The Flying Cavalier

by Gilbert, Morris

  The two met, and all the pilots of the squadron piled outside and started for him. It was Cecil Lewis who said, “Wait a minute, you fellas! Don’t you have any romance in your souls? Give ’em a minute, can’t you?”

  At that moment Danielle had thrown herself into Logan’s arms. She felt faint and could only whisper, “You’re safe. You’re not dead.”

  “Not this time.” He held her for a moment and said, “I should be, though.” He leaned back and looked into her eyes and said, “I guess it was worth getting killed to get a welcome like this. Did you think I was dead?”

  “That’s what all the reports said.”

  “I nearly was. Come along. I’ve got to report to the captain. He’ll probably chuck me out.”

  “No. He won’t do that.”

  Lance, indeed, was in a quandary about what to do. He had come up to join the pilots. They all watched him, waiting for him to tear into Logan. Finally, Copper Jennings said, “Are you going to chuck him out, Captain?”

  “I can’t do that,” Lance said. He saw the look of relief wash across Jennings’ face.

  “He’s a great pilot, Captain.”

  “I know,” he said as he waited for the two to approach. He was aware that Danielle was looking at him with a plea in her eyes. He knew she thought he was going to make an example of Logan Smith in front of the whole squadron.

  “Well, Smith. What do you have to say for yourself?”

  Logan had expected to be thrown out at once, but he saw something in Lance Winslow’s eyes that he had not seen before. “Well, Captain. I found out exactly how much we can trust the word of Hans Macher. I won’t try that again.”

  “Well, you learned something, and you didn’t get killed. You’re not grounded anymore. Everybody has liberty.”

  A cry of exultation ran up, and then the pilots came over to surround the one they called Cowboy.

  Dani moved over to stand by Lance, who asked her quietly, “Are you all right?”

  Dani looked up at Lance and then over at Logan. “Yes,” she said quietly. “I’m all right, Lance. For the first time in my life, I’m really all right!”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Some Things Can’t Be Dreamed

  A feeble light filtered through the window of the small room where Jo sat writing. Her eyes were gritty with fatigue, and the sound of cannons booming from afar were, to her mind, like the somber drums of a funeral march. From time to time a shell would fly by screaming like a banshee, then there would be a silence, followed by a tremendous explosion.

  Jo had learned to live under fire, for during the past month, she had divided her time between the aerodrome at Belleville with visits to the trenches at the front. As she leaned back and read what she had written, she braced herself as a shell whined overhead. The brief moment of silence followed and then the inevitable explosion shook the earth again. Dust filtered down from the beams overhead, and the light swung in a concentric circle. It dimmed and she feared it was going out, but then it brightened again.

  “Missed me that time,” she said without fear. Fear could not be sustained, she had discovered. After hours of bombarding, one simply learned to accept it.

  Looking down at what she had written, Jo had to force herself to stay awake.

  During the first months of the war, a mad race began in Switzerland. Deep trenches with underground dugouts big enough for men and horses were built all the way to the North Sea. This new method of fighting brought about the death to the mobility of calvary charges that European armies had known for centuries. The charges made by both the Allies and the Central Powers usually were measured in feet rather than in furlongs or miles.

  And so the race to the sea ended, and during 1915 the two forces faced each other over mud, barbed wire, and bodies that could not be buried. France seemed to be under the curse of God.

  Battles came and men were piled up like cordwood. In the Battle of Ypres, Germany lost one hundred and thirty thousand first-line soldiers. British casualties were over eighty thousand, and together with French losses, the blood toll was nearly a quarter of a million lives snuffed out. General Kishner was appalled and cried out, “This isn’t war! This is slaughter!”

  Along a four-hundred-mile trench death reigns. Young men who should be studying at school or learning trades, getting married, having children, are mowed down by the hundreds and even by the thousands by the killing machine gun fire. The generals are unable to see that flesh and blood cannot stand up to implanted machine guns. Whether they are stupid or blind, it is impossible to say.

  And so the war continues to consume the finest of the young men of the world.

  And as if this were not enough, on a lovely day at Ypres, with the sun shining bright, and a fine breeze blowing, for a change, a fine mist seemed to pass over the land, and a new horror was added—chlorine gas. It lasted only fifteen minutes, but men died drowning in the gas cloud as if they were underwater. They were blinded, and their lungs burned and seared as if they had swallowed fire.

  Nothing seemed to succeed for either side. At Gallipoli, Sir Ivan Hamilton threw a force against the guns of the Turks, and once again nothing but death came of it. Half a million Allied soldiers were sent to Gallipoli, and more than half of them either died or were terribly shattered by the war in that part of the world.

  On August of 1916 the powers are at a deadlock. The battles of 1915 on the Western Front did not end with a great clash of glory but simply petered out into miserable failures.

  Other battles took place, but there was no glory, and those who had joined or been conscripted into the army had ceased to expect any. There was no strategy, no tactics, only the dull wearing down of the human spirit. Exchanging lives for lives.

  It is a dreary, terrible war, and the Battle of Verdun seems the capstone of the idiocy and the maniac quality that the world lives in. On February 21, six months ago, two million shells were thrown toward the enemy at Verdun. These included fires, mixed shrapnel, high explosives, and poison gas. The shells fell at the rate of one hundred thousand pounds an hour, and the French forward trenches were obliterated. The survivors crawled out only to die amidst the splintered trees.

  The German offensive contained every bit of strength the fatherland could command, and yet it was not successful. The German offensive still goes on, and there seems no end to it. The cost of human life in Verdun stuns the imagination. France has lost over half a million soldiers and Germany four hundred fifty thousand. What sort of insanity has fallen on the world to throw away the lives of nearly a million men in a cause that no one believes in anymore?

  Jo stared at the writing and knew she could never send it to the papers as it was. It was too gloomy, too pessimistic, so wearily she stuffed it into a briefcase and left the shelter. She dodged through the trenches, guided by a nervous English second lieutenant named Soames, who had been her guardian and guide during this siege.

  When they were back behind the lines, she turned and smiled at him. “Thank you so much, Lieutenant Soames. I know I was a bother.”

  “No bother at all, Miss Hellinger.” The lieutenant’s eyes seemed hollow, and fatigue had so worn him down that there seemed to be little life left in him. It was like looking into the eyes of a dead man. His cheeks were hollowed, his skin was sallow and pale, and his uniform was dogged with the mud of the trenches. Summoning up a smile, he said, “Come back anytime. We never close.”

  Impulsively Jo put out her hand. “I wish you well. May God be with you, Lieutenant.”

  Going back to her motorcycle, she started the engine and made her way back down the rutted roads that led away from the front toward Paris. Her heart was sickened by the slaughter she had seen, and she felt unclean at the staggering number of casualties. Still the thought came to her, No matter how many baths I take, I can’t wash away what’s happened. . . .

  ****

  “Well, Jo, you’re back from the front!” Rev was practically standing on his head as he worked on the Nieuport
’s engine. He jumped off the ship and came wiping his hands with an oily rag. He stared at one and said, “Too greasy to shake with a lady.”

  “Not at all.” Jo took Rev’s hand and shook it. “It’s good to see you again.”

  “How about a cup of tea while you tell me all of your adventures.”

  “I wanted to see Logan.”

  “He’s out on patrol. Ought to be back in a few hours. You haven’t heard about him?”

  “No. What’s happened?”

  “He’s got twelve kills now. That’s two more than the captain has.”

  Jo stared at the long-legged mechanic. “I hadn’t heard about that.”

  “Oh, he doesn’t say much about it.”

  Jo listened as Revelation spoke of the victories Logan had won. “They call him Cowboy Smith all the time now. I think they got that from one of the stories you wrote.”

  “I wish I hadn’t put that in,” Jo said, a worried look furrowing her brow. “Nicknames aren’t always welcome.”

  “Well, Richthofen doesn’t mind being called the Red Baron. So I guess Cowboy Smith is kind of an honorary title.”

  “How is Captain Winslow?”

  “Well, I’m a little concerned about the captain. He’s wearing himself down. Still trying to kill every German in the Luftwaffe.”

  “Have you seen his family?”

  “As a matter of fact, I have. Mrs. Laurent invited me out to dinner, and I had a splendid time.” A worried look came fleetingly across the homely face of the mechanic. He shook his head. “I wish the captain would spend more time with that daughter of his.”

  “So do I. He doesn’t visit often?”

  “No.” Revelation looked down at the ground, and then a troubled look came into his eyes. “He’s got to let go of that dead wife of his, Jo.” He shook his head and added, “A man needs a flesh-and-blood woman, not a memory.”

  Jo agreed wholeheartedly with Rev but said no more. She changed the subject quickly. “Have there been any losses in the squadron?”

  “Afraid so. We’ve lost three men. None of the old hands. They come in so young with so little experience. It bothers me. I can’t remember their faces sometimes.”

  At that moment Sailor Malone suddenly entered. His curly brown hair was falling over his forehead, and he was more than a little drunk. “Well, if it’s not our lady reporter. How are you, Miss Hellinger?”

  “Fine, Sailor.” Jo shook hands with him and smelled the alcohol. It was not unusual, however, for Sailor and many of the others stayed drunk as much as possible. She had heard it said by the other pilots that Malone didn’t care if he lived or died.

  “Got time for a cup of tea, Sailor?” Rev said.

  “If you don’t preach at me, I have.”

  “Can’t promise that,” Rev said. “Come along. I’ve got some special tea brewin’, and I got a half a cake left over that I swiped from the kitchen.”

  The three went to the rec room, which was empty now except for two pilots who sat morosely playing checkers. They looked up and then went back to their game.

  “Those two are Polish. Can’t speak enough English to comment on,” Sailor said.

  Jo sat down and listened as Malone described his last patrol. Finally she said, “What’s it really like? I mean going up and facing the German who’s trying to kill you.”

  Sailor pulled a small flask out of his inner pocket, filled his half cup of tea with it, then held it up, saying, “Here’s to you!” He drank it off and then considered her question. “Don’t think I can answer that.” He grinned suddenly, saying, “It’s like being married, Jo. You can read books about it and have people talk to you about it, but until you go through it, you don’t know what it’s really like.”

  Jo sat for some time and Sailor drank steadily. She knew that Lance was aware of the drinking problem of Malone and others, but there seemed to be little he could do about it.

  Finally Malone left, and Revelation said, “I’ve got to do some more work. Can we go out and eat somewhere tonight?”

  “Of course. Maybe Logan can go with us.”

  Jo left the hangar and spent the next few hours talking to various mechanics and trying to carry on a conversation with the Polish pilots. They stared at her with a lack of comprehension, and Jo finally gave up.

  She went and sat down on a cane-bottomed chair outside of headquarters. It was a hot day as the August sun beat down on the tarmac runway. Having missed a great deal of sleep lately, she dozed off quickly.

  The sound of buzzing motors far overhead came to her, and she awoke groggily. Staring up, she saw the dots in the sky.

  “Squadron’s coming in!” Rev called to her as he ran out toward the strip.

  Jo remained where she was and watched the Nieuports land.

  The men piled out and, as usual, headed for headquarters. Jo knew they would be having a debriefing, so she kept out of the way. After that was over she walked along looking at the planes as the mechanics swarmed over them and saw many bullet holes and tears.

  “Well, we didn’t lose any this time. Just shot all to pieces,” Tom Morrison said. “Look at the captain’s plane. Another few bullets and he would have lost this wing.”

  Jo walked along studying the damage, and she thought suddenly of what Sailor Malone had said, You have to be there.

  Abruptly she stopped and spoke aloud. “That’s what I need, to go on a mission!” The thought seemed ridiculous to her, but the more she pondered it, the more it intrigued her. She played with the idea and then determined to pursue it. “Well, I can ask. All Lance can do is say no.”

  Jo went back to the rec room and said, without much preamble, “Lance, I want to go on some sort of flight over the lines.” He just stared at her, for once unable to speak for a moment.

  “Well, that’s out of the question! Whatever made you think of such a fool thing, Jo? You know I couldn’t permit that.”

  “I don’t mean actually get into a dogfight. I mean just on an observer’s flight. I can’t write about what you do until I’ve tasted it.”

  Lance was exhausted from the fight. It had been a mean battle in the skies with damage to his own squadron and to the Germans, though no planes were shot down. He was irritated, and anger at his failure to shoot down any of the German ships edged his voice.

  “I’ve already said no, and I don’t want to hear any more about it.”

  End of conversation! Jo thought. She changed the subject at once but saw that Lance was not in a talking mood, so she went home and spent part of the day with Bedford. After writing some, she decided to go to the hospital and visit several of the wounded she had gotten to know quite well writing letters for them. As usual, the men were happy to see her.

  After her visit at the hospital, Jo put Bedford in the sidecar and drove around. It was a beautiful day, and Bedford loved it, his eyes half closed, his tongue lolling as she sped along. He had a habit of barking at every car they passed, and several accidents nearly occurred when drivers turned to stare at the big dog.

  Jo never knew how she got her ideas for her stories. People often asked her, “How do you think of the things you write about?” She never had an answer. Sometimes she would say, “How do you not think of them?” Ideas flowed through her mind constantly. She had come to believe that the one criteria of a writer was that ideas had to flow.

  As she was rounding a pond, enjoying the sunlight on the blue water, an idea came to her. She continued her ride but finally made up her mind that she might as well try it.

  Reaching the airfield, she parked the motorcycle. She and Bedford made their way to the pilots’ quarters, where she knocked. Cecil Lewis opened the door, and his homely face lit up. “Well, I expected an ugly, hairy-legged enlisted man to come bringing the mail. You’re quite an improvement.”

  Jo liked Cecil Lewis and said, “Do you have a quotation to fit this occasion from Shakespeare?”

  “Haply I think on thee, and then my state,

  Like to the la
rk at break of day arising

  From sullen earth, sings hymns at heaven’s gate.”

  Jo laughed. “I think you’re full of baloney, Cecil! All of you English professors are.”

  “Quite true. What can I do for you?”

  “Is Sailor here?”

  “Yes, he is. You sure I won’t do?”

  “No. You’re too fine a company for me. I’m the earthy type.”

  Sailor suddenly appeared and shouldered Lewis aside. “Stand aside, mate! The lady prefers sailors.”

  Stepping outside, Sailor closed the door. “What can I do for you, Jo?”

  “Something probably that will get you into a lot of trouble.”

  At her words, Sailor grinned. “Just what I like, trouble. Let’s have it.” He listened as Jo outlined the idea that had come to her.

  “It’s probably impossible, and I know it’s wrong.”

  “But it’ll be a lot of fun.” He winked at her. “I’m taking off on an observation flight in one of the two-seaters at two o’clock. You be here and keep out of sight. We’ll put this one over on the Cap. He doesn’t have to know everything!”

  ****

  Lance stared blankly at Jerold Spencer. He could not believe what he had just heard. “You’re wrong about that! It’s impossible!”

  Jerold shook his head and cleared his throat nervously. “I didn’t know what to do about it, Captain, but I saw what I saw.” He shifted his feet nervously and shook his head. “Miss Hellinger got in the two-seater with Sailor and he took off.”

  “When was this?”

  “About twenty minutes ago.”

  Blind anger swept over Lance. He remembered Jo’s request to go on a mission, and now he thought, That fool Malone, he’ll get her killed! He doesn’t care whether he lives or dies and Jo could go down with him!

  “You did right to tell me. I only wish you’d come sooner.”

  “Well, I thought maybe you had given permission.”

  “No one likes to be an informer, Spencer, but Malone’s a fool. Now I’ll have to go after them.”