Hope Takes Flight

by Gilbert, Morris

  Finally von Richthofen said, “I will see to it that you have good treatment.”

  “Thank you,” Gavin said stiffly. He wanted to say more, but could not.

  Von Richthofen hesitated, then said quietly, “I am glad you were not killed.”

  Gavin realized that von Richthofen knew who he was. “So am I,” he replied curtly. Again he struggled to speak, but nothing came. All he could think was, This is the man my sister loves, and he’s the enemy!

  The two men were a contrast in every way. American and German, enemies by the very nature of the uniforms they wore and what life had molded them to be, and now enemies more surely than ever. For in that moment, seeds of hatred were planted deep in the heart of Gavin Stuart. It was an alien emotion for Gavin, who all his life had been good-natured and easygoing. But now, staring into the eyes of his sister’s lover, he could only think of the damage this man had done to his sister. He thought of the disaster that lay ahead if she did not break off with him, and right then, right there, he began to form a resolution.

  I will kill this man, Gavin vowed silently. I will break out of whatever prison they put me in, get into an airplane, and I will hunt him down and kill him if it’s the last thing I ever do.

  Von Richthofen bowed in a mockery of civility and said briefly, “Again, if you are not treated well, get word to me and I will see to it.”

  He waited, but Gavin kept his expression carefully shuttered. His gaze remained steady and Manfred von Richthofen, without further ado, turned and left the room. On the ground in a prison camp, Gavin knew, his captor might abide by the Articles of War. But if they were ever to meet in the air again, neither man would rest until he had killed the other.

  Part 3

  OVER THERE

  14

  THE END OF SOMETHING

  The United States was, in the beginning, an innocent bystander. She was, however, inexorably drawn into the European conflict as surely as fallen leaves are drawn into whirlpools.

  Americans watched the madness from a distance, thankful to be on the far shore of the Atlantic. Neutrality was the policy of the nation, for ever since George Washington had warned against “entangling alliances,” no president had made an alliance with a foreign country. America wanted nothing more than to stay out of other people’s scrapes.

  With the outbreak of the war, President Wilson pledged neutrality. But the American people were more outspoken than their president and when the Lusitania went down, sunk by German U-boats, they discovered they had a monstrous enemy on the other side of the Atlantic. If the Kaiser could get away with such an act, what was to keep him from the very shores of America?

  A storm of outrage had swept the United States after the sinking of the Lusitania. Cartoons portrayed U-boat captains as sadistic killers, enjoying their victims’ pain. Ghosts of drowned children were shown, pointing to the Kaiser and asking, “Why did you kill us?” All eyes turned to the president during the crisis. What would Woodrow Wilson do now? The nation waited and wondered.

  Those who expected him to plunge the nation straight into war didn’t know their man. Wilson hated war with all his soul. He always had. The first thing he could remember concerned war—the Civil War. At the age of three, he had stood at the door of the family home in Augusta, Georgia, as passersby yelled, “Mr. Lincoln’s elected! There’ll be war!”

  Puzzled, young Wilson had toddled into his father’s study to ask, “What is war?”

  He had found out soon enough. Georgia became a blistering battleground. General Sherman’s Union army burned and blasted their way across the state on their march to the sea. Lines of retreating Confederate soldiers, whipped and miserable, trudged wearily past the Wilson house. That boy, now grown to a man of 59, was haunted by visions of war. His visions, however, didn’t make him cowardly—only cautious. It might be necessary to fight Germany one day, he knew, and if that day came, the president was prepared to lead the nation through the terrible time. But he didn’t have to like it. And in 1915, he had tried to keep peace with honor.

  On May 10, three days after the sinking of the Lusitania, Wilson had addressed a gathering of citizens, reminding them that the nation was neutral. He ended with a memorable phrase: “There is such a thing as a man being too proud to fight.”

  Opponents gasped. Why, a man—a real man—would be too proud not to fight! Theodore Roosevelt sputtered and fumed. A former president, hero of the Spanish-American War, he had never forgiven Wilson for that speech. “Flubdubs and mollycoddle!” he thundered. Wilson and his followers were “bunglers and sissies,” not fit to lead a proud people!

  Germany took a hint from Wilson, who made it clear that American ships had a right to go wherever they pleased. In April 1916, the German High Command had ordered its U-boats not to sink merchantmen without warning. This was, of course, a victory for Wilson. In November he was elected to a second term as president on the slogan: “He Kept Us Out of War.” And so he had—for the moment.

  The problem was that the Germans couldn’t keep their submarines on a leash forever. The subs were the most potent weapon possessed by the Germans, and every day they restrained them gave the Allies an edge. The German military put its case to the Kaiser simply: “Either use the U-boats to the fullest or risk losing the war.” The diplomats warned that such an act would bring the United States into the war, but the Kaiser’s admirals and generals weren’t worried. The United States, they knew, was unprepared for European-style warfare. The military won the debate, and this single act did more than anything else to draw America into World War I.

  On January 31, 1917, a note to American officials from Ambassador von Dernstorff had stated that Germany would begin unrestricted submarine warfare. It was to be sea warfare without limit or pity. Kaiser Wilhelm II made only one concession: One American ship per week—only one—could sail for England if it obeyed certain rules. It had to arrive on a Sunday and leave on a Wednesday. It must be decorated appropriately—red and white stripes painted on the hull, a large checkered flag displayed on each mast, an American flag flown at the stern. In addition, the United States must guarantee that the ship carried no war material.

  An outcry arose the moment the note appeared in the newspapers. Sabotage the Lusitania, and now this! The nerve of them! One writer said the Germans were demanding that our ships be “striped like a barber’s pole”! And to fly “a rag, resembling a kitchen tablecloth”!

  President Wilson read the message, then read it again, hardly believing his eyes. Putting the paper aside, he said in a half-whisper, “This means war!”

  And then, in the first two weeks of March, the Algonquin—American-built, American-owned, American-manned—met a submarine on the surface off the English coast. Forced to stop, she was shelled by a deck gun while her crew scrambled to safety. A few days later, the City of Memphis, the Illinois, and the Vigiliancia were torpedoed, with some crewmen killed.

  It was the last straw. Grimly President Wilson broke diplomatic relations with Germany and called Congress into a special session. The man of peace would ask for a declaration of war. It was the hardest thing he would ever have to do, but he could see no way out. The president had no doubt that the Senate and the House of Representatives would agree to his request; indeed, they would welcome it eagerly.

  After his tour of the European battlefields, the ace reporter for the New York Journal, Amos Stuart, had returned to America. Now on the early morning of Monday, April 2, he was standing outside the White House as President Wilson set out for Capitol Hill. It was a bad day, damp and dreary, a fitting setting for what was to take place. President Wilson looked haggard as he sat next to Mrs. Wilson in the big limousine.

  “Why all the police guards?” Amos asked Fred Hargrove, one of his friends in the police department. “What are those soldiers doing here, Fred?”

  Hargrove stared at the troop of mounted officers surrounding the presidential vehicle, their horses’ hooves clattering on the wet pavement shimmering under t
he streetlights. As the troopers spurred their mounts, making them dance to throw off the rain, as well as any would-be assassins in the crowd, he muttered, “There’s a lot to be afraid of tonight. The crowds were ten-deep, jamming the sidewalks either side of Pennsylvania Avenue. A lot of them shouting, ‘No War!’ There’s no telling how these folks might react, Amos. Why, I heard that Senator Henry Cabot Lodge and a demonstrator have already gotten into a fistfight!”

  Amos nodded. “I heard the Secret Service was afraid for the president’s safety. They’re probably remembering that bomb that went off in the senate wing back in July. But nothing like that will happen tonight, do you think?”

  “Uhh…I ain’t saying. All I know is, a crowd like this can turn mean.”

  The procession moved away and Amos followed the entourage and headed toward Capitol Hill. As he approached, he saw a startling sight. For the first time in history, floodlights lit the white dome of the Capitol, giving the impression that it might sail off into space at any moment.

  When Amos got out of his car, he ran into another friend who asked, “Have you seen all those guns up on the roof?” He waved at the top of the building. “Machine guns. Positioned to sweep the street.”

  Discouraged and disturbed, Amos entered the House of Representatives. As he left the street, the rain began to fall harder, lightning streaked the sky, and there was a rumbling of distant thunder. He found a place in the crowded gallery, where Mrs. Wilson sat, looking down on a sea of American flags.

  Only the German diplomats were absent, Amos noted, taking inventory. If he had but known, they were busy at the Embassy with last-minute packing and the burning of secret papers.

  At 8:32 P.M., Uncle Joe Cannon, Speaker of the House, announced, “The President of the United States!” Cheers and applause rocked the room as Mr. Wilson walked to the rostrum, a thin figure in a black suit. The quiet was almost oppressive.

  “Gentlemen of the Congress…” Wilson adjusted his steel-rimmed spectacles and began to speak, his words reaching into every corner of the great room. The war message was his own, picked out word by word on his battered portable typewriter. Calmly, sentence followed sentence in logical order as Wilson built the case against Germany. The warlords of Berlin were the enemies of freedom, warring against humanity, unleashing their U-boats to ravage the seas. The United States must resist such outrages.

  “We must fight,” he said, “for the ultimate peace of the world and the liberation of its peoples. The world must be made safe for democracy.”

  Ed White, the seventy-two-year-old Chief Justice of the Supreme Court, sat in the front row, his eyes fixed on the president’s face. Snowy-haired and wrinkled with time, he was a Civil War veteran who had never lost his fighting spirit. At these words he tossed his hat away, leapt to his feet, and clapped his hands above his head, giving the Rebel Yell. Long ago that battle cry had chilled the blood of bluecoats at Shiloh, Chickamauga, and other Civil War battlefields. Now it stirred this audience, which unleashed a roar like a storm.

  President Wilson finished his speech and was led through the crowds by Secret Service men for the ride back to the White House. There were congratulatory handshakes and smiles of happiness, as if he’d won some great victory.

  Back at the White House, the Wilsons had dinner with friends. After they left, his wife went upstairs to bed, and the president wandered into the empty Cabinet room. Some time later his secretary, Joseph Tumulty, found him seated at a long table.

  Wilson had just given the greatest speech of his life, yet he was not happy. As he and his secretary talked about the day’s events, an overwhelming sadness came upon the president, and tears filled his eyes.

  “Think of what it was they were applauding,” he muttered. “My message was a message of death for our young men. How strange to applaud that!”

  With those words, Woodrow Wilson laid his head on the table and cried.

  “Which way to the revival?” Amos asked.

  The clerk of the small grocery store took the bill Amos handed him, slipped it into a clanging cash register, and slammed the drawer shut. Handing Amos his change, he grinned. “Follow the crowd,” he drawled in a deep Southern accent. “Don’t reckon you’ll have no trouble findin’ Brother Stuart’s meeting.”

  Amos returned the clerk’s smile and walked out of the store, noticing the long line of cars headed north. The proprietor ambled to the door, leaned against the frame, and called, “Out that way ’bout two miles. You cain’t miss it. Everbody in the county’ll be there.”

  “Thanks.” Amos climbed into his car, slammed the door, and pulled away from the grocery store, easing into the steady stream of traffic. Fifteen minutes later, he saw what he had been looking for—a round wooden structure, set in the middle of a field and surrounded by what seemed to be thousands of automobiles.

  Parking his car, he joined the crush of people and was soon jostled by eager revival-goers. When he finally stepped through one of the doors, he found himself inside a huge open structure, the smell of raw lumber and sawdust almost acrid in his nostrils. Approximately halfway down to the front, he located a seat, nothing more than a two-by-eight thrown on a clever arrangement of scaffolding. He held on gingerly as he clambered into his place, squeezing in between a farmer wearing bib overalls on his left, and a well-dressed woman of about thirty and her equally well-dressed husband on his right. There was a hum of conversation as the crowd filed in, filling the structure, and Amos waited eagerly for the meeting to begin.

  Finally several men came out and mounted the platform that was situated at the far end. Amos felt a warm rush as he saw his brother Owen standing tall amidst the others. Amos had hurried from New York to get to this meeting just outside of Richmond, Virginia, and sat there as the choir—composed of several hundred people, probably from the various churches in the area—began to sing. The familiar melodies rang out—“Revive Us Again,” “Are You Washed in the Blood?”, “Amazing Grace”—and Amos joined in lustily.

  There was a pause for a long prayer by the chaplain of the local Ministerial Alliance, followed by several announcements. Then the offering was collected efficiently by a group of men using woven straw plates for the purpose. Amos tossed in ten dollars and grinned as he thought, Brother of mine, I can remember lots of times when ten bucks was all the offering you’d get for a meeting!

  A plain-looking young woman got up and sang a solo, then the visiting evangelist was introduced by the president of the Ministerial Alliance, a tall, rotund, bulky man with a red face and a booming voice. For several minutes he extolled the accomplishments of the evangelist, telling how thousands had come to know Jesus through his ministry, how the whole nation was being shaken, and that soon, no doubt, the world would be moved by the message of Reverend Owen Stuart. On and on he went, and Amos noted that Owen was shaking his head slightly and did not lift his eyes. He never did like that kind of talk, Amos thought, and he was glad when the speaker finally finished.

  Owen rose and walked to the pulpit. Tall, strong, confident, he gave one glance at the departing minister who had introduced him. Then he looked out at the audience and grinned endearingly. “I wish my mother could have heard that. She would have agreed with every bit of it.”

  Laughter rippled through the crowd and Owen added, “I feel like a pancake that’s just had syrup poured all over it. But I thank you, dear brother. I’ll try to say something nice about you before I leave here.” Again a pleasant laugh ran around the huge auditorium.

  Owen spoke for a few moments, thanking those who had had a part in bringing him here. His gesture encompassed the huge auditorium that had been built especially for this meeting as he said, “I know some of you put hours of labor into this structure, and I appreciate that. When it’s taken down, the lumber will be given to build an orphanage in a small town only a few miles from here, and God will certainly honor that.”

  Amos had never seen a building such as the one housing this revival crowd. His brother had begun his m
inistry in tents. But Owen’s appeal had spread until finally the crowds grew too large for even the largest tent. He had then fallen on the idea of having the city where he would hold the revival erect a wooden tabernacle. It would be paid for out of the offerings, and the lumber would be donated to a worthy project.

  Very soon he began speaking on the text, “Ye Must Be Born Again.” Amos had heard that sermon many times during his youth, and not a few since. But he never heard a speech delivered with more passion and earnestness than on that April evening. He thought back over Owen’s first awkward attempts to preach the gospel. He had matured since those days. He was sure in his movements and quoted Scripture after Scripture from memory. As he threw himself into his message, he moved from one side of the platform to the other, sometimes lifting his hand and clenching his fist. He was serious at times and he laughed at other times. He’s a fine preacher! I wonder how big he’ll be before he gets through, Amos thought.

  When it was time for the invitation, the entire congregation stood together and began to sing “Just As I Am, Without One Plea.” The farmer next to Amos turned to look at him and whispered hoarsely, “Are you saved, young man?”

  Amos said quickly, “Yes, I sure am, and I take it you are, too.”

  “Bet your boots! Baptized two nights ago by that very preacher you see up on the platform, Brother Stuart.” The farmer’s leathery face and work-hardened hands spoke of a man who’d labored all of his life. He looked at Amos and there was a light of wonder in his eyes. “Been a member of a church for twenty years, and two nights ago I come and that young feller up there, he preached on the same thing he’s preachin’ on tonight—‘Ye Must Be Born Again.’ Told us all it wasn’t church membership or bein’ good or treatin’ folks right that saves you. Only Jesus. And you know what?” His eyes grew moist and he slapped his meaty hands together. “I done ’er! I went up that aisle and I began to beller and call and that young feller, Brother Stuart, why he come right down and knelt right with me in them pretty white britches o’ his, put his arm right ’round my shoulders, and began to pray jist like I done. And first thing you know, why the Lord, he come down and saved me.”