The Wings of Morning (25 page)

“I didn’t say you were.” Jackson swept his hand in the air over his desk. “They did.” He snatched up a small piece of paper. “We’ve even got a cable from the White House, for heaven’s sakes. From Vice President Marshall. Congratulating you on the distinction your gallant combat has bestowed upon American arms.” The major came around from behind his desk. “In truth, I ought to court-martial you, Whetstone. For cowardice in the face of the enemy.” Jude could see anger working through the major’s face. “But I can’t. Because you’re untouchable now, you’re America’s white knight. The chivalrous fighter who wins the field and spares his enemy’s life. Everybody’s on your side—the French, the British, America, the Canadians—why, I expect to get a telegram from the Kaiser any day now telling me you’re up for their Iron Cross or Blue Max. Have you ever seen anything like it?”

“No, sir.”

“I’m not talking to you, Whetstone. Keep your mouth shut.”

Wisely, Jude did not respond.

Seething, Jackson paced the room. “It would have made my life easier if you had turned tail and run the first time you saw a German plane. Then I could have thrown you in jail as soon as I set foot on this base. But now they have credited you with every plane you forced down—two Pfalzes, Ritter’s Fokker, and a twin-seater observation plane, a Rumpler. You are one victory away from being an ace and you haven’t shed a drop of blood. It’s outrageous. You even have your squadron on your side. Well, why not? You’ve saved half of them from getting shot down.”

Jackson stopped pacing and leaned into Jude’s face. “Why didn’t you run the first time you saw a Hun plane, Amish boy?”

Jude looked straight ahead and said nothing.

“Answer me, runt!”

“I—wasn’t afraid, sir.”

“The Amish are not supposed to fight, they are not supposed to kill.”

“I haven’t killed, sir.”

“I
know
you haven’t killed! This is war and you make it seem like a schoolyard picnic. Who brings the potato salad? Who brings the fried chicken? Who brings the lemonade and the mushy peas? Who brings the
bratwurst
?” He began to pace again. “It’s all right with everyone else, but it’s not all right with me. The object is to
defeat
the enemy. Not to ask,
I’m terribly sorry, have I hurt you at all?
”

“Isn’t forcing planes down and putting the pilots in prison camps defeating the enemy?”

“Are you speaking, Whetstone?”

“No, sir.”

The major sat down at his desk. “There’s nothing I can do with you. I’d transfer you out of my squadron, but the men would probably revolt and I’d get sent back to England’s rain and bogs to sharpen pencils for colonels and generals. If I hitch my wagon to your star, as reprehensible as I find that to be, I just may wind up with a few stars of my own before this war is over.” His gray eyes burned across the room. “All right, Whetstone—you’ve dazzled the Western Front. Made Huns land on our side of the line, made them pancake in muddy fields, made them throw in the towel while you saved your men’s lives. You’re even second in command of the squadron, and I’m not going to change that. But here’s what you
will
do. You’re going to up the ante, Whetstone. Do something even more spectacular. Bigger than anything you’ve done before. And you will not shed one drop of blood. That’s an order. Not one drop. But you’ll outdo anything you have done up to now. You understand?”

“I—think so—” Jude had no idea what Jackson meant, amazed that the request wasn’t that he no longer spare the lives of his targets.

“I want someone bigger than Baron Ritter. I want more than another Pfalz landing on a wheel and a prayer by our trenches. I’d ask for von Richthofen, except he was killed in April. But you get the general idea. In short, I’m giving you permission to be Amish. I’m giving you permission to keep them alive. But make it spectacular, Whetstone. Bring me the Pegasus. That’s what I want. The Pegasus.”

With that, the major stood up flagpole straight and saluted. Jude returned the salute, turned, and began to walk out of the office.

“Whetstone!”

Jude stopped as he was opening the door and looked back. “Sir?”

“I do respect your bravery, Whetstone—your bravery. Yes, I do respect that. I just didn’t expect it to come from Lancaster County, Pennsylvania.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Oh, and…God bless you.”

Jude left the office, only to find a dozen men scatter as he appeared, including Zed, Billy Skipp, and Sharples. Only Ram Peterson, whom the squadron had nicknamed Flapjack, stood his ground.

“What’s this?” asked Jude.

Peterson grinned. “Everyone wanted to hear the old man take a strip out of your hide. Not that any of us agree with him, because we like how you fight. You always get the German and you always save one or two of us in the bargain. We admire your style.”

“So I was a dull afternoon’s entertainment?”

“You could say that.”

“Well,” mumbled Jude as he began to walk toward to his room, “I’m glad someone got something out of the afternoon’s exercise.”

Peterson walked beside him. “You don’t know what a Pegasus is, do you?”

“No.”

“It’s Greek mythology, Whetstone. A winged horse.”

“He wants me to find a winged horse?” Jude stopped and stared at him.

“Well, not literally, old boy, because, quite frankly, the Pegasus doesn’t exist. The thing is that old Ironwood wants you to do something absolutely brilliant. Something that will astonish the press, astound the enemy, rally the Allies, and make Jackson a four-star general overnight—and you the toast of the Republic.”

Jude smiled. “I see. And what might I do that would accomplish all of that?”

“I know the very thing.” His comrade leaned over and whispered in Jude’s ear. “Secret mission. Capture the Kaiser. Stuff him in your cockpit like a sausage and bring him here in irons. Right to the old man’s office. You’ll win the day if you can do that.”

Jude laughed and pushed him to the side. “Think of something hard and I might pay attention, Flapjack.” He walked on to his room.

“The courage of the early morning!” called Peterson. “Get up early and you’ll catch the Kaiser napping!”

“What do the meteorology boys say?” Jude called back over his shoulder.

“Fair stood the wind for France! Clear sky at morning! Fokkers and Albatros at two for a penny, a clutch of Pfalzes at six for a pound!”

“See you at supper, Flapjack!”

“Remember me to your wife!”

Jude woke early the next day—Tuesday, July ninth—pulled aside the curtain, and looked out the window. It was almost dawn and he could see white stars in the navy blue sky. He read a chapter from the Gospel of Luke, prayed, then dressed quickly, and headed for the mess. No one else was there except the new boy, Jack Zatt, who Flapjack called Jack Sprat because he was so skinny. They ate pancakes and bacon and eggs together and then Jude clapped him on the back and said he’d take him up later in the day.

“Would you read a verse or two from the Squadron Bible?” asked Jack.

Jude looked at the boy and saw the fear hidden behind the shyness and smile. “Why not?”

The Bible was kept on a podium at the front of the mess. It was not a tradition Jude had started. Sharples had begun it. Sometimes they read it in the evenings, sometimes at breakfast. Usually most of the crew was present when it was opened. Jude felt the boy’s anxiety was important enough to add a new wrinkle to the tradition. He flipped the thick pages of the massive old Bible and read from Psalm 23.

“‘
The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want. He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: he leadeth me beside the still waters. He restoreth my soul: he leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for his name’s sake. Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me. Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies: thou anointest my head with oil; my cup runneth over. Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life: and I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever
.’”

Jude slowly closed the Bible.

“Thank you, sir,” the boy said.

“God bless you, Jack.”

As Jude left the mess, Flapjack, Zed, Billy Skipp, and Sharples tumbled in, saw he was already on his way to his plane, bolted down their breakfasts, and got to the field just as Jude’s mechanics were pulling the chocks away from the front of the wheels and his Nieuport 28 was beginning to head down the strip and turn into the breeze.

“We’re coming up!” shouted Sharples.

“I’m headed toward Ponte-à-Moussan!” Jude yelled back. “I want to get to twenty thousand feet if I can in this old girl!”

“Right! We’ll look for you!”

For the better part of half an hour Jude egged on his Nieuport, higher and higher, but couldn’t nudge it above nineteen thousand feet. So there he stayed, his eyes on Metz and Marieulles on the German side of the lines. There was not that much activity this early. Jude twisted his neck this way and that, his white silk scarf keeping his skin from getting rubbed raw on the collar of his uniform. No one was up and about, neither friend nor foe. Warm and snug in his Teddy bear flight suit, he cruised back and forth and settled in to wait for his friends. It was, he knew, about minus fifteen degrees Celsius at that height, or five above zero Fahrenheit, and without his gear he would have been turning blue. As it was, he kept rubbing his gloved hands over his face every few minutes to drive out the sting and bite of the cold.

He saw them about fifteen minutes later—Sharples, Zed, Billy, Flapjack—and someone else. Who had they brought up with them? He was finally able to read the number on the fuselage or body of the plane—nineteen—the new pilot from Nebraska he’d had breakfast with, Flapjack’s Jack Sprat. Well, he supposed there was no time like a quiet morning over the front to get the young man acquainted with the French sky. Sunlight was falling copper-gold over the engine and propeller of his craft and he said,
Lyyndy, isn’t that beautiful?

Then from nowhere it seemed, there was a rush of wind above his head and the scream of an engine. A blue aircraft with black crosses swept over him in a steep dive, guns blazing at his companions only a thousand feet below.

In shock, Jude watched for several long seconds as the plane seemed to hang motionless above the Nieuports, blasting away parts of their wings, never stalling or collapsing into a spin. Then he thrust his joystick forward and went after the German, throwing his plane into the kind of sharp, fast dive that could rip the fabric off a Nieuport’s wings. But the German was faster and had already raced past Jude’s friends, hammering away at them the entire time, then swooped down into German territory, heading for Mars-La-Tour. Both Billy Skipp and the new boy, Jack Zatt, were spinning out of control, trailing black smoke and flame.

Frantically, Jude followed them down, hoping that one or both might level out or that the wind would snuff out their flames. From the corner of his eye he could see that the blue German aeroplane had returned just close enough to watch the fall of his victims and ensure he could claim them as victories. Billy was able to pancake his plane onto a muddy field near a string of French trenches. The nose went right into the ground and the rear of the Nieuport flipped up in the air. Jude could see Billy scramble free and sprint for the closest trench while a German machine gun fired at him. Thankfully, he made it, even waving up at Jude and indicating he was in one piece.

A mile away Jude saw Flapjack and Sharples circling the spot where Nieuport Number 19 had crashed and exploded. French troops ran toward the wreck, hoping to save the pilot. But their efforts were in vain. The young man was done for.