The Flying Cavalier

by Gilbert, Morris

  Lance Winslow was completely nonplussed. He was not good, or so he thought, at comforting people, especially lovely young women who were on the verge of tears. If it had been Noelle, he would have known what to say, but for this moment he had forgotten Noelle. Now he was conscious of the lilac perfume that Danielle wore. It was subtle and yet somehow potent. He had smelled so much gasoline and castor oil in the stench of battle that the gentle fragrance was half intoxicating to him. Her eyes seemed to be pleading with him, and he saw that her lips were trembling. He tightened his grasp, and with what he thought was a brotherly gesture, he leaned over and kissed her cheek, which was damp with tears.

  “Don’t cry, Dani,” he said. “It can’t be that bad.” At that moment he realized that she was not Dani Laurent, the fourteen-year-old girl he had somehow always kept in his mind. No, this was a lovely young woman, fully mature. With a quick motion he stepped back and released her awkwardly. He was tremendously embarrassed. “I’m so sorry, Dani. Perhaps you’d rather be alone.”

  She did not answer, and the sense of being ill at ease came over him even stronger. “I’ve got to get back to the base. Good night.”

  “Good night, Lance.”

  As soon as the door closed, Danielle moved shakily to a chair and slumped down. She put her face in her hands, and sobs began to rack her shoulders. It was the first sign of weakness she had shown in years. “I thought I was getting over him, but I’m not. It’s worse,” she sobbed.

  ****

  “These French sure know how to cook,” Rev said as he bit an enormous chunk out of the bread he had layered with yellow butter. He chewed thoroughly and raised his eyebrows. “I will admit they cook some things better than we do, but I bet they can’t make barbecue.”

  Logan grinned. “They wouldn’t know what barbecue was, Rev.”

  Jo laughed, saying, “Don’t tell them. We need something American in the kitchen.”

  The three had gone out to a restaurant after Logan had returned from a mission. Jo had been waiting for several hours, during which time she had talked with Rev. The two had become very close. Most of their conversation had to do with the pilots, and Rev had become an expert on each man. He knew all of their weaknesses as a good servant will know the weaknesses of his master. He had shared all this with Jo, knowing she was genuinely interested.

  As the meal progressed, Revelation eventually steered the conversation to theology. He said, “You know that German flier that bailed out and got captured? I talked to him quite a bit.”

  “I bet I know the first thing you said to him, Rev,” Jo smiled. “You said, ‘Are you saved?’ Come on. Isn’t that true?”

  “Well, he didn’t speak much English, and I don’t speak any German at all. But I got me an interpreter, and, sure enough, that’s what I asked him. You know what he said?” Rev looked surprised. “He said he’s been a Christian since he was thirteen years old, and he feels like he’s serving God and his country in what he’s doing.”

  “The same thing we say,” Logan said. “I guess it’s always that way in a war. Both sides feel like God is on their side.”

  “That’s right,” Jo said, who had studied the history of wars thoroughly.

  “Well, I think you can’t look at it like that. There’s only been one Holy War,” Rev said dogmatically.

  “One Holy War? Which one is that, Rev?”

  “It’s the one in the Old Testament when God told Joshua and his boys to clean up on the Philistines. You know, those heathens. Now that’s the kind of war I’d like to be in, when God just comes out and admits whose side He’s on.” His eyes grew thoughtful, and he nibbled at a piece of beef. “It was funny. He wasn’t no more than twenty years old. You know, Logan, he kind of reminded me of some of the boys we grew up with back home. I bet you knew some just like him. He seemed like a good kid. No harm in him, but there he was trying to kill you, and you were trying to kill him.”

  “What do you make of it, Rev?”

  “Can’t make anything out of it. All I know is God’s put you here, and He’s put me here, and we’re gonna do the best we can. ‘Whatsoever thy hand finds to do, do it with all thy might.’ ”

  Shortly after this Rev rose up and said, “I’ve got to get back to the field. I ain’t satisfied with the way your engine’s runnin’.”

  “It sounded all right to me.”

  “What would you know about it? You do the fightin’ and I’ll do the fixin’.”

  After Rev had left, Jo shook her head. “He’s one of a kind, isn’t he? I bet if he met a general, he’d ask him if he were saved.”

  “I bet he would, too.”

  Logan lounged back in his seat and sipped at the tea that remained in his cup. “You’ve become pretty close to the Laurents, haven’t you, Jo?”

  “Yes. They’re a fine family. All of them.”

  “What do you make of Dani?”

  Jo stared at him. “What do you mean?”

  “Well, to tell the truth, I kind of like her.”

  Jo fastened her eyes on Logan. He was wearing a fresh uniform, he had showered, and now he looked very handsome as he sat there leaning back. His hands were big and square and brown and looked very strong. The teacup looked very small in them. He was thoughtful now but insistent.

  “I’m not much of a ladies’ man, and I’ve taken my best shot, but she just doesn’t seem interested. I wonder if she’s got a boyfriend tucked away that I haven’t heard about.”

  “I think,” Jo said slowly, “there may be someone else.”

  Logan looked at her quickly. “Who do you think?”

  “I can’t say, but I have a feeling that he may be somehow unobtainable.”

  “Well, I may not be too smart, but I’m stubborn. You’ll have to give me that. I’ll have to turn on the charm.”

  “You do that. She’s a fine girl. Strong minded, though. What would you do with her back in the States after the war is over?”

  “Oh, I might stay over here and become a Frenchman.”

  “I can’t see that,” Jo jeered. “You’ll be back flying airplanes, or riding wild horses, or something like that.”

  They sat for a long time talking, and finally they went outside, where Bedford was tied to the motorcycle. He came whining, then when he got into the seat at a signal from Jo, Logan laughed. “That’s the funniest thing I’ve ever seen! You and that dog riding around. Why don’t you teach him to drive, and you can ride in the sidecar.”

  “He’s smart enough,” Jo said. She rubbed Bedford’s head, then gave Logan a strange look. “I know you’re serious about Danielle, and I want you to be. She deserves a good man.”

  “You know something about this fellow she likes, don’t you?”

  “Nothing I can really put my finger on. But you’re a good man, Logan Smith. Put yourself into it.”

  “I’ll do that. Good night, Jo.”

  “Good night, Logan.”

  ****

  Three days later Logan shot down two planes in less than thirty seconds. He had been flying in close formation and had glimpsed two bombers off to the right. Without thinking he peeled off out of the formation and threw his Nieuport into a steep dive. He had completely forgotten that Captain Winslow was in another formation above him. Indeed, he had forgotten everything. He took the first bomber from above and saw it burst into flames as the tracers hit the engine.

  The second took evasive action, but it was a slow-moving affair, and Logan managed to come up and get a belly shot. He was no more than fifty yards away when he racked the entire plane from rudder to nose. The bullets seemed to have no effect, and the pilot veered away sharply again. Making a tight turn, Logan shot ahead of the bomber and wheeled to take him head on. He poured his bullets into the nose of the bomber, saw the windshield disintegrate, and pulled up just in time to escape the explosion. Parts of the bomber flew all over the sky, and Logan let out an excited cry.

  When he got back to the ground, though, expecting to be commended, he foun
d Lance Winslow livid with anger.

  “Look, they may call you cowboy around here, but you’re not a cowboy! You’re an officer in the Royal Flying Corps, and you deliberately disobeyed orders!”

  “No, sir! I didn’t do that,” Logan stammered.

  “You broke formation! Do you not know that your orders were to stay in that formation?”

  “Yes, sir, but I saw them down below. Two fat bombers. I couldn’t miss.”

  But Lance Winslow was not through. For ten minutes he tore into Logan and finally wound up grounding him from flying any mission for two days.

  “You’re going to learn to obey orders, or you’ll get out of this squadron!” Winslow said.

  Later, when Logan tried to explain it to Jo, he said, “I just don’t understand him.”

  “I don’t think he understands himself, but it has something to do with the death of his wife.”

  Jo wrote the story up and sent it home, disguising the names. She did so with apprehension but trusted that Lance would never see it. She thought a great deal about Lance Winslow at this time and found herself wondering what her interest was.

  He’ll never love any woman but his wife, I don’t think. And she’s dead. Somehow this thought troubled her. She hated to see a life wasted, and as far as she could see, Lance Winslow had two focuses, to idolize his dead wife and to kill Germans.

  “That’s not a good mixture,” she said. “He needs to snap out of it. None of us can live on hate. . . .”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  “You’ll Always Love Her, Lance!”

  October had come to France with cold showers. Jo had almost forgotten what the sun was like and found herself dreaming of being back in America, where, at least, there was still warmth even during the fall. The rain on the Continent was a cold, soaking variety that saturated the clothes and seemed to go down into the bone.

  Nevertheless, she felt obligated to see that Bedford got his daily exercise. It was on the third day of that month when she put on her raincoat and galoshes, and took down the large black umbrella that had become standard equipment with her. Bedford, as usual, followed her with his eyes, and when she said, “Walk?” immediately he barked and made a dive at the door.

  “Well, you’ll have to let me out, you silly creature,” Jo grumbled. She pulled the door back, and Bedford dashed out in a flash. Locking the door behind her, Jo opened the umbrella and began walking down the rain-soaked street. Everything seemed to be monochromatic. In the summer every house was a bright flash of flowers, every color imaginable, and the grass itself was green beyond anything she had known in the States. Now, however, the houses seemed to lean against each other with a gray indifference, and the trees wept as a slow, steady rain poured down out of the somber, gray-colored sky.

  “Just the thing to cheer me up,” Jo muttered. “Nothing like a beautiful day to go for a walk.”

  She was tired, almost exhausted even, for she had conceived the idea a few weeks back of writing a book. It was to be concerned with the psychology of men at war, and Ed Kovak, her editor back in the States, was excited about the idea. He had promptly offered to market the book for her if she could get it written and would grant him permission to print sections of it as a long-running serial.

  The fact that her name was well known in America had not sunk in to Jo Hellinger. She was far away from her home, and although she got copies of her stories printed in the newspapers, somehow it seemed to have nothing to do with her. The book, however, had turned out to be more difficult than she had thought. It had meant becoming involved with the men of the Fourteenth Squadron and others in the area, which had proved to be somewhat depressing. She knew now that her gray mood had something to do with the fact that a young pilot named Benny St. James had gone down over Germany. She had interviewed him several times and had loved his cheerful, bright approach to the deadly life that he led. He had epitomized for her the strength of Britain, and she had watched him go up on his last mission cheerful, smiling, and laughing. He had even yelled at her over the roar of his engine, “I’ll bring back the kaiser’s helmet for you, Miss Hellinger!”

  She had smiled and waved back, but Benny had not returned. She had been shocked beyond measure when Lance had landed and given her the bad news.

  “Benny didn’t make it,” he said quietly. He had seen the pain and grief in her eyes and had turned away, saying quietly, “He was a good man. Just something else to chalk up against the Germans.”

  Now as Jo walked along the streets, the sound of water rushing down the gutters, she thought of Benny, and the grief seemed to close her throat. She tried to write a story about him, but that had proved impossible. She had obtained the address of his family and had written several letters, tearing up each of them until finally in despair she had written half a page expressing her sorrow and grief. It had seemed so inappropriate. Just a few words on paper was all she could find to say about a man whose life had been crushed, wiped out, obliterated. He had such a bright future, and now there was nothing left of him except a shallow, hurriedly scratched-out grave somewhere in Germany.

  The rain began to fall in larger drops now, each one of them making a bull’s-eye as it slapped down against the glossy surface that the sidewalk had become. A low rumble of thunder sounded in the distance, and then a flash of lightning flickered across the sky. She shivered and drew her coat closer up under her chin and wondered at Bedford, who was running ahead as if the sun were shining and there were not a drop of rain falling from the sky. She watched as he leaped over a low wall, stopped to sniff a low plant, and then went on down the street ahead of her.

  She walked for over an hour, her mind filled with thoughts of war, and discovered that fear had come to be her constant companion. She had expected that as the war went on and she grew more in touch with it, she would somehow become hardened. But this was not the case. Almost every day she looked in the faces of the pilots, she found herself cringing, wondering as she touched one’s hand, Will this hand be cold and still forever tomorrow? When Harold Holmes sang a song, rollicking and weaving as he played his violin, she watched his eyes and wondered if this would be the last song he would ever play. Immediately after the song was finished, the squadron had left, and she stood watching them until their planes became tiny dots in the sky.

  Day after day she became more sensitized to the war. The news that fifty thousand men had died in some battle on the Western Front did not mean as much to her as the loss of someone she knew well like Benny. War had become very personalized, and she did not eat well or sleep well these days.

  Finally, she arrived opposite the hospital and on a whim went inside. She went looking for Ringer Jones and found him playing a game of draughts, which is what the English call checkers, with another soldier.

  “Bit of a drop outside, eh?” he said as he got up.

  “Yes, it is, but I have to walk Bedford.”

  “How about tea? I can badger a little from the cook.”

  “That sounds marvelous!” Jo said as she took her wet coat off.

  The two found their way to the kitchen, where the cook, a large woman with huge forearms and a pair of merry blue eyes, greeted them. “Well, what are you doing out on a day like this?”

  “Have to take Bedford for a walk, Martha. He’s worse than a husband to take care of.”

  “I doubt that. At least not as much trouble as Oscar.”

  “Has Oscar been giving you trouble again?”

  Martha’s troubles with her husband, Oscar, were legendary. Jo had seen him only once, a slight, diminutive man with an ineffective chin and a pair of washed-out blue eyes. He apparently had some appeal, for he was constantly giving Martha trouble with one woman after another. He seemed a most unlikely ladies’ man, but to Martha he was the handsomest man in the world, a fact that puzzled everyone who knew Oscar.

  “Sit down here. I just made a pound cake. Still hot from the oven.”

  “Oh, I love you forever, Martha!”

&nbs
p; Soon Ringer and Jo were eating huge slices of pound cake and washing it down with drafts of scalding hot tea.

  “I wonder if they have pound cake and tea like this in heaven,” Ringer smiled. He had a very nice smile, and though he was not handsome, there was an honesty in his steady blue eyes that made everyone trust him.

  “Ah, something that good or at least better. Milk and honey, I suppose.”

  “Maybe manna. I always wondered what that tasted like.”

  “When will you be getting out of here, Ringer?”

  “Next week, so Doctor Laurent says.”

  “Will you be going back to the front?”

  “No. I’m going home. Can’t get around well enough on this leg of mine to do any good.” Ringer had taken a terrible wound just over his knee. It had healed, but it had left the joint so stiff that he could not move with much grace.

  “I’m glad for you,” she said. “Do you have family there?”

  “I did have. My wife died three months ago.”

  “Oh, Ringer, I’m so sorry! You never told me.”

  “No. I guess I didn’t.”

  “Do you have children?”

  “One boy. He’s six. Here, I’ve got a picture of him.”

  Jo studied the faded photograph and said, “He’s a handsome lad. He’ll be glad to see you, but Bedford will miss you terribly.”

  “And I’ll miss him, too.”

  “Will you be going back to stock riding?”

  “Can’t do that with a bum leg like this. No. I’ll have to find something else to do.” A worry crept into his eyes, and he said, “I’ve been thinking about it. Stock riding’s all I know. I don’t know what I’ll do for a living.”

  Impulsively Jo reached over and covered his hand with hers. “You’ll find something. The Lord will find a way.”

  Jones looked down at her hand covering his. “That’s a kind heart speaking,” he said quietly. “I’ll think of you when I’m in Australia.”