by Ted Bell
He buzzed the crowded rooftops, saw the people of Paris cheer and hold their burning candles aloft. He saw streams of people in the streets below, their candles and torches held high, snaking through darkened sections of the city, creating living rivers of fire. Within no more than a few minutes, the entire city was blazing with light. He dove and flew low over the treetops, headed for the lone blinking red light atop the great tower that remained unlit, looming dark in the distance, a finger pointed at heaven.
Hawke flew in great, swooping circles around the Eiffel Tower. The lights, when they came on, started at the bottom and rushed upward to the very top. The tower was soon glittering, blinking, putting on a dazzling show for the city, its brilliant lights now dancing across every surface, and racing each other all the way to the top and down again.
“I think it worked,” Hawke said, as he raced across the sparkling city and steered a course northwest for the English Channel and home.
Behind him, Paris began a slow and painful return to normalcy. Neither Hawke nor his passenger ever saw the orange licks of flame climbing into the sky above the Elysée Palace. But he knew that somehow the group of brave men led by Stokely Jones, FitzHugh McCoy, and the Frogman would carry the day.
After all, the City of Light was on their side.