Thanks Mom

Thanks Mom

A sly smile upon her face, my mom leads me into the crowded recruiting station.

How lucky am I?

Just yesterday we were debating this, and today she’s going through with it.

Surrounded by men in smart uniforms, I look around at all the hustle and bustle.

“Why do you want to join the flying corps Grace?” she had asked me yesterday.

“I like the uniforms.”

“Oh, you ought to have a better excuse than that!”

Yet, here we are!

She looks around before tugging the crisp brown uniform of a man hurrying by.

“Where is the women’s flying corps recruiter?” she demands from this clearly rushed cute soldier with polished buttons, a sharp collar, and pressed tunic.

He stops in his tracks, looks at her, then at me, and shrugs his shoulders before blurting out, “I’ve no idea Ma’am, I am lost here myself.”

“Well dear, let’s find out where we’re going together.”

The hurried fresh-faced soldier in smart attire pauses, looks around, then nervously runs off in the original direction he was heading.

Poor chap, going off to war but unable to face a woman.

Turning to mom, I smile and giggle.

She squeezes my hand, “That won’t help dear.”

I resolve my face before turning left where I’m delighted to spot a sign reading WOMEN VOLUNTEERS at the end of the hall.

“This way mom!” I exclaim while dragging her hand behind me as I head toward the sign.

This is it, we’ve found it!

We enter a small, practically empty room where another uniformed man sits behind a desk strewn with a small stack of forms. He looks up from a book as we disturb his peace.

“Which of you is volunteering today?” he says in a kind voice.

“I am,” I call out in reply as his eyes divert from mom toward me, taking their time as they work up my skirt-covered legs.

Like what you see?

“How old are you, Miss?”

“I’m 17, Sir,” I reply, knowing full well that is the minimum age to volunteer with parental consent.

Do you believe me?

His eye-based assessment of me continues, pausing at my chest before rising to my face.

He turns to mom. “Are you this girl’s mother?” he asks.

“Yes, Sir,” she offers back in her most graceful voice.

“Ma’am, can you vouch for this girl’s age?”

“Indeed Sir, she is 17, has been for about one month now.”

He turns away from mom to look me over again. His eyes halt at my face, then my chest again, before finally returning to my face.

I know I’m not large, but I’m mature.

“Alright,” he says with a sigh. “Please fill this out and bring it back to me.”

I look down at the form he hands me. It’s for the Women’s Land Army.

I don’t want to work the land; I want to fly!

“Sir, is there a form for the Women’s Royal Air Force? That is my preference.”

Looking down through his pile, he pulls a form out from the bottom.

“Last one, I’m afraid.”

“I’ll take it!” I blurt out, potentially exposing my over eagerness to volunteer.

Form in hand, he holds it back as his eyes give me another once over, again stopping at my chest.

“When did you say your birthday was?” he asks.

Is he on to me?

A bead of sweat slowly makes it way down my right temple.

“A little less than one month ago, Sir,” I reply, attempting to hide my nerves.

Another moment’s pause, then he hands me the form. “Please fill it out in the hall and hand it back to me.”

Yes! It worked!

Mom pulls me into the hall as I look over the form. She drags me away from the door so that we are against the far wall.

“Grace, the right date will be 1901.”

“Yes, mom, thank you.”

I’m going to get to wear the uniform!

*****

British Women Volunteers

http://www.treasurebunker.com/forums/index.php?showtopic=1788

Grace Hallen’s mother accompanied her to the recruiting station on May 10, 1918 so Grace could join the Women’s Royal Air Force (WRAF). The minimum age for volunteers with parents’ permission was 17. Grace, a mature 15-year-old, was enthusiastic about being around aircraft and loved the uniforms. Since birth certificates were not used for recruiting, and her mother was willing to lie for her, Grace was allowed into the WRAF.

She served through the remainder of the war, alongside over 32,000 other women in the British military air arm of World War I. This force was dissolved in 1920, and reconstituted in 1939 as the Women’s Auxiliary Air Force for World War II. It was renamed the WRAF again in 1949 and fully integrated with the Royal Air Force in 1994.

Discovery

Featuring the amazing Órla Mc Govern.

Discovery

A brisk wind pulls at my great coat, pushing up through the open bottom to chill my panted legs. Residue of last night’s storm cannot deter me from thrashing out near the rocks.

What nerve, to ask for my hand!

I weave my way between the jutting rocks of the shoreline. Soft sand sinks beneath my quick-paced feet.

There is a war on. I cannot marry a man who will soon be sent away.

Dark moss-covered rocks, wet with the ocean mist and crashing waves, feel cool to my hands as I climb up a small slope from the shoreline.

If Braden had not volunteered to go, then maybe. But how can I give my heart to a man who will fight in this mistake of humanity?

Rising atop the mass of broken rocks I look down the shoreline where the fog meets the ground and sea in a single point of outward triangles.

Air, land, and sea stab all at once against my heart. Which direction do I go from here?

A dark object with a twisted limb juts out from behind one of the rocks just visible before the morning mist swallows everything. It floats and bumps, coming above the rock in rhythm with the tidal waves before disappearing behind the rock again as the tide goes out.

What could that be?

Slowly descending the damp rocks, I make my way toward the object. I keep my eyes fixed on the rocks at my feet so as not to slip on the wet moss. A gale blows across the upper rocks, a last gasp of last night’s tumult. Howls and screams of powerful wind rushing past jagged wet rocks remind me of the tales of witches and monsters.

Can’t he stay out of the war? Nothing good can come of it.

Making my way toward the object, I can’t quite make out what it is. As I approach, I start to see what looks like a bloated dark bobbing thing the size of a large seal.

It must be dead since it’s only moving with the current of the waves.

The twisted limb comes into view above the rock. Clenched fingers in the shape of a fist appear at the end of the limb.

It’s a man!

Rushing over, I slip on a small rock, falling to the soft sand so my knees, coat, and hands get covered. I look back at the rock upon which I slipped, but it’s no rock. Tufts of hair stick out from an almost completely buried man’s head.

Two dead men!

Without thinking, my hands quickly start digging around the head, exposing a soft, gentle, still, bloated, and rotting face.

He must have been here for a while.

I keep digging. A whole head comes into view.

Who are these men?

What are they doing here?

A scream tears at my ears.

This war takes men I don’t even know, kills them, and brings them to me!

I pause; bringing my sand-covered hands toward my face. Staring at them, my body collapses under its own weight.

I cannot marry any man in THIS world.

A hand touches my right shoulder. Screaming out, I turn to see Braden standing, in shock, behind me. My arms drape around his broad shoulders as he squeezes me tight against his warm body.

His warm body. God, his warm body feels good. Please keep him warm!

My tears fall on his shoulder as he pulls me away from the bloated cold bodies on the beach. I don’t look back.

*****

HMS Viknor

http://dawlishchronicles.com/the-loss-of-hms-viknor-13th-january-1915/

From late January 1915 through mid-year, bodies began washing up along the shores of Donegal, North Antrim, Raghery (Northern Ireland) and the Scottish Islands. For a long time, they could not be identified. People from coastal towns simply kept finding more bodies every few days until one was discovered who still had ID tags. His name was Private J. Griffin. Research revealed Private Griffin was from the HMS Viknor, an armed merchant cruiser that disappeared January 13, off the coast of Ireland.

No one knows for sure what happened to the Viknor, but it is supposed that after capturing the German spy, Baron H A Wedell, the ship struck a German mine in a storm. All 291 men aboard, including the German spy, disappeared until many of them washed ashore over the ensuing months. Their remains are now scattered in cemeteries across Northern Ireland and Scotland.

Private Griffin, whose ID tags led to the realization of the ship’s loss, is buried with four unidentified companions at Bonamargie Friary, in a small corner of North Antrim Northern Ireland. Bally castle erected a Celtic cross memorial with an anchor, harp, and shamrock on it. The Viknor’s wreck was found by the Irish survey vessel Celtic Explorer in 2006 but the reason for her loss could still not be identified with absolute certainty. A small flag was placed upon the wreck to commemorate the loss of life.

Cher Ami

Cher Ami

Taking off with precious cargo invites German fire right away.

At least let me get airborne before opening up on me you Huns!

I bank right, hoping to avoid the barrage of small-arms fire that doomed my predecessors.

Yet, as I turn the bullets streak past me.

My skin gets goosebumps, my eyes water, and my heart races.

How am I going to get out of here alive?

How am I going to get back to our lines?

How am I going to succeed when others failed?

I turn sharply left, attempting to zig-zag in order to avoid the constant fire.

Just as I finish my zag, a round clips my leg.

AAAaaarrggghhhh!

The shock of the impact sends me fluttering, as I fall to the ground.

I’m not giving up you bastards!

Dangling from a tendon, my injured leg still holds my precious cargo.

I’m going to make it. I’m going to get out of here!

Those huns think they shot me down.

I look up at the sky, waddle on my one good leg, and lift off again, this time aiming straight up.

I’m going to gain altitude, rather than maneuver this time. I just have to get out of range fast!

The fire starts up again.

They’re not giving up, neither will I!

Higher, higher, and higher still, I soar into the sky above the stranded men, and those attempting to destroy them.

The Germans keep up their deadly fire as I rise above it all.

Higher, I must get higher!

A round pierces my breast bone, coming out my left eye. I lose altitude.

I don’t feel the pain. I don’t feel anything. I just need to get to the Command Headquarters at full speed. Nothing else matters!

The bullets stop streaking nearby.

I must be high enough!

Banking again, I head toward headquarters.

Twenty-five miles to go, just twenty-five miles.

My leg begins hurting, the bullet wound in my chest and eye stings.

I must make it, for my boys, I must make it!

I am all they have for hope. Without me, they are doomed.

Before I know it, I see the command headquarters, and my loft just behind the tent.

I fly directly in, not bothering to stop on the perch outside as I enter.

The bell rings, announcing my arrival.

I collapse on the floor of the loft.

I made it. I still have the precious cargo dangling from my shattered leg. My boys will live.

A soldier comes to read the latest message from the front located in the silver canister on my leg. When he sees me with my shattered leg, blood streaming from the bullet wound, and missing eye, he gasps.

“Cher Ami, you’ve returned to us!” he cries out, as he gingerly removes the message from my dangling leg.

I’ve done my job. I made it.

*****

On October 3, 1918, during the Argonne Offensive, Major Charles White Whittlesey [DL1] was trapped with 500 men in a small depression on the side of a hill behind enemy lines with little food or ammunition. They were under constant enemy fire, while also receiving fire from allied artillery who did not know their location. Surrounded by the Germans, many were killed and wounded in the first day and by the second day, more than half of the unit was injured or killed. Whittlesey had three carrier pigeons at his disposal to dispatch messages, but the first and second pigeons were shot down by the Germans before they could make it off the battlefield. Only one homing pigeon was left: "Cher Ami". She was dispatched with a note in a canister on her left leg, “We are along the road parallel to 276.4. Our own artillery is dropping a barrage directly on us. For heaven's sake, stop it.”

As Cher Ami took off, she was immediately fired upon by the surrounding Germans. She flew through the unrelenting fire until she was hit and fell to the ground. After a few moments she took flight again, evacuating the battlefield and returning to her loft with her precious cargo in the silver canister attached to her now shattered leg. When she arrived back at her loft at division headquarters 25 miles to the rear in just 25 minutes, she was found to have been shot through the heart, missing one eye, and her leg with the message on it was hanging by a tendon. Despite her injury, her mission was a success. The message she carried helped save the lives of 194 men from her unit.

Cher Ami became the hero of the 77th Infantry Division[DL2] . Army medics endeavored to saver her life, but they could not save her leg. They then carved a small wooden one for her. When she recovered enough to travel, the now one-legged bird was put on a boat to the United States, with General John J. Pershing [DL3] personally seeing Cher Ami off as she departed France.

Cher Ami (French masculine for Dear Friend) was one of approximately 600 homing pigeons donated to the U.S. Army Signal Corps by the pigeon fanciers of Britain. Originally assumed to be male, Cher Ami turned out to be a female pigeon. Upon arriving in the United States, Cher Ami was awarded the Croix de Guerre[DL4]  Medal with a palm Oak Leaf Cluster, for her heroic service in delivering 12 important messages in Verdun. She also received the Silver Star from General Pershing. She died at Fort Monmouth, New Jersey, on June 13, 1919 from the wounds she received in battle. Cher Ami was later inducted into the Racing Pigeon Hall of Fame in 1931. She also received a gold medal from the Organized Bodies of American Racing Pigeon Fanciers in recognition of her extraordinary service during World War I.

Cher Ami as displayed in the Smithsonian Museum

Cher Ami is not the only animal recognized for gallantry, or even the only pigeon. Many animals have given their lives in sacrifice to human wars. The United Kingdom recognizes these animals through the Dickin’s Medal, of which there are 32 pigeon recipients from World War II alone.

To American schoolchildren of the 1920s and 1930s, Cher Ami was as well known as any human World War I heroes. Cher Ami's body was later mounted by a taxidermist and enshrined in the Smithsonian Institution[DL5] . It is currently on display with that of Sergeant Stubby[DL6]  in the National Museum of American History[DL7] 's Price of Freedom exhibit.