by Otto Penzler
“The Angel of the Marne” was originally published in the July 1929 issue of Ghost Stories.
The Angel of the Marne
VICTOR ROUSSEAU
THE QUAINT OLD MARKET-PLACE of Rouen basked drowsily in the sunshine of a late afternoon in May. Nearby, a group of people were taking their dinner at one of the little sidewalk cafés, happily undisturbed by the passers-by. Overhead arched the blue, serene sky of Normandy.
Such was the scene of my chance meeting with Captain Philippe Roget, famous war ace. I had not seen him since the Legion held its convention “over there,” and then we had chatted for only a few minutes, for we had never been intimate. During the War I had held the minor post of liaison officer at the Headquarters of Captain Roget’s brigade.
In view of the fact that I had arrived in France on business hardly twenty-four hours before, the Captain was probably the last person I had expected to see.
Yet there he was, left sleeve hanging empty, the right hand clutching a bouquet of magnificent roses, whose fragrance scented the air all about us. At the sight of me he uttered an exclamation of delight, and, laying the flowers upon a nearby table, gripped my hand in his with utmost cordiality.
“But how does this happen, my dear Captain Sewell?” he inquired. “Let us sit down. I have an hour, and intended dining here. And you?”
I confessed that I had not dined, and we took possession of one of the little tables without more ado.
“But you have not told me what brings you here,” said Roget, when we had given our order.
I explained my business briefly, adding that I was to see an important customer of my firm the following morning.
“And you?” I asked. “Those flowers give you away, Captain Roget. I hope the lady is very charming?”
There was a strange glint in Roget’s eyes.
“The most charming and wonderful woman in the world,” he answered. “One whom I am proud to love and serve.”
“That’s good,” I answered lightly. “I congratulate you with all my heart, my dear Captain.” My tone belied my really deep sincerity, for I knew that the woman who had won Captain Philippe Roget’s heart was fortunate indeed.
Tall, handsome, in spite of the grey at his temples, he wore his empty sleeve like a badge of courage and seemed, in every way, a hero out of romance. During the War he had performed deeds of incredible daring, including the one that had cost him his arm. In the first days of the conflict, when the French, surprised by the German invasion of Belgium, were falling back in confusion all along the frontiers, Roget had been entrusted with dispatches whose delivery meant the salvation of the French armies; their non-delivery, ruin and defeat.
They were sent to General Joffre by the commander of a French army corps, already cut off on all sides and offering hopeless resistance to overwhelming numbers. They contained vital information as to the disposition of the German forces which seemed likely to entrap half the armies of the Republic.
Alone in his plane, Philippe Roget had been sent by night from the encircled troops, with orders to reach French Headquarters or die in the attempt.
Philippe had reached Headquarters and placed the communication in the hands of Joffre, thereby making it possible for the scattered French armies to unite into the line that later snatched victory out of defeat at the Battle of the Marne.
Later, as a one-armed flyer—for France was in urgent need of so brave a son—he had covered himself with glory, escaping death time after time by a veritable miracle.
So, looking at him, I felt that this lady for whom he was bringing his roses was certainly to be congratulated.
As we ate, we talked for the most part of impersonal affairs, guardedly skirting all references to the War—as ex-soldiers do when they meet. So much is taken for granted; so many experiences have been identical, that there is usually surprisingly little to talk about. Besides, Captain Philippe’s thoughts were still on the lady—I could tell by the way he kept glancing at the flowers.
“I hope I’m not detaining you,” I said at length. “This engagement of yours——”
“No, not at all, Captain Sewell,” he answered. “She is in no hurry, and I am not of much consequence to her.”
“But surely you must be,” I returned. I thought he must be jesting. But there was no levity in Philippe Roget’s clear blue eyes.
“It is an old affair,” he answered absently. Then he turned toward me. “I have never told you of my experiences when I was sent from the front with those dispatches for General Joffre,” he said. “I have rarely ever spoken of them. Do you believe in miracles, Sewell?”
I hesitated. I remembered that Captain Philippe had been what few of the army officers were in those days, a fervently religious man. I did not know what to say.
“Modern science seems to be taking a more tolerant attitude toward the supernatural,” I parried.
“But suppose we do not call it the supernatural,” suggested Philippe. “Suppose we regard it as coming within the domain of natural law, of science—all these things that are slowly forcing belief upon the sceptics and materialists of the past generation?”
“Spiritualism and table tipping, for instance?” I ventured.
A look of unutterable disgust came over Philippe Roget’s clear-cut features.
“Bah, pranks of dead diabolists!” he retorted. “Throwers of pots and pans in haunted kitchens! No, those are not miracles, Sewell. I spoke of something different—the direct intervention, by Divine permission, of the souls of the illustrious dead!”
I was silent. Philippe Roget was sitting up very straight and looking across at the sculptured figure of a woman in the centre of the square. The statue seemed to have taken on a sort of radiance in the translucent light of the summer evening.
“I was a sceptic when I started on that mission, Sewell,” said Philippe, turning to me again. “But I arrived at my journey’s end convinced that I had been used by an all-powerful Being for the salvation of France and the glory of God. I should like your permission to tell you about it.”
This is what he told me:
Those last days in the Vosges were terrible ones for us. We had gone forward with so much confidence, not knowing that the utmost valour is impotent against machine-guns and high-powered modern artillery. A third of our army had been killed. The bodies strewed the earth everywhere. The Germans were closing in on us, and a reconnaissance by the cavalry showed that the enemy had cut off all our roads of retreat.
In that expedition the flower of our horsemen were mowed down by hidden machine-guns. It was not war, it was massacre!
There were only six of us aviators with the army corps, for nobody had guessed the part that airplanes were destined to play. Three of our fliers, venturing too low, had been shot down by German cannon. A fourth had lost his life in combat with a whole squadron of Taubes. There remained only myself and another, and it was we whom the General summoned to him that day.
“You are to fly to French Headquarters with dispatches, Captain Roget,” he said to me. “Lieutenant Arnault, with his plane, will accompany you. His mission will be to protect you against the attacks of hostile aircraft. He will sacrifice his life to that end, if necessary. But you yourself will avoid all action, if possible; and if he is shot down, you will make no attempt to avenge him.”
“Bien, mon Général,” I answered. It was all a part of the game of war, and one had to obey.
“We do not know where Joffre’s headquarters are, but you will fly to——” He then gave me detailed instructions. “These dispatches will inform him that we are cut off by a force seven times our superior. Furthermore, they will make it clear to him that the main German thrust is coming in this direction, and that the enemy are overwhelmingly strong. If these dispatches do not reach Joffre, he cannot learn the enemy’s strategical position—until it is too late.
“I wish it might be possible for you to wait until night, but every hour’s delay makes our position more dangerous.”
The General handed me the package. “If you are shot down, let your last act be to destroy these papers. I have given you the gist of the information they contain, so that, if you yourself manage to escape, you can transmit it to the commander-in-chief. That is all, gentlemen. You will start immediately.”
Lieutenant Arnault and I saluted, and left the office. There was no tarmac, not even a level field for taking off. All that was to come later in the War. We had just three mechanics, and as quickly as possible they got our two Nieuports into flying condition. The Anzani engines were tuned up till they were warm and the tanks filled to the brim with petrol. At last we were off, rising above the field of battle.
What a field! At a height of five thousand feet we first began to see the disposition of the enemy forces. They were all around us. Puffs of white smoke showed where the ring of artillery was closing in. Here were hastily dug trenches, with swaths of dead lying before them. There we could see where the battle was still in progress; long lines of lorries traversed the roads, with the German shells bursting beside them; and columns of soldiers, wearing the blue tunics and red trousers of those early days, were moving forward.
Almost immediately we saw four Taubes rising from somewhere along the German lines and making toward us.
The Nieuport was at that time reputed the fastest plane in the air, and we had a good chance of outflying our opponents. Though we were both burning with eagerness to turn and fight, the recollections of our instructions restrained us. I headed my machine westward, and Lieutenant Arnault took up his flying position behind and above me, ready to protect me.
I let the enemy overhaul us slightly, confident in the flying powers of my machine. Meanwhile I let the engine warm up to the limit; then I opened the throttle to the full extent and rushed on. Two minutes later I looked back and saw that we had increased our lead over the Taubes. There was nothing to fear. I laughed exultantly. We were safe now.
But not for long! Two minutes later three black dots appeared out of the clouds a mile ahead of us. They came down in a swift glide, and I saw the hated stripes and crosses of the Germans on their fuselages as the sun glinted on them.
We were cut off; but now we were two to three. Our Nieuports were among the first French planes to be equipped with machine-guns and if we had to fight, we would be able to give a very good account of ourselves.
As the two foremost Taubes shot toward us, Arnault rushed past me overhead and engaged in a brisk machine-gun duel with them. Firing at pointblank range, it was almost impossible for anyone to miss. I shouted as I saw one of the Germans side-slip, and then go weaving down in a steep nose-dive that ended on the ground nearly two miles beneath.
The next instant flames burst from Lieutenant Arnault’s motor. I saw him frantically leaning forward in the cockpit; then, to my horror, the flames leaped toward him.
His end was only a matter of moments now, but he sat there, still working the controls, while the Nieuport seemed to stagger in the air like a wounded bird, and then, nosing down, followed the German to destruction.
The Taube that had shot Arnault down followed, still pouring lead into its doomed victim. I do not blame the German. Those were the instructions that the airmen of both sides received, although many of us French and you Americans refused to fire upon a stricken enemy. I saw poor Arnault fling up his hand in a last gesture of defeat.
Then a wonderful thing happened. The upward rush of air drove the flames away from my comrade, so that they streamed up behind the descending plane like a comet’s tail. Suddenly I saw Arnault raise his gun and aim straight into the fuselage of his pursuer, who, thinking him done for, had swooped perilously close. Fearfully burned, and doubtless riddled with lead, Arnault had proved himself a true soldier of France.
The pilot of the second plane slumped in the cockpit. The Taube dropped sidewise, and began nose-diving after the Nieuport. I saw the two doomed ships weave their headlong course downward until they disappeared in the wake of the first one.
Arnault was dead, but he had taken two German planes with him, and he had died for me.
That was my thought as, mad for revenge, I swung to meet the third Taube, which was now swooping down upon me. I had been told to avoid a fight if possible, but it was no longer possible, and even had it been, I doubt whether I could have obeyed. There are some situations where the elemental human instinct takes command; and when a man’s comrade has been killed almost at his side—well, that is one of them!
A shower of bullets cut holes in my left wing. I banked, and received another burst that shattered my windshield and swept half the instruments from the board.
Immelmann had not then invented the famous manoeuvre, but I made it, my friend—made it because I could see no other way to escape destruction. As that cursed Boche rode my tail and splintered rudder and elevators, I made a steep zoom upward and a wing-over turn that reversed the situation and brought him within my range.
One blast from my gun, and I had sent him to flaming hell!
The road was clear, but by this time the four Taubes that had started in pursuit of us were opening fire. So engrossed had I been with my last encounter that the first I was aware of them was when I felt a sharp sting in my arm and saw the blood running. I glanced back, and realized that I had no chance save in instant flight. I thought of nothing now save my precious dispatches.
The mad rage died in me. I shot forward with wide-open throttle, though not before a second bullet had scored its way through my shoulder. Ahead of me lay a heavy cloud-bank. I made it, shot through it, zoomed, and saw that my pursuers were hopelessly behind me. Beneath lay the heavy wooded and mountainous country of the Vosges. Somewhere on the other side were the French battle-lines, or perhaps more Germans—who knew?
I was losing blood fast; my head was dizzy; I knew that I could not keep on much longer. If I encountered another Taube, I was doomed, for my left arm was helpless, and it was all I could do to manipulate the controls. Fortunately it was well on in the afternoon, and the day was dying out in a drizzle of rain and fog which made the visibility poor.
Somewhere on the other side of those mountains—but I could not go on. I must land, rest and try to bandage my wounds. Otherwise I should never be able to reach French Headquarters.
Underneath me I saw a break in the forest. A little mountain village seemed to be nestling in a clearing; there was the spire of a tall church, rising into the air.
I circled, side-slipped, exerting all my will-power to prevent lapsing into unconsciousness. Somehow I succeeded in making the landing on a bumpy field not far from the church, with a fringe of forest between myself and the village, and with the plane still in serviceable condition.
I groped for my first-aid bandage, but instead, I must have fainted, for I knew nothing for some time thereafter.
It was the caressing touch of a soft hand upon my forehead that brought me back to consciousness. I opened my eyes and stared. A young girl was bending over me, her face transfigured with such infinite compassion that I could only marvel at its wondrous sweetness and serenity. Surprising, too, was the taste of some cordial on my lips.
I looked about me. I was sitting with my back against the fuselage of the plane, which lay at the extreme edge of the woods, hidden from observation by a tall hedge which offered an effective barrier to any one passing along the road near the church. It almost seemed to me that the girl must have wheeled the machine into that position, for I had come down out in the open.
I looked at my companion again. It was dusk and I could just make out that she was dressed in some sort of peasant costume. She was not a peasant type, however, but looked rather like the daughter of some small landed proprietor in the vicinity.
“You are safe here,” she whispered, as I opened my lips to speak, “but you must be careful. The Germans are in possession of the village beyond that strip of trees. Fortunately they feel entirely secure and it is not likely that the noise of your motor—if they heard it at all—has caused an
y alarm.”
I groaned. The invaders must have penetrated very far into the heart of France.
As if she understood what was passing in my mind, the girl smiled.
“France has been invaded many times before,” she said, “but she has always conquered in the end. Have no fear! The Boche will meet with a terrible blow that will send him reeling back to the Rhine. But ah, my poor country!”
She pressed her hand to her heart, and her face was the picture of grief as she spoke. All the woes of my poor country seemed mirrored there.
I was feeling much stronger, and looking down, I saw that my wounds had been bandaged. As the cordial the girl had given me began to take effect, life coursed through me again and I thought at once of my dispatches.
“I owe you a thousand thanks, Mademoiselle,” I said. “But now I must get on. I am bearing important dispatches for General Joffre. I have lost too much time already. Do you know how far the German lines extend?”
“Far into the heart of France,” she answered. “The outposts are at Vitry.”
“But that is a hundred miles away!” I cried.
“The Boche has advanced fast. But have courage, my friend. Five miles beyond Vitry you will find the French outposts, and twelve miles back of there, at Villerons-sur-Yser, General Joffre sleeps tonight.”
“How do you know?” I cried.
She smiled sadly.