Fall of Poppies

by Heather Webb

  What do you carry with you? What’s important to John Wesley Ward? Is it the harmonica you played for me when you thought there’d been enough wine that no one would notice? The fancy wristwatch you checked no less than seven times as curfew approached? The handkerchief with your initials so lovingly embroidered? The ring you slipped off your finger and onto mine, gold and marked with “1918”?

  They might not be much, but maybe enough to hint at a life. A college boy, covertly musical yet overtly punctual, loved more than he thinks, but still more worried than he cares to admit about breaking the rules.

  How close am I?

  Have you written to your mother yet?

  Your wife,

  Victoire

  Mother had embroidered me those handkerchiefs, a neat two dozen of them before I headed off to Yale. “I won’t have a son of mine embarrass me by mistaking his sleeve for a handkerchief,” she’d said as she handed over the stack. “Now don’t disappoint me.”

  Don’t disappoint me. I felt I’d been hearing that from my mother all of my life. From my early ventures out of the nursery to my entrance into the schoolroom, from my first day of college to the day I joined the air ser­vice. Don’t disappoint me.

  I never intended to. I toddled from the nursery straight behind Val. Even then, I idolized him. He always thought of the best games, built the tallest towers, drew the most terrifying pictures of dragons. I tried to keep up, tried to impress him, tried to practice his darling smile in the mirror when no one was looking. Mother would run a hand through his curls and call him her strong boy. When we grew and graduated, I was sent off to college. She kept Val, her favorite, near to her at home.

  But even at Yale, no grades were high enough, no glowing reports from profs glowing enough. My father just harrumphed and my mother told me I could do better. I wondered if I’d ever be better enough.

  DIDN’T MEAN IMMORAL DRINK BUT DID MEAN STRONG WOMEN= I wrote. HAVE MET SOMEONE= STUBBORN KIND AND DOESN’T MIND THE HARMONICA+.

  She wrote back simply, MAYBE YOU ARE GROWING UP+.

  4 November 1918

  Dear Mr. John Wesley Ward,

  I’m feeling somewhat more cheerful than I have been of late. I actually got a passable night’s sleep, enough that I took a walk today out in the cold and crisp. Did you see the full moon out last night? The old women in Villers-­Saint-­Auguste always used to say that if you crossed your arms, spun three times, and wished on the full moon, you’d have your heart’s desire. Père Benoît said that was nonsense and only prayer and a determined spirit could bring you your heart’s desire.

  I think prayers, determination, and crossed arms beneath a moon, well, all three just triple my chances. Don’t you? I’d tell you what I wished for, but then it wouldn’t come true. Let’s just say it involves airplanes not plummeting through the clouds.

  What do you desire above everything else?

  Victoire

  I think what I desired above everything else had changed in the past week. Increasingly it was blue envelopes, punctual as railroads, that made my heart pound the way it had that little moment she kissed me. Increasingly it was the thought of her face as I fell asleep, every night. Increasingly it was a hope that I’d make it through this okay so I could see her again. I had to. I didn’t remember if her eyes were blue or green.

  This time I really did take out a paper and pencil. Her rule not to reply, it was silly. I wrote it all down, all of those Victoire-­inspired wants and dreams. I carried it in my pocket and the rest of the day, between unloading trucks, rigging planes, and repairing engines, I wrote until I’d filled up the whole sheet. I even got as far as procuring an envelope and addressing it.

  But such declarations were probably ridiculous. All she’d said was that she hoped I didn’t die. It wasn’t exactly a prompt for an outpouring of sentiment. Married or not, we’d known each other for exactly twelve days. Stranger things happened in the movies, but in real life, ­people didn’t fall in love so quickly.

  I folded the envelope in quarters and pushed it into my pocket.

  5 November 1918

  Dear John Wesley Ward,

  With no work for me here and an apartment I won’t be able to afford for very long, I’ve thought about leaving Pruniers. I was even thinking of going home, home, to Villers-­Saint-­Auguste and Père Benoît’s saggy-­roofed old church. I could almost smell the pine trees and incense and woodsmoke that made up the little house in Saint-­Auguste. I even secured a train timetable (as accurate as the things can be these days), so ready was I to go.

  But then a bedraggled letter arrived from him saying that the banns were set and that the first has already been called this past Sunday, on the 2nd. He wrote that he was proud of me for doing things the right way. I was a credit to my name.

  Of course I feel now like I’ve been kicked in the chest by an ox. As a girl, I used to do everything for Père Benoît’s approval. I wanted nothing less. But will I ever have it again? I lied to him, Wes. To a priest. That he doesn’t know yet doesn’t make it any better. What should I do? When he learns the truth, he’ll have no reason to trust me.

  Knowing what you do, how is it that you trust me?

  Victoire

  She may not have been honest with her fatherly French priest, but she’d been honest with me. She’d told me her troubles in that little tavern, the fears she had of being alone and not rising above expectations. I knew a thing or two about seeking approval. From my mostly absent father, from my teachers, from my mother. From Val.

  Even my superior officers. When Fitzhume flew into a rage over a delayed repair and knocked me in the head with a wrench so hard my ears rang, I didn’t say a word. He used to be a decent guy, before his crash. Though it pained me (literally), when the officer of the day asked me with raised eyebrow about the swelling lump on my head and the fuming Fitzhume still holding the wrench, I had to say, “It was an accident.” The air ser­vice didn’t want to hear about his misdeeds. They didn’t want to lose him. He was a darned fine pilot. His ranking as a human being, though, well, that was up for differing opinions.

  Anyway, who was I to judge Victoire and her misleading of Père Benoît? When I telegraphed Mother again about the birth certificate and money, she asked, ARE YOU IN TROUBLE= DID YOU GET A GIRL IN A FAMILY WAY+.

  Technically I hadn’t. But what reason would she have to believe me? Really, Mother, I didn’t get her in such a state. I’m just tidying up another guy’s messes because I’m not a cad. So I replied with a restrained, NO= JUST TRYING TO DO RIGHT BY SOMEONE+. I wasn’t any better than Victoire at revealing the truth.

  6 November 1918

  Dear Wes,

  I’ve been sick again, so sick, I don’t know why any woman would honestly look forward to this. I shouldn’t worry too much about Père Benoît. I am already being punished by a much higher power.

  But I’m also punished by the news I hear coming out of the Meuse-­Argonne. So many lives lost, so many planes down. I pretended that last night’s moon was full and hoped that you weren’t among either.

  Yours,

  Victoire

  Airplanes came down all the time and I knew my enforced week on the ground was almost up. Next, it could be me.

  Fitzhume ended up in the barnyard again, a lot more cracked up than last time. I think the goats were just as surprised as he was. I was nearby, loading up bales, and ran with the others to help pull him out of the wreck. He looked dazed and didn’t try to hit a single person on the way out of the splintered cockpit.

  He was scratched up pretty good and his left hand was mangled something awful. As I got him into the truck, he said, “It was one of those headaches. It came on and, I think, I forgot where I was.”

  I climbed in the back with him. “It happens.” Though he was quiet, I sat an arm’s length away.

  “It happens too much to me.” He
rubbed his head with his good hand and winced. “Ever since that stall a few weeks ago.”

  Before then he had been a little short-­tempered, but no worse than most. But no matter how tough the guy, heads remained fragile things.

  That’s what they said about Val. One crash and one concussion too many and he’d become a different person. He started taking risks, more than he ever did before. Mother sent him letter after letter telling him to be careful, but Val seemed almost suicide-­bent with the way he flew. After we got word that he died, Mother was inconsolable. She raged that she wished someone had tied him down and kept him from climbing in the plane that last time. She wished he’d listened to her. She wished he’d had someone watching out for him.

  So when we pulled back up to the base and the lieut asked whether the crash was really as bad as it all seemed—­“Fitzhume is tougher than a SPAD”—­I hesitated and thought of Val.

  “Maybe more than a bandage this time,” I said.

  Someone had to watch out for him.

  7 November 1918

  Dear Wes,

  I’ve received another letter from Père Benoît. He received the money I sent—­my last paycheck—­and, though it wasn’t enough to repair the roof of the sacristy, it was enough to buy new shoes for the children.

  You assumed that my father taught me English, but it was Père Benoît. I never knew my real father, but the priest was père to me in both senses of the word. You see, in addition to tending to his parish, he also runs the Saint-­Auguste orphanage. It’s small and poor, but full of his love. I was the only girl there, trying to keep up with the boys and keep ahead of my legacy. I never met my mother, but she was a girl who “went wrong,” as the villagers say. I was the result and she left me on the orphanage steps with no possessions but “Germaine” and the shadow of what she’d done hanging over me. Can you imagine what it was like to grow up beneath the weight of both?

  Anyway, that’s why I couldn’t return home pregnant and alone. It’s what everyone expected. Odette’s daughter, grown up to be a cocotte just like her. Everyone except Père Benoît, that is. He always had faith that I could grow up to be more. That I wasn’t bound by my name or my mother’s mistakes.

  And maybe I already have broken free. My little one won’t be left on the steps of an orphanage. Though I grew up surrounded by love, my little one will find it in my arms.

  And, if you’re still willing, in yours.

  Yours,

  Victoire

  I fell asleep thinking of Victoire and the baby. Maybe it would be a little boy who drew dragons like Val or a stubborn little girl who climbed trees and read books. Somehow I found myself smiling still when I woke up.

  I’d never thought of children before. I suppose most guys didn’t. I’d made hash out of my life; I wouldn’t want to do it to someone else’s.

  But Victoire had thought about it. Had thought about me with children. The thought made me feel suddenly warm, but then just-­as-­suddenly nervous. What if I screwed it up? What if I pushed away, like my parents, or walked away, like Victoire’s? We couldn’t all be saintly old priests.

  For the hundredth time, I thought about ignoring the promise I’d made. I thought about writing and telling her about my dream. Maybe she’d tell me it wasn’t ridiculous, that I might not be half-­bad at taking care of a kid. Maybe she’d tell me again she hoped I didn’t crash.

  My musings were cut short with a summons. As of today, my grounding was over. Tomorrow I’d be flying out with the squadron.

  I telegraphed Mother. I WANTED TO LET YOU KNOW THAT I’M BEING SENT UP TOMORROW= WISH ME LUCK= I’LL BE FLYING INTO COMBAT+. Her response didn’t come for hours, so long that I wondered if I should write again. When she did reply, it was with a terse IT’S ABOUT TIME+.

  I couldn’t leave it at that, not when I was flying out to dogfights and miles of sky. My family knew too well how far a pilot could fall. YOU ALWAYS TOLD VAL TO BE CAREFUL= IN EVERY SINGLE LETTER YOU SENT= WHY HAVE YOU NEVER SAID THAT TO ME+.

  She replied, BECAUSE YOU ARE THE ONE SMART ENOUGH TO SURVIVE+.

  8 November 1918

  Dear Wes,

  After sending that last letter to you, I must have fallen asleep thinking of my own words, because I dreamt of the future. In it, we were in a snug house playing dominos by the fireplace, you and I and the little one (in my dream, a boy with round cheeks and serious brown eyes). In the rocking chair nearby, Père Benoît dozed. Though I thought I’d forgotten your face in all of its details, I could see it quite clearly there.

  Life is full of decisions, some made in fear, some made in loneliness, some made in a tavern over two mugs of wine. Even those that happen in an instant can last a lifetime. But they don’t have to be wrong. Do not the best intentions sometimes reveal the best ­people?

  I’m leaving for Villers-­Saint-­Auguste this afternoon. I’ll tell Père Benoît, about the baby, about the dismissal. About you. Parents spend their lives protecting us, but at some point they have to cross their fingers and let us fly. I hope he’ll forgive me for doing just that.

  Perhaps I’ll get there just in time to hear the second set of banns read. After that, only one more, and then it’s official. Till death do us part. Business or not, we’re stuck for the rest of our days. Ça alors, John Wesley Ward.

  I shouldn’t have made you promise not to write. I watch for the mail every day, on the chance that you forgot the promise or wrote despite it. I wish that I knew how you felt about all this. Because, as crazy as it is, as reckless as it sounds, I don’t think I mind. I liked the dream I had last night. I wish you could’ve seen it.

  Should I let the last banns be called? Or, Wes, should I stop them? Should I stop this? Though I don’t want to, do you?

  Victoire

  Of course I didn’t want them stopped. Two weeks ago, when I stood next to her in the tavern, making drunken promises, I might not have known that. But now, with that small stack of blue envelopes tucked in my inside pocket, I knew. I was heading up into the air, but I had something worth landing for.

  November 11, 1918

  Dear Father Benoît,

  We have never met, but I hope I can convince you that I’m a good man. You see, Father, I am writing to respectfully ask for Victoire’s hand in marriage.

  I’m an American, so apologies for that, but I come from a good family. I went to college and studied far too many things. I didn’t do half-­bad at being a student, but things like that don’t seem to matter as much these days. I’ve put my books away and have taken up a uniform. My brother flew with the Lafayette Flying Corps and I’m here in France to follow in his trail. I can’t promise that I’ll be as distinguished as him or that I’ll fly as high, but know that I’m here, doing my best.

  Before I met Victoire, I didn’t know what that was. But I watched her strength, her honesty, her devotion to you and Villers-­Saint-­Auguste, and I wanted to be a part of it. She wrote to me and, through her words, I saw my own better. I saw my potential best.

  I hope to meet you someday. I hope that you give your blessing and that you officiate at our wedding. I know, to Victoire, it won’t be a marriage otherwise.

  With all respect,

  John Wesley Ward

  Last night, I’d sent a late telegram to my mother. MOTHER ABOUT THE BIRTH CERTIFICATE= CAN YOU SEND+. As I posted Père Benoît’s letter on my way to the airstrip, a reply from the telegram waited. HAVE FAITH= I SENT IT THE FIRST DAY YOU ASKED+.

  I climbed into the plane, my heart already pounding. I thought of the shattered engines we learned to repair, of Fitzhume’s scrambled brains, of Val’s bloodstained ID tags. It was awful. I shook my head to clear it. From my pocket, the envelopes rustled. I sifted through my wine-­soaked memories of her. I needed to think of something beautiful. As the ground crew got the propeller going and the airplane roared the life, I suddenly remember
ed that Victoire’s eyes were blue.

  The guys were pulling out the chocks from beneath the wheels, when Hughely ran out onto the field. “Ward, did you hear?”

  I shook my head. I could hardly hear a thing as it was now.

  “The rumor,” he shouted. “They say it’s over.”

  I leaned over the side. “What?”

  He cupped his hands around his mouth. “Over!”

  “What’s over?”

  Down the line, the other planes started. Propellers chopped Hughely’s sentences into pieces. “ . . . Wilson . . .” he yelled. “ . . . Foch . . . railcar . . . Over!”

  Before I could ask what he meant, the plane started moving and the rest of his words were lost in the sound of a squadron of engines.

  I was still trying to piece it together as the plane lifted off. I was too puzzled to worry about the takeoff. And it was perfect. As smooth as any I made over Kelly Field. I sailed up in the right of the formation and we were gliding across French countryside.

  I could see the front before we reached it. The landscape became browner and more barren, the ground torn up by marching armies, the buildings charred ruins. It was November, but there was no harvest this year, not here. Old trenches snaked black across the countryside, even miles back. Along the horizon, puffs of smoke, distant and low, marked the frontline trenches. Lights from shells streaked the sky. Below, men surged.

  The sky, though, was clear. Blue and cloudless and almost serene way above No Man’s Land. No other planes waited. Looking straight ahead at the cerulean sky, it was easy to forget there was a war on below.

  A row of cannons fired, all at once, a noise that shook the air with a line of light. I imagined I could hear it, even as far up as I was. And, as though an electric charge ran across the land beneath us, as though the war sparked and shorted out, everything stopped.

  The shelling stopped. The cannon fire stopped. The wind blew away threads of smoke and gas to show men on both sides retreating.