Building up steam

There's an anachronism for you. Kids today have no idea about 'building up steam' as a saying. Now, in the day of instant everything, the concept of slowly accelerating is not understood. But there it is, as of today 300 people have bought Shadow Soldiers, mostly on Kindle. I hope that the acceleration is noticed at Amazon and they pump the book a little. 500 sales seems reachable, 1000 a worthy goal, who knows? Anyway, it makes me feel very happy and comes during a week when pressures from kids, work and my aging father seem overwhelming.

Thanks for your support.

Another Chapter

I have mentioned that I have been struggling with a title for the new book and although I have been flirting with "An American Aviator" I am now thinking that the title of one of my chapters "Warsaw Express" seems more in tune with the whole book. So I am posting the chapter here to see what the reaction might be.

Warsaw Express

“Do you know what serendipity is? Well, it is when events crowd in on each other in the most advantageous way and I have had nothing to do with them. That makes me suspicious.” Raymond Kingman was not pleased, not pleased with the sudden appearance of Krol and certainly not pleased to find out that Harry had spent the better part of the previous night allowing a Bolshevik agent, no matter how beautiful, show him the “views” from her bedroom. “Ray, look at it this way.” Herb Greene soothingly said. “We wanted to indoctrinate Harry into the ways of European espionage, what better way than to have him hired by the Poles and fucking a Russian spy. Well Poland is where the action is now in Europe. Krol is no spy; the Poles have a whole other organization for that, the Oddział II. He is a cavalry officer and we are pretty sure he is not one of theirs, as for the lovely Miss Koniev, so what if he dipped his wick a last night. If she is setting a honey trap how can it work if he doesn’t tumble?” “How do we know he hasn’t or won’t?” “Ray, the kid told us everything this morning. Even if your man who followed the car last night had not, Harry is being straight with us.” Their meeting did not start well. Harry had awakened Greene in his hotel room and incurred the wrath of a drowsy Agnieszka. Harry said it was important and they needed to talk. Greene struggled into his robe, shut the door to the bedroom as he calmed his agitated lover and called Kingman. Half an hour later the three of them were occupying the corner seats in the Sports Café on Lindenstrasse. The two older men were presiding like scowling professors as they listened to a student’s inept attempt at explaining his responses. Although Harry winced at the term ‘kid’ applied to him still, he got the meaning. Neither Kingman nor Greene was very surprised by Krol’s offer, they had been hoping for a way to get Harry out in the field and here it was, served up on a platter. That was also what bothered the pair. They had wanted to place someone in Poland, someone to assess and report on the new ‘eastern front’ against the Bolsheviks, but they had thought to get some ground officer to be an observer or maybe even some hack reporter who needed the money. If it was real, this offer from the Poles was but the best of covers because it was completely transparent. Harry would be in Poland doing what he did best, flying. He would be seen as an independent, unaligned and yet independently operating. As far as Zaharoff or the Russians were concerned he was just another adventurer. And like a royal coachman cast on a fast trout stream he would get some contact to rise. What he could learn from the experience in Poland could not have been bought at any price. Harry would be able to meet people, report on what he learned and help them create the kind of network that people like Basil Zaharoff had at their disposal. Still, they were concerned for Harry. The pair realized they had not anticipated the speed of this turn of events. Harry would be on his own in Poland, there would be no structure of the Army around him. He had no real training for this kind of work and now there was no time for him to be trained. Where he went and whom he met would be crucial and he knew no one in Warsaw other than Krol. Kingman decided that both he and Greene would need some time alone with Harry. They all needed to be very clear on what they were stepping into. Kingman broke the heavy silence in the room. “It is like this, Harry. The US is not going to publically endorse any action in Poland at this time. Nobody in Washington really cares about that part of the world. Oh, certainly some humanitarian aid will be forthcoming, probably from émigré organizations. Maybe the Polish Falcons, or the like, will send nurses or medicine, but no arms and no soldiers, at least not directly. Despite the reticence on the part of the government, we do have an interest in stopping the Bolshies and Lenin in making any advances out of Russia. They have created enough of a cesspool there now. We don’t need the rest of Europe in revolt. The politics of Europe are changing rapidly, too rapidly in some cases. Right now, there is a local soviet-style government in Munich that is coming under fire from the right-wing elements of the Freikorps and other right-wing street thugs and we expect them to win this fight, at least in the south. At the end of the day having a diminished Bolshevik presence in Europe is in everyone’s best interest. Am I right, Herb?” “Harry, Tommy’s father has the essence of it. If you choose to help the Poles it will be in some way helping America. However you will be out there on your own. I doubt that if the Bolshies somehow catch on to you there will be any way for the US to help. Up to a point we might be able to do something informally if you need assistance. My firm does business throughout the continent, but the lands beyond Warsaw might as well be on the moon for all we know. The only good news is that no matter how hard they fight; the Poles and the Russians will have to play this out quickly. Neither has the wherewithal for a long war.” With Harry firmly decided to go to Poland it was time for the other two fliers to make up their minds. Over a boozy lunch Harry recited enough of the Polish offer to try to entice them, but Murray and Kingman had already made their choice for each to go his own way. It wasn’t surprising; the bonds of comradeship forged in war had withered with the return of peace. Each man wanted something more; something that the war had kept in limbo and so the future, whatever it might be and with all its uncertainties, beckoned. Tommy Kingman, much to his father’s relief, was headed back to the states and finish at Yale. His father had plans for him to enter the family business that is; the government, after that. Ed Murray was more deliberate in making his choice and had considered his options and finally decided that, after all, he had enough of Europe. So, he too, would head home, maybe to keep on flying. He had thought about trying to stay in the Army, but he had waited too long and now his best option was to go home and start over. They all knew that Harry Braham would decide to take Krol’s offer, if not just for the flying. Whether they saw anything more in it than that, they chose not to say. After lunch they all stood, a little wobbly for all the booze and bid each other good-bye. It only remained for each of them to shake hands and go about the business of packing up. Harry called Krol to tell him he would take the job but stayed on in Koblenz for a few days at Herb Greene’s request. There was a lot Harry needed to know before heading east and not much time in which to learn it all. On the day he boarded the express train to Berlin and on to Warsaw, Harry saw Herb Greene one last time. Harry had shed his army uniform for a tailored gray traveling suit, a pair of hand-sewn oxfords and a North Humberland Dragoon regimental tie. It didn’t matter; being in mufti seemed less suitable than his being in uniform, but he still looked like a soldier on leave. Greene was as ever, direct and to the point. They had spent several hours with Kingman going over procedures in the week before he left. “So, any last minute questions?” “I don’t know how much help I might be in the long run. I don’t think I’m much of a spy, but I will keep my eyes and ears open. I just hope you don’t regret it.” “Not at all. On the whole, I think this foray into Poland may be beneficial to both of us. I am told that there is a large contingent of expatriate fliers headed out east to assist the Poles. You will be in a good position to expand your contacts to men who may be pivotal in the growth of aviation in Europe. It won’t hurt that you will gain some first hand knowledge of tactics and military thought. I have had a chance to look over the report that you mailed to me on the testing of the German planes. Thanks, it is useful information. We need more of that. You need to keep things close to the vest out there. The consulate people in Warsaw don’t know what you are doing and seem less than thrilled about all the expatriate Americans in a war zone. Once you settle in let us know where you are by wire to my office in Paris.” Greene smiled and continued, “Harry, I think you are the right man for the job. Just don’t get yourself killed out there. I will come to Warsaw but only if there is a crisis. Do you remember that assistant of Ray’s, Harriet Bliss?” “She was at the Crillon with that other woman, Agata with the blue eyes.” “Hmm, blue eyes. That’s right. There is to be a new US consulate in Warsaw and it is currently being run from the embassy in Paris for the time being. That gives us an opportunity to communicate. Ray Kingman has arranged for Miss Bliss to travel to Warsaw every six weeks or so as a courier. She will have a security man with her on the train, but once in Warsaw she will be free to make her own arrangements. By the way, it seems her friend Agata Nawoj is now living in Warsaw. Ms. Nawoj is apparently quite well acquainted with your Captain Krol I’m told. By the way, it seems your Russian lady has made tracks back to Paris. I’m not sure what her game is, you never know with the Bolshies. Watch out, I expect you will hear from her at some point. When you do let us know. Now, once we know where you are Poland I will arrange for Harriet Bliss will pick up and deliver messages for you. Keep in mind that these things have a lifetime of their own. Nothing is definite. It will be best if you are back in Paris in twelve months. Be a sponge and soak up what you learn, and then report it all back to us. Some of it may seem trivial, some not so. Let us sort it out. Well for good luck, as the Germans used to say ‘hals und beinbrucken’.” Rising to leave, Herb shook Harry’s hand and with his other extended an envelope to him. As the banker walked away Harry opened it and looked inside and counted fifty one hundred dollar bills. Harry boarded the train and found his compartment then settled in for the eastward journey. The train from Koblenz would take him to Hamburg and then he would board the Paris – Warsaw Express, a service that had only recently been reestablished after the war’s interruption. It occurred to him that he knew not one word of Polish. Up to this point he had been among other Americans, and language had not been an issue. He had gotten by in France and Germany with a smattering of random phrases spoken phonetically that were often confusing to the listener. He had no idea what he would do when he got in the Polish capital. Up to that moment he hadn’t really thought very much about the country into which he was headed. Like most Americans, he had come to Europe without a sense of the deep divisions of its cultures and ethnicities. Now he was about to enroll in a graduate course in both. Upon reaching Hamburg, where he was to change trains for the express to Berlin, Harry was confronted with his first taste of the universal worker’s revolution. As the train eased into the station he was surprised to see the mass of people crowding the platform and sidetracks. Placards and flags were everywhere. With his sketchy German he could make out that these were posters and banners for the communist factions in the local area. And if he had any doubt, the sea of red banners along the station platform told him as much. The drizzle and failing light of late afternoon did not seem to dampen the communist’s ardor as they chanted in voices hoarse from long hours on the picket lines for bread and jobs. Harry looked at the crowd with dubious anticipation. Approaching the First Class porter, who had some English, he asked where he had to go to find the Berlin to Warsaw train. The man gave him a doubtful glance and then directed him toward the Wagons-Lit office whispering, “Geh mit Gott” as Harry departed to find his train. Whatever Harry feared might happen to him while wading through the sea of German Bolsheviks never materialized. Once on the platform, none of the chanting protesters one paid him any attention. The crowd seemed to be focused on surrounding the railway administration offices. Their targets were railway and government officialdom and they saw no advantage in alienating ordinary travellers with their actions. At the Wagons-lit office the manager was able to get him to his assigned space on the Berlin train moments after it pulled into the station. Hamburg, like most of northern Germany, where most of the nation’s factories were located, had long had its share of industrial politics, trade unions and communist cells, but the turmoil had not descended into the level of anarchy that was now gripping Berlin. Other than being the target of a few thrown rocks and horse turds hurled at the passing coaches from the crowds, the ride east on the Express was without incident. Night descended on Harry as the train, only slightly delayed, chuffed along on its way eastward. Harry found himself drifting on a lake, warm under a summer sky. The fishing rod tied to the thwart and dipping slowly as feeding fish looked over the bait. Midsummer in Maine, yes Maine he thought. Not sure really, but it didn’t matter. The sun made him drowsy and the slow lapping of water along the canoe’s sides rocked him to sleep. Somewhere above a bird wheeled. An eagle looking for its lunch among the fish schooling near the surface. There was not a soul in sight, no sounds of civilization and just a few puffs of cumulous clouds in the sky. He wanted to fish, to catch a big one, but he was just too sleepy. There was someone else in the front of the canoe. He could not make out a face. Who was it? His eyes tried to focus but all he could see was the back of her head. Her head? Yes, it was a woman - dark hair flowing lightly in the easy breeze. He tried to see her face, was trying to focus when he heard the noise. It seemed familiar, a humming at first, then louder, far above the lake. Was it somewhere in the clouds? No, maybe not. Yes, there it was again, louder now and he could see it. It was a dark shape against the white puffs of cloud. Turning in a slow arc and coming back toward the lake. Dropping down, coming faster, he could see it now, the sound of the plane’s engine growing louder. It was black, no; no it had purple wings with blotches of white and black. It was coming straight for them, faster and faster as it dove down. Little flashes of light from the nose of the plane and then tall geysers of water coming closer. The thud of bullets hitting flesh and wood and suddenly he and the woman were tumbling into the water. With a start he woke to the thud of the train’s wheels as it began to brake for its entry into Berlin’s Westbahnhof. Berlin was a shambles. From the look of things one would have thought the fighting in the trenches had taken place here and not in France. Street battles were hosted daily by left wing factions fighting the police and various other center and right wing groups fighting whichever group they hated the most at that moment. Block by block, in the city’s industrial neighborhoods, political allegiances shifted and reformed as ideologies swayed back and forth across the political spectrum. And the residents paid the price in blood. The train conductor came through the cars and announced that the stop in Berlin would be very brief and that through passengers were best advised to remain on the train to avoid being left if the train had to depart quickly. As if to emphasize that urgency the rattle of machine gun fire could be heard over the screeching brakes of the engine as the train slid up to the station platform. The stop in Berlin was mercifully short. Harry took the opportunity to stretch his legs on the platform and to pick up a copy of the Paris Herald Tribune. It was the previous day’s edition, but the news felt fresh, especially as he had not been keeping up with the world. It took only a glance at the headlines to know that the world was going to hell, and worse, it appeared that he was heading into the worst of places. The quiet elegance of first-class rail travel quickly erased the scenes of chaos in Berlin from his mind and Harry took breakfast in the Express’ dining car. Eggs cooked to order, warm pastries and excellent coffee were served on snowy white table linen, another world, far from the chanting and the fighting. As the train rolled past farms and tidy villages and through the Pomeranian forests that straddled the German-Polish border he was reminded that there was another, more pastoral Germany. At the frontier, two Polish inspectors in green uniforms with brightly polished silver buttons and high, stiff collars came through the dining car inspecting passports and stamping entry visas. The inspector who examined Harry’s passport had a large silver badge on his left collar which seemed to Harry to make him the more senior of the two, since his companion had none. “And the purpose of your visit to Poland, Captain Braham?” His English was very correct if not slightly halting. Harry seemed suddenly reticent to speak too loudly. “Just Mister Braham, I am not a captain any longer, but I was invited to Poland by your army. I’m here to teach your army officers how to fly.” The inspector looked down at the seated American and took him in. More cannon fodder he thought. Hadn’t anyone learned anything these past five years? “In that case, I hope you and your students are very successful.” And with that he stamped the passport and moved on to the large gentleman, perhaps a travelling salesman, seated at the next table. “Captain Braham, may I join you?” Harry was startled to see Karl Lieberman standing in front of him. “Certainly, sit down. Are you going to Warsaw?” Harry had been enjoying the solitude of his journey and was not particularly pleased to have it interrupted. Still, Lieberman was the kind of person one wore like an old but comfortable sweater. Generous and warm, yes that would describe the Jewish engineer, generous and warm. “That is a good question. As it stands now the answer is almost certainly no, but with the Polish and Ukrainian armies slashing into Russia, my plans may change. My ultimate destination is Riga, but that also could change. My employer, Sir Basil requires ever more information on the developments in aviation in those countries. His appetite for the stuff is insatiable. And you? I heard from someone in Paris that you were joining the volunteers helping the great Pilsudski carve out a new country from what was once Russia. Very courageous, very brave!” He spoke earnestly and with some passion, it was not diplomatic small talk, but it seemed to Harry that the little man was generally impressed with him. But Harry wondered later, who in Paris had told him he was heading east, certainly not someone from either Kingman’s or Greene’s offices? It was slightly disturbing to know of a leak, worse if someone was keeping tabs on him. “It is actually fortuitous that we should meet this way. My employer is trying to interest the Polish government in purchasing advanced military aircraft.” “Really, I didn’t know the Poles were buying aircraft from Sir Basil.” “Indeed, they are not, at least not directly. That might upset the powers that be in London. No, what we do is to put interested parties together to make their arrangements and earn a sort of, what do you call it, a, uh, a finder’s fee for our efforts. Sir Basil has a permanent relationship with the Vickers Company. However, at this moment we are working with another, private company that is the re-fitter and refiner of existing airplanes. Their machine shops have been doing high performance machining for decades. And now they are working on an improved version of the SE5 that was so effective at the end of the war. Mostly, I travel and find out what companies and governments need and pass that information on. Then the great Zaharoff acquaints them with our aviation ventures and closes the deal. You see, we are a friend to the small countries as well as the large. Those nations just recently carved out of the fat of the Russian Bear and given freedom need friends. But so many of them are caught between the icy seas and a hungry beast. For them survival depends on them making friends with other, friendly neighbors while at the same time keeping the bear distracted. Over time, if we are successful we can create business alliances with other small countries. If they are successful they may appear too big for the bear to bite, let alone swallow.” Lieberman smiled wanly and signaled to the waiter to bring him some coffee. “I am sure to make my way back to Poland and so I hope to see you in Warsaw during your stay Captain. My firm has a chance to supply General Pilsudski with replacement aircraft and I would certainly appreciate you opinion of our products. In fact, I believe that Mr. Zaharoff himself may come to visit the General in the coming weeks.” The express arrived at Główna station on the west side of the Vistula, three hours late. Dark clouds hung in the northern sky, foretelling the onset of winter that was only weeks away. But summer was not to lose its grip just yet on the Polish capital. Outside the station the autumn afternoon was ripe with the odor of a lot of people, horses and supplies slow cooking in the afternoon sun. Warsaw churned with the chaos of a wartime capital. The station was festooned in flags and banners, red and white were the colors of the day “On to Kiev!” “Destroy the Red Hordes!” Screamed from giant posters that depicted handsome Polish cavalrymen slashing down apelike figures in Red Army uniforms. On the platform men in khaki and brown and cradling their arms lounged awaiting the next troop train to the east. The fledgling nation was at war and troops were departing to the farthest eastern regions of the land. As the cars of the Express emptied the soldiers, bearing insignia and rank markings that he could not recognize were surging toward the coaches. There was no longer a through train to Moscow, and yet apparently the express was going further east with a new group of passengers. Women clutching small children and weeping were crowding around as they saw their husbands, fathers; brothers and lovers board the train for war. Amid the hissing steam and shouts from the crowd he looked in vain for anyone remotely resembling Jerzy Krol. But there was no one resembling the Polish captain of cavalry. Suddenly he felt that someone tugging at his sleeve. “Captain Braham! Captain Braham!” Harry turned to look at whoever this could be and found himself looking straight into the ice blue eyes of Agata Nawoj. She smiled at his recognition. Dressed in an ankle length dress of tan cavalry twill with an embroidered bodice of black rosettes she looked every part of what the stylish woman wore to war. On her head a wide brimmed hat, with the front pinned up as if for leading a cavalry charge covered her dark hair. She seemed pleased to see him. “Captain Braham. My name is Agata Nawoj. I am a friend of Harriet Bliss. Captain Krol sends his apologies but sent me to find you and bring you out to the airfield.” “Yes, I know who you are. I saw you at the Crillon, but I never had a chance to speak with you.” She shouted over her shoulder “Well then, now’s your chance. We can talk in the car. It is a long drive.” as she turned and led him away from the melee. Parked dangerously amid the chaos on the street was a gray Daimler Phaeton with its canvas top down. Standing alongside the car was a tall, broad shouldered man in white duster and a cap with goggles pushed up over the brim. As they approached he touched his cap in respect and opened the rear door. Agata stepped forward and reached inside. From the floor of the car she pulled a pair of long white dusters from the rear seat and handed Harry one to put on while she struggled into her own. “You’ll need this.” Indicating the duster. “It’s a long ride. Not really that far, but Polish roads, are, well Polish – you’ll see. Once we get out of town the roads are simply ribbons of white dust until the autumn rains arrive. They are very late this year. Give your bag to Janusz; he’ll put it in the front with him.” Moments later, with Janusz’ careful attention to the wheel, they were sluicing through the jumble of cabs, trucks and wagons that filled the square in front of the station. “To Otwocki, Miss Agata?” Asked Janusz in a husky Slavic accented English. “Yes, please to the airfield.” She replied. Upon seeing Harry’s quizzical look at Janusz’ English she explained. “Janusz is an old family friend from Chicago. When my father heard I was headed for Warsaw he sent Janusz along to look after me. Isn’t that right, Janusz?” “ Yes, Miss Agata. No one bother you when Janusz around.” He replied half turning to stare at Harry by way of a warning and patted the area under his arm indicating a weapon of some sort. And that means me, Harry thought. For a half hour the car traversed broad avenues and narrow city streets at one point crossing the Aleksandrowski Bridge over the Vistula to Praha, Warsaw’s industrial suburb on the eastern side. The river below the bridge waiting too for the rains was slow and grey as the current pushed north toward the sea. On the east bank things looked different. Now they had officially entered Slavic Europe and immediately the scenery changed. The orderly, western half of the country, long under the thrall of Teutonic knights and their successors was behind them and what lay ahead was the land of the Tatars, Cossacks and nomadic Jews. The buildings they passed were no longer stone; wood had replaced the sturdier building materials of the west and in effect they had driven out of the twentieth and into the sixteenth century. They had gone several miles outside of what Harry took to be the limits of the city before he spoke. “I was hoping to have had a chance to meet you that night at the Crillon. You looked absolutely delicious and I was disappointed to be pulled off in other directions only to find you had left the party.” Harry waited for a response, but the woman just looked ahead at the winding road. They were getting further away from the city and, as predicted, the roads were thick with a white dust that would turn to sticky glue with the first rains. Agata acted as if she hadn’t heard him and looked down at her hands. At last she spoke. “Thank you. I am sorry as well. It was a nice party, but I had not expected to attend. Harriet Bliss, I think you must know her? Well, Harriet asked me to come at the last minute. I had only arrived in Paris that afternoon. As it turned out I met some of the people I had come to Europe to meet and left the room.” She paused again. “I suppose you are wondering what I am doing here and why Captain Krol sent me to collect you. Well, sometimes I wonder myself. It was Jerzy who I had met at the party; you see I am as much Polish as I am American. And as I was born in Chicago, that is small wonder. I am here in Warsaw mostly because Jerzy told me here is where I might do the most good. Like most school kids in America, I grew up on the myth of George Washington and the ideals of the American Revolution. Poland is staging its own revolution of sorts and standing up to its former oppressor. I came to this country for my father’s sake, to help if I could. When Jerzy spoke to me of the need for Poland to remain independent, I thought I had found a calling, something that mattered after all the death and waste of the last five years. It’s true, Poland does deserve to have its own destiny, but this is not America and in the short time I have been here I have come to realize that what George Washington and the American patriots achieved is not what the Poles want or can achieve. These founding fathers are more concerned about seeking revenge for a thousand years of subjugation than about anything our constitution created or what Mr. Wilson has now espoused to the world.” Harry looked up to see Janusz eyeing him the rearview mirror. “Well” Harry said jauntily, “I came for the money and for the flying. After a couple of months of aerial combat in France I was dissuaded of any ideals about liberty or national causes. Sherman said ‘war is hell’ only he had no idea of how hellish it can become when executed on an industrial scale, on the ground or in the air.” “I understand, Captain Braham. But no, here it is worse than you think. Right now, the forces that Pilsudski has put in the field are far beyond the borders that were intended to be the new Poland. The Polish army has joined with Ukrainian militias and now they are in Kiev. The Ukraine! That is not Poland, it is not really Russia, and it is a place beyond time, the land of the Cossacks. This war is now a conquest, not a defense of the Polish homeland; the front lines are a thousand miles east of traditional Poland. Perhaps that is the way of war now; create a dead zone outside your borders. America has no such need, unless we went to war with the Canadians or Mexicans, again. The world’s newspapers seem to ignore the fact that people are dying out there on the steppe, and not necessarily for any high ideals.” She took a deep breath and searched the back seat for a silver flask. Gently and with the utmost care she opened the top and took a long pull from it. Harry could smell the tart aroma of squeezed lemons as she drank. “Out there,” she said pointing to the east, “Out there, it is still the sixteenth century. The villages and shtetls of the Pale are throwbacks to medieval times at best. The poverty is stunning in its severity, while here in Warsaw there are some of the world’s finest chemists, mathematicians and scientists, who are working on advanced projects that will help mankind into the next century. Poland is small, but it is a place of vast contrasts and no one, other than Pilsudski has any idea what to do about anything. Lately, there is concept here in Poland that has been bandied about. It is that the new countries that have been carved out of the old empires should form an Intermarum, a sort of physical barrier of small countries running from the Baltic to the Black Sea that together will be strong enough to resist the Bolsheviks on the one side and keep a resurgent Germany in check on the other. It is a fine idea, but the diplomats haggle like fish peddlers, and at the end of the day it remains a lofty concept. None of them trust one another and the Poles, who suggested the idea, are the largest of the various countries. That alone creates another sense of mistrust. However, you will meet the most fascinating people here. When you get away from the politics, people are just people. Perhaps not just the other fliers but get out on the steppe and get a sense of the real essence of this troubled land.” Agata sighed and again fell silent simply staring at the dusty road ahead.

A Sample Chapter

For those of you who might be interested here is a sample chapter of the new book:

Colombey des Belles

On the morning that he was to kill the two Germans Harry Braham woke long before dawn. Having tossed all night in the narrow canvas cot, his mind was racing, thinking of the day ahead and wondering how he would perform. He had to be at his best, for there was little room for error. Flying, especially combat flying, was an unforgiving business. In truth, he had slept fitfully ever since arriving in France, often lying awake through the long stretches of darkness more concerned about measuring up to his comrades’ expectations than about the bloody slaughter for which he had volunteered. Sleep was like a whore and stole away from him in the pre-dawn hours taking a part of his soul in payment.
At twenty-two he had already experienced his share of the rough and tumble of life. He had been a restless youth, taking jobs here and there, and always ready to move on to the next town. Yet nothing had prepared him for the knife’s edge existence that he was now facing. A year ago, back in the States, joining the Air Service seemed the right thing to do, even if it seemed more of a lark when he signed the papers.
The world had entered on to a new age of fighting. War in the skies with men astride winged chariots likened to the ancient Greek heroes. It was as if Achilles and Hector had been reborn in the young men who took the war into the clouds. Knights of the Air they were called in the newspapers. That was a distortion some that he would gladly debate with any one of those writers should one ever choose to leave their comforts in Paris for a few days with the fliers at the front. Nothing about the war was chivalrous; it was simply aerial murder, desperate and cold-blooded. For there were only two types of pilots flying in the skies over France that autumn, the hunters and the prey. As it was quickly learned, there were old pilots and bold pilots, but there were no old, bold pilots. If you didn’t have the aggressiveness to find and kill your enemy first, then you would not survive.
Back in the States Harry had seen only a few airplanes and read about the Army’s new flying service in newspaper Sunday supplements, before reporting for training. But what little he did see in those grainy rotogravure photos fired his imagination, so he decided to join. It was either that or finding a berth on some tramp steamer to nowhere, and he’d had enough rambling. Joining the Army was the easy part, they were hungry for bodies. Even the basic training wasn’t terrible, he had made it all the shouting and marching a game, but learning to fly, well that was something that had not come easily for Harry.
Once airborne he could fly well enough; it was getting the plane back on the ground in one piece that was his problem. Of course, the crates that they used for pilot training did not exude a lot of confidence for the fledgling flier. In an industrial world where power was demonstrated by massive iron and steel steam engines, or the sleek sides of a dreadnought bristling with long-range guns, the fabric covered spruce and wire contraptions that took to the sky reminded Harry of the piles of odd bits of lumber piled in the back of his grandfather’s cabinet shop. Getting inside one of these flammable crates seemed to border on insanity. Yet, the only way to learn to fly was to do it.
In 1915 the Air Service had introduced the Curtiss JN-4 to train pilots. The ‘Jenny’ was soon in service with the Army and the Navy. As a primary trainer it offered the basics for pilots. Slow and docile in the air it allowed the student pilot enough time to correct his mistakes before they killed him. With the instructor pilot shouting instructions through a long rubber tube into the student’s ear, or as often enough in Harry’s case, reaching forward with his clipboard and smacking Harry on the head. One way or another, the student learned.
Harry’s biggest problems came with landing the thing. Taking off, climbing, doing turns around the various water towers outside of the training base at Fort Sill, all of these basic maneuvers he executed with ease. It was getting the crate on the ground without nosing over or ground-looping that seemed to be his problem. Harry developed a technique called ‘cleaning the cockpit’ as he approached to land. Essentially all he did was move the stick around in circles effectively cancelling out every move and accomplishing nothing. Several instructors despaired over his long, floating approaches to landing. Close to the ground there was something called ‘ground effect’ that acted like a giant pillow of air, holding the plane’s wings off the field for a few seconds and sometimes, if the pilot was inexperienced, resulting in the propeller striking the earth and pitching everything over. Harry had been given several chances to correct his problem and the result were two JN-4’s now out of commission. On his last day he was assigned a new instructor; an old man of thirty years called Captain Nemetz, who it was rumored, had flown with the RAC in France. Nemetz spoke to him.
“Look, kid. They are giving you one last chance. I will either sign you off after this hop or send you home, it’s that simple. We will go around the pattern three times. If I am satisfied, I will get out and let you take it around yourself. If you don’t kill yourself or wreck the plane then, I will sign you off for solo.”
“Yes, sir!”
Nemetz nodded and smiled at Harry. “So, kid, it’s unbelievably simple. Here is all that you need to do. I saw you when you made your approach and then hit the propeller yesterday. I could see it coming. What I will teach you to do is not this business of floating down and hoping to settle gracefully, but flying the plane right onto the grass and then killing the power. It’ll take a little more distance to land, but you and the crate will be better off.”
Harry got it. With Nemetz talking him through the first approach and landing he greased the Jenny’s wheels onto the grass and rolled to a stop. Twice more he did it with the same results. By this time a small knot of his fellow students had gathered by the rail fence in front of the operations building to watch the unorthodox maneuver. They had heard the unusual sound of the plane’s engine running at power and not idling on the approaches and wondered what was happening.
Nemetz stepped out of the biplane after the third landing and walked over to the large metal dihedral that marked the general direction of the wind on the field. He leaned back on the thing and shook a cigarette out from a pack, lit it and waved Harry to go around again, this time solo. Harry gunned the engine and taxied to the far end of the field and put the power to it. Without Nemetz’s weight in the plane the Jenny leapt into the air almost at once. The plane climbed much faster than how Harry had been accustomed. He had a moment of panic, but that subsided as he leveled off and turned crosswind to make his final approach. Suddenly, he found himself singing at the top of his voice. Then, Nemetz’s voice was inside his head and he eased back on the power just enough to set up a steady sink rate. From the corner of his eyes he checked on the wingtips as he felt his way down letting the engine pull him onto the grass. Perfect.
Harry loved it. He loved all of it. From then on he flew every day that he could. He flew on sunny days, on cold days, even on those marginal days when he lost sight of the ground for uncomfortably long periods of time. He was in love with flight. His romance with flying was chilled slightly after arriving in France. On a brilliant September afternoon, flying under a cloudless blue sky and warmed by the sun he came to from a brief reverie to realize that those long undulating arms of red tracers that were reaching up into the air from the German positions were meant to kill him. What an ugly way to end such a pleasant afternoon. After that he kept his appreciation for the beauty of flight in check while making sure to stay alive.
He laid awake, sleep long dashed away and the ancient brass alarm clock next to his bunk showed him was just after four. His division was scheduled to fly at dawn. That was nearly two hours off at this time of the year. No, sleep would not return and Harry knew that just lying in the bed was not going to help. He rose quietly in the darkness of the converted stable that served as sleeping quarters for the band of American fliers. Fumbling a bit, and dancing on the cold stone floor in bare feet, he found his clothes and pulled them on. He thought about a shave, but there was no hot water at that hour of the morning, it would just have to wait. His beard, in any case, was still more of an idea than a reality. It didn’t really matter since the blowback of oil from the engine would soon cover his face and no one would know. Restless as he was, he needed to move around. There was always a pot of coffee going in the hangar. The mechanics kept a pot going all night as they worked to ready the battered Spads for work the next day. He had become a pre-dawn regular and would walk over and have a cup before the mess cooks had breakfast going.
Stepping out of the stable he hit a wall of cold morning air, making the relative warmth of the bunkroom but a brief memory. La belle France, huh? October in the Vosges felt like winter. A long way from home, and a lifetime from what he had expected he would be doing. It was still night, despite the hour on the clock and the stars above him showed silver against the blackness, filigrees of scattered light arched above, almost close enough to touch. His eyes scanned the autumn constellations and came to rest, as usual, on Orion. It was, he thought, his own, private constellation, his personal place in the heavens. The Hunter was like Harry a seeker, always in pursuit and yet never quite catching his prey. Bold and bright, Orion sat just off the ecliptic or else it would have been one of signs of the zodiac. Still, Orion called to Harry, as it must have to eons of men upon waking and stepping from their beds. Primitive hunters and centurions, knights and frontier patriots, unsure before the hunt or battle, they all must have looked up and asked the massive outline of stars seeking a dose of wisdom or courage.
Carried on the cold air, the aroma of the rigger’s bottomless pot of coffee drew him on like a dry fly to a hungry trout. Taking another breath of the night air he could smell war, out there somewhere in the dark. It was not a sharp odor, nor was he truly conscious of it until he tried to place the ever-present aroma. It was elusive, dank and sweet, a mixture of human waste, decaying flesh, moldy earth and burned explosives. The pall hung over this part of the world and it seemed to permeate everything. Even the ancient stones of the barns and stables of the farm that had become the squadron’s base had soaked in the stench. It was never far away.
Harry Braham walked toward the large tents that housed the riggers and mechanics, his feet crunching the stalks of dry stubbled grass. The previous spring this had been a grazing place for cows and sheep, all gone now. From the hangar quiet voices could be heard occasionally punctuated by the clang and clank of wrenches on metal as their work continued. Braham stepped into the light and nodded to a corporal who was artfully daubing paint over linen patches on the side of a Spad. The dots of white fabric clearly showing where a German Spandau had stitched a line of holes just behind the pilot’s seat the day before.
He drew a cup from the urn and sipped the bitter, French brew. Harry was beginning to like the heavy taste. Then holding the bowl-sized mug with both hands he stepped out of the tent’s arc of lights and walked east toward the line of parked airplanes. There were twelve aircraft, the squadron’s flyable contingent, silent and waiting, with their propellers pointed toward the coming dawn. The fliers, with the nonchalance that was the becoming their trademark, they called them crates, not unkindly, as these particular crates were the most advanced of their breed. These twelve were brand new airplanes from the Société Pour L'Aviation et ses Dérivés workshops and grudgingly entrusted by an exhausted French army to a bunch of American vagabonds. The Americans, uncertain of their French, called them SPADs. Now, these North American vagabonds were learning very quickly as to how to use them against a formidable, and much more experienced enemy.
Aside from the distant occasional clank or grunt coming from the mechanics, the scene before Harry harbored a primeval silence. Only the breeze caused a low moan as it vibrated the wires of the biplanes’ wings. Several hundred yards away, across the wide expanse of the landing field, in the dim fringe of scrub, his eyes caught a flash of movement. Just for an instant it appeared and then it was gone - a morning ghost. There, from where the land dipped toward a small wood through which there ran a rocky stream, a family of roe deer slowly emerged to chew the stubble.
Funny, he thought, with all the shelling and carnage in the countryside just to the east, how did these creatures survive? Did they know enough to get out of the way of the hordes of armed men nearby? He was surprised that one of the Army commissary sergeants had not shot them for a stew. If they did not, then likely some of the starving French peasants might. Like ghosts, the deer slipped in and out of view, hidden from moment to moment by the wisps of mist rising from the stream as they roamed the tall grass at the verge of the wood. For Harry, it felt like being at home on an autumn morning. The deer coming down to browse along the cornfields, taking chances up to the first day of hunting season, after which they would magically disappear from sight. Home, which way was that Harry? When was it, too many lifetimes ago, he thought?
Beyond the fringe of wood the sky was beginning to be defined. In mauves and gray with a pale orange tinge the sun caught a few decks of night clouds and slashed them open. This was the time of day that he lived for and that he held on to each day. He wished to prolong the dawn, to live alone in its peaceful embrace. His ears, used to the silence became aware of a low rumble and a few irresolute flashes of artillery on the horizon. The war was back and the deer had fled to the shelter of the wood. It would seem some German artillery officer couldn’t sleep. Harry thought it must be a German, and so kept his crews firing for effect. He looked up at the sky again.
What the sky did at this time of day meant something else to him. Weather was part of what his daily world had become for these crates were susceptible to any number of problems if the weather turned. Wind was always a problem; these planes barely flew fasted than a stiff breeze. But today would be fine, no problems. With a cold night, the morning would be cool followed by a warm afternoon. A real Indian summer, just like back in the States, yet so far from home, and the Indians here wore spiked helmets and ate sauerkraut.
Harry Braham was like all the others, who at his age followed the millions of men who had been drawn into this war to end all wars. By the time he had arrived in France nearly eight million soldiers of all the warring nations had been killed. No one had counted the civilian deaths as yet. Harry had no desire to follow their path into hell. Still, he had come to France to fly airplanes and if that meant to do battle against an enemy that sank American ships and stood for everything that he had been taught to loathe, well he was fine with that. Like most twenty-year olds he felt no sense of his own mortality. That was for the other guy. It was that way in all the battles from Troy to Tannenberg. Who would go to war if he were sure he would be the one to die? They had to live as if they were invincible. He had been in France for three months and had flown nearly every day since completing advanced training, at times dueling it out with the Boche, but mostly strafing ground troops. He had seen men die on the ground, in crashes or simply just bled out. In the air he had seen several more; friends and enemies alike, a puff of smoke, a flame and then a long fall to earth. If it was to be his turn he just hoped it would be quick, no lingering, no sense of his death as he fell of to earth. The worst thing was to burn to death in one of these coffins. Incendiary bullets could set the gas tanks on fire and the doped fabric would burn like a roman candle before the whole structure folded on you like being inside a lit matchbox. Still, he had an uncanny sense that this was not yet his time to die. Perhaps there was something more for him to do.
Behind him, the tiny aerodrome was coming to life. For generations had been a farm, raising some kind of crop on the land now taken as a flying field. As latecomers to the war, the Americans were at a disadvantage. They were not able to commandeer the chateaux and estates as their French and British aviating companions had done in order to house their aviators. Instead, like their pioneering forefathers, they had built ersatz lodgings for the men in deserted farmsteads and barns. In some extreme cases the US Army erected tent cities to house those who flew. Harry felt slightly better off. Harry’s plush quarters had been the decades-long residence of pairs of Belgian draft horses. Despite the best efforts of the orderlies and a hefty application of carbolic, it remained redolent of horseflesh and horse droppings. Lights were coming on and now illuminated the chow hall and the operations office. The American war machine was astir. People were up, there were things to do, but this was France so not before breakfast.
The American officers enjoyed one true benefit of being in France and that was Henri, their shanghaied chef. He had come to them courtesy of Captain Edwin Murray, their unit’s CO. A philandering Parisian chef, Henri had somehow found himself crosswise with his murderous wife, her lover and a dancer from a small club in Montmartre. One night in Paris Murray came upon him hiding in an alley off the Boulevard Clichy, scared, very agitated, and bearing two long slashes on his forearm from his wife’s paring knife. Murray, thinking Henri was about to rob him, pulled out his Army forty-five and pointed it at the hapless Frenchman. Henri began whimpering, “Non, non!” and waiving his hands. Through an exchange of schoolboy French and worse English, Henri offered to do anything if Murray could help him out of the city and away from his murderous spouse. Murray was already fed up with the ministrations of the unit’s mess sergeant and snapped up the diminutive Henri and packed him off in Murray’s Renault staff car.
Henri found solace at the farm and quickly set about transforming the kitchens. Soon the officer’s of the squadron were being treated to all kinds of exotic Gallic delicacies. But Henri was nothing if not an excellent pastry chef. So that breakfast was something no one missed and if you knew that shortly you were to be dueling at three thousand meters with the Huns, you could not afford to.
After indulging in Henri’s offerings for breakfast the pilot’s scheduled to fly gathered in the CO’s office for a quick review of the mission’s objectives. They were a mixed bunch from all over the States. They came in every size and shape. Sons of privilege and farm boys, eager to see the world, some were university men and a few, like Harry had dallied at college only to find it too confining. All of them were eager to fly and be part of this great adventure, an adventure that some of them would not survive.
Murray who was always a gentleman and very businesslike in these sessions and stressed the dictum of not losing sight of your wingman. A pilot on his own, he worried, especially one with as little combat experience as these kids had would be easy pickings for any German. This was a concept that had become religion with the fliers. Like so much in this new world of aerial combat, the participants, the surviving participants, were writing the rules. There was no manual of arms for the air services. Each day new concepts were tried and those that were successful were repeated, piles of burned wood and fabric half buried in French mud marked those that failed.
Once the flight assignments were made, and the hand signals repeated for everyone Murray dismissed them. Like a football team taking the field, the pilots ambled out to their planes as if their upcoming activity were no more than a lark. Out in the open, the sweet smell of castor oil cooking on hot engine manifolds greeted the pilots. Most hid their nervousness in testosterone-laden banter; a few stepped out to the latrine and gave up all of what they had just eaten. While the pilots had been at breakfast the ground crews had warmed up the engines, checked for any problems and then topped off each of the planes’ fuel tanks.
Harry Braham walked to his plane, with a sense of apprehension, but it was not fear. Death would come of its own accord and worrying about it was a waste of time. No, he simply wanted to do well, not make a mistake that would cost him or his wingmen their lives. The Spad he had been assigned was not really his; only the skipper and the most senior flight leaders had their own personal planes. Harry shared this aircraft with whoever was assigned to fly when he wasn’t.
Each of the Spads was painted a combination of dark olive and brown splotches with a large red, white and blue roundel on the sides and wings. The Spad Harry was to fly that day also bore the unit’s insignia painted on each side of the cockpit, an eagle with sharp talons each holding a sharp arrow. To keep the planes in shape each had a ground mechanic assigned to it. These ‘ground chiefs’ as they were beginning to be called doted, on their planes and made sure that everything could be done to make ‘their’ plane as airworthy as possible. Next to Harry’s Spad stood its ground chief. He was a buck sergeant, a former lathe operator from Trenton, New Jersey who was well over thirty and had a grizzled grey and brown mustache, named Haggerty.
Sergeant Haggerty, in charge of the plane until its pilot took over, held Braham’s flying helmet; a page in liege to his knight. Braham pulled on his thick leather-flying coat. He would need it. It might have been a pleasant and warm morning on the field, but up at nearly ten thousand feet the temperature would be below freezing.
“How is she this morning, sergeant?” Harry asked hopefully. He did not want to hear about any problems with the matchbox he was about to fly.
“Couldn’t be better, sir. Engine is running smooth and you have as much gas as will fit in the tank. I tested the guns yesterday and they were perfect – zeroed in at a hundred yards.”
“Well, then let me kick the tires and go.”
Harry walked around the Spad, touching the control surfaces and feeling the tension on the wing wires, and for luck, he kicked the large pneumatic tire.”
“Good hunting, sir.” Sergeant Haggerty offered as Harry returned his salute.
Like an orchestra tuning up, the eight aircraft that comprised the patrol started their engines. Amid coughing and sputtering the flight came to life. In a moment the air was filled with the heavy mechanical perfume of hot oil and blue exhaust. The morning’s patrol was split into two flights of four this morning. Four airplanes, including Harry Braham’s were to proceed to the northern end of their patrol sector above the trench lines and the other to the southern end. Both groups would reach their patrol limits at about the same time and then they would turn toward each other, following the tortured landscape of the front lines until they met near the midpoint. Along the route they were to engage any enemy aircraft, especially bombing planes or scouts. Otherwise, when they met, the two groups were to return to base. The same routine would be flown at midday and again, before dusk.
The eight planes bumped over the grass to face the light wind from the northeast. In a line abreast, four Spad XIII’s of the 148th Pursuit Squadron raced across the field skidding in spots on the heavy dew left over from the night. Ahead, beyond the line of trees that marked the field’s boundary the sky glowed pink while above the stars, so bright earlier, had been washed out. As they reached flying speed each quartet lifted from the ground their tailskids trailing strands of fresh grass. With wings rocking and engines straining they climbed up into the morning sky. Harry felt the exhilaration the instant his wheels left the ground – that incredible sense of being suspended between earth and sky. There was nothing quite like it. Instantly the tiny fighter became an extension of himself. As he climbed, he kept watch on the altimeter and airspeed indicator. His two most important gauges, they told him how he was flying. It was even more important for Harry to keep an eye on the flight leader, Captain Murray. In formation flying, the wingmen had to do what the leader did, follow where he went – it was a matter of life and death in the air. The planes climbed up into the autumn sky. The wind numbed Harry’s face while the bitter taste of oil seeped in between his lips.
By 1917 the Spad was about the best airplane that the Allies had produced. It was not difficult to fly and the Americans especially gravitated toward it. Its 220 horsepower Hispano-Suiza engine pulled it easily to altitude. The airplane had a top speed of around 130 miles per hour, which since the gauges in the plane were all metric the Americans forced to think in meters of altitude and kilometers per hour of speed. They were armed with a pair of Vickers .303 caliber machine guns that fired through the propeller, and when necessary the planes could be fitted carry hundred pound bombs or wing-mounted rockets. The rockets were best used for balloon busting, a tactic of swooping in on a ground tethered German observation balloon and shooting a rocket into the hydrogen-filled gasbag. The result would be a huge ball of fire and the German observer was forced to jump from the balloon’s basket at the first sight of the attacking fighter and take his chances with the new and somewhat risky invention called a parachute. Of course, the attacker could also be hit by concentrated ground fire or perhaps shot down by a Hun flying top cover for the balloon. In the hands of an experienced pilot the Spads were lethal. But flying the things required all one’s attention and physical strength as its one drawback was that with the heavy engine in the nose, the Spads glided like rocks and keeping level flight required constant backpressure on the stick.
The four planes of Harry’s flight flew northward, over the mottled bracken of the foothills of the Vosges. Below, the serenity of the French countryside spread out in a broad arc. Several miles ahead of the planes the dark gash of the trenches, spewing smoke and lit by gunfire, appeared on the horizon. Harry Braham was ever startled by this contrast of scenery; eternal France lay behind him, a pastoral symphony of fields and farms, while rapidly coming into focus was the man made hell of an endless war.
The Americans climbed sharply as they neared the front, keeping the rising sun on their right wings. No sense of a pot shot from some angry Hun ruining your day. As they climbed, the air rapidly cooled, dropping by nearly three degrees for each thousand feet they rose. The effect was made even colder by the hundred miles an hour wind of their forward speed. Despite the sunlight all of the pilots grew colder with each passing kilometer. After a half hour the formation reached its assigned patrol altitude of three thousand meters and leveled off. With their fuel gauges reading just less than three quarters full, the patrol assumed an easy cruising speed. At that speed they had only another half hour of flight time before they had to return to base. If they became entangled with German planes along the way, then that time would be cut further as combat maneuvering burned up fuel at an extraordinary rate.
Still, it was a glorious autumn morning at altitude. This time could be a great time for daydreaming, which was a habit, if indulged in, that might just cost you your life. Off to the east a few cirrus clouds, very high, with rippled undersides appeared, moving slowly on their journey to the Alps. Below them several dull pops could be heard and soon ochre mists of gas drifted across the trench lines. Orange flashes of shell bursts laced those abattoirs of death with a fiery necklace. From above, the shelling of the positions continued appeared to be random, just intended to casually wreak as much havoc as possible. The Germans had begun to increase the number of gas attacks and as the war edged to its inevitable close. They had large stockpiles of the hideous stuff and they were using up their supplies in an attempt to even the odds. ‘What a hell’, thought Harry.
In earnest anticipation, four pairs of eyes scanned the east and the air above the Spads for a sign of enemy planes. In late 1918, the adage “Beware the Hun in the sun” had become a fundamental of flight training that no one forgot. But this morning it seemed that the Huns were taking their time, maybe they had one too many schnapps last night.
Harry Braham, despite his weeks of combat flying, remained the newest member of this division of four airplanes and thus had earned the less than envious position of flying “tail end Charlie”. His position was in the rear of the four planes and so would be the first sacrificed to any attacker from the rear. The logic was simple; just as on the African savannah, you sacrificed your least experienced first. This concept had passed down the line in all military units since before Alexander, the best fliers, or at least those who had survived the longest were those who flew in front. It was assumed that because of their experience they were the most valuable and so those with less experience were easier to lose in a fight. It didn’t make Harry Braham any happier but it did force him to keep his head on a swivel. As his first instructor at Fort Sill, a one-eyed veteran of the Royal Flying Corps had warned him to do. “Flying tail end should make yer arse-hole pucker, Yank. Keep yer eyes on a swivel or yer’ll be dead meat.” The instructor had warned. “And remember this Laddie, get in close before you shoot. If you think you are too close, get closer. You’ll only have the one chance to burn those Hun bastards.”
Up, down, behind and either side of him, Braham kept his eyes in motion looking for that tell tale silhouette of enemy wings or the flash of a spinning propeller. In the tail end position he also had to maintain an eye on his flight leader, Captain W. F. Murray. It was Murray’s job to direct the flight of four using hand signals to indicate direction and when to attack.
Murray was a lanky twenty-eight year old former bond attorney from New York. Six years older than Harry he seemed to be older, but perhaps that was from the burden of having to take care of so many young fire-breathers like Harry. Bored with the business world and even less anxious to be around his fiancé’s stuffy Long Island family, Murray had opted to join the other young men attracted to the new world of aviation. He took to it immediately and in early 1917 found himself seconded to a Royal Flying Corps unit in Flanders and quickly learned his trade. Twice shot down by German anti-aircraft shells, he had made his way back to safety through the muck and mire of no-man’s land. After a couple of nights in Paris as a reward, he was ordered to return to the air. Recognizing that luck was not an inexhaustible commodity, he sought and was given a transfer to the new American pursuit squadrons forming in France. For several months he enjoyed the respite as he trained the neophytes from the states before taking them to the front. Murray was a role model to the younger men. At the same time he was a bit of a perplexity to the grizzled sergeants, most of who came from the horse cavalry and didn’t really grasp the mechanical age. He simply came off as man who was too nice to be in charge, a quiet gentleman in a bloody business. Affable enough on the ground, once airborne Murray was all business and brooked no stupidity from his wingmen. That Harry Braham was accompanying Murray’s flight today instead of flying with the more junior was a testament to Braham’s airmanship and his focus on the job.
Braham saw Murray’s hand come up to signal. He waved the division of planes into a wide right turn to the east. They were crossing the lines and heading over toward the German side. Black puffs appeared in the air below and just behind them. The gunners on the ground did not yet have the range. At this point the trench lines ran from west to east before swinging southeast toward the Swiss border. For the Americans if refuge or escape was needed the direction for them to head was due south as fast as they could manage.
Finally, the air at altitude was beginning to warm and the sun; now rising just south of east was warm on Harry’s face. The wing wires hummed contentedly and for a brief instant all was right with the world. Something alerted Braham’s senses and he looked again behind and above him. The air was clear where he looked, he though he saw something. When he glanced back a Murray he saw his leader point below them.
There, approaching the devastated landscape of the front lines was a flight of enemy aircraft. Below the Americans, a flight of three Gotha bombers, fat, mulit-engined, heavy and slow was headed westward from the German side of the lines and about to cross into Allied held territory. The Germans were becoming adept at aerial bombardment, an art that destroyed material and morale, and made civilian life near industrial centers pure hell. This escalation of the fighting, taking the war into the rear where civilians were likely victims was part of the declaration of total war that Germany had made. Ludendorff and Hindenburg had run out of military options, now whether by submarine or bomber, the Germans were taking the war to those who could not fight back.
The Gothas appeared to be headed toward the railway junction at Nancy. They presented fat targets for the four Spads. Murray’s hand went up signaling the attack. As Murray pushed over to descend on the bombers Braham saw what had alerted his senses a few minutes before. Just behind the bombers and slightly above them there cruised a flight of four German Albatross D.V fighters. Murray and the two other Spads were swooping down to attack the Gothas. In a moment the three Americans would fly between the Gothas and the waiting guns of the German fighters. Then the hunters would become the prey. There was no way for Braham, flying in the rear to alert them to the four wolves waiting for them to take the bait, but he could even the odds. Without taking time to think, he pulled up from his dive and made a wide right turn. In air combat it was suicide to be caught alone, but the Germans had not seen him turn, and Harry chanced that there were just these four. The German leader had been watching his flock of bombers and had then seen the three diving Spads. He never saw Harry and he waived to his wingmen to follow him as he set about positioning his pack of wolves to attack the Americans just as the Spads pounced on the heavy bombers.
Murray, with Forest and Foster, the other two wingmen, each selected a Gotha and watched as their bomber grew ever larger in their gun sights. Each of the lumbering Gotha’s had two gunners, one in the bomber’s nose and one in the rear. Ideally, working together with the other bombers, the six gunners could put up a curtain of bullets to fend off attackers. Murray knew that the best approach to attack them would be from high above, strafing the cockpit area and then diving below the heavy planes so as to hit their unprotected undersides. With luck, the speed of the diving Spad’s attack would offset any lucky shot from the gunners.
Within seconds the Spads closed on the lumbering Gothas. Swooping down the three Americans held off firing until all they could see the stitching on the fuselage where the sides of the German planes were stitched together in their gun sights. Instantly, flashes appeared from the Gotha’s Spandau machine guns and bits of the Spads’ fabric and spruce flew off. Then a flash of flame and black smoke blossomed from the lead bomber’s left engine. Murray had mortally wounded it. With the loss of the engine’s pull the plane started into a wide, slow left hand spiral heading for the ground. Flames from the burning engine raced along the wing and engulfed it. The fabric flashed and the wooden frame began to fold sending what remained of the bomber into a steep spiral as it plummeted to the ground.
Forrest continued to empty his magazine into his target until it began to flame almost from nose to tail. The fuel tank above the pilot exploded the wings folded backward taking three crewmen down in fiery terror. Foster had attacked the bomber on the far right and was dueling with an aggressive pair of gunners. He had been hit along the rear of his fuselage and was forced to pull up and break off the attack. At that moment the German fighters struck. Under fire from two Albatrosses, Forrest and Foster turned viciously and dove for the ground. Foster was losing large hunks of fabric from the fuselage. The Germans followed, weaving behind the Americans. Forrest and Foster raced south toward the Allied lines trying to distance themselves from their pursuers with the Germans catching hell from French ground gunners who had witnessed the fight. Recognizing the futility of their pursuit the two Germans broke off and headed north toward their base. That left Murray, alone in the sky, as the target of the remaining two Albatrosses.
It had been German practice to make their fighters as gaudy as they could, painting them with colorful splotches or designs resembling bargello quilts. These designs aided in quick recognition in a swirling dogfight, but it was also a representation of their supreme hubris. Painted with blotches of silver, black and purple, the German planes reminded Harry Braham of the pictures of knights in his schoolboy adventure books. Except that now this was real and the game was not being played out on some pages of a book. Murray was caught between the Germans, bracketed by two pair of firing Spandaus. It was a classic aerial dance of death.
As he ran south for his life, the game looked to be over for Murray. No matter which way the American turned his pursuers would have him in a few moments. It was inevitable. Right or left, his turning would bring him into firing range of one or the other. Harry Braham saw what need to be done and pulling his nose up into an almost vertical position while gripping the control stick and wedging himself so he would not slide out of the seat, then at the top of the climb Harry kicked his right rudder pedal and went into a tight hammerhead turn. In that instant his body and mind fused with his aircraft. His nerves and sinews reached out to become one with the spruce and wires and doped linen that made up the Spad. Reversed by the tight hammerhead turn, down he came rushing toward Murray’s right wing and aiming to a point behind Murray, but in front of the two Germans. He was closing at close to a hundred and seventy five miles an hour. The wing wires were screaming like wounded Valkyries and the force of the dive was pushing him back into his seat. Harry had stopped thinking; his brain was working independently, far faster than he could force it as it calculated distance and aiming points. His subconscious was in control, directing his feet, his hands and calculating how much lead to give the oncoming Germans. The first German was closing toward him; he could see the plane looming larger on his left. Then he tapped his firing bar and put a stream of bullets into the Albatross. He could see the pieces of the German’s engine spark as the bullets hit and then flame as fuel lines burst igniting everything. The remaining German saw him, his face registering a dull surprise, not ever expecting to be attacked head on and tried to pull off in a climbing left turn, but it was too late for him as well. Harry kicked in right rudder and put the Spad into a skidding turn. He could hear the wooden airframe scream at the strain, but it held together and the German was now right in front of him. Braham’s burst must have hit him in square in the chest because the Albatross simply nosed over and dove straight down into the churned up mire of no man’s land.
Braham made a wide arc to the right and saw Murray heading south, looking back over his shoulder. Murray turned and Harry joined on his wing and together they flew away from the scene. Four columns of greasy smoke rose from the ground; the impact points now the graves of eight downed Germans. As for the remaining Gotha, it had vanished. After the encounter it had apparently it headed off to its base without expending their ordnance. The score for the morning was Americans four, Germans zero, a very good start to the day.

An American Aviator

So, I think I am done. The first rewrite/edit is done. Or as Churchill said, "This is not the beginning of the end, but it is the end of the beginning." An American Aviator, that's what the new book is called. Taking place in Europe between 1918 and 1925, it introduces Harry Braham, an American Army pilot who goes on to fly for the Poles against the Bolsheviks, and in the process, is recruited to help a fledgling US espionage service.

I have created a cast of characters who will come back in the succeeding stories and, I hope will make this book worth reading. It is a little longer than the previous one, but there are some twists.

Now for the serious editing and inevitable rewriting. I expect to get it out on Kindle by September.

A Rare Morning

May is nearly half over, the trees and blooms have responded to an early spring after a mild winter, but until this morning the rejuvenatory effects of spring have been hard to find. It has been rainy in New Jersey these past few days. It really seems like weeks since we have seen the sun, but that is an exaggeration.

Those who know me understand that I really enjoy driving, but I abhor traffic. I will go miles out of my way to avoid freeways and congestion. One would have to ask why have I spent most of my life in the northeast or in southern California that being the case, well alas, one goes to where one can get paid. In any event this morning seemed to be an exception.

On my circuitous route to the office I wander past golf courses, over brooks that grow to become the Raritan River, wander through tall stands of maple, ash, hickory and oak, and generally avoid the waking population. There is one point, though along my meanderings where the road crests a ridge. Up there you can see the folding hills stretching off to the northwest and rising up here and there a white church steeple or two. If you didn't know it you'd think you were in Vermont. In any case, this morning that stretch of road was filled with golden sunlight tracing down through leafy branches. A long row of lilac bushes were bending with the weight of their purple blossoms, a barred tailed hawk swept across my field of vision to look for errant field mice and for just a second time stood still. The morning was all it should be, bright, full of promise and breathing a fresh, light air into one's soul.

Re-writin' Blues

I'm at the half-way point in rewriting (first-time) of the new book. This is going to be a series of books with my main character, Harry Braham. He's a WWI aviator who is drawn into the intrigue of events in post-Versailles Europe.

The rewriting process takes a lot of time, especially since my character "grew up" during the initial draft and now I see them in very different lights.

Anyway, I am forging ahead and hope to have the book out in the fall.

Thanks for reading.

Writer's Cramp

I am looking forward to the several events that have been set up for me to help launch Shadow Soldiers.

Tomorrow, 10 March, I will be at the Town Book Shop in Westfield, NJ from 2 to 4 PM

Wednesday, 21 March at 5:00 PM the book will be shown at the Alexander Library on the Rutgers Campus as part of a program of Rutgers' Published Faculty and Staff.

Monday, 9 April at 7:00 PM I will be at the Mount Olive Public Library in Mount Olive, NJ. My topic is "From Film Noir to First Novel"

Friday, 20 April at 7:00 PM I will be at the Clinton Book Shop in Clinton, NJ.

Please try to stop by one of these events!

Funny thing about writing a story. You make up characters from people you've met in places you've been, but slowly, as you write about them the things you have done in your own life become part of them as well. But when they do or say things their character changes the meaning and the experience in very new ways.

Thanks for the help

I just want to thank everyone who has taken time to give me their thoughts and good wishes as I launched Shadow Soldiers. Let me ask your continued support for this project and try to come to the Town Book Store in Westfield, NJ on 10 March at 2 PM. The Town Book Store's owner Anne Laird has been kind enough to offer me the opportunity to put copies of the book in her store and be there on that Saturday to meet with her customers. Thanks again, everyone.

Here's a note I received today: Hi Mr. Bushby, I'm happy to confirm that I received a copy of your new book, _Shadow Soldiers_, for inclusion in the Rutgers University Libraries' 2012 Celebration of Recently Published Faculty Authors exhibition. Thank you so much for your support of this major Libraries activity! I hope you can join us for the exhibition opening, on Wednesday March 21st starting at 5:00 pm, in the Atrium on the lower level of Alexander Library. You can RSVP by sending a reply to this message. Please take care and thanks again. Harry Glazer Communications Director Rutgers University Libraries 732.932.7505 ex. 303 hglazer@rulmail.rutgers.edu

Reaching out

I have been reading articles on how fast some self-published authors have hit it big with sales of their books. Not being one who wishes to be left behind, I have begun to adopt their tactics. One of them, is of course, this blog. The most important, it seems is to embrace the social networks, something new for guys like me in their 60's, but a natural for my kids. Last weekend, my son Geoff called me to tell me a great idea. "Why don't you put up a page on Facebook for Shadow Soldiers?" Well, that seemed a natural thing to do since I have been touting the book for some time there. He said then he could 'like' it and have his friends do so as well. That is just what these other authors have done. Since I have a fairly small group of 'friends' on Facebook I have to rely on my kids' networks to get the word out. The thing is for ninety-nine cents a reader can download my book to their Kindle or other app. If they like what they read its a bargain, if not they haven't spent the cost of a Starbuck's. So, if you read this and want to support an independent writer go to Facebook and 'like' my book. Better yet, go to Amazon.com first and buy the book and write a review and'like' the book on Facebook

I will be signing copies of Shadow Soldiers at the Clinton Book Shop on April 20 at 7PM. The Clinton Book Shop is located at 12 E. Main Street, Clinton, NJ. You can check them out at Clintonbookshop.com

Excerpt from the new book

I thought I would share the following from the new book, tentatively titled Night Flight:

It was the glint of light from bare metal in a copse of wood that revealed the Bolshevik column. Snaking through the trees, they would have remained invisible if not for the weapons the column carried. Harry’s port side wingman saw it first and banged on his plane’s fuselage with his hand and waived to Harry. About a mile ahead of the flight and slightly to their left a long line of horsemen were emerging from the ridge line copse of trees. Bare and leafless in the frigid air, the trees, probably birch from their spindly shapes, provided no cover for the horsemen. The line was making slow progress in what looked to be waist-deep snow. Any moment now and they would spot the planes and try to make it to the cover of a deeper ravine on the north side of the ridge. For the combined force of Fokkers and Spads it would be a classic job of strafing.
Harry signaled to his flight and the left wingman, a young man from Warsaw, a banker by trade, named Hultzsch slowed slightly and expertly tucked himself into the tail end position behind the Spads. Harry was impressed; the kid seemed to be getting the hang of it. He’d have to mention it to him later. Now it was time for business. Harry charged his guns and pushing the throttle ahead started a long wingover to bring the sixteen machine guns of the two flights down into a line aimed at the head of the cavalry column. It was almost going to be like attacking a train. The steaming horses and their riders, struggling through the deep snow could not maneuver. At the top of the turn, Harry straightened out and pushed forward. In his sight were the column’s commander and the blood-red Bolshevik banner.
The leader of the column must have seen something in the sky for he looked up just as Harry corrected his descent. It was too late for the men in the front of the column. Harry tapped the firing bar and the Spandaus began to fire. In a second, several of the lead riders were hurled from their saddles and the red banner spun off into the air. As Harry leveled off over the troop he released the four fifty pound fragmentation bombs from their under wing positions. The bombs, plunging through the snow to detonate threw up columns of black dirt as they released shards of metal into the space around them. Men were thrown from their mounts as their horses were struck.
Harry jammed the throttle ahead and began jinking the airplane as he climbed upward. He wanted to get to at least five thousand feet to be sure he was out of small arms range. Behind him one plane of the Polish attacking force after another fired into the scattering Russians and decimated the column. In less than three minutes the attack was over. Harry circled above as the rest of the group joined on his wing. Below, the dark greatcoats of dead Russians scattered among slaughtered horseflesh punctuated the bright snow scene. Red blood trails from wounded men and animals spoked out from the blackened bomb craters. Wounded horses and men, stunned from the speed of the attack were struggling in the snow to find some place to hide. There were a few desultory shots from riflemen crouching behind the naked trees and firing wildly into the air. A lone horse, its flanks glistening with blood was dragging a sledge with a heavy machine gun strapped to it through the drifts, the sledge snagging branches and rocks as the poor creature stumbled to its death. As Harry made wide circles over the scene a thought that had been simmering in the back of his brain took shape. The men below, dead and dying on some nameless ridge, so far from anywhere, no one would know. There would be no markers, no notice in the records. Their loved ones had seen these men off to battle, but like so many of the fallen, in all the wars in history, they died unsung and unnoticed. It was the way of the world, the way of war, he thought, and for himself, when would it be his turn? To die in some nameless place having fallen from the sky, was that his fate?

A thousand words a day

I keep my goal at a thousand words a day, either new words, or going back over the stuff I have done earlier in the week. It keeps me honest and focused. Some days it is difficult to keep the focus, but the result is that as the words accumulate the story takes place and finishing becomes a closer reality.

I am thrilled to announce that my novel, Shadow Soldiers is now on sale at the Clinton Book Shop, 12 E. Main Street, Clinton, NJ 08809. You can reach them at 908-735-8811 or at www.clintonbookshop.com