Seeking Courage by Gregory P. Smith

Author:Gregory P. Smith [Gregory P. Smith]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: N/A
Publisher: Indigo River Publishing
Published: 2019-07-15T05:00:00+00:00

Chapter 32

September 1917

The next evening presented clear conditions and a bright moon, perfect for flying. We arrived at the hangar to help Hardy and his team finalize the check of our A796. The squad was sending up seventeen aircraft, each loaded with one 230-pound and various four-finned Coopers, the agile twenty-pounder that was the first high-explosive bomb adopted by the RFC. 101 Squadron were equally equipped and coordinated their sorties with ours.

I felt the calming vibration of the synchronized pistons with Wellsey seated in his office and Hardy positioned on the ground waiting for the ground tech’s flash of light to signal our good-togo. I felt good, well rested, as I checked the swivel of both front and rear Lewises, their mountings secure.

As soon as the aeroplane in front gained altitude and disappeared over the hangars, the tower flashed our number. Taxiing out to the T end of the flare path, we gyrated into the wind. At about fifty-five miles per hour, I felt the ground cease to rumble, and we were off once again into the heat of war.

Through the moonlit night, we brushed past gathering mist on our approach into Wervicq station. On the way over, I reflected on my building confidence with these sorties. Anxiety, yes; angst, sure, but as my experience and skills continued to build, I became better able to manage the perils that accompanied any mission. Yet the trepidation of facing unknown dangers lingered.

Cutting the engine, we dropped to twelve hundred feet amid heavy Archie, but I maintained my concentration on dropping our pills, ignoring the threat. The involuntary fast breathing and the punching within my chest were both there—couldn’t be helped— but I leaned far over the front of the nacelle to get an eye on the lit train station.

“Hold on, Bob! Keep steady, old man,” shouted Wellsey from behind.

I waited, mentally calculating the distance and trajectory, anticipating a hit on the station and tracks together.

Damn! Enemy searchlights locked on us, making it difficult to eyeball the situation. Without the advantage of our descending from blackness, I had to guess at the correct angle. I yelled without turning around, “Here goes!” I pulled up the middle bomb lever to release the 230-pounder and then methodically yanked up the others to release the Coopers, four to port, four to starboard. With a clunking surrender from the rack, they were behind and dropping fast when I realized I had been holding my breath.

Expelling air from my lungs, I felt the Fee swing around. I grabbed at the Lewis, pumping rounds into the luminescent glare on the return over the station. We knew the ole bathtub was too slow to easily escape their grip, so the best defense—the only defense—was to turn into the light and dive. The going was precarious, and after leveling out over the station, Wellsey again drove the machine in a tight turn. “Lean, Bobby!” he demanded. With my stomach pressed tightly against the gun post, I forced the Lewis downward as far as it would extend.

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