Valiant Volunteers: A Novel Based on the Passion and the Glory of the Lafayette Escadrille

By Terry L. Johnson

When World War I began in August 1914, a number of young Americans volunteered for service with either the Foreign Legion or one of the ambulance services. A number of them entered French Aviation. An even smaller number formed Nieuport 124, a squadron of American pilots commanded by French officers, the famous Lafayette Escadrille. This is the beginning of their story...

"Bottom line...this is a great book and I'd like to share it with the Air Force's top leadership." General T. Michael Moseley, Chief of Staff of the Air Force. July 24, 2006.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Nov 3, 2005
• ISBN: 9781463475666

Terry L. Johnson

Terry L. Johnson is a retired Army Officer and a graduate of the United States Military Academy at West Point. He served twenty-five years as an artilleryman and aviator, with combat tours as a helicopter pilot in Vietnam and Desert Storm. During Desert Storm he had a French Combat Helicopter Regiment under his brigade. He also provided the armed escort and flew General Schwarzkopf to the peace talks at Safwan, Iraq. He is a co-author of Certain Victory, The US Army in the Gulf War. He is currently working as a Senior Military Analyst writing future concepts for the Army. He resides with his family in the Tidewater region of Virginia. Please visit his web page at www.valiantvolunteers.com

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Contents

Prologue

Part One

Chapter 1

Painful Decision

Chapter 2

Buck’s Farewell

Chapter 3

Heroic Rescue

Chapter 4

Safety in Numbers

Chapter 5

All’s Well That Ends Well

Chapter 6

England at Last

Part Two

Chapter 7

Ah Paree

Chapter 8

A Growing Passion

Chapter 9

Revelations

Chapter 10

More Revelations and an Assault

Chapter 11

Ambulances

Chapter 12

Enlistment

Part Three

Chapter 13

Bloody Baptism

Chapter 14

La France est nôtre mère!

Chapter 15

An Amorous Interlude

Chapter 16

The Devil’s Own Playground

Chapter 17

Tous et tout pour la France

Chapter 18

Treachery Between the Trenches

Chapter 19

A Different Betrayal

Chapter 20

New Friends, More Action

Chapter 21

Revelations

Chapter 22

Crossed Paths

Part Four

Chapter 23

Courage and Competence

Chapter 24

Marie-Louise

Chapter 25

Tempted to Fly

Chapter 26

Outrage

Chapter 27

Bigger Than Life

Chapter 28

Time to Tackle the Air, but Penguins Can’t Fly

Chapter 29

Success and Seduction

Part Five

Chapter 30

Near Misses, Naked Mrs.

Chapter 31

Excellency, war is hell

Chapter 32

Boats, Guns, and Bombs

Chapter 33

An Antidote to Civilization

Chapter 34

Pour Les Siècles Des Siècles

Chapter 35

Out of the Sun, Pushing up Daisies in Hunland

Chapter 36

Unfriendly Fire in the City of Light

Chapter 37

L’Escadrille Américaine Finalement Approuvé

Chapter 38

Willingly to Death’s Door

Part Six

Chapter 39

More Than a Pampered Vacation

Chapter 40

Mavericks

Chapter 41

Bloody Strings of Victories

Chapter 42

Sweet Convalescence

Chapter 43

Victor Goes West

Chapter 44

Best of the Best

Chapter 45

Revenge and Rockets

Part Seven

Chapter 46

And the Last Enemy is Death

Chapter 47

Bye Bébés, New Baby

Chapter 48

Nightmares Realized

Chapter 49

No After the War?

Chapter 50

A Cachet, Mascots and Mishaps

Chapter 51

Lafayette Finalement

Chapter 52

Beginnings and Endings

Chapter 53

Spads and Bad Press

Chapter 54

Hails and Farewells

Part Eight

Chapter 55

Misery Shared

Chapter 56

A Good Stiff Lip for the Old Pal’s Sake

Chapter 57

A Birthday, a Jilting, and a Stunning Loss

Chapter 58

L’attaque À Outrance

Chapter 59

America Acts

Chapter 60

Ham

Chapter 61

Spring Interlude

Chapter 62

Heeby Jeebies

Chapter 63

Gone East?

Epilogue

Principal Characters

Acknowledgements

Afterward

About the Author

Endnotes

To My Wife, Ginny

When men who have no obligation to fight, who could not possibly be criticized if they did not fight—yet nevertheless decide upon their own individual initiative to risk their lives in defense of a cause they hold dear—then we are in the presence of true heroes. The young Americans who entered the Légion Etrangère and the Escadrille Américaine are in every sense heroes, and France owes them all the homage that word implies.

French General Henri Gourard

One-armed, one-legged hero of the Dardenelles

Prologue

Charlie tasted dirt in his mouth. His head throbbed though he couldn’t hear anything but a faint howling. Spitting and choking, he tried to get up, brushing the wet warm gunk from his eyes. Blue sky above, have to move, his mind shouted, but something heavy held him in place. He pushed frantically struggling to move his limbs. Once he snorted his nostrils clear, the stench gagged him. Wriggling his head and shoulders free he saw a heavy timber across his chest. It was embedded in the ground grotesquely impaling the lower half of a torso. Charlie retched. Could that be me? Am I dead, dying?

Gulping the foul air, Charlie heaved at the timber. The revolting sight curiously fascinated him. Thick wood stuck up obscenely from the crotch. Still confused, Charlie focused on the source of the smell, shredded entrails, likely his own.

Spitting and thrashing he tried to clear his eyes. Why didn’t it hurt, he wondered? Hands clawed at his face. Figures appeared. Deep within him something demanded action. Dead or alive, mutilated or whole, he had to fight for the light. He saw the timber rise trailing a pair of legs still wrapped in puttees and wearing boots. God the stink, Charlie thought. Is this what we are reduced to?

Staring back at him, an incongruous blue sky glaring pure and unstained. Death? Was he caught between life and death? Each labored breath stung of bile and that horrible smell. Lord, have mercy on me!

He began to wonder how he could live without half his body. Someone was digging, tossing chunks of material and dirt off him. Charlie slipped momentarily into self-pity. This wasn’t new. He’d seen enough of it happening to others. Time to make peace with God. Not too late, never too late.

Time slowed. Waves of despair rolled over him. He couldn’t quit, but seeing his torn body and smelling his own entrails made him long to sleep, to escape somehow. Why it didn’t hurt baffled him. He squeezed his eyes shut, concentrating, trying to feel the pain that had to be there.

Nothing.

He forced his eyes open. Across the robin’s egg blue moved a single object with bright circles of color on its extremities. A flying machine, his brain registered.

As his rescuers dug, his thoughts shifted to soaring above the muck. He imagined being astride an airborne mount moving freely in all dimensions unrestrained by walls of dirt.

"Allez-y," someone commanded, the voice coming as if through a cloth.

"Affreuse!"

"Allez cochons, a voice of authority urged, il n’y a pas du temps!"

Time for what? Charlie thought. The feint trace of the single aircraft, now out of sight, pushed him past imagination until he was flying high in the sky birdlike—angelic. Yes! Like an angel.

Water, you fool! Clean him off. Mother of God! What in heaven’s name have we wrought?

"Get out of the way, Aumonier! This one’s not ready for you."

Goddamn chaplains! someone shouted. Always in the way, but never there when you need them.

Watch your tongue soldier, the priest said. Even here in the trenches the Lord hears your wickedness.

Blast the Lord!

Jesus, have mercy on this blasphemer, the chaplain muttered, helping lift Charlie free from the muck

He’s in one piece unlike poor Baudin. Lucky soul. Such a blast! Sheared the top off the bunker and cut Baudin….

Shut up and help me get him up! He’s choking on something.

Baudin, no doubt, another soldier noted with typical Legion coarseness.

Don’t you pigs ever show respect for the dead, the priest lamented? When your time comes I hope one of us is there to commend your soul to the Lord.

"To the devil, you say! Get away, pretre! Take your oils and water somewhere else. This mec is more important to us than to your God right now. The boches don’t give a piss for your prayers. Quick! Splash some water in his face and put a Lebel in his hand. Ils arrivent!"

Charlie grasped the rifle thrust into his hands dumbfounded. Someone pulled on his harness jerking him upright and thrusting him forward to the collapsed edge of the trench. Somehow he found legs beneath him. Raising the rifle, he began to fire blindly, automatically at the blurry field gray forms moving towards him. Shoot, shoot, reload, shoot…his training took over.

Though exhausted and stunned by the artillery barrage, Charlie’s platoon easily repelled the feeble German counterattack. When the threat subsided Charlie sank to the ground and tried unsuccessfully to sort out his fortune. The process was severely hampered by his powerful impression of already being mortally wounded.

Charlie Keeler shuddered as he brushed at the pieces of flesh and bone still clinging to his uniform. What a fragile thing the human form, he thought. What a fragile hold on life we have!

This was his fourth sortie into the front line trenches and the first since Rejik’s treachery the night before. Tomorrow he would go to another regiment. Tomorrow, he thought. Minutes ago I was mourning my mutilation and pending death. Tomorrow. Oh sweet Jesus! What am I doing here? Why didn’t I accept the chance to fly? Even as he thought it, he felt remorse. He’d come to fight, hadn’t he? He’d proven himself well enough, but maybe it was time to make a change.

Nearby, the same day, after the German counterattack.

Jack Buck watched a poilu with a huge hole in his thigh being lifted on his stretcher into the back of his Ford ambulance. The man, clearly in great pain, kept reaching down and pointing, saying, "n’oubliez pas ma Rosalie!" Thinking he was trying to get the brancardiers to get a message to his wife or girlfriend, Jack smiled empathetically. When he began to close up the back, though, the man became agitated and yelled even louder for his Rosalie. Finally, one of the French stretcher-bearers handed Jack the poilu’s bayonet, saying: "Voilà Rosalie!" The man relaxed as soon as Jack placed the bayonet on his stretcher. Funny just what they cling to, he thought.

During another run that same day; Jack’s ambulance stalled just a short distance from the poste de secours. He got out and began to work on the engine when the loud crack and thump of incoming artillery sent him scurrying for the nearest ditch. Landing on something soft, he rolled over to find he was on top of a little girl! She had braided hair with red ribbons and a sweet look on her face. He hadn’t seen her when he had pulled up. She shouldn’t have been there in the first place!

Her fixed expression disturbed him. Hoping he hadn’t hurt her, he touched her cheek and shook her shoulder. She didn’t respond, her eyes staring straight ahead as if she couldn’t see him. When he shook her again he saw she lay in a puddle of blood. Turning her as gently as he could, he nearly gagged when he saw the gaping hole in her back. She must have been picking flowers at the roadside when the shell carried away most of her spine. Jack cried unashamedly as he leaned over her, thinking of his little sisters back in Minnesota, thanking God they were not in this hell.

Impossibly, the motor fired immediately when he cranked the handle. He lifted the child’s broken body, laying it carefully on one of the stretchers, his eyes still filled with tears as he turned around to return to the nearby village.

Someone found her mother, an attractive young woman. On seeing her daughter bleeding and lifeless on the stretcher, the woman began to wail. Jack felt immense pity. A man standing nearby took his arm and pulled him aside telling him that the girl’s father had been killed early in the war. The child had gone out to pick flowers to dry and send to her papa every day, refusing to believe he was gone.

A growing rage welled up in him. His anger could be directed at no one in particular, not even the Germans. French artillery killed equally indiscriminately. Still, the French hadn’t invaded Germany. Seeing such suffering shamed him deeply. He had carefully built a shell of indifference to fend off such feelings. Now he was embarrassed to have acted so detached. Jack had changed in two months driving ambulances. He felt impelled to do more.

Soon after the incident McConnell asked, Why the long face, Jack?

"Jim, it’s bad enough seeing soldiers suffer and die, but, the girl and her mother?

Tough finding her like that, Jim said.

She was the same age as my sister. Jim, either my nerves are getting frayed or I’m losing my senses. I’m starting to think like you. I’ve got to do more to help these people.

I’ve said it before. I can’t stand playing the non combatant much longer myself, Jim observed, smiling at his younger friend.

Did I tell you that my motor started right up after the shelling? It was eerie, Jim. Like God stopped it there for a reason. Am I getting mystic or something?

"You and the rest of the section. You wouldn’t believe George. The other day he had to huddle in a dugout with a bunch of French soldiers during a barrage. Several of the poilus were wounded, waiting to go out on George’s car. One, seriously wounded in the chest, struggled to breathe and shouted he was about to die.

"George says another brancardier came in a few minutes later and knelt down with what George thought was a hypodermic. Instead, he opened a little bottle and a booklet, heard the soldier’s confession, and gave him Extreme Unction—isn’t that what you Catholics call the last rites?"

Jack nodded, forgetting about himself as he listened. So the guy wasn’t a stretcher-bearer after all?

Not unless you papists have just anyone doling out your precious sacraments, McConnell said. Anyway, the man calmed down instantly according to George. Can you beat that?

Jack just shook his head.

Now as if that wasn’t enough, McConnell continued, "our George—you know the same guy that never said a word for hours on end—said that the dirty little dugout with the dirty stinking poilus suddenly became—what were his words? Oh yeah, ‘big and awesome, and filled with a breath of something more than mere life or death, or war, or human meddlings.’ Now, tell me, Jack, can you picture George saying anything like that?"

Buck just sat there. Masters was quite content to tend to the wounded. He had something mystical about him, yet there was something hidden in the man, something related to the story Mac just told. Jack couldn’t put a finger on it, but it made him think even more about getting off the sidelines.

He and McConnell had talked about flying before. Doctor Gros was after all the American drivers to give it a shot.

Let’s do it Jim, Jack said voicing the thought they both had.

Enlist? Leave this mercy mission to the likes of Masters? You haven’t even seen a flying machine up close, Jack.

So what if I haven’t?

I told you I’ve had a couple of lessons, McConnell said, smiling. If your driving is any indication, you shouldn’t need more than that, but you know what happens if we wash out? It’s the trenches for sure and I’m not too keen on mud if you know what I mean.

Jack knew precisely what big Jim McConnell meant. Enlisting in the Legion meant not being able to go back to driving or unvolunteer from the war like they could now. It was a big step. It was hard to picture Jim as a simple soldier. There was something of the knight about him. Jim. You behave like a Christian but you don’t go to church. How do you feel about dying?

Getting philosophical like George, are you? Jim said lighting up a cigarette. He paused like he had to think about it before continuing. "It’s pretty much all the same to me. I mean, I really don’t have any specific religion. Oh they filled me full of the Sunday school stuff, and I know what the inside of the Bible looks like—got a good shot of that in college philosophy. I can’t see myself being comforted by a priest or anyone else praying over me when I go let alone after I’m gone. More power to those who need it, he said before adding quickly, No offense to you, Jack."

So you don’t believe in life after death?

It isn’t that I don’t. It’s just that I don’t know and pretty much don’t care. I mean, if I do my part and have to face Saint Peter or God in the end I figure I have as much right to heaven as those bastards who thump the Bible and then go out and commit every sort of sin you can imagine.

I hope you’re right, Mac. I hope you’re right, Jack said looking closely into McConnell’s blue eyes. What Jim said didn’t track with what Jack knew from catechism, but it made more sense now than it would have back in the comfort of home. Driving ambulances or soldiering, their chances of dying were high. The dead girl drove that point home. He couldn’t shake the image of her sweet expression. Well, she knows, he decided.

Flying would make him a combatant, but it didn’t seem to matter anymore. He felt committed. He and Mac agreed they’d enlist on their next rotation back to Paris. What had started as a noble adventure for Jack had turned into a personal crusade.

Part One

Getting There

La Traversée

No person within the territory and jurisdiction of the United States shall take part, directly or indirectly, in the war, but shall maintain strict and impartial neutrality.

Woodrow Wilson

August 3, 1914

Chapter 1

Painful Decision

The Keeler Residence, Saint Louis, Missouri, December, 9 1914

Dad, I’m enlisting in the Foreign Legion, Charles Andrew Keeler announced with more confidence than he felt. He lowered the Saint Louis Herald, thinking about Kiffin and Paul Rockwell, North Carolina brothers who volunteered in August along with forty-one other Americans. The article praised the volunteers, explaining that by joining the Foreign Legion they could do their part for liberty without sacrificing their citizenship.

Charlie worried about President Wilson’s strict proscription against violating United States neutrality in the now four month old European war. He’d toyed with the idea all fall. When the news of Germany’s attack on the French reached them it stirred up deep passions in the heavily ethnic neighborhoods of Saint Louis. Charlie knew he was going to join, but dreaded his father’s reaction.

It was his twentieth birthday. Maybe that would help him break the news.

Charlie, his father said through a puff of fragrant pipe smoke, it’s only one more year until you graduate. What the devil are you thinking? Been listening to the LaClède crowd again?

He waved his free hand dismissively and stated with a note of finality, Not our war. Old Wilson swore to keep us out of this mess. Where’s your common sense, anyway? The Legion? That’s a hard bunch, kid! Criminals and ne’er-do-wells. They’d chew you up the first day.

Charlie, tired of college, tired of working to pay for books and tuition, and even more tired of increasing criticism at home, yearned to escape. Nothing he did pleased his father since beginning his junior year at Washington University. The LaClède comment made him wonder if his father was leaning with the many immigrants working for the Busch family.

The war riled both French and German factions in Saint Louis. Brewery boss Adolphus Busch, Charlie’s part-time employer, kept a low profile, though he left his wife in Germany when the hostilities began. Within days of the news of war, German and French sympathizers began parading the streets. In a city ironically established by the French, German flags, German music, and German food were everywhere evident. The police force—heavily German and Irish—maintained an unsteady peace with French agitators. Charlie knew that many locals on both sides had answered their native countries’ mobilization calls, often sailing on the same ship. In the Keeler household his father espoused neutrality, while his mother quietly supported her native France.

So, Charlie, John Keeler said jabbing with the pipe, you’ll stay, finish college, get a decent job, and forget about sticking your nose in somebody else’s business.

Angry and frustrated, Charlie muttered, I already quit school, dad.

You what? his father said, his face reddening. You quit! he growled menacingly, evidently drunk, something that had begun to spiral out of control since August.

I leave tomorrow.

"We’ll see about that, dummkopf!" Charlie would have welcomed a slap rather than the tongue-lashings, not that it would have mattered now.

Angelique Keeler understood why John couldn’t sleep, why he drank to escape unpleasant memories and his gnawing conscience, but he’d forbade her telling the children the story of his flight from Germany.

Prussia, 1884

A piercing scream woke him with a shock. His brothers were away at the academy, leaving him alone in the room. Hearing his mother wailing downstairs, he grabbed a poker from the fireplace and crept barefoot down the stairs prepared to do battle.

His mother, her head on her arms, wept at the table. An officer—a general he had seen before—stood on the other side of the table holding one of those spiked helmets that had seemed so thrilling last summer.

He crept up to his mother touching her shoulder tentatively. She lifted her head slowly, her eyes red and swollen.

Johann, your father’s gone, she moaned, wrapping her arms around his neck.

It was a terrible night, but the funeral a week later was worse. His uncles wore their dress tunics bedecked with medals that clanked when they moved. His brothers looked stoically sharp in their cadet uniforms. It all should have made young Johann proud, but he felt empty and frightened by the changes in his mother.

She begged him to run away before they forced him into uniform. He didn’t dare mention it to his brothers or uncles. Service in the Prussian Army was a noble Keller family tradition. He remembered the thrill of seeing rank upon rank of men in spiked helmets swaying with Prussian precision, every impossibly glossy boot striking the cobblestones in unison. The shiny swords, bright buttons, and flashing bayoneted rifles had dazzled his youthful eyes. He and his friends ran alongside, idolizing the troops, longing for the day they could join them. Why would his mother deny him such glory?

Ingrid, forty-five, was six months pregnant. A week after burying her husband she went into premature labor. His brothers tried to tell him later when they were called home on emergency leave what had happened. Stillborn, they said. Our sister never took a breath. After they went back to school, he moved in with his aunt to wait for his mother to recover. She never did.

Ignoring his mother’s plea, Johann entered the military academy. His brothers before him had excelled at riding, fencing, and tactics, and were well remembered by the faculty. Johann won academic honors but showed little aptitude in martial arts.

His aunt and a professor of mathematics urged him to enter the university at seventeen rather than accept a commission. By then, the luster of service had dulled and Johann, remembering his mother’s entreaty, decided to break family tradition. His brothers wouldn’t hear of it.

You will do your duty, university or not, or you are no brother to us! Father’s estate is in our names as is the land owned by mother. You will get your share the day you are commissioned or not at all….

Johann simply could not embrace his older brothers’ enthusiasm for things military. After earning a degree in mathematics and foreign languages, he decided his inheritance, however substantial, was not reason enough to waste his life in uniform, but there was no easy way to escape the familial bonds and Prussian duty ethic.

A courageous circuitous trip landed him penniless in New Orleans in 1894 where he became John Keeler. His prestigious diploma meant little in the swirling excitement of the Louisiana port. Working his way north, John refined his English. When he arrived in Saint Louis, he found work tutoring for a number of wealthy German families. He soon met Angelique who taught piano to one of his pupils.

Their romance, fueled by their common flight from unsympathetic families, grew quickly. Both felt a need to integrate as rapidly as possible in America. Hard work and never looking back helped their marriage to flourish, but when the guns began to roar, so did the past in John’s troubled mind.

For all he knew, Charlie’s father sprang full-grown from the fairytale Black Forest before landing in America. He knew his father had a degree from the old country, but everything else before the immigration was shrouded in secrecy.

Charlie and Jennifer knew more about their mother. She still corresponded with relatives in France. All of her male cousins and uncles were already in uniform. An aunt had recently written of Uncle Bertrand Toussaint’s terrible wound in the Marne battle. The children had heard stories about how Bertrand and his mother grew up together in Provence—more fairytale in the colorful telling than their father’s imagined origins.

The tone of her father’s conversation with Charlie disturbed Jennifer. She whispered, hoping not to aggravate the situation, Charlie, how on earth do you expect to get to France? You don’t have two coins to rub together.

Charlie could not get over the fact that this pudgy little baby had bloomed into a beauty. Though two years separated them, they were like twins in sentiment if not physique. Whereas Charlie was burly, Jennifer was slender, almost coltish. Her hair was fine, straight, and the color of pale straw while Charlie’s was darker and unruly. The Keeler children had their father’s penetrating blue eyes and an electric sense of empathy from their mother.

I’ll hop a freight train to New Orleans and hitch a ride on a merchantman, he replied a little weakly.

John Keeler said little at dinner. He gulped his wine, refilling his glass frequently. While Jennifer cleared away the dinner plates and went to fetch the birthday cake, Charlie turned to his mother and said, Mom, I have something to tell you. His father glared smugly, as unprepared for his wife’s reaction as he was for Charlie’s earlier announcement.

Angelique saw the exchanges between her husband and children, wondering if it had something to do with the girls Charlie seemed to have to fight off. Guessing, she asked, Who is it this time, Betsy or Julie?

Never mind them, mom, Charlie, answered, quickly blurting out, I’m leaving tomorrow for the Foreign Legion. He flinched at her gasp and the squeal of her chair scraping the floor.

She threw back her shoulders saying: Mon Dieu c’est un Toussaint!

Charlie watched his mother breathe deeply, her bosom rising, a flush reddening her face. Mindful of his father’s reaction, he braced for an angry outburst.

Angelique made an effort to compose herself before rising majestically. Charlie got up automatically. She came to him and placed her arms on his shoulders. What she did next surprised them all. She rose on her toes and moved her right cheek to Charlie’s left kissing him lightly before swinging gently to the other side to kiss him there. She held her son at arm’s length looking up to the boy who towered over her.

"You make me so fiere! Je suis fiere de toi! You understand? Of course you do. I am so proud!"

The tense moment lingered until tears filled her eyes. "You must finish college, bien sûr, but there will be time later. Oh, but I should be ashamed to want you to go! No! You mustn’t leave, but la France, my poor France…."

Charlie ventured a look over her shoulder at his father who remained sitting watching them incredulously, shaking his head.

The next day Charlie set off with a little money from his mother, a knitted scarf from Jennifer, and a small bag packed with changes of clothes and every pair of socks his mother could find. You’ll need these, she’d insisted. "You must write! I’m sorry you cannot ask my family for help, but if you really need it, remember the name Toussaint. They are good people."

His father didn’t even say goodbye.

Chapter 2

Buck’s Farewell

Buck Residence, Minneapolis, Minnesota, Thursday, November 26, 1914

Snow covered the walkway and lay lightly on the hood of the Pierce Arrow. Jack fussed with the levers and switches, wondering how it would handle in the snow. It was a fine machine, painted forest green with black trim. There were only two in the city, and this one belonged to the company where he worked.

Jack fingered the ticket in his jacket pocket, playing his half-baked idea over again in his mind. Get to Chicago on the Milwaukee Line the day after Thanksgiving. It was as far as he’d gotten—the first leg of a trek that he hoped would lead him to a job as a volunteer ambulance driver in France. Just the thought of leaving made him sick at heart, but he’d show her.

Three years of on-again, off-again romance. He’d tried everything to make it work, but he never really had a chance.

Jack, she had said avoiding his eyes, "it isn’t just my parents this time. I can’t fight them and my church…."

Listen Sandy, we’ve been through all this a thousand times, he’d tried to reply.

Stop! She shouted, clenching her fists and shaking her head. Her short blond curls vibrated. Her mouth twisted unattractively, the lips he loved to kiss pinched white. What do I have to do to make you listen? It won’t work! It could never work. It’s not you…but it is too. What do I have to do? Say I’m in love with someone else?"

Cut it out! Don’t even joke about that. Sandy, that’s not you! We’re in love, or I thought we were. I know I am. What more do we need?

Jack, you are so damned pig-headed!

He smiled, cutting her off by putting his hand to her lips before she could finish. Why keep harping on it not working? We can make it work, religion or not! She touched his cheek tenderly, shaking her head. Then she turned and rushed to catch the streetcar, anxious to escape hurting him.

Early in high school, circumstances threw Jack and Sandy together. He found her impossibly attractive with her long legs, blond curly hair, and pixyish smile. She was the most vivacious girl in their class. She encouraged him and flirted openly with him, but they never went on a real date. She was Baptist. He was Roman Catholic. Her parents loved Jack as long as he was no more than a good friend.

Working together on the class play, in choir, and in classes their senior year increased Jack’s passion, and she did little to discourage him until the Prom. Jack was crushed when he learned she was going with Dennis Burns. Dennis had the lead in the play. Dennis played trumpet. Dennis was Baptist.

Jack almost gave up until the senior class trip right before graduation. Sandy sat with him on the train, not with Dennis. They began with their usual interplay, joking, laughing, touching each other in that flirtatious game that sends such a thrill through the players. Soon they were kissing tentatively in the darkened railcar. By the end of the trip Jack was in a state of besotted euphoria, convinced Sandy loved him as much as he did her.

He had spent hours in the library reading everything about other religions he could find. After graduation, he approached her parents politely to talk about dating Sandy. Infused with an innocent sense of ecumenical enthusiasm, Jack pleaded with them. They were very fond of Jack and unwilling to hurt him. Nevertheless, they left no doubt that they would oppose any romantic relationship with all their parental influence. Sandy’s mother had a hard time letting him down, but she tried to make their point by relating a family scandal caused by a mixed religion marriage.

But, this is different ma’am! He protested futilely, leaving later in the uncomfortable knowledge that the only way to Sandy would be over her parents’ objections.

Only slightly daunted, Jack pursued Sandy throughout the summer, discreetly arranging to be together in public places. Jack, I can’t believe you talked to my parents like that! They can’t stop talking about what a nice and sincere guy you are.

Great! Then they shouldn’t mind me taking you out, he smiled with that crooked smirk that all the girls loved.

Jack, they made it pretty clear that if we keep it friendly things would be fine.

"What does that mean to you, Sandy? Is our kissing friendly?"

At the University the next two years Jack did everything he could to see Sandy. He hung around the Student Union hoping to catch a glimpse of her. He went to the department store where she worked every chance he got to say hello and ask her to go out for an ice cream or coffee. Sandy seemed to welcome his pursuit, but she assiduously avoided anything that would alarm her folks.

His work at the Cartage Company down below the Lowry Bridge kept him busy and paid for his tuition and books. He had shown a penchant for driving horse-drawn wagons and Ford trucks, and they loved him at the company. Nights he hauled newsprint delivered from mills up north while attending classes at the University of Minnesota during the day. It gave him precious little time to woo Sandy.

Jack loved hanging around the Tribune offices after delivering a load at their docks. One day he saw a poster soliciting volunteers to drive ambulances in France. The ad said all comers would be welcome. Healthy men from nineteen to thirty had only to report to the Cunard Lines office in New York City for guaranteed passage. He didn’t think much about it at the time.

Jack wanted to write for the Tribune after graduating, but Rowan, the city editor, told him he was too unsophisticated. No life’s experiences, sonny, he said. Come back and see me when you have a degree, or get some traveling under your belt. See the world.

Jack had worked his way through almost three years at the university. He wrote small pieces for The Gopher Gazette, but he wanted more. He figured Sandy’s parents might soften their stance if he could make a name for himself. Sandy seemed to agree, giving him hope.

Then the blow fell. He’d just come home from work and was sitting down to the dinner his mom had re-warmed for him. Jack, have you read the paper? his mother asked gently.

No. Something new on the war in Europe? he asked, savoring the stuffed cabbage. His mother’s face was incredibly sad. He thought someone important must have died. What is it, mom?

Sorry, Jack. I’m sure you didn’t know. This is a terrible way to find out.

Find out what, mom? For crying out loud, what’s the fuss?

She reached behind her to the counter and handed him the paper folded open to the page in question, not saying anything. He set his fork down and quickly noted that it was the society page. There at the bottom was a short announcement reading Noslen-Burns to Marry. His eyes flew to the words in disbelief hoping against hope that there could be another Noslen and another Burns in Minneapolis.

New York City, December 18, 1914

After the incessant click-clack of the wheels, the conductor’s shout of Grand Central, end of the line, woke Jack. He stepped off the train into the cavernous maw of the station, and gawked at the pigeons flying about the vaulted ceilings. Steam and the press of bodies created a heavy atmosphere redolent of cigar smoke and roasting chestnuts. He looked around trying to get oriented.

Standing there, he reflected on how quickly the past three weeks had gone. The image of snow-covered woods in Wisconsin racing by the window remained etched in his memory. Chicago did not seem very different from Minneapolis, just bigger and dirtier, and now he was dead center in New York City. He should have been excited but the thought of Sandy’s engagement still ate at his heart.

Chicago had been a great diversion. Aunt Bernice and Uncle Jerry put him up at their lakeside home. Jerry Brunnell ran a very successful distribution business in Chicago dealing mostly in pies and cakes. When they learned of his intent to drive ambulances, the Brunnells, dedicated Lutheran pacifists, promised to buy his ticket to New York, solving that problem for Jack.

His older cousin, Annette, took him on the elevated train into the city. She had babysat him when her parents lived in Minneapolis, but now she wrote for the Chicago Tribune. He went on assignment with her to cover a fatal apartment fire. They arrived at the General Hospital behind the ambulance taking the woman to the morgue. Not much of a story there, Annette explained, but it was close to Christmas and there were some parentless children involved.

Hey, Buck, aren’t you after going to drive a meat wagon? their Irish driver asked him.

Yeah, Rory, why do you ask?

Dunno, though you might be interested to hear this was the first hospital in the country to use motorized ambulances.

Jack, surprised at the driver’s knowledge, took the bait, You don’t say!

Jack me boy, you’ll be a-wanting the likes of a gombeen man like me where you’re headed. Jack smiled when Rory stepped aside uncovering a large plaque testifying to the initiation of motor ambulance service at Morgan General Hospital in 1899!

When it came time to board the train for New York, Jack felt a powerful reluctance to leave at all. He was already homesick. His heart ached over Sandy, and Annette told him she could get him a job on her paper if he decided to stay. It had been a strong temptation, but he needed to do something big to show Sandy what a mistake she’d made.

Now Jack found himself on Madison Avenue. His reminiscing evaporated in the face of his current reality. He slipped back into the station to check his suitcase, figuring on some exploring before heading to the piers.

Compared to the sub-freezing temperatures he had left in Minneapolis and Chicago, New York seemed balmy. He opened his heavy coat and took off his hat as he strolled down Madison Avenue away from the station. Craning his neck, the closely packed tall buildings reaching for the sky like the straight pines back home made him feel dizzy. It occurred to him to check with someone on the whereabouts of the Cunard office before wandering too far. A policeman suggested taking a hack or the subway, as it was a long walk. He gave Jack an address on the Lower West Side of Manhattan at Pier 52.

Suddenly the enormity of what he was doing crashed in on him. He felt very lonely, and not nearly as adventurous as he had at the outset. Exploring no longer seemed like such a good idea. Every blond woman he saw reawakened a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. After retrieving his grip, he hailed a horse-drawn taxi, worried he’d lose his nerve if he didn’t get to the docks immediately.

How much to take me to the Cunard Lines, sir?

That’ll be a buck sonny and two bits fer yer bag. Hop in, ain’t got all day y’know, replied the cabby, a dark-skinned man with a huge mustache and a strong accent Jack couldn’t decipher.

Moving marginally slower than the gaggle of automobiles on the streets, they arrived at the pier in twenty minutes. After Jack produced $1.25 in correct change at the Cunard curbside, the cabby held out his hand gesturing for more. Hesitating in confusion, Jack rummaged in his pocket, drew out a few pennies, a nickel, and a fishing hook that was stuck in the lining. Leaving all but the hook in the outreached hand, he quickly turned away and ran smack into the largest woman he had ever seen in his life.

Is this here hack spoken for Mac? she bellowed, catching Jack by the front of his shirt as he bounced off her. The driver, probably afraid the woman who weighed every bit of 300 maybe 400 pounds would break his axle, decided to settle for the meager tip and skedaddle. The woman shrieked, grabbed the rear post of the cab, stopping it dead. Jack almost fell over laughing when the nag pulling the hack, in clear defiance of tugging any more at the harness, raised her tail, peed a huge stream, and then dropped a load.

Jack backed away from the curb chuckling. He made his way inside the elaborate Cunard building and approached the nearest counter to ask about the volunteer program.

The uniformed attendant looked at Jack as if he had leprosy. ‘Ave you got no sense, sir?’ ‘Tis bloody ‘ell on the continent! Gaw ‘ome is wha’ aye say.

Jack understood the part about going home, but he pressed on. After much head shaking and finger wagging, Jack found himself in front of a pair of desks, one covered with a British Union Jack and the other with the French tri-color. Propped up on a stand behind the desks was a colorful poster announcing:

BRAVE VOLUNTEERS WELCOME!

THEIR MAJESTIES, THE KING AND QUEEN OF ENGLAND OFFER THEIR COMPLIMENTS AND GRATEFULLY ACCEPT YOUR SERVICE.

The absence of any reference to ambulance drivers alarmed Jack.

Mingling with a handful of other would-be volunteers, Jack heard that some had been there for weeks, and that the last ship that had taken any volunteers had left days ago. On top of his earlier sense of homesickness and near panic, this was not good news. He wasn’t prepared to stay in the city for any length of time.

Just then a familiar well-dressed man walked up. Haviland had boarded the train in Chicago. College stickers on each other’s suitcases marked them as fellow Minnesotans. They’d only exchanged names before getting on different cars.

Buck isn’t it? Haviland reached out to take Jack’s hand. What a joy to see a fellow Minnesotan in this Sodom and Gomorrah of a city. Hey! How did you get here?

Jack sheepishly described his aborted attempt at tourism, and related the curbside episode colorfully enough to get Haviland to laughing uproariously.

Willis Haviland looked every bit the world traveler in his neat wool suit and bowler hat. He was a very handsome man, even by Jack’s limited understanding of what that meant.

Aren’t you a bit young for this? Haviland asked softly, sizing up Jack. In spite of his broad shoulders and height, Jack’s baby face made him appear younger than his twenty years.

To drive ambulances? Jack responded, not feeling obligated to prove his age. I saw an advertisement in Minneapolis. It said Cunard was offering free passage for ambulance volunteers. Is that why you’re here?

No. I thought about it, but in order to fly I understand the Legion is the way to go.

Fly? Wow! You do that?

Well, I haven’t even ridden in an aeroplane, but I hear it is possible to get trained and qualified right there in France. Read it in ‘Heroes of the Air.’ Anyway, I don’t think these folks give a crap as long as it’s to help the cause. What’s the latest on the ship? Willis looked around acting as if he knew something Jack didn’t.

Ship? Last I heard there hasn’t been one taking volunteers for days. They say that bunch over there has been here for weeks.

Odd. A man at Grand Central gave me this. He handed Jack a handbill with the Cunard Lines distinctive insignia. It announced the boarding of H.M.S. Reliant, a warship with berthing for twenty able-bodied volunteers at 2:00 P.M. that very day!

Jack and his new friend Willis joined a group of men for a cursory physical examination to insure they were not bringing infectious diseases onboard. The paperwork to get them admitted to England or France was a simple visa prepared on the spot. Two hours later Haviland, Jack, and eighteen other volunteers mounted the gangplank of the Reliant.

Once settled in the cramped bow of the cruiser, Jack suffered another bout of despair. He drifted off to sleep in his assigned hammock remembering how the Brits impressed American merchant sailors during the War of 1812.

Chapter 3

Heroic Rescue

New Orleans, Louisiana, early December 1914

Charlie hitched a ride on a tug pushing a coal barge down the Mississippi rather than ride the rails. The price of passage was to look out for snags during the day.

His scheme of hopping a freighter to Europe hit a different snag almost as soon as he found his way to the harbormaster’s office in the old port of New Orleans.

Think about it, young man, the man behind the counter said. Where are we and where do you suppose the ships go that dock here?

The man was patient with Charlie, taking the time to explain how some ships went to the Pacific through the Panama Canal, but only a handful headed east. Best bet would be to try to get to Cuba or another Caribbean island port, the schedule clerk told him.

On his second full day in the city, Charlie overheard a conversation in French emanating from two men and a striking redheaded woman in Madame Begué’s café where he went between trips to the port authority. Charlie strained to understand what they were saying, disappointed that his mother had never reinforced his college French.

The older well-dressed man was short. The other, his hair slicked back and shiny, appeared to be with the young woman. Charlie had just caught her eye in the big mirror behind the bar when a rough-looking man with a kerchief wound around his head blocked his view. Suddenly this man bumped into the woman, upending a drink. He leaned over the younger man at the table as if he was trying to catch his balance, and deftly slid a hand into the man’s coat lifting his wallet. Simultaneously a boy about twelve dashed by snatching the lady’s handbag.

Galvanized into instant action, Charlie leapt over a table, beat the fleeing pair to the door, and blocked their exit. The boy kicked at Charlie’s shin only to have his leg grasped in mid-air in an iron grip. Charlie upended the scrawny youth forcing him to release the handbag as he toppled. The older thief, brandishing a Bowie knife, growled, Let ‘im go and step aside!

Charlie twisted the boy’s leg forcing the kid onto his face in a practiced wrestling move. When the man lunged with the knife, Charlie turned sideways to the thrust, chopped down with his right hand, and thrust his left knee sharply into his assailant’s crotch. By then other hands subdued the squirming boy, and the short, fat, comic-looking proprietor of the café waddled up waving a nasty-looking club. A police officer burst through the door with pistol drawn, assuming he had caught Charlie in the act.

Hands up buckaroo!

Writhing in pain on the floor, the thief tried to scurry between the officer’s legs and Charlie’s to gain freedom at the open door. In the ensuing confusion, the boy broke free; scrambling out the door and down the street before anyone could react. By the time the customers and proprietor convinced the police officer of Charlie’s innocence, the three victims had also slipped out the back of the café.

You all right, young man? the owner asked as the policeman led the older thief off in handcuffs.

Yeah, I guess so, Charlie answered, trying to get his breathing and heartbeat to slow down. He couldn’t believe the audacity of the thieves or his own reaction to the armed man. When he realized the people he’d helped had left, he was disappointed.

Come, sit down, have a drink. It’s on the house! Why I’ve never seen such a display of skill, and in such a young buck at that!

Did they get their things back? Charlie asked. A pretty waitress delivered a brandy with a flirtatious wink. Mr. Tujague, the owner, nodded. Any idea who those people were? Charlie asked.

The thieves or the foreigners? Tujague chuckled, his face beet red from the excitement. "The smaller man was Monsieur Alexandre Fleury, a businessman from Renault in France. I think the woman and the other man are traveling with him, but I never pry. Tips lavishly. Nice to chat in French when he’s here."

Curiosity drove Charlie back to the French Quarter that evening. Some gaudily made-up ladies crooked their fingers in invitation from doorways as Charlie passed. At home, the streetwalkers did not seem to be nearly as pretty or plentiful—nor as bountiful. These ladies made him very uncomfortable. Attracted and repulsed, Charlie fought the desire to go back for another look. Even were he able to overcome his moral repugnance, his few remaining dollars would not support such dalliance.

While he struggled with images of Ulysses fighting the lure of the Sirens, he nearly knocked over the little Frenchman from the café.

"Meester Keeler, c’est vous! Alexandre Fleury exclaimed. Michelle, it’s Charles Keeler!"

Hearing his name caught Charlie by surprise. Seeing the young woman up close only added to his shock. She was more beautiful than Charlie remembered.

Noting his discomfiture, Fleury said, Meester Keeler, permit me to introduce myself. I am Alexandre Fleury and this is my traveling companion, Michelle de Vincent.

Charlie decided to try his French, "Bonjour Madame, je suis enchanté de faire votre connaissance."

Michelle smiled, holding out her hand. "Mademoiselle would be more correct Mister Keeler, but bravo on the French! I’m afraid we were a bit rude at Madame Begué’s, leaving as we did without thanking you." The clipped British accent threw him again.

She was nearly a full head taller than the minuscule Fleury, even in his straw boater. A large broad-brimmed hat covered her curly red hair. She wore a dark dress that made her waist seem impossibly small. The green sheen of the satin seemed to be reflected in eyes that never left Charlie as she spoke. He felt like he could melt into their greenish depths. He couldn’t help thinking how much she contrasted with the brassy ladies that had so recently stirred his interest.

So, you know my name? Charlie said trying not to stare.

The harbormaster, Tujague, a couple of ship’s captains, and a curious policeman all seem to know you fairly well, Michelle answered. It didn’t take much detective work to find out that you are trying to get to France.

Under the yellowish glow of a gaslight, Fleury studied Charlie’s reaction to this information. He asked Charlie what his business in France could be.

Charlie told them his plan.

"The Légion Etrangère, indeed! Why would one so young and so far from Europe want to get into our bloody little fight? Fleury said rhetorically. Perhaps I can be of assistance Mister Keeler?"

Not unless you can conjure up a ship going to Europe, sir. Please call me Charlie. This ‘mister’ stuff makes me nervous.

Charlie, then. Join us for a drink? We will try some conjuring. Fleury took one arm and Mademoiselle de Vincent the other as they steered him into the nearest restaurant.

When they were settled, Fleury continued, "You are in luck my boy. Le Rochambeau, a French steamer, is due in this week. She sails for New York Wednesday."

How can that be? Charlie spouted. I’ve checked everything for the last two days!

"Of course! I’m sure you are puzzled. You have made quite a pest of yourself at the docks. The Rochambeau’s schedule is a closely held secret in order to protect her from German sympathizers. That charming fellow, the harbormaster, practically insisted that I take money for getting you out of his hair, and now that I know your plans, I have ample reason to do just that."

You mean there’s a chance I can get on board? Charlie asked full of skepticism.

As my guest, Fleury smiled. It is the least I can do to repay your gallantry.

But Monsieur Fleury, this is too much! Charlie’s skin tingled as he absorbed the unbelievable news.

Fleury, sensing Charlie’s continued disbelief, explained, "Your country is far from the guns and far from the slaughter. One day the United States will have to—how do you say?—reckon with the war over there.

I just hope you get on our side, because if it comes to it, I think the outcome may well depend on America. Fellows like you volunteering to help my country—and young Michelle’s Britain—are like money in the bank. When the time comes to pick sides, I hope there are enough like you already in place to make the decision an easy choice.

Perhaps, sir, you don’t understand, Charlie began again in what he hoped was a conciliatory tone. I really cannot pay.

Fleury’s eyes seemed to twinkle as he said: "Mais, ce n’est pas un problem—I said you will be my guest!"

Charlie looked at Fleury and then at Michelle, thinking about their fine clothes and cosmopolitan demeanor. You see me for what I am. I’m afraid I am not a good candidate for polite shipboard company.

Michelle said in an admonishing tone, Nonsense! Just yesterday we lunched with a couple of longshoremen who would have made my dear mum blanch at their language. She wrinkled her brow as if she had smelled something unpleasant.

Charlie listened closely, absorbing the fact that she was British while trying to figure out if her polite gorgeous exterior hid a bit of a snob.

Fleury chuckled and said more seriously, Please don’t give it another thought. Money and position have no meaning where you are going. Courage and commitment are the currency in combat.

Charlie tore his eyes from Michelle and repeated Fleury’s last sentence aloud, slowly, as if memorizing it.

"Yes! You have it, my boy. Bien, alors, I must leave. Fleury announced. Please order dinner for the two of you, Michelle. Turning his attention back to Charlie he said, Would you be so good as to walk Michelle to the Monteléone after dinner, Charles? After the incident at the café, I don’t feel right leaving her alone. She’ll show you the way and you can meet us there tomorrow for breakfast if you are really interested in getting to France."

Charlie could not believe his luck. Only yesterday, he had been thinking of going home and calling it quits. He shuddered involuntarily as it dawned on him that boarding the ship would put him beyond the point of no return. Where had he heard the sage warning to be careful what you wished for lest you get it?

Mr. Keeler. Are you all right? Michelle asked, breaking his reverie. Is something wrong, or are you always so quiet when left alone with a lady?

No, I’m sorry, Charlie temporized, genuinely pleased that Fleury had left them alone. It’s just…well a little hard to believe, you know. You have me at considerable disadvantage. You know my name and what I’m about, and I know nothing about you.

I’m famished. Can I enlighten you over dinner? You don’t mind staying to eat, or do you have another engagement?

Charlie shifted uncomfortably in his seat wondering how he could possibly pay for a dinner in the elegant restaurant.

Oh, don’t worry, Mr. Keeler. Alexandre arranged everything when we came in. You needn’t worry about paying.

Charlie continued to stare at her, very much at a loss for words at how ‘arranged’ things seemed to be that night.

At the table Michelle began to talk. "Mother is British. Father is French. He is an associate of Fleury’s, Renault’s representative in England. After I finished school two years ago, my parents sent me to Paris to be a governess for the Fleury children. Now the children are in maternelle—French nursery schools—and Monsieur Fleury asked me to stay on as an assistant. I teach little Henri and David English in the evenings."

She ordered for both of them before continuing. De Vincent, she explained was an old noble family in France while her mother’s origins in England were less pretentious. Michelle fell between two brothers, one an officer in the Royal Fusiliers on duty somewhere in Belgium, and the other, only fifteen, finishing school south of London.

Uninterrupted by Charlie, she plowed on.

I went to the right schools and know how the game is played—how to keep up the side, as the public schoolboys say—but I’ve seen what a leveler poverty is in London’s slums. She placed her hand on Charlie’s arm. I’m sorry. I’ve been running off at the mouth. You must think me a terrible bore.

Charlie felt electrified by her touch. He didn’t want her to stop, but the waitress arrived with their meals. Charlie barely tasted the roasted chicken in tarragon Michelle had picked for them. As hungry as he was, he couldn’t get over the turn of events and the tantalizing presence of such a beautiful woman.

After the waitress cleared their plates and brought coffee, Charlie asked, Why would Fleury spot me passage? I am a complete stranger, after all.

These are strange times, my American friend. She stopped to collect her thoughts and looked off into the distance before beginning again. "I’ve been to visit the American Hospital in Neuilly just west of Paris with Madame Fleury. Your countrymen are helping to bring in the wounded by the hundreds and your doctors work side-by-side with the French surgeons trying to repair the horrible damage done at the front.

"That little display in Madame Begué’s counts, you know. Believe me, Fleury does not give his hospitality lightly. He has already told me to make sure you get whatever you need." She hesitated, a faint red blossoming on her creamy white cheeks.

For the second time Charlie began to wonder at how pat this meeting with Fleury and Michelle had been. He felt a little like a trapped rat. What did that say about the charming Michelle? Was she part of the bait? Was the good French gentleman on a recruiting mission? It didn’t matter in the end if he got what he was after. In the meantime, why not indulge in his fantasies with Michelle?

Charlie studied her exquisite face as it flashed through moods much like a kaleidoscope twisting through colors. Every emotion brought a new cast to her eyes, a slight twist to her full lips, accented by an even slighter rise to one of her long elegant eyebrows. Every mobile facet fascinated Charlie making him want to freeze her like a portrait that he could contemplate at his leisure. He was so mesmerized that he didn’t notice that she had set her cup down and stopped talking.

Where do you come from Mr. Keeler? She said, breaking their staring match. Are you a cowboy? she asked, perhaps remembering the policeman’s use of the term buckaroo, or his rough and tumble behavior.

"Please call me Charlie. He felt like laughing. No, Michelle, I come from Saint Louis, Missouri, about 500 miles north of here. Maybe you have heard of it? My father teaches high school, and I am—or at least used to be—a college student."

Why that’s wonderful! Education frees the bonds of mind and soul. And what did you study?

I originally wanted to become a medical doctor, but the classes didn’t interest me enough. I’m doing architecture—I like to sketch things. I do well in philosophy, literature and, believe it or not, French.

Then you will love Paris. It is an architect’s dream, full of beautiful monuments, marvelous buildings, and plenty of subjects for you to sketch. It has spawned some of the world’s best philosophers and writers—and they do speak French there, so I am told.

Charlie smiled. He wondered how far Fleury’s anything he needed might go. Imagining holding her or kissing sent a surge through him that made his knees weaken.

Will you join us for breakfast here? she asked at the hotel entrance only a short distance from the restaurant.

He assented and watched her go to the desk for a key without so much as turning around to look at him. Charlie made his way back to the docks feeling light-headed.

Chapter 4

Safety in Numbers

Off the Atlantic coast, December, 1914

H.M.S. Reliant took up its position in the formation, about midway