Twist of Fate: Love, Intrigue, and the Great War

By Roberto de Haro

As a flyer with the French Air Service during World War I, Louisiana Cajun Quentin Norvell has become a tough fighter pilot in the days before Americas entry into the war. When he is badly wounded, he chooses to feign death to stave off further attack instead of jumping from the cockpit to his deatha decision that will have far-reaching consequences for his future state of mind.

He crash lands, but survives. While recuperating in a French hospital, Quentin struggles to heal. But even though his body starts to mend, his emotions are open and raw. He sees his actions in the sky as cowardice and resolves to become a focused and deadly killer in the sky.

Then the unthinkable happens. Quentin meets and falls in love with a beautifuland marriedwoman, Nadine Desnoyers. Descended from a revered French aristocratic family, Nadine is in a loveless marriage to an older French diplomat. But she cannot deny her attraction to Quentin, and the two become star-crossed lovers.

After returning to combat, Quentin becomes a celebrated ace. But now that he is famous, French and English diplomatsincluding Nadines husbandare eager to use him in their attempts to get America to join the Allies against the Germans. Embroiled in diplomatic intrigue and desperate to have Nadine for his own, Quentin must navigate not only the bullet-ridden skies, but the twisted path of the human heart.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Jan 6, 2012
• ISBN: 9781462070282

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

1916

Those were days of glory . . . All the thrills of the hunt, coupled with

the speed and danger of flying . . . we had superbly brave and finely

trained enemies, as anxious to kill as we were.

Silvio Scaroni, Italian flyer

That day in early November 1916 was raw, with heavy, gray clouds partially obscuring a late autumn sun arcing lower with each passing day across the skies of France. The Great War had started in the fall of 1914 through an unfortunate series of events that led to gross miscalculations by military and political leaders in Europe. The conflict soon settled into a struggle of attrition between opposing armies using hideous new techniques for destruction that escalated armed conflict to a new level of horror.

The Imperial Germany Army overran Belgium and Luxembourg. The Allies (Britain, France, Belgium, and Portugal) were able to prevent the German encirclement tactics. The opposing forces had literally dug in, creating a parallel line of trenches extending from the Low Countries in the north to the Swiss border to the south. Between the trenches of the combatants was an afflicted and devastated area known as no-man’s-land. A scabrous place, pockmarked with shell craters, strewn with barbed wire, and littered with the remains of countless soldiers, it was a killing zone, where men were sacrificed trying to gain a few meters of ground. By December of 1914, 306,000 French soldiers had been killed, wounded, or were missing. A generation of British youth had been slaughtered senselessly on the fields of Flanders, their deaths a morbid precursor of an empire’s folly and eventual decline. The war dragged on with thousands of casualties in 1915. In the fall of 1916, two major battles were under way—on the River Somme and at Verdun. The carnage on both sides from murderous frontal attacks was in the hundreds of thousands of men.

The everyday life of ground troops on the western front was dangerous and depressing, as they sought protection in trenches from enemy snipers and artillery. Living underground, sleeping in mud, rain, and snow, Allied soldiers faced a miserable life of uncertainty, filled with the stench of sickness, injury, and death. It seemed that even the rats that infested the trenches lived better. Soldiers were ordered to advance on positions that required crossing no-man’s-land, under punishing artillery barrages that maimed and killed thousands of them. Those surviving artillery and mortar fire were exposed to machine-gun fire that worked like scythes, cutting men to pieces. The remaining advancing troops had to engage the enemy at close range, and they were exposed to rifle fire and hand grenades. By the time Allied soldiers reached the German lines, they were hopelessly outnumbered. The same was true of German troops attempting massive frontal attacks against Allied positions. By the fall of 1916 the war along the western front had turned into a bloodletting stalemate.

Above the ground troops, another war was waged in the heavens. There, men fought each other in fragile, bird-like machines. The first encounters between the combatants in the sky were primitive, with the use of light armaments. However, by mid-1916, the air war had evolved into a relentless and deadly form of aerial engagements. Airplanes had been improved and modified to be more maneuverable and fly faster than earlier crafts. One or more machine guns were mounted on them, some capable of synchronized firing through the spinning propellers. From the ground, the aerial dogfights—as the clashes between opposing flyers were described—seemed like a slow and choreographed ballet in the heavens between man-made machines that vaguely resembled mechanical birds. The clashes were deadly, and death in the skies was as final as that on the ground. In the air, the planes swooped, darted, banked sharply, and tried every type of maneuver possible to gain an advantageous position from which to fire their machine guns. The dogfights were like fights between mechanical falcons, with deadly machine-gun bullets dealing out death to the vanquished. It was in early November of 1916 that the story of an American flyer in the French Aéronautique Militaire unfolds.

Quentin Norvell, an American from Louisiana with a Cajun ancestry, banked his French Nieuport 11 Bébé fighter tightly, turning inside the German Albatros that had just sent a final burst of bullets into a smoldering and terminally damaged French Nieuport, its human cargo consigned to a grave in the earth hundreds of meters below. The American’s Lewis gun fired a stream of bullets that stitched a line of holes across the Boche plane, severely damaging the German machine. A puff of smoke escaped from the German plane’s engine, and it began to lose speed. Quentin fired again, this time hitting the plane’s cowling, causing a spark that ignited a fire just behind the engine. Rivulets of oil and fuel escaping from the front of the plane were forced backward by the airstream. The fire intensified and began to follow the trail of oil and fuel leading to the cockpit. The searing fingers of flames raced toward the pilot, greedily engulfing the canvas and wooden parts of the plane. The German’s going to burn to death, thought Quentin. Seeing no other escape or remedy, and rather than die in flames, the Boche pilot inverted the burning fighter, released his safety harness, and dropped out of the stricken craft. Quentin was momentarily mesmerized by the German’s decision to fall to his death rather than be immolated. He watched in horror as the black leather-clad figure fell helplessly to earth like a mannequin, with his bright scarf streaming a farewell to life.

Transfixed by what happened, the American failed to notice two German fighters descend on him. He was brought back from the temporary distraction by the shudder of his plane, as bullets struck it just ahead of the cockpit. Turning to look over his right shoulder, his twisting motion was interrupted by a searing pain along the left side of his neck, a crushing feeling in his left shoulder, and a hot stabbing pain along his ribs and left leg. It became impossible for him to control the Nieuport’s flight, and it started to fall rapidly in a spinning dive. The two Boche fighters pressed their savage attack, intent on killing him to avenge their fallen comrade. He could not move his left arm or leg. The Nieuport’s engine was smoking badly, and a mixture of oil and blood stained his leather jacket and smeared across his goggles.

There are moments in life when a choice is necessary that means the difference between survival and death. Some accept their fate, and through resignation yield themselves to a presumed inevitable destiny, prescribed to end life at that precise time. A few, however, for whatever reason, are able to manage events and find a way to endure. Refusing to cast his spirit into the darkness of eternity, Quentin accepted that his temper would be assayed in the furnace of destiny. Helpless to defend himself, only the strongest desire to survive prompted a reflexive action. His decision and course of action were simple; pretend to be dead. He slumped forward in the cockpit and, wracked with excruciating pain, reached for the control stick with his right hand. The plane continued to spin and dive closer and closer to the earth. He dared not look up, for fear the German planes would continue their attack. Instead, as the plane spiraled downward, he looked at the altimeter and glanced out of the cockpit, trying to gauge how close he was to the ground.

Bleeding badly, his left arm useless, that side of his body a mass of pain, and choking on the acrid smell of smoke, Quentin was practically blinded by a mix of blood and oil that smeared his goggles. Still able to use his right hand, he attempted to pull out of the deadly spin and right the stricken fighter. Miraculously, the little plane responded and came out of the dive, momentarily flying level. However, he was too close to the ground and could not control its speed or trajectory. The Nieuport smashed through a windbreak, slowing its speed and shearing off part of a lower wing. The fighter plunged to the ground, bounced and careened wildly, spun, and came to an abrupt stop as the propeller dug into the soft earth, causing the plane to flip over. Whatever memories he had of this wild and uncontrollable landing were suspended by a fugue that replaced the events of his fall from the sky, the pain and injuries to his body. He blacked out immediately. Moments later, the smell of smoke from the engine and the pain in his left side woke him. Using his right hand, he gripped and worked the release mechanism on his safety harness, struggling until it disengaged, causing him to fall out of the plane. He struck the ground hard, the sudden collision sending intense anguish through his body, causing him to lose consciousness again. Somehow he revived and, with the last few measures of remaining strength, crawled away from the Nieuport before it erupted in flames and exploded. Through what seemed like a fog brought on by agony and loss of blood, he heard voices and thought he saw arms and hands reaching for him. Then a blessed darkness and peace overcame him.

*     *     *

Miles away, Major Maurice Balmonde was sitting in the operations office of the French Twenty-Seventh Escadrille, waiting for the afternoon patrol to return. He was a short man with a fair complexion, a pudgy face, and bird-like eyes that seldom missed anything. Fastidious and with impeccable grooming, he demanded discipline and perfection from his men. Assigned as the adjutant, he outranked the squadron commander, but because he could not fly was second in command as a staff officer. Still, he brought an essential orderliness and rigor to the squadron. A martinet, the major drilled the ground crews to perform to the highest skill level. A resourceful man with considerable guile, he had but two years of university training in business and commerce. He was from a societal group in France of highly trained and skilled assistants and midlevel functionaries in banking, commerce, and government services. They seldom, if ever, rose to positions of senior responsibility. However, they formed an essential midlevel bureaucratic niche within the commercial and governmental sectors of France.

Maurice looked out the windows of the chateau that had been appropriated by the French Air Service and turned into an aerodrome. The old building was large and well built, with upgraded serviceable facilities and good quarters for squadron personnel. The grounds around the estate were modified to serve as an airfield, with new hangars, and repair and service areas. He enjoyed his life with the squadron and took pride in serving as a manager and forager par excellent for needed equipment and supplies. He treated the Escadrille as if it was his child. The operations room was organized and tidy. Located next to the squadron commander’s office, he had ready access to the captain.

As Maurice sat sorting through files and requisition forms, the noise of aircraft caught his attention. He glanced at his watch and calculated quickly the Nieuports’ flying time and estimated they had been airborne almost an hour and twenty minutes. It must be the afternoon patrol. He smoothed his tunic, put on his kepi and overcoat, and walked out toward the airfield. Shouting at the observer in the control tower, the major asked if it was the afternoon patrol. The answer was affirmative, and a green flare was fired into the air. The gun crews relaxed, and instead turned their attention to the incoming fighters. Maurice barked orders to the ground personnel to get to their assigned positions and counted the number of returning planes. As the men emerged from the protection and warmth of the hangars and repair shops, they moved directly to their assigned spots.

One of the sergeants glanced at the major with a sour expression and told his crew, "Allez, allez, before our little prince has kittens."

The flight of French Nieuport fighters appeared in the distance, and they sounded like a swarm of angry bumblebees. They flew in from the east and turned into the wind. One of the planes was trailing a thin line of smoke from its engine, which was making noises that even to the untrained ear meant serious damage. It was the first aircraft to land, the engine rasping and popping erratically. The smoking plane bounced hard after hitting the ground, then slowed and rolled toward the flight line where the ground crew ran out to catch it. The next three planes landed and followed the lead fighter, piloted by Captain Raoul Mendeville, the squadron commander. As his plane approached the hangars, the flight crew caught the wing tips and tail to guide it to a preassigned place. Turning off the engine and switches, the captain sat quietly, with his hands resting on the lips of the cockpit. The ground crew sergeant came up and asked if he was all right. Raoul slowly pushed up his goggles and removed the leather helmet, his blue eyes staring straight ahead.

Captain, are you injured?

No, Claude, I am not.

Running over from his plane was Lieutenant Etienne de Gavrelac.

Did you see what happened to Quentin? he asked the captain.

No, I dove on one of the Boche attacking him; the other broke off.

I saw him flame the Boche bastard that downed Marcel. Did you see the markings on the Boche plane?

Yes, replied Raoul. It was a thunderbolt.

As Raoul stepped out of his plane, the major greeted him. I see we lost two planes.

Yes, Maurice, we lost Marcel and Quentin.

Shall I post them as missing in action?

List Marcel that way, but wait on Quentin, said the captain pensively.

Raoul walked to the two ground crews standing next to the vacant spots that should have been occupied by returning planes. He told the first ground crew that pilot officer Marcel Radeux had been shot down, and his plane crashed and burned in no-man’s-land. Despondence marked the faces of the ground crew, standing mute and looking dejected at the ground in front of them. They turned slowly and walked back to the empty hangar, the youngest mechanic with tears in his eyes.

The captain walked toward Quentin’s crew and said, Corporal Favrous, I saw Lieutenant Norvell go down in a spinning dive, trailing smoke from his motor. We were over our side of the lines when his plane disappeared. He shot down a Boche fighter, bringing his total victories to five. The corporal and his crew’s faces were ashen. After a long moment of silence, the corporal asked if the lieutenant might have survived.

I do not know, Rene, said the captain as he turned and walked toward the chateau.

Raoul Mendeville was the eldest son of a prominent aristocratic family. A slender and attractive man in his late twenties, he would inherit the estates and wealth of his father, a marquis. Although the old nobility and titles were rapidly diminishing in France, there was a new aristocracy that blended old family lines with the progeny of a new wealthy class. His family had served the crown and then the republic loyally and been rewarded handsomely. Raoul was joined in the walk to the chateau by Lieutenant Etienne de Gavrelac. Almost five-eleven in height, he stood well over an inch taller than Raoul. He was handsome and dashing in appearance, with tawny, wavy hair, a straight nose, a well-formed jaw, and elegant light brown eyes almost tan in color. He, too, came from an old family that had married well, increasing its wealth and holdings while investing in new industry and profitable commercial ventures. Etienne was young and daring, physically well-coordinated, and practically fearless. Like other males in his family and bloodline, he excelled in the use of dueling pistols and the rapier. He and Raoul had attended the same military academy, the best in France. Both had developed a strong affection for Quentin Norvell, the American pilot they nicknamed Cajun.

Why did he fly level for so long? asked Etienne.

Raoul shrugged and said, Quentin knew better. He must have seen something that distracted him.

Did you see him crash? asked Etienne.

No, I was too busy chasing one of the Boche planes. They reached the chateau and walked to the operations room for debriefing. While death and the loss of pilots were constants for the Frenchmen, their fondness for the American weighed heavily on them, darkening their mood.

That evening the major knocked on Raoul’s door and asked if he could enter. Raoul nodded and motioned in the direction of a chair. He was writing a letter to the family of Marcel Radeux, an onerous task he disliked and that often left him disconsolate.

The American left these three envelops for us in case he was shot down.

Raoul glanced at the three large brown envelopes and noticed that one was addressed to Quentin’s father in Baton Rouge, Louisiana. The second was addressed to Monsieur Navralette in Bordeaux, and the third to a Madame Couvres in an exclusive part of Paris. Maurice pointed his finger at the second envelope and raised an eyebrow.

You know this man?

Yes, Captain, he is a very wealthy businessman and a senator in the Chamber of Deputies. The name Couvres also sounds familiar. Would you like me to make some inquiries?

Raoul sat back in his chair and remembered when Quentin joined the squadron at the end of September. He mentioned visiting cousins in France and staying in Paris before reporting for duty. Raoul pondered the major’s question. Maurice was part of a petit bourgeois class with strong information networks and business ties with leading French families and business enterprises. Balmonde was recruited because of his abilities to help run a major commercial enterprise. Now with the war, Maurice and others like him were posted for duty in the army as aides to senior officers or adjutants. Raoul knew Balmonde shared intelligence through personal information networks that were often superior to the normal communication channels and could find out about Quentin’s relatives in France.

No, Raoul said solemnly. I will hold these until I return from the morning patrol. I want to finish this letter and then write to Eunice, before retiring.

As you wish; remember me to your wife, said Maurice before leaving the room. As he stepped into the hall, the major made a mental note to call friends and inquire about the Couvres and the Navralettes. Raoul completed the letter to Marcel’s family. Before starting a letter to Eunice, his wife, he looked at the three envelopes carefully addressed in Quentin’s handwriting, and wondered about the young American’s relatives in France. Could that be why he had enlisted in the French Foreign Legion and then transferred to the air service? He could have flown with the Lafayette Escadrille. American volunteers flew in the Escadrille, and wealthy benefactors in America offered rewards for Boche planes they shot down. Quentin had decided to fly with a regular French squadron. It was a cipher he wanted to solve.

*     *     *

Toward the northwest, in a field hospital near Bar-le-Duc, Quentin experienced feverish delusions. He was in a black, fetid swamp, unable to swim or move, and felt as if he were in a cauldron of boiling water. From the blackness of hell came a hideous beast with a long snout filled with yellowish, pointed teeth. He felt the creature clamp its jaws around his left arm and shoulder and begin to drag him down into the hot, dark water. He tried in vain to struggle and escape the horrible snout and teeth that pierced his flesh and sent searing pain throughout his body. He was defenseless, at the mercy of the brute, and would be torn to pieces. He fought for air. Surely he would drown in the grip of this savage creature.

But in his struggle and agony, a hand caressed his face and reassured him.

He thought he heard his mother’s voice say, Amos will not take you Quentin. I will not let him. He fell back into a hot, stifling darkness, unable to move or sense the world around him. The pain lessened and he slipped into a deep sleep.

*     *     *

The next day when the morning flight returned from patrol, and as Raoul maneuvered his Nieuport to the flight line, Etienne and Maurice were waiting. Before he could turn off his engine and switches, Etienne was at his side, yelling over the noise of the motor and exhaust that Quentin was alive. Raoul could hardly wait to undo his safety harness and step out of the fighter.

Where is he? How is he? Raoul asked.

He’s at a hospital near Saint-Dizier. He was taken to Bar-le-Duc and operated on before being sent to Saint-Dizier, said an excited Etienne.

Did you call to inquire about his condition? asked Raoul.

Yes, said Maurice, he was badly injured but will recover.

"Dieu, merci!" exclaimed Raoul.

The American is resilient, said Maurice.

Why can’t you call him by his name? growled Etienne, flushed and annoyed. He has risked his life and been injured. He is a better man than any of you, he spat, glaring at the major. Raoul quickly stepped between them, fearing that Etienne might challenge Maurice to a duel.

Lieutenant, you forget yourself. Major Balmonde is your superior officer. You will treat him with the courtesy accorded to his rank.

Etienne came to attention, saluted the major, and turning to Raoul, said, Pardon, moi Capitaine.

Maurice remained composed and said, "It seems the Boche pilot that Lieutenant Norvell shot down was something of a hero. He was Hauptman Klaus Maria Doerner, and came from an old military family in Allemagne. He was one victory short of earning the Pour le Merité."¹ They found what was left of him in a pond near Pompey. The Boche ask that we bury the remains with military honors.

See to it, said Raoul as he took Etienne by the arm and walked behind one of the hangars with him. When out of earshot of the others, Raoul dressed down the younger officer.

You are next in line to command this or another squadron. However, you will sit at a desk in some far-off place and not fly again if you cannot control yourself. I know how much you like Quentin. But to cause a confrontation with Maurice and even a duel is immature and beneath you.

Etienne looked down at the tips of his boots and finally said, You are right; I behaved badly. It will not happen again.

Raoul put his hand on Etienne’s shoulder, looked into his eyes, and said, Remember, Maurice is not from our class. There is no honor in challenging someone like him. We need people like Maurice for their skills and training. But we must not brutalize them. I know you and Quentin are close. Now, let us find out how he is. With that, they walked together toward the chateau.

*     *     *

Several days had passed since Quentin had been wounded and had crashed his plane. An infection produced a high fever, and he had been unconscious and delirious for those days. On the third evening at the hospital, he slowly regained consciousness. He tried to open his eyes but was caught in a maelstrom, where a ferocious spinning produced vertigo. He felt hot, uncomfortable, and disoriented. After what seemed like hours, he finally managed to open his eyes. It was dark; his vision was blurred, and nothing seemed familiar. He was terribly thirsty, with parched lips, a coarse and dry throat, and a tongue thick and useless, unable to form words. Gradually, he was able to focus his eyes and noticed dark supports that seemed to brace the top of the room above his head. They resembled the arches in the ceiling of a church. I must be in purgatory, atoning for cowardice in battle, because of pretending to be dead.

Closing his eyes, hot tears ran down and into his right ear. He coughed, and a stabbing pain coursed through his body. He uttered a sound and then momentarily drifted to some unfamiliar place with his eyes tightly closed. When he opened them again, a cool hand touched his forehead, and in the darkness a white winged dove approached and spoke to him in French. He tried to say, Water, but his tongue would not help him make the sound. Then there was something cool and damp on his forehead, and moisture on his lips. Managing to swallow some of the liquid, he barely uttered the word "eau" for water in French, before more of the cool liquid was pressed to his lips. He swallowed with great pain, and mercifully slid back into darkness and sleep.

It was almost midnight at the hospital. In a small room filled with a doctor’s paraphernalia as well as the files and clipboards of a working administrator, a heavyset man with dark reddish-brown hair streaked with gray sat reading and making notations. Major Hugo Dax, a doctor in the French Army, was the chief physician and surgeon at Saint-Dizier. He had a clear complexion with a large nose and bright, alert blue eyes that appeared tired, outlined with deep circles and puffiness underneath. A well-trimmed moustache was the only adornment to his strong, broad face. Even though his door was open, there was a gentle knock, and he turned toward the sound.

Forgive me, Doctor, said a slender figure dressed in a nun’s habit.

Ah, Sister Marianne, please come in and sit down.

I did not want to disturb you, she said, but the young aviator woke, and I gave him some water. His fever seems to be subsiding.

He pushed back his chair and rubbed his eyes with the palms of his hands. He may have more water, but not too much. Have Dr. Melun look in on him tomorrow morning. If he is awake in the afternoon, I will examine him. Our young falcon’s friends have called several times to inquire about him. Once his fever is completely gone, and he regains some of his strength, I will allow visitors. He noticed the nun did not sit, but stood looking at him with large, doe-like eyes that were fawn-like in color and expressiveness. He studied the nun in the partial light as it illuminated her delicate facial features. She was a tall and slender woman, with a small straight nose, and a thin upper lip but a generous lower one. He marveled at how attractive she was, with a face so classic and unblemished.

What would you have me do, Sister? he asked.

If you have time, Doctor, look in on him for a moment.

Very well, he said. You look tired, Sister Marianne. Don’t make me have to speak to mother superior about your needing to rest.

She looked back at him with a tiny hint of a smile and said, God says the good doctor must also find time to rest. I will pray for you, Doctor.

There, she has done it again, disarmed me and left me sitting here like a foolish schoolboy, thought Dax.

Touché, Sister. I will find time to sleep a little. Let me finish these notes so that I can make one last walk through the wards and then find my cot, eh. She smiled and disappeared into the darkness. What a lovely woman she is, thought the doctor. Pity she must be exposed to the multitude of sick and wounded who continue to fill this place. He glanced briefly into the darkness before making an effort to suppress the melancholia and return to his notes.

The next morning, Quentin awoke and was able to open his eyes, suppressing most of the discomfort from the remaining spinning sensation. He was in a large room that appeared to be part of a cloister. As he tried to turn his head to the right, a sharp pain in his neck prevented the motion. It was impossible to turn to his left because of it. Closing his eyes, he tried to remain calm and allow the hurt and the spinning sensations to subside. Working with the pain, rather than against it, he tried to move parts of his body. Slowly his right arm responded. He had feeling in his right leg and wiggled the toes on that foot. When he tried to do the same for the left one, he had no sensation. My God, he thought, have I lost my left leg? He could not feel his left arm. Maybe that too was gone. Am I going to be a cripple? He began to despair, and tears formed in his eyes, obscuring what little vision he had. At last, he regained some composure and used his right arm to inch his hand across his chest. With his fingers he felt the muslin fabric of the sheet, and then rough bandages that covered his torso. As he moved his right arm across his chest, he could feel the bandages that started around his waist and went up to his neck. Exhausted by just this minor exertion, he closed his eyes and slipped into a trance. He was awakened by someone moving his right arm from his chest to his side. Opening his eyes, it took him a moment before he could focus on a figure dressed in black and white. Try as he might to speak, he could not utter more than a word or two.

Water, Lieutenant? Is that what you want? asked a female voice. He tried to say yes, but the word came out slurred. Don’t try to speak. Take a little water. Not too much. You must rest.

He drank the water, and the soothing liquid tasted cold and sweet. He blinked a few times and rolled his eyes from side to side trying to see where he was. Just that effort sapped his strength, and he decided to close his eyes and soon fell asleep. It was dark when he awoke. Now he could hear the sound of others in the large room. Some were coughing; others were crying softly. He thought someone called out for his mother. Into what hell had he been delivered for his sins? What would become of him? He managed to move his right arm again and finally put his hand to his face. His heart was racing, and the blood seemed to be accelerating through his body. A bandage was around his neck, and the left side of his face was hot, almost burning. He was about to reach across and feel for his left arm when a gentle voice spoke to him.

No, no, Lieutenant. Please lie still. You will injure yourself by moving. He looked into the face of a woman shrouded in white. At first, he thought of Bernice, his mother. She spoke again, telling him to lie still and asking if he wanted water. For the first time, Quentin was able to fashion the word oui. More cooling liquid and a moist, cool cloth pressed against his forehead momentarily eased his discomfort. The woman leaned close to him and, almost whispering, said, You were badly injured and have been asleep for almost four days. You will be better tomorrow; now rest. He felt her soft hand on his forehead, and memories of his mother flooded his thoughts. He closed his eyes and fell into a deep sleep.

*     *     *

The cold winds of late November engulfed the western front in France with heavy rains and the threat of snow. The Battle of Verdun was beginning to end, with calamitous losses for the French and the Germans, as more than 200,000 men were killed and wounded on each side. The French still held Verdun at the beginning of November, but the Allied offensive had shifted north to the Somme. For the British, it was a bloodbath. A fifth of the attacking English force during 1916 had died, and some battalions, such as the First Newfoundland Regiment, had ceased to exist. The Battle of the Somme was a major catastrophe, with the greatest loss of life in British military history. By the middle of November 1916, the French casualties at the Somme were 194,000, and for the British 419,000. The losses for the British would be their greatest military tragedy of the twentieth century.

French hospitals were flooded with the injured and dying from the battles of Verdun and the Somme. Had Quentin been able to stand and look around, he would have seen every available cot occupied by injured Frenchmen. As his vision cleared, he tilted his head forward a bit to look at the high windows on the other side of the room where he lay. The day seemed cloudy and gray outside. He managed to turn his head slightly and noticed that there were white screens on either side with a partially open curtain at the foot of his bed. Across the way he could see cots with men, some sobbing, others coughing, some yelling out in pain, and a grotesque figure propped upright, completely bandaged, like a mummy. He tried to use his right elbow to support himself and get a better view of his surroundings, but the effort was too much, and he collapsed back onto the bed. A moment later, a woman dressed in black with a nun’s habit and a bloodstained apron came up to him.

"You are awake, Lieutenant. Bon. Would you like some water?" He managed a feeble oui, and she brought water for him to drink. She took his temperature and examined his bandages.

Rest easy, she told him. Dr. Melun will be by to see you in a moment. With that she left and closed the curtain behind her, cutting off his view across the aisle. A while later, a tall, lean man opened the curtain and took a clipboard from the foot of his bed. He was in a white doctor’s smock that hung loosely on him. Quentin noticed he had black hair, graying at the temples, and a moustache that blended into a small, well-trimmed beard, also speckled with gray. He had a long, sharp nose that almost looked like the beak of a bird.

Hello, Lieutenant, he said in a low, nasal voice that seemed to reflect sadness. I am Dr. Melun. You are in a military hospital near Saint-Dizier. You’ve been with us for five days. It has been a week since you were injured. You’ve had a high fever from an infection caused by bullet wounds. I have prescribed some medicine and will allow you to have water, juice, and perhaps some consommé later. Your squadron leader called to inquire about your condition. Major Dax, our chief physician and surgeon, will not allow visitors until you are over the fever and feeling better. He stepped closer to Quentin, examined his bandages, looked into his eyes, and said, You lost a great deal of blood. You must drink plenty of fluids and rest as much as possible. As he started to leave, Quentin reached out with his right hand and tried to say something. The doctor turned and looked at him with sad, deep-set dark eyes. Melun’s long, slender hand and fingers touched Quentin’s arm and returned it to his side saying, Rest, Lieutenant. You will be fine. After making a few notations on the flyer’s chart, the doctor turned to leave, spoke briefly with the nun, and then walked away. The sister returned after a few minutes with an orderly. Together they changed the bandages around his neck. He drank more water and swallowed the pills the nun gave him.

Try to sleep, she said, turning to depart, but not before closing the curtain at the foot of his bed.

CHAPTER 2

Life’s Pains

When vain desire at last, and vain regret

Go hand in hand to death, and all is vain,

What shall assuage the unforgotten pain

And teach the unforgetful to forget

Dante Gabriel Rossetti

Sonnets from the House of Life [1870-1881]

Poem 101, The One Hope

Quentin woke to the sound of wind and rain. A strong storm was gusting and blustering outside. He was uneasy, remembering the encounter in the sky and the Boche pilot falling to his death. Try as he might to suppress a gnawing sense of cowardice for feigning death, he suffered pangs of self-reproach. Still feverish, he tortured himself and grew anxious. Tears formed in his eyes as he tried to erase the memory of that terrifying experience. In his feverish condition he was fighting tormenting demons, taunting and accusing him of cowardice. He began to weep, coughed, and then retched. The resulting pain was so sharp and severe that he fainted. When he awoke, an orderly had just finished cleaning him up and changing his bandages. A slender nun with an angelic face approached, looked into his eyes, and put a cool cloth on his forehead.

Be still, Lieutenant. Your fever returned, but it will subside. If you like, I will bring some juice. He barely managed to say yes before turning his head and closing his eyes for fear of crying again. She touched his forehead and said that he would be all right, but must remain still.

I will return in a few minutes with juice, she said and left. When the sister returned, the American watched her intently as she prepared a container with a straw. Drink slowly, she said. The liquid was cool and tangy, and momentarily refreshed him. He drank until the container was drained. Finally able to form words, he asked why a nun was serving as a nurse. She looked down at him kindly and said that some members of her order were trained as nurses. With the war and the growing number of casualties, every hospital facility near the front had been overwhelmed. Their convent had been converted into a hospital because of its location and facilities and the fact that some of the sisters in her order were able to assist with the wounded. Most of the nurses in surgery were from the military or from private hospitals around France. She looked melancholy and tired after mentioning the large numbers of wounded.

"Bon, she said, enough of my sad story. I will be back later with some consommé if you feel up to it. He said nothing, lying back in bed, closing his eyes, and trying to find a way to retreat into his thoughts. She came closer to him and asked, Are you in pain, Lieutenant? He tried to shake his head, but it hurt to do so. Please talk to me," she implored.

He was barely able to say, I can’t, stifling back a gasp.

She knelt by his side and looked into his face with a troubled expression. Is there something I can do for you?

No, he said and closed his eyes tightly. She stood, touched his forehead, and reassured him before leaving.

He must have fallen asleep because the orderly’s touch woke him. Sister Marianne instructed me to offer you some warm consommé. Would you like some? asked the orderly. After finishing the broth and then more juice, he heard the wind howling outside but detected no sound of rain in the darkness. From other parts of the room he heard crying, moaning, an occasional yell for help, and pleas for something to stop the pain. But always he heard sobbing. Left alone, he lay in bed trying to escape from his thoughts and memories. Sometime later, the curtain parted, and a stout, imposing man wearing a white gown entered.

Good evening, Lieutenant. I am Dr. Dax. He took the clipboard at the foot of the bed, read it, and then took a stool and sat next to him. How are you doing? Can you speak about your pain? Quentin responded slowly and asked if he had lost his left arm and leg.

No, my friend, you were lucky and remain whole. One bullet creased the left side of your neck. It is not a deep wound, but because of where it cut, we need to protect against infection. We will change that bandage daily until it heals. You will have a scar there, but because it is at the jawline, one must come close to see it. Your left collarbone was broken by a bullet. That should mend in about six to eight weeks. We have immobilized that arm. You have two fractured ribs and lacerations on your left side where a bullet passed. This wound became infected and caused your fever. A bullet fragment went through the inside of your left leg and grazed your ankle. These wounds are draining well and should heal quickly. Quentin said nothing to the doctor and just kept looking at the ceiling. Dax was puzzled by his behavior and asked, Is something disturbing you? Quentin tried to shake his head. When you were attacked, Lieutenant, it appears the bullets came from above and behind. Do you remember what happened? He thought for a moment and remembered turning to the right, and feeling the searing pain on the left side of his neck. If you turned to the right to look back, my young friend, it saved your life. A lucky twist of fate, said the doctor. He wrote something on the clipboard and returned it to the foot of the bed. If you feel better tomorrow, we’ll try to sit you up. Your squadron leader and an insistent young Lieutenant have been calling to inquire about you. When your fever is gone, I’ll allow them to visit. If you need anything, ring the bell on the table. Now, I suggest you rest and try to regain your strength. Good night. He turned and walked through the curtain, leaving it open a bit so that Quentin could see across the room. Later that evening, he woke in time to see a figure move toward him in the darkness.

Who’s there? he asked.

Sister Marianne. She came close to him and felt his forehead. You need to take this medication. Would you like some water? He swallowed the pills and washed them down with water. Tomorrow, Sister Paulette and an orderly will help you sit up. You will feel much better once you are able to sit. Now sleep. I will look in on you later. She wiped his face with a cool, damp cloth, and then disappeared into the darkness, leaving him alone with solitary thoughts about his encounter with death and what he considered cowardly behavior in combat.

The next day Quentin woke to the sound of orderlies and nurses moving in the large room. He could hear the injured soldiers, and smelled something unpleasant. The scent that assaulted his sense of smell was a mixture of urine, bile, blood, and other bodily fluids partially masked by the antiseptic used to sanitize the room. He overheard a conversation between a man and a woman in the stall to his left. He must be prepared for surgery at once! a male voice exclaimed. A woman responded that surgery was overcrowded with critical cases, and the surgeons were all busy. The man raised his voice and said he would the do the operation, otherwise the captain would die from gangrene. The voices faded as they moved away from his area. He wondered how many men were dying for lack of immediate medical care. His thoughts were interrupted when a nun opened the curtain and walked into his stall.

Good morning, Lieutenant. We are going to try to sit you up. Are you ready? He did not respond, but instead signaled that he was willing to try. An orderly came in and moved to one side of the bed. Together they eased him up until he was sitting on the bed. He felt weak and slightly nauseous at first but concentrated to fight off the giddiness. Looking down he saw his legs in front of him for the first time and noticed that the left one was bandaged around the thigh and the ankle. Stiffening his back and using his right arm to steady himself, Quentin tried to clear his head. He felt weak, but a feeling of exhilaration washed over him as he sat upright.

Very good, Lieutenant, praised the nun. Let us see if we can get you to swing your right leg over the side of the bed. It took some effort on his part, but he was able to move first the right leg and then with assistance, the left one. "Très bien! exclaimed the nun as she steadied him. We will have you up and walking in no time. First, we clean you up, she said as they washed and then shaved him. He remained silent and impassive, not making eye contact with either the nun or the orderly. He noticed the nun was a sturdy person, with a moon-shaped face and large, expressive brown eyes. Finally, his curiosity got the best of him, and he asked, What is your name?"

Oh, forgive me Lieutenant, I am Sister Paulette, and this is Horace, she said, nodding toward the hospital worker. He was an older man, perhaps in his late fifties, but with a strong body that was accustomed to hard work. The nun asked if he would like to send a letter to his family or friends. He nodded.

Where is your family?

They live near New Orleans, he said slowly. She asked if that was a new part of Orleans. Barely shaking his head, he told her that it was in the United States. She was surprised and asked about his nationality. I’m an American, he responded. The nun was excited, and her face flushed. She began to ask questions about America, his family, how he came to fight for France, and where he’d learned to speak French. He closed his eyes and said softly that he would answer her questions later. For the moment, all he wanted to do was enjoy sitting upright and learning about the hospital and the patients next to him and across the way. The nun apologized and told him the soldiers across the room were wounded enlisted men. There was little space between their cots. The officers were on his side and curtains gave them some privacy. He asked about the captain in the stall to his left, and she said that his leg had gangrene and was amputated at the knee. He felt a wave of emotion overcome him, and a sense of despair, resulting in an uncontrollable urge to weep. Sister Paulette tried to console him, but Quentin deliberately retreated to a place where he could not be reached.

Late that afternoon as Sisters Marianne and Paulette finished their meal in the dining area, they discussed some of the patients.

Did you know that the young aviator is an American? asked Sister Paulette. The other nun was surprised and looked directly at her with eyes that showed genuine excitement and interest.

How did you learn this?

Sister Paulette mentioned what happened in the morning when Quentin was helped to sit up.

He seems troubled, she said.

Tell me, implored the other nun. They talked for a while longer before Sister Marianne excused herself. Later, she visited Quentin, and found him attempting to prop himself up on his right elbow. He looked away and would not make eye contact with her.

Let me help you, she said, taking hold of his right arm and shoulder. With her assistance, he managed to sit up and peer through the opening in the curtains and look across the ward at the movement of people up and down the center of the room, and the injured men across the way. If you feel up to it, tomorrow we will sit you in a wheelchair and take you through part of the convent.

Tell me about the wounded, said Quentin. His request surprised her, and she asked what he wanted to know. He inquired about the types of injuries, how seriously they were hurt, and how many were in the hospital. The nun looked away sadly and said the convent had been converted into a hospital. There were two main wards and a smaller one that together held more than 250 men. The most serious cases were in the small intensive care section, which held about forty patients. Next to it was the ward with the critical cases, about eighty to ninety men. He was in a ward for those who would recover and be sent to another care facility, or perhaps released for home care as soon as they were ambulatory. He asked again what kind of injuries the soldiers had. She looked away, and her voice was filled with dolefulness.

Mainly we see soldiers injured by artillery and machine guns. In the critical area are men severely harmed by gas. She squared her shoulders and said, We see very few aviators. You are the first one I have seen in five months. The last one died shortly after coming here. For the first time he looked into her eyes, and saw profound compassion and sadness, and a gentleness that made him want to confess how wretched he felt. All of the men here have done their duty, and many fought bravely for our country. You are in good company, Lieutenant. He swallowed hard, and barely whispered that he did not belong among men who fought valiantly in combat. The nun, surprised by what he said, touched him gently on the shoulder and asked, Is there something you wish to tell me, Lieutenant? His response was negative as he looked away, suppressing tears. How could he tell her about feigning death in combat to save himself? He felt miserable. Realizing that he was retreating into a shell to avoid discussing some dark secret, she told him that tomorrow would be a better day and that perhaps getting into a wheelchair and moving about the hospital would brighten his spirits.

I wish that were true, Sister, he managed to say before closing his eyes.

The weather turned cold and rainy as the approaching winter steadily gripped France in drab, gray days with damp, wet overtones. Daylight was slow in coming, and the new morning began with the sound of voices and activity outside Quentin’s stall. Sister Paulette helped him prepare letters to his parents in America and to his relatives in France. The nun later shared with Sister Marianne the names and addresses of the young aviator’s relatives in France, Monsieur Albert Navralette from Bordeaux and Madam Blanche Couvres from Paris.

Are you starting a journal on the American? asked Sister Paulette.

Yes, replied the other nun. They discussed the American’s reserved nature and laconic speech before they went off to their respective duties. Sister Paulette had mentioned the young flyer’s remoteness to Dr. Melun, who sighed and said, This terrible war damages not only the bodies of our young men, it also confuses and unbalances their mental equilibrium. When will this nightmare end?

In the midafternoon, Sister Marianne approached Quentin’s bed with a robust-looking orderly and a wooden wheelchair. Among the three of them, Quentin was soon sitting upright in the chair, exhausted by the effort required to attain this position. He breathed slowly to regain stasis as they moved him through the large room that served as a ward for wounded soldiers. It was a sobering ride. Quentin saw stacked cots with injured men tightly packed together with no privacy. Across the aisle the curtained stalls afforded some sequestered space for wounded officers. He could not see into those curtained areas, but the sight of the injured enlisted men momentarily took away his breath. He was not prepared for the grotesque sight of men lacking arms or legs, and some with bandages or patches over one or both eyes. His sensibilities were compromised by the damage done to humans, and he stared at the men covered in bandages. The hollow eyes of every wounded soldier seemed to follow him, their thoughts easily read, indicting him for his act of cowardice in the air. The stale smell of blood, body fluids, and urine assaulted his nostrils and added to his sensory and psychological discomfort. The powerful disinfectant used to sterilize the area was overwhelmed by the human stench. There is no excuse, he thought, to absolve me for pretending to be dead.

The sounds of pain and anguish he heard from the injured, the muted silence of others, and the hollow stares of soldiers ripped deep into his heart and soul, accusing him of cowardice. As the wheelchair rolled toward the end of the ward and the exit, he escaped momentarily the private self-inflicted torture of hearing the pitiful cries of agony and despair of the wounded. What chilled him most was the sight of spent men completely without hope, languishing silently, expecting the worst, and perhaps even desiring death. They exited the large makeshift ward, passing several small rooms that housed nurses, hospital attendants, and supplies. In the foyer, he realized they were on the ground floor. Just off the entryway was an impressive staircase that led to an upper level.

Our order has retained the use of most of the top floor, said the nun. The doctors share offices upstairs also. Major Dax has his own small office upstairs too, she said. The nun pointed out the doors leading to a ward that was opposite to the one they just exited, saying it was for the critical and intensive care cases. Beyond it was the emergency service and surgery area. To the right, the nun pointed out a sitting room and a large dining area. She wheeled him to a quiet spot close to windows that looked out on a garden with a small fountain. It was drizzly and gray outside, with the smell of dampness in the entryway. The nun turned the wheelchair toward the windows and sat next to him.

Sister Marianne began to fold bandages, before asking, Will you talk to me about your home?

At first he looked away, refusing to respond or make eye contact with her. But he was surprised when her hand touched his sleeve, and she repeated her interest in learning about him.

What would you like to know? he asked. He was answering a question with a question, a clever way to put off her interrogatory.

Lieutenant, I am curious about your family, and where they live. Please tell me about your people, where they are from, and how it is you speak French. He waited for a long time before responding. His great-grandfather, Antoine, was from France and had moved to Canada after completing his schooling. He prospered in Quebec and returned to France to find a wife. He met and married Quentin’s great-grandmother in France, and they returned to live in Montreal, where his grandfather was born. Grandfather Norvell also went to France and married a young woman from a well-to-do Parisian family. They moved to Quebec and had six children, one of whom was Roland, his father. He was the youngest of the six children, studied engineering, and graduated from the University of Montreal. Quentin paused for a moment to catch his breath. His account is so mechanical and without any spirit, thought the nun. Quentin collected his thoughts and mentioned that his father worked for a Canadian company for a few years before going to the United States in the employ of a large railroad company. Roland designed and built new rail lines, bridges, and trestles, and he paved roads. His work was very profitable, and he invested his money carefully. He settled in New Orleans and became active in the social networks and was soon known as a highly desirable bachelor.

And your mother? asked the nun. Quentin paused and emitted a sigh before continuing. Bernice, his mother, was the eldest daughter of a well-to-do family with Cajun, French, and Spanish roots. The nun noticed he used a soft and deferential tone when talking about his mother. Her family owned considerable land, and thrived on commercial ventures and shipping in New Orleans. Sister Marianne interrupted him by gently laying her hand on his and asking, "Est-ce que Cajun?"

He told her about the Acadians forced out of the Maritime Provinces in Canada in the 1700s by the English. They entered the United States. Some worked their way down the Mississippi River to New Orleans, while others made their way south by different means and routes. Many became subsistence farmers and fishermen around the Mississippi Delta, while others settled deep in the bayous and swamps of southern Louisiana. His mother’s relatives had prospered and had married into old French and Spanish families, eventually accumulating excellent bottomland and commercial properties. Bernice’s family resided on an old plantation near Baton Rouge, northwest of New Orleans. While it had been badly damaged during the American Civil War, the family rebuilt it, and by careful planning and hard work made it prosperous again. He paused, and the nun looked at him with large doe-like eyes, continuing to fold bandages. She nodded her head, encouraging him to continue. He appeared lost in thought, trying to decide whether to continue or to stop.

The nun touched him again, and he spoke up.

Father met my mother at a cotillion in New Orleans. He said she was the most beautiful and wild creature he had ever laid eyes on. Catching his breath, the aviator went on to say that Roland courted Bernice because she was an extraordinary woman, equally at home in a dugout canoe deep in the swamps or in the finest musical salons in New Orleans.

And have you brothers and sisters? she asked.

He answered that René, the oldest son, went to Harvard University, studied law at the University of Virginia, and returned to become an attorney and married into a prosperous old Louisiana family. His older sister Daphne married a successful sea captain and moved to Charleston, South Carolina. Nicole, his younger sister, was attending finishing school, and Louis, his younger brother, was in college.

And what about your schooling? asked Sister Marianne.

He was slow to respond, and in a soft voice said he attended a military preparatory academy in Virginia and then Princeton University. She asked about Princeton, and he said that it was an old and well-established university in New Jersey, where many southern families sent their sons to study.

And did you finish your university studies? asked the nun.

He nodded but refused to say any more. She noticed that he appeared tired from sitting up, and from talking. She decided to ask one more question before taking him back to his bed.

How were you injured, Lieutenant? He stiffened and closed his eyes, as if refusing to recall whatever dangerous encounter he may have experienced. "Bon, she said, after a long pause. You must be tired of answering my silly questions. Would you like to go back to your bed?" He nodded, his eyes closed and his teeth tightly clenched. After helping him into his bed, the nun thanked him for talking about his family, and then she left. She went to her room and wrote extensively in a journal she was keeping.

That evening, the nun met with Dr. Dax and shared her impressions about the young aviator, indicating that he was wrestling with a difficult problem stemming, perhaps, from something that happened to him in combat.

What is it you want? asked the doctor, curious about the nun’s interest in the flyer.

"With your permission, I would