The Flying Cavalier

by Gilbert, Morris

  “You have been in the army?” he asked a tall, weather-beaten American.

  “Five years.”

  “Which army?”

  The American grinned. “The Salvation Army.”

  Many of the men claimed to have fought with the Mexican army, and others claimed service with nonexistent military institutes. Finally Battalion C was formed and was made a part of the Second Regiment. Each man drew a hundred and twenty rounds of ammunition. With barely four weeks of training behind them, they left for the front lines on September 30.

  As the battalion, one thousand strong, moved out, they sang loudly the melody known halfway around the world. Legionnaires had sung it on every continent:

  “Nous sommes soldats de la Légion,

  La Légion étrangère;

  N’ayant pas de Patrie,

  La France est notre mère!”

  Mailly-le-Camp occupied nearly thirty thousand acres of rolling hills. It was only eighty-five miles east of Paris and a little less than thirty miles from the front and was the largest staging area in France. The train carrying Logan and Revelation finally stopped after three days and nights.

  “It looks like a feller could get on a train, go somewhere, and get off without taking three days,” Rev complained.

  “I thought you quoted a scripture the other day,” Logan said with a grin. “Something like, ‘Do all things without murmuring and complaining.’ ”

  “Well, brother, you got that right! Come on. Let’s see what we’re into now.”

  As they dismounted from the train, they saw that the station was riddled with shrapnel, and the streets were littered with the signs of battle. There were gaping holes in the walls and the roofs of the buildings from furious shelling during the Battle of the Marne.

  “This looks like the real thing,” Logan said as they marched to their barracks through an area strewn with the debris of battle. The two men took in the litter of spiked helmets, smashed rifles, and haversacks, whose contents were scattered. As soon as they were settled in, they were sent out to gather dry wood for cooking fires.

  They had not gone far when suddenly Rev said, “Look there, Logan.”

  Logan had bent over to pick up a piece of firewood. Straightening up, he saw what Rev was pointing at. It was a large, swollen corpse lying in an open space. Bluebottle flies swarmed around the body, and Logan’s stomach seemed to turn over. “I guess that’s not the last dead man we’ll see. I wonder why they don’t bury him?”

  They soon discovered there were many corpses that had not yet been buried, and the two never became accustomed to them as did some of the other Legionnaires.

  Their regiment stayed in Mailly until October 18, then marched out on the road to Reimes. They walked until their feet were sore, and the hundred pounds of equipment on their backs dragged them down. Their shoulders were creased by the leather straps that cut into their heavy wool uniforms. Though their neck muscles were tough, they ached unbearably from straining against the brutal load. Without socks, their feet were soon blistered, and once on a break they removed their shoes and tried to rearrange their blood-stiffened linen clothes. They were slow getting started.

  Mitton came along and screamed at them, “March! You’re Legionnaires now!”

  It was two days later when they finally reached what they had left America to find, the front line. They had been marching along a twisted road that turned abruptly into a narrow path. The trees were close together, and the column dissolved out of marching order into a line of lurching, exhausted men advancing forward to try to stop the Germans.

  The first thing Logan and Revelation saw was that it was a war of mud. They were accustomed to mud, but this miasma was not like any mud they had ever seen. It was like acres of chewing gum, and it had an odorous stench that turned them nauseous. They hated to put their feet in it, for they were sure that mixed in with the mud were the bodies of those already blown to bits that, unburied and fragmented, had become a part of the putrid landscape.

  As they plodded along, suddenly a sharp crack sounded, and a shell screamed through the air, landing almost in the middle of the Legionnaires. Bodies flew into the air, and the survivors threw themselves into the stinking mud to avoid the other shells raining down on them. It soon became a nightmare of death with the shells flying overhead like banshees. By the time it was over, the new recruits knew that they had faced their first encounter with the horror of war.

  Logan finally pulled himself out of the mud as Sergeant Mitton shouted orders to the men. He scraped the stinking mud from his face and looked around at the scattered bodies, some of them only fragments. Fourteen men lay dead and thirty more were badly wounded. He looked over at Revelation, who was, for once, silent.

  “Well, have you got a verse that fits this, Rev?” Logan asked in a hard voice.

  Revelation Brown looked around at the death that surrounded the two and said slowly, “I guess I’m thinking of the Book of Revelation, which I was named after. You remember the part about the four horsemen?”

  “I remember it, Rev.”

  “Well, I guess we found one of them horsemen. The one named Death. And it’s not a pretty sight!”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Over the Top!

  Ed Kovak stared with satisfaction at the front page, his eyes focusing on the feature story. The title “Men and Death” was his own artwork, but aside from that, the story had been printed exactly as Jo had sent it. He read through the first few lines and smiled.

  Men march forward, leaning into the heavy enemy fire like men leaning against a strong wind. With bombs exploding all around, the soldiers drop in their tracks. Some kick and scream in pain, while others simply lie still, their lives given to defend their freedom. It is death on the battlefield, and men have come to terms with that death here in France.

  “I’d like to say I taught her everything I know,” Kovak grunted, “but that’s not so. She’s just got the knack for it.”

  Chris Harwell, the assistant editor, stared over Kovak’s shoulder. “What do you think, boss?”

  “About Hellinger’s stuff?”

  “That’s what we’re talking about, ain’t it?”

  “I think it’s great. Best war writing since Stephen Crane! No—better than Crane, I say.”

  “Too bad she’s a woman,” Chris grinned. “Think how good she’d be if she were a man.”

  Kovak shifted the stub of his cigar from one side of his mouth to the other. “Lots of men couldn’t carry her typewriter, and look at this picture. Did you ever see a better battle photo in all your life?”

  The oversized picture printed next to the story showed three French soldiers glancing over the top of a trench. The background was lit by exploding rockets and shells, and even with the crude, coarse black-and-white picture, the terror of war showed on the men’s faces.

  “I wonder how she got around in front of those guys,” Chris mused.

  “If I know Jo, she crawled out under fire and waited until the first rank went over the top. I wish she wouldn’t do that.”

  “You’re worried about her, aren’t you, boss?”

  “Yes, I’m worried about her. She takes too many dangerous risks.”

  “Her stuff’s selling good, though. I understand it’s going to be syndicated.”

  “Already is. She took the chance, and now she’s the most famous correspondent on the Western Front. Still”—he shifted the cigar again and his brow was a corrugated mass—”I wish she wouldn’t put herself in harm’s way.”

  “Why don’t you write her and tell her so.”

  “Why don’t you get out of here and go to work,” Kovak growled. He waited until the door closed and then shook his head. “Why don’t I tell her! I have told her a dozen times, but you don’t get pictures like this without risking your skin.” He studied the photograph again and then picked up the phone. “Janet? Send this wire to Jo Hellinger. ‘Your stuff has been syndicated all over the country. Keep the stories coming and the
pictures too. You’ll get a raise out of this—and maybe a Pulitzer if I have anything to say about it. Respectfully. Kovak.’ ”

  He slammed the phone back into the cradle, then laced his fingers behind his head. Since the war had begun in Europe, he had tried to picture the sounds and the smells and the scenes of the Western Front. These pictures had brought it to life for him, and many of the better shots were from Jo Hellinger. He was a hard, demanding man, this Ed Kovak, but he had a paternal feeling for his star reporter in France. Now he looked up at the ceiling and said, “God, you and I ain’t on speakin’ terms, but if you’ll overlook a sinner like me comin’ to you, I’d appreciate it if you’d send an angel or two down to look out for Jo. I ain’t much, but that girl’s the real goods. I guess you know all about that. Anyway, see what you can do. . . .”

  ****

  Winter had come with all the miseries for those who were out in the cold and mud. Jo Hellinger had endured some of the harsh conditions, but at the moment she was back in Paris. She had run out of photographic supplies and had returned to stock up again. She thought of making another visit to see Renée Denys, who had been robbed of her fiancé, but had finally decided against it.

  Now she sat in her hotel room and removed a thick envelope and settled back, tucking her feet under her. Bedford, propped up on the couch, put his head in her lap and demanded some attention.

  The letter was from Logan and was the third Jo had received since he had joined the Legion. She opened it eagerly and was pleased to see eight pages, written on front and back. Logan wrote in a strong, sweeping hand, and she had once told him, “You should have been the reporter. You have the gift of describing things.” She began to read and was soon lost in his vivid descriptions of what war was like in his part of the world.

  Dear Jo,

  I hope this letter finds you well. Both Rev and I are alive and kicking. The cold weather makes it harder, but in one sense it isn’t so bad. At least the mud is frozen now, so we don’t sink into it up to our knees, and it seems to kill some of the foul smell.

  One night on patrol, Rev and I were crawling along on our bellies. My hands were numb but, as always, on patrol your mind stays pretty alert. The slightest sound seems to trigger something in you, and more than once the squeak of a rat just about set me off.

  Rev and I had crawled as far forward as we thought wise and had stayed there for two hours. A cold rain had been falling, and a dense fog covered the earth. We had expected the Germans to make an advance, so both of us were pretty nervous.

  Finally Rev, who was about ten yards away, whispered, “Look out, Logan. Here they come.”

  A fellow named Ed Stone was on my left. I heard him talking to himself. He sort of fancies himself as a top soldier, and he is a good one.

  “Independent firing. That’s what the sarge said,” Ed whispered. “Keep your shots low until you can pick your target.”

  Well, what happened next was this. Somebody let off a shot, and it startled me so that I pulled the trigger, although I could only see a vague, hazy outline. It sounded as though every soldier in our battalion was firing, and we could hardly see anything.

  At a time like that, Jo, you don’t think too much about the man you’re shooting. I figure it’s better not to see him. So every time I saw something move out there in the fog and the haze, I just pulled down on it and blazed away.

  Finally Rev called out, “Hey, I think we got ’em all. Nobody’s movin’.”

  Ed Stone said, “I’m going out to take a look.”

  “Don’t be a fool, Ed,” I said. “You don’t know that they’re dead.”

  But Stone is a go-getter, and I thought I’d better go with him. We crawled together while Rev and the rest stayed to offer us cover. We hadn’t gone more than twenty yards when suddenly I stopped dead still. I had been walking crouched down, and I looked down. There at my feet was not a dead soldier, but a dead cow.

  “Hey, Ed, this is a cow!”

  “I know,” Ed said, his voice muffled. “There’s one over here too.”

  We began to look around, and it became obvious that a small herd of cows had somehow wandered into our line of fire.

  “What’s going on out there?” Revelation called out.

  “We’re going to have a good meal tonight, that’s what.”

  A rough voice from the trenches called out, “You going to eat their livers?”

  “No, what we’ve done is killed a bunch of the finest cows I’ve ever seen. Anyone want barbecue?”

  Well, that was it. The cows all went to a good cause. As soon as the men up and down the line heard about it, they came from every direction. It was pretty much like a Western barbecue, all right. We fed on fresh beef, the first we’ve had since we’ve gotten here. Put the meat on our bayonets and cooked it over fires. Best meal I’ve had in quite a while!

  Jo paused long enough to reread this incident and then murmured, “He’s making light of it all, but I know it’s terrible.”

  She read the rest of the letter and pinpointed one thing. Both Logan and Rev were sick of the trenches already and were ready to fly airplanes, but he ended his letter, saying, It looks like there’s little chance. We’re stuck here in these trenches for the rest of the war.

  She put the letter down and stroked Bedford’s head, then reread the entire letter. An idea came to her and she straightened up. “Why don’t I send this letter back and let it be printed? It’ll be a relief from some of the grim stories I’ve sent. I’ll have to change the names, but it’s the real article. I’ll bet Kovak will like it.”

  ****

  Benny Fears was a small man, not over five five. He was thin, almost emaciated, and on many of the long marches, Revelation had helped him carry his pack. He had become attached to the younger man and had preached at him almost constantly. Fears had been christened as a child, but he had no knowledge at all of the Bible.

  Benny was sitting now with his back to one of the timbers down inside the trench. He was bundled up to his ears in his heavy overcoat with his woolen hat pulled down over his ears. He had been sitting there shivering in the cold, waiting and listening as Revelation, who was standing down the trench, spoke to five of the Legionnaires. It was a custom of Revelation to preach whenever he got a chance, and it mattered not whether his congregation was one or a hundred.

  A burly corporal, who was smoking a cigar, grinned broadly and interrupted Revelation. He had a strong European accent and spat into the frozen mud before saying, “Don’t you ever get tired of preaching, man?”

  “Why should I get tired of preaching?” Revelation asked with some surprise. His face was red with the cold. His nose made a red dot in the cold morning air, but his eyes were alert and cheerful. “Nothing better to talk about than the Lord Jesus.”

  “Why don’t you leave that to the preachers and the priests,” the corporal grunted. “I don’t see God out here in all this.”

  “He’s here, Corporal Maluk,” Revelation said cheerfully.

  “I don’t see nothin’ but mud and dead men!”

  “Do you think God’s only to be found in a nice clean church that smells good? No. The Lord God is everywhere. Even right here in this stinking trench.”

  Maluk gave up and puffed on the cigar until it glowed like a tiny furnace. He said no more but slumped down, staring at his feet.

  Revelation cheerfully moved forward with his sermon. His sermons would not have been accepted in any seminary, for he simply spoke of the goodness of God and the grace of Jesus Christ to save sinners. He always identified himself as the worst of sinners, and now he said again, “If Jesus Christ can save me, He can save anybody.”

  Benny Fears listened as Revelation read from the Bible and illustrated it with stories mostly drawn from his experiences back in the States. Finally Revelation closed the Bible and said, “I guess that’s the end of the sermon today. Anybody here want to be saved?”

  Benny Fears had been listening to Revelation Brown for some time now.
Indeed, there was a longing in his heart to find peace. He woke up every morning trembling with fear and stumbled through the day expecting to be blown to bits at any moment. At night he could not sleep either. For a fear of not only death but what would come after plagued him. Now he longed to speak up to indicate that he did want the kind of peace that Brown had, but he was afraid of the jeers of his fellow Legionnaires.

  Revelation said nothing, but he had seen the slight change in the eyes of the young man. Later on he came and sat down beside him. “Well, Benny, I think it’s about time for you to give your heart to Jesus.”

  No one was close enough to hear. Benny looked covertly around and shook his head. “You make it sound so easy, Rev. How can it be so easy?”

  “How could it be anything else? Suppose God told you to crawl a hundred miles backward through broken glass and then He’d save you?”

  “I guess I’d try it.”

  “Sure you would, because you’re proud.”

  “Proud? I’m not proud!”

  “Yes, you are. God’s offering to give you a gift, and you’re just too proud to take it. You see, Jesus died to save sinners, not good people. That’s what I am, and that’s what you are. All the sin comes short of the glory of God.”

  “You don’t have to convince me of that,” Fears whispered. He bowed his head, and fear came over him again. “I’m scared of dyin’, Rev.”

  “Well, there are lots of Christians afraid of dyin’. When the time comes, God will give you dying grace.”

  “What’s that?”

  “He’ll take away the fear. After all, once you’re saved, dying is just passing from one room to another. And let me tell you,” Rev said gently as he laid his hand on the smaller man’s shoulder, “what’s in that other room is a whole lot better than anything you’ve ever had here.”