Their flat was burning, and the one next to their place was completely obliterated. Flying debris was in the air, and already he heard the screams of the wounded. He wanted to rush ahead, but he had Gabby in his arms. Looking wildly around, he saw Mrs. Williams, who lived down the street, standing dazed, staring at the rising flames.
“Mrs. Williams, keep Gabby. I’ve got to see to my wife.” Without waiting for a reply, he rushed ahead, but as he crossed the street, his heart seemed to stop. There was nothing but rubble all about. He began tearing through it like a madman, crying out, “Noelle! Noelle!” He tore his fingernails and his hands were bloody. All the world seemed to stop. He was aware that other bombs were falling farther down the street, but his only thought was of his wife.
He lost track of time as he wildly pulled at boards and fallen plaster until finally he felt a hand on his arms. He looked around, his face black with soot and his hands bleeding.
“Sir, come along. It’s no use, I’m afraid.”
Lance turned and saw a fire engine that had drawn up, and firemen were piling out. He tried to think but no thoughts came. The fireman, a short man with a strong face illuminated now by the light of a fire that still burned down the street, said, “You had your family inside?”
“My wife—she’s in here! You’ve got to get her out!”
Compassion filled the fireman’s face, but he looked at the rubbish and knew how little hope there was. “Let us get at it, sir.”
Lance started to argue, but then the firemen moved in and began shuffling through the debris. He stood there, his mind paralyzed, and then he heard a voice—”Papa! Papa!”
Turning, Lance saw that Mrs. Williams had advanced, holding Gabby, whose face was streaked with tears. He moved stiffly toward her, scarcely able to think, and saw the fear in her eyes.
“Is Mama all right?”
The question pierced Lance Winslow’s heart. He knew there was no hope. Holding his daughter closely, he turned away sick and nauseated. The sounds of the bombs had ceased, but he knew, somehow, that life would never be the same for him again.
****
General Montague Trenchard was known throughout the Royal Flying Corps as “Boom.” This nickname came from the manner he had of speaking. General Trenchard had one philosophy, which he called strategic offense. He had one aim in life, and that was to win the skies over France for the Allies. Now, however, General Trenchard sat staring in his London office after he had come back from a quick visit to France. The walnut desk before him was littered with papers, and the clock on the wall kept a solemn ticking sound that reminded him of how much sleep he had lost and how tired he was. His was a job that brought incessant pressure, and now as a lieutenant came in, he looked up out of bloodshot eyes and asked wearily, “What is it, Lieutenant?”
“I’m sorry to bother you, sir, but Captain Winslow is here.”
Trenchard sat still for a moment, then nodded wearily. “Have you talked to him, Townsend?”
“Yes, sir. I have.”
“He’s not taking it well, his wife’s death, is he?”
“No, sir. They were very close.”
“I forget. Does he have children?”
“One child, sir. A little girl about five, I believe.”
The general felt a flash of anger as he always did when he heard of Zeppelin raids. He shook his head, muttered something, and then pulled his shoulders together. “Send him in, Lieutenant Townsend.”
“Yes, sir.”
Trenchard got to his feet and stood waiting. He had close ties with most of the men under his command and had great confidence in Lance Winslow. Squadron 24, which was being formed under Winslow’s hands, was to be a crack squadron, and Trenchard put great hopes in it. “Poor blighter,” he said sadly. “I know how I’d feel if I lost Heather.” He straightened up and stepped forward as the door opened. Going at once, he put out his hand, then changed his mind and put an arm around Winslow’s shoulder. “I’m sorry, Winslow,” he said quietly. “Nothing to say at a time like this.”
“No, sir. Nothing to say.”
This was not the same Winslow that Trenchard remembered. The man he knew had had sparkling eyes and had been full of life and vigor. Lance Winslow’s eyes now seemed cold and distant. He kept himself pulled up at attention, and there was a hardness that surrounded him that had not been there before.
“Sit down. I’ll have Townsend make some tea.”
It was just a ploy to take some of the tension off of the meeting, but it did not succeed. Winslow went through the motions, speaking when spoken to and drinking his tea, but a fiery light lay behind the surface of his eyes. For a time, Trenchard talked about what was happening and then shook his head. “I’m so sorry about your wife.”
“Yes, sir.”
The words were clipped and revealed nothing of the pain Winslow felt, but Trenchard was certain that if he could have looked inside, he would have seen an inferno of grief. He had met Mrs. Winslow once and had been impressed with her youth and beauty, and now she was gone.
“Sir?”
“Yes. What is it, Lance?”
“I wish to leave England.”
“But the squadron isn’t ready.”
“It’s almost, sir. We can finish when we get there.”
Trenchard hesitated for only a moment. “As a matter of fact, we do need you rather desperately. I was thinking of next month, but if you say you’re ready now—”
“Yes, sir. We’re ready, and I have a request.”
“Of course. Anything.”
“This may be impossible, General, but as you know I have a daughter. She’s only five. I have little family myself, but my wife—” When Lance said these words for the first time, some of the pain was manifest. He could not say the word “wife” without nearly breaking. “My wife’s parents live in Belleville.”
“Why, that’s where one of our bases is.”
“Yes, sir. That’s what I would like to ask. If there is any possibility of having the squadron stationed there, at first at least, so I could get my daughter settled with her grandparents?”
“Why, certainly. I had not made up my mind which base for Squadron 24 to operate from, but that will do very well.”
Relief washed across Lance’s face. “That’s very kind of you, sir.”
“Why, not at all. Not at all.” Trenchard shook his head vigorously. “When would you be ready to leave?”
“Immediately, sir. As soon as possible.”
“Very well. I’ll draw up the orders. Is there . . . anything else I can do?”
A flash of bitterness then escaped from Lance Winslow’s lips. “No, sir,” he said. “There’s nothing anyone can do.”
****
“There it is, Gabby. This is where you’ll be staying with your grandfather and grandmother.” Lance got out of the car and went around to open the door. When Gabby got out, she took his hand and looked up fearfully.
“Will you be here, Papa?”
It was a question Gabby had often asked since the death of her mother. Lance had obtained an apartment across from the location of their old place. Everything had been destroyed, so Gabby had none of the old familiar things that might have given her comfort. After the funeral Lance had spent as much time as possible with her. When it came time to transfer the squadron across the Channel, he had put his second-in-command in charge of the flight. When the two of them had crossed the Channel, Gabby had clung to him almost desperately. “Why, I’ll be right out at the airfield. Just on the edge of town. I’ll be home every night, and your grandparents will be so glad to see you. Come along.”
Gabby held her father’s hand tightly as they went up the steps, but before they could enter, the door opened and Danielle Laurent came out quickly. “Oh, you’re here!” She ran forward at once and stooped beside Gabby. “Gabby!” she said. “I’m so glad you’ve come. We’ve been fixing up your room, but you’ll have to help me decorate it just like you want it.”
A
wash of gratitude came to Lance then, and when Danielle stood, he said huskily, “Thank you, Danielle.” He looked down at Gabby and could not speak for a moment. He wanted to say more, but at that moment Katherine came out and put her arms around him.
“I’m glad to see you, son,” she whispered.
“I don’t know what I would have done if it hadn’t been for you and Pierre,” Lance said.
“Come in,” Katherine said. “Pierre will be home soon.”
Pierre came home in less than an hour and greeted Lance warmly. Sadness and grief filled his eyes, and he said only, “We will miss her, will we not, my son?”
Lance could not even answer. He found himself unable to speak about Noelle’s death, and later when he was alone with Danielle he tried to explain this. They were out in the garden, and inside they could hear Katherine singing and talking with Gabby. “I don’t say things like this very well, Danielle,” Lance said, “but this place is like a haven to me.”
“It’s been very hard on you, Lance. You loved her so much. We all did.”
“Yes, I did.”
The words seemed stark and bare, and Lance, realizing the inadequacy of them, turned to face Danielle. She was wearing a simple dress of light blue, and her hair was fixed differently than he remembered in a chignon at the back of her neck. He said simply, “I can’t talk about her. I don’t know why.”
“It hasn’t been that long since her death, but as soon as you can, you should try. Gabby needs to hear about her mother always.”
“I’ll try.” Lance swallowed hard, then said, “It’s asking a lot, just dumping Gabby off on you.”
“Not at all. This is her home. She will be all right. We will all love her. She will miss her mother, but we will do the best we can.”
Lance impulsively reached out and did something he had never done. He put his arms around Danielle and held her tightly. “I can’t tell you how much . . .” he started to say and then could say no more. She was pressed against him and he could not see her face.
For Danielle Laurent this was what had been in her mind when she had been a fourteen-year-old girl falling in love with a tall Englishman. Now he was holding her in his arms, and she could not speak. She knew that it was not love that had made him embrace her, but for that one moment she did not care. That brief fulfillment of a dream was hers, and she knew the memory of it would linger in her thoughts for weeks to come.
“Sorry about that. I guess I lost myself.”
“It’s all right.”
Lance took a deep breath and tried to smile. “Still no wedding bells for you?”
“No. Not for me.”
Lance could not understand why she had never found a suitor to marry, but he was not thinking clearly. He could only say, as he gave her an affectionate look, “Fellows around here must be blind and stupid as well. They’re missing something very beautiful.”
Danielle turned away at once, for she felt tears rising to her eyes. Her throat seemed to thicken, and she managed to say, “I think I’ll go see if Gabby would like to go for a walk.”
****
Squadron 24 had been with Lance Winslow for a long time. They had all learned to trust him and were in awe of his superb flying skills and his encyclopedic knowledge of every wire and strut on the planes they flew.
But the Lance Winslow that stood before them now was a stranger. His light blue eyes had little life about them, but at the same time they had a glint of cold blue fire. He had called them together for their first meeting in France, and now as the fliers sat nervously, they were meeting a new Lance Winslow.
They were accustomed to a man of quick wit and humor, but there was none of that in Captain Lance Winslow now. His eyes fixed on them, he said harshly, “We’re here to kill Germans! Put everything else out of your minds! If a German plane goes down, follow him. If he lands safely, kill him in his cockpit before he can get out. If one of the Huns parachutes out, shoot him as he’s falling.”
“That’s not very sporting, sir,” said Pug Hardeston. He was the youngest man in the group, so called because of his low brow and a nose that had been spread over his face by many opponents in the ring. He was still enamored that he had made the squadron. Hardeston had been accustomed to a Winslow who would listen, but he quickly discovered his mistake.
“Lieutenant, you are here to kill Germans. This is not a game of cricket. Your orders are to kill Germans! Every German you see! If you do not kill them, they will kill you or one of your fellow pilots.”
A silence reigned over the room, and then Winslow said, “All right. The first patrol will take off in half an hour. I will lead it, along with Lewis, Bentley, and Hartley. You will get a taste of what this war is all about.”
After Winslow had left the room abruptly, Hardeston said, “Well, he didn’t have to bite my head off!”
Both Lewis and Bentley gave him a stern look, and it was Lewis who said, “There’s no joy in him since he lost his wife. I don’t think there’ll be much in this squadron either.”
“Kill Germans . . .” Lewis nodded. He got up and said thoughtfully, “Come along. I’ve got a feeling if we see any Germans, our commanding officer is going to go right for them. That’s the kind of man he’s become!”
“I never thought of it that way,” Bentley nodded, looking down at the other two from his great height, “but that’s what he’s become. A killer, and a shame it is, too.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
Jo Meets a Cowboy
Josephine Hellinger stared at the huge German shepherd that had positioned himself exactly on top of the skirt and jacket she had laid out on the bed. With exasperation she reached out and grabbed him by the scruff, tugging at him. “Bedford, will you get off of my clothes! You’re going to ruin them!”
Bedford growled deep in his throat, came reluctantly to his feet, then suddenly leaned forward and licked the face that had come within his reach.
“Now stop that!”
With another tug Jo pulled the huge animal to the floor and stood there in her chemise, shaking her finger in his face. “Bad dog! You ought to be ashamed!” She studied the face of the sleek animal, then grinned. “I can see you’re not broken out with repentance. You don’t know the difference between right and wrong.” Turning from Bedford, who sat down and yawned hugely, she proceeded to put on the clothing she had laid out. She slipped on a pair of white hose and shoes, then donned the two-piece jacket dress of pongee. Finally she picked up a straw picture hat that had a full crown covered with multicolored silk flowers. Whirling, she moved over to the full-length mirror that hung across from her bed and studied herself carefully. “Not bad,” she said. “This ought to impress Mr. Ed Kovak.” The dress was a light green with darker green stripes along the edge of the skirt, which came six inches above the ankle. The green set off the color of Jo Hellinger’s eyes and her red hair, which fell in long ringlets down her back, catching the morning sun. It was an odd shade of red that had a golden tint to it when the sun struck it just right. The face she saw as she leaned forward was rather square with a determined chin, high cheekbones, and thick lashes that overshadowed the green eyes.
As she studied her reflection in the mirror, she began singing a tune unconsciously, “ ‘When you wore a tulip, a big yellow tulip, and I wore a big red rose—’ ” Suddenly she broke off with annoyance. “Why do I sing that dumb song?”
Preferring opera to popular songs, Jo had developed an abhorrence for tunes that everyone was singing—“Peg of My Heart” and “You Made Me Love You.” She had remarked once to a friend that they were nothing but sugar-coated nonsense. The friend had grinned back. “I like sugar-coated things. You could use a little sugar yourself, Jo.”
Finally satisfied with her dress, Jo moved to a large table that was piled high with photographic equipment. She picked up a large box camera with a sling and draped it over her shoulders, then grabbed up an enormous brown leather purse that contained extra flashbulbs. Moving toward the door, she said, “C
ome on, Bedford.” When she opened the door and stepped outside, the big dog accompanied her. She turned the key in the lock, dropped it into her purse, then said briskly, “Time to go beard the lion in his den.”
“Wuff!” Bedford barked.
“That’s right. Wuff! If Ed Kovak doesn’t give me a better assignment, I’m going to let you bite him. Now come on.”
Leaving the brownstone apartment house, Jo looked up toward the blue-gray sky dotted with hard-edged clouds. Somehow, she knew it would be another hot June day. The spring of 1914 had been unseasonably warm, and the summers in New York could be unbearable. She stood on the street corner with Bedford pressing himself against her left leg. She had trained him to heel without using a leash, and now when a taxicab pulled over, she said, “Now be nice, Bedford.”
“Lady, you can’t get that dog in here. He’s dangerous!” The cabdriver had rolled down the window of the Buick and was staring at Bedford apprehensively.
“He’s just a pup. Don’t be silly. Are you afraid of a puppy?” Without ado Jo opened the back door and motioned for Bedford to get in. The big dog scrambled inside, positioning himself right behind the driver. He sat up straight, and the driver shot a frightened glance at Jo, who settled down beside the big dog.
“Don’t let that animal get at me! I’ll sue you if he bites me!” He scrunched his head down as if he were afraid the big dog would clamp his enormous jaws on the back of his neck.
“If he bites you, you won’t be able to sue anybody! Now, take me to the Times building.”
He was an expert, as all New York cabdrivers were, at threading his way through the steady stream that headed to the downtown section. He did not relax until he pulled up in front of a towering building with the single word Times ensconced on the very apex. “That’ll be a dollar twenty-five, miss.”
Fumbling inside her large purse, Jo came up with a handful of bills, took two of them, and said, “Keep the change.”
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