Kaiser Wilhelm shook his head. “We would have to return all of the territory we’ve won in France and Belgium. But,” he added thoughtfully, “we might keep Alsace-Lorraine.”
“Yes, we could do that. The only problem is that the Allies might decide to dig in and tie our armies down while Allied shipping does its work. The blockade,” he said grimly, “has been more effective than we thought it might be. Hunger has Berlin gripped in an iron cage.”
“What is our other choice?”
Ludendorff hesitated. He had thought long over this, agonized over it, and had counted well the cost. Still, there was no other way. “The other choice,” he said slowly, “is to launch an all-out offensive to win the war before the Americans get here in power. And this, too, is dangerous—very dangerous!”
Kaiser Wilhelm stared at Ludendorff. “What would happen if the offensive failed?” the Kaiser asked, almost timidly.
Ludendorff stared at the map, then turned a pair of iron-gray eyes on his leader. “Then,” he snapped, “Germany must perish!”
The result of that meeting was that Germany would throw the iron dice and gamble everything on a quick victory. Win or lose, the war would be over by the close of 1918.
The buildup of one of the largest and most secret operations in history went on throughout the winter, although Ludendorff kept his preparations under a tight lid of secrecy. Roads, railroad lines, and airfields were built all along the front so as not to arouse Allied suspicions about one area in particular. Troop trains and air convoys moved constantly, but only at night, with the lights out. Troops were marched along back roads in darkness, hiding in forests in the daylight when Allied patrols were most active. Artillery positions were dug in at night and camouflaged. Mountains of shells were accumulated and placed near the guns under camouflage nets.
Before dawn on Thursday, March 21, 1918, preparations were complete. Three and a half million Germans, many trained as storm troopers, crouched in their trenches, waiting. A ground fog, promising to hide the assault wave during their dash across no-man’s-land, shrouded most of the western front.
Men stared tensely as the luminous dials of their wristwatches ticked off the minutes. Shells were slid into the firing chambers of cannons with a soft swish. Silently the long gun muzzles were raised, moved from side to side, then steadied. Artillerymen stuffed wads of cotton into their ears.
At exactly 4:40 A.M., Ludendorff unleashed the heaviest bombardment in the history of the world. Six thousand cannon opened fire at once along the Somme and continued firing for five hours without letup. The British replied with twenty-five hundred guns of their own.
The ground trembled as if in an earthquake, and the effect was paralyzing. Shells, hundreds of them at a time, landed in straight rows, five yards apart, the edges of their craters touching to form series of neat figure-eights. Command posts vanished into smoking shell holes. Trenches caved in on the inhabitants, becoming mass graves. Ammunition dumps roared and crackled like strings of firecrackers. Barbed-wire entanglements were shredded.
At 10:00 A.M., whistles blew and waves of storm troopers, led by flamethrowers, ran from their trenches. Minutes later, they were attacking the British in their trenches, shouting, shooting, slashing through the Somme defenses. Behind them, the regular infantry surged forward to mop up and destroy any remaining strong points. For the first time since the war began, an advance was measured not in yards, but in miles. Within three days the Germans had jabbed a salient—a wedge—forty miles into the Allied front.
Ludendorff and the High Command were jubilant. Their gamble, so it seemed, had paid off, as the Allied line collapsed, and seemed almost at the point of being broken.
“Now we shall see!” General Ludendorff exclaimed exultantly. “We will teach them what the German soldier can do!”
The members of the Lafayette Escadrille had looked forward with eager anticipation to the time when they would be attached to an American Air Force in France. However, when that time finally came, it was a day of bitter disappointment for all of them.
Bill Thaw was enthusiastic about the news that at last the slow-moving brass hats were sending a delegation of high-rankers to examine the Lafayette Escadrille pilots. “Just a matter of time now, chaps!” he said, beaming. “We’ll be flying under the Stars and Stripes before you know it!”
The examiners came, and all of the pilots took physical examinations, including urinalysis, blood tests, and a long series of rather ridiculous physical demonstrations. And the next day, when the men were called together, a chastened Bill Thaw stood up to say, “Bad news. The Board decided that most of us are not fit enough to make an aviator.”
A cry of amazement went up from all the flyers, but it was Gavin who said, “Why, that’s the craziest thing I ever heard! We shoot down Germans every day!”
“I know. All I’m doing is passing along what they said,” Thaw explained mournfully. Then he mentioned Dud Hill’s blind eye, his own bad vision and crippled arm, Lufbery’s inability to walk a crack backwards, Dolan’s tonsils, Hank Jones’s flat feet.
“So we’re just a bunch of broken-down, crippled misfits?” Genet exclaimed in disgust. “How do they think we score kills if we’re in such bad shape?”
“I don’t know,” Thaw said. “But I’m afraid it’s bad news. And I might as well be honest with you. It’s the end of the Lafayette Escadrille.”
In December, the Escadrille had been ordered to the field of La Noblette, and all the pilots presented their applications to the French Army for release, expecting to receive immediate commissions into the American Army. Their releases were officially granted, but no commissions arrived.
From December 1, 1917, through February 18, 1918, the men flew as civilians in the uniform of the French Army, and during this time, Gavin Stuart had had his hardest struggle. He watched as the Escadrille was broken up. Thaw and Lufbery were given commissions in the American force. There was a sprinkling of captaincies, but most of the flyers received commissions as first and second lieutenants and were placed under the commands of newly arrived “ninety-day wonders,” men who were full of ambition and disciplinary theories, but had never fired a gun at the enemy.
During this time, Gavin grew very close to Edmund Genet, the smallest and softest-speaking of all the Escadrille flyers, and a direct descendant of the Edmund Genet who was the ambassador the French Revolutionary Government sent to the United States in 1792. Genet did not have the appearance of a fighting man, but Gavin had come to know him very well. When the Lafayette Escadrille had begun breaking up, the two of them talked it over seriously.
“You’re not happy about going into the American Army, are you Gavin?” Genet asked.
“No. None of us are going to get a fair break. They’re gonna put their own guys in whatever planes are available.”
Edmund, a chunky little figure, topped by a thatch of short-cropped blond hair above the round, pink-cheeked face of an infant, pondered this for a moment. He still didn’t look a day over sixteen, with his peach-bloom complexion showing little traces of ever having met a razor, and his stubby little nose. There was always a constant expression of pleased surprise at the wonders of the world in the wide-set blue eyes. Now he said with some excitement, “Let’s join the French Air Force, Gavin! They’ll be glad to have us. I’ve already talked to some of the commanders. We can stay together.”
Gavin made his decision at once. “Sure! That’s the thing to do!”
And so it was that on February 18, when the Lafayette Escadrille passed out of existence as a French unit, lock, stock and barrel, and became the 103rd Pursuit Squadron of the American Air Service, Edmund Genet and Gavin Stuart were the only two members who did not join. Instead, they were attached to a French unit under the command of Lieutenant Claude Demond, a tall distinguished man with black eyes and hair to match.
The French unit was short of flyers, so the two young men were immediately thrown into the battle that was raging on the ground beneath—
Ludendorff’s last offensive—that was eating up men from both armies.
Every day was a life-and-death struggle, and Gavin grew very close to young Edmund, who became almost like a younger brother to him. They covered the bare walls of their room with corrugated cardboard strips, and Edmund painted vivid imaginative scenes of air combats between French and German planes all over the place.
“Don’t we see enough fighting?” Gavin complained one day as he lay back on his bunk. He was staring at Edmund, who was busy painting a French Spad.
Edmund grinned at him and threw down his brush. “All right. Let’s go see if we can find anything to eat. I’m hungry.” He was always hungry, and it was a miracle to Gavin that such a small young fellow could stuff so many groceries down his throat and never gain an ounce.
“Thanks, but I don’t want anything.”
Edmund took one quick look at Gavin and came over and sat on his friend’s bunk, facing him. “What’s wrong? You haven’t been yourself, not for a long time now.” Edmund, young as he was, had lived under intense pressure and had come to recognize the symptoms of a pilot who was ready to crack under the strain. He had been concerned about his roommate, of whom he had grown genuinely fond. “Maybe it’s time for you to ask for a leave.”
Gavin leaned his head back against the wall and shut his eyes. He had never told anyone about the “vision” he had had, and it sat heavily on him, weighing him down. Night after night he had relived the scene. He was tempted to unload to his young friend. But he knew that Edmund would never understand such a thing, so he merely passed it off. “No, I’m okay. Just tired, I guess.”
Frowning, Edmund decided not to push the matter. “Well,” he said, “according to the word, one of us can have a leave day after tomorrow, and the other, next week. Tell you what. You take the first one, go scout out whatever can be found. I’ll stay here and keep the war going.” He smiled gently at his friend. “We’ll be all right, Gavin. God hasn’t brought us this far to let us be killed.”
But he was wrong. The next day when Genet went up for the second probe of the day—he had already done an early two-hour morning show—he seemed so bushed that Gavin warned, “You’ve done enough, Edmund. Let someone else go.”
Tired as he was, Genet’s eyes were twinkling as he said, “No, I’ll do it. You old fellows go take your nap, and let us youngsters take care of the fighting.”
Gavin looked down at his young friend, desperately wishing that Genet would listen to him. He put his hand on the younger man’s shoulder. “You’re tired. That’s when you make mistakes. Let Demond do it. You and I can take an early break.”
But Genet only laughed. “You’re a regular mother hen! Don’t worry about me. I’ll be all right.” He hesitated for a moment, then clapped Gavin on the shoulder. “It’s you and me. I never had a brother…until now. So we’ll take care of each other. But this’ll be easy…a piece of cake.”
Genet turned and climbed into his plane and soon disappeared behind a cloud in the sky. Gavin slowly turned away, and for the rest of the afternoon walked around the field, idly killing time. But he became more agitated as the afternoon wore on, for Genet’s mission was not supposed to have taken so long. When Lieutenant Demond came looking for him, Gavin knew at once that something was wrong. The lieutenant’s face was fixed and his mouth was set in a bitter line.
“Is it Edmund?” Gavin asked, dreading the answer.
“Yes. I’m afraid so. An observer just got back and saw him go down not far from our lines.…” Demond hesitated. Knowing of the friendship between the two men, he said gently, “He’s dead, Gavin…hit by a shell splinter, we think. He fell with his motor going full speed. The observers who got to the spot say he never had a chance.” He shook his head sadly. “Poor little dreamer! And what a fine young man! He gave his life for his ideals.”
Gavin felt as if the earth had been yanked out from under him. He had not realized until that moment how much it had meant to have such a friend, a dear friend. Now he had nobody. He was all alone.
He looked at Lieutenant Demond with eyes that were curiously empty. “They won’t stop, will they?” he asked in a hollow voice. “Not until all of us are dead.” Then he turned and walked away, his back stiff and rigid.
Demond stared after him with compassion in his eyes, but there was nothing he could say. Nothing anyone could say at a time like this. No matter how many times it happened, it was always the same. You lost a buddy and were filled with a great hollowness, and then you had to fill that void the best you could. He knew that he had a bitter and angry man on his hands in the figure of Gavin Stuart.
Gavin flew automatically, performing with unusual competence. He had shut everything out of his mind except flying, and nothing about his demeanor betrayed the bitterness that was clawing at him. His close friends were gone; he knew few of the French aviators beyond the surface meetings they had day by day. He became known as a man unapproachable, and soon his fellow pilots gave up all efforts at friendship.
Getting out of his aircraft one day, Gavin walked toward the barracks and was surprised to find his brother Amos waiting for him. “Why, Amos!” he said. “I didn’t know you were in Europe!”
Amos hesitated, then said, “I just got here a week ago. I’ll be here until the Armistice. Covering it all.”
A bitter smile touched Gavin’s lips. “That’ll never come.”
“Why, of course it will. It’s just a matter of time. The German push is running down, and the war will soon be over.” Amos was shocked at the coldness that seemed to freeze his brother’s eyes. This was not the man he remembered. “You need time out from all of this,” he said, waving toward the airfield. “You’re getting stale. Come along.”
“Where to?”
“Into Paris. I’ve wrangled you a short leave—two days. We’ve got things to talk about.”
The two men left the airfield and later that evening found themselves sitting in a café in Paris. All afternoon Gavin had been aware that something was troubling Amos. Finally, after nibbling at his meal, he asked his brother, “What’s wrong? Anything wrong at home, Amos? I haven’t had a letter for a while.”
Amos shook his head. “No, everything’s fine at home. But,” he paused and grew very still, studying Gavin’s face before continuing, “I went to England first. I’ve been with Lylah for the past week.”
Something in his expression alarmed Gavin. “What’s wrong, Amos? Is she sick? I’ve been worried about her. Her letters, they’re not the same as they used to be. She’s not telling me something. What is it?” he demanded.
“I wish I had something good to report, but I don’t.” Amos hesitated, dropped his head, and tried to think of a gentle way to break the news. But there was no way to make what he had to say pleasant. He looked up. “She’s pregnant. The child will be born sometime in June.” He saw Gavin’s face harden and said, “She told me who the father is. I guess you already know, though, don’t you?”
“Von Richthofen.”
The bare mention of the name dropped from the lips of Gavin Stuart like acid, and Amos realized how bitter his brother was. He sighed. “I can’t understand it, Gavin. And she can’t, either. It’s not easy for her.”
“It’s easy enough for her to carry on an affair with him,” Gavin said sarcastically. “And now this.” His face looked drawn and old as he stared at Amos.
Amos began to speak. He told Gavin how shocked he had been, how much this had hurt him, how it had hurt everybody, but most of all he spoke of how much it had hurt Lylah, with no hope of happiness. “They could never marry, even if they wanted to,” he said. “The war, despite what you think, is about over. Germany is going down. But even if it weren’t, those two could never be happy together.” He sat in grim silence, bonded with his brother by the enormity of what had happened.
Finally Gavin spoke up. “Nothing seems to work. Everything’s falling to pieces. I just don’t care anymore, Amos.”
The weariness and pain
in Gavin’s voice prompted Amos to say, “You can’t quit. God’s still in heaven. He hasn’t forgotten us.”
But Gavin did not respond. He sat there quietly, and nothing Amos said could rouse him. Finally, in desperation, Amos said, “Look, I can’t talk to you. But you need to talk to somebody. Owen, maybe. He knows you and loves you as much as I do. It would help if you’d talk to him. We can get him a leave.”
“No, I don’t want to talk to Owen.” But even as Gavin spoke, an idea came to him, and he sat nursing the thought. “There is someone I want to see, though. Would you mind if I didn’t spend the rest of my leave with you, Amos?”
Amos shook his head. He knew something of the young woman Gavin had been seeing; he knew, at least, that she was a Christian, and he suspected that Gavin would go to her. “No, of course not. You go ahead.”
“I will, then. Don’t worry about me. I’m fine.”
But as the two men left the café—Gavin to the right and Amos in the other direction—the older man thought, He’s in a bad way. He won’t make it if something doesn’t turn around for him.
As Gavin trudged along, however, he found himself reluctant to see Heather. He walked for hours in the cold weather, unaware of how much time was passing.
It was quite late when he found himself standing in front of the rooming house where Heather lived. He hesitated briefly and then went inside and on up the stairs to her door. Lifting his hand, he knocked, and almost at once the door opened.
“Why, Gavin!” Heather said. “I had no idea…come in! You look half frozen!”
Gavin took the chair she indicated, and for a while the two chatted about trivial things. But Heather was sharply aware that Gavin was hurting, and eventually she drew it out of him. Once he began to open up, he told her more than he dreamed he would. He told her about the breaking up of the Lafayette Escadrille and finally, with great pain, he told her about the loss of Edmund Genet. Then he skirted around the subject of his sister, finally saying, “And Lylah’s in terrible trouble.”
Hope Takes Flight Page 23