Hope Takes Flight (13 page)

His talk of killing in the air made Helen uncomfortable. Shortly after that speech, she rose, saying, “We did this once before, didn't we, a year ago? I'll see you before you leave, won't I, Gavin?”

“Every night, right out in the audience,” Gavin replied as he stood. He reached over and took Helen's hand firmly. “You're not going to get rid of me.”

“Well,” Helen said, running an appraising eye over his strong young physique, “you won't have any trouble finding young ladies to fit on your arm. But if you need help, let me know. I've got some ideas about that. Good-bye.”

When she had gone, the two—brother and sister—sat back down and talked for hours. Finally, it grew late and Gavin said, “Let's take a walk. I need some fresh air.”

He paid the bill and they left the restaurant and began walking along the streets of London. Gavin talked quietly, mostly of little things—the men he flew with, the food he had missed…home. Lylah listened, saying little in reply. She clung to his arm as they walked in the cold air along streets that were newly cleared of snow.

She was wondering what Gavin would think if he knew that Baron von Richthofen had been her lover, and that for nearly a year they had been writing one another, the mail taking devious routes, but always arriving sooner or later. It had been a strange relationship. She had had lovers before, but always she had either tired of them quickly, or they had left her. But in the months that had passed since Manfred had held her in his arms, something was different. She did not know what it was, could not explain it to herself. When she read newspaper accounts of the exploits of the young German flying ace shooting down British and French planes, killing her countrymen, she could not reconcile it with the gentleness of the man she had known back in Germany.

Finally the two turned toward her apartment. “It's getting late,” she said. “I have to get some rest. You can't imagine how much acting takes out—”

Suddenly there was a series of loud thumps, almost as if someone were beating a carpet. Puzzled by the sound, they noticed that other pedestrians were hurrying away. Lylah looked up. “Zeppelins!” she cried out. “They're here again!”

Gavin looked up to see searchlight shafts moving across the sky, their long fingers picking out the silvery cigar-like crafts floating quietly overhead. Little winks of red began appearing around the zeppelins. “We've got to get out of here!” he said. “That antiaircraft fire won't stop them!”

Instantly, there was a series of loud explosions as the bombs from the zeppelins fell. Not half a block away, a bus exploded, sending orange flames high in the air as the two stumbled toward a doorway.

“Let's get under that archway!” Gavin shouted to Lylah. “It's safer!”

They ran and ducked inside one of the brownstone buildings, and Gavin held his sister in his arms as the bombs went off all around them. There was a high-pitched scream of agony from someone so badly hurt they could not tell whether it was a man or a woman.

They crouched in the doorway, expecting at any moment to be blown apart. Finally the explosions stopped, and the sounds of the rescue efforts began to be heard. “Let's get out of here,” Lylah said nervously.

Back at her apartment, she begged Gavin to come in for a while. “I don't want to be alone,” she said.

“All right. Just for a while.”

They went inside and she made tea, and he sat on the couch, trying to relax. They drank the soothing brew slowly, and Lylah's jangled nerves began to unwind.

Finally she felt something within compelling her to say, “Gavin, I have no one to talk to. But something has happened to me that I need to tell someone about.”

Gavin's face registered surprise. His sister had never been a woman to express herself. She kept her own secrets. But he saw that her fists were tightly clenched, and now she got up and began to pace in agitation. He listened as she began to tell about her visit to Germany the previous Christmas, and about her meeting with a German fighter pilot.

Lylah felt somehow she was doing the wrong thing but she could not help herself. Finally she turned and said, “We were lovers, Gavin.” Her face was tense as she added, “He's a
German
fighter pilot, and yet I love him. I know we were taught that this is wrong, but I just can't help myself.”

Gavin stared at her. “What's his name, Sis?”

Lylah hesitated, then came to him and put her hands in his. “If I tell you, will you not hate me? Will you not tell Owen or Amos—or anyone?” She was like a little girl as she stood before him, her face vulnerable, tears glistening in her eyes. “Will you never tell anyone?” she repeated. “And, please…will you not hate me, Gavin?”

“How could I hate you, Sis?” he said gently. “Tell me. Who is it?”

Lylah licked her lips and said in a very small voice, “Baron Manfred von Richthofen.”

The room was silent. Gavin heard only the ticking of a small clock up on the mantelpiece. Lylah, waiting, quivered before him. Shock ran along his nerves.
The worst enemy we have is my sister's lover,
he thought incredulously. Forcing aside his revulsion, he put his arms around her, drew her close, and held her as she trembled and wept on his shoulder.

Neither of them said another word. They clung to each other like two children trapped in a dark place.

A
mos Stuart disembarked from the crowded troop ship at Dunkirk, joining the mass of milling soldiers that poured ashore. His face was pale, for he had always had difficulty with sea travel. But he recovered quickly and, by the time he had found transportation to the airfield at Luxeuil, located near the eastern boundary of France, he felt better.

Amos spoke no French whatsoever, but quickly discovered that most of the Frenchmen he encountered spoke enough broken English to give him a semblance of instructions. Following those instructions, and getting lost only twice, he found his way to the Commanding Officer of the Lafayette Escadrille, Captain Georges Thenault.

Thenault was surprised to see an American newspaperman and said so. He was a slight man with a thin, Gaelic face and a pencil-fine mustache.

“Well,
Monsieur,
” he said, “we are glad to see you. When will the million men from America arrive to help us win this war?”

Amos grinned back at the officer and replied, “We'll have to declare war first, Captain.”

“And when do you think that will be?”

“Not long, not long,” Amos replied quickly. “It's just a matter of time.” He did not want to talk about America's lack of response.

He remembered the interview he had had with President Wilson when Wilson, drawn and haggard, had obviously shown every inclination to keep America out of the war. “After all,” he had said, “the platform that won me the presidency this term was: ‘He Kept America Out of War.'”

Amos remembered his own daring when he had said to the President of the United States, “Yes, sir, it may have gotten you elected, Mr. President. But we must enter the war. If America doesn't go in, France is lost; and if Germany wins, we then have an enemy we can never rest with.”

He had gulped, expecting Wilson to throw him out of his office, but the wan president had merely sighed and said, “I'm afraid, sir, you are right. But we shall wait as long as possible.”

“What can we do for you, Monsieur Stuart?” Captain Thenault inquired.

“I am here to see my brother, Gavin Stuart.”

“Ahh…of course! Lieutenant Stuart! I did not put the names together. Come, let me take you to his quarters.”

Amos followed the dapper officer across the fields to a barrack. When they stepped inside, someone called out, “Attention!” The men who were lounging on their bunks leapt to their feet, while the cardplayers over at a table by the far window followed suit.

“At ease,” Captain Thenault said. “We have a distinguished visitor.” His eyes swept the room. Spotting Gavin, he called out, “Your brother is here, Lieutenant Stuart.”

Gavin had been lying on his bunk, thinking about a meal of fried okra, fresh tomatoes, and pork chops, like his mother had fixed when he was a boy. When the captain entered, Gavin had not noticed the man with him. Now, as he came to his feet and Captain Thenault mentioned Amos's name, he stood transfixed, scarcely able to believe his eyes.

“I will leave you here to visit with your brother,” Captain Thenault said to Amos. “Afterwards you will have dinner with me in the Officer's Mess.” He nodded warmly, turned and left, and then and only then did Gavin rush across the room to throw his arm around Amos's shoulders, hugging him.

“Why, you no-account scoundrel!” he cried, squeezing Amos so hard the smaller man almost gasped. “Why in the world didn't you let me know you were coming?”

Amos fought loose from the strangling embrace and struck Gavin a sharp rap on the chest with his closed fist. “Because I didn't know it myself. Besides, I wanted to surprise you.” He looked at the suitcase he had in his hand. “Got enough goodies in here to last you for the duration.” He grinned. “The women packed every kind of cake and cookie they could cram into this thing.”

“Hey, you guys!” Gavin called out. “Groceries from home! Come and get it!”

For the next half hour Amos looked on as the pilots fell on the sweets like ravening wolves. They could not seem to eat fast enough and one of them, a short man that the others called Luf, said warmly in a broken accent, “You are velcome here always if you bring such good tings.”

“Is your name Raoul Lufbery?”

“Ja. Dat is my name.”

“I'd like to talk to you when you have some time, Lieutenant,” Amos said. “We've been hearing great things about what you've been doing over here.” He studied Luf and was filled with awe. “I've never met a real ace before.”

Luf said genially, “Keep your eye on dat brudder of yours. He vill shoot down more Jerries dan all da rest of us.”

Hearing this and the laugh that went up from the other pilots, Gavin shook his head. “Don't pay any attention to him, or the rest of these yokels either. C'mon, let's get away from here, Amos. I want to hear all about home.”

The two men left the barracks and began walking around the airfield. The air was cold and the sky was a leaden gray overhead. As Amos spoke of home, he saw how thin Gavin had gotten, but said nothing. The war had worn his brother down to a fine edge, washing away, it seemed, all signs of the immaturity that he remembered. But he said nothing of this; instead he cheerfully spoke of Owen and his own family and soon the two men had made a complete circle of the airfield.

Amos grew quiet for a while, then asked, “How are you, Gavin? Really?”

Gavin smiled. “Why, I'm all right, Amos.” Then he bit his lip and gazed off into the distance. “But this war is not like I thought it would be.” He hesitated, grateful that Amos, good reporter that he was, was not rushing him. He continued quietly, “I still kind of go to pieces every time I shoot down a plane. And it's worse when I see the pilots. I wish I didn't have to see them up close…their faces, I mean.” They walked along silently and, after a while, he added, “I dream about them, Amos, sometimes. I see their faces and their chests ripped into bloody messes where my bullets tear them to pieces, and…and…”

Amos could think of nothing to say, and finally muttered, “Well, all soldiers worth their salt probably feel that way.”

“No they don't,” Gavin snapped quickly. “Some of them
like
it! They like the killing. They see the whole thing as sort of a game. We've got some in the Lafayette Escadrille. So it's not only Germans who think like that.”

The two men walked on a little farther, and eventually Gavin gave a short laugh. “Well, I didn't mean to lay all this on you, Amos. You didn't come over here to listen to me gripe and bellyache about doing my job.”

Amos bit his lip, trying to sort through his thoughts. He was a man with an ability in analysis, making him a great reporter. He had always been able to look at a situation on the outside and somehow know what it was like on the inside. And now, looking at his younger brother, he tried to find the boy he had hunted with, the boy with the carefree face, the laughing eyes. But he could not find that boy. He saw instead the hardness of a man who was going out daily to kill other men. He finally said, “No, you're wrong, Gavin. That's exactly why I've come over here. Let the other reporters talk about the big battles and the big pushes, what's going on in the whole theater here on the eastern front.” He paused and then said softly, “I'm interested in one man. One man at a time. How does the war affect Gavin Stuart? How does the war affect Captain Thenault? How about Raoul Lufbery? What's happening to him on the inside? That's what I've come over to see and to hear and to try to take back to the United States.”

Gavin stared at him. “Do you think America will come into the war? Because if they don't, France is a dead duck, Amos. They're bled dry, and the Germans seem as strong as ever.”

“I think they'll come in. But when they do, what will it do to the boys who come over? To live in the trenches and to die in no-man's-land?” He looked up then and added, “Or to those who die in the air?”

Gavin said hurriedly, “Well, if anybody can do the job, it'll be you, Amos.” He slapped his brother on the back and said more cheerfully, “You always were a guy who could get inside a fella's skin. C'mon, let's go see if we can find something to drink.”

Oswalt Boelcke led his group into a rain-scrubbed sky under a lead bowl ceiling. There were no cloud formations low enough to hide in or to use for ambushing the enemy. This was the fifth patrol that the commander of the squadron had flown. A deep exhaustion had been so evident in his face that his mechanics had timidly suggested he wait for another day. He had refused.

After his fourth mission that day, a call had come from the infantry, pinpointing two British scouts overhead. “Come along, you fellows,” Boelcke said to Boehme and von Richthofen, along with three others. They climbed into their Albatrosses and flew west until the light began to fade and the cold air grew heavy with moisture.

“There they are!” Boelcke said aloud and waved to his fellow flyers, gesturing toward the British planes silhouetted against the dark clouds. He set up an ambush and pounced.

The British were outnumbered three to one, but decided to fight anyway and turned to meet the attack. Boelcke, with Boehme next to him, dropped on one. Von Richthofen, racing ahead of his wing man, went after the other. The British pilots changed their minds and dove away from the Germans. Von Richthofen, the wind whistling through the crosswires on his wings and a pleasant blast of warm air rushing back from the engine over him, caught up with his intended victim and began firing.

Boelcke and Boehme, a couple of hundred yards away and slightly higher, zeroed in on the other British airplane and opened fire. Von Richthofen's Englishman suddenly swerved, pulled out of his dive, and cut across Boelcke's and Boehme's path. Both rose sharply to avoid a collision. Boehme felt a dull thud beneath him. Evidently Boelcke had turned a little more tightly than his comrade, and Boehme's landing gear had struck the upper left wing of his leader's Albatros.

Boehme, forgetting the fleeing Englishman, looked down at Boelcke's wing. Its tip had broken off, exposing shattered spars and making the fabric flap. Von Richthofen broke off from the Englishman who had caused the accident and began circling Boelcke's falling Albatros.

He and Boehme, now horrified, saw the crippled scout disappear into a dark cloud and followed him. When they came out it seemed as if Boelcke still had some control over his fluttering airplane. They watched, slightly relieved, as the Albatros appeared to respond to Boelcke's manipulations. Then they saw its upper wing tear off and float away, half tumbling in another direction. Boelcke fell straight down and landed in a heap near the infantrymen who had summoned him.

Von Richthofen and Boehme circled the wreckage and headed back to Lagnicourt. The two British pilots were forgotten. Boehme swore all the way back that he would commit suicide if Boelcke were dead.

But Boelcke
was
dead. The man who had put the German Air Force together, the leader to whom they all looked for counsel, was dead. As Manfred von Richthofen landed his plane, he suddenly was aware that things would never be the same again. Somehow the war would go on, and he would go on, and the others would go on, but without Boelcke, things would never be quite like they had been.

The next few days were like a bad dream for Manfred von Richthofen. The elaborate funeral, which would have done justice to a reigning prince, was held in Cambrai Cathedral on November 3. Von Richthofen carried a pillow with Boelcke's decorations resting on it.

Flowers had arrived from all over the country and beyond. A Royal Flying Corps airplane flew over Lagnicourt to drop a wreath. The attached note read: “To the Memory of Captain Boelcke, Our Brave and Chivalrous Foe.” Another wreath was dropped later: “To the Officers of the German Flying Corps in Service on This Front: We hope that you will find this wreath, but are sorry it is so late in coming. The weather has prevented us from sending it earlier. We mourn with his relatives and friends. We all recognize his bravery.”

But all of this pomp and pageantry meant nothing to Manfred. He missed Boelcke. He felt that part of his inner life had been torn away. One night while walking around the airfield, he had what amounted to a vision. Von Richthofen had had these before. He himself put little stock in spiritual things, but more than once, he had been visited with a premonition, a foreseeing some might have called it, that he could not ignore.

He paused beneath the November sky, the stars glittering overhead. He looked up at them as if to find some answer, then shook his head. But the feeling persisted. It was nothing he could put into words, just a sudden wave of certainty that he, Baron Manfred von Richthofen, was a man marked for destiny. That his name would not go unnoticed and unrecorded in the annals of history. He stood there, letting the cold wind bathe his face, knowing that he walked a fine line between life and death. And somehow he knew as well that his name would be remembered long after he himself was gone.