a ponderous journey to Boulogne, huge groups boarding at each stop but not the hoards I was expecting. Something was afoot. Still, by the time we arrived, there must have 800 or more of us disembarking.
Caught the 4pm leave boat to Folkestone. Smooth crossing with escort destroyer abeam and an airship overhead. Nothing like my last stormy foray across the Channel in April.
Arrived London 930pm. Victoria Station a hive of activity, even at the late hour. Headed to the Royal Automobile Club to check for any communication from Eliza. Nothing. On the bright side I did find a room available. My streak continues. If only the claims officers at Wing would follow suit.
15 July 1917Royal Automobile Club
London, England
Explored the Royal Automobile Club (RAC). What a fantastic place. Enormous billiard room and a gigantic lounge. On the basement level a well-equipped gymnasium, an enormous swimming tank as well as Turkish baths and a frigidarium. I could get used to this.
An unusual Summer day in London - Moderate temperature, fleecy clouds and blue sky. A walk would be just the thing and I set out to stretch my legs. Crossing through Picadilly I continued up Regent street then over to Saville Row. Two men were admiring the tailoring in a shop window.
On impulse I headed inside. Despite Parker’s best efforts, the recent streak of bullet grazes had my tunics looking the worse for wear. My service jacket looked fine as it was, since I never wore it in the air but I never did like the fit. Having explained this latter issue, my tailor, Mr. Pendergon immediately set to with his cloth rule and crayon marking out demarcations on my jacket, which he then handed to an assistant who vanished as mysteriously as he had appeared.
What followed was delightful two hours being fitted for two tunics, a new service jacket, a pair of breeches and slacks. The cost was considerable, but the fit was nothing like I’d ever experienced. A higher arm hole as typical of equestrian tailoring, but without the accompanying upward restriction. It was as if the jacket wasn’t there at all. I almost felt like I could fight in the thing.
Fitting concluded I headed north, wearing a marvelously re-tailored service jacket. Approaching Russell Square I found the hotel.
“I’m terribly sorry, sir but we’ve no rooms available at the moment.”
“You’d be Mr. Tracy, the Concierge?” I inquired.
“That I am, sir.”
“I am to say that A.L. Parker recommended your establishment.”
Parker, Parker? I’m sure I’d remember him. Might he go by another name?
“Nosey,” I replied.
“Ah, yes. Nosey. Tall fellow, blond hair, bulbous nose, pale eyes.”
“No" I said. "Short, black hair, hawk nose, bushy eyebrows and a constant shadow.”
“That’s him, sir. Welcome to the International.”
The word was Parker had some interesting connections. After this skullduggery and looking at the crowd I was beginning to suspect exactly what kind. The clientele looked eminently respectable and yet there was something about them and this place, an underworld feel that reminded me of Shanghai. Still, the room was grand, and almost affordable. The bathtub, while not the equal of L’Hotel in Corbie would still fit two without much trouble. The staff could not have been more courteous and Mr. Tracy the concierge was most accommodating of my many requests. If Eliza hated the place, we could move.
Royal Automobile Club (RAC) for the afternoon. Spent 2 hours in the Gym. Found some fellows practicing Jiu Jitsu. Trained with them for an hour. They were most interested in Mr. Fairbairn’s Gutter fighting attacks. Spent the remainder of the day swimming and relaxing in the Turkish baths. No messages from Eliza as of the afternoon.
Over to Victoria Station just in case. Victoria was incredibly crowded. Tommies clumped around the Red Cross canteens, and formed sprawling queue at Cox & Co. An ambulance train offloaded wounded and in addition to the leave train a troop transport was boarding. I’d no idea how I would find Eliza in this morass. Working upstream against the surge of arriving leave takers I spotted a group nurses. Eliza was not among them.
16 July 1917The International
London, England
Dropped off remaining tunics at Kingsman for alteration and refurbishment. Checked RAC.
Telegram from Eliza – “On late train. Meet Grosvenor Hotel Lobby.”
Walked over to RFC HQ at the Hotel Cecil to inquire about ferrying an aeroplane back to France. Instructed to return on the 25th for orders. Remainder of day at RAC, then off to the Grosvenor for dinner and the interminable wait. The hotel sat adjacent to Victoria Station and arriving travelers could enter the lobby directly from the Eastern platform.
I could hear the 10 o’clock train arriving. Pacing the lobby like an agitated cat for nearly 20 minutes, I was beginning to think the worst when Eliza appeared, wearing her same blue dress from Corbie. A flurry catchup on the taxi ride back to the International.
We were barely through the door when I dropped her suitcase and had her in my arms. She kissed me back with the same ferocity but as my hands wandered, she stopped me.
“I missed you too, Oliver. There will be time for that, but right now I need a bath. Desperately. Please tell me there’s a bathtub.”
“Evil tidings on that score, I’m afraid.”
Her face fell.
“The tub isn’t nearly as large as the one in Corbie, but it should fit the two of us without difficulty.”
She just shook her head and said nothing. Removing her shoes, Eliza tossed her jacket to me, retrieved something from her suitcase then walked into the bathroom and closed the door.
That definitely didn’t go as planned.I sat reading for 30 minutes hoping she would emerge. Her reunion with Hygieia continued unabated. Frustration got the better of me and stripping off my pajamas, I donned one of the robes provided. I stuck my head in the bathroom. Eliza was in the tub which was swarming with a cloud-like layer of tall soap bubbles. One leg was in the air. She ran a soapy sponge down its full length.
“Oliver!” she cried in surprise and dropped back under the bubbles hiding herself.
“I thought I’d join you,” I said.
She was having none of it.
“Out you go,” she said, not unkindly.
“Let me do that for you,” I ventured.
She smiled but continued waving me out the door.
I retreated.
17 July 1917The International
London, England
I woke early. Eliza lay inert beside me. Dawn of a new day shone through the windows. Clear blue sky. The rising glass stubbornly resisted any emergence of grey drizzle. I went back to sleep.
I lay on my side, facing Eliza and dozing as the morning sun splashed across my face. The lightest touch on the tip of my nose, on my lips. Warm breath, then her lips kissing my eyelids. I opened my eyes and Eliza was there, literally nose to nose. It took me a moment to focus. The sunlight caught her light brown eyes from the side, lending the pupils a strange, refractive depth.
“Wake up sleepy one,” she said, then climbed on top of me.
We passed the morning most pleasantly.
Fortunately, a late breakfast was still being served when we finally made it down to the restaurant.
“Oliver, are you sure this place is legitimate? These people look frightfully mysterious. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say half were arms merchants, spies or worse. It’s a regular high-class pirate haven. You do know how to charm a girl.”
“The pirates appear sophisticated and very well dressed, Eliza. Nary an eye patch nor parrot among them. I hear this dining room is identical to the one on
Titanic.”
“That’s reassuring,” said Eliza.
“Speaking of parrot,” she continued, “we must go the Olde Cheshire Cheese Pub. It has quite a literary history. Charles Dickens, Mark Twain and Samuel Johnson all frequented the place. It’s famous. So is the parrot. Did you have a parrot on
Astoria?
“No, just a ship’s cat or two.”
Eliza also had business with Lloyd's, so we set off.
We walked up together to the foreign accounts desk; the clerk turned out to be an American. Odd, thin-looking fellow with slicked black hair and ears that jutted like top planes from his head. He appeared just this side of thirty. Seeing my RFC uniform his eyes lit and he peppered me with numerous questions as he attended to Eliza’s transfer of funds. He seemed quite captivated by the image and novelty of flying.
"If you don’t mind me asking sir, how long have you been with the Flying Corps?"
“Almost a year,” I answered. “I left in the stifling heat of Boston but had a cold coming to Liverpool.”
He jotted something down something on the back of an envelope.
“Terrible what happened in April sir,” he said.
“Yes, it was the cruelest month of the war," I said.
At this, he made yet another note on a stray piece of paper.
“How may I be of service to you, sir?”
It took the clerk some time to find the details, in the end he established that Father had sent me £200! That was nearly $1000! Where would he get such a sum? Was it some fund for my schooling? The University of California was free for residents to attend. Had he been saving all this time in case I wished to attend one of the colleges back East? That was his dream, not mine but I suddenly felt a heel all the same.
“This Baron Von Richthofen, does he really paint his aeroplane so flamboyantly?” inquired the clerk.
“Oh yes, Hun machines run in many colors,” I said. “Some even patterned black and white like jellicle cats.”
Another note scribbled.
By this time the old boy seated behind our clerk had made yet another “ahem” and was sending disapproving looks our way.
“Sir, not to try your patience but these flying machines seem so fragile. One would think they would burst apart on contact with the ground.
“Only in a crash,” I replied. “The trick is to land not with a bang but with a whimper.”
More Jotting. A more emphatic clearing of the throat sounded from the old boy, who I took to be our clerk’s superior.
“Will there be anything else, sir?” he asked.
“No, thank you,” I replied.
“You’ve been very kind, Captain Winningstad,” he said. Reaching into a drawer he removed what appeared to be a small book, which he opened and inscribed. “Please take this with my compliments, sir. I’ve enjoyed our conversation.”
Departing Lloyd's we engaged a taxi to Trafalgar Square. The weather continued perfect, so we walked down Whitehall towards Big Ben. As we passed the War Office, parting the sea of civil and military servants like Astoria’s bows, a stentorian voice split the air.
“Young Bull!”
(to be continued)