Hope Takes Flight

by Gilbert, Morris

Lylah smiled back at him. “Yes. Yes, Gavin, that’s what he’ll be.” She whispered again the phrase he had used. “He’ll be a Stuart.”

  23

  BATTLE CRY

  Lieutenant Colonel Theodore Roosevelt, Jr. was sitting down with his back to a tree, eating beans out of a tin plate. He hadn’t shaved for several days, and his tin hat was pulled down almost over his eyes. But when he looked up and smiled at his visitor, he looked very much like his famous father, the former president.

  “Mr. Stuart, my father’s told me a great deal about you.” Colonel Roosevelt nodded. “Sit down and have some beans.”

  Amos Stuart sat down, accepted a plate, and began to eat hungrily. “Thank you, Colonel,” he said, talking over a mouthful of beans. “I hate to be a hog, but I haven’t had anything to eat all day.”

  Amos had come to find Owen and had been pleased to find that the battalion commander was none other than the son of his old friend, Theodore Roosevelt. All around them, soldiers were busy checking their gear, eating as they worked.

  Colonel Roosevelt gave Amos an odd look. “You came at a pretty bad time, Mr. Stuart. Maybe you don’t know what’s happening.”

  “Only vaguely, Colonel,” Amos admitted. “I did hear that General Pershing is sending General Bullard with the First Division to plug the gap here.”

  “That’s right.” Roosevelt took a swallow of water from a canteen, then spat it out. “Bad stuff! No wonder they drink wine over here!” Then he looked across the field where a line of trees filled a low-lying ridge and nodded. “That’s our next objective over there—Cantigny. We’ve got to take it, General Bullard says.”

  “Must make you feel pretty good, Colonel, being picked to lead the first Americans in France into action. Your father will be proud of you.”

  The reference to his father seemed to embarrass Roosevelt, and Amos was sorry he’d mentioned it. “I don’t know about proud,” Roosevelt said briefly. “I know it’s going to be quite a chore. The Germans are holed up pretty thick in there, our scouts say.”

  The two men chatted while they ate. At length Amos put down his empty plate. “I hate to ask favors, Colonel, but I’ve got a brother in your command.…”

  “You’ll want to see him, then,” Roosevelt interjected. “He’s not an officer, I take it?”

  “No, he’s a corporal. His name is Owen Stuart.”

  “I don’t know him, but I’ll have my adjutant locate him and escort you to him. You’d better see him pretty quickly, though,” he added hurriedly. “We’ll be pulling out early in the morning to take that town over there.”

  “Thank you, Colonel. And God be with you.”

  Amos followed a lieutenant appointed by the colonel and soon found himself weaving his way through the clusters of soldiers. Walking up to a tall officer, his escort said, “Lieutenant Masters, this is Amos Stuart, war correspondent from New York. His brother’s in your company, isn’t he?”

  Masters nodded. “Yes.” He put out his hand, “Glad to see you, Mr. Stuart. Come along and we’ll see if we can find your brother.”

  Amos thanked the officer who had brought him over and followed Masters past a spot where a small group of men was busy assembling a machine gun. “How’s my brother doing, Lieutenant Masters?” Amos asked as they made their way along.

  Masters hesitated, scanning the groups of men around them. “Uh…not too well,” he said finally. He stopped and turned to face Amos. “He’s the best shot in the battalion and as tough as any…but we had a little action a while back, and some of the men got the idea that your brother is a little bit…well, timid. Nothing to it, probably,” he said hurriedly, “but I thought you ought to know. Sergeant Stone and I are keeping an eye on him, and I’m sure he’ll be all right.”

  Masters moved on, and as they walked over to the group of men, Amos felt a keen disappointment. He could not understand it, for he knew Owen was as brave as any man. But there was no time to question the lieutenant any further, for the officer had called out, “Corporal Stuart! Visitor here to see you! Drop back by the headquarters if you like, Mr. Stuart. Like to get my name in those New York papers.” He grinned broadly then went back along the lines.

  “Amos! What in the world are you doing here?” Owen exclaimed. He looks trim and brown and fit, Amos thought. But then, he always did.

  “I just came for a visit. And to get a story, maybe.” He looked across the line toward Cantigny. “Understand you’re going to take a little walk over that way tomorrow.”

  Owen nodded. “Looks like it. C’mon and meet the fellas.”

  “All right. But tell me first, is everything okay? With you, I mean.”

  Owen looked up suddenly, his bright blue eyes steady. “Been hearing things, Amos?” he asked quietly. Noticing his brother’s hesitation, he shrugged. “Eddy got the idea that I was a little slow getting into the fight we had a while back.” He stopped, gazing out into the distance. “He may be right. I was slow. Don’t know yet if it’s something permanent or if it’ll go away.”

  Amos knew his brother very well. He saw that this thing was troubling him greatly, although he was trying hard not to let it show. He slapped Owen on the shoulder. “You’ll be all right. We Stuarts are slow starters, that’s all.”

  Owen’s face was very sober and serious. “I don’t know, Amos. A man never knows what he is ’til he’s tried. And when the bombs started going off and the bullets started flying, something seemed to happen to me. They say some men just don’t have it. I hope I don’t turn out to be one of those.” Before Amos could speak, Owen said, “C’mon, let’s go see some of the guys.”

  Sergeant Stone caught Amos’s eye at once. This man, Amos knew, was a fighter, despite the prematurely white hair. He shook his hand warmly. “Glad to know you, Sergeant. You’re a regular, I bet.”

  “That’s right, Mr. Stuart. Growed up as a cowboy in Texas and turned out to be a soldier.” He nodded slowly. “These here youngsters seem like babies to me.”

  Tyler Ashland, whom Amos met next, did look like a baby—plump and rosy-cheeked, with innocent blue eyes. He was very eager to meet Amos. “Your brother and I are real good friends. We’ve been together ever since we came across the Pond.”

  Kayo Pulaski grinned at Amos. “Get my name right, Mr. Stuart. When I get back, I’m gonna become heavyweight champion of the world, and I want the folks to get ready for me.” He spelled his name carefully and Amos nodded, promising with a smile that he would be in the story.

  As they were talking, another man joined the group and Amos looked up to see Eddy Castellano staring at him. “Hello, Eddy. I saw your brother a few days before I left.”

  “He still sore about my joinin’ the army?” Eddy grinned. With a cocky look he added, “Tell him when you go back I’m learnin’ how to shoot straight. That oughta help in the family business.”

  Amos blinked in surprise at the casual reference to the gangster activities of the Castellano family. When he hesitated, Eddy laughed. “Don’t worry. Tell Nick that when I get back, I’ll be able to take over all the heavy-duty stuff.”

  Amos stood there listening, making mental notes for the story he would write. He knew the real story would be here, with these foot soldiers, not with the generals. Intuitively, he also knew that most of them were afraid. All except Eddy, at least, and maybe Pulaski, for some of the younger men went a little bit pale when Eddy said, “I wish we could go after them Krauts right now! Can’t wait to blast ’em outta that place!”

  “May be a little bit tough.” Stone shrugged. “They’ve had plenty of time to get nestled in.”

  “Won’t be no trouble for us, Sarge.” Eddy grinned, his gaze falling on Owen. He started to say something, then glanced at Amos and thought better of it.

  Amos chatted with the young men for a while. Later on, when he was ready to leave, he had a chance to talk to Eddy. “I’ll tell your brother I saw you. Any word you want to send home?”

  Eddy shook his head. “Naw, this thing’ll b
e over pretty soon and I’ll be back.” Then he narrowed his eyes and glared at Amos. “Nick says you’re a pretty straight guy. But Owen, that brother of yours, he’s a phony! I never had any use for preachers anyhow. And he’s showed he’s got a yellow streak a mile wide. If I was you, I’d take him outta here if you can work it. Old man Hearst ought to have some pull.” He glanced over where Owen was talking with Tyler Ashland and shrugged. “Them two sissies…I ain’t worried about them, but they could get the rest of us killed. The guy beside you is real important out here.”

  Amos hesitated, then said, “You’re wrong about Owen, Eddy. I never saw a man with any more nerve than my brother.”

  “Yeah, he was a fighter, I know, but facin’ a fist is different from facin’ bullets. He just ain’t got it, Amos. Try to get him outta here if you can, ’fore he gets the rest of us hurt.”

  Amos saw that the young man’s mind was made up and left him with a brief salute. Walking back toward the waiting car with Owen, Amos talked of home, carefully avoiding mentioning the fight to come. Finally he said, “Well, good-bye, Owen. I’ve got to get back. I’ll see you in a few days, I hope. I’ll be right behind the troops here…along with the generals.” He grinned and clapped his brother on the shoulder. “God wouldn’t have brought you here unless he had a purpose behind it. So you just watch out for yourself, Owen. It’d be a pretty grim world for me without you. I’ve always been proud of you. You know that?”

  “Guess it’s really the other way around,” Owen muttered. “I’ve always been proud of you and looked up to you, Amos. Don’t worry about me. I’ll be all right. And thanks for reminding me why I’m here.”

  Something about the harsh tone of his voice caused Amos to search his brother’s face carefully. “Now wait a minute. Don’t go getting yourself killed just to prove you’re not a coward.”

  Owen shook his head. “Tell Dad and the others I’m missing them. And you take care of yourself. And,” he hesitated, uncertainty clouding his eyes, “if anything does happen, watch out for Allie and Joey for me, will you, Amos?”

  “Well, sure, I’d do that, but…”

  Owen turned away. “Thanks a lot,” he said over his shoulder and walked back to the group.

  Amos got into the car and drove slowly to a position behind the lines. All the time he was thinking, Owen’s just the kind of guy who would do something crazy to prove a point. I hope he doesn’t try it this time.

  At dawn on May 28, four thousand Americans of the First received their orders: “Come on, boys!” A deadly artillery barrage, striking about twenty-five yards ahead of their front ranks, supported the advance. Across the chewed-up ground they moved, infantry and machine gun companies spraying lead and spewing rifle fire.

  The fight was bitter and sharp, but brief, and the Eighteenth Infantry did not really get into it. When the battle let up, there was time to rest and regroup, and that night there was cheer in the camp.

  Sergeant Stone remained cautious, however. “Tomorrow morning,” he said to his squad, “we’ll catch it.”

  “Ah, the Jerries are finished,” Eddy said airily. “They’re still runnin’.”

  Sergeant Stone knew better. His mouth tightened into a firm line. “That kind of thinking will get you killed, Castellano.”

  Mack Stone proved to be a prophet, for on the next day, May 29, every German gun within range began pounding Cantigny. Owen and the rest of the squad took shelter where they could; avoiding the buildings, for fear of being buried alive. The barrage continued. Then Lieutenant Sam Masters came running along the line, screaming, “Come on! They’re coming in!”

  Stone whipped around, checked his rifle, and shouted an order. “Get set, you guys! This is where you earn your money!”

  As the Eighteenth Battalion rushed forward they saw wave after wave of German soldiers, a gray tide coming against them, in the heaviest counterblow of all. Owen had no time to consider whether he would fight or run, for there was nowhere to run. Stone led the men forward, moving from point to point, throwing a deadly fire on the German troopers in the front lines. Men were dropping on both sides of Owen, and he saw one of his good friends—J. T. Donaldson, whom everybody called “The Professor”—suddenly stand up, sigh, and fall to the ground, the front of his uniform a mass of blood. His glasses fell beside him. He had taught English in college, and his wife and son had died with the flu. And now he was dead.

  Tyler Ashland ran up to pull at Donaldson’s tunic, but Owen called him back. “He’s dead, Tyler. C’mon, nothing we can do for him now.”

  The fight raged on, and Owen and Tyler found themselves separated from the squad for a time. “Where are they?” Tyler cried out, his mild blue eyes glassy with fear. “I don’t see them, Owen! We’ve gotta get out of here! We’re going to be surrounded!”

  “Take it easy, Tyler,” Owen said calmly. “They’ve gone around the point. We’ll just move forward and find them later on.”

  Over to the left, Sergeant Stone and the rest of the squad had found themselves commandeered by Lieutenant Sam Masters, who barked, “Stone, take as many men as you can and get to that point over by those rocks! Look! The Germans are throwing their full weight there! We’ve got to stop them!”

  Obeying the order instantly, Stone yelled, “Machine guns! Get the machine gun!”

  Eddy and the others began to advance, throwing themselves behind rocks and trees, firing steadily as the Germans continued to pour across the field. It was a bloody, violent fight, and it went on for over an hour.

  Suddenly Eddy heard Sam Masters say, “We’ve gotten cut off!”

  As Masters stood up to look, a bullet took him in the throat. He fell to the ground, gasping for air, but it was too late. He bled to death in a few seconds and lay still. Down the line, Stone hollered, “Lieutenant! Lieutenant!”

  Eddy kept his head down, but yelled back, “He’s dead, Sarge! Nothing we could do for him!”

  Stone wiggled along the trench. He had almost reached the squad when a bullet raked him across the back, right above the beltline. When he discovered he could not move he cried out.

  Eddy jumped up and dragged him to safety, calling to the others, “Keep firing! They’re still comin’!” Then he leaned over and examined the wound in Stone’s back. “Sarge, I don’t think it’s too bad.”

  Stone gasped, “Well, it hurts bad!” Stone tried to move and found that his legs and arms would still work. “Get this shirt off me!”

  Somebody said, “Hold still so we can bandage that wound.”

  But Stone waved him off. “Never mind that now!” Looking up, he saw the Germans charging across the field. There were hundreds of them, it seemed, and he pulled his pistol from the holster. “We gotta hold ’em! If they break through here, they’ll flank the whole battalion!”

  Eddy’s face was pale. “We ain’t got much ammunition, Sarge.”

  “Then don’t miss!” Stone said. “Let ’em get thirty feet away before you shoot! We gotta keep ’em outta here!” He rolled over on his stomach, held the pistol with both hands, and waited.

  Others along the line waited, too, a small group at the point of the salient. Every man there knew that the Germans would be throwing their full weight against this one point.

  “Kayo, I don’t know if we can do it!” Eddy whispered to Pulaski. “There ain’t many of us, and we ain’t got much ammunition! And those guys have got flamethrowers!”

  Pulaski swallowed hard and stared at the advancing gray wave. “It looks pretty bad. Too late to send somebody to the rear for help.”

  The men stood their ground. The Germans were massing for another attack. There were over two hundred of them, maybe more, at this particular point.

  “That’s more men than we got bullets!” Pulaski said.

  An ominous silence seemed to fall across the field as the Germans massed. All of a sudden they rose up and began charging across, bayonets gleaming in the sunlight, and calling a wild battle cry as they advanced.

  “Here
they come, Kayo!” Eddy Castellano felt an uncharacteristic sense of despair. But at that moment a sudden movement caught his eye. He swiveled his head to see two men approaching from the rear with a machine gun. “Look! There’s two of our guys and they’ve got a machine gun! They can hold them, if they can just get here!”

  Every member of the squad turned to watch as the two soldiers, crouched low—one carrying the machine gun and the other several rounds of ammunition—stumbled and dodged as they headed for the salient where the squad was pinned down. A cheer went up from the squad.

  But Pulaski flinched as bullets dusted the ground around the two struggling men. “They’ll never make it,” he groaned.

  At that same moment an artillery shell exploded fifty feet behind the two soldiers. A second one came a few seconds later, no more than fifty feet in front.

  “They got ’em straddled!” Eddy growled. “Them guys ain’t gonna make it! And if they don’t, we’re dead meat!”

  Taking another look, he saw that the shell had hit very close to the runners and that both of them were down. Eddy groaned and said wearily, “Well, that’s it. It’s over. We’ll take as many of them as we can!” He lifted his gun and took aim, knowing his rifle would be impotent against the oncoming masses of Germans.

  At that moment he heard Stone holler, “Look at that!”

  Turning, Eddy saw that the two men were up on their feet again. This time he recognized them. Gasping incredulously, he said, “That’s Stuart! That’s the preacher! And the kid! It’s the preacher and the kid!” which were his usual names for Owen and Tyler Ashland.

  “They got Owen!” Pulaski strained to see. “Look at that arm! It’s all bloody! I don’t see how he can hang on!”

  But the two men staggered forward for another twenty-five yards, and they heard Owen say, “Here, Ash—” The two men fell, Ashland fumbled with the machine gun, setting it in place, while Owen set the belt into the machine.

  By now the Germans were no more than a hundred yards away, firing as they advanced. Bullets struck all around the machine gun, and Eddy yelled, “Give ’em cover! Give ’em everything you’ve got!” All up and down the line, a blistering fire from the Eighteenth Battalion began to open up. There were not many of them, but enough to discourage the front line of German soldiers, who began to take cover. And yet the wave came on.