The Flying Cavalier

by Gilbert, Morris

  “How did he seem, Mademoiselle Hellinger?”

  “He seemed very happy. He . . . spoke of himself. He told us that he was an accountant and that he had only been in the army a short time.”

  “Did he speak of me?”

  “Oh yes. He was very happy about getting married. He was looking forward to it more than anything else.”

  “Tell me everything,” she said. “Please.”

  Desperately, Jo racked her memory as she tried to remember every detail of their last conversation. This young woman sat there, hanging on to her words as if she were starving for water in an arid desert.

  Finally the tears began to flow down the woman’s cheeks, and she said, “After he was . . . wounded, did he say anything else?”

  “Yes, and that’s why I came here, Mademoiselle Denys.” She hesitated, then continued. “He was terribly wounded, and when I saw that he would not survive, I held him in my arms. He looked up at me, and with his last breath, he said, ‘Tell Renée that I love her.’ ”

  “He said . . . that?” she asked, choking on the words.

  “Yes. They were his last words. He loved you very much, Mademoiselle Denys.”

  The young woman suddenly seemed to crumple. She was falling, and Jo leaped forward and held her. The young woman clung to her, and Jo held her upright. Heart-wrenching sobs racked the young woman’s body, and Jo could do nothing but hold her, pat her shoulders, and try to console her.

  When the storm of weeping was finally over, Mademoiselle Denys said, “It was good of you to come. Will you have tea?”

  “If you wish.”

  Jo wanted to leave, but she felt that she had to stay. In fact, she stayed so long that Renée’s parents came, and she found herself telling the story again. It was an hour and a half before she left the house. The young woman took her hand and suddenly kissed it with an eloquent gesture.

  “You have done so much for me. It has been so hard, and I miss him so much. God bless you. Thank you for coming.”

  Tears filled Jo Hellinger’s eyes as she left the house and walked almost blindly down the street. She would never cease to remember the effect of the dying man’s words on Renée Denys’s enormous eyes as she had listened so intently.

  “If I had any thoughts of war being glorious,” she said, “I’ve lost them forever. That poor girl and that poor young man—all blasted by war!”

  ****

  Jo’s glimpse of the airfield was disappointing. It consisted of little more than a collection of what appeared to be quickly constructed huts. There were more tents than huts, and the hangars huddled forlornly in an open field. As she was guided down a muddy pathway by a young sergeant, she noticed a large herd of black-and-white cattle grazing undisturbed around the collection of flimsy-looking planes that occupied the field. A whining, buzzing noise caught her attention, and she stopped long enough to watch a biplane with an exceptionally large wingspread as it dropped out of the sky and managed what appeared to be a controlled crash.

  “If you will, this way, please, mademoiselle.”

  “Was that airplane out of control?”

  “Certainement. They often are,” the sergeant grinned. “Follow me, please.” The diminutive sergeant led her by a rather circuitous route to a dilapidated hut somewhat larger than the rest. The sign over the front read, “Seventeenth Esquidrille General Headquarters.”

  There was no step up to the building, and when the sergeant stepped aside and grinned, Jo knew she was being put to some kind of a test. The threshold was nearly two feet up. Without a change of expression she hiked her skirts up, lifted one foot up to the level, and then, grasping the doorframe, she pulled herself up.

  “I will wait outside in case you need an escort back to your automobile,” the sergeant said in perfect English.

  “How do you speak English so well, Sergeant?”

  “I studied at Harvard,” he said.

  “Really! What did you study?”

  “Architecture.”

  “You’re a long way from Harvard, Sergeant.”

  “Yes, mademoiselle. I wish I were back there now.”

  “Well, they say the war will be over by Christmas. Perhaps you will be.”

  “So they say.”

  Bemused by the deadpan sergeant, Jo turned and found herself facing an officer in a striking uniform. He was of medium height but stood so erect he seemed taller. He was examining her with a pair of bright gray eyes, and she took a moment to examine the uniform, the most colorful she had seen. It was composed of a slate blue tunic with four amber bars just above the cuff of the right sleeve. A set of brass wings gleamed from over the right pocket and a row of brightly colored ribbons were pinned over the left. The most startling part was a pair of crimson red jodhpurs tucked into brown puttees and a pair of laced-up brown shoes. A wide brown belt circled the trim waist with a narrow one going over the right shoulder. A snow-white scarf was tucked inside around the soldier’s neck and then into his tunic.

  “My name is Josephine Hellinger,” she said. “I’m here to see Major Dietrich.”

  “Major Dietrich at your service, mademoiselle. You have business with me?”

  Several lesser officers were standing around, their ears attuned, but Josephine was used to this. Being a woman in a man’s war had been a difficult lesson for her at first. During the days since Logan and Revelation had left, she had thrown herself into the fight for news and photographs. “I represent a New York newspaper,” she said. “I have a letter here from headquarters in Paris from General Haille.”

  “Ah, General Haille. May I see it please?”

  Major Dietrich took the letter that simply stated Jo’s name and asked any officers she approached to show her consideration.

  “I am to show you consideration. I’m not sure what that means. Would you like to have dinner with me tonight in Paris?”

  “I would like that very much, Major Dietrich, but I very much doubt if my newspapers would be interested in a story about dinner with a dashing French airman. On the other hand,” Jo arched her eyebrows, “perhaps they might. Perhaps we could do it this way. If you would allow me to interview some of your pilots and see some of your machines, perhaps we could arrange to have dinner together.”

  Dietrich suddenly laughed. “I can see that you are a—how do you Americans say it? A go-getter?”

  “I prefer to think of myself as efficient, Major.”

  Dietrich had a harried look on his face. He had the expression of a man who had missed too much sleep and had to make too many critical decisions in too short a time. He had a pencil-thin mustache and was really an attractive man. Though he was not physically strong, he seemed to be one of those wiry men who can run on nerves when muscles play out.

  “I really would appreciate it if you would give me a little of your time. This is my first visit to one of your advanced airfields, although I’ve been to those closer to Paris several times.”

  As it happened, Jo had caught Major Dietrich at a good time for an interview. The pressure of the war was rigid, but for twenty-four hours the Germans appeared to have let up. The nerves of the major were drawn thin, and he now shrugged his shoulders in the Gallic fashion and said, “Come into my office. You may interview me and I promise to tell nothing but lies.”

  “Of course, Major. What else.”

  Once Jo stepped inside the office, which was no more than a ten-foot-square room with a desk, two chairs, and a filing cabinet, she took the chair Major Dietrich indicated and pulled out her camera. “May I take your picture?”

  “Yes. This is my best side,” he smiled, suddenly turning to the left.

  The flashbulb popped, and at once Jo began to ask questions in a rapid-fire manner. She had become an expert interviewer and soon had found out the basics of the dapper major.

  “Do you think the Americans will come into this war?” he asked.

  It was the inevitable question, and she gave her stock answer. “I expect they will, but it will not b
e soon. Americans are not sensitive to European problems. We’re too selfish, and soft, and preoccupied with our own comfort.”

  “That will change. I expect as soon as the Germans sink some of your ships, you Americans will change your mind.”

  “I expect you’re right. Tell me, would it be possible for me to see some of your machines and to interview some of your pilots?”

  “Of course, and then afterward we will have our dinner in Paris.”

  “But it’s forty miles from here, Major.”

  “I think it is important to keep a good relationship with the press,” Dietrich said smoothly, his eyes glinting with humor. “It is my duty to go. Come. You will meet some of my pilots.”

  It was the beginning of a grueling day. Major Dietrich seemed to take pleasure in showing off his command. He took Jo first of all to a hangar, where a plane was being put together piece by piece.

  “All of my men must know how to take their planes apart and put them back together,” Dietrich murmured. “It’s my theory that a flier needs to know his airplane thoroughly.”

  They moved out of the busy hangar and into a lane that led to a line of tents. “These are the temporary quarters for my pilots. You must be prepared for men at war. They are not as polite, perhaps, as they are in America.”

  “I spent some time on a cattle ranch in America. The cowboys there were fairly rough. I doubt if your men are much more undisciplined.”

  “It’s a strange thing about the men who fly airplanes. They do not submit easily to discipline. They are individualists. Not like the soldiers in rank. When you see a battalion of men marching, every man in step, every hand in the same position, every head at the same angle, it seems that all of them are the same man. Not so with the pilots. They all have their . . . idiosyncracies is how you say it, non?”

  “How do you account for that, Major?”

  “I am not able to account for it. All I know is that the things they do require a skill that lies beyond most men. It attracts men from every walk of life.”

  “I can see how it would take a special kind of man to get up above the earth and fight to the death with a gunner man.”

  “Georges Guynemer, whom you perhaps will meet, is one of the finest fliers I have ever seen. I think he will set records. But he’s very frail. He appears to have every symptom of tuberculosis.”

  “Not really!”

  “Yes. He once almost fainted at a review held in his honor.”

  “How strange that such a frail man could lead such a physical existence.”

  “Well, he’s unusual. On the other hand, we have Charles Nungesser.”

  “I have heard of him already.”

  “Yes. He’s the best French flier in the service. He’s an athlete of enormous strength. He can play at any sport. He’s a boxer, a champion swimmer, and a cyclist. He’s so powerfully built he has trouble squeezing himself into the cockpits.”

  “Is he on the field?”

  “I think he’s off on a mission now. Perhaps he’ll be back before you leave. You would be impressed. He’s a very handsome man.”

  As the day progressed, Jo did not meet either of these two, but she did meet Adolphe Pegoud. He was sitting outside his tent in a canvas chair as she approached with the major. He came to his feet at once and put his sleepy dark eyes upon her.

  “And this is Adolphe Pegoud. Pegoud, this is Miss Hellinger, an American. She wants to make you famous by writing about you in an article for American newspapers.”

  “I am perfectly willing to be idolized, madame.”

  “It’s mademoiselle.”

  “Ah, in that case we will have dinner together in Paris, and I will tell you why I am the greatest flier who ever lived.”

  “I’m sorry, Pegoud. I’ve already asked mademoiselle to have dinner with me.”

  “Rank has its privileges.”

  “But I would like to interview you if you have time,” Jo said.

  “I have two hours before I go up to kill more Huns. Would you care to come into my tent?”

  Something about the invitation sounded off-key, and Jo could not help laughing. Her eyes crinkled up, and she said, “I think I better have the major present during our time.”

  “A wise move indeed,” Major Dietrich grinned. “Now, you ask all the questions you please. Airman Pegoud is known as a man who never tells anything but the exact truth.”

  It was from Pegoud that Jo got most of her information, yet she sensed the innate sadness of the man. After the interview she asked the major, “Why’s he so sad?”

  “I don’t really know. He’s a strange man, but it could be that he’s fairly certain that he’s going to be killed.”

  Jo whirled to looked at him in astonishment. “What do you mean by that? I thought he was a fine aviator.”

  “He is, but when you go up day after day, engaged in combat constantly, no matter how skilled you are, eventually the chances are you will have an off day.”

  “Do they all feel that way?”

  “Most of them do, although they cover it up. Most of us won’t last long.”

  “Do you fly, too, Major?”

  “Oh yes. I’m the squadron leader. You’d better enjoy this date we’re going to have tonight, for it may be your last chance.” His eyes gleamed, and he put forth his hand and touched her shoulder. “Be kind to a soldier who’s giving his all to his country, mademoiselle. It’s the least you can do to show your love for France.”

  Jo laughed suddenly. “Is that the line you give all of your ladies?”

  “Bien sûr. Every one.”

  “And do they all fall for it?”

  “No one has failed yet to show the proper respect for a hero of France.”

  “Well, let us understand clearly that all we’re having is dinner.”

  “So you say now, but you have never felt the full effect of my charm. Come. We will be in Paris in less than an hour. I know a little café there. There’s a violin player there who will tear your heart out.”

  “He may tear my heart out, but remember this is strictly business, Major.”

  It was an enjoyable evening. Major Dietrich was a charming companion, and he talked long into the night, describing the serious plight of the French. He was convinced that air power was the way to win the war, but his superiors would not listen. They were convinced the war would be won by longstanding traditions of massive armies on a battlefield, not in the air.

  It was well after midnight when Jo said, “I must go.”

  “And alone, I suppose.” He raised his hand when she protested. “I understand, and I honor you for it. I must get back to my command. Come back in a month and tell me what you think of the war then.”

  After the major had left and she had made her way back to her hotel, Jo sat on the bed thinking about the major. A shadow of death is on him. As charming as he is, he seems fatalistic. They all seem to know they’re headed for death.

  ****

  Logan Smith and Revelation Brown found themselves thrown into a cauldron of difficulty. Both of them were in good physical condition, but they had never faced anything as demanding as the training the Legion required. The veterans who fluttered into the camp were baked dark brown by the scorching sun. They came from nearly every nation on earth, and soon the seasoned regulars were divided among the recruits so that there was at least one veteran for every two rookies. These hardened veterans saw to it that there were no stragglers, and soon grueling marches of twenty miles, burdened with a killing load, became the daily agony. The drill field was filled with screaming men plunging their needle-sharp bayonets into yielding bags of straw.

  While they were resting in the shade of an old barn one day, Revelation Brown read aloud from the handbook that had been issued to every recruit. “From the moment of action, every soldier must passionately desire the assault by bayonet as a supreme means of imposing his will on the enemy.”

  Rev had removed his shoes and now scratched the sole of his right foot vi
gorously. Looking over to where Logan lay flat on his back, his eyes shut, he inquired, “Do you passionately desire to stick a bayonet in the stomach of a Hun?”

  “I passionately desire a cup of cold lemonade with ice floating on the top of it,” Logan answered.

  “Well, you ain’t likely to get it.”

  “You didn’t ask me that. You asked me what I wanted.”

  “Come on,” Rev said. “It’s time to eat.”

  “I can hardly wait.” Logan struggled to his feet, and the two men went without enthusiasm to the wagons that dealt out the daily rations. Logan took his bowl of soup and stared at the bits of bread and meat, then picked up his coffee and a cup of pinard, the standard army red wine. It was the same meal every day, and they noticed that the loaves of bread were stamped on the top with the date of baking.

  “These here bread loaves are just like money with the date and everything on ’em,” Revelation said. “I will say that for these Frenchies. They do know how to bake.”

  At that moment Mitton came up and stared at the two. He had become fond of the Americans, for they had taken their training without complaint and had toughened up admirably. “There’s a battle starting on the Marne River.”

  “What does that mean to us?” Logan asked.

  “I think it means we are going to fight. You might as well get ready to move out.”

  “I’ve been looking at these armies on the map, the Germans and us,” Logan said, sipping his coffee slowly. “They move around like crabs, forward and sideways and backward, and then they stop when they get tired, which is what I am right now.”

  “You won’t have to worry about that. You are moving out.”

  “Where are we going now?”

  “Mailly-le-Camp. Everybody’s been wanting a fight, and I think we’re going to get one there. We’ll leave first thing in the morning.”

  The process began to answer a call for five hundred veteran Legionnaires and five hundred trainees with previous military experience. They were to form a battalion for immediate transfer to the combat zone. When the call for volunteers was made, everyone wanted to go. Sergeant Mitton inquired about each recruit’s previous service.