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The clink of glasses filled the room as a different mourning began. Escadrille N.3, known affectionately as the Storks, lived on a relatively clean base near the frontlines, and one of their wooden hangers provided a fitting place for Guy Janvier's memorial. The airman, although wildly popular, had been a rookie pilot. As the war intensified, L'Armée de l'Air was accepting new trainees, but the training the recruits received in turn was simply not sufficient. Life expectancy for a new pilot was less than twenty hours airtime; sadly, the statistic had held true for Janvier. While his frequent jokes and laughable antics had provided hope for the beleaguered squadron, as a pilot, he was miserable. Constantly dropping out of formation and failing to hone the minute skills needed to stay alive, the man had been caught unawares and unprepared by the German's new Fokker Dr.I aircraft; dropping out of the sun, one had riddled Janvier's plane with bullets, sending his craft tumbling to the ground behind enemy lines. Thus, the Storks had been given no chance to recover their comrade's body. With no end to the fighting in sight and given the staggering casualties of the war, Janvier's death had plunged the squadron into despondency.
Now, as the rain poured down and the sun set behind the clouds, drenching the French countryside and furthering the dark mood that circulated through his men, Captain Georges Guynemer sipped a small glass of white wine. In contrast to Janvier, Guynemer was a fabulous pilot; his kill total had only recently topped fifty, and the man was regarded as a national hero by his people. Bitterly, the ace sighed. That fame meant little to him if he could not protect his fellow pilots. Again and again, the ace attempted to teach his men what skills were needed to succeed in the deadly aerial duels in the skies above the trenches. Some of the Storks were understanding and implementing Guynemer's strategies. Others, like Janvier, were unable to grasp the technical expertise. So, the squadron again mourned the loss of a friend.
A boisterous cry filled the hanger. "My boys, do you remember Guy's Loire joke?" Eyes rolled; everyone recalled the dead pilot's decidedly uncouth quips about the ladies of the Loire valley. Guynemer cracked a smile; he had been forced to discipline Guy after the youngster had foolishly told one such joke to a visiting general, whose conservative ideals did not find the story all that funny. For all his aeronautic faults, Guy Janvier had lightened the mood around the base.
Standing, the Captain faced his men. Coughing, he addressed them. "Storks, we once again are drinking to the dead. One more bird has fallen from our flock. I, for one, am getting quite tired of the Huns' kills." Cries of agreement filled the little hanger, the raucous voices shaking dust from the forgotten tools on the back wall. "One of these days, they'll realize how foolish their little games are; soon, this war will be taken right to the heart of the enemy. Vive La France!" As he sat, cheers again filled the once-quiet room as drinks were downed like falling tears. His men usually remained strong, but if despondency fell upon them occasionally, who could blame them? The blasted war had stolen so much from them. Perhaps, in the years to come, France could help restore their spirits. This hopeful thought guided him as he raised a final glass for the night and retired. The morning would bring more tasks; two majors from French aviation headquarters would be arriving mid-afternoon the following day, and Guynemer's vengeful spirit was urging an extra patrol for the morning - revenge for Janvier would be sweeter than a stolen night of blissful drinking and remembrance.
In this dark mood, the pilot stalked away from the party, planning to sleep. Another grabbed his shoulder though, causing him to stop and turn. Jacques, the newest pilot, stared up at him. "Sir, may I walk with you?" Surprised, the captain nodded. Together, the two silently strode through the fading light, the subsiding rain dripping from every tree branch around the base. Eventually, the younger man broke the silence. "Why are we here, sir?" Guynemer barked a short, cynical laugh; within the sound lay millions of lost lives and the sorrow of countless tears. "Friend, we are here because of politics. We are at war for a national cause that no one wanted. Why do you think we're here?"
The other paused, and a great weight seemed to press down upon him, his answer catching in his throat. Finally, in a whisper, he said "I thought it was to save France and gain glory. ...That thought died months ago." Like many of the new pilots in the Armée de l'Air, Jacques had been saved from the hell of trenches and recruited into the new air force. Guynemer was certain that the man had waited to die as shells tore through the night. The boy had likely killed with his bare hands and held a dying friend as the lifeblood of another Frenchman poured out through his fingers. Oblivious to his leader's musings, the other continued. "Now, I'm not sure. Now, I fight for revenge for the ones I've seen killed. Every time another German dies, I smile happily knowing that my friends are, if only a little, appeased."
The captain paused, collecting his thoughts for a rebuttal. Like his companion, Guynemer was young, so very young. The last vestiges of childhood had been robbed from him, the war hardening his mind and soul. "Jacques, permit me to ask a traitorous question. ...Why do the Germans fight? Is it not to revenge the dead that we have slain?" The question, simple yet soul-rendingly profound, caught the other unawares; it took him several long moments to respond. "...I don't know sir. Perhaps. I know if I was born on the other side of the Rhine, I would."
Guynemer smiled sadly. "Perhaps you would, Jacques. Perhaps you would. I too find myself longing to kill the enemy just to avenge our dead. Just now, I was relishing the morning; we have an extra patrol near the line tomorrow. Chances are, the enemy won't enjoy our presence, and someone will die in the fighting. For Guy's sake, I long for it to be a German. Yet, how can I think this and maintain my humanity? Guy's mother will be weeping soon; the dispatch that will shape her life is in the post even now. Our duty is destroy the enemy's airplanes, but the men that die in those machines are the true casualties. We are knights, not assassins. How do we reconcile our mercy with our mandate? Can we blithely cause some German mother to weep as well? If you can solve that, Jacques, you can solve anything." The weight of painful memories and tired dreams flowed with the speech. The words hung in the night air for several minutes without comment. Finally, the other nodded slowly, and together, the two men walked through the night into the barracks.
Yet, as the darkness swirled around Guynemer like a struggle for breath, tortured dreams haunted the man. The burning planes of his enemy flashed before his mind's eye as they plunged towards the ground and their doom. It was not glorious, these kills; he was not a knight here. Instead, he was a butcher, and as the haggard cries of the dying floated through these scenes, the ace saw himself, as if from another's sight. He was smiling viciously, enjoying not the thrill of the chivalrous duel but rather the pain of his enemy; the dreamed aced was laughing and relishing the burning fire that engulfed his opponents' tortured bodies. It was a terrifying thought. Waking hurriedly, a shout was dragged unwillingly from the Frenchman's horrified throat.
For several minutes afterwards, the man simply lay in bed, his heart racing and his throat inexplicably dry and hoarse. Had he descended that far into darkness? Was the dream simply a mirror of the pilot's current being? Viciously, the captain thrust that terrible notion from his mind; what he had spoken to Jacques amid the gloom was just as true amid the dawn. Finally, the man rose. He shaved, attempting, in vain, to brush aside all the terrible images of the night before. With a sigh, he entered the morning, the sun just kissing the horizon. Turning towards the hanger, the pilot began ambling towards the building and his SPAD XIII aircraft inside. Gently running a hand over the smooth, polished wood of the frame, his fingers came to his personal crest. A brilliantly white Stork graced the frame. Having just launched itself into the air, the bird began to soar through a Tricolour ribbon as the pale khaki of the wood highlighted the stork's graceful angles.
"Captain!" A voice called to him from the fading gloom, rending him from his crest's trance. Turning, the ace noticed the call belonged to Jean Bozon-Verduraz, who bustle
d towards him. Like himself, the other was donned in his flying gear and prepared for combat. "Good morning," he greeted him simply. Bozon-Verduraz saluted respectfully in return. "Sir, what are the orders?"
Guynemer smiled reassuringly. He had selected the other pilot to accompany him on a patrol over the Allied lines. In spite of his comments to Jacques, the captain did not believe enemy contact to be terribly likely. As such, he hoped to offer relatively risk-less flying hours to the other pilot, who was rather new to the unit. Bozon-Verduraz showed great promise, and Guynemer hoped he would one day become a highly accomplished ace; if he survived long enough, that was actually quite likely. So together, the two would make a foray near the frontline trenches.
Explaining the particulars to his comrade, Guynemer checked his aircraft and prepared for flight. Assisted by members of the auxiliary ground crew, the engines of the duo's planes sputtered into life, dispelling innumerous birds from the surrounding trees. The dawn woke with them, and as the SPADs gracefully rushed down the open field and launched blissfully into the air, Guynemer could almost find peace in the hissing insects and quiet dewdrops of the morning. Then, as reality descended, he ensured his guns were primed and ready for use, the martial world taking hold once more.
Taking up a position around him, Bozon-Verduraz waved in acknowledgment as the two turned their crafts towards the frontline. Clouds drifted by serenely, but Guynemer knew that to where they traveled, serenity was entirely absent. As the miles passed beneath them, the ace began noticing, as ever, the stark contrast between his base and the trenches. While the airbase possessed trees and blissful fields, the frontlines were devoid of such green life. Rather, the ground was churned into an ugly, bloody, sorrow-filled mass. The ghosts of trees and men floated through this ground like maggots, and the very world seemed undone in the place - No Man's Land. Flying above this hell of mud towards the village of Poelkapelle, the two were able to avoid the inescapable death in the trenches, but their vantage point offered a complete and uninterrupted view of the carnage below; it was sickening. Even as they flew, the day's shelling was beginning once more. Flaming, howling missiles flew through the air and crashed amid the muddy trenches. Men cried out as each side began yet another day in the deadly and unforgiving monotony of the war.
Above, the pilots began their own duties. Searching for reconnaissance planes, the two made wide circles over the village and surrounding area, seeking out any enemy craft attempting to spy upon the Allied lines. As he had suspected, the captain and his wing-mate noticed nothing; there was no general offensive by the enemy, so enemy aircraft would be a rarity. Finally, as their fuel levels dropped, Guynemer made the decision to return to base. They had found nothing, and a warm breakfast would be most welcome. Besides, the captain needed to begin preparations to receive the aviation headquarters' representatives; two majors were to hold a review of the Storks later that day.
Yet, as the two lazily turned their crafts toward home, Guynemer noticed a flick of reflected sunlight in his peripherals. Signaling to Bozon-Verduraz, he made an admirable rolling turn and reversed his vector. Slowly, his wingman did as well. Flying back into the sun, the Frenchmen had to shield their eyes to see, but the leader's reversal was soon rewarded. Flying towards them loomed five spotter aircraft; the enemy machines were relatively sluggish and sported two seats for a pilot and an observer respectively. Furthermore, the fighters that generally accompanied such flights were not to be seen; perhaps they had flown off-course and were attempting to reconvene. Regardless, Guynemer gave a cry of excitement at their good fortune, and dove his plane towards the enemy.
Instantly, chaos engulfed the skies. Falling upon the spotter planes like birds of prey, Guynemer and Bozon-Verduraz unleashed a torrent of bullets, scattering the planes. Next, the dogfight began as predator chased prey, the sun offering its glowing rays in approval. Guynemer's musings the previous night came back to him as he danced through the air, unable to gain a solid victory. Even amidst the fury of flight, the captain glanced around.
He was alone.
Bozon-Verduraz had become separated and had likely climbed into the clouds in pursuit of a foe. The separation did not worry the pilot, though; he was confident in his skills, and the spotter planes did not pose a terrible threat to the speed and agility of the Frenchmen's SPAD XIIIs.
Suddenly, however, a new presence arrived amid the sky. As Guynemer chased down a spotter, dodging and weaving hurriedly, his peripherals again revealed a glistening reflection. Looking, he saw a descending pair of German fighters - Fokker Dr.I tri-planes. Swiftly, he broke off his attack on the two-seated spotter and rose to meet the new threat.
Thrillingly, the three fighters danced about, matching maneuver for maneuver in a blinding display of skill. In one pass, the Frenchman was able to catch a glimpse of one opponent's face. Although obscured by a scarf and goggles, Guynemer could tell he was young, very young. Like himself, his enemy was truly only a boy. This thought plagued him as he swung his plane around, the Stork crest flying in the morning sun. Now, the two enemies flew towards each other, youths locked in one last movement of a deadly ballet.
As the German raced towards him, the captain tightened his finger on his weapons' trigger, preparing to punch hot metal towards the onrushing tri-plane. Both men waited, saving their ammunition for a close kill, and time slowed as the two neared each other. Finally, Guynemer twitched his finger on the trigger.
But in that solitary, mournful instant, time stopped. Instead of a grey-cloaked German boy rushing at him in the wind, the Frenchman glimpsed three poignantly, overlapping images. Guy's chuckling face materialized but was followed swiftly by the haunting visage of a mourning mother, her frame shaking in grief. Finally, the pilot glimpsed his own face, smiling maliciously from the dream. All of these flashed before him without pause, and their effect was similarly swift. As a weeping breeze whistled through their air, the knights' eyes locked. Then, Georges Guynemer lifted his hand from the trigger, sacrificed his mandate for his mercy, and received the inescapable bullets of his foe.
* * * * *
"He was neither seen nor heard as he fell; his body and his machine were never found. Where has he gone? By what wings did he manage to glide into immortality? Nobody knows: nothing is known. He ascended and never came back - that is all. Perhaps our descendents will say: He flew so high that he could not come down again."
L'Illustration, October the 6th, 1917
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