Charlie's Wings

KARL L. STEWART

Award-winning author, KARL STEWART, was raised in the hills of post-WWII West Virginia and moved to Wisconsin in his teen years, attending a Catholic seminary. Upon leaving the seminary, he enlisted in the U.S. Army in 1966, serving as a communications sergeant in the elite Green Beret Special Forces until 1969. He enrolled in the University of Wisconsin, earning a double-major degree in political science and history. In 2005 Stewart retired from teaching high school Social Studies and English to devote himself to his two passions, family and writing He is the author of the award-winning Legend of See Bird series, loosely based on the life of Stewart’s great-grandfather, See Bird Carpenter, a Choctaw Indian. The Green Light continues the life of Stuart Carter (based on Stewart’s father) from WWII (The Seventh Cruise) to Vietnam (The Green Light). Up Harvey’s Creek and Fare Thee Well Harvey’s Creek is a spin-off based on the author's life, living with a parent with PTSD. He is also the author of Good Night Sweet Dreams, an award-winning children’s book.

He and his wife live in rural Wisconsin on a pine-lined ridge with a stunning view to the south, echoing his West Virginia childhood playgrounds.

Charlie’s Wings

The year is 1918, and American troops are pouring into France, seeking to tip the balance of WWI in the Allies’ favor. Charlie Carter, soon-to-be son-in-law of Western legend and rodeo star See Bird, AKA Red Carpenter, is among them. But Carter is one of a new breed of warriors, those who fight from the skies aboard the new invention, the airplane. In these frail and flimsy crafts, Charlie, and other young men like him, seek to take the fight to the German invaders. When his initial excitement wears off, Charlie discovers that death is always his worst enemy. Based on a true person, this is the story of Charlie’s Wings.

KARL L. STEWART

A Story of W W I

Karl L. Stewart

Publisher Page

an imprint of Headline Books

Terra Alta, WV

Charlie’s Wings

by Karl L. Stewart copyright ©2025 Karl L. Stewart All rights reserved. This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents, except where noted otherwise, are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any other resemblance to actual people, places or events is entirely coincidental. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any other form or for any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording or any information storage system, without written permission from Publisher Page.

To order additional copies of this book or for book publishing information, or to contact the author: Headline Books P.O. Box 52 Terra Alta, WV 26764 www.HeadlineBooks.com Email: mybook@headlinebooks.com Publisher Page is an imprint of Headline Books ISBN 13: 9781958914809 Library of Congress Control Number:

P R I N T E D I N T H E U N I T E D S TAT E S O F A M E R I C A

There are so many people who have encouraged me to write this book. One person has never stopped. Thus, I dedicate this book to my best friend, who happens to be my wife.

Foreword

By the summer of 1918, the armies of Europe lay exhausted after three years of slaughter on a scale unimaginable only a few years earlier. Mere human flesh was no match for machine guns, powerful artillery, poison gas, airplanes, and the like. Advanced twentieth-century technology combined with primitive infantry tactics doomed the soldiers from every army. By that year, the French had lost 1.4 million men, Great Britain 885,000, and Italy 650,000. German losses, at 1.7 million, were surpassed only by Russia at 1.8 million. Germany still had hopes of winning, but Kaiser Wilhelm and his generals realized it would be a close thing.

With Russia withdrawing from the war that year, the Germans were able to transfer all the armies on the Eastern Front to Western Europe. The German High Command was in a race against the clock. Every month, the United States poured fresh armies into the fight. Who would get there first, the Germans from the east, or the Americans from across the ocean?

In the spring of the year, Germany gambled that a huge fourpronged attack might be enough to crush the French and British.

After initial success, advancing so far they nearly broke the Allied lines, each prong ran out of steam and ground to a halt.

In the summer of 1918, the Allies, bolstered by the Americans, prepared to counterattack. General Pershing believed the key to victory might well come in the Argonne-Meuse section, near a

small village Mihiel, or Saint Michael, a town captured by the Germans earlier that spring, barely thirty miles due east from the aerodrome at Rembercourt, rapidly filling up with young, enthusiastic, pilots from every corner of America.

Charlie Carter, a young man from the hills of West Virginia, was one of them. This is his story.

1 “Knights of the air.” That’s what the newspaper article called him and his fellow pilots. He would have taken it out of the inside pocket of his shirt and read it again, but at that moment, he was in the cockpit of a Nieuport-17 chase plane flying somewhere over the northern French countryside. His mother sent the article in a small package along with notes and letters from home. To Sergeant Charles Carter, bundled against the cold in his open-seated Nieuport flying at 7,000 feet, it was a glorious morning. There seemed to be no one else in the world, and there was nowhere else in the world he would rather be.

Grey-white wind-shredded strings of clouds scudded eastward across an enormous blue bowl of a sky. Far below, dark lines of trees and hedges snaked across and between deep brown and tan fields, casting their early morning shadows before them.

A brighter yellow-green tree-lined road lazily meandered its way between and across those fields, leading to some yet unseen village, perhaps lying in a shallow valley beyond the grey-green ridge ahead. The absence of visible traffic on the road heightened his sense of solitude. Not even the roaring of the aircraft’s rotary engine just inches in front of his small windscreen could break the sense of exhilaration and solitude he felt. “This is the life for me!” he thought. What an incredible experience for a kid from the hills of West Virginia who had never even seen an “aeroplane” 1

Charlie’s Wings

in flight before joining the army. Charlie glanced around as if someone were watching. Then, filling his lungs, he let loose an exuberant rebel yell, drowned out instantly in the noisy propwash.

Only an hour ago, with the help of Pierre and Louis, his two French mechanics, he had wheeled his bebe’, so-nicknamed because of the Nieuport’s small stature, out of the hangarwarehouse and onto the grass of the aerofield, still heavy with water from last night’s drenching. Together, the three men pointed the plane’s stubby nose into the west wind prior to takeoff. The cloud deck was still low but starting to break up. Dressed in sheepskin-lined coveralls from throat to ankle, and with his feet encased in shaggy knee-length fur boots, he may have looked strange, but his outfit was suited to the frigid temperatures above the clouds. With Pierre’s assistance, he cumbersomely stuffed himself into the tiny cockpit of the single-seater. Louis turned the prop over a few times with the ignition off in order to bring oil and gas into the cylinder. Charlie yelled, “Contact,” and flipped the switch. Louis yanked down hard on the prop one more time and promptly stepped away as the Nieuport erupted to life before settling into a smooth roar.

The same west wind that swept in a driving rain off the English Channel during the night now chased retreating clouds across the grey predawn sky. The field was a mere eighteen miles from ‘the front,’ the Hindenberg Line, it was called, as it ran near the French village of Saint Mihiel. But ‘the front’ seemed a thousand miles away to the young pilot. He had dreamed of this moment, his first ‘chase libre,’ as the French called it, his first solo combat mission, a million times. Maybe this would be the day he would send some German, some Boche, some Hun, some enemy pilot trained by the Bloody Red Baron himself, down in flames.

Oh, the glory of it all!

He spent many restless nights worrying that this day might never come, that he would never see action before this Great 2

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War ended. Charlie thought wryly about his night spent in the huge wooden hangar, lying on a mat beneath his aircraft, for he definitely thought of the Nieuport as his. An older, more experienced pilot had told him not to personalize the craft. “If you’re lucky,” he said, “you’ll live to fly a lot of these contraptions.

If you’re not, well, it won’t matter anyway.” Still, he could not help himself. The plane was his bebe’.

Charlie need not have slept in the hangar. Indeed, several of the more tested pilots teased him about it. Still, Charlie and his team, led by Pierre, his dapper mechanic from Gennevilliers, a Paris suburb, had assembled the craft and had seen it go from a fuselage in a crate, along with a pile of cables and wooden struts, to this beautiful model of modern ingenuity destined for a life above the earth. Charlie had not found it in his heart to let it out of his sight.

During the night, horizontal sheets of rain pounded like a machine-gun assault, firing all at once against the sides and roof of the hangar. Wind off the English Channel pried, pushed, and tugged against the building, causing it to creak and moan in complaint, keeping the young pilot awake most of the night. If this early summer storm persisted, he feared, the airfield would once again become a soggy, spongy quagmire, impossible to fly off. He tempered his disappointment by reminding himself of the thousands of doughboys trying to gain any small measure of rest while they stood knee deep in muddy trenches only a few miles away as the Boche artillery pounded them relentlessly, lighting the distant horizon with its muffled thunder. What right had he to complain? But still, the anxiety he felt that all flight sorties might be cancelled once again due to the inclement weather was almost unbearable. Then, shortly before dawn, the hangar ceased creaking and rattling. Everything became peacefully quiet. The rain stopped. Even the distant artillery barrage stilled. The young airman smiled to himself and slept.

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Charlie’s Wings

Charlie woke amazingly refreshed, considering how little he slept, but with no appetite, he was much too excited to stand in the mess hall line. Instead, he headed to the NCO club hut where he guzzled a couple cups of steaming spiced tea while going over with Pierre for the final time, the idiosyncrasies of flying the Nieuport. He felt fortunate to have Pierre. The man was a skilled mechanic who needed no instruction from Charlie. In fact, it was Pierre who did most of the teaching. And it was especially fortunate that the man spoke English – well, kind of. Louis, his other mechanic, while quite able with a wrench, knew as little English as Charlie knew French, which was little indeed.

In the pilots’ ready room, Charlie received his flight orders, walked out to the field, and took a final look around. Before long, he found himself rolling down the bumpy airstrip and lifting smoothly into the air, aiming the nose of the craft up into the sky.

In fact, he had flown it before. After assemblage, the two of them had fueled the bebe’, and Charlie had taken it up, flying it around the field. Unfamiliar with its handling, when he attempted his first flat turn, the aircraft responded uncertainly, wobbling and losing some altitude, much to the amusement of a group of pilots and mechanics watching from the field, before he leveled off. He brought it in and landed successfully, bouncing only a few times before pulling up to the group and spinning the Nieuport to face into the wind as if to prepare for another takeoff. He was grateful for the heavy mittens he wore over white silk gloves.

They hid the uncontrollable shaking in his hands. Pierre noticed, but he noticed everything. He smiled knowingly at Charlie as the two walked away.

Abruptly, Charlie snapped out of his pleasant daydream and scanned the terrain below. He knew in what direction he was flying. The rising sun did not lie. But how far had he flown? His orders were to fly along the trench line, being careful to remain on the Allied side. Should he encounter a German aircraft, he was to identify it, note its location, and immediately race for home.

4

Karl L. Stewart

While the Nieuport-17 had been a front-line chase airplane last year, rapid aircraft development had made it obsolete by 1918. With a top speed of less than 100 mph and with a single synchronized Lewis machine gun, this aircraft, so small it was nicknamed bebe’, would be no match for the new shark-shaped German Albatros monoplane.

With a shake of his head, Charlie cleared his mind, worried.

Where was he? Until now, he seemed to have the sky to himself.

He did not believe he had strayed over enemy lines. Surely, he would have seen the churned-up brown smudge they called the ‘no man’s land’ lying between the two armies. Anxiously, he leaned first over one side of the fuselage, then over the other. Nothing looked familiar, and the engine was growing inexplicably louder.

He recognized the ‘thunk,’ ‘thunk,’ ‘thunk’ sound of bullets striking the wooden fuselage and instinctively banked his plane hard to starboard. Diving out of the sun, a red-nosed warplane wearing a big black painted cross streaked down on him, spitting fire before flashing past, banking and climbing to get on his tail.

Charlie felt like a toy duck in a carnival shooting game, and the thought nearly panicked him. His throat constricted, and he fought back a surge of bile with his fear.

But now there was no time for thought. If he were going to survive the next few minutes, his reactions had to be correct, and decisions had to be made instantly. He yanked back on the stick and pointed the craft’s nose to the sky, climbing beneath his enemy, minimizing the Hun’s angle of attack. The Albatros roared past. The black cross on its side cut so close that Charlie worried for a moment that the German would clip his wing.

Charlie’s maneuver bought him only a few precious seconds.

The speedier Albatros banked again to get behind Charlie.

The young West Virginian kept his plane in a nose-up position, trying for an over-the-top roll, an ‘Immelmann,’ it was called, hoping to reverse positions and get behind the German.

5

Charlie’s Wings

The Nieuport climbed for several more seconds, sputtered, and then fell silent, her engine starved for fuel. With no forward speed, the craft sat on its tail for a moment. Then, tipped over, nose down, the plane began the long, spinning, slow-motion descent to the earth, the French called it a vrille, a disastrous conclusion to Charlie’s first combat flight.

Ironically, only then did Charlie recognize his surroundings.

His aerodrome was only a mile or two away. The German predator must have been on the prowl, looking for an easy kill on the Allied side of ‘the front.’ “And hang it all,” Charlie thought, “I sure made it easy for him.” The thought somehow jogged Charlie’s mind to a more resolute state. “What can I do to survive this?” he wondered. There was little time left to formulate a plan.

The German pilot, seeing him in a silent tailspin, wrote him off as a ‘kill’ and rapidly disappeared to the northeast.

Drawing on everything his instructors had taught him and his prior experience as an amateur mechanic back home, Charlie decided he had nothing to lose. If this desperate idea did not work, his life would be over in a minute. Every muscle in his body called on him to yank up hard on the stick to flatten out the increasingly tight spin. Counterintuitively, Charlie pushed it forward, forcing the battered plane into an ever-steeper dive, forcing it beyond any speed the Nieuport was designed to survive.

The earth rushed upward at alarming speed. But if the engine had been starved of fuel before, now it was getting the liquid forced down its throat. The wind began spinning the prop faster.

He prayed his hare-brained idea would work. A silent prayer, and he flipped the switch. A sputter, but nothing. Then came a ripping, rending sound that chilled him to his bones. The fabric covering the lower right wing was tearing off. His plane was destroying itself.

Desperately, he flipped the switch again. Despite the cold, he blinked his eyes to chase away the sweat. He heard a sputter, another, and then amazingly, the motor roared back to life. In 6

Karl L. Stewart

that second, Charlie pulled back on the stick with all his strength.

Now, not only could he see the earth, but he also saw a farmer below him abandon his horse-drawn wagon and run away from what looked to be a certain crash.

More fabric on the front of the right wing tore loose and flapped behind like ragged streamers. Charlie could count the wooden struts that shaped the wing. Straining with all his might, he drew back on the stick again, and this time the Nieuport responded, still diving toward the earth but at a shallower angle.

He relaxed for a moment, then he pulled back again. His arms felt dead. But this time the little craft shuddered as if it had a case of the shivers, flattened out, and roared over the treetops, missing them by mere feet. But without the fabric on the right wing, it took all of Charlie’s strength to keep the Nieuport from cartwheeling. The battered aircraft was nearly shaking itself apart. Charlie’s strength nearly gone, he fought to hold the plane in the only attitude that had a chance of keeping it relatively level.

Looming up just ahead, one more line of trees remained between him and the sprawling airfield. Then it was beneath him.

He heard a crunch and felt his body thrust forward as the plane caught in the upper branches, losing momentum. Somehow, it skipped across the tree crown but left its wheels and a landing strut in the upper branches. Immediately beyond the trees, the ruined aircraft dropped and skidded on its belly to a stop as the wooden props shattered on contact with the ground. Almost one hundred meters from the hangar in which he had spent the previous night, dreaming of all the heroic acts he was certain to perform, Charlie opened his eyes, his hand wrapped around the joystick in a death-grip.

At first, he could not believe his good fortune at living through this disaster and sat as if glued to the seat, stunned, exhausted, and shaking. But when he saw Pierre and several pilots running towards him, he regained his wits and took several deep breaths while uncurling his fingers from the joystick. Forcing himself 7

Charlie’s Wings

to stand, he pried himself out of the cockpit and jumped to the ground, much closer now due to the missing landing gear.

He was shaking, but congratulated himself that at least he did not collapse. Leaning against the bullet-riddled remains of the fuselage, he struck what he hoped appeared to be a casual pose, prying off his mittens and silk gloves.

Pierre arrived first, with Louis only a few steps behind. He reached out a hand to steady his pilot but was instead handed Charlie’s gloves. The novice pilot staggered a step forward, found his footing, and, wearing a grim smile, with a nod of his head, passed through the silent assemblage with Pierre and Louis on either side. They had all witnessed the dogfight and could scarcely believe Charlie was alive, much less walking casually away.

Charlie rested a hand on Pierre’s shoulder. Pierre turned and stared incredulously at the wreckage behind them. All three stopped for a final look. “It looks like our bebe’ fell out of the cradle. We’ll have to see what we can salvage from the mess,” Charlie said. Spotting the NCO Club hut, he added, “I think I could use me a beer, maybe two.” Pierre turned and spoke for a moment to Louis, who then walked back to the wreck of an aircraft. Running a hand through his thick black hair, Pierre watched his pilot lumbering away, then turned back once more to see Louis approach the Nieuport. Shaking his head, “Sacre bleu,” was all he said.

8

2 The NCO Club itself would not have been out of place in any shantytown a person might find in the United States. When the first American volunteers arrived in France in 1916, before the USA had even entered the war, and wanted to fly combat missions, it put the French government in a quandary. Clearly, since the USA had not declared war and was officially neutral, these men could not form an American unit. Yet to reject their offer would have appeared arrogant and ungrateful.

And many of these would-be pilots presented another problem. Some had first approached the British, only to be met with scathing rejection. The Brits wanted only “the best” to be their pilots, meaning college men with athletic training.

These Americans, while their intentions may have been noble, completely lacked ‘the right stuff.’ While they might have some utility as mechanics, cooks, or laborers, these farm boys, stevedores, factory workers, prize fighters, and the like could never be awarded a British officer insignia. And only British officers could be pilots. As a result, these disgruntled Americans made their way to the French.

The life span of a fighter pilot could be measured in weeks, and the French, at war for two years already, were running short of men. Yet the French were also designing and producing in large numbers some of the most advanced aircraft in the war. Planes 9

Charlie’s Wings

waiting for pilots – unacceptable. Therefore, while the idea of an NCO club composed of American pilots would have seemed ludicrous to the British, the French were willing to look the other way. Therefore, these young American volunteers were trained as pilots by their French hosts and then were awarded the rank of sergeants, becoming NCOs in the French army and assigned to a unit composed of fellow Americans under the French chain of command. Thus, Lafayette Escadrille was born and would so remain until America finally entered the war in the spring of 1917. Following America’s declaration of war, these flying units were absorbed and organized into the US Army under the leadership of Colonel Billy Mitchell. Most were redesignated as the 94th and 95th Army Air Corps. Thus, these wayward young aerial enthusiasts came under the American chain of command but with French logistical support.

Consequently, the aerodromes they operated out of contained a mixture of French and American English that, although it led to some confusion, worked surprisingly well. But it would not have occurred to the French to build a ‘club’ for the undisciplined Americans. So, the new arrivals cobbled them together in a day or two from whatever scrap material could be found near at hand.

When Pierre caught up with Charlie and entered the tarpaper shack that served as an American NCO club, he had no trouble spotting the man. Charlie was the only one standing at the bar, if that were the proper name for the wide board spanning the gap between two large wooden barrels. A third barrel, tapped, stood at one end of the bar on a few wooden slats that barely raised it above the uneven planks comprising the make-shift floor. At the other end of the bar was a large wooden crate containing a dozen or so unlabeled bottles of a murky red liquid, probably a local red wine “liberated” from a nearby ruined village. Perhaps, but not likely, it had been obtained legally.

‘Mister’ Conners would know, but he was not here to tell.

Perhaps he was off somewhere today following up on a rumor of 10

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a suspected hoard of liquor abandoned in some ruined village.

Or perhaps he was chasing down some rumor about the location of a few panes of unbroken window glass. An Irishman carrying a deep-seated, heartfelt grievance against the British, when war broke out, he made his way directly to France, bypassing the British entirely. Every outfit needed someone like Conners, a man who innately understood how to locate and remove whatever was needed or requested, whether it be a barrel of beer, a crate of wine, or a roll of tarpaper. ‘Mister’ Conners was largely responsible for the construction and maintenance of the ‘Club.’

The American pilots were deeply grateful to this Irish civilian.

The only other occupants of the club were two pilots sitting at a battered table, drinking silently, their eyes focused on the back of what appeared to be a large, pale, hairy beast standing at the bar. Charlie had removed his fur-lined leather headgear and goggles, setting them on the board beside him. As Pierre approached, the Frenchman smiled to himself and smoothed his pencil-thin moustache with the back of his hand. Charlie’s head of shiny black hair poking out of the cold weather suit appeared too small for his body, lending him an animal-like appearance.

“Sergeant Carter,” Pierre said in his creative English as he sidled up to Charlie, “I do also think that perhaps a beer is not such a bad idea, even before I have broken my morning fast.

Alas, I also believe your bebe’ will fly no more. You left too many of her pieces up in the trees.” He raised his eyebrows and waved his hand vaguely.

Charlie smiled. He stepped around the bar to tap a refill for himself and then filled a clean tin cup for his mechanic. If Pierre said the aircraft could not be saved, well, then that was just the way it was. He would have to fly something else. “Pierre,” he said, “how many times have I asked you not to call me ‘sergeant’? To you, I’m just Charlie.”

The mechanic raised his beer in salute before drinking and sat it down with a Gallic shrug. “Charles, I have been wondering 11

Charlie’s Wings

why you call this cold-weather suit of yours a ‘Teddy Bear.’

“It’s not a Teddy Bear. It is a teddy bear suit.” He glanced at a sleeve. “It was named after a President of ours, Teddy Roosevelt.

Fella was a hunter, and once on a trip, some suck-ups with him drove a bear cub into camp so he could shoot it. They thought it would please him and look great in the papers. He refused, said it wasn’t sporting. News got out about it. A company back east trying to sell stuffed toy bears, got the bright idea of naming them Teddy Bears, and the rest, as we say back home, is history.”

“Ooh, la la. That is much amusing. I will try to remember.”

“But I’ve got more on my mind right now than TR.” Charlie paused for a moment and blew out a breath. Staring down into his beer, he spoke. “Pierre, this morning I made almost every mistake a tyro can make, but somehow, I lived to tell about it.

I was so frightened up there when that Boche dived on me, I nearly soiled this marvelous teddy bear suit. I was scared out of my wits.” He slowly shook his head.

“Oui. That may be very true, Charles. Indeed, you would be an imbecile to feel otherwise. But here you are drinking beer before you have even broken your fast. And the day is yet young.

You will fly again, is that not true? My friend, I ask you, is that not true?” He peered at Charlie anxiously.

The young pilot quaffed his beer and swiped his mouth with the back of his now steady hand. “I lost my bearings up there, didn’t even know where I was. That was mistake number one.

I let my mind drift from my mission. Daydreaming nearly got me killed. That was another mistake. I was lucky. That’s all. And how many times can you count on luck to haul your tail out of the grinder? Another mistake was my altitude, or lack of it. I was flying too low because I didn’t want to get cold. How stupid! The Hun dropped on me like a rock out of the sun. I never even saw him coming.” He stared into his cup as though he were looking for answers and then continued. “But then my last and most damning mistake was to ask more from the Nieuport than it was 12

Karl L. Stewart

able to give me. That really almost killed me.”

Pierre put a hand on his friend’s arm. “Mon ami, you are too hard on yourself. You did much that was right. You flew with courage. You acted decisively. So, if you are thinking of quitting, all I can say is do not do this thing. It would only compound those errors you are aware of with an even larger one. “ “Pierre, my good friend, please stop worrying. You mistook my meaning.” He reached over and placed a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “I survived a cascade of errors. This morning was easily the most frightening experience of my life.” He paused. “But it was also the most exciting, well, the second most exciting thing I’ve ever done. I’ve never felt so alive.” His voice became more intense. “I’ve never seen things so crystal clear.” He slapped the bar with the palm of his hand. “The fact is, I cannot wait to get back up there.” He turned his back to the bar and raised his tin cup. “I just need to find me another plane.” The smiling airplane mechanic raised his cup in turn. They clinked cups, and the men drained their beers.

As they exited the shack called the NCO Club, Charlie asked, “And isn’t that Albatros the most beautiful flying machine you have ever seen? It looked like a shark, and I felt like a tuna. Why can’t we make airplanes like that?”

Pierre laughed. “Just you wait, mon ami. I have heard about new aeroplanes being built, and you will love them.” Charlie had survived his first dogfight and learned from it a number of things.

Most importantly, he learned that in a pinch, he would think quickly and react instinctively correctly. While his cockiness diminished, his hard-earned confidence had grown substantially.

There was a good chance, he thought, that he might live to fight – and win – another day.

13

3 Stripped out of his teddy bear suit, Charlie flopped on his barracks cot, enjoying the soft caress of the warming air as it drifted across his bare chest on this summer day. When he told Pierre that the morning dogfight with the German was the second most exciting thing that ever happened in his life, he had not been lying. Proposing to his girlfriend, Gertie, back home in West Virginia, before he went off to war was, if not the most exciting, certainly the most terrifying thing he had ever done.

Thinking about it, even today, gave him goosebumps. On that other fine spring day, not so long ago but far away, he steeled himself in anticipation that the girl he loved would reject his offer. After all, what kind of man would propose to a woman and then run off to war, maybe never to return? He lay awake the entire Saturday night before figuring out how he would do it and what he would say. He finally decided to pop the question immediately after church on Sunday morning, if he could just take her aside, and if his courage and determination held up.

And when the little Baptist congregation sang the final notes of “Shall We Gather by The River”, Charlie took Gertie by the hand and hurried her around to the back side of the church where no one else would witness what he feared would be his impending humiliation. There, in the presence of this striking dark-eyed girl, he promptly forgot every word he planned to 14

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say and stood there with his mouth open. But she was patient.

Gertrude pushed a strand of black curls behind an ear and waited.

Seeing him struggle, she suggested, “Charlie, maybe we should walk a bit,” then said no more. Charlie sighed in relief, and they began to stroll down the lane along the split rail fence that led to her family farm. Somewhere along the way, she reached out and held his hand.

He took her silence and her hand in his as encouragement.

Summoning up all his courage, and feeling dizzy with fear and excitement, almost sick to his stomach, Charlie stammered out his desire that this young woman with the coal-black, sad eyes would be his wife.

When Gertrude realized what Charlie was saying, she stopped and, still holding his hand, turned to face him. She seemed to take forever, looking long and deep into his eyes, as though searching out his soul. Her intense gaze was nearly unbearable, but he met and held it. Then, as though reaching some life-determining decision, she released his hand and touched his cheek with her fingertips, her gaze softening. At her touch, he closed his eyes but could still hear her voice. “Charlie, ever since that time when you stepped in for me on the playground at school when we were back in fifth grade, and you forced that bully Virgil Dobbs to back down and leave me alone, I marked you out as the one I wanted to spend the rest of my life with.

“Since that day, I’ve watched and waited. I hear how people talk, and I know the word is out that you plan to go off to this war over across the ocean. I don’t rightly know if that is the best thing or not, but if that’s what you feel you gotta do, I’m telling you here and now that I will wait for you to come home.

“I will not marry you now, if that is what you are trying to ask. You go do what you need to do. You got needs I can’t pretend to understand, but I’m telling you now that I love you too and will for the rest of my days. So, when you’re done, hurry home.

Then I’ll marry you all proper.” She paused in thought. “But you 15

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know you’d better come on out to the farm before you head off so’s you can talk to Ma and Pa about us.”

He loved hearing her use the word “us.” He felt a swell of love and a pride he’d never known as he realized she now thought of them as one thing. He drew her to his chest in an embrace that neither of them wanted to break. Finally, Charlie stepped back a pace and holding Gertie at arm’s length said, “Holy cow. I almost forgot.” He fumbled in his pants pocket for a moment, searching, then smiled. “I know it ain’t much, but I’ve been working extra hours in Pa’s grocery store to earn enough to buy this ring for you.” He held out his hand, presenting her with a small burgundy box. Opening it he said, “I bought it down in Huntington when Pa and me went for supplies. It’s from Steinberg’s Jewelry. They said if you don’t want it, they’ll take it back. But please,” he pressed it into her hands, “don’t ever take it back, not ever.”

There, nestled in the red silk inside the box, lay a small pearl set on a simple gold band. Her eyes misted, Gertrude carefully, almost reverently lifted it out, admired it for a few moments, and slipped it on her finger. “Charlie, this is the most beautiful ring I’ve ever seen. I’ll wear it from this day on ‘til you return. And then I swear I’ll wear a different one for you. I surely do love you, Charles Carter. Now kiss me.

And he did.

16

4 He awoke a few hours after he had flopped on his barracks cot to a rumbling in the air as well as in his stomach. He sat up and swung his legs to the floor. The noise in his stomach subsided, but the rumbling in the air continued and grew in intensity. Berton Perry, a young, curly red-haired pilot from eastern Kentucky, who almost always could be found chewing a blade of grass, was already standing in the doorway staring at the western sky.“ ’Pears we got us some visitors. Wonder what that’s all about.” He grinned a gap-toothed smile. “Could be the war is over, and the Germans is surrendered. Whadda you think?”

Charlie fixed his eyes on the sky and spied in the distance what appeared to be a flock of large birds approaching, flying in formation. “I sure haven’t a clue, but I’ll bet that office boy running this way from HQ wants to tell us something.” Both men watched with interest as a young headquarters orderly raced in their direction across the field, firmly holding his campaign hat in place with one hand, waving frantically with the other.

“Orders for everybody to assemble at Hangar 9, on the double,” he shouted as he ran by on his way to the next barracks.

“What’s the big rush?” Perry hollered.

The orderly halted a moment to catch his breath. “Mitchell, Colonel Billy Mitchell hisself, is flying in. Get your butts in gear pronto over to number 9.” Then he took off again.

17

Charlie’s Wings

Billy Mitchell was already a legend among the airmen.

His reputation back in the States was growing as well. When America declared war, he was in college but dropped out to join the fight. His father, a well-to-do and well-connected senator from Wisconsin, finagled his son a commission as a major and paid to have Billy privately taught to fly. Sent to Europe, he arrived only four days after the US declared war. It was not long before Mitchell, still in his twenties, rose up the ranks to colonel.

Recently, he was placed in charge of the entire AEF air war effort.

A close friend of ace Eddie Rickenbacker, he was famous for his confidence and willingness to challenge anyone or any institution that hindered what he believed he was born to create, the world’s most lethal air corps. And he was flying in here to aerodrome Rembercourt – today.

It only took a moment for Charlie to put on a shirt and grab his cap. Perry was already on his way. If Billy Mitchell were flying all the way up here from his office in Paris, Sergeant Carter thought, the man had something important to say, and he did not want to miss a word. As he closed the barrack door behind him, the distant drone had now become a constant roar. Glancing up as he hurried to Hangar 9, he watched as sixteen fighter planes, the likes of which he had never seen before, circled the field and landed, driving forward down the field towards the door of Hangar 9. Charlie arrived first.

Though large enough for a dozen chase aircraft at a time, the hangar seemed small, crammed as it was with all the base personnel, everyone, including pilots, mechanics, cooks, and orderlies. In the center, gathered in front of a Nieuport being repaired, were more brass and starched shirts than Charlie had ever seen in one place before. Some, he thought, must have been brought in special for the occasion.

The roar of the engines grew in intensity as, one by one, the incoming craft taxied toward the hangar. The lead one entered and came to a stop inside the door. The rest of the flight stopped 18

Karl L. Stewart

short of the hangar and turned to one side, lining up wingtip to wingtip along the runway just outside the hangar. The base officers moved forward as a group to greet the tall young pilot who stepped out of the lead plane. He stood ramrod straight and faced the welcoming party clustering around him. Charlie moved closer to get a better look at the colonel, whom everyone called Billy. Salutes exchanged, Mitchell seemed animated yet unimpressed by the attentive brass. Charlie liked his looks. Then the colonel held one arm in front of himself to cut a path through the brass and took a position at the front of his airplane. He faced the assemblage.

Pierre leaned to whisper in Charlie’s ear. Somehow, he had found Charlie in the crowd and sidled up unnoticed, startling the pilot. “Do you see it, Monsieur? Do you see it?” he asked excitedly.

“See what?”

“Sacre bleu. The aircraft. I myself have seen it only once when I was on a pass to Paris and visited my friend Francois, who works in the aircraft factory. But I did not know they would be ready so soon. He was building it. Oh, mon ami. Is it not a beauty?”

“Sure, from what I can see. But what is it?”

By now, Colonel Mitchell was raising his arms, urging the men to close up on him. Charlie moved forward with the crowd, Pierre still whispering. “She is named The Société pour Aviation et ses Derives.”

“Are you pulling my leg, Pierre?’

“Non, non, non, my Sergeant Charles. But you Americans are already renaming her ‘The Spad.’” The crowd was now within ten feet of Billy Mitchell. His raised hands, palms forward, signaled them to halt.

“Now I want all the pilots to step to the fore with their mechanics, better to hear what I have to say. After I leave, I commend you to your officers to fill you in on the specifics.

Would you gentlemen,” he asked of the officers, “kindly make way 19

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for the men.” Charlie was pleased to note it was not a question, but an order. “Unfortunately, I do not have a lot of time and will have to leave immediately.” The disappointed officers stepped to either side. He acknowledged the pilots with a nod. “I want to address you men directly, unfiltered. And I want to be heard and understood. If you have any questions about what I say, please ask as soon as I finish.” He paused a moment as the pilots and mechanics stepped closer.

Mitchell stood before Charlie, looking like no general officer he had ever laid eyes on. Nearly six feet tall, Colonel Mitchell had a rugged, stern-faced look about him, and stood so straight that Charlie automatically squared his shoulders. Mitchell’s face was handsome and open, and his eyes piercingly direct. His mouth was set in a way that caused Charlie to conclude that Mitchell was not one to tolerate fools gladly. Sergeant Carter decided he could trust this man to speak the unvarnished truth. A quick glance to his right and left at the other pilots led him to believe they too felt the same way.

Colonel Mitchell then stepped to the side, providing the men an unobstructed view of the airplane, and rested a hand against the fuselage. “Men, this is a Spad. I love flying it, and soon you will as well. I brought sixteen directly from the factory. It’s not enough for all of you, I know, but it is a start. Let me tell you a bit about her. As you can see, she does not take up much space.

We could fit a dozen in this hangar. This model is a one-seater.

Others carry two.” He turned his head to direct attention to the Spad. “This little aircraft has broad square-tipped wings and, in a dogfight, can turn and maneuver on a dime. She is tough and can save your life in a hard landing. The Spad will not fall apart, but you’ll have to work with her to learn her ways.” He tapped the fuselage affectionately with an open palm.

“But what I like best about this plane is her performance.

The Hissos engine is the best available, with the strength of 220 horsepower versus 160 for the Nieuport. It will push you along at 20

Karl L. Stewart

130 mph and can carry you up to 22,000 feet.” There were some whistles from the crowd. “But don’t stay up there too long,” he cautioned, “or you’re likely to lose your fingers and nose.” A few men chuckled. Frostbite was a common problem for pilots, as was light-headedness at such high altitudes.

Mitchell moved around to the right side of the craft. “This bird is a predator. It is armed with a single Vickers machine-gun, belt-fed with 150 rounds of .303 caliber ammunition. Gunsight’s over here on the right side. The Germans can run, but the Spad will catch them and make sure they land very, very hard. I wanted to personally deliver to you men this first group. More will be coming. Use them well. And happy hunting.”

This seemed to be the end of Mitchell’s prepared remarks.

Then a voice spoke up from a pilot in the front row. “Colonel, sir, pardon me, but I have just one question. What good is all that speed if we’ve got to protect and stick with one of those beasts?”

He pointed to a Handley-Page British bomber in a far corner of the hangar.

There had been considerable debate and discussion at all levels about tactics. Every pilot of a ‘chase’ plane wanted to attack, preferably alone or grudgingly in small groups, using speed and maneuverability to their utmost advantage. It was the way things had been handled since aircraft became armed. They were ‘Knights of the air’ and all that. Developing Allied theory, on the other hand, called more and more for ever larger air formations centered on slow bombers to rain the war from the sky, as Billy Mitchell put it, “to become invincible.” Rumors were that Mitchell himself had a big hand in developing such concepts.

Charlie noticed the looks of disapproval on the faces of the officers accompanying Mitchell at the audacity of the question.

But the colonel addressed it directly. “Good question. That goes to the very heart of present discussions. I know there is no glory in nursing a bomber along so it can drop its load on some dock or railroad terminal. What good is it for you to be able to fly at 21

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130 mph when your bomber struggles to fly 90? I get it. And it is heartbreaking. We all know that the life span of a fighter pilot is about six weeks before he is bumped off. And this directive makes that life even more precarious.”

The room grew still. “This war has dragged on for three years.

I’ve been here for only one of them. This spring we took four of the best punches the Boche could throw at us. We stopped each one. But wars are not won by taking punches. They’re won by delivering them. The French and British are being bled dry of an entire generation of young men. They’re hanging on with their fingernails. But they are now starting to realize they must change their strategy, or they will lose. America cannot win this war alone. And if it is worth winning, we will be called on to make terrible sacrifices.

“If that one bomber can reach and hit one armament factory so that some Boche artillery unit runs short of shells, making it possible that our doughboys can force them to retreat back to where they came from, and if the cost of that bomber reaching that factory is the life of one of the finest young men on earth, then all I can say is I am terribly, terribly sorry. I sincerely wish it were otherwise, but you were sent here not to dogfight every German who can wiggle his joystick, but to win this war. And only mass formations of bombers, accompanied by the world’s best fighter pilots, coordinated with artillery and infantry, will accomplish it. No branch can do it alone.

“I pledge to you I will devote every waking moment to see to it that you men get the very best support that we have to offer.” He paused and lowered his voice, looking directly at the assembled officers. “I am also working with a team, day and night, to develop new strategies for air warfare, ones that will hopefully move air combat out of the Middle Ages and into the twentieth century.

“And right now, this little fighter is a step in that direction. Use it well. Let’s fight this war to win this war, to end the killing.” He 22

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stopped and lowered his hands, stepping forward. The assembled crowd parted without a word. “Follow me, men.” There was a shuffling of feet as this remarkable man led them outside.

Charlie would forever remember this day and the sight that greeted him as he exited the hangar. Following the cool shadows and the oily smells of the hangar, the brilliant sunshine and fragrant aromas of green and growing things buoyed his spirits.

And when he and the other pilots saw what awaited them in the grass behind the hangar, only the presence of Billy Mitchell walking in front of them prevented a massed mad dash forward.

Wingtip to wingtip, they stood, sixteen of the finest aircraft the Allied command had to offer, dressed in a row. Each Spad, pointing her stubby nose forward and up, seemed to call to the pilots, “Come. Fly me. Let me show you what I can do.”

The American pilots were delighted to see that there were no French insignia on any craft. Each one was brightly painted, and on each fuselage was a picture of a top hat in a ring, symbolizing America’s commitment to toss its hat into the ring on the side of the British, French, and Italians. In moments, pilots and mechanics swarmed the field, forgetting Mitchell. It was only when someone pointed to the far end of the runway that the men climbed off and out of the Spads, stood at attention before their newly acquired aircraft, and saluted as Colonel William Mitchell led a squadron of suddenly obsolete fighter aircraft down the runway and into the air, disappearing to the west.

The drone of the aircraft faded to silence. Then the orderly’s voice rang out. “Pilots to the ready room in five minutes.”

23

5 Captain Ethan Bentley was about as different a physical specimen as one could get from Billy Mitchell. Like Mitchell, he was American. And also, like Mitchell, he came from a well-todo family and was educated at a reputable university. But there the similarities ended. Where Billy Mitchell stood so straight, he always seemed to be standing at attention, Bentley seemed to be in a perpetual slouch. Where Mitchell appeared to be taller than he actually was, Bentley stood at 5’8’’, merely the average for most men. But the biggest physical difference between the two was that whereas Billy Mitchell stood lean and angular, the good captain appeared to have no neck, his head planted squarely on his broad shoulders over his squat body. When he spoke, it was in a military tone that required no amplification, his words barked out more than spoken. Nonetheless, he was no martinet.

The men respected him because he tried his best to look after their interests.

“At ease, men. Be seated.” He scanned some papers in his hands before handing them to an aide. “Is this all there is, Corporal?”

“Yes, sir. Fifty-seven pilots are active. Four on patrol. Thirteen on sick call. Three absent on passes. So, yes, sir. This is it.”

Bentley grunted and tugged an earlobe. “Ok. This is what I’ve got to work with,” he muttered more to himself than to his aide.

He raised his eyes as if seeing the seated pilots for the first time.

24

Karl L. Stewart

“From this moment forward, there will be an absolute ban on solo flights for the purpose of engaging Hun aviators in combat.”

There was a slight stir among the men. “You all heard Colonel Mitchell clearly. Now I wish to be just as clear as we move to implement his strategy and tactics. What I tell you is not to leave this room, not to reach the ears of your mechanics or anyone else.” Charlie smiled to himself. Based on the volume of Captain Bentley’s voice, the mechanics over in Hangar 9 could probably hear his every word.

“From now on, combat will only be initiated by you flying in combat air support, either in fighter groups of two, four, or larger diamond formations. I will no longer tolerate lone wolf sorties.

Lone wolves get bumped off too quickly.” His voice softened just a bit. “But you men probably saw that coming. It should be welcome news to you, knowing someone has your back.

“And now for something you did not know. Colonel Mitchell, along with the French and Italian allies, has designed a plan that may, just may, help end the war this year.” Bentley now had the men’s full attention. “It will call for the use of air power as it has never been seen before. And the crucial element at the heart of the plan is that ugly monstrosity over in the corner of Hangar 9, the bomber, specifically the Handley-Page “Bloody Paralyzer.”

One of them can carry a ton of bombs. Think of the damage two hundred of them would do to German ports, ammunition depots, or weapons factories. But that cannot and will not happen without the protection provided by fighter pilots flying the best machines we have and using tactics we are currently developing for bomber escort.” He paused, then resumed. “We must change the way we think. We are not here to fight this war but to end it and go home – this year, if Mitchell is right.”

“Let me finish with this. Then you men can get to work.”

Bentley lowered his voice until it seemed almost conversational.

“The Red Baron is dead. The days of his ‘Flying Circus’ are numbered. My Daddy attended Virginia Military Academy. One 25

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of his teachers there was a certain Professor Jackson. You may have heard him called “Stonewall.” Once, Stonewall was asked how he won so many battles. He said, ‘I learned from General Forrest, who, though a despicable excuse for a human being, was also a brilliant cavalry leader. I asked him that question. His reply was the essence of simplicity, ‘I get there firstest with the mostest.’ Well, I’m here to tell you, men, we are going to hit the Germans faster and harder than they can imagine with more air power than’s ever been put in the sky at one time. The Huns now think we are on the ropes. Maybe we are, but we are coming off the ropes to knock them out of the ring. Now let’s get to work.

Dismissed.”

Following the meeting, Charlie walked over to the hangar, mulling over everything he had learned today. It all might be well and good, but where, he wondered, was the glory in the role he was being asked to play in the upcoming months? He found his mechanics working on one of the newly arrived Spads outside the hangar between it and the mechanics’ housing. Louis, lying on the ground, was examining the underside of the aircraft. Pierre had his head under the cowling, inspecting the engine. Louis spotted Charlie first and called to Pierre, “Mon ami, Sergeant Sir Charles.’ Pierre turned and spotted Charlie. His forehead had been scraped bloody by an unplanned meeting it had with an unfamiliar metal part, while a broad oil smudge covered most of one cheek. Still, nothing, it seemed, could dampen the joyful exuberance that illuminated his face.

“Ooh, la, la. I am finally in love, Sharlee, as you so ask to be called. Is this Spad not most beautiful, most dangerous, than any aeroplane you have ever placed your two eyes down upon?”

Charlie could not help but smile. “She sure is pretty.”

Later that evening, as Carter took a seat on the bench alongside the table in the mess hall, he wondered about the changes about to affect his piloting world. Requiring pilots to pair up or fly in groups would mean they could not cover as much area. On 26

Karl L. Stewart

the other hand, it would have been a good thing if earlier today someone had been there to cover his ‘six,’ as the region directly to the rear of the aircraft in flight was increasingly called. But Charlie worried that it was not the only change coming.

“Say, Carter, you got any room left on that bench?”

“You just make yourself at home, Bert. There’s always room for another hillbilly, even if he was related to those no-good McCoys.”

“Much obliged to you,” the pilot named Bert Perry said as he slid in. Then, muttering under his breath just loud enough for Charlie to hear, added, “even if I have to sit by some renegade who cozies up to the Hatfields.”

“Fact is, my friend, as soon as this war ends and I haul myself back to those beautiful West Virginia hills, I plan on getting a lot cozier to the Hatfields, at least with one of them.”

“No kidding, man? You fixing to get hitched?”

“I asked her. She said ‘Yes,’ and I can’t wait. She’s the grandniece of old Devil Anse himself. And her pa is right close to him, too. They even hunted bears together.”

Perry took a long look at Charlie while he chewed another bite of ‘corned willy hash,’ whatever that was. “You wouldn’t be pulling my leg now, old son, would you?”

“Not at all, Bert. In fact, there’s more to her family than I could tell you in a month of Sundays.” Charlie put his fork down and looked at Perry for the first time. “First off, legend has it that her pa was once a gunfighter who rode with Teddy Roosevelt out west. He for sure is the best horseman and rope twirler I’ve ever seen or heard tell of. He made enough money in prize winnings at Wild West Shows and rodeos to buy a couple of farms where he raises horses and grows a bit of t’baccy. But the man never pushed a plow a day in his life. That good enough for you?”

“No kidding.”

“What’s more, the story’s told that See Bird, he goes by the name Red Carpenter, but See Bird’s his real name, was some kind 27

Charlie’s Wings

of Choctaw medicine-man, who could heal people and even raise the dead, one of them being his own daughter – the one I am gonna marry. So, with him now knowing that I’m setting my sights on his daughter, I gotta take her real serious, no messin’ around with other women. See, Bird and me had us a long talk about things and come to an understanding before I shipped out.”

Bert seemed to be struck dumb and sat there with his jaw hanging open. At last, he turned back to his food tray. “You may or may not be stringing me along there, but true or not, I will admit there’s tales of some mighty strange things that happen up in those hills across the Tug Fork. I wouldn’t mess with that man, her pa, either. But the thing that troubles me most about your tale is the part about not messing around with other women.

Hell, man, we’re in France, the world capital of wild women. If I can get me to gay Paree, I intend to meet me some of them, you catch my meanin’?”

Charlie chuckled. “You go right ahead, Sergeant Perry, and meet as many as can stand your sight – and smell – but I’m telling you I’m in love and gonna marry a woman who makes any of those French chips look like painted dogs. Now, let me finish this fine meal here, Uncle Sam cooked up for us.”

28

6 Following supper, Charlie walked back to his barracks after checking in at the mailroom. He figured he should feel happy.

After all, he was alive. He had a new aeroplane, much better than his old one, and to top it off, he had a letter from home tucked inside his shirt. The handwriting on the envelope, he recognized, was Gertie’s. He saved any letters he received to read in his barracks while he sat on his cot, just before ‘lights out.’ Yet, in spite of all the day’s good news, he felt uneasy. He liked the way things had been before Billy Mitchell dropped in and told them that everything was going to be different. Something big was in the wind, and Charlie disliked uncertainty and was suspicious of change. At the same time, he thrived on excitement and living on the knife’s edge.

But he returned to the fact that he had a letter from home from a girl who loved him. That was the best news of the day, and he purposely postponed reading it so he could take his time and enjoy it completely. You don’t just gobble up a great meal, but take it slowly, savoring each bite. He examined the envelope.

Sure enough, it was in Gertie’s hand. Her penmanship was lovely, the loops and swirls indicative of a relaxed and thoughtful mind.

Before settling down to read it, Charlie opened the small armyissued trunk at the foot of his cot and rummaged to the bottom.

He found the half bottle of bourbon exactly where he had left it, 29

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tucked in a pair of heavy woolen socks. Before drawing it out, he glanced around, not because he was afraid of getting caught, many pilots kept their private stashes, but because if anyone else discovered it, Charlie would surely look for it one evening only to find it would be gone. He took a long pull, relishing the heat that flowed down his throat and into his stomach. He recapped the brown bottle and carefully repacked it. Sitting on the side of his cot, feeling the alcoholic warmth envelope him, he slit the envelope open with his Barlow knife and set it aside to put the letter back in when he finished reading it. That way, he could take Gertie’s letter out and read it again – and again.

“My dearest Charles,” it began, “I was picking blackcaps with Ma today down by Blackberry Creek, and I was thinking about you and us. I asked her about how she figured out Pa was the one for her, and she told me things I never knew or even knew to ask before. We sat us down, her on a log and me on a big stone. She smoothed out her skirts, thought about it, and for a minute, I thought she might be going to say nothing and walk away. But then she took a breath and dove right in. She said, ‘You may not know, Gertrude, but your first daddy was a sheriff down

by Logan who was shot dead by some bad men. My own pa was a ne’er-do-well, so we, you and me, was left on our own. Down in Huntington, I did laundry and sewing for folks, and sometimes I was forced to do things with men I am still ashamed to talk of.

But I had to so’s we could eat. More’n once I thought about puttin’ a dent in that old river. One day, down at the Ohio River dock, I saw a young cowboy getting off the paddle-wheeler. We hit it right off. He bought me some lunch and asked for nothing from me. He respected me, and for that I respected him. It helped that he thought you were the cutest little one he ever saw. He cared about me, and I found I started to care for his welfare. I felt my affections towards him start to stir, and sure enough, he said he felt affection for me. I realized I could be happy spending my life with him. And then he proposed to me, showing he felt the same.’

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Ma stopped talking and looked at me like she never did before.

‘All this took time of course, but that’s how it works. Four words – respect, care, affection, love. I thought about it a lot over the years. That’s all I got to say on the matter. I pray you and Charlie can do the same. Now let’s get home. I’ve got a berry cobbler to make.’ Isn’t that something? There’s just one more word I’d add to Ma’s list – trust. Charles, my love, I see I’ve written all over this crinkly little paper, even on the edges. But paper is expensive.

Write to me. And hurry home. All my love, Gertie.”

Charles read her letter two more times before he carefully folded her missive and inserted it back in the envelope. Then he placed it beneath his pillow so it could bring him pleasant dreams.

During the night, the weather changed again, and by morning, the heavy drizzle had transformed the airfield once more into a soggy, muddy, rocky morass, impossible to fly off. Those in charge of such things told the morning assembly of pilots it looked like the heavy weather was settling in for a few days, three at least. Though eager to test-fly his new Spad, Charlie realized that would not be happening for a while. There was not a lot for the pilots to do at such times. Some cleaned and straightened gear. Others repaired broken parts or patched holes in walls and roofs. When those chores were exhausted, many men settled down to play interminable games of chess and checkers, habits they would carry home with them and pass on to a new generation.

Others, like ‘Mister’ Padrick Conners, looked for shortages they could fill, supplies they could gather. Always, there was the reciprocal debt Conners could claim. For example, he was instrumental in building and supplying the NCO Club. There was a jar at the end of the bar nearly full of nickels and Indianhead pennies. The men understood that it would not pay off for them if they stiffed the man. He may be making a dollar or two here or there, but then if he were not, there would soon be no alcohol to 31

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enjoy. Satisfying others’ needs was a difficult skill. And it came at a price, a price that could be paid now or at some unspecified time in the future. But it would be paid. Needless to say, Conners was good at it. The debts incurred were reasonable. The men were grateful.

“Say, Carter, got a minute? I got a proposition for you and that mechanic of yours, the one that speaks English and has friends in Paris.”

“I got nothing else on my plate, Conners, so I’m all ears.” The two stepped into the NCO club, shook off a few drops of water, and settled in at one of the two empty tables. “Want a beer?”

“No, thank you, Carter. I am too excited about this marvelous idea of mine to dull it with drink. If it works, we will all benefit. I must speak directly, without veering off course into some poetry or song, which is where drink carries me.” He wagged a finger.

“Sobriety’s the word for me.”

Carter hid his disappointment at the Irishman’s lack of enthusiasm for a drink. Didn’t all Irishmen drink whenever the opportunity presented itself? Maybe Conners was only part Irish. “Okay then. What are you cooking up?”

“You cannot fly today, but I can still get around. This miserable climate may work to our mutual advantage. Do you recall what it was we dined on last evening?”

Carter looked at Conners, a hint of impatience on his countenance. “Of course, you big lunk. You were there. Corned Willy, for about the thousandth time.”

Conners smiled a catlike grin on his ruddy face. “Exactly, my dearest friend. But would you not have preferred a juicy rare sirloin steak?” Carter nodded. The corporal leaned forward conspiratorially. “That is my plan.”

“Excuse me, but that was not a plan. It was a joke. What’s your plan?”

“Patience, patience. You Yankees are all so impatient. All right. I’ll lay it out. We, you, I, and your mechanic, get a pass to 32

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Paris. For me, it’ll be no problem. With this heavy weather, you pilots have a good chance to get one as well. What I have planned will require some assistance. You and your bilingual mechanic Pierre will do nicely. I have obtained five crates with twelve bottles each of a delicious regional Pinot Noir. Alas, no one here properly appreciates it. I sign out a lorry and we three drive to Paris, where, with Pierre’s assistance, I negotiate a deal with his friend in the stockyard to accidentally sidetrack one cattle car full of prime beef on the hoof to our lonely outpost. And there you have it – fine wine for cattle.”

“Sounds real tempting, Charlie rubbed a cheek thoughtfully, and I suppose you will do this out of the goodness of your heart.

That’s real Christian of you.”

“Please do not bring religion into it. Though I am baptized into the Holy Catholic Church and am a devotee of my namesake, Padrick, the saint who drove the snakes out of Ireland, in this, I fear, there is no Christian pollution. I, too, will benefit from this labor of love. You airmen make how much a month? Forty to fifty American dollars? How much would you pay for fresh beef, fed not in a stockyard on trash, but off our own deep and delicious green pasture? I propose a nickel, merely five cents for a pound.

My profit will depend on how many cows my wine can buy. Do you not think five cents a pound is reasonable?”

Carter stared down at his folded hands and thought about Conners’ scheme. Sure, there were dangers. The wine was contraband. The cattle were designated for elsewhere. Pierre’s friend might not go along with it. But hang it all, the price Conners was asking for it was very reasonable, even given the meagre wages the men earned. Fresh beef would do much to lift morale. And the good Lord knows the men could use something to pick up their spirits. It would be like a taste of home. And besides, the attraction of doing something dangerous and just over the edge of safety and the law could not be resisted. He looked up and met Conners’ eyes. “Count me in.”

33

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Everyone on the base thought they knew Padrick Conners.

The convivial con artist was the recipient of many a goodnatured jibe at his expense. But no one really knew the man at all. Padrick Conners was not really his name. This was a time of terrible trouble back in the old sod, and Sean O’Reilly was a man with a price on his head for actions he took against the British during the Easter Uprising of 1916. Indeed, he became a fugitive, stowing away on a coal scow to Antwerp, just one step ahead of the authorities. In fact, he had never fired a gun in anger at anyone, but his knack for finding and delivering arms and ammunition to the Sinn Fein made Sean O’Reilly a marked man.

Then war suddenly broke out on the continent. The Germans advanced into Belgium and Holland. But Sean had little trouble disappearing in the chaos that was Antwerp. He roamed about for a while, keeping one step ahead of the forces engaged, living from hand to mouth, doing odd jobs, and occasionally liberating some farmer’s hen. But he knew he couldn’t keep this up permanently. So, since he both feared and detested the English, he drifted to the French. They were constructing a huge aerodrome at Rembercourt, due west of the village of Saint Mihiel. Sean’s natural skill as a scrounger made him useful to them, but then his luck really took a major turn for the better. It was the autumn of 1917, and the Yanks were starting to arrive en masse and were short of almost everything. He was so expert at finding things needed by others that the Yanks were pleased to hear him out and perhaps even believed the sad tale spun by Padrick Conners of heartbreak and fleeing an angry husband back home in The Emerald Isle.

He liked the Yanks. They were nothing like the arrogant British. And what legal authority would think to search for him among the closest allies of the despised English? Perhaps, he thought, when this wretched war was over, he would take one final trip ‘across the pond’ and settle in the United States. For 34

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this, he saved every centime he could. A new life in America, he was certain, would not come cheaply.

When Conners walked into the CO’s office the next morning, he found Captain Bentley in a remarkably good mood. “Come in, Mister Conners. Come in.” Conners strode to the front of the desk and stood at what he hoped would pass for ‘Attention.’ But Captain Bentley scarcely seemed to notice. And was the good captain actually humming as he smiled at a paper he held? “Now, what is on your mind, Padrick? And before you answer that, let me be the first to congratulate you on that new cast iron set of cookware you donated to the Officers’ Mess. They’ve made a real difference. We didn’t know what we were missing. Where did you find them, if you don’t mind my asking?”

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.” Conners’ eyebrows rose in surprise.

“I was just scrounging around down at that village the Germans pounded into the ground, about four miles from here, and found what used to be a café or something. I was looking for maybe some canned food and dug through some trash, and there they were, still boxed up, like they were never used. The place was deserted. I searched for the owner but couldn’t stay long. It occurred to me that our officers could use something like that here. No sense leaving them there if the Boche come through, now is there, my good captain sir?”

“Indeed not.” Bentley seemed a bit flustered by the perhaps over-familiar tone of Conners’ voice, and squirmed a bit, placing the sheet of paper down on the desk in front of him and resting his hands on it. “Be sure that you always search carefully for the proper owner. The AEF is not a collection of thieves.” Having salved his conscience, Captain Bentley relaxed. “But let me tell you something that really makes my day, Mister Conners.” He tapped the sheet of paper. “This report tells me we have not lost a pilot to a training accident in three days and none in combat for four. I hate to say it, but that is GOOD news. Did you know that eleven percent of all our casualties happen in training accidents?

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No, probably not. The closest lately was that new pilot, Carter. I saw the wreck he flew in on. Don’t know how he survived that one.”

Conners saw his opening and seized the moment. “That’s just the man I wanted to talk to you about, sir. I ran into him over at the NCO club, and he seemed really rattled by his crash and all.

It occurred to me that it might not be safe for him to be sent up again right away.”

Bentley tilted his head a bit and asked suspiciously, “So what is that to you? Why do you care?”

Conners shuffled his feet a bit. “Well, you see, Captain, sir, I received word the other day about some machine tools we could use that arrived over in Paris earmarked for the aerodrome over at Touquin – two ‘Turning Machines.’ We sure could use them. I would be willing to go over there and see if they would be willing to part with one of them.”

“So, you need a pass to go get them.”

“Yes, sir, Captain, sir. But not just for me. I would like to take Sergeant Carter and his English-speaking mechanic with me to translate if needed and to help me load and unload. Also, I will need a lorry. That is, if it’s alright with you, sir. It’ll help keep our aeroplanes in the air, where they belong. And with the proper machining, the pilots will be more likely to stay alive.”

Captain Bentley was clearly weighing the proposition. So Conners decided to play his last card. “As you said, Captain, sir, we’re on a good streak. No one has died in days. If he doesn’t go with me, Carter will probably go up as soon as this rain clears.

That would be dangerous for him. Also, this bloody rain might not let up for a while anyhow. He and his mechanic could really help the cause, sir, if we could have a four-day pass, sir.”

Captain Bentley frowned. Obviously, Conners had something else on his devious mind that he was not sharing. On any other day, he would probably refuse the release of a pilot on such a scrounge mission. Yet much of what Conners was saying struck 36

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him as valid. Maybe it would be a good idea to have this young pilot stand down for a bit. “Conners, I tell you what I will do. One week in ‘The City of Lights’ is too long. It is only 175 miles from here. It’ll take you one day to get there and one day back, plus two days for you to wheel and deal. That’s your four days. But you may need one more if something snags. According to the army weather forecasters in London, this rain is going to be gone in three days. Check a lorry out of the motor pool this morning. The day is still young. I want you men off the base within the hour.

I’m giving you and two men a five-day pass to Paris.” He took a paper pad out of a drawer and wrote on it for a minute. Then he handed it to Conners. “Do not make me regret my decision.”

“Yes, sir. I mean no, sir. I surely won’t, and I’ll keep an eagle eye on young Carter. Wouldn’t want the country lad to go astray in the big city now, would we?” He couldn’t help but break into a wide smile.

As he reached to take the papers from the captain, he thought he detected a twinkle in the captain’s eyes. “Dismissed,” was all Bentley said.

Within ten minutes, Carter was standing in Hangar 3 with his small bag carrying all his necessities for a couple of days lying at his feet. Conners had told him the plan, showed him his fiveday pass to Paris, and hurried over to the motor pool to check out a lorry. Carter was to gather Pierre, and the three would meet at the NCO club. Carter found Pierre in his quarters. Pierre agreed and then packed a small valise. The two quickly hurried to the hangar where Louis was dabbing at a small oil leak on one of the new Spads.

Carter nervously explained the situation to Louis through Pierre. “Also, Louis, I want you to disable this plane.” At Louis’ shocked look, he continued. “I do not mean in any serious or permanent fashion. Maybe remove some small part as if it is broken and needs replacing. Tell anyone who asks that I have gone to find a new whatchamacallit. Say whatever you need to.

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But do not let any other pilots or mechanics mess or tinker with this Spad. I want it here and ready to go when I return.” Pierre translated. Carter watched as Louis’ face transformed from shock to understanding. Louis raised a corner of his mouth in a sly grin. He nodded his head and gave Pierre a kiss on each cheek.

Then he went back to his work on the aircraft.

Carter and Pierre walked out and towards the NCO club. “I didn’t know you two guys were that close.” Pierre looked askance.

“I mean all that kissing.”

Pierre coughed a laugh and slapped his pilot’s back. “Oh, you Yankees. You are so uncultured. I would be hoping that maybe I can teach you in a few days how to be civilized. Sacre bleu.”

38

7 They walked over to the road that ran along the edge of the sprawling aerodrome and arrived just as Conners pulled up with the truck. Carter and Pierre walked to the rear and tossed their bags over the tailgate into the back of the vehicle. Charlie’s bag jostled one of a number of wooden crates. He heard what sounded like glass bottles bumping into each other.

“Hey, you fellas,” Conners called from the cab, “be careful back there. Those crates contain the crimson lubricant that will remove all the squeaks from this marvelous deal. Climb in and let us be on our way in this wonderful drizzle.”

The two wasted no time clambering into the cab, Pierre taking the middle position while Charlie rested against the door.

Despite the weather conditions, Charlie felt his excitement rise as he considered his situation. Here he was, a young man from the hill country of West Virginia, now a combat-tested fighter pilot on his way to Paris, France, with two buddies and a five-day pass. He could hardly sit still.

Two hours later and about forty-five miles down what passed for a major thoroughfare to the capital city, after Conners slowed to a crawl to bypass another pothole large enough to break an axle if taken on directly, Charlie’s enthusiasm was definitely dampened. He and Pierre were fairly soaked from having to get

39

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out of the vehicle to push it free from a muddy stretch of road yet again.

“Conners,” Charlie said as he slammed the door shut, “are you sure you can even see the road? You seem to spend as much time off it as on. Switch places and I’ll drive a while.”

Conner chuckled. “I think not, my good friend. In the first place, I’m the only one granted permission by our favorite captain to drive this miracle of modern manufacture.” He tapped his chest with one hand while he wrestled the steering wheel with the other, successfully, but very narrowly avoiding yet another pothole. “In the second place, forgive me if I do not trust you to give this lorry the tender-loving-care that I do. God forbid that we should blow a gasket or break an axle in your hurry. No, sir,” he shook his head, “I alone drive, and I alone will deliver us to our destination safely and in the appropriate pieces.” His voice settled into a rumbling mumble, and then he fell silent.

“Well, you sure do take a lot of words to say ‘No thanks.’”

Charlie settled back, resigned to be patient. Conners may be a bit of a windbag, but he was probably right. He heard a soft sighing sound, turned his head, and realized that Pierre was snoring.

How the man could sleep propped up between Carter and Conners, with all the shaking, bumping, and grinding of gears, along with the occasional wet breeze blasting through the open front windscreen, was beyond his understanding. Nevertheless, Charlie did find his mind wandering back to another time, in another vehicle.

“C’mon now, Charlie Carter, you can do this.” The speaker was a slight but wiry man. He was holding open the door to a new 1916 Ford Model T, a smile nudging the corners of his mouth up. His black hair was combed straight back. A touch of grey flecked his temples. His eyes were twinkling.

“I don’t think I can, Mr. Carpenter. I’ve never been inside an automobile before.”

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“Well, there’s always a first time.” He nodded his head. “Now don’t you fret. I’ll talk you through it.”

Charlie stepped up and in, settling behind the steering wheel.

“I always figured you for a horseman, Mister Carpenter. How come it is that you own one of these? Pa hasn’t even got one yet.

And how do you know how to make it go?”

See Bird, AKA Red Carpenter, climbed in on the other side.

“Enough with the questions already. I love horses, for sure. I do believe they’re God’s greatest natural creature, excepting people.

And sometimes I think they’re better than human folks. At least they’re more honest. But you have to admit that Henry Ford fella made something pretty special when he made this machine.

It’s really pretty simple when you think about it: a burning gas powers pistons that turn the parts that move us down the road.

I have always believed that if a person can walk around a manmade object and really look closely at it, he should be able to make one himself. I may not be able yet to make one, but I sure can figure out how to make one run. Now, are you ready, Mister Carter?”

Charlie nodded and gripped the steering wheel nervously.

“Okay, then, young man.” See, Bird was enjoying Charlie’s nervous excitement. “Here we go. You see those three pedals on the floor? The one on the left controls the gear shift. The middle pedal is the ‘reverse,’ and the brake is the one on the right.” He was not sure Charlie heard him, so he tried again. “So, the left pedal engages the transmission, the middle pedal selects reverse, and the right pedal applies the brake. That floor lever on your left is the clutch. Remember to pull the choke before starting, and use the crank to turn the engine over, then adjust the spark and throttle levers on that steering column as you need to.”

Charlie stared at See Bird in horror at his barrage of obscure instructions. See Bird could contain himself no longer, and they both burst out in laughter. Charlie rested his head on the steering 41

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wheel, too weak from laughing to hold it up. See Bird wiped the tears from his eyes. “You’ll get it, son. Don’t you worry. If this old cowboy can learn how to drive, so can you. Now let’s go.”

Several miles later, a much more confident driver now, Charlie asked, “There’s a fork up ahead. Which way should I go?”

“You know what’s at the end of each fork tine. You must decide which road to take. Just make sure you stay on it and keep your eyes on where you want to go. You don’t want to mess up and end in a wreck. Consider your goal, Charlie. Always consider what it is you want to achieve.” See Bird spoke with an intensity that caused the young driver to mull over his advice on a different, more personal level.

When it became clear the See Bird would say no more, Charlie nodded and said quietly, “I understand, Mister Carpenter. I will.”

Suddenly, his head rocked forward, and Conners’ brassy voice broke into his reverie. “Okay, my lovelies, it looks as though I’ll be needing the both of you to get out one more time and lend a helping hand. Plus, I need to take a brief interlude to pay a visit to my Mother Murphy. I suggest you boys find a tree and do the same.” He winked.

By the time the lorry with its three damp, muddy, and weary occupants reached Gennevilliers, one of the suburbs of Paris, evening was well drawing on, lending an atmosphere of dreary grime to the urban landscape. Hardly a ‘city of lights,’ it appeared more like a dreary war-weary matron whose tattered clothing was badly in need of washing and mending.

On the outskirts of Paris, new factories had sprung up in a haphazard manner, producing all the products, from bombs to uniforms, machine tools, and everything else required to sustain a nation at war for three long years. Each day, those factories produced one hundred thousand 75-millimeter artillery shells in sprawling, ugly buildings. And a visitor may have been surprised to note that most of the workers were women. The fighting age 42

Karl L. Stewart

men were all either at the front, dead, or confined to one of the many hospitals for the wounded or ill due to the ravages of the Spanish flu.

When Conners finally pulled the truck off the road into a muddy parking space before a shabby two-story inn that Pierre had indicated, and shut the engine off, Charlie was too tired to be disappointed. He remarked to Pierre that he thought he heard cattle lowing nearby.

“Oui, mon ami, they are indeed in the nearby area. As we say, you can tell the stockyards by their fragrance, non?”

“For sure.”

“Let us then proceed inside, where we may find rest from the jarring we have suffered. I know these people. They are good and do not gouge for a franc those who must be traveling.”

Upon entering the building, Charlie was both relieved and comforted. The odor of the nearby stockyards was greatly diminished, replaced by the scent of cooking vegetables spiced just enough to start his mouth watering. A portly man of indeterminate age limped out of a back room that Charlie assumed was the kitchen and greeted them. The muted light reflected off his shiny head, which was ringed with what resembled a white laurel wreath.

“Bonsoir, Pierre,” he said as he wiped his hands on his faded apron. “Bonsoir, monsieurs.”

“Bonsoir, Marcel,” Pierre said as the two embraced. Pierre introduced his two traveling companions as Marcel continued to try to rid his fingers of the white substance adhering to them. It was only when Pierre told his host that Charlie was a fighter pilot in the American Expeditionary Force that Marcel stopped his fidgeting and gave Charlie his full attention. Then he launched into an explosion of French that Pierre translated for Charlie.

“Marcel says that it is his honor and privilege to welcome you to his very humble inn. He also insists that you will not be 43

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charged a centime for your food or your stay here. Indeed, he says he would be embarrassed and humiliated if one who has come so far across the ocean to defend his people from the invading Hun would be made to pay even more than he was offering with his life.” Pierre paused, and Marcel rushed in to grab Charlie’s shoulders and kiss him emphatically on both cheeks before stepping back a pace, and turning, pumped both fists in the air as he marched to the kitchen.

“Unfortunately,” Pierre added, “times are so difficult for him that he could not make the same offer for me and Mister Conners here. But that is wonderful with me because I have a special friend who will be quite happy to see me, and I am sure we will have much to say to each other long into the evening.

Lola lives down by the river docks. Her father is a, how you say it – a stevendore.” ”That’s stevedore, Pierre,” Charlie corrected. “Please just be back here to translate in the morning. Conners’ and my French is, how you say it - I don’t know how you say it – ‘pffuth.’” They all chuckled.

“Do not worry about a thing, my dear friend Pierre,” Conners interjected. “Sergeant Carter’s close relative, his dear Uncle Sam, by terms in our papers granting us leave, will reimburse all necessary expenditures, whether here or at your sweet friend Lola’s place. So let us be seated. I see our ever-so-affectionate host approaching with libations in hand.”

Marcel, minus his apron and now with clean hands, carefully set down a bottle of deep red wine and a mismatched glass before each of the men at the table, himself included. “This will make up for a lot of the misery we endured today,” Charlie thought to himself. Pierre and Marcel became immediately engaged in an animated discussion in French while Charlie and Conners poured themselves a drink and clinked glasses.

“So, how are you doing, Marcel, with this war and all?”

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“We are barely getting by here, but we are making do. You know my wife Margot died of that miserable Spanish flu last winter, so now it is just me and my daughter Bridget. The work is not bad. As you can see, the traffic is light. Our busy time is in the morning when the workers stop in for something to eat before they head into the stockyards and the factory. But it is all local people. You and your friends are the only guests we can claim for the last ten days. Other than you, only the military and marching soldiers go out of the city, and mostly ambulances to the hospitals come in.”

“It grieves me greatly to hear of Margot. She was a fine woman with a lively spirit. I always looked forward to her big laugh – and big kiss, if I am to speak truly,” Pierre said.

Marcel bobbed his head in agreement. “But she was that way with all who knew her. She was the main reason people came to stay here. My place of work was back there,” he shook his head, “in the kitchen. Her’s was with the customers. Fortunately for me, Bridget has been picking up the slack. But it has been hard for her too. Her betrothed was killed at the Marne.”

As if that were a signal, the curtain separating the dining area from the kitchen was pushed aside, and she emerged into the room carrying a tray with three large steaming bowls of a stew or soup. A young woman who looked to Charlie to be in her early twenties, Bridget had high cheekbones, a squarejawed, clear-complexioned face that most people would have called handsome. She wore a bandana tied around her head, and around which black curly locks worked themselves free.

Pierre spoke briefly to her, eliciting a slight smile as she placed the tray down and distributed the bowls. Her father looked on approvingly and introduced his guests. She nodded to Conners, whose face broke into a wide grin, but when introduced to Charlie as “Sergeant Carter, the American fighter pilot,” and noticed the wings pinned to the lapel of his uniform, she froze, and so did 45

Charlie’s Wings

her smile. She looked him directly in his eyes. Charlie would have sworn there was some message she was trying to deliver, but the moment passed. The message remained untranslated.

Her mouth relaxed.

Conners nearly fell over himself helping her unload the tray.

Each man was given a long loaf of fresh-from-the-oven bread.

She asked Marcel a soft question and received a solemn nod in response. She placed a bowl of butter and four more bottles of wine on the table.

Marcel was speaking to Pierre, who translated for the rest.

“Bread and butter, a staple of French life, is severely rationed.

This bread is the only bread we are now allowed to bake. The flour is not as good as before, so the bread is not as white. But the butter, ah, the butter.” Pierre picked up the bowl as if elevating a holy object. “This is not the foul oleomargarine we are required to serve. This,” he said, “is the real thing. Marcel reserves it only for the most special occasions.”

While Pierre spoke, Bridget poured each man a glass of wine. As she poured Charlie’s, he could not help but observe her deeply pleated blue skirt and her short-sleeved white blouse with its puffy shoulders and the loose ribbon that gathered it around her neck. At least it was supposed to. When she leaned over his shoulder to pour his glass of wine, perhaps it was the result of his drinking the first bottle on an empty stomach, but he could not keep his eyes away from the view down the front of her blouse.

When he raised his eyes, he met her eyes again, those dark eyes, probing and perhaps offering – so much like the dark eyes of someone waiting back in West Virginia. With an effort, he looked away at the others.

Fortunately, all eyes were on Marcel, who was describing the food they were about to eat. But for a moment, Charlie thought he saw Marcel glance his way before averting his gaze. Following

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dinner, after the bowls and scraps had been carried away, Bridget brought out a plate of cheeses to go with the wine. Even cheese, the men learned, was so tightly rationed that it was almost entirely unavailable for the general public. But this cheese, Marcel pronounced, he had squirreled away for an occasion such as this.

For what could be more special than the Americans returning to France to pay back the debt they owed to the Marquis de Lafayette for his help during the American Revolution?

Sergeant Charlie Carter basked in a golden wine-induced haze as Bridget led the two men to their rooms atop the creaking wooden stairs and down a narrow hallway. Charlie’s room was on one side at the end of the hall, Conners’ across from him. A small water closet lay at the very end of the hallway. It contained a shower, but Bridget informed them that, unfortunately, at present, they were allowed hot water only one day a week, and most unfortunately, today was not the day. Still, back in West Virginia, Charlie had dealt with conditions much more basic.

At least, he concluded, he would not have to run outside to an outhouse through the mud, in the rain.

At each door, Bridget handed over a key and wished them good night. At Charlie’s door, she hesitated just a moment.

Without looking at his face, she reached out and pressed his aviator’s wings with her fingertips. Then she sighed and patted them. Charlie stood stock still. As she turned away, he heard her say, “Merci beaucoup, monsieur Charles.” He watched her walk down the hall without looking back. What he may have done had she turned around, both terrified and thrilled him. He stepped into his room, closed the door, and leaned against it.

He sat on the edge of the bed and thought. France, Paris in particular, was not turning out as he expected. His wartime experience so far was nothing like the glorious adventure he had imagined. Combat was terrifying. The weather was depressing.

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The people seemed deeply sad as they attempted to carry on as normal. It was so easy to pledge himself to Gertie, yet he felt on the verge of breaking that trust. “God help me,” he prayed. “This is so hard.”

48

8 “Rise and shine, me boyo. Rise and shine.” Charlie sat up in bed with a start and looked around his small room, wondering what it was that had so startled him. A single bed, a small chest of drawers on which sat an empty flower vase, a caned wooden chair beneath a small window through which dust-filtered rays of early sunshine splashed across a faded oval rag rug. These were the room’s only furnishings. Though well used, everything was clean and in good repair.

“Charlie, oh Sir Charles, my lord,” fists pounded on the door, “are you in there, lad, or are you out gallivanting about town? The sun is shining, and we must to work be a’goin’.”

“I’m here and wide awake, you lunk. Stop your pounding.

I’ll meet you downstairs in ten minutes. Now go away.” Conners grunted, a noise Charlie took for acceptance, and then his steps receded down the short corridor. In less than eight minutes, Charlie was adjusting his tie as he thumped down the stairs.

Wonderful breakfast aromas of toast, sausages, and eggs drew him to the same table where they sat the night before. Every table was occupied with workers, including several stout women, on their way to work. Pierre was there already, cradling a large mug of coffee. Conners entered from the kitchen, his arms loaded with dishes of food. A smiling Marcel, carrying two mugs and a large carafe of what was most certainly real coffee, followed. All 49

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reached the table together. There was no sign of Bridget, Charlie noticed with disappointment.

The three men dove into the meal as if they had not eaten in a week. When Marcel cleared the table, the men relaxed in silence for a few moments, alone in their thoughts, drinking their coffees. None of them had drunk the real stuff in quite a while, longer than they cared to remember. And the substitute beverage the soldiers were served was so execrable as to be nearly undrinkable. So, they learned to drink tea.

As if he had come to some conclusion, Conners firmly set his empty cup down and leaned forward. That was the signal understood by Pierre and Charlie that it was time to get down to business. “Okay. Now here’s how I see it,” the big Irishman began.

“From here, we will head over to the stockyards. Pierre has told me he has a friend there who inventories and supervises one of the lots. Is that not true, Pierre?” The French mechanic raised his eyebrows and nodded, draining the last of his coffee. “The man in question is also not above cutting a corner or two if there is a profit in it for him. I like the fellow already. Pierre will introduce us and translate. You, my aeronaut, will stand, smile, and look impressively in charge. You will appear, in your uniform with the shiny wings, to be the person making all decisions. But do not look so worried. Just follow my lead – and look official. Here’s how we’ll do it…”

It was less than a ten-minute drive to the stockyards. They climbed out of the lorry, Pierre leading the way. Entering the small building, they were intercepted by a limping attendant with a clipboard who asked about their business. Pierre puffed himself up and, speaking as if he had some authority, asked to see supervisor Jacques Beaufort. For a moment, it appeared to Charlie as though the attendant would make some trouble, but then, with a Gallic shrug and sigh, he turned and led them outside and through a maze of chutes and pens filled with bawling calves and lowing cattle.

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When they reached Jacques, a harried-looking middle-aged man with red hair and a receding hairline, Pierre greeted him as if they were brothers who had not seen each other in half a lifetime.

Charlie couldn’t remember ever seeing two men display so much affection for each other. Then came the introductions and small talk until Charlie began to wonder if they would ever get down to the business at hand. Eventually, Conners tapped Pierre on the shoulder and nodded in Charlie’s direction. Pierre took his cue, and excusing himself for a moment from his friend, stepped over to Charlie, apparently an American officer, who took him aside and spoke to him about nothing in particular, the weather, the food, the stink of cow manure. At the same time, Pierre nodded his head sagely as if receiving important instructions. Then Pierre walked back to Jacques, and the negotiation began in earnest.

Whenever a roadblock or obstacle occurred, Pierre would explain to Charlie in English, who would then speak nonsense to Conners, who, having heard the problem and Charlie’s nonsense reply, would give directions to Pierre on how to proceed.

Several times, the red-haired man became emphatically negative. Once, he even tossed his clipboard to the ground. Pierre politely picked it up and handed it back. The bargaining proceeded apace. “Fourteen of these beautiful speckled Normande cattle for merely two crates, twenty-four bottles of wine, not even vintage?

Pierre, you must think me mad. No, ten Normande for four crates of wine.” Pierre turned towards Charlie, raising his hands as if imploring him to agree. Conner said something to Charlie that seemed to make him shake his head in an emphatic rejection of the offer. Then he started to turn as if to walk away.

The red-haired man called after him, seeing his chance to make some easy money disappearing. Charlie found it hard not to smile. He had watched his father drive hard bargains down on the Ohio River docks to purchase produce for his grocery stores and was starting to enjoy the process. He recalled a time when his father had explained the key to such dealings. “You have to 51

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know when to walk away and when to pretend to walk away.

Charlie now understood what his father meant.

Eventually, the deal was done. Six days from now, a train would drop off on a siding one cattle car carrying ten Normande cattle to the aerodrome at Rembercourt. Payment would be three crates of wine. That would be a little over three bottles of wine per cow. Jacques and Pierre embraced again, and Conners signaled Charlie to seal the deal. Striding stern-faced and ramrod straight, Charlie stuck out his hand, and looking as officious as possible, spat in his palm before offering it to the wide-eyed Jacques.

Hesitating only a moment, Jacques then spat in his own palm, and the men shook hands. Thus, the deal was done.

Jacques led them out by a route that bypassed the stockyard office to where they parked the truck. It took but a few minutes for Conners and Pierre to transfer the crates of wine from their lorry to Jacques’ vehicle. Charlie’s job was to stand and observe, unsmiling, with his arms crossed. With nothing more to be said, Jacques disappeared into the office building, and Pierre climbed behind the steering wheel.

Conners could hardly contain himself. “Hah,” he exclaimed, pounding his knees with his fists. “That went better than I hoped.

Pierre, you were so lovely. And Sergeant Charles, my boy, I could kiss you. You looked so much the part of a stuffed-shirt officer running a crooked deal, I should put you in for a promotion to general myself.” Pierre backed the truck out of the lot and started forward. “I can see the orders for steaks coming in now,” Conners said, rubbing his hands together in anticipation.

52

9 Unfortunately, before they made it back to the inn, the rain set in once more. This time, however, it came in sheets, borne on sudden gusts of wind. Marcel said this was good, that it portended a change in weather, a clearing of the skies. He promised that tomorrow would present weather much more suited to their desires to be out and about.

“I hope that since we have so quickly achieved the goal we came for, that perhaps it would be permissible that I have a few hours to share with Lola,” said Pierre. “It has been so long, and we have so much to talk about.”

“I see no reason why you cannot woo sweet Lola for a few hours or even for the entire day. I have it in mind to explore a site I noticed on the way past the stockyards. It appears to be a dumping ground for building debris resulting from German shelling or bombs. ‘One man’s trash is another’s treasure,’ and all that. Perhaps amid the rubble is a treasure. So, just you make sure you are here bright and early the next morning.” Conners seemed to notice Charlie for the first time. “Well, I certainly do not need you tagging along in your pretty uniform. It would be bound to attract more attention than I would like. Hmmm. So, what is our good sergeant to do with the day, speaking no French and not knowing anything about getting around in the city?”

Marcel asked Pierre what the problem was, and hearing about Charlie’s situation, clapped his hands. “Bridget,” he called out.

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When she did not respond, he called once more, this time louder.

The kitchen curtain parted, and there she stood. When she saw Marcel sitting at the table with Charlie, she smiled, removed her head bandana with a flourish, shook her hair, and walked toward them. Charlie was pleased and worried at the same time.

Her father suggested to Bridget that she take the day off tomorrow and escort the American pilot around the city. It was a weekday. The inn’s traffic was light, and who could tell if the opportunity would ever present itself again, or even if the young man would ever have another chance. Bridget thought for a moment as though evaluating. Charlie was afraid she would find him lacking and decline. He was amazed and pleased when she reached across the table for his hands. He was dumbfounded when her eyes met his, and with a warm smile, she said, in perfect English, though with a slight British accent, “I would be honored. It would be my pleasure. What say you, Charles?”

All he could do was stammer, “That would be great. What time?” He realized her hands were still resting on his.

“What do you say we meet tomorrow after breakfast, right here? Paris is the most wonderful city on earth. I cannot wait to show it off to you.” She turned to speak to her father for a moment, then spoke to Charles. “I was asking my father if I could use the automobile. He said I was welcome to it if I could keep it running. Until tomorrow, then.” With that, Bridget stood and made her way back into the kitchen.

Charlie stared at Marcel. “How did… I mean, where did…?”

His questions faded and died on his lips. Pierre understood what Charles was questioning and asked Marcel in his native tongue.

“Airman Sergeant Charles, here wants to know how your daughter learned his language.”

Marcel answered soberly, “Before this most damnable war, Bridget was engaged to a fine young man, a university student studying law at the Sorbonne. He was invited to study at Oxford in England. The two could not bear to be parted one from the 54

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other, so he, Claude Beaumont, asked her to accompany him. It was the occasion for a bit of a scandal here, but they were adamant and in love, even though she had only finished her secondary school education, and we could scarcely afford to send her to university.”

Marcel’s jowls sagged, and his face took on a pinker hue. “My daughter is highly intelligent, but she was never given a chance to show it. She should be a scientist or a lawyer. But no, here she is spending her days cooking for strangers. I am so…” His fists silently pressed the table. Finally, he took a deep breath and continued. “Bridget and Claude spent two years in England. And within months, she was speaking the language, better even than Claude. When war broke out, of course, they returned to France, intending to marry as soon as this horrid thing was over.

“He was commissioned a lieutenant and died heroically, they say, during the ‘Miracle of the Marne,’ the battle that saved Paris.

She has remained here, hiding in the kitchen, seldom going out with her friends. And since Claude, she has been seeing no one.

What she just did, how she reacted to you, my sergeant Charles, that smile on her face, I have not seen it in such a long time. I am, for the first time in many months, hopeful.” Marcel stopped speaking and focused directly on Charlie. “Show her a good time tomorrow, my young friend. Treat her well, but remember she is wounded too, just as much as any soldier. Now I must go to bed. The early shift workers will be by soon enough for their breakfasts. Thank you so much for your kindness. Now, I bid you goodnight.”

With that, Marcel took his leave. Charlie looked at Pierre, who looked deeply saddened. “Pierre, what in Jesus’s name am I supposed to do now?”

Pierre slowly shook his head from side to side. “All the choices are yours, Charles. You must make them, and then you must live with them.”

55

10 Charlie was just finishing his breakfast when Bridget entered the room. “Bon Jour, monsieur Charles. Are you ready for our day’s excursion?”

Charlie’s heart leapt at the sound of her voice, and her appearance accelerated it even faster. He was clearly not back in West Virginia. The women there seemed to directly avoid wearing anything that might remotely be deemed attractive to the male eye. Heavy materials, preferably as darkly hued as possible, worn over layers of undergarments, and reaching to the floor, were the norm.

Bridget, on the other hand, was dressed in a long-sleeved cream and pink-hued outfit, laced down the front from an opennecked sailor-collared blouse, reaching only to her mid-calf. All the layers of petticoats that women seemed required to wear back home had been jettisoned. She looked amazingly comfortable.

Instead of the rigid lacings and corsets women wore in West Virginia, Charlie thought the low-waist, flatter look Bridget wore allowed her body to move more freely, making her even more appealing.

Charlie stood, fumbling with his campaign hat. “Have you eaten?”

“Certainmont,” she replied. “I have been up for several hours already, baking today’s bread. Charlie thought she certainly did 56

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not look like she had been baking bread. They stood awkwardly for a moment. “Shall we go then?” She pointed toward the door.

Charlie cursed himself for being as tongue-tied as a schoolboy. I have always been shy around girls, he thought. I’ll have to get over it. He pressed his campaign hat down over his black hair, then adjusted it to ride at a slightly rakish angle. “Lead on, Bridget. I am yours to command.”

They walked to the door, stopping by it so that Bridget could put on her own hat, of simple felt with a small flat brim, and check herself in the small mirror.

Outside, before Charlie could assist her, Bridget climbed behind the steering wheel of her father’s car and beckoned him to get in. It fired up the first time she tried, and off the two went.

The day was one, the likes of which only someone who has experienced an early summer day in Paris can fully appreciate.

The air was washed clean, and so seemed the buildings they passed as they wended their way from the outskirts to the center of the metropolis. Tall sycamores with their thick crowns of shiny green leaves lined the broad boulevards. The city was just awakening to life. Sidewalks were being swept, shops opening, while cafes set up their outside tables and chairs.

Shortly, Bridget turned onto an even broader, shadier boulevard. “This is the Champs-Élysées,” she commented, “Paris’ main thoroughfare and shopping area. You can see all the stores.

The Champs will lead us directly to the Arc de Triomphe, built

by Napoleon. But we will park here and walk a bit. Paris is best enjoyed when seen on foot.” Charlie reflected that if he continued on this street, he would eventually come to the headquarters of the commanding officer of the United States Army Air Service, technically the Signal Corps, one Colonel Billy Mitchell. He wondered how he would be received should he stroll in off the street.

Off the Champs, down a side street, they strolled. People appeared to be going about their normal business. If one did not 57

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notice that there were few men of military age around, and the occasional bombed-out building, with people carrying fallen bricks or stones out of the street, one could almost be forgiven for thinking of Paris as simply the beautiful national capital it was designed to be. Charlie noticed the paucity of men and the occasional rubble of what used to be some building.

“There seems to be quite a few destroyed buildings. Have the Germans bombed Paris?” he asked.

“Oui. Often, with their big, ugly Gotha bombers. They kill some people and fly away. But this house we just passed was destroyed by their big cannon, the Paris Gun. It can reach eighty miles, but they cannot aim the beast, so no one knows where it will explode, not even the Germans. It kills fewer people than bombers, but the Boche do not care. They just want to make us so sick with fear that we will quit fighting. Alas for them, that will never happen.” Her voice sounded both resigned and defiant. He regretted having asked the question.

“Bridget,” he said to change the subject as they turned a corner. “That river must be the Seine, is it not?”

“Oui.” “Could we then just sit for a minute by it? Here is a sidewalk café, I think. It smells delightful. Here,” he pulled out a chair, “Have a seat.”

“Of course, how rude of me. I must remember this is all new to you.” She sat. “I used to come here all the time.” Her smile faded. She dropped her eyes. “It has been a long time since I have had the courage to do this.”

Charlie felt at a loss for something to say. Fortunately, at that moment a balding waiter with a bad comb-over approached the table and looked expectantly his way.

Charlie held up two fingers and said, “We will have two coffees, and what in the world smells so good? We’ll have two of whatever they are as well.” It was now the waiter’s turn to look 58

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baffled. He turned his gaze from the man in uniform with the wings on his chest to his female companion.

Bridget’s face brightened. She quickly placed the order, then looked at Charlie. “I am so sorry for being such a lousy tourist guide.” Before she could say another word, Charlie interrupted.

“Bridget, you shouldn’t apologize for anything. In fact, you don’t need to tell me anything. Your father explained the situation you’re in. I can only tell you how bad I feel for the loss you have suffered. If you want to go back to the inn, that’s okay with me.”

“Charles, please be careful. You are in danger of becoming my friend. If you do, you may be doomed as well. It seems all of my dear friends are gone forever.” She removed her hat and slapped it against her legs. “If you allow me, I would like to talk to you about it. Claude was only the first friend this war stole from me. It was in the early days of the war, back in 1914. The Germans were unstoppable, marching on Paris. The government here was running for their lives.

“The Boche approached to only twenty-five miles from where we now are sitting. The French generals called for an attack on the German flank, but we had not enough transports to carry our soldiers. The call went out for all the taxis in the city to be mobilized to carry troops to the front. Six thousand showed up.

The last I saw of Claude, he was laughing as he and a couple of his ‘mates’ stuffed themselves into a taxi and disappeared. It was all so ridiculous, but the ploy worked. The Germans were stopped and forced back, almost to where they are today. This act of saving Paris by taxi is called by many “The Miracle of the Marne.” Some miracle it was. It cost the lives of 250,000 young, laughing men. I sometimes wish ‘The Miracle’ had failed and this horrible war had ended then.”

Tears were streaming down her cheeks. Her distress was palpable. Charlie could think of only one thing to do. He rose from his chair, knelt by hers, and surrounded her with his arms.

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Her head leaned into his chest. He kissed the top of her head, smelling the clean fragrance of scented soap.

The waiter ‘Harumphed,’ and Charlie broke his embrace slowly, retaking his seat, eyeing Bridget, not knowing what to say or do. She swallowed hard and spoke first.

“Charlie, now don’t you dare apologize. I am not sorry for what just happened. It may be true that you are from some hilly part of your country where people live roughly. But you are a decent and gentle man. Would you please me by allowing me to show you the sights of Paris, now that we have dealt with my troubles?” Her attempt to laugh was only partly successful.

“Bridget, I would be delighted.” He took a sip of his coffee, then made a face. “I need to walk this off. It is quite possibly the worst excuse for coffee I have ever drunk.”

She laughed, this time for real. “That is because it is not really coffee. You forget, the only real things in France are its people.

Shall we go?”

From the café, the two descended a gentle slope to the Seine and walked along the cobbled walkway. Then they climbed some stone stairs, turned and crossed a lovely old, arched stone bridge lined by electric lampposts. A barge slowly ascended the river, passing directly beneath them.

“Now, Charlie, if you but raise your eyes, you will see something beyond those trees. Do you recognize it?”

“Hang it, Bridget, everybody in the world would recognize the Eiffel Tower. In pictures, it does not look so tall, though.”

“But it is. Did you know that it is the tallest building on Earth, or that Monsieur Eiffel used the tower to test aerodynamics, and that he currently is doing research in his laboratory at Auteuil, not far from here? From it are broadcast the new radio signals throughout Paris. So, you see, it is not just an enormous building.

It is also an experiment from which to conduct experiments.

Let’s go closer.”

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And so the day proceeded. They strolled along, speaking of small things. Bridget would point out something of interest.

Charlie asked questions and listened as the tone of her voice gradually relaxed and lightened. They explored central Paris but found themselves, after a while, sitting on the Seine’s grassy banks quietly observing the river traffic.

“Thank you, Charlie,” she murmured. “This has been my best day since,” she shook her head as if trying to remember, “since forever.” She raised her face to the sun. Perhaps, Charlie thought, she was not as beautiful as some angel, but her face showed something angel faces never did, a strength and courage that was the result of surviving deep pain.

“When I was a boy, I divided all the people in the world into two groups, those who loved rivers and those who preferred lakes. The ‘lake’ people loved the broad, still waters they could swim in or sail their boats around on. Lakes have a top and bottom, a head and a foot. Each one is a thing in itself. But rivers are different.” He noticed her amused glance and became more emphatic. “Sure, they are water, and they can either feed or drain lakes, but they are different at the very heart of things. When you stand by one, you know it starts somewhere far away, and you also know it is going somewhere far away, that it will meet other rivers, grow, and maybe turn into something else, at least for a while. It can be wild or gentle or both. The Seine here is a small river compared to the one near where I grew up, the Ohio, an old Indian word that means ‘beautiful river.’ But it feels like it’s kin to the Ohio, and it helps me feel kind of at home. I don’t know where this river comes from, and I’ve never seen where it goes, but it seems alive and restless, or sleepy, and I know it’s going somewhere because it can’t be happy just sitting in one place, like a lake.”

Bridget’s amused glance took on a more somber tone and looked Charlie’s way, saying nothing. A soft summer breeze 61

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teased a lock of her hair. Then she looked away. And so, they sat until they had drunk their fill of a Paris afternoon.

“Bridget,” Charlie said, offering his hand, “I think we should start heading back soon, don’t you? I mean, the afternoon is getting late. And frankly, I’m feeling a bit confused.”

She took the offered hand and rose. “Yes, mon ami, the shadows are longer. But there is still one more thing I would like to show you today. Is that okay?”

“Sure thing. I’m in. Let’s go.”

“Good, but for this we will need to walk back to the automobile.”

It really was but a short drive to 32 Rue Richer. Bridget pulled the car over to the curb, and the two of them stepped out to join a lively, chattering, and laughing crowd of people, all trying to make their way into a fancily decorated two-story beige stucco building.

“What on earth is this?”

Bridget leaned on his arm, ushering him along. “Charlie, my aeronaut from West Virginia, USA, tonight you are going to visit a cabaret music hall. It is called the Folies Bergere’. Prepare to enjoy yourself like you never have before. Of this I am certain.”

Though the air outside was cooling down following the warmth of the day, the large room inside seemed uncomfortably warm. Though they were seated, it felt as if the entire crowd was in motion. Suddenly, the music began, an energetic, almost frenetic melody. Then onto the stage bounced a line of tutu-clad chorus girls, all with arms linked, stepping and kicking in time to the music. The closest thing Charlie could compare it to was a square dance as the girls twirled their skirts, far above their ankles. Then, as one, they turned their backs to the audience, bent over, and flicked their skirts up and over their backsides.

“Bridget,” Charlie called out over the music, “did you see that? The ladies aren’t wearing any underwear.”

“Charlie, I saw,” she laughed, “and those are not ladies.”

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Charlie thought that the temperature in the room must have soared to a hundred degrees. His face was burning up. He looked at Bridget and saw she was laughing and cheering along with the crowd. For the first time all day, she clearly was enjoying herself, all her pain relegated to another place. He too relaxed and before long joined in with Bridget and the whistling, clapping audience.

Far too quickly, the show finished. They exited the building amid the jostling crowd and stood for a few moments on the sidewalk watching as the couples dispersed. Charlie’s mind was overflowing with images of bare bottoms and painted nipples.

Too embarrassed to speak, he climbed back into Marcel’s car as Bridget started it and began the drive back to the inn. “Well, Charlie, what do you think of the show?”

“For sure, that was the wildest, dirtiest show I could imagine.” He laughed. “Back home, it would have been a scandal.

Everybody on stage would have been run out of town.” He paused and then went on. “It was also the most exciting and thrilling entertainment I could imagine. Have you been there often?”

“Only with Claude before the war, two times. I also find it the wildest, dirtiest, though I would rather say erotic, show I could imagine. Going there tonight reminded me of the time before the war, when he and I were discovering each other. This is not then, and you are not him. But thank you for going there with me. It still excites me.”

Charlie said nothing more about the Folies but made some small talk about the other activities of the day. Bridget took her cue from him, and by the time they reached Marcel’s inn, they were comfortably avoiding the subject. It was late. Bridget unlocked the door, and they let themselves in quietly. Marcel had left one lamp on. They walked to the foot of the stairs and stopped.

Bridget’s hands reached for his lapels. “My room is through the kitchen.” Charlie stiffened. The invitation was obvious. Never in his life had he known so desirable a woman. Never had he 63

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wanted so badly to embrace, caress, and totally possess one. His body was on fire with passion. He leaned forward slightly toward her lips. She stepped up on her tiptoes to reach his. Their mouths met but for a moment, then he released her lips. He heard Gertie’s voice through the words she wrote in the letter he carried inside his shirt – “trust, Charles, my love.”

“Bridget, I…” “Shush.” Her lips touched his again, but lightly this time.

“Charles, I am so sorry to have misused you. But I regret not a single moment. I know you love another, and I also know she is fortunate to love you. You, my dear American flyboy, have awakened me.” And dropping her eyes, she added, “And I know I have awakened you. I feel alive again after being asleep for three years. I will always remember you with love. I hope you will always remember me with affection. Good night, mon ami.” With that, she stepped backward, turned, brushed aside the kitchen curtain, and disappeared. Charlie lingered for a moment, then turned out the lamp and silently climbed the stairs to his room.

64

11 Charlie awoke with a foggy head, which he attributed to all the alcohol he drank at the music hall the night before. The lewd images of the women dancers flooded in, bringing to his mind a certain clarity. The early morning sun poked its fingers through his window, striking his face, a sun-slap burning all the fog away.

He rolled over and covered his head with a pillow, willing himself back to sleep. Sleep refused, but a pleasant drowsiness swept over him, carrying him back to a time and place when he would be awakened on lazy Saturday mornings by the sound of his mother rustling about in the kitchen, frying a rack of bacon and perking coffee.

On those mornings, the biggest issues young Charlie had to confront were whether his buddies would be free to meet with him and run off somewhere far from the grown-ups, maybe to play some marbles. Maybe Ralph would bring the new football he received for Christmas, and they could toss it back and forth.

Ralph had no idea how dumb he looked in the leather helmet that came with it. But no one teased him about it because he also brought the football. If they talked about war or combat, it was enshrouded in a golden haze of heroic knights or valiant frontiersmen fighting savage Indians. If they had to save a damsel in distress, they would. But they mostly left womenfolk out of their fantasies. Unfortunately for Charlie’s hope of more sleep, he found that impossible.

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Without Conners banging on his door, Charlie languidly woke and rose to do his morning ablutions. On his way to the water closet, friendly voices downstairs drifted upstairs along with the kitchen aromas. All in all, Charlie thought this had the makings of a good start to the day.

By the time he descended the stairs, the room was nearly full of old men and young women on their way to work. At what he thought of as ‘our table’ sat Conners and Pierre. Both looked at him expectantly as he approached.

“Well,” Conners asked as Charlie drew up a chair, “how did it go with sweet Bridget? I mean, did you…and she?” He left the question unasked.

“Nothing happened.”

“Oh, come on now, Charlie,” he leered. “No one spends an entire day in Paris with a lovely young maiden, and ‘nothing happens.’

Charlie’s mellow mood was being rapidly eroded by Conners’ coarse assumption.

“I told you nothing happened. Now drop the subject, Conners. We hiked about the city and had a fine time. That is all you know and all you will ever know about yesterday. Now you tell us what you accomplished and what we still need to get done this last day here.”

Conners may have been slightly miffed at Charlie’s abrupt tone, but at the prospect of relating how they were to acquire more items of value, the scrounge artist perked up immediately.

“Ah, my grouchy and probably still slightly under-the-weather from last night’s cavorting with a lovely French maiden to whom I promise never to henceforth refer, I think I said that correctly, Sergeant Charles Carter, perk up your ears. Along the way back to Rembercourt, I plan to stop at the aerodrome at Touquin. It is barely thirty miles east of Paris, and because of its proximity to the city, it is the recipient of many more supplies than ever find their way to our more distant location. I know a man there 66

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of disposition like my own, a corporal Enrico Manzetti, who is burdened with the task, similar to my own, of supplementing the needs not met by our vaunted military of the men who must fight this war. I have wired him, and he is expecting us before noon today.”

While Conners outlined the plan, Marcel approached from behind and silently signaled for Charlie’s attention. Conners noticed Charlie’s attention shift and turned to see Marcel, embarrassed, standing there.

“I did not mean to interrupt. Your breakfast will be ready soon. But Sergeant Charles, before you leave, would it be possible for you to see me briefly in the kitchen? I promise not to keep you long.”

Pierre translated, and Charlie answered, “I’ll be right there.

We’ve nearly finished here.”

With a nod of his head, Marcel turned and resumed waiting on the other tables. Bridget still had not made an appearance.

Conners picked up the thread of his thought directly. “As I was saying before our Gallic friend’s interruption, we stop at Touquin. I make one more deal, and then like conquering heroes, we return to Rembercourt before dusk. Does that meet with the good sergeant’s approval?”

“Sure does, Conners.” He pushed his chair back to rise and finished off his coffee. I’ll just go upstairs and grab my kit. I’ll be right back.”

“I will, as well, Mister Conners,” Pierre said with a slight bow.

“Excusez-moi.” He followed Charlie.

Before he could reach the stairs, Marcel poked his head out of the kitchen to get his attention once more. Charlie stepped into the kitchen, but before he could open his mouth to speak, Marcel grabbed his head firmly between both his hands and kissed Charlie firmly on both cheeks. The innkeeper looked him in the eyes and then repeated the act.

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“Whoa there, Marcel, je ne comprends pas. I don’t get a word you’re saying.” Charlie protested, removing his hands.

Marcel ignored Charlie’s comment and immediately plunged enthusiastically into a French tirade that left Charlie entirely asea. He used one of the few French phrases he knew, “Bonsoir, monsieur, en Anglais, s’il vous plais.” This stopped Marcel for only the briefest of moments.

“Non, non, monsieur Charles,” he replied before resuming where he had left off. Charlie did not know what to do or how to respond.

“Perhaps I could be of assistance,” Pierre said, having heard Marcel as he was on his way upstairs.

Finally, Marcel stilled, looking thankfully toward Pierre, who translated Marcel’s words to Charlie. “Marcel says that he does not know what you said to his daughter yesterday, nor where she took you, nor what she did. But whatever happened was the most wonderful thing that has occurred in years. He says when he rose early to begin baking this morning, Bridget rose as well and stood here in this kitchen and spoke to him as she has not in years.

“She said she was foolish to mourn Claude for so long, that France was full of women in mourning. What France needed now, she said, were women who fought back, that she would not give the Boche the satisfaction of breaking her spirit. The hospitals are crammed with men broken in body and spirit. She said she would go to the hospital this very day and apply to become a nurse for the invalids. Claude made his choice, and she could not fault him for that. Indeed, she would have done the very same if she had been in his position. In this way, she would continue the fight against hopelessness and despair. She said that if good young Americans, such as you, Charles, were willing to fight for France, then how could she not? She said for me to kiss you for her and pray you may someday return safely to the woman you 68

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love in the United States.” Pierre checked with Marcel to see if he had anything else to say.

Marcel smiled and said, “There is only one thing. She said to kiss you once for her. I did that, and then I kissed you once for me.

Now, if I may be so forward, I would like to say farewell as you Americans do to each other.” With that, this French innkeeper thrust out his right hand toward Charlie. The young sergeant met it with his own. Marcel pumped it vigorously several times, then released it and stood looking proudly satisfied.

All that needed to be said had been said. Charlie bowed slightly, grappling with the emotion of the moment, and misusing one of the few French phrases he knew, said, “Bonjour, monsieur,” and took his leave.

The highway led to Coulommiers, twenty-five miles east of Paris, at which point they turned south to reach the aerodrome at Touquin. The road was in far better shape than the one they had taken to Paris from Rembercourt. At least it seemed that way to Charlie. Or perhaps it was the loveliness of the French countryside on a young summer day that made it seem so.

Or maybe it was that Conners’ driving appeared to be extra cautious, especially about attacking potholes and muddy road ruts. Perhaps, he thought, it may be due to the mysterious cargo he was carrying in the back of the lorry. Charlie didn’t know, and truth be told, he didn’t care. This was a day meant to be enjoyed.

He had not only seen Paris. He had experienced it with a wonderful young woman. He felt some emotion shift within him.

Perhaps he was growing up. When he thought about the time he first decided to become an aeronaut and how he viewed war as though it was some intense sport played for life or death, he felt embarrassed by his naivete. When he remembered envisioning the combatants striving so desperately to knock each other from the sky, as knights of old, clad now in helmets and goggles and riding machines thundering towards each other as if in an aerial jousting match, he was ashamed.

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He was starting to understand that this was an eternal struggle. On one hand were those who believed it was their right to kill and subjugate those weaker militarily than themselves, who believed that might really did make right. On the other side stood those ready to protect family, land, and culture from those aggressors. Charlie was glad he decided to fight on the side he did, not for sport now, but because it was the right thing to do.

He certainly did not want to die, but he could now see how so many were willing to take the risk for others, for people they did not even know.

At Coulommiers, they turned south for the short hop to the new aerodrome being built at Touquin. After asking directions from a local farmer, the lorry continued through and then past the village of Saints.

“Conners, are you sure you know where you are going?”

“I have never been here, but one could scarcely miss an aerodrome, now, could he? We shall know it when we see it. Just watch for hangars and aircraft. It is near here, I am sure.”

Spotting a few white tents scattered in a large pasture, Charlie pointed and asked, “Could that be it?”

“Don’t see how it could be. Not big enough.”

The lorry passed around a copse of trees. “Holy cow, Conners, look at that. Is it big enough for you now?”

What had been invisible a few moments before now commanded their full attention. There certainly were only a scattering of tents and no hangars at all. But an area of perhaps ten acres in size was covered with stacks and pallets of equipment and unidentifiable supplies, gasoline barrels stacked high, piles of lumber for construction, enough to equip an army or at least a good portion of it. Railroad freight cars on a heretofore unseen rail siding were pulled up to the site, and at least one company of soldiers was unloading them. Others driving heavy machinery were picking up the material and hurrying it down one of the rows to stack it neatly away. A French officer appeared to oversee the 70

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operation, and someone dressed in an American army uniform, probably his American counterpart, stood by his side watching.

Both men spared barely a glance in the lorry’s direction before resuming their supervisory roles.

Carter took in the scene and made a decision. “Follow my lead,” was all he said. Conners, appearing flustered, nodded his head, gladly letting the sergeant take charge. “Pierre,” Carter said, “you will be serving as my translator, should I need one.” Pierre nodded as well. “Now, Conners, bring us up as close to those two officers as you can. We need their attention.”

As the truck squealed to a stop, the American officer turned and walked their way. As there was no sign of Conners’ ‘friend,’ Carter decided that the direct and honest approach was the only one that was even worth a try. He came to attention and delivered a crisp salute. The American captain returned it and spoke first.

“Well, sergeant, what have you got for us? Be quick. As you can see, we have a lot of work to do here.”

“Yes, sir. I am Sergeant Carter from the 92nd Pursuit Squadron AEF from up at Rembercourt. We heard about the base being set up down here, and I was sent with a couple men to see if perhaps you may have an item you could part with so that we could be of better support to you. In short, sir, we are not here to deliver but to take away.” Carter was winging it now and knew he had to persuade this American captain, Harmon, according to his name tag, to see things his way. He handed over his pass papers from Captain Bentley. They were not requesting anything specific, but they could be interpreted as a plea for assistance.

“A Captain Bentley, huh? Well, I’ve heard nothing about this, so I’m afraid you will have to return with an empty truck, Sergeant.” He handed back the papers. But the look he gave Carter seemed to indicate he was open to further discussion.

“Why specifically did you come here to Touquin?”

Carter plunged ahead. He felt he had nothing to lose. “Sir, I realize this is a new base, and I am taking you away from your 71

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business setting it up, but here it is. Sir, we up at Rembercourt have been fighting the Germans for a year. Our equipment is taking a beating, and we are having a devil of a time keeping enough planes in the air to make a difference. We ask for replacement parts, and sometimes we get them. Mostly, our requests fall on deaf ears. We are in danger of being forced to stand down until we can obtain enough replacement parts and machine tools to operate safely. Sir, we need your help.”

Captain Harmon took a long look at the young sergeant standing before him before he spoke again. When he did, Carter felt his heart sink. “Look, Sergeant Carter, I would like to help, I really would. But I don’t even know what half this stuff is or even where it is. I’m afraid there is nothing I can do.”

Behind the captain, a forklift rumbled past carrying a large item. In desperation, Carter turned and shouted to Conners, “Mister Conners, isn’t that a ‘turning lathe,’ and didn’t I see two of ours idle in the machine shop, broken?”

“Yes, sir, sergeant, you surely did. We need parts for them more than we need gold. I’ve had one requisitioned for over a month and heard nothing.”

“Captain,” Carter improvised, “I would like to request that if you can spare one of those turning lathes, it would be greatly appreciated and put to excellent use, if you folks here could spare one.”

Once again, Harmon eyed this young American still standing at attention, the wings on his chest glinting, waiting to hear his decision. “Wait here a minute, sergeant.” He handed him back his papers. “And please stand at ease.” Then he turned and walked over to the French officer.

“Non,” was the first word Carter heard the officer say, and he repeated it frequently after that. But Harmon matched him gesture for gesture and emotion for emotion. Carter realized that Captain Harmon was going to bat for him, and he felt like cheering. He glanced at Conners and Pierre over his shoulder and 72

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saw they noticed as well. The French officer gradually subsided, and their discussion became muted. Finally, after what seemed an eternity, Captain Harmon returned.

“Sergeant, my French counterpart, the delightful Major Marie Dupree, has agreed that we can indeed part with one turning lathe. We have received seven of them today. I may live to regret this decision, but I do not think so. What you see here at Touquin is not just another aerodrome going up. What you are looking at is the war being won. This spring, we blunted the Germans’ thrust. We are currently massing men and materiel to push them clear out of France and back to the Rhine. Billy Mitchell is planning the largest Allied push in the war for later this summer, coordinating the British, French, and American armies with their air forces. This has never been done before and must work. So, we will need every aircraft and pilot we can find to do that job. I want you to take that lathe, and if it puts one more fighter or bomber in the air, it just might be the one that helps turn the tide and win the war.”

He waved and summoned the driver of the forklift. “Private Johnson, now you can go right back to where you deposited that lathe, retrieve it, and place it in the back of that truck over there.

Is that clear?”

Johnson saluted from the seat of his machine and rumbled off. Carter was uncertain how to end this conversation and the confidence Captain Harmon had shared with him. He snapped to attention. “Thank you, sir,” he said. Captain Harmon returned the salute, “Safe flying, airman,” he said, and turned once more to his paperwork. Clearly, Carter was dismissed.

He gathered Conners and Pierre and spoke quietly to them for a moment before walking back to the truck.

As the now much more heavily laden truck lurched down the road away from Touquin, Conners spoke, gripping the steering wheel with white knuckles, “I still don’t see why we gave away that wine. It was not necessary, and they did not ask for it.”

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“And that, Conners, is exactly why we did. Nothing was asked for. Nothing was offered. It was a gift, plain and simple. If we had offered or they had asked, it would have been bribery. And they deserved it.”

“Maybe they did, the rogue Irishman grudgingly admitted, but I could have sold that wine for good money.” In his mind was planted the image of him and Pierre each lugging a crate of wine to Captain Harmon’s and the French officer’s tent and leaving them just inside the flaps before hurrying off unseen. It was completely the opposite of how he usually operated and it felt completely undignified. He knew he would never be able to live it down if his fellow scroungers ever heard about it.

Charlie could sense the big Irishman’s internal struggle and smiled to himself. By talking to the officer the way he did, Charlie had taken the biggest risk yet of his time in the army, and that risk had paid off handsomely.

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12 When the lorry pulled into Rembercourt, it was still an hour before sunset. Conners wasted no time checking in at the office but drove straight over to the mechanics’ and workers’ area of the aerodrome. The first workshop’s doors were closed. He drove past. At the second, he stopped upon seeing the supply sergeant standing nearby with an unlit cigar in his mouth.

“Oh, Sergeant Dooley, Conners sang out as he stepped down.

You’re just the man I was looking for. I have something you will be happy to see. Sergeant Carter, you and your mechanic need not trouble yourself to hang around. Dooley and I will take care of this.” He then spoke directly to the curious supply sergeant.

“Dooley, my dear friend, would you be so kind as to walk around to the back of this lorry and see what gift it is I have inside for you?”

Conners apparently had the situation well in hand. So, with a smile and a wave, Charlie and Pierre walked towards the mess hall and entered. “What’s on the menu tonight?” he asked the cook.

“Same as what was on it last night,” was the gruff response, “only tonight it is more mature corned Willy.”

“I should have known,” Charlie said good-naturedly, “but you’d better sharpen your knives. I hear some beef on the hoof is headed this way. I plan on a juicy T-bone in a couple days.”

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“Hah. A T-bone you say. I’ve heard you flyboys go a little daffy after a while. The day Uncle Sam serves T-bone steaks will be the day I get promoted to general.”

“Well, general, unless my eyes mistake me, it looks like Conners has corralled some men over behind Hangar 5 into constructing what suspiciously resembles a corral. So, like I said, keep those knives sharp.” With no rejoinder except a glare, the cook plopped a pile of unrecognizable foodstuff on Charlie’s metal tray, and he moved on down the line.

Spotting Perry sitting with a group of pilots, Charlie made his way there and took a seat. “Hey, Bert, how’s it going? I haven’t seen you for a while.”

“Pretty fair, I’d say. Leastways I got some flying in today and got my first Boche.”

“Well, congrats. How’d that happen?”

I was flying escort for a photo plane, and he jumped us right over the lines. I was so scared. It was just him, me, and Jesus. And I won. Where’ve you been? I’ve told everybody by now.”

“I’ve been on a resupply mission with Conners and Pierre.

But Bert, I wanted to ask you something. I’ve been catching hints everywhere I go that something big is coming down the pike.

Ever since Colonel Mitchell flew in and we had that talk, and we were told to fly buddied up, I was wondering if you thought we could be a team. I’ve seen you fly, and even if you talk funny and come from a questionable background, you know an aileron from a longeron. What do you say?”

Charlie had seen Perry smile before, but the ear-to-ear grin he flashed now seemed nearly to split his skull in half. “Well, listen to that. Charlie Carter, the West Virginia hillbilly whose Hatfield in-laws are certifiably insane and suffers from atrocious mealtimes manners, a man who barely knows the difference between a nacelle from a fuselage, wants to partner up with the finest pilot in the whole army air corps. Let me ponder on it.

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Okay, pondering is over. Charlie, I would be proud to fly with you.”

“Great. I haven’t been up in a few days. Let’s meet in the ready room after chow tomorrow morning, and maybe we’ll get some practice time in.”

“Sounds good. Let’s shake on it. I got your back. You got mine.” They shook hands.

The next morning, Perry and Carter met up at breakfast and together walked over to the ready room. They found quite a few pilots there already, chatting and joking the way men do when they know they are about to take great risks with their lives. They all realized that it was likely that one or some of them would not return. When the orderly entered and called for attention, the chattering ceased, and the men rose as the captain entered and took his place at the front of the room. He instructed the men to be seated.

The headquarters orderly then gave the weather situation. The conditions were acceptable to good, with some cumulus clouds above eight thousand feet and light westerly winds. Orders were given by Captain Bentley. Pairs of aircraft were to coordinate and cover different sections of the Saint Mihiel salient, the bulge in the line formed when the Germans had put on a big push earlier. The attacks had been stopped, but the Germans in that area occupied a front line about twenty miles ahead of the rest of their line.

“We have been informed that the Germans have become more active recently. Perhaps they are just bringing up new troops to give those we have been pounding a chance to clear their heads. To our northwest is the Argonne forest, or what’s left of it. The Boche tried to push through it but were met by the United States marines who punished them so badly we hear the Germans coined a new name for them, ‘Teufel hunds,’Devil Dogs. Someone yelled, “Give ‘em hell, Marines.” The room erupted in spontaneous cheering.

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Captain Bentley paused for a moment until the room settled back down and then continued. “That is not our area of concern right now, but I thought you might like to know you’re not the only heroes around.” There were some chuckles and a few offcolor comments before Captain Bentley spoke again.

“Your missions today are to cover the front in our sector.

See what the Germans are up to. Take pictures with the cameras we are supplying. We cannot afford to be caught with our pants down again. Obviously, you are to patrol in pairs. Each Spad has been fitted on the bellies of the gas tanks with exterior bomb racks. Each rack will carry four twenty-pound bombs. So, you will be carrying, at least on your way out, an extra eighty pounds.

Adjust your expectations of what the aircraft can do accordingly.

Those of you flying the Nieuports will not be carrying extra bomb weight. Spad pilots, listen up. Whatever the case, do not bring the bombs back. I don’t want you to fly a successful mission only to blow yourself up on landing.” This was spoken to a few chuckles. “Seriously, men, we’re sending up twenty pairs of aircraft, that’s forty men, today. We plan to send up another forty tomorrow. That will mean a lot of aircraft within a small area.

Know where you are at all times. Stay alert, no accidents. Now I’ll take questions if you have any.”

“Sir, what are the rules of engagement?”

“Sorry, that little detail slipped my mind. There are to be no lone wolves. This is not a hunting trip. We are attempting to do something that has rarely been done successfully in this war, weave air, ground, and artillery together, so that later on, when the big push comes, we will look like we know our heads from our asses. But if you are attacked or see a target of opportunity, you make the call. Defend yourself and your wingman. That is all. You are dismissed.”

The aerodrome became a beehive of activity as mechanics trundled the aircraft out of the hangars where they had been kept and worked on. Quite a few were already lining the field. Within 78

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minutes, the distinctive sound of Spad engines turning over and coughing to a roar came from every corner of the field. The Nieuports followed suit. Charlie found Louis and Pierre standing by the Spad Charlie had claimed as his before his trip to Paris.

“It worked just as you hoped,” Pierre told him as he walked around the Spad, examining every inch of it. “Louis told me he removed a very insignificant but valuable piece of the throttle, and no one was the wiser. He also told me that yesterday was the most difficult time because he had gone over the aeroplane so completely so many times, he had to pretend to be at work on it.

And here it sits, fresh from the factory, just waiting for you.”

Like the other pilots, Charlie suited up in his teddy bear outfit and, with Pierre’s assistance, climbed into the cockpit.

Though the aircraft was small, the cockpit felt roomier. They then proceeded with the preflight checklist. Then, Louis called out, “Coupe plein gaz.”

Charlie repeated, “Coupe plein gaz.”

Finally, from Louis came the words he was waiting to hear, “Contact réduisez.”

“Contact réduisez,” repeated Charlie. The mechanic spun the propeller once more. The Spad surged to life. Charlie turned it into the wind and raced down the field, rising gracefully into the air. Perry joined him shortly at about five thousand feet, and together they turned toward the section of the front they were assigned. Carter remembered his initial distaste for teaming up, but he had to admit that the thought of seeing a friendly aircraft flying alongside was growing on him.

The pilots put their Spads through their paces, just to see what they were capable of. Truly, the short wingspans meant they could turn on a dime. More powerful engines responded quickly even to light touches. One attribute Charlie really appreciated was that, whereas with the Nieuport, he was always getting his face sprayed with oil from the engine, two gallons an hour on average, the Spad was clean. That constant spray 79

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of castor oil wasn’t just uncomfortable. It could be dangerous.

The engine spray occasionally blinded him and sometimes gave him a mouthful of the stuff, causing him to gag with nausea and diarrhea. More than once, he had pitied the mechanics who had to clean up the mess he left behind in the cockpit.

Flying solo had taught him a few tricks. For example, he frequently ‘corkscrewed,’ continuously turning and banking from one side to the other, enabling him to constantly check his blind spot. One item that was lacking on all aircraft was a simple rearview mirror. He noted with approval that Perry was engaged in the very same maneuver. From the ground, it might have appeared the pilots were showing off or goofing around, but this was a deadly serious practical defensive action.

Flying alongside each other, not fifty feet apart, the two aeronauts flew northeast, toward the front. The flying conditions were excellent, the weather perfect. Carter gave Perry a hand signal, then pulled back on the joystick. The Spad responded instantly, powering into a climb. At the same time Perry pushed forward and appeared to sink, dropping to a lower altitude.

When his somewhat reliable altimeter read twelve thousand feet, some minutes later, Carter leveled off. Judging by the cold and his slight light-headedness, it was probably a fairly accurate reading. He hunkered down behind the small windscreen, seeking to retain any body heat he could. Frequently, he peered over the side of the aircraft to keep an eye on Perry far below.

They may be on a mission to scout and observe, but they were also trying to lay a trap for any German headhunters. Whenever he found a cloud in his path, he availed himself of its protection, darting into it and peeking out.

Approaching the front, the German Krupp 77mm guns opened up. They certainly had spotted Perry, but Carter thought he himself probably remained unseen. That did not mean he was safe. The big guns reached up to fourteen thousand feet, laying a carpet of harmless-looking dirty black puffs, any one of 80

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which could mean instant disaster. The Allied Archie produced white puffs of shrapnel. Perry, flying at barely seven thousand feet, was rocking and hopping. Sometimes he appeared to be bouncing from puff to puff. Then Archie stopped, and Carter’s gut tightened.

The gunners certainly were not lacking ammunition or a target. The only reason to cease their fire was because they did not want to shoot down one of their own. Carter searched every corner of the sky. So where was the Boche stalker?

He spotted the Albatros emerging from another cloud directly ahead of him at about two o’clock. The German was in the process of executing a steep dive to fall on the unsuspecting Perry, gaining speed as the German lost altitude. The sun glinted briefly off the red monoplane as it turned to get into an attack position behind the American. Carter hoped and prayed that his wing mate also saw the attack and was preparing some evasive maneuver. In the time it took to spot the Albatros, Carter was sending his Spad down at an equally steep angle to intercept the unsuspecting German. The last time he got tangled in a dog fight and dove steeply, he lost his wing fabric and nearly his life. This time, he thought, the way this plane feels, there would be no lost wing. He smiled grimly and fell like a hawk on the German.

So far, the German had not fired a single round. That meant he was most likely a veteran. They knew that to get a kill, surprise, and getting as close as possible, sometimes within fifty yards, before opening fire was the way to go. Inexperienced pilots opened fire way too early in their excitement, and then often broke off the engagement early as well, permitting the hunted to rapidly become hunters. Experienced pilots knew the best way to survive a dogfight was to kill quickly and get away. Carter saw the Albatros, like a shark, close to within a few hundred yards.

What was Perry thinking? Time was up. Was he blind?

Carter was closing the gap on the pursuing German fighter, but without Perry’s assistance, he knew he would never get there 81

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in time. Two blue ropes of bullets swept out from the Albatros in Perry’s direction. At the very same instant, with impeccable timing, Perry ripped his Spad hard to the left and upward as steeply as he could. The blue rope swept through empty air just yards from where Perry curled upward.

The red aircraft plunged past Perry’s Spad and turned to get on his tail. His advantage in speed made it only a matter of time before he caught him. But by this time, Carter had the edge in both altitude and speed and was closing fast. As the German lined up behind Perry for the killing shot, Carter swept down on him, cutting loose a barrage of his own, coming so close the two planes nearly nicked wings. Every fifth bullet was a tracer.

He watched them rip through the Albatros’s wing and engine – but not before the German got off one more burst in Perry’s direction. Perry’s Spad wobbled and lost more altitude. Clearly, he was hit.

The Albatros’s engine was on fire and trailing smoke. With no parachutes, the options for a pilot whose plane flamed were limited to two, and both were awful. Either he could ride the flaming torch and incinerate himself, or he could jump. Over drinks at the end of the day, pilots often debated which would be the better way to die. In truth, both terrified Charlie. The burning fighter began falling in a slow bank to the right.

Carter moved up to get a better look at Perry’s condition, when he noticed out of the corner of his right eye the sun flashing off metal. Instinctively, he jerked hard right to meet the predatory German. They, too, knew how to stalk and kill. The one now diving on Carter was too late to save his partner, but not too late to take his revenge. With a last glance in Perry’s direction, he saw the Spad slowly losing altitude and wing-wobbling badly.

“I should have been quicker. He counted on me, and I let him down. Damn it all.”

Any thrill of the hunt Carter felt at the start of the flight was now replaced with a rage he was not familiar with. Who were 82

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these people who brought so much destruction and death with their killing machines? They may have gotten Perry. They may have killed a lovely girl’s fiancé. They may force women, children, and old people to cower in underground metro stations in terror. But this one killer in his red shark-faced aircraft will not kill anyone else, he vowed. The D2 Fokker Biplane Carter was up against was the best the Germans had to offer. Powered by a Mercedes engine, it was armed with two Maxim machine guns and could top nineteen thousand feet. The Spad, however, could top 22,000 feet – if the pilot could withstand the frigid thin air.

The Spad also was faster on the level.

Now began the true life and death struggle between two warriors, both determined to emerge victorious. One of the first things they taught Charlie in flight school back in Kelly Field, Texas, was that when attacked from the front, turn and face the attacker. It makes you a smaller target and is the fastest way to end the fight, assuming you can get in a position to fire effectively. Charlie’s audacity at turning nose up while at the same time letting loose with a burst from his machine gun caught the German by surprise. The natural tendency for one attacked from on high was to turn and run. It threw the German’s aim off, and both planes flew past each other, unharmed.

Immediately the Boche began maneuvering to get on Charlie’s tail. Charlie, on the other hand, sought higher altitude to gain that advantage. As a result, the two combatants spiraled upward, locked in what from the ground looked like an intimate dance or a pair of ice skaters twirling around and around. Ever higher they ascended, six, seven, eight thousand feet, slowing as they rose. Charlie steadily outclimbed the German but could not shake loose from him. The German was unable to close the gap but remained relentless in his pursuit. He knew that if he were to turn and run for it, the Spad he was at present chasing would immediately turn and reverse their roles.

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But within minutes the Boche ran out of air, slowing nearly to a stop. The Spad continued to climb. In the sub-zero temperatures of 21,000 feet, Charlie peered over the side of the Spad and watched the German begin to fall away. Instantly, he jammed the joystick forward and threw the Spad into a dive. This time, there was no worrying about wings ripping apart. He wasted no thought on possibly crashing. One thought only dominated his mind – to put that German machine on the ground permanently.

The powerful Spad engine roared as Charlie rapidly closed the gap. But the German pilot had one more trick up his sleeve.

Just as Charlie closed within two hundred yards, he pulled the nose of the biplane up. Charlie got off one burst of machine gun fire. He could swear he saw the blue tracers lacing through the wings and fuselage of his enemy. But then he flew past and below the German, who in turn banked to once again get on Charlie’s tail.

In level flight, the Spad could outrun the Fokker. But the Fokker was, in this case, dropping on the American, so it had both altitude and speed. Charlie cursed himself for being too eager. But he felt no fear, only resolution to once again turn the tables. He allowed the Boche to close to his rear, weaving side to side and hopping in order to convince him he was fleeing the scene. He figured the Boche would waste no bullets until he could be sure of the kill, and in this Charlie was correct. At what he deemed the last second, he eased up on the throttle and yanked as hard as he could on the joystick, but instead of continuing into an over-the-top loop, he released the stick forward quickly. The Spad suddenly sat back down on its belly as if it were at rest. The German powered below him, unable to slow so quickly.

Charlie then poured on full throttle and within seconds was back in position on the German’s tail. With no more time for tricks, Charlie let loose with four short bursts from his Vickers.

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left, began its long final fall to earth, exploding in a fireball on impact. He felt a satisfying sense of justice served.

Taking stock of where he was, the weary aviator tried to figure out in what direction Perry had disappeared. He felt an obligation to at least look for where he had crashed. The men back in Rembercourt and the man’s family deserved at least that much effort. He calculated they had flown at least fifteen miles behind the German lines, possibly more. Therefore, choosing to take a lower altitude flight path, at approximately five thousand feet, so that he could more easily spot any wreckage, he set off towards home.

He flew over land that until this past spring had been in French hands. In a mighty and costly attack, the Germans had advanced, once again almost to Paris, before they were stopped, then pushed back at enormous cost to both sides. The exhausted French army held, leaving this salient still protruding across the countryside. If the Germans were to burst through, either here or at several other similar spots along the front, the war could yet be won for them. The word out was that with the collapse of the Russian Empire and the subsequent peace treaty between the new Bolshevik government and Kaiser Bill of Germany, General Hindenberg was transporting the newly freed-up German troops from the Russian front in the east to France here in the west. The Allies knew they had to strike the Germans before that link-up.

The war was indeed at a crucial stage. It could go either way.

Then Charlie spotted something less than two kilometers ahead. It looked like a German balloon being towed toward the front. Determining that it was indeed a balloon, Charlie sent the Spad upwards to climb far above it. At eight thousand feet, he threw his craft into a sharp dive, directly below and to the front of the balloon. Shooting down one, balloon-busting, it was called, was a dangerous enterprise. Balloons were always protected by fighters. There was nothing easy about it. Balloon-busters were 85

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famous on their own. But at this point, Charlie didn’t care. He was at war with the entire German army.

Like an avenging angel, the Spad plunged from the sky. Two Germans guarding the balloon were caught totally by surprise.

This attack from behind their own lines by a sole aircraft was unexpected. One immediately abandoned the balloon, while the other appeared undecided as to what exactly its response should be. By then, it was already too late. Charlie had been instructed to return with no bombs, and Charlie intended to follow orders.

Still diving directly at the balloon, he released two twenty-pound bombs and, for a moment, watched them creep away from him in the balloon’s direction. He pulled out of his dive just before he saw one of the bombs narrowly miss the balloon. But the second one found its target. The balloon erupted in a giant red and orange explosion, then collapsed, falling from the sky. Charlie saw two puppet-sized objects leap from their basket and watched as two parachutes opened. Its occupants would live to fight another day. For some reason, Charlie was glad they survived.

He felt no animosity towards the balloonists. Americans were instructed to avoid shooting at parachutes. “You are here to kill the machines, not the men,” they were taught. But once again, he felt great satisfaction watching this weapon of war streamer in flames to the ground. And then he was gone. The lone fighter defending the balloon realized he had no chance at catching the much faster Spad, so he called off any pursuit before he began.

“Now why in the world,” Charlie wondered, “are we not issued parachutes?”

“I must have flown farther behind the German lines than I realized,” he thought. He expected at any moment to come under anti-aircraft fire, or “Archies,” as it was familiarly called. But the fields and woodlots dotting the French countryside looked placid enough. He spotted a column of smoke ahead and hoped perhaps it would be Perry. Perhaps he is still alive – if he got this far, he might have had a hard landing in a field.

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But as he closed the gap between the object and himself, he perceived it was a locomotive. On closer inspection, he discovered it was an empty coal train, probably returning to Germany to pick up another load to carry toward the front, having dumped its most recent burden. Wasting no time for thought, Charlie banked around to approach the train from the rear. Lining up on the track about a mile to its rear, he brought his Spad down to nearly treetop level and gunned the engine. From a mile back and racing forward at 134 mph, it took mere seconds for Charlie to catch up. There was one gun car at the train’s tail end, but having dumped their load of coal, and with the train well behind their lines and growing farther from them by the minute, the watchers were slow to react – too slow.

Charlie triggered the Vickers and walked the blue hose up to and across the gun car from front to back. The gun car’s weapon remained silent. Charlie raised his aim a fraction and hosed the steam locomotive pulling the nearly one-half mile long string of empty coal cars until the gun clicked on empty. Passing over the engine, he released his two final bombs directly in front.

The tracks exploded, tossing twisted metal and wooden ties in every direction. Charlie swung around in time to watch the engine disappear into the explosion, continue forward for tens of meters without the benefit of rails, and then collapse on its side, dragging dozens of rail cars over with it. “That will take at least a couple days to clean up,” he observed with satisfaction, “and a bit longer to haul out that wreck of a train.”

Charlie was certain he must be nearing the front, and just to be on the safe side, he reloaded his machine gun with another box containing one hundred fifty rounds of .303mm ammunition. “A fellow just can’t be too careful in this line of work,” he thought to himself and then realized his tension and fear were gone. In fact, he noticed he was enjoying himself.

Although he would have preferred to remain at this lower altitude, he knew it would be safer to climb. And so he did. And 87

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it was well that he did so. No sooner had he reached 18,000 feet than he could see the red flares turning into dirty black puffs at about 17,500 feet. He could feel the explosions compress the air beneath him, but feeling playful, using a light touch, he bounced or hopped over the Archie until he was well past the front lines and flying over the safe soil of Allied France.

Minutes later, he circled over the Rembercourt aerodrome, waiting his turn to land, watching as the workers and mechanics went about their business, only a few stopping momentarily to glance up in his direction. All the tension and terror, the rage and regret that he had gathered and hoarded as the day progressed, he now felt drain away with the adrenaline in a rush. He was left with only one emotion that he put into a whispered prayer, “God, you know how wonderful it feels to get home.”

As he prepared to land, he was forced to swing slightly to his left in order to avoid a crashed and flipped Spad. Five workers were turning over the mangled wreck to drag it off the field, and the last thing he needed was to crash into it after everything he had been through that day. He bounced to a stop and then taxied up to the hangar, where he saw both Louis and Pierre playing cards with some other mechanics. Charlie shut off the engine and called out, “So this is what you guys are up to all day while I’m out battling the barbarians.”

Both his mechanics instantly abandoned the game and hurried over to the Spad just as Charlie stiffly climbed out. They all embraced, laughing. Pierre spoke first. “We have been worried sick. Ever since Berton Perry returned and talked about how he was jumped and then abandoned you to deal with two of Boche by yourself we’ve been going insane. It took a direct order from Captain Bentley to keep McCulloch and Johnson from racing off to search for your wreckage.”

“Wait a second,” Charlie interrupted, “what do you mean, Berton Perry returned? Is he here? Did he make it back?”

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“Indeed, he did, barely. We all watched him sputter his way over those most unhappy trees at the end of the field, his engine in flames and wings tattered. And he most certainly would have landed safely were it not for those damnable rocks that seem to grow better than crops in this region of France. You narrowly avoided his aeroplane when you landed. In any case, Berton Perry found one of those stones, one big enough to stop him in his trails, as you say. The plane flipped over, and he was thrown from it. “ “So, how is he, and where is he?”

“In the hospital, of course. He is suffering from a bullet wound that entered the back of his right shoulder. But more painful perhaps is the right arm, which is broken, and one leg that, most unfortunately, was severely fractured when he was ejected because of that pestilential boulder.”

Charlie broke from his mechanics and turned toward the door. “I’ll see you guys later. Gotta check in on Bert.”

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13 Charlie wasted no time, hurrying over to the base hospital.

It was one of the first buildings established at the aerodrome, one of the most important, and therefore, one of the most substantial. Built of wood, as was every other building, it was constructed according to army specs. Therefore, the hospital was solid, functional, and completely devoid of any hint of creativity.

He entered and immediately faced a desk, behind which sat a matronly woman in white wearing a white military nurse-type cap. He identified himself and explained who he was there to visit. She scanned her checklist of patients and their conditions and restrictions, and only then permitted him to pass through another door into the hospital ward.

A row of cots extended the length of the ward, about twenty on either side of a broad aisle. Four windows per side would let in broad bands of sunshine, cheering the ward. Most of the cots were unoccupied. Several had sheets drawn on either side as curtains, granting the patient inside some measure of privacy.

Carter immediately spotted Perry, about halfway down the line. The untamed mop of blond hair crowning his freckled face could never be mistaken for anyone else. However, except for his left arm, he was either wrapped in bandages or encased in casts, resembling an unfinished mummy.

“Hey there, you McCoy lackey,” Charlie called when he saw him.

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“Hey there yourself, you Hatfield lover,” came the response in a significantly weaker voice.

Charlie took note and pulled up a chair to the side of the cot.

“Man, you don’t know how much I worried about you. When I saw you get hit and start sinking, I thought for sure you were ‘going west.’ And I felt so awful for getting there too late.”

Perry smiled wanly, “They’ve got me on morphine. I can’t think straight, but at least it doesn’t hurt so much right now. I’m pretty busted up, but it could be worse, I guess. Don’t you be feeling guilty about that. It was my cocky call to wait too long before making my move. I’ve thought about it a lot, Charlie, and I feel awful about running away and leaving you to handle those Huns. I was afraid you were a goner.”

Charlie looked at the pale face, listened to the quiet voice, and said the only thing he could think of. “Well, don’t you worry.

We’ll have you up and out of here before you know it. Then…”

Perry lifted his good left hand and signaled Charlie to stop.

“I don’t think so. The doc told me my shoulder was pretty badly ripped up, with some permanent damage. The leg is a mess. He says I’ll walk with a cane, won’t the ladies like that, for a long time, maybe forever. Captain said he’s sending me home to the States. Charlie, I’m awful tired. Will you just sit here for a couple more minutes while I rest my eyes a bit?”

Seeing exhaustion written all over Bert’s face and hearing it in his voice, Charlie said, “Absolutely, my friend. And if there’s anything I can do to make you more comfortable, just ask.” But Bert was already succumbing to a morphine induced sleep.

Charlie sat in the silence of the hospital ward for a while longer, listening to his friend breathe. Finally, he rose and left, relieved but deeply saddened.

Back in the pilots’ quarters, several men were playing their nightly card game on the floor between cots. Seeing Charlie enter, they stopped for a moment to razz him a bit. “Whaddya know? Hail the conquering hero.”

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“Yeah, one confirmed kill, a probable, and a balloon busted for sure. Quite a day’s work.”

“And don’t forget that train he blew up. Charlie, you’re a regular one-man army. Way to go. You keep it up, and that’ll be less work for the rest of us.”

Charlie raised a middle finger salute as he walked to his cot, opened his footlocker, dug around for a few seconds until he found what he was looking for, then sat on the side of his cot, thinking. Seeing that was the only response they were going to get from him, the card players resumed the game.

He uncorked the bottle and took a swig, recalling the sight of the German strafing Bert’s plane, the rage and terror he felt. He remembered the satisfaction he felt when he chased down the second German and saw him crash. He saw the men leaping from the balloon he bombed with no remorse. Lastly, he visualized the bodies flying from the gun car on the train he strafed and wondered if anyone survived when it derailed. He drank long and deep, recapped the rich brown liquid, stuffed the bottle under his pillow, and collapsed into a deep and dreamless sleep.

Next morning, as Carter passed through the breakfast line, his attention was drawn to a corner of the room where Conners was speaking animatedly to a group of workers sitting with him.

“Sergeant Carter,” he called, “come and eat with us. I think you will find what I have to say interesting, seeing as you helped set it up.” He waved Charlie to a seat. “So, there you have it, men.

We need that pen secure. Bill, you’ve got to get that gate to latch, and a couple of those posts wobble. They’ll likely fall over if a cow so much as swishes her tail at them.” He turned his attention to Carter. “Charlie, I was growing fearful that our friends back in Paris may be thinking of reneging on our cattle deal, but I received word just this morning that a delivery of cattle will in fact happen before the sun reaches its zenith today.”

I also happened onto a perfect four-burner stove, well, perfect minus one leg, but that can be propped up easily enough.

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I have our good captain’s permission to set it up in that unused patch of field behind hangars three and four, where you may not have noticed, you being busy and all, fighting the war and such, the men, in their spare time have built a corral to contain our arriving cattle.” Conners was speaking so excitedly Charlie could barely keep up with the barrage of words. He had never seen the man so worked up about anything.

“Conners,” he interjected when the Irishman stopped for a moment to catch his breath, “this does sound fabulous, but why are you setting the stove out there in the field with the cattle? Are you afraid they might get chilly?”

“Oh, my boyo, not in the field but adjacent to it. Don’t you see it? This evening, we are going to have a picnic at Aerodrome Rembercourt. Cookie has agreed to help me out. It will get him out of the kitchen. The stove will be the tool that makes it possible. The men will have a choice. They can either eat what Cookie prepares, or for a mere one nickel, they can feast on a fresh T-bone, or perhaps a sirloin. The choice is theirs.” He leaned in. “Confidentially, I am pretty sure what the men will choose.”

The ghosts of yesterday disappeared to a far corner of Carter’s mind. The prospect of a steak cookout drove all other thoughts from his mind. “Conners, you’re a genius,” Charlie said. “If there’s anything I can do to help, just ask. After I gave Captain Bentley my report last night, he told me I do not need to report to the ready room today. I was going to catch up on some personal chores, so I’ll be available if you need me.”

“Thank you, my lad. That’s what I like about you, Yanks. Here you are, a big shot pilot, at least for now. Yet you see no problem with getting your hands dirty with the likes of me. I can assure you the Brits would have their noses stuck so far up in the air, they could bust balloons with them.”

“Conners, you may have noticed, though we speak the same language as those Brits, and we are fighting on the same side here, the good old US of A fought two wars with them, whipping 93

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them both times. The last one ended just over one hundred years ago, if what I learned in my high school history is correct. I heard someone say, ‘War makes strange bedfellows.’ I guess it’s true. We got no use for kings and such.”

Conners thought a second, then said, “I knew there was a reason I liked you people. Do you think, after this is all over, it might be possible for me to move there? There’s some folks I know of who moved to Boston, in Massachusetts. They’d help settle me in and get a job.”

“I’m sure there’s a place for you. I do believe you could talk yourself into getting elected mayor. My people came from Scotland quite a while ago. There was plenty of room for them.

We’ll talk again later. I’ve really got to go.”

“Conners,” a voice called, “how am I supposed to drive a fence post in this damn rocky ground?”

“Ah, my children call, and I must tend to them.” With that, both men turned and left.

The most pressing personal chore that Charlie Carter felt needed tending was to write a letter home. He knew he must reassure the family of his health and safety and Gertie of his love and faithfulness. That made the letter important, yet he knew he dared not use the pen to describe the secret emotions of personal combat, the thrill, joy, terror, and remorse that left him feeling raw and vulnerable.

So, first, he wrote a personal note to Gertie to be accompanied by a fuller letter to his parents. In her note, he spoke of the beauty of the land, the vastness of the air, the warmth of his comradeship with fellow pilots, and of course, his love for her. He mentioned how she came to him in his dreams and how, occasionally, during a workday, she would seem suddenly present. He wondered teasingly if maybe she really was not the ‘witch-girl’ others claimed her to be, and who had cast a spell on him. He ended his note to her, hoping that this war would be over soon so he could return home, and they could get married.

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Writing the letter to his parents was more difficult. They knew him more intimately and therefore deserved more from him. But precisely because of that, he knew he would give them less: Dear Ma and Pa, Sorry it’s been so long since I wrote last. The war has been keeping me pretty busy lately. Our captain Bentley is a good fellow. He wrote a pass out so me and a couple other men could go to Paris for a few days to collect some supplies. Paris sure is a big city. We had some fun and stayed out of trouble. Food’s alright, I guess, but it does rain a lot. I love flying the most, but some days we don’t fly at all, like today. Quite a few fellows here get ‘bumped off ’- many of them just training or trying to land or something like that. But I am pretty careful. I hope you two, and my brothers and sisters, are doing well. The Spanish flu is going around here, making our sick-call list pretty long some days. But you know me. I’ve always been healthy. Pa, is anybody helping you out at the stores? I didn’t think about how I was leaving you in the lurch when I lit out. Sorry about that. Just one more thing.

Please give Gertie the note I folded and taped to this letter. I miss you all bad. I’ve got to go now, but will write again when I get the chance.

Sincerely yours, Charlie He slouched back on his cot and did something he rarely did these days: thought of the individuals who comprised his family.

His oldest sibling, Cora, was so much older than he was, married with two children of her own, that she felt more like a mother sometimes than a sister. Brother Everett, just younger than Cora, was also well settled with a family living down in Huntington.

Charlie thought he had the prettiest wife of any of his brothers.

Then came Burgess, who was already balding, followed by Russell, who attended Marshall College in Huntington and became a civil engineer. Charlie liked visiting him because he had the finest 95

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house and made the most money, next to Pa, of anyone in the family. He was a lot like their father. Lastly, there was ‘little sister,’ Jenny. That’s what everyone called her, ‘little sister,’ even though she was five years older than Charlie.

He felt closer to her than any of his other siblings, and it was not just that she was closest to his age. Though she had already graduated from high school, as valedictorian in fact, Charlie and Jenny seemed to be cut from the same cloth. He felt stifled, even smothered by the prospect of settling down and working as a grocer. Jenny, too, seemed to feel the same itch to see faraway places and understood his need to take risks. Though she was over twenty, she had not gotten married yet and didn’t even have a beau. Ma and Pa couldn’t figure her out. Charlie hoped she would never change.

His parents had always seemed old to him, but now, when Charlie figured it out, he realized they both must be in their sixties. No wonder they seemed more like grandparents than parents. Still, they were not about to quit. Pa was planning to buy yet a third grocery store when the war broke out. Would that change, too?

Charlie felt that his folks were always pushing, trying to get somewhere they couldn’t name, that they would never just relax. In some ways, that pushiness paid off. Though neither of them had finished high school, all their kids had, and one even graduated from college. Charlie didn’t think he would ever go.

He couldn’t stand that much smothering anymore. It was like Mr. Carpenter, Gertie’s pa, had told him he would have to find his own path.

Thinking about them this way, he never realized how important this family was to him. All his life, they were just background, like trees or buildings in a painting. He just knew they would always be there in that part of his life. He missed them all, more than he ever admitted before.

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He didn’t seal the letter. It would have to pass the censors, he knew. For a moment, he wondered what it would be like to sit around all day and read other people’s mail. Then he quashed the thought with the shudders. Nothing, he decided, would be more boring. He would rather have a German gunner on his tail.

He stood to take the letter to the mailroom and stepped outside. Excited voices off to his left drew his attention. Across the field, behind several hangars, was a railroad siding. Charlie had not heard a train pull in, but it must have. There sat a single cattle car. A ramp had been installed on its side, and several workers were in the process of driving the cows down it. Charlie counted eleven. If he recalled correctly, there were only supposed to be ten. The small herd of speckled Normandie cattle made their anxious way down and into a penned area of about five acres. Conners stood at the bottom of the ramp, excitedly giving instructions and looking to all the world like some big Irish farmer. Charlie smiled and headed his way.

Conners saw him approaching and hurried to meet him.

“Charles Carter, sure it is that now that the heavy labor is over, you deign to pay us a visit. This is even better than I hoped for.

Eleven, not ten. Did you count them? Eleven it is, of the finest cattle in France, perhaps in all Europe.”

“Yes, I see them, and yes, I counted them. How did that happen?”

“He sent me this note along with the cows. It says, ‘After you left, something did not feel quite right. I asked a few questions, and then I could see the way you men were trying to pull the sheepskin over my eyes. It made me laugh so hard. All of France knows and appreciates what you men are doing. If one more cow will help win the war, then take it with all my best wishes. By the way, where did you get the wine? It is delicious. I think it may be vintage. Au revoir. Jacques Beaufort’ Now, can you beat that? I ask you, can you beat that?”

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“No, I suppose I can’t. Now, when are you going to bless us with a steak cook-out?”

“I have to get the word out today, collect a few nickels, and tomorrow we will feast and celebrate. Also, I must have some fellows collect wood. One cannot eat steaks cooked on coal. It would not be worth a nickel. Hah!” He laughed at his own feeble joke and walked away, muttering about all the things that he had to do to prepare. Charlie continued to the mailroom, slightly disappointed that he would have to wait a whole day for his T-bone.

98

14 The day started off badly and then went downhill from there.

To begin with, it was now mid-summer, and the temperatures were sizzling. The barracks, while they did little to keep the cold out in the winter, did nothing to keep the stifling heat out in the summer. The pilots complained they either froze or fried. Going aloft could put them in frostbite territory in a few minutes on patrol. The mechanics and workers complained because they received absolutely no relief from the mugginess that ensured that every shirt they wore would be sweat-drenched within minutes of putting it on. The pilots complained because they were not allowed to strip to their undershirts. Tempers were short, and the slightest insult or a ribbing that a month previous might not have warranted even a mild retort, now brought friends to fist fights.

To make matters worse, yesterday two pilots were killed, not in combat, which at least would have been understandable, but juking around ‘practicing.’ They were flying overhead, practicing stunts and maneuvers that were useful in dogfights, tried a ‘fast pass,’ and hit head-on. Captain Bentley was extremely “fed up with all this shit,” as he put it. How does one write a letter to family and kin explaining such an action? “Sorry, sir or madam, your son was killed because he was fatally careless and sloppy.

And not only did he kill himself, but he also killed another pilot as silly and stupid as himself.”

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As a result, here all the pilots were, lined up shoulder to shoulder, across the entire field, in the blazing sun, each one carrying a shovel, and walking slowly forward, advancing at a snail’s pace. Behind them were workers driving tractors pulling wagons. When a man would find a rock, and there seemed an unlimited supply, he would dig it up and muscle it onto the wagon. Then he would resume his place in line and continue to the next rock.

Charlie didn’t mind it too much. At least everyone had to do it, officer pilots as well as NCOs. The lieutenant pilots, though, seemed to think it was beneath the dignity of officers in the United States Army to have to get their hands dirty alongside common NCOs. This was because most of the officer class were graduates or at least attended universities back home, some of them quite prestigious. All of them signed on after the US declared war, often because their fathers paid someone to give their sons commissions. On the other hand, many of the NCOs had joined the French much sooner, some of them a year earlier, in the Lafayette Escadrille. Many of them dismissed the officers as Johnny-come-lately pilots who had life way too soft. Consequently, the men of the officer corps usually did not mingle easily with the enlisted men. What bonded them was the knowledge that those little silver bars may impress the girls in the clubs officers frequented, but at ten thousand feet, facing hostile aircraft, they meant exactly nothing.

Maybe those distant rumbles of thunder would bring some welcome rain and cooling relief. That would most likely bring an end to the misery. But then again, Bentley was so cranky that he would probably keep the men working in the mud. And probably, Charlie thought, those distant rumbles weren’t thunder but just the big guns chewing up more of the French countryside.

This was not how wars were fought in the pulp fiction novels back in the States. Real war was a massive tedium and useless work, interspersed with short bursts of sheer terror. How could 100

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one explain that to anyone who never experienced it? Charlie stumbled. He’d nearly tripped over a stone. Prying it loose with his shovel, he bent and muscled it up, hauled it to the trailing wagon, rolled it on, and took his place back in the line. Tedium.

Conners and his helpers did a good job of spreading the word about the cookout. At least it appeared that way to Carter as he made his way to the designated area behind the hangars.

The workday was over, the air was cooling just a bit, and he, along with about one hundred other men, was ready to relax and have a good time. Cookie baked up a pile of potatoes to go with Conners’ steaks, and from the look of it, alcoholic beverages were plentiful - of course at a price.

From the nearby hangar, a loudspeaker usually used only as an alarm siren had been jerry-rigged to an Edison phonograph.

The air was filled with a string of popular songs. A private soldier, one of the new generation of electronic geniuses America was producing, sat cross-legged on a chair, casually flipping a toothpick over and over in his mouth as he sorted through a stack of heavy black vinyl disks. Where and how he had acquired such a treasure was anybody’s guess. As the airmen and their mechanics walked by singly or in groups, they complimented him on his choice of music. He returned the friendly banter, and they proceeded out the back door of the hangar into the picnic area.

As the men filed in chatting and joking, from the loudspeaker could be heard the cheerful melody, “Pack Up Your Troubles in Your Old Kit-Bag.” The soldiers joined in and, on the chorus “Smile, smile, smile,” let loose with an especially loud and offkey display of enthusiasm.

Even Captain Bentley’s mood improved. He had approved of the picnic as a morale booster. And for this evening only, his rule about requiring the men to be in proper uniform, including necktie, was rescinded. Open shirt collars were permissible, so that became the norm.

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Carter took his place on the serving line. The aroma of grilled steaks, real beef, was almost overwhelming, and not just to him.

Everyone was in a hurry to be served. The line moved quickly. He picked up a tray and moments later was standing before Cookie, who unceremoniously dropped a baked potato on it. “There’s salt and pepper beside that pail of fresh sour cream.” Carter looked surprised. “That’s right, I said ‘fresh sour cream.’ I made it myself yesterday. Can’t let that good milk from those cows that need milking go to waste.” He leaned forward a bit. “And while it lasts, we’ll have fresh cream for that miserable excuse for coffee we gotta drink. So don’t just stand there. Move along.” He waved a large pair of tongs at Carter and looked to the next man.

At the end of the table, behind a grill made of two halves of a large barrel, stood Conners, rattling a tin can of nickels in one hand and a huge fork in the other. “Well, top of the evening to you, Sergeant Carter. Welcome to the feast. For you, it’s to be a T-bone, is it not? How would you like yours?”

Carter, unused to being given a choice in much of anything, paused for a moment. “Yeah, T-bone, and make that medium rare, if you please.”

“Oh, I do aim to please, but before you go…” he rattled the can. “I must pay the help. That music you hear did not just magically materialize.”

Smiling, Carter dug into his pocket and pulled out a nickel.

“This better be worth it, or I’ll want my nickel back.” Conners scowled. Carter laughed. “I’ll take that one right there,” he pointed at a sizzling steak. “It looks perfect.”

Conners carefully placed it next to the potato, wearing a smug grin. “My dear mother always claimed I was the best cook in the family. And since she was a county Kerry champion herself, I took that as a fine compliment indeed. Now move along, Charlie.”

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chair and chatted amiably with the burly fellow seated in the other chair, a sergeant pilot like himself, named Loving, from Wyoming. Pierre sat in a third. Charlie introduced himself and Pierre, then explained to Loving that he and Pierre, along with Conners, had acquired the cattle grazing nearby and were now supplying this cookout. “But this brainstorm was really Conners’ idea, totally. The man is unstoppable. Glad to meet you, Loving.

If you don’t mind my asking, how’d you come by such a family name?”

“I don’t mind at all,” he said, “Just so you don’t go making fun of it. My great-uncle Ollie was a pioneer. Him and his pal Charlie Goodnight started up the Goodnight-Loving Cattle Trail. Unfortunately, Ollie was killed by Indians back in ’67. Ma says I look a lot like him.” He shoved a pile of wavy blond curls off his forehead and flashed a cheek-splitting grin. “I say he must have been a handsome devil. My name’s Dexter. Friends call me Dex. “He shoved a big mitt in Charlie’s direction. Charlie took it and burst into a loud laugh. Pierre smiled around a mouthful of food, wondering how a person could think the devil was goodlooking.

It looked like Conners had thought of everything. Indeed, he had. An impromptu bar was set up around the corner from the serving line, just a broad board covering two barrels. Behind that bar was an identical one on which sat a totally unexpected arrangement of liquor – everything from wine to whiskey and all the fixins a man could ask for. There was a pile of tin cups and a handmade sign that read, “Mix Your Own. Please return the cup.

One nickel per cup. No credit.”

“Excusez moi,” Pierre stood, “I have one more of your wonderful American coins.” He showed a nickel. “And I think now that I have dined so well, that some fine red French wine would be a fitting conclusion to the repast. It would deliver the meal’s ‘coup de grâce.’ Is that how you Americans use the phrase?”

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“Probably not. But I don’t know, Pierre. I admit I’ve never heard it before. But go get your drink and bring me one too. I haven’t had a chance yet to taste what made this party possible.”

He watched Pierre as he walked over to the bar.

Several officers, both young lieutenants, were hanging out there, talking and drinking. Pierre, blocked by the men, approached but could not access the wine. He tried going left. They slid left. He tried the right. They blocked him that way. Clearly, they enjoyed taunting the Frenchman. Charlie understood what they were doing, and the smile disappeared from his face.

Pierre tried a wan smile and lifted his hands palms up as if asking for the obvious. “Bon jour, monsieurs, si vous plait, if you please to step aside.”

“Oh, would you look at this, Worthington? I think the little frog would like something to drink. What do you think?”

“I think, old boy, the little frog should pay us. In fact, I am not sure that this is a frog at all. It looks more like a toad, a warty little toad. Yes, I think he should pay us. After all, it’s the least he could do since we have come so far to rescue his miserable excuse of a country.”

“I think both of you jerks should just step aside so my friend can buy a drink.”

“You do? And who are you to give us orders, Sergeant?” The two refocused their attention on Carter and the other, somewhat larger, sergeant standing beside him.

“I’m an American, just like you, and I’m telling you to get.

Out. Of. The. Way.” “Will you listen to that, Dan?” He elbowed his companion in the ribs. “We’re just like him, and we have to get out of his way. I think not. In the first place, Sergeant whoever you are, you are nothing like us. We are officers in the army of the United States. You are infinitely below us in rank. In the second place,” the speaker was working himself up now, “from your accent, I 104

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would wager that you have never attended a college of note. Most probably, you never even graduated from secondary school. Can you even spell the word?” Both the officers laughed and downed their drinks. “And now if you two underlings would come to attention and properly salute your superior officers, we just might recognize you and let your insults pass.”

“I’ve heard enough of your big mouth. Recognize this.”

Loving pushed past Carter and planted his fist in Worthington’s face, sending him reeling backward. The other officer stepped up to take a swing, but Carter doubled him over with a punch to the ribs. The first came back with a roundhouse at Loving’s head, but he parried it easily and delivered another blow to the mouth, cutting the lip and loosening a tooth. Some men who had been nearby and heard the fight brewing stepped in to break it up and, in the ensuing scuffle, sent the bar crashing to the ground.

“Fight, fight, fight, NCOs against officers.” Someone shouted, accurately sizing up the situation.

“Officers form up on me, “yelled someone, rallying the officers. “Pugilists forward. We will give these bumpkins a proper thumping.”

“Yahoo. NCOs,” someone challenged. “Let’s kick some officer butt.”

“Officers, let us smack these flies.”

“NCOs. Let ‘em eat fists.”

Suddenly, men who just moments before were eating steaks and joking together were now setting their trays aside, standing up, rolling up their shirt cuffs, and squaring off. It soon became a complete melee, as confusing as any dogfight could be and just as full of insults and curses, as well as the occasional grunt of pain or shout of triumph. Then the music stopped playing the sentimental standard, “Keep the Home Fires Burning,” and launched into the song that was almost the American war anthem, “Over There.”

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other mental ailments the men felt were released in a spasm of physical activity and personal violence. After several minutes, the song was over, and all the music stopped.

Just after the brawl began, a breathless private rushed into the HQ and reported a fight behind the hangar. Captain Bentley immediately hurried to the scene. Realizing that the song, having been played several times in a row, was only making matters worse, he ordered the music stopped and strode through the big hangar door. How and why had things spun so wildly out of control? Would he have to call out the MPs to quell a riot? When he stepped outside through the back hangar door, however, what he actually saw amazed and flabbergasted him.

The brawl simply ground to a halt as exhausted, bloodied, and bruised, but well-fed men knelt or sat around on the ground and wondered what the ruckus had all been about in the first place. Men who just a minute before were trying their best to lay the other fellow out, now offered an unsteady hand to help their opponent stand and then, leaning on one another, staggered their unsteady way back to their respective barracks through the hangar and past a mystified Captain Bentley. There was consensus among the combatants that the fight was one of the best any of them had ever been in, but there was no enthusiasm or energy to restart it. Not a single soldier failed to at least attempt to deliver a salute. Bentley stood aside, looking at the battered men parade by.

His anger evaporated. In its place grew a sense of acceptance, even hope. It was apparent that some unhealthy resentments had created destructive barriers between the ranks. It was also apparent to him that something better had replaced it, a camaraderie that had been sorely lacking before. He decided on the spot that there would be no MPs and no investigations as to instigators and such. He thoughtfully returned to his office, planning the most ear-blistering speech of his life. This could 106

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never be allowed to happen again. But for now, until he could see how it would all play out, he would let the incident die.

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15 Had the Germans been aware of what occurred at the Rembercourt aerodrome the night before, they probably could have mounted an attack on the aerodrome quite successfully.

A close observer at Reveille would have noticed many a soldier weaving slightly in place. Charlie looked down the line and saw swaying soldiers, puffy eyes, and split lips. He would have smiled, but his headache hurt too much.

Following headcount, the men were normally dismissed to their barracks and breakfast, but not this morning. In the shadowy light of early dawn, Captain Bentley stepped to the fore and faced the men. He seldom used a loudspeaker. He rarely needed one, blessed as he was with leather lungs. But this morning, he leaned into the microphone and amid the screeching and squawking, he held nothing back as he excoriated his miserable men. When the men were dismissed, they slunk off to their barracks or breakfast, their heads ringing like bells, silently thanking God that the tongue lashing was over – and they had survived. For his part, Captain Bentley proceeded directly to his office to plan his next step.

Carter was one of those who decided the attraction of his cot was superior to anything Cookie could possibly slap onto his tray. He carefully touched his painful ribs. Lying down eased the pain. Rising back up was not something he wanted to think about.

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It seemed but minutes before the HQ Orderly stood at the barracks door. “These men are to report to the ready room post haste: Carter, Loving,…” The list continued, but Carter stopped paying attention after the first two names. Obviously, the good Captain Bentley figured out who started the fight and prepared a special hell for them. It would be Charlie’s cross to bear. “Why had he stepped up so quickly to defend Pierre? The man could have most likely handled the situation himself. He would have had to eat a little crow perhaps, but still…” But even as he mulled over these considerations, he realized he would do the same thing again if the cause arose. He had hated bullies all his life, from the school yard to this war. “Yes,” he thought as he rolled carefully onto one side preparatory to standing, “I would certainly do it again. That’s how I met the girl who said she would be my wife.

Now I just have to live long enough to get home to her.”

When Charlie arrived, the ready room was already filling. He recognized several faces from the prior night. By his unofficial head count, there were eight NCOs and seven officers, including the two who began the whole brawl by taunting Pierre. He caught a furtive glance from one of them before the man averted his eyes. Charlie thought the lieutenant actually looked embarrassed.

Sergeant Carter stood a little straighter. He did not want to appear incapacitated in any way. He walked to a chair and sat, glad that his back was to the two lieutenants, so they did not witness him wince as a jolt of pain shot through his ribs. “The guy might be a jerk,” he thought, “but he can sure throw a punch.”

Captain Bentley entered and stepped to the front. “You men have been chosen for a special mission today,” he began with a sly smile. “I have received word that another flight of brand spankingnew Spads has been directed to this base. Unfortunately, they were factory delivered to the aerodrome at Issoudun, about one hundred miles south of Paris, almost in the direction opposite of where they should have been sent. That’s about par for the course.” A few men chuckled softly. “You fifteen men are to fly 109

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to Issoudun today and bring them here along with fifteen pilots who have just finished flight school.

“What,” Charlie wondered,” did Captain Bentley have up his sleeve? This hardly seems like much of a punishment for brawling – to deliver some planes and see some countryside. It sounds like a piece of cake.”

“Of course, you will have to fly there. Issoudun is a flight training base. Therefore, you will deliver to them the aircraft that are at least flight-worthy. Mostly, they will be old Nieuports.”

“Of course, that’s it,” he thought. “The fifteen of us will be spending two hours in aircraft that were obsolete when they first got to us. These old Nieuports are flimsy, rickety, filthy, oilspewing machines that should not be flown anywhere. Therefore, the powers-that-be are generously donating them to be trainers so that young would-be pilots can learn how it feels to die.”

The captain continued, “We need those Spads today. Prepare yourselves to leave within the hour. The turnaround time at Issoudun will be less than one hour. You are to be back here before dark. You will maintain formation the entire time, both ways. You will be unarmed except for officer sidearms. But since you will be flying away from the front, I do not expect any enemy contact. Lieutenant Thomas, as ranking officer, will be in command. Are there any questions? Hearing none – dismissed.”

Bentley exited immediately, leaving the assorted pilots to figure things out. One rose first. It was Thomas. “Okay, men.

Quiet down.” Carter recognized the voice. It was the same one that rallied the officers at the start of last night’s brouhaha. He broke the flight down into three groups of four planes flying the diamond formation, and one wedge of three planes with him in the lead. After sorting things out, he dismissed the men to collect whatever they would need and to reassemble in thirty minutes at the flight line.

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Sergeants Carter and Loving would be in a diamond with Lieutenants Hansen and Everson. Carter was less than surprised to discover that the two lieutenants were the same ones who tangled with him and Loving at the start of the fight. The four lingered after everyone else left the room. Lieutenant Hansen broke the ice. “Sergeants Carter and Loving, I’m Dan Hansen.

This is Richard Worthington. Now that we’ve been properly introduced, I want to start off by apologizing for my boorish behavior last night.” Worthington nodded his agreement. “Too much booze did too much talking. We’re fighting from here on out against the same enemy, and we need to be on the same team.

Everyone I hear from, Carter, tells me you are a good pilot, and I would add, a good man to have on his side in a fight.”

“And I just want to add a comment to you, Sergeant Loving,” said Lieutenant Worthington. “You have one hell of a left jab.

Where did you learn that? I was not taught that in Yale. My jaw still aches.”

“I grew up on a ranch in Wyoming. Every once in a while, a bull gets out of line and needs to be reminded of who’s in charge.

I guess it just comes with the job.” The men laughed, and the tension dissipated.

“It’s all settled then,” Hansen said. “I’ll see you in a few minutes over by those Nieuports. I’ve got one little personal chore to take care of, and I suggest you men do as well. It’ll be a long flight.” Carter and Loving stiffened, but before they could come to attention, Hansen added, “And there will be no saluting.

I don’t want to start another fight.” The men chuckled and went their separate ways.

As they walked away, Loving said to Carter, “You know that Lieutenant Hansen isn’t such a bad guy. And that other one, Richard Worthington, has a hell of a handle, but he might end up okay too.”

“Yeah, seems so. Time’ll tell.”

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The flight to Issoudun went pretty much as expected. It may have been hot on the ground, but at four thousand feet, it was downright cool. Lieutenant Hansen’s diamond was staked out on the left side of the larger diamond formation. Two groups of four flew the rear and right flank, while Thomas, flanked by two wingmen, flew point.

Every mile that crept by at ninety miles per hour reminded Carter why he was so happy to be out of the Nieuports and flying Spads. It was true that the Spad required more muscle than the nimble Nieuport, but the nature of the Nieuport’s rotary engine was such that it continually sprayed oil, much of which hit the pilot sitting directly behind a tiny windscreen. There was nowhere to hide and no way to avoid it. Periodically, Carter wiped his goggles. But after a while it only seemed to smear the oily goo around even worse. Breathing becomes difficult without getting the castor oil in your mouth. Some invariably found their way down the throat into the stomach and intestines. Carter noticed nausea, causing his bile to rise and his gut to growl in distress. He feared that if they did not reach the Issoudun aerodrome soon, he would lose control of his bowels completely. The only solace he gained was from the knowledge that every other pilot in the squadron of fifteen was forced to endure the same punishment.

“Yep,” he admitted, “Captain Bentley knew exactly what he was doing when he assigned the men to fly this mission. He probably couldn’t have picked a more unpleasant punishment.”

It was barely two hours later, but it felt much longer, when the aerodrome at Issoudun came into view. There was no way it could be missed. Amid the fields, farms, woodlots, and tiny villages, there suddenly appeared a huge open area, perhaps a half-mile square full of hangars and huts. A stream flowed along one side, and a road and railroad track formed the other. Ant-like figures raced about on the ground. Lieutenant Thomas waggled his wings, a sign to pay attention, and he led the first three aircraft, banking to the right, down to the runway. After circling 112

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around the field, Lieutenant Dan Hansen led his flight in. Try as he might, Carter could not keep his little plane from bouncing down the runway, if this bumpy sod pasture could be called that.

Clearly, whoever commanded here did not line his men up to police the field of rocks. Nevertheless, he did land safely, taxiing his craft over to the area Thomas parked his group in, and then lined up wingtip to wingtip. The following two flights of four did the same.

The aerodrome at Issoudun was a revelation to Charlie.

Though it was technically under the control of the AEF, specifically Billy Mitchell, most of the officers, all the pilot instructors, and every single plane were French. The trainees were Americans, part of the one-million-man army General Pershing was bringing to Europe. The twenty-some aircraft that were mindlessly careening about the field resembled refugees from a prehistoric bird sanctuary. Their tails and wings were clipped so there was no way they would ever leave the ground.

But that did not seem to matter as they raced up and down the field, trainees in the cockpits, French trainers, the ’moniteurs,’ running alongside, shouting instructions and trying to dodge the aircraft as it would side-slip first one way, then another. Two of the former aircraft were totally out of control, spinning like dogs chasing their tails while the instructors could do nothing but stand and shout from a safe distance.

Men on the sidelines hollered and hooted. “Be back in time for dinner.” “No! The other way!” It looked like a scene of sheer insanity. One, rattling down the field, hit a rock and flipped completely over in what looked like slow motion. The pilot climbed out unhurt and shrugged. One Bleriot, having reached the end of the field, turned around and raced back just as another started down the field in its direction. The instructors screamed uselessly and dived aside. Miraculously, both broken crafts came to a halt, not twenty feet apart. An instructor took one step 113

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forward. Then both machines lurched forward and collided, shattering the large wooden propellers.

“Sacre dieu. This will never do, Monsieur.” Shouted one moniteur, exhausting his knowledge of the English language.

“You will never last, never.” Carter thought for a moment that the instructor would break down and cry. But with a classic Gallic shrug, he picked up his clipboard and walked toward his embarrassed student.

Good Lord, Charlie thought, is this what we looked like back at Kelly Field, Texas? Were we this bad? He watched as the crippled machines were dragged off the field and over to machine sheds where they would be repaired and patched up to be used again.

“So this is why they need more planes,” he said to himself. All the other pilots who flew in with him were likewise standing by their Nieuports, appalled by the chaos, all their own bodily needs put on hold so they could watch. That was until an American officer approached Lieutenant Thomas.

Ignoring everything that was happening behind him, he struck up a conversation. “Good afternoon, Lieutenant. I trust you and your men had an uneventful flight. Now if you will all come with me,” and he started walking. The men fell in behind him. “I’ll show you where to clean up, and the cook, a real French chef, has set up a table for you before you have to start the long flight back. We really appreciate the new planes you brought us.”

“Beg pardon, sir, but these planes have seen plenty of hard use.”

“True, but to us they are new. Do you realize some of these training aircraft these men will go up in are Bleriots that date from 1914 with a top speed of 54 miles per hour? Trust me, Commander, these Nieuports are new to us. So, thank you.”

“You’re welcome, sir,” Thomas said as they stepped into a small building from which came a very pleasant aroma. “And we heard you have some new planes for us.”

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“Yes, we do. They were just delivered. Eat up and I’ll show you some new two-seater Spads.”

“First, we need to clean up.”

“Of course, right through there.” He pointed.

The men cleaned up and hurried through the meal, eager to see what they would be flying back to Rembercourt. They exited the mess hall, curled around the side of the building, and there on an adjacent field, lined up wingtip to wingtip, were fifteen aircraft. They were noticeably Spads but were different.

The officer in charge spoke. “These are the new two-seat Spads. They’re not the first two-seaters, but they are the best. I love them. See the wings. Not much there, only fifteen square meters. She is fast, and I love speed, always have. At 150 miles per hour, she can outrace anything up there, even the single-seaters.

Look at this. I think you will find this rear-mounted machine gun quite useful in a scrape. And man, can she maneuver. I suggest that on your way home, you test them out, see what they can do.

The French have improved the Hispano-Suiza engines, we call them Hissos, so keep them on a leash. Any questions?”

“Just one, sir. We’ll be reporting back to our base commander.

I do not see your name tag. Who shall I say we received the airplanes from?”

“Tell him, Eddie Rickenbacker, and I’m just an aviation engineer. Safe travels.” They saluted, and he walked away.

“Rickenbacker, huh,” said one of the pilots. “What’s a Rickenbacker? Sounds like a Boche name for an automobile to me.”

“Lieutenant,” Thomas said almost in pity. “That man happens to be the top Ace in the Army Signal Corps. Before the war, he was a top race car driver. If he says the plane is fast, I believe him.

Now let’s go through the check list. While they were so engaged in checking them out, up trooped fifteen uniformed Americans, all newly commissioned lieutenants.

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Lieutenant Thomas turned and stood them at ease while he finished leading the pilots through their checklists. Then he gathered them all together and introduced the newbies. “Men, besides flying these beauties back to Rembercourt, we will also be transporting these pilots. We’ll need them.” He turned to the new pilots. “Okay, men, split up and pick a plane. Take the gunner seat in the rear. You may have been trained to call it the observer’s seat, but from now on it’s the gunner. I can assure you that the pilots seated in front of you are all battle-tested combat veterans. Watch them and learn, okay? Now let’s go home. Oh, and there’ll be no saluting or pulling rank. We settled that last night, right, men?”

“Right and damn right,” were the shouted responses.

Relieved and curious, the newly minted pilots stepped forward and shook hands with the veterans, then climbed into the gunner seats of the new Spads. Soon, fifteen fresh-from-thefactory aircraft, carrying fifteen new pilots as passengers, took off north for the long flight to Rembercourt.

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16 Charlie would remember for a long time this flight to Rembercourt. The day was lovely. The aircraft still smelled new.

The engines droned beautifully, and the aircraft itself was a joy to fly. Scuttlebutt had it that base competition for the new Spads was intense. He could see why. By summer, every base and squadron were supposed to be flying them, but production did not keep up with demand. Delivering these aircraft to Rembercourt along with fifteen more pilots would mean about half the pilots there would now be flying the new planes that were also equipped with new communications systems. There were also rumors about a new German fighter that was designed to replace the Albatros.

But there was no use worrying about that now.

Flying in a wedge and three diamonds was also giving the men a chance to coordinate better with each other. In the lead, Lieutenant Thomas waggled his wings to get everyone’s attention. His wingmen dropped out of formation and took up positions directly behind him. His meaning was clear. The entire formation was to do the same and form a ‘string.’ Hansen immediately dissolved his diamond and moved up to be next in line. Charlie slid into a position behind him. The other two diamonds followed suit. Soon, all fifteen were in a line, like a string of geese, he thought.

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Then Thomas began a series of maneuvers that not only tested the new aircraft but their pilots as well. First, he led them into a steep dive, pulling out only to flow into an equally steep climb. But instead of leveling out at the top, he continued over the top, upside down, and around. The entire squadron completed the mass Immelmann flawlessly, something first accomplished only a few years previously. He led them in steep banking moves, first left, then right, and then dives to a hundred feet, practicing strafing runs. No one missed a beat. This was teamwork flying.

No one wanted to be the butt of company jokes at mess for having flubbed a move. It resembled an aerial ballet.

Some of the moves were challenging. Charlie had to focus completely on the barrel rolls. Flying at two hundred feet upside down, where everything you ever learned about flying an airplane was reversed, was the most difficult for him. Climbing to ten thousand feet, shutting down, going into a deliberate nosedown spin they called a vrille, kicking the engine back on, and pulling out of the spin, could be frightening as well.

He realized that the other pilots were probably going through the same emotions he was, but watching them all complete each maneuver created in him a deeper trust and respect for the men on whom he would need to rely should they find themselves in a dogfight together. It was this day in July 1918, that Charlie Carter would always remember and point to as the day fifteen men were molded into one squadron. He would also remember it as the most joyous flying experience of his life. He could only imagine what the show must have looked like if seen from the ground.

Approaching their aerodrome at Rembercourt, Thomas signaled his tail man to drop back just a bit. The rest did the same until each plane was about a quarter mile behind the one to its immediate front. Then the lieutenant led them to the ground, each in turn dropping out of the sky and landing perfectly, taxiing to the hangar prepared for them but stopping just outside.

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wingtip to begin working them over, checking for anything that may need to be replaced or repaired.

As the pilots climbed out, they were instructed to proceed promptly to the ready room for debriefing. Charlie noticed several of the new pilots rushing to the back door of the hangar, hunched over, their hands over their mouths. He had forgotten his early airsickness bouts and sympathized with the sick newbies. But he also noticed the sparkling eyes, the vigorous hand gestures, and the excited voices of others. He turned to look for his ‘observer,’ but the man must have been one of those who needed to unload his lunch.

In any case, within several minutes, everyone reassembled in the ready room. Captain Bentley stood on the raised dais in front, his hands clasped behind his back, letting the men talk and get acquainted. He liked his job most of the time. He hated having to write letters to the families of men who would never be coming home again. He figured himself to be a reasonable student of human nature, and liked the men he worked with and led, as well. Before the war, he was a reserve army officer who owned a barber shop in Chicago, so he was used to hearing men out. Often, they would reveal things to him as he snipped away at their hair they would never share, even with their wives.

They often asked his advice, but he found that if he tossed their questions back, the customer would often work out the problem himself. Invariably, though, that customer would thank Bentley for helping him. In short, Bentley did a lot of listening, not a bad trait for a man in a leadership position.

As if at some unspoken signal, the men took their seats, the conversations became muted, then ceased altogether. The men looked at Bentley, who had still not moved. When he felt the time was right, Captain Bentley cleared his voice and spoke.

“Good afternoon, men, and I want to be the first to welcome our newest pilot members to Rembercourt aerodrome. I’m going to start by asking each one of you in turn to stand and state your 119

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rank, name, and state of origin. Then I’m going to ask our veteran pilots to do the same.

“Sir, First Lieutenant William Gordon, Georgia.” And so it proceeded. Charlie looked at the faces and heard the fresh enthusiasm in the voices. He wondered if he ever looked and sounded so raw. He did not usually like these attempts at social mixing, but if Bentley wanted it, he would go through with it.

Surprisingly, there was one new recruit from Charleston, West Virginia. His name was Leonard Crane. They were nearly neighbors.

Following the meeting, Crane came over to introduce himself to Charlie. Lieutenant Crane was taller than Charlie’s 5’10’ by nearly two inches, but with narrower shoulders and a fuller chest. His head sat atop a long neck that thrust forward. “Hello there, Sergeant Carter. I’m glad to meet another mountaineer.”

“Glad to meet you, Lieutenant Crane.” The two shook hands.

“Walk with me over to the mess hall. I know there’s always hot tea brewing, or something that is beginning to taste like coffee.”

And thus it went. They each got a cup of something hot, but Crane just smelled it and let it sit. Charlie sipped at his. “Now, how and why did you end up over here?” Charlie asked. At this point, he was not really curious. He wasn’t even sure he wanted to get to know Leonard Crane all that well. He might well grow to like the guy, and then Crane could crash and burn the day after tomorrow. But it seemed the friendly thing to ask.

“Well, you see, this is going to sound really crazy, but I was at a football game, playing in it actually, over at Morgantown, and at the rest break we get at half-time, three airplanes flew over together. For some reason, I knew right then and there that I had to fly. So I dropped out. Dad was furious. He expects me to be a lawyer like him. But that’s not going to happen.”

“You could always pick it up again when you get home.”

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seen. I want to learn to fly like that.” Then he changed the subject.

“Say, Lieutenant Woodson, my pilot, told me you’ve shot down two Boche and popped a balloon, all on the same day. You must have felt incredible. Five kills and you’re an ace.”

“Yeah, five kills and I’m an ace. So, I must be half an ace. I guess that makes me a half-aced pilot. Look, Crane, it’s good to meet and talk with you, but I’ve got some business to take care of that I’ve been putting off.” With that, Charlie rose, and the men shook hands again. He could not tell the enthusiastic young lieutenant that in his dreams, he was still seeing the two men falling from the balloon and the Albatros on fire and falling also.

He had to find Conners. He was going to need to buy another bottle of bourbon.

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17 Change was coming to aerodrome Rembercourt. Pilot replacements regularly arrived, bringing the total up to nearly one hundred men separated into four active squadrons, up from three when Charlie arrived. Projections were that as more pilots and planes arrived, Pursuit Squadron 91 would grow to six full flight squadrons of sixteen aircraft each. Another squadron was held in reserve at all times. The number of sorties also increased as July wore on. Scarcely a day went by without the loss of another pilot, even though no one flew alone anymore. The Allies were gaining momentum, but the Germans were resisting ferociously.

Tactics were changing as well. Head-hunting by pilots going solo was a thing of the past. Even squadron-sized sorties were being challenged by ever-larger formations of German chase aircraft.

Carter regularly flew with Leonard Crane now and got to know his capabilities and weaknesses. He was a courageous pilot and steady back-seat fighter. The term the men used was ‘wild,’ but that was not meant as derogatory. He never backed down from a fight and was the first to assist someone under attack. But that same characteristic could be a bit worrisome. On occasion, when Crane was piloting, Charlie thought he should have held back a bit to weigh his options or size things up. Instead, he would dive right in, as he would call it, ‘hell bent for leather.’

Charlie had to admit that so far it worked out well for ‘Fullback,’ as he was now referred to at the base.

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At the end of July, Thomas’s entire flight squadron was up, but they were no longer just scouting and taking pictures. Each Spad carried four bombs now, and they were looking to do some damage. The Mihiel salient was becoming more deadly by the day as American and other allies moved up to the front lines en masse. Rumor had it that soon the Americans were going to launch a major offensive, perhaps to straighten the salient, perhaps to push the Germans out of their line completely and all the way back to Metz. The squadron was flying the diamond formation again, this time with four full diamonds. Carter was in Hansen’s ‘four,’ flying at the very rear. Leo ‘Fullback’ Crane, the new pilot from West Virginia, was manning the swivel-mounted Parabellum machine gun in the rear.

As they neared the front lines, the deadly, dirty black puffs of shrapnel rose to greet them. By now, the men figured that Archies was just one more obstacle to overcome or ride out as they searched for targets, railroads, supply depots, ammunition dumps, troop columns, anything that would make the risk of flying this sortie worthwhile. They penetrated German lines to a depth of nearly two miles when a supply depot, stacked high with barrels of precious castor oil, appeared, and Lieutenant Thomas signaled his move. Castor oil was vital to keep modern weapons and vehicles running. In fact, the Nieuports’ motor lubricant was exclusively castor oil. Thomas led his four-plane diamond down in a string to bomb and strafe. The other diamonds prepared to follow suit.

Charlie, flying at the very rear and hence highest altitude, suddenly saw something that made his blood run cold. From out of a filthy-looking black cloud overhead fell aeroplanes, dozens of them. Older Albatros and brand-new Fokkers just kept falling.

Instantly, he fired off a three-round burst to warn the others preparing to dive on the depot. Hansen heard him, scanned the sky and with no hesitation jerked his four-unit diamond up to meet the Boche with a counter- attack of his own. The pilots 123

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were trained to respond to a head-on attack with an attack of their own. It minimized them as targets and also placed them in a position to do some damage. But still, Charlie thought as he yanked his joystick back to his lap, four versus thirty is just plain ridiculous.

The squadron’s diamond formation was crushed. The remaining twelve aircraft in it were too low and flying in the wrong direction to meet the attack effectively. As he rose, Charlie watched as the rearmost plane in the lead small diamond tried and failed to avoid an attack by what looked like a new Fokker.

A blue streak of tracers wove back and forth over the wings and fuselage, sending it over on its side and banking into the earth.

Each of the other two diamonds rallied as best they could. One banked hard right and began to climb. The other hard left and started up to meet the attackers.

In moments, there was no formation at all, just a swirling mass of weaving, dodging, and barking guns of aircraft across the sky. For a few seconds, it appeared that Hansen was on a collision course with a Fokker. Two aircraft closing at a speed well over two hundred miles per hour do not take long to meet.

The Fokker was sending out a constant stream of blue tracers.

Hansen was not. Displaying the cool-headedness that made him a good leader, he did not fire until he was within two hundred yards, and then it was only a four-round burst. He evaluated a split second, adjusted a hair higher, and fired two short bursts in quick succession. At least one must have hit the engine. The Fokker ceased firing and pulled hard right and down, falling in a vrille. He disappeared from Charlie’s vision in a stream of smoke and flame.

The grey sky beneath the black cloud became a swirling mess of spinning, climbing, diving, and weaving aircraft. The roar of engines mingled with the rattling of machine guns and the scream of bullets. The twelve planes that remained of the squadron diamond were starting to break through the German 124

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attack. Several now had the advantage of altitude and were turning that into attacks of their own, diving to intercept slower Germans trying to catch them.

Carter lined up on the tail of a new Fokker D2. These were the best the Germans could build, but try as it might, it could not outrun his Spad. The chattering of three short machine gun bursts in his ear caused the West Virginian to glance over his shoulder. A classic red Albatros with the big black cross on its side had dropped on his tail as Charlie stalked the Fokker. But if the Albatros’ pilot was looking for an easy kill, he was terribly mistaken. Fullback was working the rear gun for all he was worth.

To help him out, Charlie nosed the plane up a hair, moving his tail down and out of the way of Fullback’s machine gun. Two short bursts erupted from the gun, shattering the Albatros’ windscreen and pummeling the German pilot. Charlie thought he saw a burst of red liquid in the cockpit, but he had to turn his attention directly to his front. In that brief interim, the Fokker had pulled a trick of its own and disappeared.

He searched the sky, high, low, and to either side. Where could it have gone? A machine that size could not make itself vanish. So where…? Charlie had a sneaking suspicion of where the Fokker might be, and then he was sure. There was only one place he could be. He turned to Fullback, pointed one finger down, and mimed a ‘roll.’ Fullback understood his meaning instantly, and without wasting another second, Charlie barrelrolled the Spad so suddenly they were upside down. The earth and sky switched places.

To his immense relief, he was right to have rolled. Almost directly beneath his Spad, nosing up, was the missing Fokker.

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figured it out, and instead of a soft belly, the German was staring up into the barrel of a machine gun. Fullback, hanging in his shoulder harness, dropped the barrel angle all the way down and immediately commenced firing. Charlie could hear the bullets splash off the metal fuselage. Fullback had all the instincts of a gunner, a cool head, an aggressive spirit, and dead-on accuracy.

As the Fokker spun away and began its long, slow descent to the surface, Charlie thanked the Lord for his good fortune to be flying with the young man from Charlestown.

Carter rolled upright, pushed the stick forward, and dove back into the fray. All their practice as a unit was paying off. The sky seemed filled with pillars of smoke and dying aircraft, many more of them German than American. Still, the outnumbered Americans were bound to lose this battle as they were being slowly decimated. It was a matter of math, and unfortunately, Charlie admitted, from working in his father’s grocery store, he was very good at the subject.

Nonetheless, he still had four bombs on his belly and through judicious use of ammunition, both he and Fullback had probably half theirs left. He dove through the melee, looking for another target. Everyone was locked up. Very low, at around five hundred feet, he watched as a Spad wove and wiggled, in a desperate attempt to shake loose from a trailing Fokker. Drawing closer, Charlie could see why they were not firing back. The Spad’s rear gunner was slumped over his weapon. “Who was it?” wondered Carter. Was it one of those newbie pilots, dreaming of becoming the next American hero? Or was it an old friend? Damn it. He was starting to hate this war. He jammed the stick forward, and forgetting everything he ever learned about fire discipline, laid down a continuous stream of bullets until the blue line crossed the Fokker, riddling its wings and tail. Several tail pieces flew off. Charlie felt elated as he watched the pilot struggle with the crippled craft, trying to maintain control, only to find it gone.

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as it plunges toward the earth, and you are fully aware of what is about to happen?

Sergeant Carter’s eyes did not follow the German to the ground. The pilot of the Spad that was being attacked had also been hit. He was losing altitude steadily. Charlie came alongside.

The pilot raised what was his one good arm and waved a ‘thank you’ before either passing out or ‘going west.’ Carter knew he had to get his head back in the game instantly. There was nothing more he could do for the man. Fight now. Feel later.

He looked around and watched a fresh squadron of Spads join the fight. Somehow, another squadron had seen their distress and responded, more than evening the odds. The Germans fought on for a while. One thing the Boche were not was cowards. But besides being outnumbered, they were certainly getting low on ammunition and probably fuel. When the relief squadron downed two Albatros and a Fokker in quick succession, the rest turned and fled east. The mob riot, for that is what it resembled, was over.

When Lieutenant Thomas rallied the squadron, it soon became apparent that their losses were grievous. Only ten of the original sixteen aircraft in the squadron survived. Certainly, they inflicted three times as many losses on the Germans, but it made little difference. The men who died had trained with them, laughed with them, and fought with them. They had families and people who cared for them back home. Each man downed was a loss that someone would never forget.

Charlie mulled this over as the survivors formed up in a semblance of a formation and turned for Rembercourt. He felt elated that he had come through the battle unscathed and that his plane and the squadron had performed well. Yet something was missing.

Did the German pilots feel the way he did about so many comrades dying? He was sure they did. If so, then why are we still killing each other? Because the people in charge, with the power 127

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and the money, wanted it to happen. It was the only reason he could come up with. But what were his options? If no one stood up to aggressors, if no one was willing to put his life on the line, countless other lives would be lost and people’s ways of life destroyed.

He stood up for Gertie against a schoolyard bully years ago, and it felt right. He joined this war because it seemed exciting.

Perhaps he could become a hero, and all the folks back home would praise his courage and accomplishments. At first, it seemed like a game in which he could prove his manhood. Fighting and winning were what real men did. It was what women always admired in men. Wasn’t it?

Charlie gathered his thoughts. There was a time and place for thoughts such as these, and this was neither. The Spads were forming up on Thomas, preparing to move on. Momentarily, he flew through a ribbon of rain, hanging like a torn curtain from the dark grey cloud, emerging to find himself in the middle of the squadron. There was no attempt to reform the diamond.

Lieutenant Thomas waggled his wings to signal ‘follow me.’

The Spads each found a position that seemed more defensible than that jewel, some above the others, and all a little more scattered. To Charlie’s eye, it looked like the men wanted to form a box of sorts. They were still flying on the German side of the front, keeping a lookout for targets of opportunity as well as hidden predators.

From about a half mile east, they saw the puff, then heard the bang of an artillery piece being fired. It sounded like a German 77mm. Charlie wore a grim smile as he saw Thomas bank toward it. Those were the guns that made life so miserable and, in some cases, impossible for the troops in the trenches. They needed to go, and who better to do the job than this battered but victorious squadron?

In the lead, Thomas corkscrewed several times. It was understood that when he did that, the squadron was to form a 128

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string and follow him. The artillery unit was composed of four big guns set well behind the front lines. But this time, Carter thought, they were not far enough. Each Spad carried four twenty-pound bombs. None of them had been used. Now all of them would be.

The Americans approached the guns at an oblique angle from the right. Perhaps those manning the big guns were lazy, or perhaps in the dim light they mistook the flight for one of theirs.

In any case, Thomas pounced, tearing across the installation at scarcely three hundred feet, a height that made missing nearly impossible. One after another, the Spads unleashed their bombs and flew on, strafing the site as they proceeded. Chaos on the ground ensued as soldiers who were used to raining down death indiscriminately on targets far distant, now felt the retribution to its fullest.

One big gun was rocked so badly by bombs it toppled, destroyed. Another was blown off its carriage. Charlie noticed a stack of artillery shells and decided to see what he could do with them. Pulling back on his joystick, he slowed slightly and gained a bit of height. Then he released all four bombs. The concussion that followed made him fear for his Spad as it was bounced upwards another hundred feet. But the little bird steadied and flew on. This was a part of the war he enjoyed right down to his soul, destroying the weapons of war, potentially saving the lives of dozens, perhaps hundreds of men.

By the time the tenth and final Spad unloaded its bombs, the German artillery emplacement was a blazing, exploding ruin.

Having done all they could to inflict harm on the Germans, Thomas once again banked and led his pack of grim warriors west, toward the safety and relative comfort of Rembercourt, a place the men were beginning to call home.

Approaching the huge brown smudge called ‘no-man’s land’ from the German side, Thomas popped up, then down, then back up, the signal to strafe. For this, the squadron reformed 129

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from a string to two files of five planes each. And then he took them down.

German Archie fire began almost instantly but was ineffective.

The squadron was already below it, flying at treetop level, had there even been any trees. One after the other, the Spads screamed overhead at over one hundred and thirty miles an hour, walking those blue ribbons across the trenches, destroying machine gun nests. And suddenly they were past the trenches and over the moonscape of no-mans-land. As they flew over the Allied lines, men who had just watched the daring display stood in their trenches, and waving their rifles in the air, cheered themselves hoarse. It was a spontaneous display that moved Carter deeply.

In acknowledgement, one of the pilots ahead of him waggled his wings in salute. Each following pilot, in his turn, gave the identical salute to those muddied men in the trenches.

One grace note to the day’s losses came when Thomas led the depleted squadron back to the aerodrome. They learned that one other member of the squadron had made it back as well. So, they were eleven. Unfortunately, that pilot would be a little while healing up his broken arm before he would be allowed to take to the skies again. And from his hospital bed, he requested to see the pilot who saved his life when the rear gunner was killed. But first, the men of Thomas’s squadron gathered around their leader after they exited their battered Spads and stood in the wet grass under the rainy French sky.

“Men, I don’t know exactly what to say.” The wind blew. His eyes were red, probably from the eyestrain caused by the goggles.

“But I must tell you that I have never in my life been prouder of anyone. What you did today, how you fought, how you attacked superior numbers without hesitation,” he paused and shook his head, “will never be properly recognized. YOU will never be properly recognized. But you did it. You will always know that today, with God’s help, you did something outstanding.” Now go get cleaned up, write some letters home, and tell the folks 130

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back there about the weather and the food.” No more would the men be divided by rank or social class or by time spent flying.

From now on, this squadron would be Squadron Number One, Lieutenant Thomas’s men.

Another voice, Fullback’s, called out, “Okay, men, huddle up,” and everyone did, including Thomas. All these men crouched together, and with their arms around another’s shoulders, tightened into that most recognizable symbol of manly teamwork, and in this case, unspoken love, the football huddle. Fullback spoke, “We are one team. They may kill us, but they cannot break us.”

When the huddle broke, Carter found Crane and the two embraced briefly. Crane spoke. “Mister, I want to thank you.

I’ve never seen flying like that. When you rolled so I could nail that buzzard sneaking up, I nearly lost my lunch. Lucky for me I belted in my shoulder yoke tight, or I would’ve been kicking the sky.”

“Yeah, but without you back there taking care of business, I know I’d be dead meat. How many’d you get back there, two?”

“I think so, but who’s counting? And I mean that, Carter.

I learned today this ain’t no game. No whistle’s gonna blow a timeout when you’re gassed. You do it or you die. Anyway, I want to tell you I’ll be your tail gunner any day, happily.”

“I feel the same way, Crane. Now you heard the man. Let’s get cleaned up. And I do have a letter to write, so I’ll see you later.”

Carter watched Fullback, the man whose father wanted him to become a lawyer instead of a combat pilot. Maybe someday, if he lived through this war, his tail gunner would become a lawyer.

“I’ll bet he’d make a good one.” There was one chore Carter had to do before he could write that letter home. He turned and headed toward the hospital.

The hospital itself was one of the only permanent buildings on the aerodrome. It most likely had served as a barn or storage building of some sort before the war. Now it was clean, in good 131

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repair, and manned efficiently. A wooden extension had been constructed off one side, so the entire hospital resembled an ‘L’. It occurred to Charlie that he did not know the name of the pilot with one arm and said so to the nurse at the front desk. She smiled at this tired-looking pilot with his smudged face and said, “That’s perfectly all right, Sergeant. Come with me.” She stood and led him past the curtain dividing the entrance area from the ward extension. “Lieutenant Messner, you have company.”

Carter looked down and saw a very pale and weak man, probably in his mid-twenties, trying his best to put on a smile and failing. “Please, lieutenant, just relax. Before you say anything, I just want to say how happy I am to see you alive and getting such good care.”

Messner spoke haltingly. “Yeah. I almost didn’t make it. You gave me a chance.” He stopped speaking for so long that Carter thought he might have drifted off. But then he spoke again. “We don’t fight for causes. We fight for each other.” Mustering all his strength, he said, “Thanks for fighting for me.” With that it appeared the airman could go no farther and lapsed into silence.

Carter looked at the nurse and then down at the wounded airman, “I’ll see you soon, lieutenant. Good luck.” He nodded his head, indicating he was finished, and the nurse led him out.

He felt very alone, walking back to his barracks. It was not due to any lack of activity at the aerodrome. Men were calling each other and hurrying about on urgent business, engines roared to life, and others shut down. Mechanic’s steel tools clanged. Behind it all, one thing was a constant: the drone of engines in the air, some sputtering, others humming like contented bumblebees. A group of mechanics pulling together towed a crippled Nieuport to one side so another could land. Charlie Carter just felt alone.

In his barracks, in the open space by the pot-bellied stove, sitting cross-legged on the floor, two men were playing checkers, the board game of choice. They acknowledged him as he entered and then directed their concentration back to the game. One 132

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fellow was napping, and another was reading a French newspaper.

Carter dug a fresh bottle of bourbon out of his footlocker, opened it, took a long drink, recapped it, and tossed it on his cot. He thought he might want more later. He then retrieved a pencil and some paper from a small box and settled down to write.

My dearest Gertie, This morning our squadron, Hansen’s #1, was sent up, thirtytwo men in sixteen airplanes. Twenty-one returned later. We lost Bolton, MacGregor, Kamerski, Jonsey, ‘Corncob’ Kudlow, Wilder, Butler, ‘Sweeper’ Ashe, Albright, Sampson, and ‘Cigar’ Leiter. They were all comrades. Some I knew well, others not so much. But they were erased today like math problems on the blackboard – now they’re just dust. I hate myself for dumping this all on you like this, but I had to say their names. They were so real. Please don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine. When I’m flying, there’s nothing else for me in the world. I feel like my Spad is a part of me. Sometimes I feel like it responds to what I want it to do before I even ask it. What am I saying? The weather here is miserable lately, and the old vets say that when fall sets in, it gets worse. But we can take it, right? I sure hope everything’s okay with you, and I wanted to tell you to go ahead and plan up our wedding however you would like it. When I get home, I won’t want to wait. That is, if you still want me. Please write. All my love, Charlie Carter sat on the edge of his cot and reread his letter home.

Did it say too much? Too little? Would Gertie think him weak?

Would she worry? Was it all a mistake? Should he just stick to the weather and food? He sighed to himself. Probably not. They were more depressing than anything. He folded the letter and stuffed it into an envelope to take to the mailroom later. He decided he really wasn’t hungry enough to go to mess. Besides, there would be a lot of guys there who would just want to talk about the scrum they fought today. And Charlie thought he’d said quite enough.

He took one more swig from his bottle. “Man, that takes the edge 133

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off nicely.” And Sergeant Charles Carter, with two more ‘kills’ to his credit, lay back on his pillow and napped.

134

18 “At ease, men. Take your seats.” Captain Bentley addressed the assembled pilots. “As you know, this is not your father’s war.

Advanced technology is changing it even as I stand here. When it began back in 1914, aeroplanes were more like big box kites than anything else. Today, we have chase planes that hit 130 mph on the level and bombers that can deliver a ton of explosives. But some things have held us back from being as versatile as we could.

Communication in the air stands out as one. Until now, we’ve been stuck with things like carrier pigeons and wing waggling.

But today, the Eiffel Tower is a radio broadcasting station. Until now, the new radio telephony systems have been too heavy and huge to be practical. But mechanics and engineers have made them smaller and more compact. I’m telling you this because today, a squadron of new Spads, equipped with the newest radio devices, is scheduled to arrive.

“It is my intention, for the time being, to split these aircraft up into the four squadrons so that each unit of sixteen will have four capable of communicating with each other in the air via voice. We will also have ground-to-air and vice versa voice communication. We are on the verge of being able to fully coordinate infantry, artillery, and air into something new. No longer will the army branches be deaf and mute. This may be one of the most important developments in this war that will help end it, and I intend to utilize it as fully as I can.

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“As of today, every diamond leader of every squadron will have a voice radio telephony in his cockpit. We are setting up a communications system here on the ground as well, so we can communicate with you pilots – if you’re close enough. Tactically, this allows us to spread out. No longer must we remain all huddled up here, far from the front. No longer will we have to waste precious fuel on long flights just to get to the action.

“Therefore, I will deploy three flight squadrons in sites closer to the front, retaining one here at Rembercourt. Your mechanics will accompany you via lorry. Supply depots have been established at these forward bases, including fuel. You will rotate out, according to schedule, every several days. The Boche will not know where we are or where we will be coming from.

They will not know what hit them. The days of predictable waves of infantry attacking trenches after predictable artillery barrages are over. God knows that the army should have learned the futility of that business with Pickett’s charge.

“General Billy Mitchell, in his lovely chalet in the French Alps, has seen to that. Let’s pray that we actually get to use these new things soon, before the Boche learn of them and match us.

“Before you leave the room, the diamond leaders are to pick up, from the table, their instructions. That is all. Dismissed.”

“Wow, Carter. Isn’t that something?” The speaker was Dexter ‘Cowboy’ Loving. “That’ll be really different up there, being able to talk to each other and all.”

“It sure will. It’d be even better if every pilot could talk with all the other pilots. But I suppose this is too new and they haven’t got enough to go around yet, kind of like the Spads and Nieuports.”

“And I wonder where we’re going. Unless we stay here.”

“I think for sure we’ll be moving around. No one will be staying here or anywhere else for long. And I must admit that I’ve worried a couple times about why don’t the Germans send over some bombers and blow this place up and wreck the planes.”

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The two men entered Hangar 3, where several Spads were having the last of the repair patches added to the wings. “Yeah, Carter, now that you mention it, me too.” They watched Pierre finish sanding a hole he plugged on the fuselage of Carter’s Spad.

“And I heard they counted twenty-nine bullet holes in your aeroplane.”

“You heard right, Cowboy. But I think Lieutenant Woodson took the prize. They counted one hundred and four in his, and one right through the back of his seat where his neck should have been. That is one lucky man.”

Charlie was about to say something to Pierre when a voice called, “Squadron one to the ready room now.” It was Lieutenant Thomas. He was already headed out the door, a few sheets of paper in his hand.

Despite all the advances in communication technology, Carter thought, word of mouth is still probably the fastest. By the time he reached the ready room, men were arriving in a stream.

They were anxious to learn how this distribution of aircraft would affect their fates.

Thomas leaned on the wooden podium at the front of the room and studied some papers. When all had arrived, he looked up and said, “All right, men, I’ve got our orders. Squadron One will be flying out at 13:30 today.” He picked up a pointer lying on a small table and stepped up to a large map of the section of France they were in. He tapped three villages in succession: “Limey, Commercy, and Pont-a-Mousson.” They all lie within two to ten miles from the Front. These are the three villages we will rotate through. We will be so close to the front that I expect that before long you will all be able to speak German fluently, having heard the Boche talk to each other.” There was general amusement at this.

“Today, we will be flying to our first base at Pont-a-Mousson.

We intend to visit there for three days. So go back to the barracks, 137

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throw a few days’ gear together in your kit, and put it in the lorry.

Questions?”

“Sir,” it was Fullback, “Will we see any locals?”

“Fullback, I do not know. How about we go see? Seriously, I believe there are, and from what I’ve heard, they’ll be happy to see us. Anything else? Nothing? Okay then, let’s get with it.

Remember, 13:30 we fly out.”

Carter threw a small kit bag together, being sure to pack extra stockings, and handed it to Pierre, who tossed it in the back of the lorry before climbing in himself.

“Pierre, what can you tell me about this town we’re headed to?”

“Ah, Charles, this town, as you call it, is home to ten thousand people and a wonderful university, a beautiful cathedral, and of course, lies on the Moselle River. But I think now it is not so fine a place. Metz is only twenty miles down the river. We shall see, non?”

“Yeah, we’ll see real soon.”

Promptly at 13:30, Thomas led Squadron One up and off to their destination, only about a twenty-minute flight from Rembercourt. Along the way, Thomas spoke to his diamond leaders over the new radio telephony and was quite pleased with both the radio and how the diamonds of four responded.

“This really could be a game-changer,” he thought. From the air, he could even reach the radio operator at Rembercourt, but unfortunately, once on the ground, the contact was lost.

Approaching Pont-a-Mousson, however, another voice came on the air, a radio operator located at their new temporary base just south of the city. He smoothly guided them in with no complications. In fact, it was one of the smoothest landings the squadron experienced. Their temporary air base included a section of roadway perfectly straight and hard-packed. When Carter landed, it immediately occurred to him that if every aerodrome were to create hard-packed straight sections of 138

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roadway for aircraft, there would be fewer accidents and damaged aircraft. All in all, it was a pleasant flight – and it hadn’t rained.

The conditions at their new home were primitive; the housing comprised one-man tents except for one larger tent that served as the mess and briefings. Food would be army rations, plenty of tinned meat and biscuits, some vegetables, not fancy but substantial. They were debriefed and examined their surroundings.

A neighboring farmer saw a pair of American flyers walking down a lane between his field and house and ran out to greet them, shouting joyfully in French and waving a small American flag. Where he had obtained one was anybody’s guess. Close on his heels came a barking black and white dog and a young boy. A smiling, bosomy woman, clearly his wife, stood smiling in the doorway. Lieutenant Pete Woodson and his tail gunner, Bill Chapman, stopped and waved, but didn’t stand a chance of moving on against this familial assault. There were hugs and kisses all around before the two Americans were grasped by their hands and led to the house. At the doorway, the woman repeated the greetings her husband had lavished on the two Americans, adding a demure blush to her cheeks and a poorly suppressed giggle.

The house was a solid two-story whitewashed edifice with small, deeply set windows. A shed half-filled with hay, a pen with several goats, and a chicken coop with several clucks completed the scene.

The welcome given to Woodson and Chapman was a typical expression of local sentiment. That, and the proximity of the lovely Moselle River, made for a pleasant location. Being stationed less than a mile from the village itself was also a point in its favor.

The only drawback, if it really was one, was the weather. It was somewhat cooler now than back in mid-July, but for several days it had rained off and on, with never a real break in the pattern.

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one thousand feet. It put the pilots in constant danger from the Archies. But since the squadron was awaiting orders as part of a larger allied counterattack on German positions, there was time for reflection.

Charlie found himself, when he wasn’t flying, often sitting on a bank of the Moselle just watching it flow on its way to the sea. He imagined floating down the river to the North Sea. From there, he could sail across the Atlantic to the Gulf of Mexico. At New Orleans, he would board a paddle-wheeler up the river to Cairo, Illinois, where it would turn east and up the Ohio River.

How many times had he sat by the Ohio on lazy days when he came to Huntington with his father? From the city, he could walk or hitch a ride home. Wouldn’t they be surprised to see him?

Thinking of these thoughts made him somehow feel nearer to those people and places he loved. But before any dreams could become real, this war had to end, and he would have to survive it.

The flight squadron scrambled twice in the three days they were stationed there. Pont-a-Mousson was so close to the front that German flyers could reach it, bomb it, and be gone before anyone could respond from Rembercourt. But from where Squadron One was located, they would get the warning of approaching German aircraft from alert spotters on the front, and sixteen hungry Spads would meet them before they ever reached the town.

The first alert came at dawn of the second day. For some reason, the Boche liked that time to launch an attack. One Gotha bomber escorted by three Albatros came on from the west with the sun in their eyes. It was arrogant and lazy thinking. The entire American squadron fell on them, and before the Germans even realized they were under assault, three of their escorts were sent flaming into the ground. One tried to turn and run, but Lieutenant Hansen’s faster plane quickly chased it down and dispatched it. The Gotha bomber was slow, but it could take considerable punishment. Even with no escorts, it pressed on 140

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to the village the Germans had bombed pretty much at will for weeks. However, the withering fire from a succession of fighters forced it off course and finally sent it flaming into the Moselle itself. Not a single bullet hole was found in any of the returning Spads, much to the mechanics’ disappointment. There was friendly competition as to whose pilot got the most.

The townsfolk watched the fight, short as it was, and went wild with joy. They stood in the rubble-strewn streets, waving at the pilots as they flew over, returning to their base. That afternoon, the village decided to throw a huge open-air party for the entire squadron in a blatant challenge to their oppressors.

The mayor himself rode out to the base in a horse-drawn wagon, accompanied by the entire village council, to invite the squadron personally. The invitation placed Lieutenant Thomas in a bind.

If the Germans should return while all his men were enjoying themselves, things could go sour quickly.

All the airmen had to be in their tents with lights out by 2400 hours. That was the rule. Thomas’s decision was to release diamonds one and two for three hours, from 18:00 to 21:00 hours.

Then from 21:00 to 24:00, it would be the turn of diamonds three and four. As Thomas put it to the assembled squadron, “For this to work, men, you will be required to police your own behavior.

We have no Military Police unit to pull it together if you mess up. Diamonds one and two, you men must be back by 21:00 so the rest of the squadron can have some fun too. People, if you see a fellow pilot passed out or otherwise incapacitated, help him back to base. We must look out for each other. And one final thing. I need your attention here, so listen up. I do not expect any trouble with the locals, but so help me God, if I hear of any of you men disgracing yourselves or this squadron by abusing or taking advantage of local females, I will personally bring charges and see you put away for as long as I can. We cannot just win the war. We need to win the peace as well.” He paused to let it sink in. “It is 17:30 as of my watch. We are about a mile out of 141

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town. Diamonds one and two are dismissed. If it takes you more than thirty minutes to cover one mile, you need to do more P.T. Diamonds three and four, report for mess. Dismissed.”

Amid gales of laughter and enthusiastic cheers, the men broke into two groups: One raced off to their tents to spruce up and head into town, the other ambled slowly over to the mess to eat something while they awaited their turn.

The townspeople of Pont-a-Mousson pulled out all the stops to please their liberators and defenders. In a village cluttered with the rubble of bombed-out buildings, someone managed to string up some electric lights. Others baked up what must have been preciously rationed flour into delicious pastries. Fish from the Moselle provided food flavors the men had not enjoyed since they had reached the European shores. But best of all was the music and the wine.

Villagers clapped and cheered the arrival of the two military lorries carrying Thomas and fifteen airmen, then took them by their arms and led them to the equivalent of outdoor cafes during an air raid, complete with small round tables on the sidewalks, each loaded with at least eight bottles of red wine. Thomas watched as his men dispersed, and then found the mayor, a fussy-looking man, standing and smiling with his hands on his hips. The French Thomas learned in college was not fluent, but it was adequate for him to explain to his host that within three hours, the other half of his squadron would arrive, and these men would depart.

A man wearing a beret unpacked an accordion and struck up a French-flavored version of “Over There.” It took a few seconds to identify the tune, altered as it was to a slower, somehow more somber melody. But that passed, and before long, songs the Americans could not identify filled the evening air. Several young French mademoiselles stepped forward, took the airmen’s hands, and before long the village square was filled with dancing.

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The competition for the attention of the young Americans was intense, much to the pilots’ delight.

Back at the base, Charlie was being taught by Lieutenant Worthington the game of chess. Worthington was one of the officers who initiated the food brawl back at Rembercourt with his insulting remarks to Pierre. He also let everyone know that he matriculated at Yale. In other words, he was an insufferable boor and could find “not one worthy foe” to match him in “this matchless game of wits.”

Charlie was a good hand at checkers and, when approached, said he was willing to try his hand at chess. He secretly hoped that maybe Worthington was not as swell a chess player as he claimed to be. If not, Charlie wanted to be the one to bring him down a peg.

What he discovered was that, though both chess and checkers were played on the same board, the similarities stopped there.

The variety of possible moves baffled him, and the pieces were nearly incomprehensible. For example, he wondered why were bishops, who were supposed to be men of the cloth, so fearsome on the diagonals? How could castles get up and move the length of the board? Why was the king so useless, but the queen a total terror? It made absolutely no sense.

Worthington saw his distress and, aware that Charlie was about to give up and walk away, leaving him without a foe, stopped explaining and defending why the pawns could move only forward but take a piece only diagonally, and said, “Look, Sergeant Carter. Forget everything I just said. The pawns are just infantry, cannon fodder to be mowed down by everyone else.

The castles, or rooks, are tanks, killers on the straightaways, but vulnerable from the sides. The bishops are artillery. They can swivel and hit the enemy forces diagonally. Think of the queen as the heavy bomber fleet. Box them in or get out of their way because they can fly anywhere.”

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“What about the knights, jumping around everywhere, and that god-awful useless-as-spit king?”

“The knights - think of them as pilots of chase aircraft.

They’re us. They can fly over anybody and turn to come in where you least expect them.”

Carter was beginning to like this new way of looking at the game. “But what about that king?”

“He is the most realistic of all the pieces on the board. Have you ever heard of a king who did anything for himself? He sends everyone else out to fight and die while he hides and eats. And in the end, he never dies, just gives up.”

“I get it, Richard,” he said, seeing the lieutenant wince at hearing this NCO address him by his first name. “You make a lot of sense here. Tell me more.”

“All right then. Now, white always moves first. Think of it…”

“They’re coming back. They’re coming back.” The radio operator was shouting from his work area.

“Why are they coming back?” someone shouted. “They just left. It’s not time yet.”

“Not our guys. The Germans are returning. I just got word from the spotter.”

“Man your aircraft,” shouted Lieutenant Hansen, sizing up the situation instantly.

Worthington rose to his feet so suddenly that the chess pieces flew everywhere. Neither he nor Carter stopped to pick them up.

From the tents, men raced to their planes. “Who will tell Thomas and the rest?” Charlie yelled.

Hansen replied, “We’ll fly low over the party. If Lieutenant Thomas is half the man I know him to be, he’ll get the message.

It’s the quickest way. Move it, now.”

Carter and Worthington sprinted to their Spads. “Good luck, Carter,” Worthington said. “And God speed.”

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“Now, how do you expect me to hold a grudge when you go and be all nice like that?” Both men laughed and started their engines.

“I’ve heard about you people from those mountains, with your feuds and grudges. Believe me, I want no part of them,” Worthington yelled above the roar. In moments, the first Spad began taxiing with the throttle thrown wide open and took flight, rising steeply, closely followed by the others. Hansen circled, gathering his chicks like a mother hen, then the whole flock raced west. In seconds, Hansen led the two diamonds of four directly over the town square, barely missing the church tower. Some townsfolk cheered, thinking this too was part of the celebration.

Thomas was sipping a cup of hot tea. He figured there should be at least one sober person on this night. Hearing the roar of multiple Spads rushing overhead, he felt his heart sink. He knew exactly what was happening. So too did most of his men. “To the lorries. Everyone to the lorries now!” he shouted and waved.

He watched impatiently his men reassemble and climb into the backs of the two trucks. “Count off,” he called. Every single person was vital.

“Eight here, sir.”

“And eight here, sir. Let’s go.”

Fullback Crane turned to his seatmate, Bill Chapman, in the rear of the lorry as it lurched into gear. “Those good-for-nothing Boche. They really know how to spoil a party, don’t they?”

Lieutenant Thomas drove fast enough that he risked damaging the chassis, if not the men in the back. But he knew eight aircraft were a pitiful few when confronting a strong and vengeful enemy.

It was late summer in northern France. It may have been nearly 20:00 hours, but the sun still lingered above the horizon, shadowing the landscape and flinging orange and pink swaths of light against the rugged base of the cloud bank, creating a heavenly terrain that looked just as rough as the earth below.

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In the morning’s raid, the Germans had made the mistake of attacking into the rising sun. This evening, they were coming out of the setting sun. At first glance, one might be excused for thinking they had the advantage. However, the Americans were flying without lights, out of a dark cloud bank. The Germans, on the other hand, were brightly lit up by the sun.

As Hansen led the flight over the village square, he was already nosing up his aircraft, and hence the aircraft of the entire flight, at as steep an angle as possible. Altitude was everything.

Fortunately, since it was ‘bad weather’ and the cloud bank was low, the Boche were flying low as well. It did not take a lot of climbing to gain the advantage. He brushed his aircraft against and into the base of the clouds, hiding, as best he could, from prying eyes below.

He flew for several minutes in this fashion and began to worry that somehow, he might have missed the German flight.

Surely, he should be right above them, unless maybe the spotter who warned the Americans was positioned on the German side of the front with a radio telephony and observed the buildup before the raid was launched. That must be it, he concluded, and scanned toward the lowering sun. Then there it was, the first glint, then more, many more. He counted four large spots. Those must be the bombers. He kept counting – sixteen escorts for a total of twenty enemy aircraft, versus his eight. “God help us,” he muttered and took his half-squadron up even higher, so they were barely within the cloud base, invisible to the enemy.

Then it was time to strike. Like hawks diving on a fat rabbit, he led the first diamond in a string, descending on the Boche at as steep an angle as he could maintain. Having telephoned his plan to the second diamond, led by Lieutenant Pete ‘Axe’ Woodson, he knew they were doing the same. “Aim for the bombers. Take them out first,” was his order. “Fly the String.”

The German flight came on heedless of their plight. Since no one survived the prior flight, perhaps they did not realize what 146

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they were up against. Perhaps in their arrogant overconfidence, they didn’t care. Insofar as they knew, there was nothing in this sector that could challenge such a large formation.

Lieutenant Hansen would have preferred to attack the bombers with four aircraft each. But that was impossible. By the time they would have finished their attack run, the escort chase planes would swarm the Americans, and at least two bombers, maybe more, would continue their deadly mission.

The Gothas were fearsome machines, designed to deliver maximum punishment. As Hansen led the dive, he was aware that two Spads per bomber was, by the very nature of things, a miserable mismatch. As he closed on the first Gotha, it grew enormously. Compared to the wingspan of the Spads, which could be as small as fifteen total meters, the black monster below had a seventy-seven-foot-long wing, flew a crew of three, could carry over eleven hundred pounds of bombs, and was defended by two or three machine guns. It was truly a behemoth, and it was terrifying.

Daniel Hansen was a cool-headed pilot, respected by the men who flew with him. He strongly desired to live. But, as with most veteran pilots, he realized anything could go wrong at any time. He could make every correct tactical decision and still die because of some mechanical failure. He had seen it happen to others and was intelligent enough to know he had no magical protection against Murphy’s Law. The four Gothas were flying in a square. Their escorts flew a protective screen around them. They quickly spotted the diving Spads and reacted, but not quickly enough to prevent the eight aircraft from attacking their bombers. Hansen heard his rear gunner fire off a burst. Some Albatros must be nearby. He closed to two hundred yards, a second later to within one hundred.

He noted, with detachment, flashes of light from the Gotha. A machine gunner was trying to save his bomber and his life. But it was too late. Dan Hansen streaked over the Gotha from rear 147

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to front, opening fire with the machine gun, walking two bursts directly along the fuselage. He saw sparks as they struck the metal skin before reaching the small glass window in the cockpit and shattering it. Then he was past it and yanking up on his joystick, willing his Spad to climb as it had never done before.

Two Albatros, furious at his penetration of their defenses, picked him up immediately, filling the air around him with blue tracers. But in their excitement, the gunners fired too long and from too far away. One ceased firing completely. Perhaps his gun jammed, a common enough problem. Or perhaps he was out of ammo and had to reload. In either case, as Hansen yanked up on the stick, dropping the tail, he provided his rear gunner a clear shot at the trailing enemy. Hansen slowed for a second to allow the Albatros to close in. He heard one burst of fire, then another, followed by a shout of triumph nearly washed away by the wind.

He waggled his wings and corkscrewed the Spad so he could see what was happening.

There was no sign of the trailing Albatros, but his rear gunner was pointing below. Hansen banked hard and watched a silent splash of flame in a field near a wood line, not so far below. The Gotha, one of its twin Mercedes engines smoking, was taking a more gradual glide path to the earth. It looked like there was no one flying the beast. Perhaps Hansen’s first burst that shattered the cockpit window had killed the pilot. That would have been a truly lucky shot. Maybe the Spad trailing behind him had nailed it. Possibly they both had.

Glancing around the sky, he watched his squadron engage the other Gothas. Whether they hit any of them, he could not tell. The three beasts rumbled on. The last two attacking Spads, he could not tell from this distance who they were, dove on the final Gotha in the disintegrating box. As the second Spad was completing his run, it appeared that the Gotha tried to evade by sliding into a shallow bank. Unfortunately, the Spad was so close it struck one of those huge wings, shearing it off. The Spad 148

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fragmented instantly, falling away in flames along with a Gotha wing from the starboard side. Within seconds, the German bomber began rolling, totally out of control, and spun into the earth.

Daniel Hansen was a bright man who respected authority and played by the rules. Seeing his seven remaining Spads fighting for their lives so heavily outnumbered, he knew with certainty what the result was going to be. Every natural impulse in his body insisted he call off the attack and run for it. Salvage something of this flight. But he knew the odds. The worst thing a squadron or single plane could do when attacked was to run.

That was how most deaths in aerial combat occurred. You ran, encouraging your enemy to climb up your tail and plant you in some French pasture. So, you fought. You fought to the end.

He and his wingmate turned and raced to get into the fight.

He watched as one, two, and then three German Albatros chase planes flamed, burst, smoked, spun, and crashed. He felt a glimmer of hope. These men he was flying with were all veterans of combat by now. They would not run even if they understood their fate was sealed. Then, just before Hansen gained the advantage on a Fokker tailing a Spad, was it Fullback’s? He wasn’t sure. The Spad, its wing shredded, flipped over, went into a vrille and disappeared.

The Fokker was so intent on his kill, he failed to notice Hansen’s Spad closing in, reaching killing range within fifty yards, then to within fifty feet. Dan Hansen, flight leader, poured all his rage and sadness into his machine gun and barely managed to dodge, with a hard climb and bank left, the debris that the Fokker became.

Most veterans of combat develop a type of resignation after a while. There are only so many ‘lucky shots’ and so many ‘breaks’ before your number gets called. You accept that your time is up.

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do, having seen his men do everything they could to deflect this German attack and still come up short, he was heartbroken. But he knew that the remainder of his half-squadron would fight on to the bitter end, as would he also.

He heard a distant voice and mused for a moment that he was delusional. Then he heard it again, louder. “Hang on. We’re here.

Look up.” The voice was on his telephony. Lieutenant Thomas was speaking. No sooner had he finished his message than eight more fresh Spads plunged into the fight, sending the Germans into a state of total confusion, wondering “How many more of these devilish fighters were there, lurking up in those clouds?”

Dan Hansen choked back sobs. His throat was constricted.

He would live another day. His voice was controlled, though.

“What took you so long? We nearly had them on the run.”

“I had to finish my drink. You wouldn’t want me to offend our hosts, would you? Excuse me now. I’ve got work to do.”

With renewed energy and reinforcements, the Americans took heart. Now they had a slight, if important, numerical advantage over the Germans and laid it on. The two remaining Gothas, losing their air cover, also seemed confused. One of Thomas’s fighters got on a Gotha’s tail, where the monster’s machine guns could not reach, and sent a continuous string of shells into its rear until it began disintegrating. Bullets struck its fuel tank, and suddenly it became a huge fireball as fuel and bombs detonated, lighting up the darkening skies in brilliant yellows and reds. The Gotha reached the ground only in tiny pieces.

The remaining Gotha had seen enough and began a long, slow climbing bank to the north. Hansen watched as it opened its bomb doors and released its load just short of the village of Pont-a-Mousson, wreaking havoc on a barn and several farm buildings. He hoped the only casualties, if there were any, were cows or goats. Lighter by over a thousand pounds, the bomber climbed and disappeared into the clouds, heading back toward the German lines and safety.

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Meanwhile, Sergeant Charles Carter, who several minutes before had nearly given up on his survival, felt a surge of energy and determination as he watched Lieutenant Thomas lead the other half of Squadron One into the fight. Part of his renewed confidence came from the obvious lack of enthusiasm demonstrated by the remaining Fokkers and Albatros fighters.

With their very reason for being there, namely protecting the Gothas, no longer valid, they broke off attacks and attempted to disengage more quickly than they did before. In short, they knew they were beaten and began to run for home.

Carter was responsible for bringing down one pursuing Albatros in this disintegrating melee following a twisting, spiraling chase into the clouds and then the sudden plunge out of them. Inside the thick gray mass, visibility was nonexistent.

When he broke free of it, he had to use the most radical of maneuvers to avoid colliding with the German, flattening out, threatening a stall almost atop the enemy aircraft. He did, in fact, hear a crunch and felt a jolt as his Spad momentarily collided with the enemy aircraft. They separated instantly, but Carter saw that the planes met on the wing directly over the cockpit, damaging the struts supporting the Albatros’ wing, causing it to split and break. From a distance, he observed the pilot at first try vainly to reach up and wedge the wing support in place, only to then give up completely. He crouched down in his seat, clearly aware of what was happening as the weakened wings came apart and separated from the fuselage. Then began the long fall to earth of the bullet-shaped fuselage with the still very much alive pilot riding it to the ground, the two sections of spinning wings following more slowly.

Squadron One collected and reformed on Lieutenant Thomas, then banked to the east. Some wreckage still smoked and burned below them. The chaos of the melee descended once more into the steady drone of the Spads. A Spad pulled into position only yards from Carter’s left wingtip. He glanced over.

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He figured a pilot probably wanted to exchange pleasantries. But Pete Woodson only glanced his way before looking down. Charlie wondered what he was looking at and glanced down as well, seeing nothing out of the ordinary. But Woodson’s tail gunner was gesticulating wildly, waving his arms. It was Fullback, and he frantically pointed at something below Charlie’s plane. Charlie thought he might have heard the word “wheels” above the sound of the engines and the wind. He felt a chill that had nothing to do with the wind and leaned farther over the side to examine his underside. On the left side, nothing was amiss. Swinging over to examine the right side, he instantly saw the problem. There was no wheel. The complete landing apparatus on that side was missing. Only a twisted metal connector remained.

It could only have happened when he collided with the German. It must have ripped off when he felt the jolt dislodging him from the wing. How ironic would it be, he thought, to have survived another dogfight only to die landing. He waved to Fullback and gave a thumbs-up. But he knew he was flying on borrowed time. The squadron was now flying over Pont-aMousson and circling over the nearby Moselle, preparing to land east of town. The river looked like a wide grey snake as it settled into evening shadows.

Sergeant Carter weighed his chances of surviving a crash landing with only one wheel. They were worse than if he had no wheels. On one wheel, he would hit the ground, tilting the Spad to the other side. The wing would drag before snapping, sending the ruined craft into a cartwheel. The wooden propeller and fuselage would shatter into a thousand pieces. So would human bodies. It was not a thought he wished to consider. For just a second, he wondered, as he had a hundred times before, why airmen were not issued parachutes. Then his mind focused on the task at hand.

He pulled out of the line of landing airplanes to do another circle of the field, allowing all the squadron to land while he tried 152

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to figure out some way to live through this. Darkness slowly crept in, lengthening shadows across the landing field. The shades of grey on the Moselle were disappearing into darkness. The lovely river. That’s it, he decided. The river would have to save him. He twisted around to see his tail gunner, Dex Loving, the Wyoming cowboy. “I’m going to ditch her in the river. Do you hear me?” Dex nodded. “I’m going to bring it down on the next pass when we head toward the base camp. Have you got that?”

Dex nodded vigorously. “Remove your shoulder yoke. We may capsize. Can you swim?” Once more, Dexter nodded, this time adding swimming motions with his arms to make sure Charlie understood. There were so many things Charlie wanted to tell the young sergeant, how much he appreciated his stepping in the way he had, defending Pierre, and the way he always laughed at Charlie’s bad jokes and things like that, but when he looked at the man in the rear seat, he found it impossible to say them. Dex must have sensed the moment. He raised both hands and gave Charlie two thumbs up. “Then prepare for impact, Cowboy,” Charlie said and sat back down.

His Spad, now the last aeroplane aloft, circled once more and descended to treetop level east of the river. The shadows were so deep he was forced to be extra cautious. Crashing into trees was not part of his plan. Then there it was, the smooth black snake of a river, waiting for him. Over the trees he flew, dropped down a bit, then down a bit more. He saw the river rise to meet him, so close now he saw the ripples in the less-than-smooth surface of the river. He dropped the nose a bit more. About halfway across the river, spray kicked up by the propeller hit him square in the face, drenching him. He simultaneously cut the engine and nosed the Spad back up several degrees. The tail hit the river first, and the plane shuddered. He cut the engine. The remaining wheel made contact. Then, with a modest jolt, Charlie’s Spad settled in the water and came to rest about fifteen yards from shore. The nature of the wooden fuselage kept it afloat long enough for him 153

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and Cowboy to release their seat belts and abandon their drifting aircraft-turned-watercraft.

They floundered over the sides in their heavy suits and gear as a shadowy form appeared, holding a rope, wading out to the crippled plane. Charlie had not found the bottom of the river yet and could not swim more than a few strokes in his suit that was becoming swiftly waterlogged. He was running out of energy when strong arms latched onto him from behind. “Relax now, Sergeant Carter, I’ve got you.” His rescuer placed Charlie’s hands firmly on the rope manned by men of the squadron, leading all the way to the riverbank. Then the hands released him. “Pull yourself in on the rope. You may not be worth a damn at chess, but you’re a hell of a pilot. I’d be your wing man any day.” The voice in the darkness belonged to Lieutenant Worthington.

The next morning, Lieutenant Thomas addressed the squadron after breakfast: “We lost six good men and three aircraft yesterday. But it could have been worse. Had not Sergeant Carter thought quickly and acted decisively, we’d have lost two more men and another aeroplane. As it is, we were able to tow his plane out of the river, and the mechanics assure me there is nothing that will prevent it from flying again. However, I must reject the idea of attacking an enemy by parking your aeroplane on top of his. Please, Sergeant Carter, do not try that again. There may not be a convenient river to pull you out of.” The men of Squadron One laughed and whistled. Carter smiled in acknowledgment.

Dex slapped Charlie on the back. “Charlie, that was the whing-dingiest thing I ever saw. I was sure we were dead men. I don’t know how you think to do such things.”

“Cowboy, it’s pretty simple. I just don’t feel like I’m ready to die quite yet. There’s this pretty girl back home…”

“I get the picture, Charlie, but still…” he shook his head slowly, “mister, all I can say is thanks, pardner.”

Thomas resumed. “I’ve talked to the mayor of Pont-a154

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Mousson. He has agreed to give our airmen a burial in a special section of the church graveyard following a church service today.

He said it’s the very least he and the people of the town can do to recognize the courageous actions our men took in defense of Pont-a-Mousson. He added they have now incurred a debt they will never be able to repay, but they will memorialize them on this day every year from now on.” The men of Squadron One were silent, no joking, no bravado. A tent flap rubbed against the fabric of the wall in a light breeze.

“Squadron Two is due to land within fifteen minutes.

Rembercourt has directed us to be in the air as quickly as possible, regretting that we will not be able to attend the church service or burial ceremony.” A couple men mumbled their displeasure at the news. “However, that does not mean we can do nothing to honor those men. Leave everything but your personals behind.

The lorries will carry the personal effects of those six men back to Rembercourt. We will deal with dividing out their effects tonight.

And today, when we fly out, we will fly in three diamonds trailing me, directly over the church and the section of their cemetery they have named The American Cemetery. As we fly over, I urge you men to say a prayer for the families and loved ones these brave men leave behind. Be ready to leave in ten minutes. That is all. Dismissed.”

Carter packed quickly and as he left his tent, thinking of the long ride back to Rembercourt in the back of a truck, piled high with the bags of all those dead men, he frowned sadly, feeling quite depressed. When he exited his tent, he was surprised to see his mechanic, Pierre, walking towards him, looking completely spent. His face was badly smudged, his normally neatly combed hair a mess, his work clothes filthy, and his shoulders slumped.

“Monsieur Sergeant Charles, I have come to tell you that you do not have to return to Rembercourt in the lorry. Some of the other mechanics and I decided that since you were kind enough to bring back your aeroplane, we should make sure you can fly it 155

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home. It has been a long night, but you deserve it, and your Spad is right over there, ready to fly.”

Charlie looked and saw that, indeed, his Spad, complete with a new mismatched wheel strut, was waiting for him. It lifted his mood immediately. “Pierre, I do not know how I was ever lucky enough to be assigned you for my mechanic. This is a minor miracle.” He stopped and embraced Pierre in a man-hug, American style.

Ten minutes later, as Squadron One formed up on the other side of the Moselle for its fly-over of the church, Squadron Two was starting its descent to the now well-used grassy landing field just vacated. With Lieutenant Thomas in the fore, the squadron formed into three designated diamonds and headed to the west, directly over the stately church near the riverbank. The funeral service was ending, and the parishioners were filing out, following the six coffins in procession. They paused, hearing the drone of engines, and looked up to watch the French aircraft, piloted

by American volunteers, fly over. Americans, whose comrades died to defend their village, a village that none of them had ever heard of before, from invading marauders. It struck many as a confounding and beautiful moment.

156

19 “At ease, men. Please be seated.” The airmen shuffled into their chairs. Captain Bentley waited for silence, then proceeded.

“First off, I want to welcome you back and congratulate you on your successful mission to Pont-a-Mousson. While of course we regret any losses and mourn those fallen heroes, we realize that is the nature of war. Everyone loses. But some lose more. For our losses, the Germans paid a steep price. After-action reports indicate that over the last several days, they lost four Gotha bombers and fifteen chase planes. We’ll win the war if we can repeat that consistently. You men are the best, and I am proud to be your commander.

“Enough back-patting. Your next staging area was scheduled to be the village of Limey, almost on the front lines. However, the last unit based there, Squadron Two, reported back that it is too close to the front; they were constantly being shelled, and they lost two aircraft on the ground. That, plus the fact that the entire village is in ruins, the villagers fled to parts unknown. With the roads constantly under attack, Limey is, to put it bluntly, a killing zone and useless for our staging purposes.

“Therefore, flexibility being our middle name, we are sending Squadron One to the nearby village of Flirey, five miles from the front and equidistant from Limey. Although the village has suffered greatly from German bombardment, it still functions, 157

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the roads are usable for resupply, and an accessible rail line runs nearby. Your supplies have already been deposited there.

You men have had a difficult three days, I know. So, relax this evening. Tomorrow you will all meet your new squadron mates. Get in some practice flights with them. Catch up on some sleep. Be back here at 08:00. You will fly to Flirey the day after tomorrow. Lieutenant Thomas, I would like you to remain for a few minutes so I can introduce the replacement pilots to fill out your squadron. Any questions? Hearing none, dismissed.”

Charlie left the briefing alone. The other men drifted away in ones or twos, back to the barracks or off for a smoke. He stopped by the mail room and picked up a letter from home, kissing the envelope. At the empty mess hall, he picked up a cup of strong but tasty tea. Coffee was so difficult to find that the military appeared to have given up on it. Now they were flooded with tea.

It must be the Brits, he thought. Don’t they just love the stuff? Tea drinking took some getting used to. Back in West Virginia, he didn’t remember ever having tasted it. He could not remember a time when he did not wake in the morning to the sound of coffee percolating and that delicious aroma. ‘Back in West Virginia.’

The place was receding from memories’ eyes but becoming ever more important in his dreams for the future. He drank the tea and stared at the envelope, deciding to wait until he was back in the barracks before reading it. He only made one more stop, over in the workers’ quarters, and found Conners in the middle of a poker game. Waiting until the hand was dealt, Conners looked at his, then folded and said with a laugh, “I’m out.” He tossed down his cards, stood, and walked over to Carter.

“My good man, I see you trying to catch me eye, so here I am. What is it you’d be needing tonight?” A few minutes later, Charlie walked to the barracks, a letter in one hand and a bottle of Jack Daniels in the other.

He stepped through the door of the barracks and automatically looked for the men who could be counted on to be playing either 158

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cards, checkers, or chess in the back of the room. But the space was unoccupied. The silence was unnerving. Maybe the men shipped out to some squadron base. Perhaps they were gone permanently. Maybe, like the six comrades who were buried in Pont-a-Mousson, they would never be seen again. At that moment, he felt terribly alone and vulnerable. He stood in the open doorway, opened the bottle, and took a couple long swigs, then walked over and sat on the side of his cot. He opened the letter from home and read: Dearest Charlie, Today was so awful, it is hard to talk about. But you should know. I was eating some fried oats for breakfast. That’s Pa’s favorite food, I bet, and I suddenly got this awful feeling of worry for you. It nearly made me cry right there at the table. Then I got the shivers. I couldn’t think of anything else except that you were in danger. My dear, loving Charles, please send me a letter right back and tell me you are okay. I had to leave the table to pull myself together. These feelings have come before, but never so strong. Sometimes they don’t seem to mean anything. Other times, I believe they are connected to what happens to people I love. And darling, there is not one person on this earth I care about more than you. Ma came up to my room, it’s really a loft above her room, and talked to me. It helped. She told me I’ve always been that way, even when I was little. That is why some folks, mainly stupid boys, call me names. I used to think everyone was like me and got these feelings, but I found out they most surely are not. Sometimes I get all tingly, and the only thing that cures it is for me to pray. I’m telling you right now, I got down on my knees by my bed and prayed my heart out for your safety.

After that, I felt much better, calmer. So please, Charlie, please, write to me and tell me you are okay. Goodbye, my love, for now.

Gertie.

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Charlie carefully folded up the letter and slipped it back into the envelope. He never was much of one for believing in all that religious stuff. He went to the Baptist church with his family, like almost everyone he knew. He heard the Bible stories about Jesus and supposed they were true, but they didn’t touch him beyond his ears. What Gertie was talking about scared him. Hers weren’t just words in a book or spouting from some preacher’s mouth. It was who she was. What if there was something to this praying, like she talked about? What if he tried praying, really praying, not just sending up S.O.S. prayers when he was in trouble? Would something happen? He closed his eyes and folded his hands like he did when he was a child and was forced to say prayers at bedtime. He squinted his eyes up real tight, but no prayers came.

Finally, he fell back on the only thing he knew was a ‘real’ prayer and began, “Our Father who art…” When he finished, he flopped back on his cot and thought, ‘Well, that could have felt real silly.

But it didn’t, he decided. It just felt like when Gertie’s pa taught him how to drive an automobile, impossible at first, but it got easier with practice. He figured he’d try praying again sometime, especially if his wife-to-be would be praying around the house.

But for now, he was just glad to be alive. Maybe her praying worked. Thinking about that muddled his mind, or maybe it was the Jack Daniels. He fell asleep like that, still in uniform, lying across his cot.

Carter was surprised at how young the newbies looked, but when he thought about it, he realized that every one of them was older than he was. This war was just making him feel older.

Introductions were over, and aircraft assignments were being made by Lieutenant Thomas, squadron leader. “Lieutenant Salerno, you’ll be with me. Martin flies with Crane. Johanssen rides behind Herwig. Schaefer and Jung complete the diamond.

So three of you new men are in the lead four planes.

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Thomas’ next remark made Carter sit up and listen. “Sergeant Carter will lead Diamond Two with Loving. Duncan and Bartolini, you two newbies, will ride behind Ross and Jenkins.

Polan and Stein complete the foursome.”

Thomas completed the aircraft positions and assignments with Hansen carrying newbie Herndon, and Worthington paired with Sergeant Rocci. The other pilots were all veterans who had flown together before.

“Before you go, I want all of you to study this map of the area we will be responsible for over the next several days. This whole region has been fought over until there are almost no recognizable landmarks. Villages are ruined and may never be rebuilt. Woodlots are just splintered wrecks. Armies have come and gone. It was only in the last several weeks that the Germans were evicted, so walk carefully. Booby traps may still be around.

One thing is for certain: unexploded shells are a real hazard. This will be no Pont-a-Mousson. There will be no parties. So write your letters home, play some games, get acquainted, and practice flying with your new mates. In other words, take it easy today.

Tomorrow you’ll be back at it. Dismissed.”

Since Carter had been paired up with Cowboy Loving, he did not see the need to seek the man out. He was still thinking about being in command of Diamond Two, which would position itself to the left and back from Thomas and Diamond One. How that would work with him giving orders to lieutenants was an open question. What intrigued him was that he would have radio telephony available and would theoretically, at least, be in voice contact with the other units and even the ground. It would have been reassuring the other night when he had to carry out a water landing.

He realized there would be no better time to reply to Gertie’s letter than the present. Therefore, he stopped at the barracks only to pick up paper and a pencil and headed toward the NCO club. Then he stopped and thought better of it. If he went there 161

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to write, he would get comfortable and soon would find himself sitting with a big cup of beer in front of him. Truth be told, he was aware that he was drinking more than he used to and knew he had to control it somehow. It was fine in the evening because it relaxed him, and when he slept, his dreams, when they came, were not so terrible. Occasionally, he wouldn’t remember any dreams at all. Drinking during the working day, however, could be a recipe for disaster. Therefore, he decided he would avoid alcohol until before lights out. That settled, he aimed for the mess hall tent instead. The flaps on both ends were tied open. Cookie was still wiping down the tables and policing the wooden pallets that served as the floor when he stepped in.

Charlie placed his paper and pencil down on a table and asked, “Cookie, I can smell that awful stuff you brewed up that barely reminds us of real coffee. Do you have any more tea, instead? I’ve drunk so much of it by now that I’m actually starting to like some of it.”

“Do I ever. Uncle Sam must have made a great deal with the king of England. We might not have enough bullets to see us through the war, but we have bags and bags of tea. What’s this war coming to?” He wagged his head sadly.

“Well then, if you would be so kind as to bring me a cup and a big teapot of the stuff, I promise not to disturb you anymore.”

“Cookie flipped him a one-fingered salute and disappeared into the kitchen only to reappear seconds later with a large stein and a teapot. “Cups of tea make you look all sissified. If anybody sees you drinking from this here stein, though, they’ll think you’re a real he-man.” He winked.

Charlie laughed. “Thanks, Cookie,” he said and bent to his letter.

“Darling Gertie, Our squadron flew in yesterday, so I just got your letter. I want you to know that I treasure every letter I get from you. I can almost hear you talking to me. Over the last few days, our 162

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squadron has been in a few brush-ups with the Germans, nothing we couldn’t handle. I was so glad to hear you have been praying for me. You ought to know that I’ve been giving it a try too. In this business, a fellow will try anything. The weather has been off and on, the rain is turned off a bit, and then it is turned back on for a longer time. The food is okay, and the men I fly with are the best. I’m flying pretty good now. They put me in as leader of four chase planes. I remember when your pa taught me how to drive a car. I asked him how in the world I would ever be able to fly an aeroplane if I couldn’t drive an automobile. He laughed and said, “To make a horse go, you jump on it and kick it. Then hang on as long as you can. Do it again and again until you don’t fall off.

I suspect flying an aeroplane is a lot like that.” Tell him he was right. I’ve learned to fly by the seat of my pants. Maybe someday your pa will teach me how to ride a horse. It can’t be harder than flying a Spad. Sweet Gertie, do not worry yourself about me. I fly in the best squadron in the whole AEF. I’ve got thirty-one other big guys to look after me, and you to pray for me. I love you more than ever. Keep making those wedding plans and write soon.

All my love to you, Charlie.

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20 “Diamond leaders, this is Leader One. Check in by numbers Two, Three, Four. I repeat – check in.” It was Lieutenant Thomas.

The squadron was flying over the countryside in dismal weather conditions. It had stopped raining but looked as though it would start up again any minute. In poor weather conditions, the flight had just crossed the Meuse River between Saint-Mihiel and Commercy. Visibility was down to a half mile. Carter, Hansen, and Woodson all checked in, as requested.

“Men, we’ve been cruising along at one-twenty. I want to open it up. Let’s see if we will maintain formation if we open the throttle. Besides, I’ve got a sneaking suspicion that the rain will pick up again soon. On my count, three, two, one, we go. Ready?

Carter.” ”Carter – Yep.” “Worthington – You bet.”

“Woodson – Received and will comply.”

“Three, two, one. Go.” Simultaneously, all four diamonds accelerated. Carter loved the way the Spad responded. Quickly, he was at one-twenty-five, then one-thirty. Gaining speed, the formation hit one hundred thirty-five, and still he felt the little machine had more to give. His wing mates stayed right with him. He glanced back at Cowboy, but all he could see was the ear-to-ear grin Cowboy wore when he was happy. And he was happy right now.

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Carter was, too. He loved tinkering with machines, but he could not see much anyone could do to improve the design of the Spad. The fuel tank beneath the fuselage was contoured, making it less vulnerable to enemy fire. The water-cooled engine washed heat back and kept the roomy cockpit warmer at higher altitude, and it was fast. Slowly, the speed crept higher, touching one hundred forty miles per hour on the level before Thomas backed them off. Minutes later the squadron, confident they could outrun or chase down anything that flew, spotted the supply dump near the village of Flirey and circled to land after Thomas successfully contacted the ground controller.

The village of Flirey stood in stark contrast to Pont-a-Mousson, no handsome church standing defiantly, no river flowing by, no village square filled with music and dancing. Flirey was a ruin.

Most of its original inhabitants of about three hundred fled the approaching Germans, and now that the hated Boche had been pushed back nearly five miles, few wanted to risk returning.

Perhaps fewer than one hundred ghostlike creatures haunted the crumbled structures that used to be homes and shops. There was no welcoming party.

There were two small tents where the radio telephony operator lived and worked. At a considerable distance from those tents, several larger tents were erected housing the mechanics and staff. About one hundred yards to the east were numerous pallets stacked with all the various supplies needed to support the mission of this squadron and of the squadrons to come after this one departed. Taken all together, with grey skies and soggy fields, a rubble-strewn village nearly uninhabited, and not even the barking of a dog, Carter understood why the last squadron based here pulled out as soon as they were able.

Dex Loving walked up to him as he scanned the neighborhood.

“Carter, you ever see the likes of this before?”

“Never,” and said nothing more about it. “Let’s go check out the barracks tents. See if the lorries brought our stuff.” Carter 165

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always checked to be sure the whiskey bottle had not broken during transit. He looked forward to a drink at lights-out. But that was the only time he opened the bottle.

There were two large barracks tents, each able to house more than sixteen men, so they were not cramped for space. They were erected over wooden pallets, so at least the floor was dry.

Lieutenant Thomas hustled inside just as the rain started up again. “Sergeant Carter, I was hoping I’d see you here. I would like the men from Diamonds One and Two to bunk in this tent.

Three and Four will be in the other tent. We have several new men, and I figured it would encourage our veterans to get better acquainted. I also see Lieutenants Ross and Jenkins. Polan must be in the other tent with Stein. I’ll get them in a minute. Your personals should arrive soon. Make yourselves at home. If you men get chilly, use the stove. Wood is out back under a tarp. I’ll be back soon.”

“Carter, do you think Lieutenant Thomas is bucking for lieutenant of the year or something?” Loving asked.

“Wish I knew. Maybe he’s just that way. Strikes me a bit fussy.

But a damn fine flyer.”

“That’s a natural fact.”

The men could hear the rain pelting the canvas and felt the moist air on their faces. But before they could start up a conversation, the tent flap flew back and Thomas, followed by two more men, dashed inside. “Okay then,” he called. “Look around. Do you see anyone from One or Two missing?”

“Now, Lieutenant,” his buddy and gunner, Lieutenant Giuseppi Salerno, a first-generation American from Italy, wisecracked, “if they are missing, how in the holy name of Santa Maria are we to see them?”

“Cute, Salerno, real cute. Now pipe down. Are we all here?

Okay. Now, according to our infallible army weather forecasters,” Hoots of derision, “this batch of rain will stop in a few hours. I 166

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want you, in pairs, to leave this tent when that occurs. I will lead.

All will participate happily.

“I heard that the squadron previously occupying this Garden of Eden did not scout around. I want you men to scour the neighborhood and take note of anything you find, whether it’s a can of pork or an unexploded artillery shell. The fact is, we do not know what is here, and we need to. The Boche were pushed out of here only recently. I need to know if it’s safe. It would be hell to lose one of you to a trip wire attached to a bomb. Now I’m going next door to inform our neighbors. Be right back.” He pulled the tent flap aside and disappeared in the rain.

“Good God,” Herman Jung said. “Is he always like that?”

“Like this? This is nothing. This is Thomas, relaxed. Wait ‘til you see him dialed in. Mama Mia,” said Salerno.

True to his word, Thomas returned in a few minutes. Also, true to the weather forecasters’ predictions, this band of rain soon fizzled out so that when the lorries carrying the men’s bags arrived, splashing through the muddy rivulets, unloading and distributing the load was quickly done. Carter was pleased to note that his Jack Daniels was just fine.

One thing Carter was grateful for was the waterproof kneehigh boots the flyers wore. They sure beat those lousy woolen puttees most of the doughboys wore. But even so, more than once the sucking morass that was the low ground around the field nearly pulled them off his feet as he and Cowboy slowly examined the grid they were assigned. They could see the other thirty members of the squadron also struggling with the conditions. They found no bombs, no artillery shells, and no booby traps. It was nice to know it was now safe for any fool to wander this mucky area to his heart’s content.

Lieutenant Ross and a newbie flyer, Sergeant Lee Duncan, also in Carter’s diamond four, were working an adjacent section and disappeared around a pile of rubble. Suddenly, Ross came hurrying from behind it and called to Carter and Loving, 167

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“Hey, you guys, come here quick. You’ve got to see this,” before disappearing again behind the pile.

Glad for any excuse to cease wallowing through the deep, drenched grass, both men went on the run. They found Ross and Duncan inside a twisted fenced-in enclosure on their knees. The pen was part of a larger dog kennel. The Army of the German Empire, in its quick retreat, abandoned its dogs. The result was locked pens and their inmates, all dead from starvation. All but one. There, in a corner, barely out of the worst of the wind and rain, lay a nearly starved, but still alive, female German Shepherd.

That she lived was remarkable enough. But it was what she was doing that amazed the men. Nuzzling and grunting at her teats were five tiny bodies, all very much alive, five beautiful pups so new to this world they had yet to open their eyes. Carter thought it was good they could not see the wreck of a world they were born into. The mother was too exhausted to even acknowledge the existence of the men, but Duncan was mumbling to himself as he rummaged through the debris looking for anything that would provide some shelter for the mother and her litter.

“Well, don’t you guys just stand there with your thumbs up your rear ends. Help me.” Duncan, an NCO, seemed unaware that his words might just be a bit inappropriate when addressing commissioned officers, but he did not care.

Carter hustled back to the tent to rummage up a can of corned willy for the mother, and a bowl for her water. From the pallets of supplies, he ripped a small, waterproofed cover that, if weighed down and attached to the fence, could serve as a temporary roof over her and her pups. He hurried back with the items. Duncan had clearly taken charge of the dogs and was directing the officers turned willing workers.

Charlie pried open the can of hamburger hash and dug it out with a piece of fencing, then pushed it into a little pile for the mother shepherd. At first, she did not even acknowledge the food’s existence, but when Charlie scooped up a small handful, 168

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placed it by her muzzle, and touched it to her gums, she raised her head and, with immense effort, ate what he handed to her.

Then she flopped back down. He scooped up more and fed her by hand. She responded more eagerly each time until finally she raised her head and neck, and resting on her forepaws, gulped down the rest of the pile. She looked at Charlie imploringly. He smiled and said, “That’s enough for now, little mama. We don’t want to make you sick with too much too soon. “ And glancing over his shoulder so the others would hear him, he added, “Lord knows this corned willy has made enough men sick already.”

“They must have known.” Lee Duncan was in a furious lather. “How could they just walk off and leave them? I know a little about dogs. I grew up around them. These were beauties, purebreds. I can’t imagine the folks as would do something like this. I’m… I’m furious.”

Carter felt forced to respond. “Well, look around you, Duncan. What do you see here? The Boche don’t care about anyone or anything. Dogs, people, it’s all the same to them. If they can’t use them, they kill them. That’s how they think. This war we’re fighting, I hate it. But I’ll hate it and fight it because too many other people who do care have died, and if the people who did this thing win, this will be an even uglier and crueler world. So, calm down and get cold. That’s how I do it. You can afford to be all furious or afraid or whatever emotions you let loose. But when you are up in your little Spad and your friends are dying around you – get cold, or pretty soon your friends will be watching you fall to earth.”

The men were silent for a moment. “Jesus, Carter,” said Loving, “I was wondering how you did it, how you fought and flew like you do. I think I get it now.”

Charlie shook himself as though he were waking from a dream. The grim set of his lips relaxed to a gentle smile again.

“Sorry about going off on a rant like that, guys. I’m angry too, I guess. Turning to Duncan, still kneeling on the wet cement, he 169

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asked, “So Lee, what are you going to do with these pups? They’re yours, you know. What do you think?”

“I never thought about that.” He stood and brushed off his pants. “Give them away, I guess, except for those two. He stroked two tiny backs gently. I really like their color. I’ll figure out some way to get them home with me. And I gotta find homes for the others too. But not right away. The mom’s got to wean them.

They’ll stay here for the moment. Thanks, guys. I got pretty bossy, I was really upset.”

Lieutenant Ross spoke, “Duncan, you’re a good man. I’ll be proud to have you as my gunner.”

If Thomas’s concern was to find a way for the men to bond, he need not worry about Carter, Loving, Ross, and Duncan. From then on, they were a team of brothers.

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21 Nothing was moving. If it was, no one could tell because the near-constant thick mist made for zero visibility. No one flew. The aircraft were under protective tarps. The mechanics kept busy repairing and cleaning tools, battling with unending patience in their war on rust and mold. The airmen sat in their tents, drinking cups of tea. There was an endless supply of water and tea leaves.

Some played games, others read letters from home over and over, and a few lay on their cots with hands folded behind their heads, napping or talking about nothing in particular. Carter, Ross, Loving, and Duncan sat talking about the dogs.

“So, you never answered my question, Dunk. What are you going to do with the pups?” asked Carter.

Duncan set his tea mug down. “I figure the first thing to do is tell Lieutenant Thomas. If he finds them, he’ll want to ‘be merciful’ and kill them so they don’t starve when we leave. And we can’t just turn them out. So, if I offer him one, he’ll be in with us, right?”

“Yeah, good idea,” chimed in Ross.

“Same thing with Captain Bentley. Come on, fellas, don’t look at me that way. Lots of units have mascots. His dog will be our mascot. Maybe we’ll even paint a dog’s face on our planes.”

“Not a good idea, pal, “said Carter, “people might mistake it for the Old Man himself.” He added quickly, “But it might work.

You can try. That still leaves four. What about them?”

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“I’m keeping two pups. That leaves two for anyone who wants them.”

“What are you going to name yours?”

“I’ve been thinking about that too. He took something out of his pocket and showed it to the others. “I was given this by some kids in Paris. They make them and give them to American soldiers, for luck, I guess.” Carter examined the two little dolls made of string and attached to each other by a string. One was male, the other female. He handed it back to Duncan, who continued, “The girl doll is named Nanette. The boy is Rin-TinTin. So that’s what I’m calling my dogs, Nanette and Rin-TinTin. What do you think?”

Cowboy Loving spoke up. “I think you better tell folks about them right now. Word’s bound to get out, and someone else will claim them. I’d like one of them pups, if you don’t mind.”

“You got it, and you’re right.” He slapped his hands on his knees and stood. “All right, fellas, listen up a minute. I got something to tell you.”

Several minutes later, sixteen excited men burst from the tent, headed for the kennels. Someone yelled to the other tent, and quickly it emptied, as well. And so, it came to be that thirty-two hardened combat veterans stood in the French drizzle wearing boyish grins, cooing at a pile of squirming pups.

Duncan took charge immediately, going into the kennel and drawing the twisted gate shut behind him. He explained the situation and his discovery. To a man, the flyers were outraged that the Boche would do such a thing. Duncan then proposed that Squadrons One and Two adopt the dogs until homes could be found for them. He explained that he was going to offer one to Captain Bentley, but first, he asked Lieutenant Thomas if he would like one.

At that moment, this intrepid flyer was squatting outside the fence, trying to stretch an arm through and stroke the back of a pup. At his name, he stood. “Lee,” he said, “I would be honored.

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And when he is ready, this little fellow here would be perfect.

Thank you.”

“Great. Consider it done, sir. I believe it is my right by discovery to put a claim in, so I pick these two.” He picked up a pup in each hand. Their mother showed her concern by fighting to her feet and wobbling to stand by Duncan, looking up at him with eyes full of concern for her pups’ safety. “Don’t worry, mama, I’m just showing them off. This one is Nanette, and may I introduce you to Rinty, short for Rin-Tin-Tin. Now, here you go.”

He carefully placed them back in the nest of gunnysacks he built for the family and turned to the men. “By my count, if the good captain selects one, that leaves two, could be three if he says nix.

When we get back to Rembercourt and Bentley chooses, I plan to have a drawing, so whoever is interested puts his name in. If it gets drawn, he wins the pup. Sound fair?”

“Sounds great,” Lieutenant Worthington said, “I’ve always wanted a ‘Shepherd.’ I refuse to refer to it as a German Shepherd, though, in light of the foul mistreatment of these poor canines by the Huns.” The men voiced their agreement in less elegant language. For the remainder of the day, the men took turns going out to the kennel to ‘check on’ their dogs. The day’s mist never cleared up, but the milk-bellied little bundles of grunts brought some brighter rays into their lives. Each one knew he had something that he could gladly write about to the folks back home. Lieutenant Thomas was grateful for the lift in morale that the tending to ‘their dogs’ provided the men.

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22 It turned out that Lee Duncan was something of a dog expert.

Having grown up in poor circumstances out in California, he earned extra money by taking care of other people’s dogs. He had a knack for working with dogs and grew to hope someday to turn that ability into his career. He also understood training dogs usually meant mostly training the people who owned the dogs how to behave around them. For example, he made rules for the handling of the pups. Specifically, there was to be none.

At the stage they were at, the tiny creatures could neither see nor hear and were terribly fragile. Too much handling also stressed the mother, and the pups needed her constant attention. So only one person was allowed in the kennel at a time.

On the second day after discovery, Cowboy Loving came back from the kennel with news. Three pups had opened their eyes. All of them were trying to move but did not have control of their legs yet. The men awaited news from the kennel like folks on the home front awaited news from Europe. The mother was looking much improved, as well. She was still thin but getting around well, and with the men vying to see who could feed her the most, her ribs would not be showing for long. She was producing plenty of milk for her five little ones.

The third day at Flirey was free of rain. The men were all infected with cabin fever, and despite the sopping conditions, 174

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Thomas thought they all should ‘practice’ flying and scout toward the front. Since they had arrived, they had heard nothing from the Germans, just several miles to the north.

It was great to be back in the air, even if rain was expected again before nightfall. The cloud deck was low, but at nearly one thousand feet, the men got their first real look at the area so viciously fought over just days before their arrival.

Fields were abandoned. Not a single homestead looked occupied, and for a very good reason. Not even one looked habitable. They were rubble-strewn wrecks. Livestock had all been killed to feed the armies. All in all, despite the late summer green drifting into autumn, the scene was bleak.

Lieutenant Thomas wanted the men to try a new formation.

He was dissatisfied with the diamonds – They were too easy to crush, too easily fragmented, and often could not bring enough firepower to bear when needed. So today he aligned the flyers into two groups of eight, flying in unbalanced V formations, referred to as V-One and V-Two. He was flying point position in V-One. Hansen led V-Two. They flew east in the direction of Pont-a-Mousson, then south to circle back to Flirey. Thomas, on point, saw what appeared to be a diamond flight of Spads approaching at an oblique angle and got on his radio telephony, or just ‘radio’ as the men were already referring to it, to identify and inquire. The diamond flight was, in fact, Squadron Three from Rembercourt.

Thomas explained the new formation and invited Squadron Three to link up and try it out. The result would be thirty-two aircraft in four Vees. Squadron Three was agreeable and, after some considerable discussion, as both flights continued south, it dissolved its diamonds and formed two Vees of its own, falling in behind Squadron Two. Lieutenant Thomas, ever vigilant and flying point, noticed a dark moving streak crawling like a caterpillar to the west of the enlarged formation, heading north. It could only be one thing: an 175

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Allied army moving to the front. “Let’s check it out,” he radioed all the units, and led the squadrons in a smooth bank to the west.

“Let’s find the tail of this snake and fly slowly along it toward the front. It’ll let them know we’re in the game with them.”

The workers, mechanics, and lorry drivers at the rear of the column were the first to see and recognize the approaching aircraft. Having slogged their way along rutted, mud-filled roads, through nearly endless rain, the sight thrilled and encouraged them. As Vee after Vee passed majestically overhead, grown men waved. A few cried. They knew they were not in this fight alone.

The flight continued over the artillery, some pulled by trucks and many by war horses, and then over what seemed to be an endless column of marching soldiers interspersed with trucks. Though weary with marching through the churned-up mud, many doffed their helmets and waved at the aircraft. At the front of the columns were tanks, dozens, hundreds of them, leading the way.

The combined flight squadrons sailed on for several minutes until the tanks disappeared behind them. They then divided into their separate squadrons once again and returned to their bases, hoping their demonstration had provided the doughboys with some encouragement and a sense of solidarity.

Pierre, Louis, and the other mechanics from Diamond Two won the right to accompany the dogs in their lorry. ‘Mama’ clearly was used to traveling in this manner. She made no objection to, and showed no discomfort with, the bouncing around she took on the way back to Rembercourt. She was absorbed with her task of keeping the litter of pups close to her in the big box the men made to transport them all in. When they arrived in Rembercourt, they were met with a welcoming committee composed of all the pilots, mechanics, and workers available. Captain Bentley stood sternly front and center. He would make the decision as to the dogs’ ultimate fate.

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As the lorries arrived one after another, the crowd grew. The final lorry pulled in, and several men jumped out. The crowd closed in as Lee Duncan stepped to the tailgate and waved for Pierre and Louis to push the crate containing the dogs to the edge. He asked the men to stand back and waved Captain Bentley forward.

“Now what is all this about, Sergeant?” he asked, though by now he knew exactly what was happening.

“Captain, sir, the Boche abandoned these poor animals, and we couldn’t let them die so we adopted them to give them homes.

We all agreed that you, sir, should have the first pick. That is, if you want one, sir.”

“I see. Well, let me take a look.” He peered down into the crate and saw the ‘mama’ licking and nuzzling her litter. Her coloring was dark brown to black, that with continued good feeding and care, he was certain, would take on a sheen. “This is quite a goodlooking bunch of pure-breds, if I know anything about dogs at all.” He shook his head. “I think you men found something worth keeping, and if you are willing to part with her, I would be very agreeable to taking the mother.”

Knowing the captain was on board was a great relief to Duncan and the men. “You got her, sir, just as soon as she weans her pups.” The men cheered.

“Now, what are your plans for Estelle’s pups, because that is her name from now on? She reminds me of a dog I had by that name when I was a boy.”

“We’ve decided to have a drawing. All the men, including the mechanics, who would like a pup, except for my two and Lieutenant Thomas’s, will put their names on slips of paper. If you really want one, for a nickel you can sign another slip, as many nickels and slips as you can afford. All the money raised will go to pay for the next barbeque, so it’ll be free for all. Until then, we’re going to build us our own kennel, ‘cause who knows how 177

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long we’re going to be here, and we can’t have pups underfoot. Of course, sir, Estelle is exempt from the kennel rule.”

Captain Bentley laughed. “Well done, Sergeant. Take care that the kennel is safe, sheltered, and up soon.” He turned to speak to the men. “All pilots report at 18:00 this evening for a briefing. Welcome back to Rembercourt. Dismissed.” Captain Bentley walked back to his headquarters. But nearly every other man on base crowded around the truck.

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23 “Men, first let me tell you of a few changes made since we last sat as a group several weeks ago. Rembercourt is now officially labeled the 92nd Pursuit Squadron. This last week, we received another flight of sixteen single-seat Spads, bringing the new 92nd up to full strength, comprising six flight squadrons of sixteen aircraft each. We have retired all the Nieuports and sent them off to be trainers.” This brought more than a few cheers. “Also, all the new Spads are radio-equipped, greatly increasing their usefulness in scouting and spotting enemy artillery emplacements. That means a radio in every other airplane.

“Now let me speak to the tactical situation. The Germans are racing to bring in reinforcements from the Eastern Front. We are racing to bring up the American First Army. The victor in this war may be determined by whoever’s army gets ready first. We intend it to be us. Some of you reported large American units moving forward recently. There are more.

Brigadier General Billy Mitchell, you heard me right. We airmen now have a general officer to speak for us.” More cheers.

“The general has developed the first of its kind in the history of warfare, a coordinated air and ground offensive. The infantry, the artillery, armor, and we, the forces of the air, will no longer be waging our own little battles. The Big Push, the Allied offensive, is coming soon, how soon I cannot tell you, but we had better be 179

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prepared any day for our orders. You understand what I have just told you must never leave this room, not to your mechanics and workers, not even to your sweetie back home. No one means no one. If you do, you will be shot.” No one laughed.

“Finally, I want to tell you men how proud I am to be your commander. The AEF, recognizing your increased importance to the cause, has enlarged my staff. You will find, if you report to my office, a clerk typist, a radio operator, an office orderly, an Aide, and a motorcycle messenger. Also, you will no longer be reporting to Captain Bentley.” Puzzled looks appeared around the room.

“Would my new Aide, Lieutenant Hicks, please step forward.”

As the young lieutenant stepped in from the wings carrying a small box, Captain Bentley removed his Captain bars from his collar and reached into the box, removed a gold oak-leaf cluster insignia, and attached it to his uniform. “You now will report to Major Bentley.” At this dramatic gesture, the airmen all rose to their feet and spontaneously cheered, whistled, and stomped their feet, clapping the entire time. Major Bentley permitted the men to let off steam for a few moments, then gestured for them to retake their seats. The men understood that the promotion of Major Bentley as their commander was also a recognition of their increased value and had responded accordingly. “Now I have spoken long enough. I must take my leave to get better acquainted with Estelle. I turn this over to my aide, Lieutenant Hicks.” Lieutenant Hicks quickly dismissed the men, and the tent emptied.

Outside, Charlie looked around him for the first time since returning. The Headquarters area was now a small complex. The mess tent was still the same. He wondered how all the men, now numbering well over a hundred flyers alone, were to be fed. Two more barracks tents had sprung up along with more mechanics’ and workers’ tents and huts. The hospital area was undergoing a major addition, and work was ongoing to build a new hangar.

Single and double-seater Spads took off and landed regularly, 180

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and a huge Handley-Page bomber was being trundled out of a hangar for a practice flight.

It was an amazing transformation, especially when he considered the early days when he attended flight school back in Kelly Field, Texas. He expected to be taught how to fly there.

Instead, they were assigned all manner of ground duty, from parade ground drills to learning Morse Code. The sad fact was that the United States had no resources or training program for the young volunteers. Therefore, they made it up as they went along. The aircraft Charlie learned to fly on were the ancient Curtiss JN4 Jennys trainers. In contrast to the Brits, who wanted to take only the best ‘class’ of men, the American philosophy was to develop quiet, methodical airmen. It was believed they would most quickly be able to adjust to new situations. If they were less excitable, the reasoning went, they would be less likely to make rash decisions.

It wasn’t until he made it to France and to Issoudun, which was one huge hog-wallow of a mud hole, that he first took an aircraft off the ground. It was an ancient Bleriot Penguin, cut down so that it could not fly. But he did manage to make it hop several times as he bounced down the rocky field with a French moniteur yelling in his ear the entire way. On the next run, he got it going fast, too fast. The wind whipped it around in a circle. It lifted the vehicle up on a wheel and then smashed it back down, cracking the wooden motor housing. At least when the moniteur cussed him out, it was in French, which he did not understand.

So, it didn’t hurt very much.

Other skills were perfected by practice firing at target butts with swivel-mounted machine guns – on the ground. When flying, which was often, they were taught to take their time stalking to develop cool-headedness.

See Bird, known as Red Carpenter to the folks back home, when asked how he thought a person would learn to fly an aeroplane, told him how to ride a horse, and figured they were 181

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much the same. “Jump on it and kick it. If you fall off, get back on and ride until you don’t fall off.” Charlie laughed now at the memory, but there was more truth in the advice than he thought at first. Gertie’s father seemed to know an awful lot.

Now, as he watched the young pilots making ‘practice’ runs above and around the field, playing at dogfights, bush-jumping, hitting speeds he could only have imagined a year or two before, he stood in awe of the progress made in aviation and flight training. Along with almost every other man at Rembercourt, he sensed something big was about to happen.

Whatever the Allies had planned would have to await better weather. Of this, he was sure. It began raining in the second week of September and never ceased for more than a few hours over the next five days. Flying of any type was sporadic and dangerous.

A young pilot, newly sent to the front, crash-landed on his return and died.

Major Bentley called a rare evening briefing. The room was so crowded that the atmosphere became stifling. Charlie thought he would rather go outside and stand in the rain.

“Men, D-Day for the Allied offensive starts in just a few hours. As we speak, 110,000 American doughboys are leaning against their trench walls, ready to begin the process of sending the Germans either back to Germany or to hell. Our troops, led

by General ‘Black Jack’ Pershing himself, cover the area from Pont-a-Mousson to Limey. At dawn, rain or no rain, we take to the air. We will join twenty-seven air squadrons totaling 1,500 aircraft of all Allied types.” Someone whistled. “So, know your planes. We don’t want to shoot down our friends. Colonel George Patton will be leading the charge with two tank battalions. That’s 144 tanks.

“Obviously, you will have to fly low to see what’s happening.

Your job, depending on your squadron’s individual mission, will be to overwhelm the German air force, to hit their transports, hit their artillery, hit their trenches. Hit everything they’ve got and 182

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hit it as hard as you can. Plus, you are to provide close air support for our ground forces. Radio contact our artillery units as soon as you spot their artillery batteries. I emphasize the radios are for spotting or military coordination only. There will be no chitchat.

Expect massive resistance. The Boche have not come all this way to pack up and go home without a fight. So, give them such a pounding they will never forget. We must be, in fact, we are, the only ones who are capable of doing just that. I will leave it to your squadron commanders to fill you in on your specific missions. We all know that some of you men sitting here will not survive this fight. Look at the man seated next to you. It may be his empty chair tonight. Tomorrow it might be yours. So, you must fight to bring every man back. God bless you. Get some sleep if you can. Dismissed.”

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24 At precisely 05:30, on September 12, 1918, following an extended preparatory artillery barrage, Lieutenant Colonel George S. Patton nosed his tank up and out of a trench near the ruined village of Limey, France. It was H-Hour on D-Day for launching the Allied offensive. Patton, who had started out as a cavalry officer, made the switch to tanks and never looked back.

Today, leading two tank battalions, stretched along a twentymile line, was his chance to make a grand cavalry charge. From the knee-deep mud in the trenches emerged 110,000 young American sons, brothers, and fathers, following in the wake of the tanks. Further along the salient line to the left, French allies were doing the same.

They were attempting to do what had not been successfully accomplished so far in this dreadful war: force the Germans out of their trenches and start them on the roads back to Germany.

The obstacles were formidable. The Germans had constructed an in-depth series of trenches, protected by machine gun nests with overlapping fields of fire and zeroed-in artillery. The shattered land the doughboys had to traverse to get to them was a churnedup desolation of barbed wire, obstacles, millions of shell craters, and uncounted dead bodies. This type of advance had been tried many times before in this war, and it always fell short of hopes and expectations.

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This morning, however, the Allies had three things working to their advantage. The first was numbers. They had brought up the American troops under General Pershing faster than the Germans could bring their troops in from the east. Secondly, oddly enough, the Allied attack caught the Germans in the process of resetting their lines, moving troops from the forwardmost line of trenches to a secondary line farther back. Many were therefore caught in the open by the sudden attack, without machine-gun protection. And thirdly, the Americans fielded fully twentyeight squadrons of aircraft to go along with seventeen British and French squadrons, for a total of one thousand four hundred and eighty-one aircraft, the most massive display of air power seen in the war. And hundreds of them were radio-equipped spotters, whose sole task was communicating enemy positions and conditions instantly to artillery and infantry units.

The advance, once begun, did not cease. When the tanks got tangled, Colonel Patton rallied the men, straightened out the mess, and was wounded in the process. A young artillery officer from Missouri received sighting data radioed from aircraft, and thus Harry S. Truman continued to deliver effective support to the infantry advance. And hundreds of nameless young flyers from every part and class of America flew the treacherous skies in flimsy and undependable aircraft, all to help the cause and finish this war. Charlie Carter and the men of Pursuit Squadron 92 were part of that effort.

It did not matter if you were rich or poor, if you graduated from an Ivy League school or a high school. If his number was called, the young flyer never returned home. War was the great equalizer. Even the President of the United States was not immune. Shortly before the Saint Mihiel offensive began, Quentin Roosevelt, son of former President Theodore, was shot out of the sky and killed not far from this place, breaking his father’s heart.

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At first light on D-Day, every effective aircraft at Rembercourt was thrown into the fray. Six full squadrons of sixteen aircraft each – a total of ninety-six flew off the base, leaving an empty and quiet place, except for the yapping of Estelle’s pups in the kennel, wondering why no one came to play with them. Major Bentley stood, Estelle by his side, and watched the aeroplanes depart. He then slowly walked back to his office.

The old saying that there is comfort in numbers is true, and their large numbers certainly buoyed the airmen’s spirits. Never had they been on a mission like this, flying together as a single unit. To Charlie, the nearly one hundred aircraft seemed to fill the sky. Those to his left and right, fore and aft, above and below, all filled with men he knew and respected, reassured him that no force on earth could withstand them and provided a sense of invincibility. At the same time, he felt the familiar thrill of fear stir his stomach to a state approaching nausea. But he also knew from experience that once he was engaged in the fight, the fear would disappear, replaced by a cold determination to see this through now. If he had to vomit, it would be later.

The German Archies pumped up a veritable black carpet of metal shrapnel designed to rip the frail wood and cloth machines from the heavens. But now that the Americans had radios in all observation planes, American artillery zeroed in more quickly than ever, making the German anti-aircraft batteries targets before they could move to relocate.

He flew over this tormented land, a brown and grey wasteland where not even plants were allowed to live. Truly, this was a noman’s land. Just as the Bruegets, day bombers, began dropping their loads, the clouds overhead began raining German Fokkers and Albatros - twenty, forty, sixty. Charlie ceased trying to guess how many fell on them. It was a waterfall of craft continuing to plunge into the American formation, spilling showers of death in their descent.

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And then the American formation dissolved into chaos, as each pilot sought and fought on his own for his life in this airborne madhouse. Every skill a desperate pilot ever learned had now to be put into practice. The terror of anticipation ate at Charlie, but he willed it aside.

For a moment, Charlie stared and was shocked at the utterly alien nature of the place. Black columns of rain swept from brooding clouds like twisted stalactites under a diseased-looking yellow-grey sky, the rain often not even reaching the ground.

The brown, pock-marked earth itself resembled no place on this planet he had ever heard of. Across this broken landscape, giant bug-like metal monsters scuttled and belched fire. In response, men fell silently down like paper dolls. Some flailed and then lay still. The metal monsters moved on. The scene mesmerized him, but he could only afford to spend a few seconds staring.

Suddenly, he was no longer observing from the outside but was thrust into the heart of battle. Deafening noise filled his ears and demanded his full concentration.

He saw below him a new Fokker on the tail of a Nieuport single-seat and dived on it from the front, spitting bullets from his Vickers machine gun. The German hung on to his tail position for only a few seconds before banking away and up sharply, having decided to look for easier pickings. Charlie heard Cowboy sporadically firing from the rear but had no time to look back and see what was drawing his fire back there. Bank hard left, then right. Corkscrew. Do anything to give his rear gunner a shot. Living is everything. It is all that matters.

Recovering from a dive, he noticed a cluster of German soldiers setting up a machine gun nest to slow down a tankled unit of Americans. The doughboys leaned forward as they advanced, as though they were walking into a heavy headwind.

He threw the Spad over, banking hard right and down, through and below the carpet of shrapnel. But being below the Archies did not mean he was any safer than he was before. Many aircraft 187

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were shot down by ground fire. That was how the Bloody Red Baron met his end, not in some valiant sky duel, but by a lucky shot from an Australian infantry machine-gunner.

He twisted his body briefly to indicate to Cowboy his intentions. Cowboy peered over the side, nodded, and prepared.

Charlie heard all the stories about what makes a good tailgunner. The one thing seldom mentioned was the ability to read the pilot’s mind. Cowboy had that in spades, or should he say Spads. Charlie smiled at his feeble attempt at humor, then yanked his aircraft back to tree-top level in a land devoid of trees and streaked to catch up to the advancing American infantry.

A couple soldiers glanced up as he tore by overhead, but then they fell quickly behind. He triggered his Vickers almost immediately. The bullets tore up the ground directly in front of the machine gun emplacement, as well as two German soldiers careless enough to be standing. As he flew past, he pulled the stick into his lap to give Cowboy a clear shot, and the gunner poured it on. That was one German machine gun nest that would never be a scourge again. The Americans saw what he had done, gave a quick wave, and continued forward.

As Charlie climbed to return to the battle in the air, he wondered how the rest of the squadron was doing. He hoped against hope they would all make it, that soon they would be laughing around cups of hot tea about their narrow escapes and harrowing encounters, laughing in the face of death. Then he noticed another strange sight. Aeroplanes were falling from the skies. One here, trailing smoke. Another there, completely engulfed in flames. One in a tail-spin, another silently gliding down, its pilot hunched over, clearly dead already. Plane after plane. The thought crossed his mind, what a waste of perfectly good material.

He found himself often having such thoughts lately. His mind needed those periodic breaks from the stark reality of war so he could focus when he had to fight and stay alive. But 188

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the aircraft kept falling. It was no daydream. They fell like ashes from a bonfire, like geese being shot over the marsh back home where he hunted with his friends. He snapped back alert when the control panel in front of him exploded just as one of the new Fokkers flew past so close it almost brushed a wing. Without conscious thinking, he banked gently left and pulled the nose up, putting the German in his line of fire. He pulled the trigger just as the Fokker slid right and missed. He adjusted again and pulled the trigger once more. Two bullets and then nothing. He was out of ammo. The German pulled away as Charlie reloaded another box. And still the airplanes fell.

He turned to tell Cowboy of his intention to return to base.

Low on ammo and fuel, with the front panel wrecked, Charlie was unsure this Spad was fight-worthy. Behind his goggles, Cowboy was grimacing. The gunner was holding his red-stained right arm but otherwise appeared functional. When he understood Charlie’s plan, he nodded vigorously. Cowboy must have been hit in the attack that shattered his flight panel. Damn his mind for wandering just when he needed it the most. He banked his plane hard to the west and listened to the engine roar as he put the little plane to its ultimate speed test.

As Charlie approached Rembercourt, he saw planes taking off and landing constantly. Some were taking off after refueling, returning to the battle over Saint Mihiel. From the battle, crippled planes limped in, flown by injured pilots, some barely in control, trying to land, occasionally unsuccessfully. Incoming aircraft were organizing themselves, trying to form a lineup according to arrival and need. Radios helped some, but not all the aircraft had them, so errors were bound to happen. There were several near misses as pilots were unsure as to who should land first, but Charlie was happy to see no collisions.

Finally, it was his turn. He had used his radio to call the radio operator on base and tell him he had an injured gunner on board. He brought the Spad down smoothly, taxiing to the side 189

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as medical personnel hurried to meet them. Charlie jumped out first and helped Cowboy to the ground.

His gunner tried to smile as he cradled his arm and said, “It’ll be okay, Charlie. I wasn’t shot. It was just a splinter.” He removed his left hand so Charlie and the medics could see his injury. The ‘splinter’ was a chunk of wood nearly six inches long embedded in his bicep. “I’ll be back in no time. You’ll see,” he said as the medics led him away.

“It must have been a piece of the fuselage shot off when that Fokker hit them,” he thought, and once again cursed himself for inattention. “I sure could use a good, hard drink about now.” He even took a few steps toward the barracks before he stopped in his tracks. “I can’t do that yet. I gotta rest a bit, get some food, and get another plane.” Instead of continuing to the whiskey bottle, he turned and walked to the mess hall, his hands shaking, his stomach churning.

He was sitting there huddled over a large tin cup of the hottest and strongest tea he could get from Cookie when he was joined

by Lieutenant Thomas. “Mind if I sit?”

“Not at all, sir. Be my guest.”

Lieutenant Thomas looked, Charlie thought, as if he had just walked in from a bar fight. His hair was a mess, his clothing smudged and stained, and a bandage covered half the side of his head from the left ear back. He winced as he lowered himself.

Charlie refrained from saying something glib and instead said simply, “It’s rough up there.”

Thomas looked at this young man, not yet twenty years old, and wondered where the courage and strength came from. He knew Sergeant Carter was a high school graduate from a rough and isolated part of the country, a place only grudgingly moving on from the last century and last century attitudes. He himself was the beneficiary of a first-class east coast collegiate education, provided to him by a well-heeled family. His mother inherited money from her family, and his father made a small fortune with 190

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well-timed real estate deals in bustling New York City. Now here they sit at the same table, sharing their experiences as equals.

America, what a country.

Carter spoke first. “I heard the boys are doing okay,” clearly looking to Thomas for confirmation.

“Yeah, I just had a word with the major. He was excited. He said the Germans were caught with their pants down and are on the run. Pershing wired congratulations to the Army Air Service for the powerful role it’s played. He said the army reached its first day’s goals by noon but told them to keep on pushing. He said he wanted to throw the Boche all the way back to Metz.”

“That’s great news, sir, and is there any tally of the butcher’s bill yet?”

Thomas shook his head. “I haven’t heard a word, but you were out there and saw what it was like. A lot of good men died today, I’m sure.” He searched Carter’s face. “Look, sergeant, I probably shouldn’t be asking this of you after everything you’ve already done today, but I need a gunner. Salerno went west when we ran into some Archie. I nearly went with him. Good kid. Too bad.”

“Yeah, too bad.” He peered into his cup as if to read the tea leaves, then looked up. “Lieutenant Thomas, if you, sir, can find us a flyable vehicle, seeing as how my gunner is over in the hospital having a section of our plane removed from his arm, and since I am free for the rest of the day, I would be honored to back you up.” Both men smiled. They both knew and understood what it had taken to bring them to this point.

From Rembercourt, they flew due east toward Limey and from there northwest. The Allied attack from two sides of the salient was designed to pinch the German army into an evertighter corridor around the village of Saint-Mihiel, and it appeared to be working. The battle lines now converged around the village of Thiacourt, some four miles from where it started at 05:30, now so long ago. In a war where armies counted their 191

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advances in yards over three years’ time, this much progress was a major event.

From above, they witnessed German units withdrawing to the northwest being pounded on the flank. They also witnessed another welcome sight – fewer enemy aircraft. Charlie figured either they had lost too many to conduct a good fighting retreat, or they were being withdrawn to safer bases to be useful later when conditions improved. It was probably a combination of both. In any case, air traffic was a fraction of what it had been earlier. The Allies may not yet have total control of the air, but they were clearly dominant. If there was any upside to the fight, this hellish battle appeared to be going well.

Charlie discovered that serving as tail gunner gave him an entirely new perspective. Since he was not in control of the Spad, he was not the decision-maker. Thomas chose the route and altitude. Charlie was to keep his eyes open, alert to any threat.

If he detected one, a three-round burst to the side would be a warning that Thomas would hear and heed.

Approaching Thiacourt, he spied only a single Fokker high above, making for the northeast and safety. If the German saw them, it did not seem interested and flew on. Carter ignored him.

As they continued, Thomas saw an Albatros below them, headed in the same direction. He nosed the Spad down while Carter scoured the sky behind them. Using a low-flying plane as a lure to attract a flyer looking for an easy kill was an old trick. Thomas depended on an alert tail gunner to make sure they would not become victims. Carter saw nothing threatening. Thomas swiftly dispatched the German chase plane, sending it into a tailspin before it disappeared below.

They approached the vicinity of Vignuelles before they ran into what remained of the air battle. Aircraft were entangled in every direction. Thomas chased a Fokker off the tail of a singleseat Spad, and then they emerged from the scrum, and they were flying clear again. The River Meuse flowed beneath them, and 192

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they realized they had flown over the entire German salient and lived to tell about it.

On the return to Rembercourt, Charlie was relieved rather than elated. With Thomas piloting, there were no surprises and no near misses. With evening settling in, the flights of wounded and intact aeroplanes were coming home. Once it becomes dark, planes land at tremendous risk. Maybe a couple barrels of gasoline would be set aflame at the end of the runway, or occasionally, a few automobiles could be set up to give some directional guidance, but that was it. Charlie wondered if they would ever use electricity to light up the place and make night flying possible.

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25 “My dear bride-to-be, What a day I’ve had. We’ve been in a brawl with the Germans all day. It’s done for now, and I’m back in the barracks. You should see the pups now. They’re twice the size they were a week ago, and when they tussle with each other, it is the funniest thing ever. Pretty soon, we’ll have to separate them from each other so they will bond with their humans. We should get a dog after we’re married. I think you must have been praying for me again, because today, when I flew back to base here, I almost went for my whiskey bottle but settled for tea instead. I didn’t like it as much, but just as I was reconsidering my choice, Lieutenant Thomas sat down and asked me to go back up with him this afternoon. If I’d been drinking whiskey, that wouldn’t have been any good. As it was, I was stone-cold sober and ready to go. Thank you, darling.

When you pray, do you use ‘Thee’ and ‘Thou’ and the like when you talk to the Almighty? I tried that but didn’t like it. On the other hand, I don’t want to insult Him. Things are hard enough now. I don’t want to make them worse. Say ‘hi’ to your ma and pa from me. I’ve actually been thinking a lot about your pa. Is he doing any riding or working rodeos lately? Write and tell me what you’ve been up to. I love you, Gertie. Hang in there with me. I am ‘sincerely’ yours, Charlie.”

Charlie sat on his cot and looked at what he had just written.

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True, there was a lot he glossed over and didn’t tell Gertie, but then there was so much he never wanted her to really know. He was willing to take the nightmares for both of them. And besides, there were the censors who blocked out anything that was real about the war. So, he sighed and slid his letter into an unsealed envelope.

He dropped the letter off and continued to the hospital. The nurse recognized him and passed him through to the ward.

Many beds were full. Some had privacy sheets drawn around them. Cowboy saw him come in and waved his good hand.

“Hey, pardner,” Cowboy said with a tight smile, “good to see you.”

“You too, pal. How’s it going?”

“Not too bad. It don’t hurt as much as getting gored by a bull, I guess. But it does hurt some.”

“Well, I wanted to stop and check up on you and fill you in.

I went up as gunner for Thomas this afternoon, and it wasn’t nearly so bad as this morning. They say we got the Boche on the run, so I guess the generals had a good plan – for a change.”

They chuckled. “Or maybe the Germans are just running out of ‘cannon fodder.’ We’ll see.”

“Yeah, we’ll see. Say, Carter, you’ve been here a while. What do you think about all this? Do you think it will go on until someone runs out of men to kill or what?”

“You gotta ask Major Bentley that, Cowboy. I got no idea. I signed up ‘cause it seemed like the thing to do. I thought flying would be like knights in shiny armor and that kid stuff. How about you?”

“Pretty much the same. With me, though, it was more like I wanted to be like in the old days, fighting Indians and stuff. I wanted to make a name for myself, so folks would remember me like they do with Oliver Loving, my cattle-trail making ancestor.

But this ain’t nothing like I thought. This stinks. I’m scared all 195

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the time.” He made eye contact with Charlie. “I’m not like you.”

“Like me? You knucklehead. I’m so scared every time I go up, I nearly throw up. And when I get back down, it’s mainly me and my pal Jack Daniels. You’ve got to be kidding.” They both laughed, Cowboy so hard he pained his arm and sucked in a breath between his teeth.

“So, this is the real deal, huh. Do you suppose everybody is scared?”

“I don’t know. Most are so, I think. But I don’t think Thomas is. He is really one cool customer. Look, Cowboy, I don’t think we’re about to settle the world’s hash with you in this cot. So, get well, then we’ll figure everything out while we’re shooting up Kaiser Bill’s airplanes. Okay?” Carter stood.

“Sure thing, Carter. Before you go, I want to thank you for talking about this stuff with me. I really appreciate it.”

Carter was embarrassed. “Yeah, well, just don’t tell my fiancé about it or she’ll get jealous.” They chuckled. Carter turned and walked out, wondering if the ‘big shots’ who started this war had any inkling of what they had unleashed. And if they did, then did they care?

Sitting on the side of his cot after finishing off his whiskey bottle, Charlie felt his head spinning and decided he needed to get some air and clear it. Evening was deepening and bringing in some cooler, not so muggy air. It felt good to tilt his head back and breathe. He soon found himself sitting in the kennel, his back against the fence, playing rough and tumble with a swarm of yapping, licking, thoroughly wonderful little German Shepherds.

He started chuckling as one or the other would tug at a sleeve or a collar, growling and snarling. When he scooped them into his arms, they bounded up his chest to lick his face – to get a taste of old Jack, he supposed and then collapsed in laughter.

Lieutenant Thomas, coming by to check on his pup, found Charlie there, asleep in a pile of snoozing pups. Gently, he helped the airman to his feet and, supporting him, walked Charlie to his 196

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barracks. He sat the tipsy soldier on his cot and lay his head back on the pillow. Then, having removed his boots, lifted his feet, retrieved an empty whisky bottle from the floor, and walked out.

He hoped Charlie’s dreams were better than his were lately.

Charlie awoke from a dreamless sleep to a head that felt as though it was being squeezed in a vice. He had no recollection of how he made it to the barracks the previous night. The last thing he could recall, and that vaguely, was sitting in the kennel playing with the pups. The whisky bottle was gone, so he guessed he dropped it somewhere along the way. He would have to see Conners about being resupplied.

Day two of the Battle of Saint-Mihiel went even better than the first day. The Americans, attacking across the salient from the south-east, linked up with the French advancing from the northwest, recapturing what remained of three French villages in the process, cutting off the Germans boxed up in Saint-Mihiel. There was little air activity except for the vigilant observation flights, accompanied always by a pair of chase planes.

Charlie’s Pursuit Squadron was ordered to stand down for the day, but to stay close and ready to go on a moment’s notice.

Following a big bowl of Cookie’s porridge and toasted bread, he begged the man for a cup of real coffee. “I know you have a secret stash of it. Everybody talks about it. So you might as well share.”

“Flyboy, I’m telling you there is no secret stash of coffee, and if I did have one, if I gave it to you, I’d have to give it to everybody.

So drink your tea and move along.” He waved a large wooden spoon like a weapon in Charlie’s direction, so the hungover airman grumbled and left the tent.

Charlie soon found himself over in the workmen’s area behind the hangars. The smell of welding and the sound of hammers working on metal roused him somewhat from his lethargy. “Hey, Pierre, what are you building?”

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His mechanic looked up and turned off his torch. “Hah, I am not building a thing. I am doing work on a bent landing strut.

And how are you these days, Sergeant Charles Carter? Will we be driving again to Paris so I can see my Lola and you may pay respects to Marcel’s lovely daughter, Bridgette?”

“No, it’s nothing like that, my friend. I guess I’m here for three reasons, now that I think about it. First, I miss you, haven’t seen you in a couple days, and wanted to know what you are doing to keep busy. I don’t want you to get lazy, so I keep sending you jobs.”

“And I say merci beaucoup to you, my friend. I am indeed kept at work and, as you say, out of trouble. But you said there were three things. That is only une.”

“A second thing, Pierre, I’ve been wondering about for a long time. How come it is that you are such an ace mechanic on these aeroplanes, but you do not fly them?”

“Ah, you wonder why I am an ‘ace’ down here and not an ‘ace’ up there. Am I correct?”

“You nailed it.”

“You may as well ask why it is that I and my love, Lola, are not celebrating the blessings of wedded blissfulness. The reason is in both cases the same.” He tapped his chest. “It is a case of my heart. With the French, it is always the heart.” He carefully placed his torch on the floor. “When the Boche invaded I, like most of my fellow Frenchmen, reported to serve. Unfortunately, the imbecile doctor said my heart was ill, that with stress, it would work no longer. So they sent me home. But I found a way to fight the Boche, nonetheless, and here I am. My beautiful Lola said, sweet lamb that she is, it makes to her no difference. But for me, it does. I cannot bear the thought of my heart stopping and leaving her with no Pierre to help raise the petit Pierres and Lolas. It is all so sad. So we steal what time we can to be together in this misbegotten war.”

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“My friend, I am really sad to learn of your difficulties. I think you should go to another doctor and see what he says. I hope that the woman I love will wait for me so we can marry as quickly as possible when I get home. Sometimes the strain of not being married is worse than the strain of being married.”

“Mon ami, you speak only the truth, and much of it. But what is the third thing you wished to know?”

“That, if the truth be known, was why I started walking in this direction in the first place. A while ago, when I wrecked that first plane and helped drag it to the hangar, I could have sworn I caught a whiff of something brewing, something hot, something that smelled oh so good. ‘Could that be coffee?’ I asked myself.

But being a bit rattled at the time, I did not follow up. So, I ask you now, could there be coffee nearby?”

Pierre’s face froze, his eyes narrowed, his mustache twitched, and the pupils of his eyes moved furtively from side to side.

“Come, walk with me,” he said, and turned, his torch still in his hand, and led Charlie to a locked door at the back of the workshop.

“Louis and I, we have no secrets from each other,” he said as he took a key from a pocket and inserted it in the lock. With a twist of his wrist, the lock sprang open. Pierre glanced at Charlie and said, “No one but Louis and I know about this, and you must promise me, mon ami, never to say what you are about to see.”

Charlie agreed instantly, his curiosity consuming him. “Each of us mechanics has our own tool room for our most personal items.” He pushed the door open and stepped inside quickly.

Charlie followed, closing the door behind him.

The mechanic’s storeroom was a small, maybe five-byeight-foot space, with floor-to-ceiling shelves lining one wall, containing every tool Pierre could possibly need in his work. In front of the wall at the far end stood a very small pot-bellied castiron stove, only about two feet tall, on which rested a small coffee pot. On the far wall, with a small window that provided some 199

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light, hung a small photograph of a round-faced, dark-haired woman. There was room beside the stove for a small, padded kitchen chair.

Pierre was clearly quite nervous about allowing an outsider into what was obviously his inner sanctum. He rubbed his hands compulsively. Charlie stepped forward. “And this must be the lovely Lola.”

“Oui. I see her each time I enter. I speak to her every time I sit and have a cup of tea.”

“Or coffee?”

“Oui, or coffee. I will, as you say, percolate it on some days and cover the delightful aroma by burning something not so pleasant to the nose. Let me pour a cup for you. It is still hot.” The two men sidled past each other. Pierre poured some into a metal cup on a shelf and handed it to Charlie. Then he poured one for himself. They smiled and touched cups in a toast, then drank.

“Pierre, you are a man of many talents. How do you get this delicious coffee? Not even Conners can do that.”

The Frenchman pointed his cup at the photograph. “My love works at a restaurant that caters to government and military Hot Shooters, as you call them. They demand only the best. Lola believes I, too, deserve the best, so once in an azure moon, oh, I do so appreciate the way you Americans play with your language, she will send me a disguised package. I share it with Louis and now,” he touched his cup to Charlie’s chest, “with you.” His point was obvious.

“Don’t worry, Pierre. Your secret is safe with me. Mum’s the word.”

“Pardon moi, mon ami. ‘Mum’ is what word?”

“It means I’ll tell no one.”

“A perfect word - mum. So you will mum.” Charlie said nothing. They finished their coffees and left, Pierre carefully locking the door behind him. Charlie felt better than he had 200

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in days. The major’s ‘Stand Down’ order came at the right time.

The fierce battle had taken a heavy toll on both the men and the aircraft. Both needed time to be put back together.

At the evening briefing, delivered by Lieutenant Hicks, the men learned that the battle for Saint Mihiel had been a complete success and one of the least bloody in the war. From the salient tip, the Germans had been forced back some twenty miles, and four French villages were liberated. The butcher’s bill was 7,000 Americans killed, wounded, and captured. The Germans lost 7,500 killed and wounded. But the prize was the capture of over 15,000 men and 450 big guns.

“General Pershing,” Lieutenant Hicks asserted, “wanted to keep going and take the fortified city of Metz, but the Supreme Allied Commander, the French General Foch, was afraid that would expose the left flank to a counterattack, so he halted the army.”

Shouts of “Oh, no! Typical French. They’re such candy-asses.

We’ll be here forever,” and other much cruder comments erupted from the men. When they settled down, the lieutenant continued, “and Foch ordered the army to pivot and wheel north in order to attack the Germans along the Argonne Forest – Meuse River line, only about thirty miles north of Rembercourt.”

Shouts of “That’s the spirit. Give ‘em hell, Fochie. Hit them again,” and other such cheers punctuated an utterly remarkable turnabout in sentiment.

The lieutenant wrapped up the briefing on the three-day battle for Saint Mihiel by saying, “If the Allies were to break the German line along the Meuse, which is the last water barrier for a long distance, they could conceivably force a German collapse.

Gentlemen, I know hope is a rare commodity these days, but the hope is if Foch is correct, the war could be over by Christmas.

“In line with the plan to shift north, tomorrow we will be sending up observation planes, each escorted by three chase planes. You will not be hunting lone-wolf style, but if you should 201

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bump into any German air objects, you shall, under the rules of engagement, bump them right into the ground. Any questions?”

“Sir, you talked about air objects. Does that mean balloons?”

“It means exactly what I said. And yes, it does mean balloons.

Observers have reported a large number of them being used by the Germans, perhaps more than a dozen in this area. And that means they will be well protected. Expect stiff resistance if you come across one. Remember, your mission tomorrow is to see and report what you see, not pick a fight that would risk the observation plane and its precious photographs. Any other questions? If not, dismissed.”

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26 The two women sat on hand-made wood stick chairs on a porch that extended the length of the log house on a mild September evening in Warm Hollow, West Virginia. The older one, Sally, looked to be in her early forties, though a hard life and hard work tended to age women early in the mountains. Still, her slight frame, fine features, and flaxen hair told of one who, in her youth, would have turned a head or two. Only her grey eyes and the firm set of her mouth hinted at the steely toughness within her. She continued darning a pair of overalls while she talked with her daughter, Gertrude.

“Ma, I’m worried about Charlie,” Gertrude said and leaning forward, halted her rocking chair. “He writes these letters and talks to me like things are just fine, and then he goes and tells me about his friends dying and awful things he has to do, and I don’t know what to say. I know I love him and want to marry him, but how can I help him?”

Sally kept her needle moving on the overalls for a few moments, then looked up, not at Gertrude, but at the man working with a lasso in the yard, twirling it and tossing it over and over at a fence post, always landing the loop surely around the post. Then he would add movements increasing the difficulty of the toss, until he would miss. He would then work at that until the toss became a sure thing again. And See Bird seldom missed the same rope toss twice.

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Finally, Sally spoke. “Gertrude, you know I’ve been married three times. First time was only for a day. It didn’t work out, and he give me back to my pa. Second time, when I was but sixteen, was to the man, Osborn was his name, who was sheriff down in Logan. But he was shot dead trying to serve papers on some bad men. Osborn was a good man. He fathered you, and that’s why you wear his name. Third time I married was to your pa out there throwing that goldurn rope around the yard. So, I’ve had me some experience with men.

“If I was God, I would have made man and woman at the very same time, so they would have talked about things before somebody went and decided something important. But he made the man first and gave him plenty of time to get all set in his ways. Then he made the woman. But she never did really figure out how to get the man to think differently once he set his mind.

A man will fix his mind on something and then go after it. If it don’t work out, he’ll just bang his head on it harder. If it busts his head ‘til he’s knocked down, he’ll sit and think, ‘My, don’t it feel good when it ain’t gettin’ hit.’ And then he’ll get up and go do the very same thing again.

“That man out there is a good man who will hear me out when I got something to say, and I appreciate that, I really do.

Then he’ll go and forget every word I just said and go do things his own way.” She set her darning down and watched him work, a slight smile curling the corners of her lips. “But I still wouldn’t swap him for anybody else on this God’s green earth.” Her eyes softened. Her voice quieted. “He built this house for me, just him and that old horse of his. Then he built my life for me.”

“Well. Ma,” Gertrude said in frustration, “it sounds like you’re saying there’s nothing I can do to help Charlie at all.”

“That’s not what I said, daughter. When Bird needs my help, I pitch right in. I just need to be careful not to pitch in too soon.

Mostly, I just wait, and that’s the toughest thing for me to do. If he comes around, I’m there. If he don’t come around, and things 204

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don’t work out for him, I’m still there. Mostly, I think, men just need to know you are with them, whatever happens. He’s gotta walk in his own boots. Maybe that’s why Charlie Carter writes to you the way he does. He wants to be sure that, even with awful war things going on, you’re still on his side. You cain’t be trying to fix him. You might try reading the Good Book. Sometimes I find that it helps me settle my wanting to help See Bird.”

In the failing light, See Bird looped his lasso and walked toward the house and the two women he loved. “How’s it going, daughter?” he asked.

“Oh, fine enough Pa. We were just talking about Charlie and such.”

See Bird nodded, “I see, it’s the wedding and all. Well, if you got questions, you just ask your ma.” His eyes met Sally’s. “She’s the smartest woman I ever met. Now let’s all go inside. Days are getting short this time of year. It’ll be dark soon.” The three moved toward the door.

Gertrude wrapped her arms around See Bird in a big hug. “I love you, pa.”

See Bird returned her hug. “I guess you ought to talk with your ma more often if I get hugs like this after you’re done.”

205

27 Charlie stood by a hangar chatting with Cowboy Loving. The mid-September day dawned clear and proceeded to develop into a breezy, early autumn beauty. Life was steady and predictable at the Rembercourt aerodrome. Observation planes were sent up with escorts to see where the German troops and emplacements were, and then they returned. No one had died since the conclusion of the battle of Saint-Mihiel. For the last several days, Charlie had done little more than clean some clothes, play with pups, and continue to play his slowly improving chess game.

His hands were steady once again, and he had cut back on the whisky to one drink per night. In short, he felt things were in danger of becoming downright boring. “Cowboy,” he suggested, “what do you say we grab a couple of those little Spads and ‘practice’ flying a bit?”

Cowboy flashed his trademark grin, uselessly swiped at his hair, and said, “Now, Charlie, that sounds mighty fine to me. I was thinking the same thing.”

Shortly thereafter, the two taxied out to the runway in the recently arrived single-seaters. Both were radio-equipped and loaded with fuel and ammunition – just in case. At first, at a comfortable thousand feet, they flew around the aerodrome, practicing their barrel rolls, loops, corkscrews, and anything else they could think of. Charlie took the lead in a follow-the-leader 206

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style. Cowboy followed every move. This was a dance between two professionals, one leading with confidence, the other following flawlessly. It was wonderful fun, but it was also in deadly earnest.

They practiced every move over and over until it became part of their muscle memory. That ability to react instantly might just save their lives one day.

Then Cowboy moved alongside Charlie and flashed him an open-handed five fingers, meaning five thousand feet. Charlie nodded, and the two began a steep circling climb. Neither wore the teddy bear outfit, but both were dressed adequately for such altitudes, in double layers of heavy woolens, fur-lined boots, a leather coat, mittens, and layers of stockings.

Charlie was happy that he had asked Cowboy to fly with him.

He loved to fly solo, but sometimes, on days like this it was good to share it with someone else. Up here, the air was even clearer, the blue sky a deeper shade of blue. Instead of the low banks of grey clouds that seemed to have been their companion forever, today, piling up into the blue dome were towering castles, luminous in their whiteness, turrets and battlements shaded in blues and purples. He imagined flying over the battlements and between the turrets and towers. This was a day made for flying.

Back home before the war, he imagined any number of battle scenes in which he played the hero. Those imaginings paled quickly during actual combat. But he had never imagined the sheer joy flying filled him with. Flying was something his soul longed for, and if he had to endure nightmares to satisfy that longing, then it was worth it.

But what, he wondered, would he do after the war? That is, he thought, if he survived it. He had never been thrilled by the prospect of being a grocer, like his father. But now, that would be impossible for him to do. How long could he last in a job that provided, as a high point for the day, stacking cans of vegetables?

What would he do with the rest of his life? Cowboy suggested to him once that the two of them should buy a surplus airplane and 207

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tour the country barnstorming, giving rides to paying customers at county fairs and the like. But that didn’t seem very stable.

How could he be a good husband for Gertie with a life like that?

Perhaps, he considered, he should think that over. His mind was a swirl of such thoughts.

In the midst of these musings, Cowboy pulled alongside, motioning that he needed to land. They had flown for miles with no plan in mind. Charlie knew only that he was somewhere north of Rembercourt. Clearly, Cowboy’s radio was not working once again. Besides being heavy, the radios were often down or provided spotty reception. Charlie looked left and right and then pointed left and banked in that direction. Cowboy followed. The lower he flew, the more amazed he was by what he saw. An army of tents and buildings appeared and flowed beneath the planes.

An area the size of Rembercourt was dedicated just for military vehicles and tanks. The runway was flanked by massive hangars.

Charlie counted seventeen as he brought his Spad in for a landing with Cowboy trailing.

Charlie taxied directly to a nearby hangar where several mechanics were overhauling a Brueget bomber and shut off his engine. The way they swarmed reminded him of ants at a picnic.

One came over to him, a wrench in his hand, and asked what his problem was and whether he could be of any help.

Charlie climbed out and said, “Not me. My partner there said he was having problems and needed to land. We are observers flying out of Rembercourt. Who are you guys, and where are we?”

The mechanic walked over to where Cowboy was just pulling up. “This place is Souilly, and that engine sounds mighty rough.

Could be the magneto. Why don’t I check it out? You men have just landed at the headquarters of the US 1st Army. Over thataway,” he waved his wrench, “is where you would find General Pershing himself, Old Black Jack. And all those tents out there are for the largest US army in Europe, or anywhere else, I imagine.” Cowboy 208

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whistled.

“Listen, I’ll check it out. We appreciate what you boys are doing. Why don’t you go over there and get yourselves a sandwich or something to eat while you wait? I can’t guarantee that I can fix it, but I do guarantee that I’ll find out what’s wrong. Savvy?”

“Got it. Thanks a lot. We’ll be back in a few minutes.” The mechanic touched the wrench to his forehead in salute and turned his back, already directing his attention to the machine still hot in front of him.

“Charlie, have you ever seen anything like this place?”

“No, Dex, I sure haven’t.”

“It’s like a city.”

“If he told us the truth, it’s bigger than any city in West Virginia and probably Wyoming, too. Let’s get a bite. I actually could use one.”

In the mess hall, the two men approached one of what looked like a dozen kitchen helpers in white aprons and sleeveless army undershirts. The man asked what they wanted. Then he disappeared while the two took a chair in the cavernous tent.

In a few minutes, he returned with a tray heaped with fruits and sandwiches. But the topper was a large cup of the real stuff, hot coffee.

“Now, how come you fellows get coffee and we drink pee soaked in sagebrush?” Cowboy asked.

“We always keep a supply handy for the brass when they come by. Figured you boys might appreciate some.”

Cowboy nodded agreeably, “We sure do. I might just drop in from time to time.”

“Any time, but I don’t think we’ll be here very long. Scuttlebutt is that the Big Push will be any day now. No more troops arriving.

Most who came in have already left for the front. Training’s about done. We can feel it. Eat up. I got work to do.”

Having eaten the food and drunk the coffee, they returned to Cowboy’s Spad. The friendly mechanic was there to greet 209

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them with a smile on his face. “You’re in luck, fellas. It wasn’t the magneto. But you made a good guess. They can make a motor run mighty rough. But in your case, it was just a failed spark plug. I changed it out, and you’re good to go.”

“Thank you so much. I really appreciate it,” Cowboy said.

The mechanic was already walking away. “Don’t mention it.

We’re all in this together. We gotta pull for each other.”

In minutes, Cowboy and Charlie were back in the air, Cowboy’s Spad humming like new.

“So that was Souilly. I’ve heard about it, of course, but I guess I didn’t realize it was so close.” Cowboy and Charlie were sitting and talking to some of the other pilots back in Rembercourt. “It was so big I don’t see how the Boche could stop them once we ‘go over the top.’”

“Cowboy, you always were a B.S.er. They’ll probably build up supplies and then sit on them all winter.”

Charlie joined in. “No, he’s telling it straight, Fullback. Those boys were getting ready for something big. You could feel the energy.”

“If that’s true, why haven’t we heard a word?” “’Cause we don’t need to know ‘til it’s time to go. Brass is afraid of too much pillow talk. You know how guys like to brag to their girls.”

“Maybe so, but I still th…”

“Attention. All pilots report to the briefing room immediately,” squawked the loudspeaker.

“Well, boys, it looks like we need to know something. Let’s go.”

Major Bentley, himself, stood at the front of the room, hands clasped behind his back. The men entered and quietly took their seats. Then Lieutenant Hicks called “Attention.” All rose. The major said, “Be seated.”

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“Let me begin by saying once again, nothing I am about to say will leave this room. Furthermore, I have been informed from headquarters of the 1st Army that a couple of our pilots dropped by for a friendly chat. If any other of you people are considering doing that, forget it. From this moment forward, no one leaves Rembercourt, not by plane, not by motorcycle, not by horse, not by anything, for the next thirty-six hours.

“At exactly 05:30, in about thirty-six hours, the US Army will launch its biggest attack in history. And it probably will be the most difficult. We will be up against the best the Germans have, and they are deeply dug in. You will be flying air support for US Marines who will be pushing through the Argonne Forest and the US 1st Army on their flanks. Study our colors and units.

Do not mistake our men for the Germans. Lieutenant Colonel Patton will be leading 144 French tanks in two battalions. The French will add another 140.

“But we are concerned primarily with our own business. The US has mustered a full forty-five air squadrons. That includes 323 day-bombers, 366 spotters and observers, and several hundred more chase planes. So, men, this is it. We are rolling the dice.

Either they break or we do. Our overall objective is to pierce that damn Hindenberg Line. There’s no going back. There will be no retreat. So, since none of you will be leaving the friendly confines of this base until I release you, get some sleep. Get as much as you can. Write letters home. I hope to God it won’t be the case, but I know better that for some of you, it will be the final letter you ever write. I cannot command you to pray for success. How can we ask the Almighty to help us kill people? But you can pray anyway. In light of that, I have asked the base chaplain to lead us in prayer. Chaplain.”

Carter was slightly embarrassed that he did not recognize the chaplain as the man stepped forward. In all the time Charlie had been at Rembercourt, he had not once attended a Sunday service.

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wrote to Gertie about trying to pray. Maybe if he had gone to chapel, he would have learned how. Now, with his head bowed, he stood and listened as this middle-aged man with a receding hairline talked to God just like he knew Him, not a ‘Thee’ or a ‘Thou’ or a “wast” in the whole thing. He would have to think about that.

Later, sitting on the side of his cot, he capped the whiskey bottle, tucked it away, and took out his writing materials. Once more, he read the most recent letter from home, from Gertie.

It arrived just today, and it seemed like she knew what he was feeling up against.

“My dear love Charlie, I read about you today. Of course, not you personally, but there was an article in the Huntington paper that called you airmen the ‘Birdmen.’ I’d never heard that one before. But it did remind me of something I read in the Bible a while ago. Pa helped me find it. It says, “They that wait upon the Lord shall renew their strength; they shall mount up with wings of eagles; they shall run and not be weary.” There’s more, but I cannot remember it all. Besides, as soon as Pa read it to me, I thought of you. From what you say, you really do have to wait on the Lord. You can’t just bust in on Him. And if I picture you a birdman, it’s as an eagle. I want you to be strong, to find more strength, to fly high and powerful like an eagle. I love you so much, Charlie Carter.

Don’t you ever forget it. That’s my prayer for you, to be strong enough to do what you must. Then come home. Ma is helping me make my wedding dress. It will be dark blue shiny satin with white lace trim. We’re planning on doing it here at home, if that’s okay with you. I just don’t feel real good about the church in Glenwood. The preacher is so sour on things. I want it to be more joyful, because when I think of marrying you, why sometimes I just want to bust out singing. One last thing – Pa just had his fifty-third or second birthday. He’s not real sure which it is. It was so funny. Every year it’s the same. He’ll bring in a few of his rodeo 212

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friends, like Cowboy Copas and Vernon Dahlhart, and they’ll play up a storm of hillbilly music ‘til midnight. Then everybody makes a big deal of it when Pa drinks his one-and-only whiskey ‘til next year. He slams down the glass and says, “That’s mighty tasty.” They all carry on something fierce. It’s the bee’s knees. I’m out of space even on the edges. Bye, dear. Write me. Gertie.

Charlie sat for a long time, the pencil in his hand, the paper balanced on a small board resting in his lap. He wanted to write to Gertie. What the major said about this, maybe being the last letter home, struck him hard. What could he say to her that would be lasting and true? What if this letter were the last she would ever hear from him? What then?

My dearest love, Gertie, Reading your letter was the highlight of my week. I hope you never stop talking to me. I hear your voice in every word, your laughter when you tell funny stories, your anger, and joy. I love it all. Your pa is a remarkable man. How does a person get to be so liked and respected? I want you to always remember that I tried to do the right thing. But I must confess to you that I’ve done things over here they would throw me in the slammer and lose the key if I did them back home. But you probably know that. “Birdman,” I like that a lot. I’m going to ask the chaplain tomorrow for a Bible so I can look up the bit you wrote. It makes me feel stronger somehow. Gertie, one thing I have never told you, and that I feel I must confess to you, is that I am grown fond of the bottle. I will need you to help me beat that, if you still want me. I should go now, there’s a lot of work coming up. And, by the way, you’ll look beautiful in blue.

All my love, Charlie.

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28 Balloons. They were to go after the observation balloons.

The Boches had thirteen of them, and Squadron Two’s task was to remove them all prior to launching the offensive. The entire twenty-mile-long line was divided into quadrants with one squadron assigned to eliminate the balloons in each. Lieutenant Thomas walked toward his Spad just as his mechanics were walking away.

The Spad was a tough fighter, but its touchy Hissos motor needed to be rebuilt every twelve hours of flying. The mechanics got no glory, but they were the unsung heroes of the air war.

“Good morning, Fullback. It looks like we’ll be flying singleseaters today,” Thomas said as the two pilots approached the aircraft.

“Yeah, we give up the rear gunner but fly a faster plane that’s a bit less of a target. I’m thinking that’s a fair tradeoff.”

“Right. We knock these gas bags down and the infantry can step off, no Boche eyes in the sky.” He glanced up. “Good day for flying.” By now, the thirty-two pilots comprising four flights of eight Spads were all emerging, chatting, adjusting gear, and walking to their planes.

“Amazing,” Thomas thought, “there is a better than even probability that some of these men will not be here for ‘lights-out’ tonight, but they’re all walking along as casually as if they were going to work in some office back home. It’s simply amazing.”

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Before long, the eight flight squadrons united in the air, assumed V formations of eight planes each, and headed north.

Each man was fully aware of the perils ahead. ‘Balloon busting’ was one of the most dangerous combat experiences a pilot could engage in. The balloons were tethered to the ground, so they should be easy to hit. However, as observation posts, they were extremely valuable, so they were guarded by eagle-eyed German pilots lurking nearby in their Fokkers and Albatros.

The balloons were also so low to the ground that attacking pilots were vulnerable to small arms fire from the ground. On top of that, the Archie was set to explode at a precise, protective altitude above the balloon. Clearly, any attacker would have to have steely nerves to run that gauntlet.

As they reached their designated point, each flight banked off and headed for its quadrant. First, they would have to locate their targets, and then they would have to hit them before the balloon could be winched to earth.

Lieutenant Thomas led his eight to quadrant one, the area of the Argonne Forest west of the Aire River and the village of Varennes. Sergeant Carter led his eight to quadrant two, the remainder of the Argonne west of the Meuse. The third flight, under Lieutenant Hansen, would be to his right, while “Axe” Woodson would cover the far right, over to the Orne River.

Flying over the Argonne, Charlie was reminded a little bit of West Virginia. This was a rugged tree-covered landscape filled with ravines and hills topping one thousand feet. He could imagine intense close-quarters combat in a place like that.

Spotting the enemy would be a key to success.

In the distance off to his left, he saw black puffs erupt in the air. The Archie gunners were alert. Not wishing to be surprised, he led his flight up until they were skimming the very bottom of the cloud deck. Just north of the village of Mountfaucon, Charlie spotted the first balloon. Then, to the west, only about a mile away, he saw another. Speed and surprise were everything. This double 215

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attack would likely be unsuccessful if carried out in sequence.

Taking his flight just within the cloud, a quick radio telephony to Lieutenant Jenkins, and all was set. Jenkins led his four planes west while Carter waited. He hardly believed his good fortune.

Here he was with eight Allied aircraft hovering behind German lines, so far undetected.

When he saw Jenkins drop from the cloud as if by magic, diving his four planes towards the front of his target balloon, Charlie did the same on his. Eight chase planes plunged steeply toward the big bags. Almost instantaneously, black puffs spewing metal shrapnel began exploding in front of him. Ross and Duncan peeled off to meet and eliminate any Fokkers guarding the balloon, while Charlie, followed by Loving, continued down.

The trick was to attack the sausage-shaped balloon from the front. If bullets didn’t finish it off, the attacker would fly over it and drop twenty-pound bombs on top of it.

Charlie pulled up out of his dive and raced toward the balloon.

On the ground, a German crew worked frantically to bring the balloon back to earth. Loving continued down after Carter pulled up, strafing the ground crew while machine gunners blazed away at him. Charlie did not know how Ross and Duncan were doing up above as they tangled with the German aircraft. And he did not have time to look. All their lives were being risked, trying to offer some protection to him while he tried to bust this balloon.

At one hundred yards, he figured he couldn’t miss so fired a burst just as the balloon was jerked down. The two men in the basket waved frantically at the ground to speed things up, and then, seeing the racing aircraft close in, both leaped over the side.

One chute opened, and the German floated away. Unfortunately for the second man, his chute failed to fully deploy and he streamered to the ground. Because of that last jerk downward, Charlie’s bullets skimmed over the top of the balloon. With no time to lose, he released two bombs immediately. One narrowly missed the basket, falling in front of the balloon. But the other 216

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struck perfectly. As he sped over its top, Charlie felt the heat of the explosion beneath and then behind him as he streaked for safety.

To his right, he watched Loving finish another strafing pass at the ground crew, now well hidden behind barricades, while riflemen risked everything to shoot him down. Charlie saw one belt of blue tracers walk over a barricade and disassemble a machine gun nest. Now with the Spad’s nose pointed skyward, he saw Ross and Lee Duncan engaged with five Fokkers. One of the Boche saw him rising and banked down to attack. Charlie took him head-on. Both pilots blazed away, continuing on the collision course. Charlie watched the German bullets sailing just over his head while his own were rising until it seemed they tangled and almost braided. At the last second, the German dodged in this deadly game of chicken. But Charlie flew and fired straight ahead. Over his shoulder, he watched the German continue his flight into the ground.

In the same corner of his eye, he saw Loving begin his climb.

Another German plane went into a vrille, that nose-first spinning descent, and passed him in its final flight. The remaining Fokkers, seeing their odds go from five against two to three against four, calculated their odds would be better if they lived to fight another day, especially since the object they were there to protect was now a flaming gas bag burning on the ground. Only now did Charlie have the time to wonder how Jenkins was doing with the other balloon.

He did not have a long wait to find out. His radio squawked to life. “Sergeant Carter, this is Lieutenant Jenkins. We see you and are approaching from west-south-west at your eight o’clock.

Wait for link-up.”

“I hear you, Lieutenant. See you soon.” Someone should really come up with some kind of standard greeting and sign-off.

This is kind of messy, he thought.

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A few minutes later, Carter was relieved to see his seven other wingmates take up positions to his left and right. He imagined they all felt the same way. “Let’s head north a few miles and check it out.” His confidence was infectious. And why not? Eight Americans flew over enemy territory, flaming two balloons, dispatching a number of Fokkers, and now they were the predators, hunting for more.

They cleared the edge of the forest and entered open farm country in the Meuse River valley. Carter led them as high as possible and from there spotted another balloon about three miles off. But this time, there was no element of surprise. Word of Allied planes in the neighborhood had kicked over a hornet’s nest. A fuzzy-looking black carpet of Archie rose to greet them, along with what looked like a squadron of mixed Fokker and Albatros chase planes.

Carter picked his angle and led his wedge down to meet them. The Americans had one advantage, speed. The Spad in a dive could hit one hundred forty miles per hour, far outclassing anything the Germans could offer. And he was leading battlehardened veterans, not tyros.

The Archie fire stopped, the gunners reluctant to hit their own planes now. Eight Americans streaked down. Five pulled off to engage the Germans. The lead three, led by Carter, continued toward the objective, that fat sausage already being winched earthward. One Boche rose to them, but Cowboy dispatched him with a pair of short bursts, and the three raced on. The five airmen fighting the Germans were outnumbered nearly twoto-one, but Carter was not worried. There was no time for that.

Worry, fear, and self-doubt would come later. Now was the time to kill.

Since Carter had used half his bombs on the last balloon, this time he went to strafing the ground, slowing the winch crew, eliminating ground fire. Loving and Ross had as their task to take out the balloon. Carter was preoccupied with his. He heard 218

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bullets rip through the air above and around his head. He saw the flame from the barrel of the machine gun, as he continued walking bullets toward it. The barricade, men, and machine gun all fragmented into hundreds of pieces and went silent just as his engine coughed and the Spad nearly wrenched itself out of his control. The whole plane shook as though seeking to tear itself apart, and he wondered if the rough-sounding engine would force him to land. The thought of spending the rest of the war in a German prisoner of war camp lent strength to his arms, and he forced the wounded Spad to climb.

He caught the balloon’s explosion over his shoulder and was thankful that the job was accomplished. Loving and Ross were just in the process of taking their planes into the scrum overhead.

Carter tried to join them, but the rocking and twisting of the Spad made it difficult to gain altitude. By the time he was able to join his wing mates, the remaining six Germans were headed to safer quarters.

Carter’s squadron was the first to land at Rembercourt. When Carter shut off his engine, grateful for the little plane’s toughness, he sat and stared at the propeller. Ground fire must have struck the wooden propeller, chopping out a hunk of it near the motor, but not breaking it off. Had that happened, it would have been all over. How the wooden propeller maintained its integrity was beyond his understanding. Pierre and Louis swarmed the plane, as did the other mechanics with their planes. The pilots decided to stay and welcome the other squadrons home.

There were seven in the next flight, the seventh trailing smoke but no fire. It was Thomas’ flight. When the seventh landed hard, it bounced and flipped, landing upside down. Then the Spad burst into flames. It was impossible to reach the wounded pilot, if in fact, he was still alive. The other two flights landed, one complete, and the other minus two planes. Four good men, who all so casually walked to their planes this morning, who had wives and girlfriends back home, would never be able to 219

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lay with their wives or bounce children on their knees. “Damn war,” Carter thought and walked over to the barracks for a drink before supper.

220

29 The mild and hopeful days of September gave way to the chill desperation of October. A month of the most intense fighting for the Americans since the Civil War had forced the Germans to cede only some ten miles of the Argonne Forest. To the west of the Americans, the French rallied and drove the Germans eastward some forty miles into Belgium. The Germans gave way slowly and grudgingly, making the American First Army and the Marines pay heavily for every yard of the demolished and desolate forest.

What was a thick green canopy slowly fading in September, more closely resembled a scene from a horrible nightmare.

Shattered trees stood like tortured sentinels. Fog mingled with smoke from a million artillery shells and drifted across a broken landscape of tossed and churned mud and debris of war. Still, the marines and doughboys pushed forward.

The men of the 92nd Pursuit Squadron were wearing down more quickly than their aircraft. The French, it seemed, were magicians at producing aircraft. As the Spads wore out and broke down, they were speedily replaced by new ones delivered straight from the factory. The pilots, however, merely endured, wearing down as well, dying a little bit inside each day, every time they returned from combat.

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When a Spad wore out and was replaced, it was quickly forgotten and turned into spare parts. The pilots moved on, no longer personalizing their machines. But each time the squadron returned from combat, minus a pilot, a small shred of humanity was torn from the men who would never, indeed could never, forget them. The game, if ever it had been one, was over. The glory, if ever the men sought it, was replaced by numb resignation. You fought until your number was called. Then you were gone, as well.

The military Brass watched this happening to their pilots and dealt with it by providing temporary refuges. Billy Mitchell set up quiet places where the men, when they reached the breaking point, could go to for several days, even for a week or two, so they could rest and recover. The pilots tried them but never returned. Serenity and silence were not what they craved.

Thinking, remembering, and reflecting only worsened their plight. Sergeant Charlie Carter spent a week in a lovely chalet in southern France where he slept in a soft bed and ate good food.

When the week was over, he considered a use for the steak knife lying on the white linen tablecloth beside his plate, for which it was never intended. His stomach was full, but his pale wrists looked oh so needy.

The second time he had a pass, the simple thought of returning to the chalet frightened him. Instead, he and some fellows from the squadron lit up Paris. It was the boisterous noise of the cabarets they sought. It was forgetfulness they needed and found in the bottle, and instead of dredging up the agony of losing those they loved, they sought solace in the temporary embrace of imitation love. Then, back at Rembercourt, they climbed back into their Spads and, in deadly sobriety, sought out the enemy above the morass called no man’s land. They fought to live and to return to a fadingly distant place called home.

It was Lieutenant Hansen’s squadron now. Thomas had been lost in a swirling battle ten days previous. When he found himself 222

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matched up against several Fokkers, he came up short. The men held a brief memorial for him that evening as they sorted out his personal effects. Anything personal to the man, photos, letters, a watch, and such, were set aside to be sent to his family. All other ‘useful’ items were divided among the men there: a pair of woolen socks, goggles, books, and flight gear. It was done with respect bordering on reverence.

The following day, November 1st, the squadron took to the air once more, flying close air support for the American assault on Barricourt Ridge, a heavily fortified German position, and their last major defensive position west of the Meuse River. A part of the vaunted Hindenberg Line, once taken, it would leave the German army no defensible position west of the river.

Shortly after 06:00, Squadron Two arrived at the scene and immediately engaged German ground positions. German aircraft were sparse and quickly scattered or downed. Today, the men were divided between single-seater and double-seater Spads.

Charlie was piloting. His gunner was Dexter “Cowboy’ Loving, the ham-fisted, good-natured Wyoming cowboy. Cowboy had shown himself to be a deadly shot and steady under pressure, thus a valuable gunner.

The weather was miserable, cloudy with periods of rain.

When Charlie had first arrived at Rembercourt, weather such as this would have meant the day off. Now it just meant he had to be more careful dodging ground fire. Strafing, dropping small bombs, attacking machine gun nests, spotting artillery emplacements – those were the orders of the day.

The Germans had well-fortified the ridge. They’d had years to do it. And they had cleared a large open no man’s land, the marines and doughboys had to cross before the Germans could be engaged at close quarters. The best way to attack from the air was to fly and fire along the trench line, with the hope of forcing the Boche to keep their heads down, which, in turn, would give the advancing Americans some moments of cover.

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Charlie had flown down the line once, reversed, and flown back up it. A strategically placed machine gun nest, located at a zig-zag corner of the trench, persistently raked the marines.

Thinking perhaps the ‘third time was the charm,’ Charlie banked and started back down the line once more. This time, though, the Germans zeroed in on him, not just the machine gun, but the men in the trench as well. He heard the ‘thunk, thunk, spang,’ as bullets struck his fuselage and engine cowling and smelled the hot oil as the engine sprouted yellow flames. The heat washed back on his face, and he knew this Spad’s life was nearly over. He cut off the engine and banked toward the American lines a few hundred yards away.

He was thankful his plane did not burst into flame. But that was about all he had to be thankful for. He was forced to glide it down for a hard dead-stick landing on a gradual downslope in a land filled with barricades, tangles of barbed wire, and blown trenches amid a fusillade of machine gun fire. At first, Charlie thought he might just luck out, but then he realized his luck had run out. He touched the ground, hit a small bump and bounced, came down hard, tangling his wheels in some barbed wire. The Spad almost came to a halt. Then the tail rose, and the dying aircraft tipped completely over with its wheels pointed at the sky.

Suspended upside down, Charlie released his harness and dropped to the ground, squirming his way into a shallow depression, all the while calling to Cowboy to do the same. But there was no response from his gunner. From his position, he saw Cowboy hanging upside down, arms extended as if reaching for the ground. The only thing moving was the blood that ran down his arms and dripped from his fingers. Charlie felt sick, angry, and sad. The only thing that kept him from retching was the deep fear that any movement of his would draw German fire and make him, rather than the body of his friend, their target.

He assessed his situation. He had come down roughly halfway between the opposing lines with the nose of the plane 224

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now pointed uphill, toward the Germans. To attempt turning around and moving down toward the Americans would be sure suicide, and Charlie was not ready for that. Remaining where he currently was, huddled beneath the wreck of his Spad, was not tenable either. Sooner or later, most likely sooner, the Germans would find an angle to get a clear shot at him. Therefore, the only possible way to survive the next few minutes, much less the hours it might take the Americans to reach him, would be to crawl forward, toward the German line, hoping that somewhere he would crawl into a hole and wait.

He carefully drew up one leg and, with his face in the dirt, shoved forward through the inches-high ridge behind which he was hiding. If he were to die here, he hoped it would be a bullet through his head. He had no helmet and was still wearing his fur-lined leather pilot’s cap. The Germans noticed the dirt displacement his forward shove produced and zeroed in. He heard the ripping of bullets over his head and shoved forward one more. Suddenly, he was sliding down a greasy slope into a mud-filled crater.

He pivoted his body so his head pointed upward, and he lay on his back. The pit was only about four feet deep, and the bottom two feet of it was filled with a brown, stinking mud that sloshed into his boots. He was helpless, but at least he was breathing.

He recognized that he was not in a shell crater, but a rifle pit protected by a tangle of barbed wire on its downslope side.

He also saw that he was not alone. The bodies of two German soldiers were his companions. One, directly across from him, with his rifle still angled across his chest, was missing the left side of his head. Charlie noticed detachedly that there was no sign of the missing part of him and wondered where it had gone.

The other soldier was nearly submerged in the mud, curled up in the bottom of the pit. Only his head and one shoulder protruded from the stinking greenish-brown mud. They looked like they had been here at least a day or two.

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Time passed. Occasionally, it would rain. Charlie discovered that thirst was becoming a third companion in the pit. But the rain helped not in the least. He had nothing with which to trap it, and the mere thought of drinking from the filthy soup in the pit made him want to retch again. Opening his mouth to catch a few drops yielded nothing but frustration. He had a flask wedged under the seat in the Spad only yards away, but he dared not move in that direction. So, he lay there listening to the rifle fire, the chatter of machine guns, and the drone of American aircraft continuing to work over the German line.

The only way Charlie could determine evening was settling in was the slow, ever-darkening sky. Would the Americans never arrive? Shooting on both sides slowed and became desultory.

Perhaps when it became dark, he would try to crawl down to the American lines. But what if they thought he was a German and shot him? Wouldn’t that be ironic? Or would it? What is irony?

He remembered a discussion in high school about it. Everybody seemed to get it but him.

His drifting mind focused instantly as he found himself in an earthquake – or a mud quake. And then one of the dead Germans was on top of him, screaming, the one from the bottom of the pit.

The ghoulish apparition was about to strike with a knife before Charlie realized this was not his mind playing tricks on him. He twisted his head to the side as the blade crashed down, slicing Charlie’s leather cap and grazing his skull before sinking into the mud.

Charlie felt the stinging pain, and the pain gave him strength enough to reverse positions with the German, rolling himself to the top while grabbing at the knife hand. As the two wrestled, they worked their way to the bottom of the crater. Both exhausted men gasped for breath and flailed at each other. The knife disappeared in the muck, and the Boche’s strength began to ebb. Charlie backed up the side of the hole and used his boots to kick, push, and hold the German down. He picked one boot 226

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up and planted it squarely in the man’s face, pushing it below the surface until movement stopped.

Charlie lay gasping convulsively. Then came blackness.

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30 “Corpsman!” Charlie heard the shout and wondered what all the excitement was about. “Corpsman, this man’s still alive. Get him out of here. A pilot. Careful there. He looks in bad shape.”

Charlie wondered who they were talking about as he was jostled around. ‘Maybe Cowboy is still alive. Good old Cowboy. No, Cowboy’s gone for sure. I saw him hanging. Maybe I’ll go join him. It’s got to be a more peaceful place. God damned war.’ And then came blackness once more.

The first thing Charlie saw when he awoke was wavy whiteness. ‘Did I die and go with Cowboy?’ he wondered. Then his eyes focused, and he realized the wavy whiteness was sheet curtains beside his bed, swaying slightly, as if someone had just passed through. When he turned to look to the other side, his head felt as if someone had hit him with a rock. His chest felt like it had a broken rib, and one shoulder felt dislocated. Pain seemed to be all present. But he was alive. He would go home.

Gertie would be waiting for him. He fell back asleep. Perhaps it was the morphine, but when next he woke, he could recall no bad dreams.

Several days later, his nurse, a fine lady he had come to know, parted the curtains and stepped in. “Monsieur, you have a visitor.

Would you like to see him?”

“Thank you, Nurse Jeanne, yes, I would like that very much.”

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“Very good.” She turned with a slight smile, “Monsieur.”

Charlie nearly sat straight up when he saw Lieutenant Hansen enter, pull up a chair, and sit down. “Man, am I glad to see someone from the squadron. Tell me, Hansen, how are the boys doing?”

“It’s good to see you, too, Charlie. You were pretty messed up there for a bit. How are you doing?”

“Lieutenant, I won’t lie to you. I’ve felt better. But then, I’ve had rougher days too.” Charlie’s voice became more subdued.

“But, Hansen, I’ve got to tell you, I don’t think I can go back to the squadron again. I don’t think I can do this anymore.”

Hansen leaned forward. “Charlie, I get it completely. And thank God you are not going to have to.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Charlie, a little over two hours ago, the Germans surrendered.

The fighting stopped. Charlie, The. War. Is. Over. We’re going home.”

Charlie leaned forward with his bandaged head nearly to his chest and sobbed.

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Epilogue

April came as it always came to the mountains. Trillium bloomed their three big white petals, with the other early bloomers right on their heels. The mud and waters of March had given way to lush, young green pastures watered by soft showers.

In the parlor of See Bird and Sally’s log house, decorated with garlands and fresh flower arrangements for the occasion, gathered two families plus a preacher, his wife, and daughter.

Charles Cureal Carter stood nervously between his father and mother. His brothers and sisters, all dressed in their Sunday best, stood proudly by. Lieutenant Homer Crane, ‘Fullback’ to Charlie, stood as his best man, looking sharp in his black boots and army uniform, his pilot’s wings shining in the morning sun.

His cane was propped against a chair. Charlie returned from the war a hero, and a wounded one at that. And that was certainly something to be proud of. To be sure, whenever a family member or a friend asked him about the war, he usually deflected or ignored the question, but the facts were there. And they were proud of their young man.

A matronly lady, dressed in black, standing next to her husband, the preacher, began singing a hymn in a fine contralto voice, and all conversation ceased. Her husband, a man called Preacher Anse, because of his close relationship to Devil Anse, the Hatfield patriarch, eyed the door to ‘the big bedroom’ expectantly.

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It opened and out stepped Gertrude’s mother, Sally, in a becoming paisley dress, followed by Annie, a close friend of Gertrude. Then came Gertrude herself, wearing a deep blue with white trim, satiny dress that set off her fair face and shiny black hair perfectly. In her hair, she wore some spring flowers. Arm in arm with her, strode her famous father, See Bird, better known in these parts as Red Carpenter. He wore a black bandana around his neck, a rose-red shirt, and black pants tucked into shiny red cowboy boots. In his left hand he carried a black slouch hat with a turkey feather stuck in the brim. He also wore an aura of great pride.

Preacher Anse did his best to keep his homily to five minutes, and the service swiftly drew to the moment of truth, Gertrude’s and Charlie’s vows. When asked by Preacher Anse if he would, Charlie looked her in the eyes and responded, “I certainly do, Gertie.”

When Gertrude’s turn to answer the big question came, she said in a clear voice, “Charlie Carter, I do now, and I will forever.”

And so it began.

THE END

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Afterword

The challenge when it comes to writing historical fiction is often a matter of balance: How much history versus how much fiction? Writing this novel was a challenge because World War I has now receded so far into history that most people access it only through faded old black and white photographs or primitive newsreels of antique airplanes, tanks, and such. To the men who fought it, though, it was all rapidly changing cuttingedge technology. I tried to capture the sense of immediacy they must have felt, transitioning from horses to horsepower. And, yes, there were parachutes available. However, they were not issued to fliers because the terribly misguided men who made such decisions believed that if they gave them to fliers, it would encourage them to abandon their aircraft too soon, thus wasting perfectly good airplanes.

World War I was a testing time, not just for the weapons of war, but for the men themselves. Only one generation later, the world would spasm into another ‘great war.’ Many of the names of men who fought in WWI will engrave their names in the annals of WWII. Billy Mitchell, Eddie Rickenbacker, George Marshall, George Patton, Harry Truman – these are only a few of the men who tried to implement the lessons they learned in WWI to WWII. And let us not forget Corporal Adolf Hitler fought on the other side.

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As far as the characters in this novel are concerned, some, such as Lee Duncan, the airman who discovered the pups and brought two of them, Nanette and Rin Tin Tin, back to America with him, are true. Charlie and his family, Gertie and hers, are also based in fact on my predecessors, and my grandfather, Charlie, did indeed serve during WWI in the Army Signal Corps (Air Force).

His heroism, as portrayed in this book, is pure fabrication on my part. He never spoke of his wartime experiences and struggled with alcohol addiction the rest of his life. He and Gertie did love each other until she died of cancer in the 1950s.

See Bird and Sally, my great-grandparents, were much as I describe them. Grandad did, in fact, have a big birthday party every year, to which he would invite many of his friends, famous entertainers of the time, as well as family. They would party, make music, and have a grand old time. At the stroke of midnight, Grandad See Bird would drink his one and only whiskey for the year, and the party would continue.

Although this is the eighth book written in the Chronicles of See Bird, it fits chronologically between Kiamichi and The Seventh Cruise. The entire set covers the time period 1865-1970.

Several good books I read researching for Charlie’s Wings were Enduring Courage, by John F. Ross, and The Unsubstantial Air, by Samuel Hynes.

For more information or to place a book order, contact me at karlstewart.net.

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Books by Karl L. Stewart The Legend of See Bird Series The Last Long Drive Devil’s Backbone Kiamichi The Seventh Cruise The Green Light Up Harvey’s Creek Fare Thee Well Harvey’s Creek Good Night Sweet Dreams

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KARL L. STEWART

Award-winning author, KARL STEWART, was raised in the hills of post-WWII West Virginia and moved to Wisconsin in his teen years, attending a Catholic seminary. Upon leaving the seminary, he enlisted in the U.S. Army in 1966, serving as a communications sergeant in the elite Green Beret Special Forces until 1969. He enrolled in the University of Wisconsin, earning a double-major degree in political science and history. In 2005 Stewart retired from teaching high school Social Studies and English to devote himself to his two passions, family and writing He is the author of the award-winning Legend of See Bird series, loosely based on the life of Stewart’s great-grandfather, See Bird Carpenter, a Choctaw Indian. The Green Light continues the life of Stuart Carter (based on Stewart’s father) from WWII (The Seventh Cruise) to Vietnam (The Green Light). Up Harvey’s Creek and Fare Thee Well Harvey’s Creek is a spin-off based on the author's life, living with a parent with PTSD. He is also the author of Good Night Sweet Dreams, an award-winning children’s book.

He and his wife live in rural Wisconsin on a pine-lined ridge with a stunning view to the south, echoing his West Virginia childhood playgrounds.

Charlie’s Wings

The year is 1918, and American troops are pouring into France, seeking to tip the balance of WWI in the Allies’ favor. Charlie Carter, soon-to-be son-in-law of Western legend and rodeo star See Bird, AKA Red Carpenter, is among them. But Carter is one of a new breed of warriors, those who fight from the skies aboard the new invention, the airplane. In these frail and flimsy crafts, Charlie, and other young men like him, seek to take the fight to the German invaders. When his initial excitement wears off, Charlie discovers that death is always his worst enemy. Based on a true person, this is the story of Charlie’s Wings.

KARL L. STEWART