The Flying Cavalier

by Gilbert, Morris

  “I miss my dogs,” he said. “I had three of them, all border collies, to take care of the cattle. Come along, boy. I’ll take you outside.”

  “I won’t be too long.”

  “Take your time, ma’am. I’m not going anywhere.”

  “Now can I make my visit?” she asked the young nurse.

  “Who would you like to see?” Danielle asked.

  “Logan Smith.”

  “I might have guessed.” The answer leaped to Danielle’s lips and she shook her head. “You’re American.”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “Your friend is down this way. Come along. I’ll take you to him.”

  The two walked down the hall, and as they did, Jo asked, “How is he?”

  “He’s doing very well. The doctor says he’s making good progress. When he came here, he was in bad shape with some infection, but he’s much better now.”

  “My name is Josephine Hellinger, but you can call me Jo. I’ll be here often.”

  “Are you a relative?”

  “No. Just a friend. We came over to France together.”

  Danielle wondered about what sort of relationship that might imply, but she said nothing. Opening the door, she led Jo into the ward, and at once every man in the ward seemed to come to attention.

  “Jo, you made it!” Logan was sitting up in bed and his face lit up. He winked at her, saying, “This is my favorite nurse, Nurse Danielle Laurent. Nurse, this is my good friend, Jo Hellinger, the famous American journalist.”

  The two women nodded at each other, and after Danielle had left the room, Jo came over and put out her hand. “What have you done to her? It looks like you haven’t made a friend there.”

  “We didn’t get off on the right foot. Where’s Bedford?”

  “Outside. An Australian sergeant is taking care of him. They seemed to hit it off.”

  “Sit down.”

  “I brought you something to eat. I don’t know whether you’ll like it or not.”

  “Well, like Rev says. If its got hide and hair, I’ll eat it.”

  Jo handed him the basket, and he eagerly pulled the cover off. “Fruit! Fresh fruit!” he said. “Hey, Henri, help yourself. This is Henri Nane.”

  “I’m glad to know you, Henri.”

  “Thank you, mademoiselle. This fruit looks good.”

  “Pass it around among the boys,” Logan said.

  “Anything you like special? I’ll bring it the next time I come,” Jo said.

  “You know how it is in the hospital. Anything’s good. Now, sit down and tell me everything.”

  Jo sat down and began to speak. She had just come back from a long tour of airfields, and finally she said, “I’m not going to be moving around much.”

  “You’re not going back home, are you?”

  “No. I’ve come over to do a job, and I’ve got to do it, but I’m going to change my focus a little.”

  “How’s that, Jo?” Logan asked as he took a big bite out of an apple.

  “Well, I’ve gotten the big overall look. It’s not too bright, I might say, but what I want to do now is put a squadron under a microscope. So I’ve decided that the Fourteenth Squadron stationed here in Belleville will do as good as any.” Her eyes crinkled as she smiled, and she reached over and put her hand on his. “After all, you’re here.”

  Logan felt a warm glow. “That’s fine. Have you met any of the fliers out at the field yet?”

  “Not yet. Haven’t visited that particular field.”

  The three sat talking for a while, and Logan was cheered by her visit. He was somewhat irritated when he looked up to see Nurse Laurent coming toward them with a basin and a towel over her arm.

  “It’s time for our bath,” Danielle announced firmly.

  “For our bath?” Logan said, then he looked over and winked at Jo.

  Jo laughed and shook her head. “You haven’t changed, Logan.” She rose then and said, “Be patient with him, Nurse Laurent. He’s really a nice fellow.”

  “When will you be back?” Logan asked.

  “Tomorrow. You be sweet now. Maybe I could convince Nurse Laurent to put you in a wheelchair, and I could take you outside.”

  “I’ll have to ask the doctor,” Danielle said.

  After Jo left, she went outside and found Sergeant Jones, who was sitting down stroking Bedford’s head.

  “He’s a fine dog, ma’am. Anytime you need to leave him, I’ll be glad to take care of him.”

  “Would you really? That would be so nice at times. I hate to leave him cooped up in a hotel room.”

  Ringer Jones’ roughhewn face broke out into a smile. He was very tan from a lifetime outside, and his eyes crinkled as he smiled. “He’ll be good company, ma’am. We get along, don’t we, Bedford?”

  Bedford barked, and Ringer Jones reached out and roughly caressed his head. “I’ve got nothing else to do, mum. If you want to leave him all day, that’s fine.”

  “That would be most kind of you, Sergeant. I must make it right with you.”

  ****

  For the next three days Jo came every afternoon to visit with Logan, happy that Bedford had a friend to spend the day with. It was on the third day she was sitting beside him when Doctor Pierre Laurent came in for his daily visit. When Logan introduced her and spoke of her work, Doctor Laurent was interested. “I imagine this little village gets a little boring for you after Paris.”

  “Not a bit of it,” Jo said vigorously. “I like little villages. I grew up in a small town in America no larger than this one.”

  Doctor Laurent hesitated and then said, “Perhaps you would care to come to dinner at my home. My wife would like to meet you. I understand you already know my daughter.”

  “Your daughter?”

  “Yes. Nurse Danielle Laurent.”

  “Oh, I didn’t make the connection! Why didn’t you tell me, Logan?”

  Logan shrugged his shoulders. “Don’t know. I just didn’t.”

  “I’d be happy to come, Doctor. You name the night. I’m open.”

  “Tonight would be excellent.”

  “I’ll be there. What time?”

  “Shall we say seven?”

  “I have a dog.”

  “Bring him along. My granddaughter would love to see him.”

  ****

  Gabby heard a roar outside and went to the window to see a motorcycle with a sidecar pull up in front of the house. “Look, a dog is on the motorcycle!”

  Katherine went over and saw a tall young woman step off of the motorcycle, remove her helmet, and push her goggles up. An enormous German shepherd was in the sidecar. She saw the woman speak to him and he leaped out.

  “I think it’s our guest,” Katherine said.

  “Oh, can I pet the dog?”

  “We’ll have to ask,” Katherine said.

  Even as the door opened, before Jo could speak, Gabby flew outside and threw herself at the dog. “Oh, what’s his name?”

  “His name is Nathan Bedford Forrest,” Jo smiled. “But he answers to Bedford.” She found the young girl to be very beautiful but then looked up at the woman who appeared. “I came in my working clothes,” she said. “I’ve been out to the airfield.”

  “Have you indeed! My name is Katherine Laurent. This is my granddaughter, Gabby. Gabrielle, actually.”

  “And this is Bedford. You two are going to get along, I can see.”

  “Come in. Pierre is getting cleaned up. Dinner is almost ready.”

  Gabby could not leave Bedford alone, and finally she was allowed to walk him on a leash with a warning not to go outside the garden.

  “Will it be all right?” Pierre asked with a worried look. “He’s such a large dog.”

  “He’s very gentle and very well trained,” Jo assured him.

  The meal had already started when another guest came, a tall man with captain’s stars, and Pierre Laurent said, “Miss Hellinger, this is our son-in-law, Captain Lance Winslow.”

  “Oh, Capt
ain Winslow, I’ve been trying to see you out at the aerodrome, but you’ve been flying.”

  Lance Winslow looked at the tall young woman and nodded. “My sergeant told me that an American lady had been there to see me. I hardly expected to see you here.”

  “Miss Hellinger has a friend in the hospital,” Danielle said quickly.

  Lance looked out the window. “Is it safe for Gabby to be with such a large animal?”

  “She’s very safe with Bedford,” Jo said. She was studying Lance Winslow carefully without appearing to do so. She had heard a great deal about this captain who drove his men very hard and had shot down six German planes. She said quickly, “I wanted to talk to you about my friend in the hospital. He’s a very fine pilot.”

  Interest flickered in Lance’s eyes. “Is that so?”

  “Yes. He enlisted in the Legion, but he hopes to transfer out into the flying service.”

  Lance Winslow appeared to be rather cold to Jo. “And you would like for me to get him transferred into the Fourteenth Squadron?”

  “I would like for you to meet him, at least. The rest, of course, would be your decision.”

  “I’ll be glad to have him in the Fourteenth if he’s any good.”

  “That would be most kind of you.”

  “Well now, I’ll have to go try to separate Gabby from Bedford so we can have our meal. Would he be all right in the dining room, Miss Hellinger?”

  “He’s very well behaved. Better than I am, I think,” Jo smiled. Her mind was on Captain Lance Winslow. He was a handsome man, but she sensed something not right about him. He seemed quite cold toward her and acted with tremendous reserve. It’s like he’s built a fence around himself, she thought. His eyes are hooded. I can’t make him out.

  The meal was very pleasant, and when it was time for Jo to leave, Captain Winslow said, “I’ll be glad to drop you off at your hotel.”

  “Oh, I’ve taken a room in the village. Besides, I travel by motorcycle now. It’s much easier to get around.”

  Jo said her thanks to the Laurents, and Gabby said, “Will you bring Bedford back to play with me?”

  “I surely will, honey. Very often.”

  As she rode back toward the cottage where she had taken a room, Jo reached over and looked at Bedford. His eyes were half closed, and he was enjoying the wind in his face, as always. “I’ll have to be a little bit smoother with Captain Winslow. It would be wonderful if he could get Logan and Rev transferred into his squadron.” She put her mind to it and formed a resolution. “It can be done,” she said. “Logan is a fine flier and Captain Winslow needs experienced men like Logan Smith.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  “No Man Can Shop for a Girl!”

  Far beneath the flight of planes, the emerald earth rose and fell in undulant swells, much like an ocean, but only a brighter green. Lance leaned over the cockpit of the Nieuport and felt a mixture of pleasure and disgust. Below him the Fourteenth Squadron was spread out in three flights. Each flight was an inverted V with one plane in front and two behind. The pleasure came from watching them as they kept close formation. “At last they’re getting to where they can stay together,” he muttered. “It was like trying to drive a herd of bees across the desert when we first started formation flying.”

  The disgust that followed this pleasure at the sight of the squadron moving along through the blue skies keeping station almost perfectly evaporated, and he looked back, his eyes narrowing, as he studied the squadron. They were all painted a dull olive and had the honor of being the first British squadron to come to full strength in France. But it was a sorry selection that made up the squadron. His eyes went from B.E.2s to Morane-Saulnier Parasols, Blériots, B.E.8s, one Avro 504, a Farman, and only one other Nieuport beside the one that led B-flight.

  I wish they were all Nieuports, he thought with longing. Ever since he had been in France, he had tried to mount a squadron with top quality planes. But every squadron in France was screaming for better airplanes, and the excuses for planes Winslow received from England were not enough to fill the gap. He himself had shot down six planes, but the rest of the squadron together only accounted for three. Most of the pilots were all green. None of them had ever seen any real action, and some of them had less than two hundred hours of training. The planes were only a step or two removed from the early experiments of the Wright brothers in America. One of them actually looked like a flying bedstead, which is what the pilots actually called it.

  Feeling the eyes of the flight leaders on him, Lance raised his gloved fist, pumped it twice, and then moved the stick so that the Nieuport banked and fell into a dive. There was something comforting about the roar of the nine-cylinder rotary engine. It only produced up to 110 horsepower, and the propeller, which was on a rotary, was bolted directly to the engine crankcase. Everything, including the cylinders, revolved around a stationary crankshaft. There was no carburetor, and the fuel was sucked from a hollow portion of the crankshaft. The smell of castor oil, which was mixed with the gasoline, was sickening even now at full speed with the wind whipping around his head.

  There’s got to be a better way to build an engine than this, Lance thought. The engine had to be cut in and out with great frequency, and it sounded like an enormous hornet as it sped through the skies.

  There were no Germans in sight, but Lance half rose from his seat, reached up, and pulled the .303 Lewis gun into firing position. It was mounted on the top wing, where the bullets would clear the whirling propeller blades. A drum on top held fifty-seven rounds that could be emptied in five seconds of continuous firing. This meant that the pilot had to fly the plane and change drums in flight. It was something only a juggler could do with any ease at all. The pilot had to pull the gun down so that the barrel was pointed straight up, then, half standing and fighting the prop wash, he had to jerk the drum off and replace it with a fresh one. As often as not, the drum would slip from his hand or the plane would shy sideways or even go into a spin from being released from the pressure of the pilot’s hand on the stick.

  “I’m lucky I haven’t been shot down trying to change this fool drum,” Lance muttered.

  He gave up on the gun, hoping that no Germans would appear. Looking around, he saw that the flight formation had, more or less, disintegrated. This could be accounted for partially by the fact that the engines were all different, and it was almost impossible for three planes to maintain the same speed. There was also a natural tendency at top speed to move away from anything close. Therefore, the distances among the planes of the various flights had become measurably greater.

  The wind whipped at Lance Winslow’s face and pressed his goggles against his flesh. For a long time he had enjoyed the sheer ecstasy of flying, but that joy had disappeared the day Noelle had died from the bombs of the Germans’ Zeppelin raid. Since then flying had become merely a means to put him within reach of those who had murdered his wife. Flying for joy was something for amateurs or for men with nothing to settle, but Lance awoke each morning thinking of how he could get a German plane in his sights and touch the button on top of his control stick. He kept this focus for himself all day long, and he kept it before the pilots, as well, who were constantly harangued, “You’re here to kill Germans. Nothing else matters. Kill Germans! That’s why you’re in these airplanes.”

  The fields below laid off in neat, multicolored, checkered squares, according to the crops that were growing, seemed to rise up to meet him. Knowing that some of the planes in his squadron had a tendency to shed the lower wing in a dive, Lance signaled for a pullout. He felt the Nieuport shudder under him, but obediently the nose rose, and he was relieved to see that there had been no midair collisions. Fully half of the deaths in the British squadrons, and he suspected with the French as well, were due not to the bullets of German fighters but to accidents. The planes they flew were so flimsy and behaved so erratically that men counted themselves fortunate each time they came back to earth without being chewed up and spat out of the
planes with their canvas-covered bodies and wings.

  Glancing down at a gauge, Lance saw that his fuel was low. He signaled again and led the squadron back over the field. He came in for a smooth landing, but by the time he had rolled his machine up and killed the engine, he looked over and saw that Holmes was headed straight for the hedge that marked the barrier between the hangars and the field. “Pull up, you idiot! Pull up!” The flier crashed into the hedge, and the engine died abruptly. “Hope he hasn’t killed himself!” Lance muttered in disgust. Stepping out of the cockpit, he glanced at his mechanic, Tom Morrison, and nodded briefly. “Check her over, Morrison.”

  “She handle all right today, Captain?” Morrison was a thin, rangy man with hazel eyes and a hook nose. He ran his hand lovingly over the side of the Nieuport, and when he received only a nod from his officer, he said, “No sign of the Huns today?”

  “No, and it’s a good thing. They would have knocked us all out of the air.”

  “You’ll get there, Captain. The boys are a bit green, but they’ve got a good teacher.”

  Grunting at the compliment, Lance said, “Better check everything. We’ll be going on another flight in an hour.”

  “Yes, sir. She’ll be humming like a sewing machine.” Tom Morrison had a touch with engines that few men possessed. He not only kept the captain’s plane in tip-top shape but, in effect, instructed the other mechanics as well. Some of them were none too expert, but under the tutelage of Morrison, a capable crew of mechanics had begun to be pulled together.

  Walking slowly with his head down, Lance moved until he stood in front of the hut. Overhead the June sun was bright, but he had no eye for the rolling green of the hills or the fleecy white clouds that dotted the azure heavens overhead. He stood waiting until the pilots all tumbled out of their ships and had a word with their mechanics, then he raised his hand and called, “Inside for a briefing!”

  The men moved slowly, and Pug Hardeston, a short, muscular man, turned to mutter to the strongly built man beside him. “Hey, sailor, what do you reckon the cap’s got up his sleeve this time?”