Hope Takes Flight (25 page)

He looked at Lieutenant Demond with eyes that were curiously empty. “They won't stop, will they?” he asked in a hollow voice. “Not until all of us are dead.” Then he turned and walked away, his back stiff and rigid.

Demond stared after him with compassion in his eyes, but there was nothing he could say. Nothing anyone could say at a time like this. No matter how many times it happened, it was always the same. You lost a buddy and were filled with a great hollowness, and then you had to fill that void the best you could. He knew that he had a bitter and angry man on his hands in the figure of Gavin Stuart.

Gavin flew automatically, performing with unusual competence. He had shut everything out of his mind except flying, and nothing about his demeanor betrayed the bitterness that was clawing at him. His close friends were gone; he knew few of the French aviators beyond the surface meetings they had day by day. He became known as a man unapproachable, and soon his fellow pilots gave up all efforts at friendship.

Getting out of his aircraft one day, Gavin walked toward the barracks and was surprised to find his brother Amos waiting for him. “Why, Amos!” he said. “I didn't know you were in Europe!”

Amos hesitated, then said, “I just got here a week ago. I'll be here until the Armistice. Covering it all.”

A bitter smile touched Gavin's lips. “That'll never come.”

“Why, of course it will. It's just a matter of time. The German push is running down, and the war will soon be over.” Amos was shocked at the coldness that seemed to freeze his brother's eyes. This was not the man he remembered. “You need time out from all of this,” he said, waving toward the airfield. “You're getting stale. Come along.”

“Where to?”

“Into Paris. I've wrangled you a short leave—two days. We've got things to talk about.”

The two men left the airfield and later that evening found themselves sitting in a café in Paris. All afternoon Gavin had been aware that something was troubling Amos. Finally, after nibbling at his meal, he asked his brother, “What's wrong? Anything wrong at home, Amos? I haven't had a letter for a while.”

Amos shook his head. “No, everything's fine at home. But,” he paused and grew very still, studying Gavin's face before continuing, “I went to England first. I've been with Lylah for the past week.”

Something in his expression alarmed Gavin. “What's wrong, Amos? Is she sick? I've been worried about her. Her letters, they're not the same as they used to be. She's not telling me something. What is it?” he demanded.

“I wish I had something good to report, but I don't.” Amos hesitated, dropped his head, and tried to think of a gentle way to break the news. But there was no way to make what he had to say pleasant. He looked up. “She's pregnant. The child will be born sometime in June.” He saw Gavin's face harden and said, “She told me who the father is. I guess you already know, though, don't you?”

“Von Richthofen.”

The bare mention of the name dropped from the lips of Gavin Stuart like acid, and Amos realized how bitter his brother was. He sighed. “I can't understand it, Gavin. And she can't, either. It's not easy for her.”

“It's easy enough for her to carry on an affair with him,” Gavin said sarcastically. “And now this.” His face looked drawn and old as he stared at Amos.

Amos began to speak. He told Gavin how shocked he had been, how much this had hurt him, how it had hurt everybody, but most of all he spoke of how much it had hurt Lylah, with no hope of happiness. “They could never marry, even if they wanted to,” he said. “The war, despite what you think, is about over. Germany is going down. But even if it weren't, those two could never be happy together.” He sat in grim silence, bonded with his brother by the enormity of what had happened.

Finally Gavin spoke up. “Nothing seems to work. Everything's falling to pieces. I just don't care anymore, Amos.”

The weariness and pain in Gavin's voice prompted Amos to say, “You can't quit. God's still in heaven. He hasn't forgotten us.”

But Gavin did not respond. He sat there quietly, and nothing Amos said could rouse him. Finally, in desperation, Amos said, “Look, I can't talk to you. But you need to talk to somebody. Owen, maybe. He knows you and loves you as much as I do. It would help if you'd talk to him. We can get him a leave.”

“No, I don't want to talk to Owen.” But even as Gavin spoke, an idea came to him, and he sat nursing the thought. “There
is
someone I want to see, though. Would you mind if I didn't spend the rest of my leave with you, Amos?”

Amos shook his head. He knew something of the young woman Gavin had been seeing; he knew, at least, that she was a Christian, and he suspected that Gavin would go to her. “No, of course not. You go ahead.”

“I will, then. Don't worry about me. I'm fine.”

But as the two men left the café—Gavin to the right and Amos in the other direction—the older man thought,
He's in a bad way. He won't make it if something doesn't turn around for him
.

As Gavin trudged along, however, he found himself reluctant to see Heather. He walked for hours in the cold weather, unaware of how much time was passing.

It was quite late when he found himself standing in front of the rooming house where Heather lived. He hesitated briefly and then went inside and on up the stairs to her door. Lifting his hand, he knocked, and almost at once the door opened.

“Why, Gavin!” Heather said. “I had no idea…come in! You look half frozen!”

Gavin took the chair she indicated, and for a while the two chatted about trivial things. But Heather was sharply aware that Gavin was hurting, and eventually she drew it out of him. Once he began to open up, he told her more than he dreamed he would. He told her about the breaking up of the Lafayette Escadrille and finally, with great pain, he told her about the loss of Edmund Genet. Then he skirted around the subject of his sister, finally saying, “And Lylah's in terrible trouble.”

Heather listened, looking into his haunted eyes, feeling his pain. She let him talk until he ran down. Then slowly she began to speak of peace. “Peace is only in Jesus,” she said quietly. “This war…all the horrors, the death, the suffering—that's the world, Gavin. It will always be like that…on this earth. We all have our pain and our struggles, and we all must die. But in Jesus Christ, there's a world that's better than all of this.”

Gavin listened as she spoke, and when she picked up a Bible and began to read verse after verse, strangely enough he did not rebel. His spirit had been dead and flat and empty for years. But somehow the words rang in his mind and in his heart. She talked on and on, and Gavin listened, occasionally asking a question.

Finally he said, “I don't know what to do. I just don't know.”

Somehow Heather knew what to do. She put her hands on his and leaned forward, gazing into his face. “I know what it's like to be so shattered you can't even pray. So I'm going to pray for you, and I'm going to pray that you receive mercy…” She hesitated, adding in a whisper, “and that you will
grant
mercy.”

As she began to pray, Gavin thought of his hatred for von Richthofen.
I can never forgive, never!
But on and on she prayed softly, never raising her voice. Sometimes she paused as though listening, and there was silence in the room. But there was healing in that silence for Gavin Stuart and there was healing in her soft words.

Finally she paused, looking at him intently. “You may not feel a thing, Gavin, but
I
feel something. I know God has heard, and you are going to be found by Jesus Christ…and you are going to find him. I know it, because God has told me in my spirit.”

On his two-day leave, Gavin and Heather talked about many things, but avoided discussing what had happened in her room. But when Gavin was telling her good-bye, he said, “Something has happened to me, Heather. I don't know what, but I know it's something important.”

Heather's eyes filled with tears. She reached up, put her arms around him and clung to him, her cheek resting against his. “I know, my dear, I know! And I know you'll come back to me. God has promised me that. Only be careful…be very careful.”

He left and she went back to her room. All the way, she was praying,
God, he needs you so much and he's so confused. Give him the peace that only you can give
.

T
he streets of Berlin were filled with people who looked hungry and whose clothes were old and patched. The flying officer walking along the street attracted little attention, although now and then someone would cast a puzzled glance at him, wondering what a pilot of the German Air Force was doing in the city at this time. Most of them knew that the great push—Germany's one chance to win the war—had begun.

The officer turned into a shop at the corner of Linden and New Wilhelm and stared at a picture mounted on the wall. The caption beneath it read: “Baron von Richthofen—The Red Battle Flyer.”

“Some people say I look like him,” said the officer to the old man who came up to wait on him. He gave the proprietor an intense look. “Do you think I do?”

The man put on his glasses, studied the painting, then turned an appraising eye on the pilot. “Hardly!” he said angrily. “And how dare you presume to compare yourself to him! That's Baron von Richthofen, the Red Battle Flyer!” He gave Manfred a long contemptuous look and stalked off.

Turning away, von Richthofen made up his mind. He did not like the painting, had never liked it. Outside, he made his way to a cabstand and, after a quick trip to the airport, climbed into his crimson triplane and flew back to the airfield. He had taken time off to be interviewed by a few of the newspapers and magazines—something he did not like to do—and one particular interview had almost gotten out of control. One of the reporters had mentioned that Allied pilots were going after ground soldiers, strafing them, and had stated with some contempt, “That's the kind of thing that sort will do, isn't that right, Captain?”

Von Richthofen had almost blurted out, “That's what we're
all
doing!” Instead, he had merely shrugged the question aside. Actually, he found strafing ground troops terrifying, much more dangerous, in his mind, than a dogfight. He preferred the three dimensions of maneuvering room—not the two of low-level flying—and would rather have two or three pilots chasing him than have to fly through what seemed like a wall of rifle and machine gun fire.

When he arrived at the aerodrome, he made his way to his quarters, threw off his coat, and sat down wearily in the leather-covered chair where he did most of his work. The light was fading outside, and a gloominess had settled over the airfield that communicated itself to the pilot. Glancing up, he saw his reflection in a small mirror fastened over the washbasin. Carefully he examined the tired-looking features, the glazed, lifeless eyes. What would become of him? Of Germany?

He looked around the room at his trophies. He had a roomful of them at Schweidnitz, but here were his cavalry sabre, a stirrup cut nearly in half by shrapnel, Lanoe Hawker's machine gun, a bust of the Kaiser. Mounted on the wall was a box containing some of his decorations. Too many to display at one time. Besides the Blue Max, he held the Bulgarian Order of Military Valor, the Iron Cross (First Class), Hungarian Order of the Holy Crown, Order of the Royal House of Oldenburg, Turkish Star of Gallipoli, Order of the House of Saxony, Cross for the Faithful Services, Imperial Order of the Iron Cross, and many others.

Seeing these badges of distinguished service, Manfred knew he had achieved everything he had set out to do. It was gratifying to be considered a superb leader on the ground as well as in the air, an excellent judge of pilots. Yet despite all this recognition, he had no one to share his fame. He had never been a good mixer and certainly was not a partygoer. Indeed, he lived a solitary life, spending his time alone or playing with his dog, Moritz.

The time had long passed when he could think with delight of his medals and trophies. Now dark thoughts that had begun months ago closed in. He was a man who lived for action, and his philosophy was very simply to be a good soldier and a good son. This he felt he had done.

“Why isn't it working, then?” he asked himself aloud. The sound of his own voice startled him, and he got up and walked over to look out the window. On the ground a crew of mechanics serviced the planes, while a flight of Albatrosses came in for a landing, and another crew swarmed over them, inspecting for leaks or tears. Manfred watched as the weary pilots climbed out and walked stiff-legged into headquarters.

He went back, sat down at the desk, and began sorting through the mail that had backed up while he was in Berlin. A large part of it, he knew by sight, were fan letters from silly girls all over Germany. He tossed them to one side, knowing that he could delegate their reply to someone else. Those that contained official seals he opened, read through rapidly, made decisions, and placed them into a small stack to be answered.

There were several personal letters—a rare one from his father containing a message of congratulations on his latest kill. His father went on to ask if he planned to come home. The hunting was good, and he would be most welcome.

The letter from his mother was more personal. It was a long letter. The only strange thing about it was her frequent mention of the American girl. This seemed odd to von Richthofen, for his mother had never liked the girls he had seen socially. They had been few enough, in any case, and none of them had ever pleased her. But she seemed to know that Manfred had more than a casual interest in this woman. She mentioned several times how much she had enjoyed Lylah's last visit, and hoped that when the war was over, she could come back again. Puzzled, von Richthofen studied the letter and put it to one side.

The last one was from his cousin Helen. He recognized her handwriting on the envelope. But when he opened it, he was shocked to find only a brief scribbled note from Helen, saying:

Manfred saw at a glance that the enclosed letter was from Lylah and wondered what this could mean. He had received many letters from her, but had replied only twice. Since he did not feel safe writing to her, he had not signed his name. In fact he had even asked a friend in Switzerland to mail them for him.

He picked up the sealed envelope, slit it open with his finger, and took out a single sheet of paper. Leaning back, he held the letter up to the fading light that came through the single window.

A sudden trembling overtook Manfred, and he had to put the letter down for a moment. He could not identify the emotion that came over him. He only knew that he had never had an affair with a woman like this one before, and what he felt for her was the closest thing to love he had ever known. But the idea of a child frightened him. He sat there as the gray light fell over his shoulder, trying desperately to put his thoughts in order. Then he lifted the letter and read the rest.

Von Richthofen rose abruptly, walked again to the window and stared blindly out. A child. He and Lylah would have a child! But what did that mean to his life? The difficulties yawned under his feet like a huge chasm. He was German; she was American. She was his enemy…at least in the eyes of the world. The war, he knew, was lost, and he did not think for one moment that they could live in a defeated Germany, where everything was falling to pieces already.

The gray light waned, and still he stood there as though fixed in place. When the sky gave up its last bit of reflected light, he turned and walked back to the table. He picked up the letter, folded it carefully, put it in his wallet, and left his quarters.

For long hours Manfred walked, avoiding friends and companions. When he finally came back and went to bed, he lay there all night, a bitterness and unhappiness such as he had never known, filling him.

Yet, he was amazed to find, in the middle of this unhappiness, a note of joy. He had longed to carry on the von Richthofen line, but there had been little chance of that. Now as he lay sleepless, he wondered when and how he could see Lylah again, and what he would say when he did see her.

Ludendorff's German advance plodded on. While down on the ground men were dying by the hundreds of thousands, the Richthofen wing swept the skies overhead. His men had noticed that their leader was pale and appeared to be ill, but it had not affected his flying. On March 24, he led twenty-five of his scouts into a fight with ten S.E. 5's of the 56th Squadron and shot one of them down for his group's only kill of the day. The following day he shot down a bomb-carrying Camel and claimed his sixty-ninth kill on the 26th. Later, on another patrol, he brought down his seventieth. To his squadron mates and certainly to the German public, which was following his exploits with avid interest, von Richthofen seemed like his old self. No one except his adjutant knew of the sealed envelope labeled: “Should I Not Return, Open.”

On March 27, von Richthofen downed three airplanes, his best day since the previous April. Scores of British craft fell before the blazing guns of his wing; in fact, half of the R.A.F. squadron losses that month were claimed by von Richthofen's Circus. Kill number seventy-seven, a Camel, went down on April 6, and von Richthofen said to one of his squadron leaders, “Strange, the last ten I shot down all burned, and the one I got today also burned.”

His squadron leader nodded. “If I had my choice, I'd leap to death on the ground rather than risk burning alive.”

The German advance on Amiens kept the squadron in the center of action. Below, on the ground, the German army moved forward at a rapid pace, and General Haig, the British Field Marshal, entered what became a famous order of the day: “There is no other course open to us but to fight it out! Every position must be held to the last man: there must be no retirement. With our backs to the wall, and believing in the justice of our cause, each one of us must fight on to the end. The safety of our homes and the freedom of mankind alike depend upon the conduct of each one of us at this critical moment.”

The rain continued through Saturday morning, April 20. Later that evening, in only three minutes, von Richthofen shot down his seventy-ninth and eightieth kills—two Camels. He went to bed that night, having officially killed seventy-seven men in the air, wounding nineteen and making prisoners of ten.

On Sunday morning, April 21, a mist spilled off the Somme and draped itself around the base of Jasta 11. Von Richthofen slept until almost eight o'clock, which he always liked to do when possible. He then got up and ate a light breakfast. When he stepped out of his quarters, he was greeted by a military band, sent by a local division commander to serenade him in honor of his eightieth kill.

Von Richthofen shook his head and walked away. He was hardly in the mood for a celebration. Instead, he paced the aerodrome, watching the sky and thinking of the mission that was to come. He was thinking also of the letter from Lylah. He had never received news that had shaken him more. Over and over he had explored the possibilities, but had concluded that there was no way he would ever have the child in his arms.

Glancing up, he noticed Richard Wenzel, a young pilot who had come to Jasta 11 only a month before, playing with his dog Moritz. Von Richthofen whistled to the dog, and Moritz came walking slowly up to his master, dragging a heavy wooden field chock tied to his tail, which the pilot had put there. Manfred laughed, removed the wooden bar, and embraced the grateful dog.

At that moment, he heard a faint sound and whirled to see a man snapping a picture. At once von Richthofen's mood grew grim. He did not like having his picture taken before a flight. Always he thought of Boelcke, whose photograph had been taken before his last flight; and although von Richthofen was not especially superstitious, this had stayed with him.

He turned and took the dog back, telling Wenzel to make sure he was fed. “I'll take him for a walk as soon as I get back,” he said.

Walking over to where his triplane was being warmed up, von Richthofen climbed inside and led the others into a westward climb. They were speeded on their way by a rare wind blowing toward the Allied lines. It would take them farther than they wanted to go.

Twenty-five miles from the German base was a Royal Air Force base at Bertangles. It was the same airfield where, less than a year and a half before, Lanoe Hawker had taken off to meet his death in his duel with Baron von Richthofen.

At 9:35
A.M.
, the flight of Squadron 209, led by Captain Roy Brown of Toronto, Canada, lifted off. One of its Camel pilots, Second Lieutenant Wilfred May, was on his first combat flight. May was an old friend and schoolmate of Brown's, so the flight leader advised him to avoid engaging the enemy until he could get some experience under his belt. May resolved to do as he was told, for he knew Brown was in no mood to be crossed.

Brown was not a particularly fine pilot. He had joined the Royal Naval Service in 1915 and had spent most of 1916 in the hospital. In 1917, he had been assigned to a naval squadron. When the Royal Air Force came into being, he joined 209 Royal Air Force Squadron and was given the army rank of Captain. He had joined the Navy, was now in the Air Force, and did not really like either. In fact, he hated war. He had seen many of his companions killed, had seen others' nerves shattered so that they had to be removed from active duty.