by Jane Peart
He backed away a few steps, then turned and hurried toward his coach. The conductor had picked up the small yellow mounting stool and was preparing to board. Seeing Kip, he motioned him on. Kip broke into a loping run and swung up into the train. Leaning out, a wide grin on his face, he waved at her.
Kitty stood watching the train chug down the track, gradually gaining speed until it disappeared around the bend. The tears she had so valiantly checked, now spilled down her cheeks.
Overnight, it seemed, she had discovered what it really means to love someone. Love means being willing to sacrifice one's own desires and goals for the beloved, she thought, even one's own needs. She had let Kip go when everything in her cried out to hold him close. She had freed him to leave her and chase his dream. Even though she had always loved Kip, she had not realized before today how much love could hurt.
She walked back to the car in a daze, the echo of the train whistle as it crossed Mayfield bridge sounding hauntingly in her ears. Now she could release the tension of "keeping her chin up," of not giving in to her last-minute impulse to beg Kip not to go. He'd have hated it if she'd made a scene, but it had taken all her will not to.
Kitty got into the shiny green runabout, gripping the steering wheel, and leaned her forehead against it for a long moment. The rest of the day, the next week, month or who knew how long, stretched ahead of her in infinite emptiness. How could she bear it? What if the war lasted longer than anyone expected? And what if Kip didn't come back?
Finally she lifted her head, fumbled in her handbag for the car keys. She drew them out and held them, looking down at them in her open palm. The keys to Eden Cottage were attached to the same ring. Kitty felt her throat tighten. The keys to all her dreams, all she had hoped for, all she had wanted in life now seemed to exist in a dim and distant future.
What could she do? Wasn't there some way she could spend this waiting time usefully? Do something that would make Kip proud of her, something in the same cause he believed in so fervently? Something for poor Belgium, for France? Something that might even in a small way help bring the war to an end sooner?
But how? What? She must think, find a way. Kitty turned the key in the ignition, and the car pulsed to life. Suddenly, even as worn out as she was from tension and lack o f sleep, Kitty's mind seemed clear. What was she good at? What came almost naturally to her? With remarkable clarity, Kitty began to remember her childhood—the parade of pets, the cats, the puppies, the birds that had fallen out of nests. All of these she had tenderly cared for and nursed to health—
In a war there was always a need for nurses. There were always the wounded, the injured and sick to care for. Kitty had read about Florence Nightingale, the valiant English woman called "the angel" of the Crimean War, who revolutionized the profession of nursing.
The more she thought about it, the more excited she became. Of course, she would have to take training. But what better way to use her time while Kip was away? And maybe . . . just maybe, it would be possible to go to France. Surely, they would welcome American aid.
As she started down the road back to Cameron Hall, she could foresee only one obstacle—her parents. Would they object, try to stop her? Knowing her father's politics, how he deplored the idea of the States becoming embroiled in European battles, she felt a first wave of doubt.
He had certainly been outspoken enough, voicing his opinion of Kip's decision to fight for the French. "It's none of our business!" Rod had said. "It's not our war. The Germans and French have hated each other and fought among themselves for years. Let them settle their own affairs!" He was adamant. There had been no use arguing, no trying to convince him that for humanitarian reasons and in the name of Christian charity, America had an obligation to help.
Well, I'll cross that bridge when I come to it, Kitty told herself. First, there were other things to do, such as write for information about nurses' training.
Part II
Till We Meet Again
1916
Smile awhile, I'll bid you sad adieu.
When the clouds roll by,I'll come to you.
Until then, I'll pray each night for you . . .
Till we meet again—
—from a popular song
chapter
7
On board the French steamer Bonhomme
Well, Kit, I'm really on my way. I could hardly believe it when I stood at the rail and saw the New York skyline drop away and knew I was actually en route to Bordeaux,from there on to Paris, and then to the secret air field "somewhere in France," where we'll be training.
I've met a great chap on board who, incidentally, is from California and on his way to join up with the Escadrille, too! What a bit of luck, right?His name is Vaughn Holmes, and he's bout my age, although from an entirely different background. He's a real "cowboy." His family owns a ranch in the Central Valley, and he's practically grown up on a horse. At least, we have that in common, and, of course, our interest inflying. He's done a lot more reading and studying than I have about airplanes and the kind of equipment the French and Germans are using. I've already learned a great deal from him, although he's not yet actually flown. He'll get all his basic stuff from our French instructors, so I feel I have a leg up in this regard.
Vaughn also told me that the French airmen have been flying the Spad, a powerful one-seater that is the equivalent of the plane I checked out on in the States.
There are some French citizens on this ship, and at first they appeared to be somewhat aloof, even hostile, to the few of us Americans traveling with them as fellow passengers. However, as soon as it was circulated via the ship's grapevine that Vaughn and I were on our way over to join up with the Flying Corps, their attitude changed dramatically. We are now looked upon as something of heroes! Sentiment seems to run high that it would be in America's best interest to come in and help defeat the Germans—
Paris, France
Dear Kit,
Know you would probably like more details about this place, the current fashions, art exhibits, etcetera, but I'm trying to concentrate on getting started with my training now that we're at last on French soil. Vaughn's father, I learned, has some friends in the diplomatic service here, and they took us out to see the sights. It was raining most of the time, and my sense of Paris at night is like a French Impressionist painting—vague and indistinct. They also invited us to dinner, and the French cuisine is everything it's cracked up to be! We're now waiting to get instructions on when, where to report—
Ecole Militaire D'Aviation, near Bourges
Well, Kitty, I'm here at last! And plenty ready to start flying.Even though I have my American certificate, I still have to go through the training steps here to qualify for a commission. I will be flying the neat little Bleriot that I've had practice on in the States, It's a one-seater, so the pilot's in full control—start to finish-—with no instructor with dual controls to take over. They feel that better pilots are produced with this machine.
Don't worry if you don't hearfrom me regularlyfrom now on.Our daily routine is really full—every minute spent either studying or flying. My French is improving, but there is a whole new jargon emerging with the aviators.
We live in barracks—three big rooms, a hall dividing, shower at far end. There is a canteen on the field, a gathering place for the pilots, food strange but passable. I was relieved to find some very experienced men here, have been in the war since 1914, some Spaniards and Englishmen along with French. I'll be picking up a lot of tips from them. The conversation is an odd mix of languages, but all on the same subject—flying. We're all obsessed with it. But believe it or not, I'm doing a lot of listening!
Vaughn, it seems, is a born pilot. After only a few lessons, he's already got the hang of it. I think we'll move on to the next step together. It's a fine experience to be surrounded with men who have the same goal as I, to whom flying is more than some kind of hobby, as it is considered by most of the people we know, Kitty. Here it is serious business
, and everyone is convinced it's the wave of the future and that, after the war, it will change the way the world thinks about transportation. Give my best to all your family.
As hungry as Kitty was for news from Kip, these were not the letters she had longed to receive from him. Even though she was interested in the new life he was living, Kitty yearned for one word of love, some hint that he missed her, regretted even a little bit postponing the life they had planned together.
To be fair, she realized that Kip was completely absorbed in the adventure, the thrill of it all. He wrote of the daily schedule, the camaraderie with the other men, the hours of study, the constant flying. She believed him when he said he was sometimes too tired to eat at night, just fell exhausted onto his cot to sleep only to be awakened at dawn to start the whole routine all over again. He never once mentioned the danger. But Kitty knew that it existed and that every time he went up, he risked injury or death.
Only once had he mentioned something about his life "before" in Virginia. He wrote that one o f the fellows had an old gramophone, but only a few records that he played over and over, nearly driving the rest crazy. Kip said he had dreamed about being at a dance during that last Christmas he was home, hearing the music they'd danced to, only to find upon awakening that it was "that blasted, scratchy phonograph." Then he went on to say, "All the fellows complain about it. Sometimes, when it goes on too long, they throw boots, towels, and everything they can find in its direction to stop the music. But short of destroying it, which nobody has the heart to do, we put up with it."
Kitty read the short, scribbled notes again and again, trying to feel close to him. But Kip was living in a world Kitty knew nothing about. The longer he was gone, the more isolated she felt.
That made it equally hard for her to write letters to him. Everything in her daily routine seemed so dull, so tame compared to the life-and-death immediacy o f the life Kip was living. America—safe, well-fed, going about its business as usual—was not an appropriate topic for a man living on the edge.
Oh, there was some effort to lend a hand, some activities planned to show interest and compassion for the cause. The church packed boxes of clothing for Belgian orphans and refugees, and the Red Cross held fund drives for medical supplies to be sent overseas. These facts she reported in her letters to Kip, but she kept to herself that life in Virginia went on as though men across the waters were not fighting and dying.
The thought she had had the day that Kip left kept returning to her in increasing intensity. Kitty decided to keep quiet about her plan for a while rather than risk an avalanche of negative arguments to dampen her own enthusiasm for the idea. In the meantime, she wrote to several nurses' training schools for information about qualifications and requirements for entry.
To become a certified nurse, all seemed to demand a commitment of three years of study and a year of actual hospital experience. Kitty realized that being a graduate of one of these schools was probably a requisite for joining the Army Nurse Corps.
A little disheartened, she put the brochures away in her desk drawer to give the idea more thought. She did see, however, that the Mayfield Red Cross Center was giving a six-week course in First Aid and Home Nursing and enrolled in it.
Then something unforeseen happened to replace Kitty's worries about Kip with a more immediate concern.
Late one winter afternoon, when she was trying to compose a letter to him, keeping it optimistic and cheerful, Lynette slipped into her bedroom.
"Kitty—" she began plaintively.
"Yes, honey," Kitty replied automatically, not looking up from her desk.
"Kitty," the little girl said again, coming to stand beside her.
"I'm busy now, darling. Why don't you go play?" Kitty suggested absently.
Lynette placed her small hand on Kitty's arm.
"Don't jiggle me, hon, I'm writing to Kip."
The little girl gave a deep sigh that merged with a racking cough.
"My stars! That sounds awful!" Kitty exclaimed, dropping her pen and turning to look at Lynette.
The child was flushed, her eyes glazed.
Kitty touched Lynette's cheek with the back of her hand. "Why, honey, you're on fire!" she declared. "I think you have a fever."
Lynette nodded solemnly. "I don't feel good."
"I guess not. We better take your temperature and get you into bed." Kitty stood and took Lynette by the hand. "Where did you get such a cough, I wonder?"
Lynette shook her head. "I don't know. I just did."
She settled the child in Cara's twin bed, then went to tell Blythe that she had moved Lynette into her bedroom so she could look after her in case she awoke during the night. Since Kitty had so recently passed her Red Cross home nursing course, she was glad for a chance to use her newly acquired skills.
She expertly applied a hot mustard plaster to ease the congestion in Lynette's chest, then brought her a drink of warm lemon-and-honey to sip.
"You'll be well in a day or two, honey," she assured Lynette as she tucked the bedclothes around her. The child was still shivering, however, and Kitty put a down comforter on top of the blankets.
Lynette stretched out a hot little hand. "Stay with me till I fall asleep, Kitty, please?"
"Of course I will." Kitty drew up a chair beside the bed. "Would you like me to read to you?"
Lynette moved her head slightly in an affirmative nod, and Kitty got out a favorite storybook from her own childhood and began to read: The Secret Garden, Chapter One, "When Mary Lennox was sent to Misselthwaite Manor to live with her uncle—"
When she had read five or six pages, Kitty looked over the top of the book and found Lynette's eyes closed. She put a marker in the page and laid the book aside. Leaning over the bed, she frowned. She didn't like the sound of Lynette's hoarse breathing.
During the night Kitty got up several times to hover over the sleeping child, troubled by her labored breathing, the periodic racking cough. Had they caught this cold in time to keep it from developing into bronchitis, or worse?
By morning, however, when the fever had not broken, Kitty suspected that the child was seriously ill. After consulting with Blythe, it was decided that Dr. Rankyn must be called.
"I'11 stay with her until he comes, I'll try to get her to drink more liquids," Kitty told her mother and hurried back up the stairs.
Returning to the bedroom, Kitty was alarmed to find that Lynette had awakened but was rambling deliriously. When the doctor arrived and examined her, Kitty's worst fears were realized. Pneumonia!
That day Kitty took her post by Lynette's bedside, a post she barely left for the next two weeks except for brief periods of rest. It was an anxious fortnight for the entire household, particularly because of Lynette's "orphaned" position. With her mother dead, her father thousands of miles away, all the responsibility was upon Blythe, Rod, and Kitty as the child's condition worsened.
Each time the doctor came, he looked grave, making little comment other than "We'll have to wait and see—" Small comfort to the three adults who shared the nightly vigil in the long hours. Not only were they wrenched with anxiety but by the grim prospect of having to bear yet another family tragedy.
Gradually the prayers and skilled care pulled Lynette through. The crisis was reached and safely passed. The family could breathe again as Dr. Rankyn assured them of Lynette's full recovery.
To Kitty's surprise, in front of her parents, Dr. Rankyn praised her excellent sickroom care, then shocked her further by asking abruptly, "Have you ever considered nursing as a profession?"
This confirmation fueled Kitty's desire to pursue nurses' training just as soon as possible. Too much time had already elapsed since Kip left. With no end of the war in sight, no possibility o f Kip's coming home anytime soon, if she wanted to see him, she would have to go to him . . .
chapter
8
IT WASN'T LONG after Lynette's recovery was well underway that Kitty learned that Kip had received his commi
ssion in the French Flying Corps. And the next communication she received from him was a letter written on the stationery of a Paris hotel.
September 1916
Vaughn and I are here on our first leave as full-fledged officers.His dad's friends are entertaining us royally. Already they've taken us out several times—to cafés, to restaurants for superb meals, to the Opera Comique, and to a play, in French, of all things! But I'm getting better at understanding the spoken language, at least. And there were French people in the company to translate what we didn't get, so it all worked out fine.
We've run into some other aviators in Paris on leave, and when we do, we have a regular gabfest. Some of these men are real "aces" with many downed German planes to their credit. Some of them are very superstitious and each have their eccentricities, mascots, and insignias. All are nonchalant about their exploits.But beyond their careless manner is a courage and gallantry that's rare.
We've learned that there is a code of honor that exists among pilots, Germans as well as French and English. For example, if a plane is shot down over enemy territory, as a courtesy, one of the opposing force's planesflies over the next day and drops a stone on a long, white ribbon with the name of the pilot and the number of his plane. Almost like the knights of old!
There is, of course, a great horror of being captured, as rumor has it that the German prisoner-of-war camps are terrible. Now, don't immediately begin to worry! There is little chance of that in my case. I'm becoming a better pilot all the time, full of confidence in myself and my trusty plane. Yours ever, Kip.
Don't worry! Easy enough for Kip to say, Kitty thought. He had no idea how many sleepless nights she'd spent, her imagination running wild. She was more determined than ever to get her training and go to him.
Then, before Kitty could consult her parents about her plan, a telegram arrived from Jeff Montrose. Her half-brother would be returning with Gareth, now twelve, from New Mexico, where they had been living almost since Faith had died as a result of the sinking of the Titanic.