Hope Takes Flight

by Gilbert, Morris

  “Wh–What? What is it?”

  Gavin waited until the Scotsman was awake, then he said, “I’ve got an idea.” Feeling constrained to at least be honest, he added, “It’s probably going to get me killed.” He smiled thinly in the darkness. “I think God just spoke to me.”

  The Scotsman was a devout Presbyterian and did not laugh, as Gavin had half expected. “Weel, now,” he said, “I canna think o’ anyone I’d rather be hearin’ from. What did the Guid Lord say?”

  “Well, he said that he’s going to get us out of this place. And here’s the way it’s going to be.…”

  When Gavin had finished, Douglas nodded. “Only God himself could think up such a thing as that, so I think we’ll ha’ ta pay attention to the Guid Lord!”

  It was 2:15 in the morning when the big arc lights that surrounded the camp, bathing the barbed wire fences in their harsh glare, suddenly went out. The instant they did, two men dressed in German uniforms dashed out of one of the barracks, both of them waving aloft what appeared to be pistols. In the darkness and confusion, as the guards began shouting at each other, the two men shouted back unintelligible German phrases. The gate that had been opened four minutes earlier to admit some trucks was shrouded in darkness for that one moment, and the two men joined the shuffling crowd of German guards, each of them carrying at his side a heavily laden canvas bag. The two threshed their way through the milling guards, slipped by the shadows of the convoy that was coming in, and quickly moved toward the edge of a wooded area, avoiding the glare of the truck’s headlights.

  The camp was filled with the shouts of the guards, and a siren went off, breaking the stillness of the night with its cacophonous scream. The two men crouched low and Gavin stumbled into a hole, sprawling on the ground. “Are ye all right, Gavin?” Harry whispered, pausing for a moment.

  “Yeah, go on, let’s get outta here!”

  They scrambled madly and, with relief, entered a line of trees that apparently formed part of a second-growth forest. They plunged into the woods as the sounds faded and suddenly stopped. Glancing back, Gavin saw the lights go on. “We won’t have much time. They’ll have a head count right away after a thing like that.”

  “Right. Now, how do we get past the ring o’ guards that’ll form, Gavin?”

  Gavin had already thought this out long ago. In talking to several of the men who worked outside, cutting the trees for firewood, he had learned of a creek that ran along a bluff. The area was so heavily timbered and overgrown with scrub bushes the guards usually avoided it. Gavin was not sure where it was, but as best he could, he followed the directions he had received.

  Three hours later they paused, completely out of breath, faces and hands scratched by the tangled underbrush, and threw themselves onto the ground. “I think we got through,” Gavin panted. They lay listening for what seemed an interminable time and heard faint shouts behind them. “They’re forming a line,” he added. “They think they’ve trapped us inside.”

  “It’s only God’s mercy we got this far,” Harry gasped. “But they’ll be finding oot right soon that we’re na in that ring, so we’ll have to get oot o’ here.”

  Getting to their feet, the two men plunged again into the darkness.

  For a week the two men, wet, miserable, and cold at night, lay hidden under rocks or dripping trees, for the rains had come. They moved on only during the deep blackness of the night hours, for these woods were dotted with woodsmen and hunters. They slept fitfully during the day, one keeping watch while the other slept. By now their feet were torn and bleeding, and when their food supply ran out, they lived on raw vegetables filched from farmers’ fields and gardens.

  Once they had the good fortune to run upon a chicken that had wandered away from a farmyard. Harry pounced on it and wrung its neck. Risking a small fire deep in the woods, they used small sticks to roast the bird over the glowing coals and ate it ravenously. When they had finished, they washed it down with water from a nearby creek and lay back, bellies full for the first time since their escape.

  “You know, Gavin,” Harry began drowsily, “the more I think of it, the more I think God did speak to you. Tellin’ us how to make the guns oot o’ wood an’ all o’ that. And everything’s gone just right.”

  “I guess so, Harry. I don’t know about things like that.” Gavin paused, his eyelids growing heavy. He was weary to the bone, they were still hundreds of miles from home, and he was discouraged. “I guess the Lord will have to do more than that, though, if we’re going to get through. We’ve got a long way to go.”

  After dark, they continued their journey and finally found themselves on a high cliff overlooking a river. “If I’m rememberin’ my geography, right over that river is Switzerland,” Harry said. “Come on, let’s go across.”

  They waded down a little brook that ran under a railroad bridge passing directly through town, and finally, half underwater, they were suddenly carried downstream, both men losing their provisions in the swirling current.

  Gavin saw that Harry kept going under and realized the man couldn’t swim. He threw himself into the fast stream, bloated with the rains of recent days, grabbed Harry by the jacket and hauled him out. Coughing and gagging, Harry lay on the bank for a minute, and then the two dragged themselves onto the shores of Switzerland. They lay there, panting, and Harry said, “Weel, the Guid Lord sent the right mon to get me oot o’ prison. I would’ve drowned if it hadn’t been for you, lad.”

  Gavin was exhausted, but he got up on his knees and strained to see ahead where the murky gray skies were surrendering to the dawn. It was time to move on. Taking a deep breath, he said, “Come on. Let’s get out of here. I want to get Germany as far behind me as I can.”

  The two men got up and staggered into a village where at first they were received with suspicion, a result of the German uniforms they wore. Given a chance to explain, however, they were welcomed royally, fed a hearty meal, and bedded down for the night.

  The next morning the Swiss Frontier Guards showed up with a change of clothing for both men and transportation to France.

  They arrived in Paris, thin and worn. “Weel, we be parting, Gavin,” Harry said, “but let’s try to keep in touch.” He paused and said quietly, “The Guid Lord was wi’ us, Gavin. No other way o’ explainin’ it.”

  Gavin took a deep breath, then nodded. “I guess you’re right, Harry. Now, let’s get back to the war. We’ve been away too long!”

  17

  THE WOUNDED EAGLE

  On the last day of Bloody April, Baron Manfred von Richthofen was informed that he would be meeting with Kaiser Wilhelm II. This news, which once would have made the flyer’s heart beat faster, now had little effect. He had been saturated by the admiration of the masses but was now convinced that the war could never be won by Germany. Nevertheless, at noon three days later, von Richthofen was presented to Kaiser Wilhelm II, who looked him over as though he were buying a horse.

  Wilhelm was a rather good-looking man, with close-cropped gray hair. He was about von Richthofen’s height and had a good physique, although he bulged in the middle. The Kaiser congratulated von Richthofen on his fifty-two kills and on his twenty-fifth birthday. “You are a great asset to the fatherland,” he said warmly, “and I trust you will double both your kills and your birthdays!” Von Richthofen thanked the Kaiser, replying, “Nothing would make me happier than to return to the front and fight for the fatherland.”

  Von Richthofen returned to Douai and continued to pursue his goal of shooting down a record number of enemy planes. He was saddened by the deaths of his old flying companions, who were falling rather frequently now. Von Richthofen claimed his fifty-fourth airplane after a flight over the front lines near Ypres on the evening of June 26. It was that same day that he was informed that Jastas 4, 6, 10, and 11 would from that day on constitute Jagdgeschwader 1. That was the technical name, but to the world it was called “Richthofen’s Flying Circus,” partly because of the garish and exotic designs and
painting patterns of the airplanes, partly because of their activity. Under von Richthofen’s leadership, the squadron immediately became more and more deadly and the Allied pilots dreaded to meet Richthofen’s Flying Circus.

  On July 6 a report came in that six observation planes were circling German positions. Von Richthofen led Jasta 11 into a clear sky and found British aircraft quickly forming a circle. One of the British airplanes piloted by Captain D. C. Cunnell was about three hundred yards from the all-red Albatros when its gunner, Second Lieutenant A. E. Woodbridge, began shooting at the German plane. Von Richthofen saw that he was under fire but because he was well out of effective range, it didn’t worry him. He kept probing for an opening. Woodbridge, who said later that flying observation planes against the Flying Circus was “like sending butterflies out to insult eagles,” stood up in his cockpit and kept firing at the red Albatros.

  The observation plane and the Albatros then came at one another head-on. Woodbridge continued his steady fire, but the German was now firing back. Woodbridge could see his tracer bullets striking the barrels of the German’s machine guns, and knew that there was a person right behind them. Von Richthofen’s bullets were also finding their target, however, tearing holes in the observation plane. Then Woodbridge saw the red Albatros suddenly nose down, pass under him, and slip into a spin. It turned over several times, apparently out of control, and fell screaming to earth. Neither Englishman knew that von Richthofen was in the falling plane, but as they circled and watched it drop out of sight, they knew for certain that its pilot was not faking. Woodbridge suspected that he’d hit the German in the head and he was right.

  The searing pain that overtook Manfred was more intense than anything he’d ever known, and beyond the pain was a dark fog. When the nausea started, he panicked. This is how it feels to be shot to your death.

  As the scarlet Albatros spun slowly downward like a dying autumn leaf, Manfred struggled with the controls. It was clear that he was badly hurt, but he did not know how badly. He knew only that he couldn’t see. The nerves between his brain and his arms and legs seemed to be paralyzed. He could think, however, and he thought about the Albatros’s wings and wondered if they would break off. If they did, the airplane would drop straight down and destruct in a pile of wood, wire, and red linen. The Albatros kept falling and falling, and, for the first time, von Richthofen felt absolutely alone in the air.

  Knowing there was no one to come to his aid helped him to fight for his own life. Blindly he reached for the gasoline valve, eased it back, and heard the horrifying sound of silence. The engine had stopped! Tearing off his goggles, he looked toward the sun but saw nothing. His head was wet and sticky, and he guessed that it was blood. The Albatros came out of its spin more than once as it fluttered down, and slowly he was able to pick out black and white shapes. Now he could see the sun as if through dark glasses. The blur in front of him gradually sharpened until he could see the instrument panel and was shocked to find that the altimeter was registering 1,000 feet.

  His arms and legs began to respond and he worked them frantically, as he looked for a place to land. He had to land quickly because he knew he was in shock. Hundreds of shell holes passed beneath him. He strained to see ahead, ignoring the blood that ran down his neck, soaking his scarf and the Blue Max at his throat.

  Suddenly he made out the shape of a small forest and knew that he was on his own side of the line. And then, before he could react, his airplane tore through telephone wires and made a bounding but right-side-up landing beside a road. Von Richthofen climbed out of the cockpit and stumbled, half unconscious, into some thornbushes. The blinding pain again ricocheted through him as thorns bit into his face and skull. And then the fog that had floated around him settled into a deep ebony blackness, and he knew nothing.

  “Did you hear the news? They got the Red Baron!”

  Lylah Stuart’s heart seemed to stop beating as the fearful words registered, and her legs and arms momentarily went numb. She turned slowly to face her maid, Eileen, who had entered her dressing room reading the headlines of a paper in her hand. “What did you say, Eileen?” she asked, although she had heard clearly enough.

  Eileen handed her the paper. Across the top of the page, in bold black letters was the message: “RED BARON SHOT DOWN.” “There it is, Miss Lylah,” she cried triumphantly. A small, heavyset woman, Eileen had had aspirations to be a star once, but now was content to bask in the reflected glory of one who did have her name on the playbills. “They got him! The morning paper tells all about it!”

  Lylah took the paper and sitting down at her dressing table, spread it out. The words she had most dreaded to see were not there, she thought with relief. The Baron had been shot down, the paper said, but he had only been wounded. She read quickly, noting that the Germans had not released the news immediately, but had waited until they were certain of his condition. Manfred had been slightly wounded in the head, the account read, but would soon be back in the air.

  “Let me fix your hair, Miss Lylah,” Eileen said, coming up behind her. “You got it all mussed up in that last act.”

  As Eileen brushed her hair, Lylah thought of the long days and nights she had endured since her last meeting with Manfred. Of all the things that had happened in her life, she least understood this love she had for the German ace. She had had affairs before, two of which she had thought could have become serious. But looking back, she knew they were nothing like what she felt for Manfred von Richthofen. It troubled her more than anything ever had, and she had lost so much weight that the manager had censured her, trying to force her to eat more. But that had not helped.

  Eileen finished arranging her hair, and Lylah put on her street clothes. When she was almost ready, a knock came at the door.

  “I’ll get it, Miss Lylah.” The plump maid went to the door and opened it, saying cheerfully, “Why, come in, Mr. Hackett.”

  When James Hackett entered a room, he seemed to fill it. Now he sat down, tilting his chair back against the wall. “Sorry performance tonight, wasn’t it, Lylah?”

  The man’s dark handsomeness was as potent as ever. Lylah had been a raw teenager when she met him, and since that time when he had lured her into her first youthful affair, she knew he had lured many others. In fact, Lylah knew Hackett better than most and had learned to accept him as he was—a womanizer who would never be any different. He was, however, a competent actor, and she also knew he spoke the truth about the performance.

  “I was pretty bad,” she admitted ruefully. “I’m sorry, James.”

  He waved his well-kept hand airily. “Oh, I didn’t mean you, Lylah. We were all terrible. The audience thought so, too.” His smooth features fell into a frown and he shook his head. “We’re going to have to close the play. But I’d rather close it at the top than let it run down, hadn’t you?”

  Lylah nodded. She was tired of the play, tired of acting for that matter, and would welcome a break. “Yes, I’ve been expecting you to say so before this. How long will we go?”

  “I’ll make the announcement tonight that we’ll close in maybe a week.” Hackett stood up and stretched wearily. “I’m ready to go home. I like England, but I’d like to see good old New York again. Besides, with this war on, things are getting pretty tight over here, and it’s going to be hard to do a successful play with money like it is. Shall I get your ticket when I get mine?”

  Lylah shook her head. “No, I think I’ll stay on awhile, James. Maybe a few months. I want to rest and this is a good place for it.”

  “What will you do, Lylah? Look for another part?”

  “Oh, no. I know of a little house just outside of London that can be had cheaply enough. I think I’ll just go there and…plant a garden, maybe. Lean back and take a long rest.”

  A shrewd man, Hackett had seen the changes that had taken place in Lylah. Now he studied her carefully, thoughtfully. “If I didn’t know you better, I’d think you’d fallen for some man. But I suppose I’m wrong.”<
br />
  “You know me pretty well, James,” Lylah said quickly. “But I’m really just tired. You go home, and I’ll be there as soon as I get rested up.”

  She knew he did not fully believe her, but he didn’t question her, only shrugged. “Well, let’s do the best we can this next week. We may want to come back to England someday and put on another play, you know.”

  After he had gone, Lylah felt a sense of relief. She had not lied about the house; there was a small cottage to be leased, and she had money enough saved to stay for a year, if necessary. Thinking about the possibilities, she applied her street makeup mechanically. It would be nice to smell the flowers, she thought. Maybe take long walks. But she knew she was fooling herself; it was not flowers or long walks she needed. It was thoughts of Manfred von Richthofen that had caused her to make the decision to remain in England.

  The play closed. Lylah took her last bow, said good-bye to the company, and that same day took up residence in the cottage she had leased. She had not known how really exhausted she was, but for days she did nothing but sleep, take long walks, and let the tranquility of the British countryside calm her. In her solitude she analyzed herself, trying to decide who she was and what she had become. Her childhood seemed a million years in the dim past. She thought of other members of her family who had found God while she herself had found only worldly success…and a love that could never bring any real happiness or contentment.

  The weeks went by and autumn came, with its cool winds and cold nights. She loved the change of the seasons, however, and had learned to endure and even enjoy the quietness. She read more than she had ever read in her life, finding great enjoyment in the entire works of Charles Dickens, something she had never expected to do. A neighbor who was an avid Shakespearean addict made several trips to Stratford with her, enjoying the performances of the Bard’s works.

  So the days passed uneventfully. Lylah kept in touch with her family at home, writing long letters but saying nothing about when she was coming home. Her letters to Gavin, however, were the most painful. To him alone did she ever mention von Richthofen and then only briefly. Gavin was as silent as she, but Lylah sensed his resentment since coming back from his stint in the prison camp. He hates Manfred, Lylah thought. Not because he’s a German, but because of me. This thought troubled her deeply. She could not put it away; she had to learn to live with it.