19
This I want my friend Chapman to know first. I thank the major and start for my quarters. On the way I meet Lieutenant Price and give him the good news. Evidently my report of our fight has not done me any harm, as Price says, “Libby, when you return from England as a commissioned officer, I will be in Number Eleven Squadron as a captain and flight commander. Number Eleven Squadron is F.E.2b, same as we have here, under the command of Major Hubbard, a good friend of mine. I will ask to have you assigned to Eleven as my observer. I am sure we will make a good team, and before you leave here there will be orders to report to Number Eleven on Savoy Air Field, which we have flown over many times. We will still be in Thirteenth Wing under Colonel Shephard, which is good. I knew your promotion was coming. All my best wishes and congratulations for a remarkable record. When you leave for England, I will give you a letter to my tailor, who will relieve you of a world of trouble. In fact, I shall write it immediately. Will see you in our plane this afternoon.” It has been just twenty days and my papers have gone to headquarters, where I have a feeling they will be acted upon immediately. During the twenty days, I have worked hard to learn under my own power as much as possible. One reason, possibly, is I have become used to living and like it that way and have concentrated on the machine gun more than any other part of observing such as map reading, bombing, or all the other parts. As I figure, the little Lewis is and has been my lifesaver. I have become so efficient that I can clear a jam in nothing flat, should it occur, which it hasn’t in action, only when I force it on the ground just for practice. One thing important is bothering me, though, so important I’m afraid to say anything to anyone, for after all I am only a private on probation. There are hundreds of gunnery sergeants who know the Lewis gun backwards, to say nothing of many senior officers, so I decided to say nothing until I had passed or failed my probation period. Then I would pass my idea on to someone, and now that I am almost a second lieutenant, I decide Price is my boy. With this decision made, I search the hangars and find him in C Flight with our staff sergeant. With his “Wait a minute, I’ll be with you,” I walk outside and wait because I want him alone.
Price joins me in a few minutes. We walk toward our ship in B Flight. On our way I tell him what has been on my mind for several days. I explain how well I like the Lewis, but of one thing I am sure, that it could be a more effective weapon if it could be held firm and not allowed to bounce when in action, which could be accomplished by the fellow shooting having his left hand free to hold on with, whereas now it takes both hands to shoot the gun and you don’t have a true or steady arm. Where the handle of the Lewis is, there is a clip that holds the gun together. That’s what you take off to break it apart, and that’s what you fasten on to hold it together. It locks all parts. This clip could be removed from the handle and attached to a short buttstock like a shotgun has, which would serve the same role as the handle and give the operator of the gun an opportunity to hold it in place with his shoulder against the buttstock, leaving the left hand completely free to hold on while he operates the pistol grip with the right hand. As it now is, both hands are occupied, the left hand ahold of the handle and the pistol grip in the right. By having a buttstock on the backgun, I am sure an observer would have a real chance and give his enemy the Hun one hell of a surprise. All of this Price takes in to the end and inquires if I have talked to anyone. Upon being assured I haven’t, and my reason for not doing so, he says, “Libby, when we get to Eleven Squadron, I will ask Major Hubbard to appoint you gunnery officer, which will give you authority and opportunity to try your idea out on our ship. To me it sounds terrific. Why it hasn’t been done before I don’t know, but if it works we shall be the first to know, except Major Hubbard, who will give us all his support.”
London, wonderful London, a place I learned to love even with no lights, everything rationed, a shortage of petrol except for the military, all windows and doors and entrances curtained so no light could escape. London, a place of as near total darkness as possible, and the only large city in the world where I was never lonesome.
Here am I, through the courtesy of His Majesty, to become an officer and a gentleman with the rank of second lieutenant and a full six days to get the job done and return to France. Having been allowed to leave one day early, I have a full five days here and one left for travel.
Now, thanks to Lieutenant Price, I know where to go for my uniforms. I have to be measured and fitted. This I decide will be my first call. Except there is a little matter of money. I don’t know how much is needed, but I do know it is more than I am holding. So when the bank, any bank, opens in the morning, I shall help them open to see if they can help me with a few dollars I have in the Bank of Montreal in Toronto, which I had assigned there from the Canadian Army. Why I will never know, unless I was saving for my old age, and in this game they just don’t grow that old. This is a matter I should have thought of in France during my probation period. If I did think of it, though, I probably reasoned that, if I fail, I won’t need any money, and if I pass, something will show up. So now in my hour of need if the bank won’t help, I’ll talk to said tailor and see what happens.
When the bank opens, I’m the first customer and undoubtedly discouraged the banker for the rest of his day, as I wasn’t sure how much was in Canada. But the old boy bore up nobly, taking down all information I could supply as to what I thought was there and how much I wanted. He agreed to cable at my expense, and if I would return tomorrow they would try to help. This was a beginning. So to Price’s tailor by taxi, as time is important and up to now I only have prospects. Had I read Price’s letter, which was unsealed, I could have saved myself some worry. Somehow I didn’t feel right about reading it, so saved it for the tailor. No one in this world had ever received me more gracious, making inquiries about Price and about me being an American, which Price must have mentioned, unless it was showing all over me. They assured me they would take care of everything, including bed roll, caps and four nice uniforms, my flying coat, helmet and boots — I am to send to their place to save time. Taking my measure now, they will have one uniform ready by tomorrow afternoon. I am to come by at lunchtime for a try on, as they know I am anxious to get into my officer’s uniform soon as possible, to enjoy London better. I could tell them that I could enjoy London with or without uniform, but I don’t. Now for the sad and gloomy part. No money! These boys can really take a shock, as I talk in my best American about money I don’t have but there are prospects from Canada tomorrow, so if they will try and tell me what the works might be, for there has been mention of several items a gentleman was supposed to have which I didn’t have and hadn’t thought of having.
While I am trying to plead my poor financial condition, one of the partners who has been a quiet observer to my effort speaks up with the remark, “You have plenty of money. You just don’t know it.” Turning to one of his employees, he asks for the Morning Gazette. “Here you are, gazetted second lieutenant RFC as of the day before yesterday You have been an officer for two days. You are rolling in money. Take a cab down to Cox and Company on the Strand. Every cabbie knows where they are and all you will have to do is sign a signature card, because the day you were gazetted they automatically opened up an account with sixty pounds for uniforms and one month’s pay in advance.”
This is done so a young officer will not be embarrassed or have trouble getting the original uniforms which are required. All your allowances, including so much each month to drink to His Majesty’s health, are included in your account at Cox & Co., the official bank of the Royal Flying Corps. After your first signature card you won’t have to sign anything, except checks when you need money All of this was a great shock, but the kind one can take without too much fortitude. Why someone had not told me sooner, even the banker, I didn’t know. Without more ado I head for Cox & Co., feeling pretty certain the gentleman knew what he was talking about. It just wasn’t possible to have that kind of information and not be right — so Mr. Cox., you have a new baby!
My tailor was right. He is now my tailor after what he did for me, otherwise I would have found some old police sergeant to shoot me. Instead, I have a nice thin checkbook so it won’t bulge my pocket. With money in one bank and prospects of another, fate, you have been good. Buying my flying coat, which is just like Chapman’s, I wind up with officer’s boots and a flying helmet, which completes one day’s work before lunch. The rest of the day I think I shall just sit in the nice plush lobby at my hotel and be grateful. While watching the parade go by, maybe I’ll see some Canadian I know and can share the joy of my being a millionaire. I don’t even have to hurry in the morning about my Canadian money. Lunch-time will be soon enough. Then my uniform — life is sure wonderful. All one has to do is stay alive to enjoy it. I must be awfully old; here I am with nothing to do and all kinds of time to do it. With money besides, and I don’t feel like playing. I’m just content.
I am now in my new uniform, the fit is perfect, the goods of the same material as Price’s uniforms, and he is the best dressed officer in the squadron. Wow! But I feel so new and green. The Sam Browne belt is dark and flexible, not stiff like I have seen on so many new officers. Again a copy from the Price wardrobe.
The bank this morning gave me my money from Canada. I am now the richest, newest, greenest officer in His Majesty’s service. Before leaving the tailor shop in all my glory, I was asked by the same gentleman who had made my life so happy with his good news to come up to his private office, where he assured me all my uniforms would be ready together with any other necessities. This was the day before I was to leave for the boat train to Folkestone. No one had ever before taken so much interest in my problems or relieved me of so much responsibility as had this gentleman. Now that I’m leaving, he hands me a note, saying, “Libby, this is an introduction to Jimmy at the Savoy bar, which opens at six every night for two hours. If you have time, run over, he is just across from your hotel. I would like you fellows to know each other. The Savoy you know, is where you will see everyone in the RFC sometime or other. It seems to be the gathering place for all pilots and observers. Do give it a look.” So back to my hotel, which is the Strand Palace on the Strand angling across from the Savoy.
Now to give the hotel clerk a peek at my new uniform. With the change from private to second lieutenant, I expect him to at least register surprise. His total lack of interest amazes me. Taking a look around the lobby I find no one even giving me the once-over, so decide that new and green I might be but no one gives a damn!
In the privacy of my own room I look myself over in the mirror and try adjusting my cap to an angle like Price, when I remember last night, returning from a show, there wasn’t a drink or sandwich to be had in the joint. So, before going over to the Savoy, I decide to do something about this matter. Ringing for a bellboy, I am about to give up when there is a rap on my door, which I have left unlocked, and in bounces a very pretty young girl with the salutation, “Did you ring, sir?”
This I had, but for a bellboy. “Sir, I am the bellboy.” At my look of amazement she continues, “I am taking the place of a man in service. There are girls answering bells in this and many other hotels. May I do something for you?” For sure she could, but what is in my mind is not her cup of tea. . . .
The gal is all business, so I tell her my troubles, which she agrees to remedy with a bottle of scotch and some sandwiches. Before I return, which will unquestionably be late if my meeting with Jimmy is what I expect. To my utter surprise, my young lady refuses a tip — won’t even collect for my order. Will have it charged to my account. This war has certainly upset the applecart. From now on I shall keep my door locked. Suppose I had been in the bathtub when my bellboy or girl bounced into my room. She might think I was Venus. No, she probably wouldn’t — too many arms. To hell with it. I am not running the hotel or the war. I’m only a visitor with things to do. I have found out, by becoming an officer and supposedly a gentleman in His Majesty’s service, that I have a very serious duty to perform every Thursday evening at dinner, namely drink to His Majesty’s health. Each month there will be credited to my bank of Cox & Co. funds for this purpose. These boys think of everything, so I will do my part to see that His Majesty never has a sick day during my service, and indeed shall not just wait for a particular day but will devote some of my time and funds between regulation dinners to this very worthy cause. And believe it or not, through my three years on the Western Front, His Majesty would never have a sick day. Of this fact I had two wonderful opportunities to tell him personally of my stout effort in his behalf, once when he inspected Number Eleven Squadron in France and the other when I was decorated at Buckingham Palace. Somehow I didn’t. It was a question of what was doing who the most good. Gentlemen, the King!
I wander over to the Savoy, full of curiosity, to present my note to Jimmy. The Savoy sits back off the Strand. There’s a horseshoe-shaped driveway to the entrance. On the right hand of the entrance and downstairs is the Savoy Theatre, where HMS Pinafore is playing. A large door leads to the spacious hotel lobby with reception desk and office to one’s right, with many people moving around both in the lobby and far back to a large dining room. To my very left from the entrance is another wide door, through which one enters a spacious lounge, and directly back and to the left is a bar with two busy barmaids. The place is packed, with only a few vacant seats. While I am surveying this picture, a voice says, “May I help you, sir?” This is my boy Jimmy. He is about my height, I would judge in his early thirties, with a personality plus. Upon reading the note, I am welcomed like a long lost brother returning with a couple tons of gold. He introduces me to three RFC men at a table with a vacant chair, and before I know it, without asking he appears with a double scotch and soda. As I reach for my bank roll, am told “not this time.” This brings inquiries from my three companions as to how long I have known my host. Upon learning that I am new in the picture, they bring me up to date on some of my host’s history. He had wanted to be one of the RFC, but because of some difficulty with his eyes just couldn’t make the grade, so devotes his time to helping his country in every way possible as a civilian. And from six to eight each evening, when the Savoy bar is open, serves as maitre d’ where he can mix with the men he likes best, the officers of the Royal Flying Corps, many of whom he has helped when help was needed most. No one who ever asked for help was turned down. He is known and loved by all the RFC gang and never forgets a face or name. He will become my very good friend in the months to come. As closing time for the place begins to approach, I am invited to many parties, as it seems everyone is throwing one, some immediately after the close of the bar, others to start after twelve o’clock when all the showgirls are free and ready to play and entertain the boys “for King and Country” until morning or past. Boy, what a life, only I’m a total loss. Just want to do what comes easy without an effort and am in no mood for play. So back to my hotel, where I hear a piano being played in the lounge, so drift in and spend two hours listening to a Canadian in a private’s uniform playing the music I like best in a way no one else could. He is the famous Getz Rice, later to become an officer and professional entertainer for the troops, swell fellow, and in time one of my very best friends.
My last day of leave. Everything is ready at my tailor shop. All I have to carry is my British warmer, my bag with shaving kit and a few undergarments, shirts and etc. Everything else will be checked at Charing Cross Station, from where the boat train leaves for Folkestone. So to settle up with my tailor without whose help becoming an officer would have been, to say the least, very difficult. I am expecting a tremendous bill, because they have done everything, even paid for my bed roll, cot, etc. And I’m not certain if it will take all my newfound wealth or not. But I expect the worst. So what happens, to me, a perfect stranger? The boss asks where they may send their statement as it isn’t made up. Here I am leaving for a shooting war where the boys are using real bullets, and I can’t possibly return to London before three months (which I understand is the usual time allowed for officers of RFC to go on leave), and these babies are insisting on sending me a statement! They are either the world’s greatest optimists or just plain nuts. If me and my new clothes get knocked off, who will pay the bill? I don’t know, but they’re not worried. So I give them Eleven Squadron RFC “somewhere in France.” When I tell them I will be with Price, this they know, smart people, and there is nothing to do except say goodbye. This I do, thanking my new friends for their great kindness to a strange Yankee who knows he don’t know too much, and one who has just had his first real contact with the English people. They certainly are different from what my schoolbook said, Boston Tea Party and all. I like everyone I have met. Their graciousness I shall never forget.
While I made many friends in my few short days, my heart hasn’t been in having fun. I find myself thinking of Price, Chapman, Hicks and the others, but most of all my idea of a buttstock for the Lewis, which I feel will help Price and me to stay alive, for I must have a full hundred hours of combat as an observer before I am qualified to wear the observer’s wing which will fill up the vacant spot on my left chest. If I am allowed my hours with the Twenty-third, it won’t be too long. Everywhere one hears of the big push this summer, in our sector. Even green as I am, I know we will be in for plenty of flying, which means the enemy will be out in all his glory. This doesn’t worry me too much. With Price, one of the best pilots in the RFC, I feel we will do well, and if my buttstock works for the Lewis in our F.E.2b, the Hun may have a real surprise. So goodbye London for now, and when I return I will be a full observer, with a flying wing on my chest and a lot of experience under my Sam Browne belt.