Part 14 (1/2)

We cannot say that the Guynemer who flew in Flanders was not the same Guynemer who had flown over the Somme, Lorraine or Aisne battle-fields.

Indeed, his mastery was increasing with each fresh encounter, and with his daring he cared little whether the enemy was gaining in numbers or inventing unsuspected tactics. His victories of August 17 and 20 showed him at his boldest best. Yet his comrades noticed that his nerves seemed overstrained. He was not content with flying oftener and longer than the others in quest of his game, but fretted if his Boche did not appear precisely when he wanted him. When an enemy did not turn up where he was expected, he made up his mind to seek him where he himself was not expected, and he became accustomed to scouting farther and farther away into dangerous zones. Was he tired of holding the door tight against destiny, or feeling sure that destiny could not look in? Did it not occur to him that his hour, whether near or not, was marked down?

Indeed, it is certain that the thought not only presented itself to him sometimes, but was familiar. ”At our last meeting,” writes his school-fellow of Stanislas days, Lieutenant Constantin, ”I had been struck by his melancholy expression, and yet he had just been victorious for the forty-seventh time. 'I have been too lucky,' he said to me, 'and I feel as if I must pay for it.' 'Nonsense,' I replied, 'I am absolutely certain that nothing will happen to you.' He smiled as if he did not believe me, but I knew that he was haunted by the idea, and avoided everything that might uselessly consume a particle of his energy or disturb his sang-froid, which he intended to devote entirely to Boche hunting.”[27]

[Footnote 27: Unpublished notes by J. Constantin.]

When had he ceased to think himself invincible? The reader no doubt remembers how he recovered from his wound at Verdun, and the shock it might have left, merely by flying and offering himself to the enemy's fire with the firm resolve not to return it. Eight times he had been brought down, and each time with full and prolonged consciousness of what was happening. On many occasions he had come back to camp with bullets in his machine, or in his combination. Yet these narrow escapes never reacted on his imagination, damped his spirit, or diminished his _furia_. But had he thought himself invincible? He believed in his star, no doubt, but he knew he was only a man. One of his most intimate friends, his rival in glory, the nearest to him since the loss of Dorme, the one who was the Oliver to this Roland, once received this confidence from Guynemer: ”One of the fellows told me that when he starts up he only thinks of the fighting before him; he found that sufficiently absorbing; but I told him that when the men start my motor I always make a sign to the fellows standing around. 'Yes, I have seen it,' he answered; 'the handshake of the airman. It means _au revoir_.' But maybe it is farewell I am inwardly saying,” Guynemer added, and laughed, for the boy in him was never far from the man.

Towards the end of July, while he was in Paris seeing to the repairs for his machine after bringing down his fiftieth enemy, he had gone to Compiegne for a short visit. His father, knowing his technical ability and his interest in all mechanical improvements, and on the other hand noticing a nervousness in his manner, dared for the first time to hint timidly and allusively at the possibility of his being useful in some other field.

”Couldn't you be of service with respect to making engines, etc.?”

But he was embarra.s.sed by his son's look of questioning surprise. Every time Guynemer had used his father's influence in the army, it had been to bring himself nearer to danger.

”No man has the right to get away from the front as long as the war lasts,” he said. ”I see very well what you are thinking, but you know that self-sacrifice is never wasted. Don't let us talk any more about it....”

On Tuesday, August 28, Guynemer, having been obliged to come to Paris again for repairs to his airplane, went to Saint-Pierre de Chaillot. It was not exceptional for him to visit this old church; he loved to prepare himself there for his battle. One of the officiating priests has written since his death of ”his faith and the transparency of his soul.”[28] The Chaillot paris.h.i.+oners knew him well, but pretended not to notice him, and he thought himself one in a crowd. After seeing the priest in the confessional, he usually enjoyed another little chat in the sacristy, and although he was no man for long prayers and meditations, he expressed his thoughts on such occasions in heartfelt and serious language.

[Footnote 28: _La Croix_, October 7, 1917, article by Pierre l'Ermite.]

”My fate is sealed,” he once said in his playful, authoritative way; ”I cannot escape it.” And remembering his not very far away Latin, he added: ”_Hodie mihi, cras tibi_....”

Early in September he made up his mind to go back to Flanders, although his airplane was not yet entirely repaired. The day before leaving he was standing at the door of the Hotel Edouard VII when one of his schoolmates at the College Stanislas, Lieutenant Jacquemin, appeared.

”He took me to his room,” this officer relates, ”and we talked for more than an hour about schooldays. I asked him whether he had some special dodge to be so successful.” ”None whatever,” he said, ”but you remember I took a prize for shooting at Stanislas. I shoot straight, and have absolute confidence in my machine.” He showed me his numberless decorations, and was just as simple and full of good fellows.h.i.+p as he was at Stanislas. It was evident that his head had not been in the least turned by his success; he only talked more and enjoyed describing his fights. He told me, too, that in spite of opposition from airplane builders he had secured a long-contemplated improvement; and that he had had a special camera made for him with which he could photograph a machine as it fell. His parting words were: ”I hope to fly to-morrow, but don't expect to see my name any more in the _communiques_. That's all over: I have bagged my fifty Boches.”

Were not these strange words, if indeed Guynemer attached any meaning to them? At all events, they expressed his innermost longing, which was to go on flying, even if he should fly for nothing.

Before reporting at Dunkirk, Guynemer spent September 2, 3, and 4 with his people at Compiegne. Never was he more fascinatingly affectionate, boyish, and bright than during those three days. But he seemed agitated.

”Let us make plans,” he said repeatedly, in spite of his old aversion to castle-building. His plans that day were for the amus.e.m.e.nt of his sisters. He reminded the younger, Yvonne, that he had quarreled once with her. It was at Biarritz, when he wanted her to make a _novena_ (nine days' special prayers) that he might not be rejected by the recruiting board again; his sister did not like to promise, and he had threatened to sulk forever, which he had proceeded to do--for five minutes.

His mother and sisters thought him more enchanting than ever, but his father felt that he was overstrained, and realized that his almost morbid notion of his duty as a chaser who could no longer wait for his chance but wanted to force a victory, was the result of fatigue. M.

Guynemer no longer hesitated to speak, adding that the period of rest he advised was in the very interest of his son's service. ”You need strengthening; you have done too much. If you should go on, you would be in great danger of falling below yourself, or not really being yourself.”

”Father, war is nothing else. One must pull on, even if the rope should threaten to snap.”

It was the first time that M. Guynemer had given undisguised advice, and he urged his point.

”Why not stop awhile? Your record is pretty good; you might form younger pilots, and in time go back to your squadron.”

”Yes, and people would say that, hoping for no more distinctions, I have given up fighting.”

”What does it matter? Let people talk, and when you reappear in better condition they will understand. You know I never gave you a word of advice which the whole world could not hear. I always helped you, and you always found the most disinterested approval here in your home. But you will admit that human strength has its limits.”

”Yes,” Georges interposed, ”a limit which we must endeavor to leave behind. We have given nothing as long as we have not given everything.”

M. Guynemer said no more. He felt that he had probed his son's soul to the depths, and his pride in his hero did not diminish his sorrow. When they parted he concealed his anguish, but he watched the boy, thinking he would never see him again. His wife and daughters, too, stood on the threshold oppressed by the same feelings, trying to suppress their anxiety and finding no words to veil it.