The Flying Cavalier

by Gilbert, Morris

  “What will they do?”

  “Well, as you probably know, the German strategy is based on a movement through neutral Belgium. That would carry the army through Paris and pin our country up against the Swiss frontier. And so far their strategy has worked. They have punched their way through our lines, and only by tremendous loss of life have we been able to keep them from Paris itself.”

  The three Americans sat quietly absorbing all the Frenchman had to say. It was obvious he had lost the hope and the excitement that had swept the country at the beginning of the war.

  “We will pray that things will change, monsieur,” Jo said.

  “Yes. We will pray for that indeed, mademoiselle. God is able, and nothing is impossible with Him.”

  “Amen, brother,” Revelation said and clapped his hand on the shoulder of the diminutive Frenchman. “And just wait until our folks get over here. Why, we’ll turn this whole thing around in no time.”

  Monsieur Pierre Guillon mustered up a smile. “Well, we will hope for that end, my friend, and now I will draw you a map so that you will be able to find our church. With a name like Revelation, I would expect you would be able to preach, so I may call upon you.”

  “But I don’t speak your lingo.”

  “I will be your interpreter if you would trust me.”

  “Well, I just might do that. I’m no preacher, but I love to tell the glories of the Lord Jesus. I’d be proud to say my piece. Of course, you’ll have to clean up my grammar a little bit.”

  “Grace is more important than grammar,” Pierre Guillon said quietly. He rose and shook hands with the three and, after giving them careful instructions, walked away from the café.

  “What a sad man,” Jo said.

  “He is, isn’t he?” Logan nodded. “But I’m not going to let it get me down. The French generals will learn, and we’ll see what happens when America finally enters this fight.”

  ****

  “Hey, get your gear on! We’re going to the front!”

  Jo had been sitting in her room writing a story to be sent back to the States. She looked up, startled, and saw that Revelation’s eyes were beaming. “What do you mean going to the front?”

  “You remember that Frenchman, Pierre Guillon?”

  “Of course.” They had gone to the church Guillon had invited them to, and they had been overwhelmed by the welcome they received. The minister, an older man with a shock of iron gray hair, had insisted that Revelation do the preaching. Revelation had put his heart into it, and had been enthusiastically received. Since then they had seen Pierre Guillon several times, and now Jo stood up at once. “Are you serious?”

  “I’m serious as the measles,” Revelation grinned. “I’ve been wanting to see some of this fighting. I know you wanted to get a story for your newspaper back home, so I talked him into taking us up there.”

  “But does he have any authority?”

  “No, but he’s got a car, and that’s all we need. You’re press, aren’t you?”

  “Well, in a way I am. But I don’t have any authority here.”

  “That doesn’t matter. They’re so busy fightin’ this war they won’t pay any attention to three curious Americans. Come on! Grab your coat!”

  “And my camera, too! Here, you’ll have to help me carry some of my gear.”

  Jo hastily loaded as much film and flashbulbs as she could get into a large leather bag, which Rev carried down for her slung over his shoulder. She grabbed her camera and purse, and they left the room quickly. When they arrived downstairs, they found Pierre smiling.

  “Are you certain you want to go to the front? It’s not like a trip to the Louvre, you know. Nice and pleasant.”

  “We’d be very grateful to you, Pierre, if you could take us. But is it legal?”

  “Probably not,” Pierre said. “But what can they do? Fine us? Put us in the jail for a night?”

  “It would be worth it,” Logan said, “if that’s all. I want to get a glimpse of this fight close up.” His eyes were gleaming, and he added, “Wish we had a rifle. Might take a few potshots at the Huns.”

  “I do not think that would be possible, Logan,” Pierre grinned. He studied the strongly built American before him and then shrugged. “Come. Get in. It will not take long.”

  The car was small but it started at once. “It is difficult to keep a car these days,” Pierre said. “Petrol costs so much.”

  “You never did tell me. What do you do for a living, Pierre?”

  Pierre smiled, his teeth very white against his olive complexion. “I am what you Americans might call a gentleman bum.”

  “You mean you’re rich?”

  “My father was. When he died, he left me just enough to survive on without working, which I have managed to do.”

  “I don’t believe that,” Jo said, turning to study Guillon’s profile. “I think you’re painting your character worse than it is.”

  “Good. I will make the most of that. Actually, I am an art student.”

  “You’re an artist! You paint?”

  “Yes. At least I say so. My instructors are somewhat less emphatic.” Turning to her, Pierre grinned. “My father always said it was an excuse to stay out of work.”

  “I’d love to see some of your paintings.”

  “That can be arranged,” Pierre said, “if we do not get blown to kingdom come by the Germans. Hang on now. This will be a little bit tricky.”

  The trip proved difficult, for the roads were packed with vehicles. They passed lorries, small automobiles, even carts and wagons hauled along by mules. It seemed taxicabs had become a favorite means of conveying material, and Pierre said, “It is, as you see, war on a small scale. We do not even have enough vehicles to haul supplies to the front.”

  Jo sat tensely in the seat, looking at the stream of men and machines that seemed to be going in both directions. Some troops of soldiers came by headed away from the front, and she noticed that many of them wore bandages, some on their heads, and others had their arms in slings. “They’re the wounded from the front, aren’t they?”

  “Yes, Jo, and there are a great many of them. The hospitals are already overflowing,” Pierre said soberly. “These are new recruits. They’ve moved up to take their places.”

  As they approached the front line, the roads grew even more dense, and they had to pass through several roadblocks. Without Pierre they would never had made it, for the questions came in French, and he answered them in rapid-fire fashion.

  “What are you telling these people, Pierre?” Logan demanded.

  “Oh, I think up a different lie for each occasion,” Pierre smiled. “This last one, I simply told him that the generals had sent for you to give advice as experts.”

  “Experts in what?” Jo asked with amazement.

  “I did not specify. What does it matter? There are no experts in war anyway.”

  The trip ended when they were well within range of the sound of guns firing. They were stopped by a hard-faced French sergeant who refused to permit them to go any farther. “No civilians any closer to the front. I am sorry.”

  A rapid interchange between the sergeant and Pierre Guillon took place. Pierre he turned and said, “Come. Bring your cameras and gear. We can go forward on foot from this point.”

  The sergeant protested vehemently in French, but Pierre somehow managed to convince him to let them proceed.

  “What did you tell him?” Jo asked curiously.

  “I told him you had come all the way from America to get pictures that would show the glory of the French army.”

  The four plunged forward, and the ground soon turned to mud. Jo was grateful she had worn low quarter shoes, for soon she was muddy up to her skirts. The boom of the cannons seemed to be far off in the distance. From time to time, against the darkening afternoon sky, she could see the flickering of the guns themselves.

  “How far away are those guns, Pierre?”

  “I am no soldier. I cannot say.”

/>   “Close enough where they’re lobbying those shells in pretty close,” Revelation grunted. His eyes narrowed, and he said, “This is going to be a little bit dangerous. Jo, why don’t you stay here while we go take a look.”

  “We’re not going to start that, Rev!” Jo snapped. “I’m here to cover this war, and I can’t do it from a sidewalk café in Paris!”

  As the four of them made their way through the thickening mud, Jo stopped from time to time to take pictures.

  Once she was shocked when she saw a soldier with his leg blown off at the knee. The bandages were crimson with blood, and his face was pale. His eyes were open, and he cried out something as he was carried by on his stretcher.

  “What did he say, Pierre?”

  “He was crying out for his mother.”

  “Will he make it?” Logan asked.

  “I doubt it. He’ll probably bleed to death before he gets to the hospital.”

  Soon they passed many other wounded soldiers retreating from the front line. Some with their eyes bandaged were being led, and others were carried on stretchers.

  “So many of them,” Jo whispered.

  “And these are the lucky ones, Jo,” Pierre said quietly.

  He did not elaborate, and as they went forward, the sound of rifle fire and then machine gun fire filled the air with crisp, crackling sounds. The overhead sky was now darker, and suddenly a sound caught Logan’s ears. His head swiveled up, and he cried, “There’s a plane!”

  They all stopped dead and looked up. Sure enough, a frail-looking aircraft came winging over. It was a one-man aircraft and obviously was some sort of observation plane.

  “Is it German or French?” Jo said.

  “I have no idea, but everyone’s shooting at it.”

  Even from where they stood, the spectators could see the French blazing away with their rifles.

  “It must be German!” Jo said. “The French wouldn’t shoot at their own plane.”

  “I do not think they know the difference.”

  Logan stared at the kitelike affair, expecting it to be blown out of the sky, but it finally rose slowly out of the range of the rifles, turned almost majestically, and flew east.

  “He’s gathering information for somebody. I don’t know whether it’s for the Huns or for us,” Pierre said. “Come along. You must get your pictures, and we must get you out of here, Jo.”

  The four continued until suddenly a voice said, “Halt!”

  They turned to see a French lieutenant coming to stand before them. His uniform was spattered with mud, and his right hand had a blood-soaked bandage. He stopped before them, a slight young man of no more than twenty-two or three with light brown eyes and a youthful face. “Where are you going?” he asked. “What are you doing here?”

  “These, Lieutenant, are Americans who have come to join with us. The lady is Miss Josephine Hellinger, a famous American newspaper woman.”

  “I’m Lieutenant Paul Devries. You cannot go any farther. You must go back at once!”

  “But, Lieutenant,” Jo said, stepping forward, her eyes fastening on his, “it is important that people back in America know what is happening.”

  “That is true, Lieutenant,” Pierre said quickly. “France needs all the friends she can get, and Miss Hellinger needs the truth.”

  Devries hesitated and then, with more persuasion by Pierre, he nodded and said, “I will have to take you to my colonel.”

  Lieutenant Devries led them on a serpentine path through supply dumps and hastily constructed fortifications until finally they were led down into a cavelike bunker, where they were introduced to Colonel Lignon. Lignon was a tall, dark-haired man with a black mustache and equally black eyes. He was a hard-faced individual and shot questions at the group for some time.

  Finally Jo smiled at him. “Do you think we’re spies, Colonel?”

  Lignon stared at her. He had been under fire steadily now for three days, and the humor that was ordinarily his was almost obliterated. “I suspect everyone,” he said.

  “Then put us under guard, but let me get the truth of this war home to my people. America is against Germany, but we need evidence such as this to convince our politicians.”

  Lignon stood silently for a minute, and Jo was afraid that he intended to send them back. But finally he waved his hand angrily. “All right. If you get killed, it’s your business! Lieutenant Devries, you’re responsible for these people.”

  “Yes, my colonel!”

  Leaving the bunker, Lieutenant Devries said, “What would you like to see?”

  “As much as you can show us,” Jo said.

  Revelation said, “I’d like to see some of the fighting. By the way, are you a believer, Lieutenant?”

  “A believer in what?”

  “Why, in the Lord Jesus Christ.”

  “Oh yes. I was baptized as a child. I am a believer, of course.”

  His answer did not satisfy Revelation, but Logan quickly cut him off, saying, “Rev, you’ll have to put off your evangelizing for a time. The lieutenant’s busy.”

  Devries grinned and said, “As long as I’m with you and not about to get killed up at the very front, I will show you anything you’d like to see.”

  Lieutenant Devries proved to be a most worthy guide. He showed them the trenches, and Jo was appalled at the filth and the stench everywhere.

  Lieutenant Devries apologized, saying, “Some of the men were killed several days ago. We can’t get out to bury them. Some of the Huns are out there, too. No help for it.”

  “Don’t apologize, Lieutenant,” Jo said quickly. “It’s what we came to see. It’s very terrible, isn’t it?”

  “Oh yes. War is always terrible.”

  “Have you been a soldier long, Lieutenant?” Logan asked. He found the young man very likable, and now he studied the youthful face with interest.

  “Only for a month.”

  “What were you in civilian life?” Jo asked.

  “An accountant.” Devries grinned shyly. “I don’t know what I’m doing here. I think there’s a mistake of some kind.”

  “I’m sure there wasn’t. It must be very hard for you,” Jo said.

  “Well, it wouldn’t be except—”

  “Except what?”

  “Well, you see, I’m engaged to be married.”

  “Well, congratulations,” Rev said at once. “As the Scripture says, ‘He that findeth a wife findeth a good thing and obtaineth favor of the Lord.’ ”

  Devries stared at the gangling form of the American and said confusingly, “I suppose that is true.”

  “When are you to be married?” Jo said.

  “In three days.”

  “Will you be given leave?”

  “Oh yes!” Devries smiled happily. “It is all arranged.”

  “What’s your fiancée’s name?”

  “Renée.”

  “That is a beautiful name. Congratulations. I’m sure you’ll be very happy.”

  “Thank you very much, and now you must get your pictures before dark, which will come very soon. You cannot stay here after dark, I’m afraid. It’s much too dangerous.”

  The quartet got a quick view of life in the trenches, and they were all thoroughly horrified by the primitive conditions. Soldiers watched them out of listless eyes as they passed along, and Jo used up all of her film.

  “You must go now, I’m afraid,” Lieutenant Devries said. “Come. I will escort you back to your vehicle.”

  They followed a zigzag path until finally they came to an open space. “Come. We must run for it here. There’s no cover. Be quick.”

  Jo felt Logan’s hand on her arm, and she flashed him a quick smile of gratitude.

  He soon found, however, that she was fleet of foot and gasped, “Well, you don’t need my help, but I may need yours.”

  Even as he spoke, a tremendous explosion shook the earth. The ground under Jo’s feet seemed to roll. A huge mountain of mud and dirt flew up over to her left, and she f
ound herself suddenly flung to the ground. She protected her camera as she fell, thinking, I mustn’t break my camera.

  The explosions went off in an earsplitting cadence, five of them equally spaced. Jo lay there with her face against her arm, trying to press herself into the earth. She heard the whistling of shrapnel flying all around her and knew the ugly reality of war.

  Finally the explosions rolled away into a dull rumble, and she felt a hand on her arm and found herself rolled over. “Are you all right, Jo?”

  Looking up she saw Logan staring down at her, his face tense with anxiety.

  “I’m all right,” she said. “How about you?”

  “No damage. Rev, are you okay?”

  “Right. The Lord took care of us in that one, didn’t He?”

  Pierre was rising from the ground, and he stopped suddenly. “The lieutenant—”

  Immediately Jo saw Lieutenant Devries lying still. He looked as if he had fallen from a great height, and she ran at once to him. He was lying on his stomach, and when she rolled him over, she saw that his breast was scarlet with blood. His eyes flickered open, and a scarlet froth came to his lips as he tried to say something.

  “We’ll get you to a doctor, Lieutenant. Don’t try to talk.” Jo said.

  As she leaned forward she heard the faint whisper.

  “Tell Renée . . . that I loved her—!”

  Amidst the dirt and the mud of France, Jo Hellinger knew the horror of war. As she held the dead body of Lieutenant Paul Devries in her arms, she also knew that it would never change. Tears came to her eyes, and when she looked up at the three men who were watching her, she could not blink them back. They ran down her cheeks unheeded, and she held the bloody body of the dead lover to her breast.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  The Foreign Legion

  Jo stood at the back of a small crowd that had gathered in the courtyard of the Hôtel des Invalides.

  The huge golden dome that sheltered the remains of Napoléeon Bonaparte overshadowed the white yard that was now filled with uniformed army officers, silk-hatted diplomats, and a variety of others. Jo listened to the patriotic speeches that echoed throughout the courtyard. Everyone defied Germany and promised a quick end to the war. Several had praised the “selfless act of so many foreigners who wished to contribute their part of courage and blood to the history of France.”