The Flying Cavalier

by Gilbert, Morris

  “Well, I haven’t had any experience, but I think she’s got your number already.”

  Lance grinned. “I think she has.”

  The two talked for a time, and when she set the meal before him, she drank coffee while he finished the eggs and ham and toast. He suddenly looked over at her after he had finished and said, “I shouldn’t tell you this, Dani, but Commander Steel came to see me yesterday. He asked for my best pilot for a very difficult mission.”

  Instantly Danielle stiffened. “It was Logan?” she whispered.

  “Yes.”

  “Is it . . . more dangerous than usual?”

  “There’s no telling. He may pull it off without any trouble at all. On the other hand, it may be very . . . difficult.”

  “I get afraid every time he goes up.”

  “I know that. I think everyone has noticed it. You two aren’t hitting it off so well.”

  “No. He’s cut me off, Lance. I don’t know why.”

  “Would you like to send him a note?”

  “Do you think I could go see him?”

  “Are you sure that would be a good idea? It might—well, he’s not speaking much to anybody, and you say he’s even cut you off.”

  “I’d like to go just for a moment. Just to wish him well.”

  “All right. Come along.”

  The two got into Lance’s car and drove to the aerodrome. It was three o’clock and Lance nodded. “There are lights on over in the hangar. I expect Revelation’s working on the plane. If I know him, he’ll want that thing to hum like a well-oiled sewing machine.”

  Lance’s words proved to be true. Revelation was going over the engine, tapping at it, listening, and making minute adjustments. When he heard footsteps, he turned around and jumped off the platform. “Good morning, Captain. Good morning, Miss Dani.”

  “Is the plane in first-class shape? But then I know it is.”

  “She runs like a dream,” Rev said. He hesitated, then said, “The lieutenant wouldn’t tell me much about his mission. So I take it it’s a tough one?”

  “Where is he?”

  “I think he went back to get another cup of hot coffee while I was finishing up here.”

  “I think I’ll go see if I can find him and wish him good-bye.”

  As the young woman left, Revelation said, “Miss Dani’s worried about Logan, isn’t she, sir?”

  “So am I.”

  “Is it that bad, sir?”

  “It’s always bad. He’s going over enemy lines, and you know what that’s like. And worse, I think the whole German air force is over there.” Lance saw no harm in telling this much to the mechanic. “Keep it under your hat, Rev,” he said quietly. “He’s not looking for a fight. Just to bring back information. The Germans are out to stop him.”

  “I reckon they’re up to something, and the commander wants to find out.”

  Lance grinned slightly. “Yes. That’s about it.” He turned and looked in the direction where Danielle had disappeared. “I’m concerned about her and about Logan too. I had the idea that they cared for each other.”

  “Why shore they did and still do, but something’s come up. Seems like there’s a law that love never runs smooth.”

  ****

  Logan looked up from the cup of coffee the cook had made for him and stood up at once when Danielle came in. “Hello,” he said awkwardly. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”

  Danielle went over to him. They were alone in the room, for the cook had disappeared back into the kitchen. Now that she was there she hardly knew what to say. “Lance told me you were going out early this morning. I just wanted to come to . . . to wish you well.”

  “Well, that was nice of you. You shouldn’t have done it, though.”

  Danielle felt shut out, as if he had thrown up a barricade. She looked up at him, and her lips were tremulous. “What’s wrong, Logan? What have I done to drive you away?”

  Now that the question was in the air, Logan wanted to come out with it. He almost said, You fell in love with Lance, that’s what’s wrong. But now that Lance was engaged to Jo Hellinger, he was even more confused. Several times he had seen Danielle and Lance together in an intimate fashion. Innocent enough, it was true, but they seemed to be closer than ever. He had concluded that Dani was still in love with him and was covering it up.

  “I guess I’m just in a blue funk,” he said. “I haven’t been fit to live with.”

  “Is it something I’ve done?”

  “No, Dani. Don’t think that.” He could scarcely bear to look at her. He had always seen her as a young woman filled with vitality and imagination. But now her expressive mouth seemed soft and vulnerable, and her eyes seemed to be pleading with him. Her features always had been quick to express her thoughts, but now he saw a grief in them, and he knew there was pride in her that could keep her going when all else failed. He had always thought of her as a serene young woman, but now some sort of trouble stirred her expression.

  “I’ve got to go, Dani,” he said. “I’ll see you when I get back.”

  Overwhelmed by confusing emotions, Danielle could not speak. Her throat was full. She had come hopeful that whatever was in his heart would thaw, but he left almost at a run, and she bit at her lip fiercely to still the trembling. There was a fear mixed in with her feelings, and she knew her aching heart reached out toward this man who had come to mean so much to her. She left the mess hall and went to stand at the edge of the field. She watched as Logan spoke briefly to Lance, then turned to climb into his plane. Rev went to the propeller, grasped it, and prepared to start it.

  An impulse came to Danielle then. She scrambled through her purse and found a pencil and a pad. She quickly wrote a few words on it and then ran across the field. The engine burst into life, and she heard Lance saying, “Wait, don’t go out there, Dani!” but she ignored him.

  She reached the plane, and the prop blast caught her. She ran right up, and Rev stared at her with astonishment. She saw Logan catch his glance, for he turned and saw Danielle as she came to the side of the plane. She held up a tiny slip of paper, and he reached out and took it as she said, “God bless you, Logan, and keep you.”

  He read her lips, and then she turned and ran off the field. Logan quickly jammed the paper into his shirt pocket, grasped the stick, and advanced the throttle. He took off quickly and gained altitude. He turned toward the northeast, and when he had reached five thousand feet, he threw the throttle back. He had worked on the timing carefully with the commander’s aide, Lieutenant Carruthers, and knew that he wanted to be on the far side of the German lines by dawn. He expected to be spotted, but he hoped his plane was in top condition, and he was good enough to avoid them.

  The stars overhead sparkled as if they were bits of fire. A hunter’s moon lit up the sky, and as he sped along he thought of Danielle. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out the slip of paper. It was too dark to read, of course, but he kept a flashlight beside him. Switching it on, he unfolded the paper and read the words.

  I love you, Logan—believe me. I love you with all my heart.

  Suddenly Logan Smith seemed to see what had happened to him. I’ve been a fool! he thought. He knew his depression had been brought on by his foolishness when Spencer and Holmes had been killed. He also realized he had been unfairly jealous of Lance Winslow. Looking back, he suddenly recognized that he had behaved in a way that was not rational.

  As he pressed on through the darkness, he folded the paper carefully and stuck it in his pocket. He began to pray then. “Lord, let me do this job—and if you let me get home again, I’ll take Dani as a gift from you.”

  As he flew steadily on, part of him thought of the job ahead, while another part of his mind thought of Danielle. There was a certain amount of fear in him, as there always was, but he remembered Revelation Brown’s last words before he climbed into the cockpit. “The Lord Jesus is flying with you, Logan.”

  Those words seemed to burn themselves into Logan’s min
d, and he felt a sudden peace. “Lord Jesus, you’ll have to help me fly this mission. I’m not able to handle it, but you are.”

  ****

  The mission went almost too easily. Logan reached the North Sea just at dawn, turned, and started back. He kept one eye on the sky above him and one on the ground. He kept a notebook on his lap and made many notes concerning the troop movements he saw beneath him.

  “The commander was right,” he muttered, looking down at a long, serpentine line of artillery followed by masses of troops. “The Germans are moving eastward. They’re all headed toward the center of the line.”

  His suspicions were confirmed by what he saw. From both directions, both north and south of the trenches, the roads were filled with marching men with a new weapon called the tank and massive artillery such as he had never seen.

  I’ve got to get back with this information! he thought.

  He put his notebook away and knew that that part of his mission was over. He was over Charleville, located on the Meuse River, where he had seen a few formations of German planes, but they had been almost out of sight. He had flown so low they could not have spotted him. Now he turned east and determined to fly between the German aerodromes at Rethel and Vervins. “If I just follow the Aisne River, maybe I can sneak through all these aerodromes.”

  His heart grew light, for by the time he passed Bergnicourt, he felt that it was going to be one of those missions that went perfectly.

  And then a movement overhead caught his eye. There, about two thousand feet over him and headed straight for him, was a large flight of German craft. Instantly he kicked the rudder, moved the stick, and turned the Nieuport into a steep turn. But as soon as he did, he saw that he had turned almost directly into another flight of seven Fokkers. There was no escaping them, although he tried. As they made their first pass, he saw that the lead plane was painted sky blue and had a skull on the fuselage. “Hans Macher,” he said grimly. “I would have to run into him!”

  In the sky blue plane, Oberleutenant Hans Macher saw the single plane. His keen eyes picked out the cowboy hat on the fuselage and he laughed aloud. “So, it is the Cowboy! This time he will not get away!”

  Macher’s thumb was on the trigger mounted in the top of the stick, and he managed to get off a burst that missed narrowly as Logan threw his plane to the left. Macher had been expecting a turn to the right and Logan’s maneuver had confused him.

  Two of the other planes loosed bursts of tracers that also missed Logan.

  Logan Smith knew that only a miracle could get him out of this. The seven Fokkers were the new three-wing variety that were more maneuverable than the old. It was the same model flown by the Ace, the Red Baron.

  There was no time for thought. All was action and time flew by. Time and again the Germans loosed bursts, but they were so thick they were afraid of hitting each other. Macher gasped, “He flies like a madman! I never saw such reactions!” Grimly he tried to stay on Logan’s tail, and then suddenly he was caught off guard when the plane in front of him suddenly decreased speed. It never happened in combat, at least not to Hans Macher. He had to push downward on the stick to keep from colliding with the American. And even as he shot by, he thought, That puts him on my tail!

  It was the last thought that Oberleutenant Hans Macher ever had. He heard the hammering of the guns behind him and started to turn, but the bullets struck him in the back, shattering his spine, and he was dead instantly.

  Logan felt no triumph when he saw Macher slump over. He was too busy trying to avoid being hit. The other pilots, infuriated that their great leader had been shot down by the American Cowboy, doubled their fury. There was no escaping them this time, and two of them were waiting as Logan tried to pull away to his right. He felt the Nieuport shudder, and then the engine began to emit vapor fumes.

  That’s it! Logan thought. He was horrified at the thought of burning, as most pilots were. His only hope was to get down quickly and crash-land, so he put the plane into a steep dive. The speed of the Nieuport enabled him to leave the Germans behind, and he pulled out just as the engine gave a tremendous crash, and then more white fumes poured out.

  Logan jammed the notebook into his jacket, buttoned it up, and then loosened his belt. His eyes searched the ground, and he saw what appeared to be a field of corn.

  He actually had very little control of the Nieuport, which was gliding in at a terrific speed. He braced himself and felt the wheels hit the ground. The Nieuport bounced high into the air, and he held on as he would to a wild bull. The smell of petrol and castor oil was gagging him, and then the plane hit again. This time he felt the undercarriage shatter, and the Nieuport went skittering across the field on its belly.

  Suddenly the bottom seemed to drop out. The airplane nosed up, and Logan threw his arms out. There was a hissing sound, and Logan thought, I’ve got to get away. She’s going to blow!

  He crawled out of the cockpit and fell toward the earth. The plane had hit a ditch, and he rolled into it. He knew that one spark would set everything off. Scrambling to his feet, he ran in a stumbling gait after getting out of the ditch. He had gone no more than fifty or sixty yards when a tremendous explosion shook the ground. He threw himself down and felt the heat of the blast. Looking back, he saw the Nieuport had turned into an inferno. A sadness came to him. Well, she was a good plane while she lasted.

  He got up and started walked steadily, his mind working furiously. He was now in German territory and knew that he was only a few miles from Bergnicourt.

  “I’ve got to avoid the patrols,” he said.

  He broke into a run and turned around a copse of trees. Standing there in front of a house was a man with a shotgun pointed directly at him. He spoke in French, and at once Logan threw his arms up. “Je suis Américain!” he yelled.

  The farmer came forward, his eyes suspicious. He was wearing baggy overalls and was an older man with white hair and faded brown eyes. He spoke in broken English. “Who are you?”

  “I don’t speak much French.”

  “I speak English. Who are you?”

  “I’m Lieutenant Logan Smith of the British Royal Flying Corps. My plane’s been shot down.”

  Logan did not know what to expect. There were divided loyalties in this country. Some still were of German sympathies, and the old man might well be one of them. If he turns me over to the Germans, that’ll be it. I’ll have to try to get the gun away from him, Logan thought.

  But then the man lowered the shotgun. “Come with me,” he said.

  Logan was shocked. “You’re not going to give me up to the Germans?” he asked, moving to stand beside the man.

  “Never to them, those swines!”

  Logan followed quickly. The man was in his late sixties, but he was active. As they trotted across the field toward the house, he said, “My name is Jacques Carteau.” They stopped at the door of the house, where a woman with black hair streaked with white was waiting. “This is my wife, Marie. Marie, the Germans will be coming. We will have to hide him.”

  “It will be trouble for you, Monsieur Carteau.”

  “Trouble. No. It will not be trouble.”

  “Come inside,” the woman said. “Quickly, before you’re seen.”

  Stepping inside, Logan’s eyes swept the room. It was a humble farmhouse, and on the mantel he saw a picture of three young men.

  Following his gaze, Carteau said, “These are my sons. This one, Charles, the Germans took him for a hostage. They shot him, although he had done nothing!”

  “I’m sorry,” Logan said quietly. “He’s a fine-looking boy.”

  “My other sons are fighting the Huns.”

  “They’ll be sending someone. A flight of planes saw where I went down.”

  “It will be hard for you to escape,” Marie Carteau said. “They’re used to hunting for fliers that are down. They never escape. None of them.”

  Suddenly an idea blazed through Logan’s mind. “There’s one way,” he said, “if you�
��re willing to risk it.”

  “What can we do?”

  “The Germans must think I’m dead.”

  “But they will look in the wreckage of the plane for a body.”

  “I know, but there is a way, if you are willing.”

  “I am willing to do anything against the filthy Bosche,” Jacques Carteau said fiercely. He leaned forward and held his hands out almost in claws. “I wish the Bosche had one throat and I had my hands around it!”

  “Be quiet, Jacques!” Marie said.

  He turned and said, “My son was studying to be a minister. Now he is dead. Tell me what we can do to help you. . . .”

  ****

  Lance heard a yell and straightened up at once. “Who’s yelling like that, Corporal?”

  “Don’t know, sir.”

  Lance walked to the door and stiffened. There flying down the field at top speed, no more than forty feet off the ground, was a German fighter. He could not move for a moment, and then he saw something thrown out of the plane. It had a weight, and there were red streamers attached to it.

  “He’s got a nerve, don’t he, sir? Deliverin’ mail like that,” Corporal Simms said.

  Lance did not answer. He ran quickly, but Revelation Brown was even quicker. He had picked up the object and turned and saw Winslow. “It looks like a message, sir, in a jar of some kind.”

  It was a heavy steel bottle with the red streamers attached. Lance unscrewed the top and pulled out a single sheet of paper. He unrolled it, and Revelation saw the officer’s lips go tight. “What does it say, Captain, if I could know?”

  “I wish you didn’t have to,” Lance said slowly. He read the message out loud: “ ‘Lieutenant Cowboy Smith was shot down over German soil. He had scored a victory over Hans Macher, our great German hero. We give honor to Oberleutenant Macher, but we also give honor to the man who scored the victory over him. Lieutenant Smith was buried with honors at St. Anne’s cemetery in Bergnicourt.’ ”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  A Time to Embrace

  For three days following the notification of Logan’s death, a cloud of gloom hung over the aerodrome. The pilots were all shaken, and most of all, they grieved over the fact that they had shut Logan out and blamed him for the death of the two pilots. Pug Hardeston left the station without permission and got blind drunk. When Cecil Lewis and Clive Bentley were sent by Captain Winslow to find him, Clive had said, “I can’t blame him, Captain. I feel like doing the same thing.”