CANTO IV

THE ASCENSION

I. THE BATTLE OF FLANDERS

After the battle on the Aisne Georges Guynemer was ordered to Flanders,

but he had to take to his bed as soon as he arrived (July, 1917) and

only left the hospital on the 20th. He then repaired to the new aviation

camp outside Dunkirk, which at that time consisted of a few rows of

tents near the seaside. He was to take part in the contemplated

offensive, on his own magic airplane--which he brought from Fismes on

the 23d--for the Storks Escadrille had been incorporated into a fighting

unit under Major Brocard. No disease could be an obstacle to a Guynemer

when an offensive was in preparation. In fact, all the Storks were on

the spot: Captain Heurtaux, now recovered from his wound received in

Champagne in April, was in command, and Captain Auger (soon to be

killed), Lieutenant Raymond, Lieutenant Deullin, Lieutenant Lagache and

_sous-lieutenant_ Bucquet were there; while Fonck and Verduraz,

newcomers to the squadron but not by any means unknown, Adjutants

Guillaumat, Henin, and Petit-Dariel, Sergeants Gaillard and Moulines,

Corporals de Marcy, Dubonnet, and Risacher, completed the staff. As

early as June 24 Guynemer had soared again.

In order to realize the importance of this new battle of Flanders which,

begun on July 31, was to rage till the following winter, it may not be

out of place to quote a German appreciation. In an issue of the _Lokal

Anzeiger_, published at the end of September, 1917, after two months'

uninterrupted fighting, Doctor Wegener wrote as follows:

How can anybody talk of anything but this battle of Flanders? Is it

possible that some people actually grow hot over the

parliamentarization, or the loan, or the cost of butter, or the

rumors of peace, while every heart and every eye ought to be fixed

on these places where soldiers are doing wonderful deeds! This

battle is the most formidable that has yet been fought. It was

supposed to be ended, but here it is, blazing afresh and promising

a tremendous conflagration. The Englishman goes on with his usual

doggedness, and the last bombardment has excelled in horrible

intensity all that has been known so far. Even before the signal

for storming, the English were drunk with victory, so gigantic was

their artillery, so dreadful their guns, so intense their

firing....

These lines help us to realize how keen was the anxiety caused in

Germany by the new offensive coming so soon after the battles of

Champagne in April. But the lyricism of Dr. Wegener stood in the way of

his own judgment, and prevented him from seeing that the battle on the

Marne which drove the enemy back, the battle on the Yser which brought

him to a standstill, and the battle round Verdun which effectually wore

him out, were each in succession the greatest of the war. The second

battle of Flanders ought rather to be compared to the battle on the

Somme, the real consequences of which were not completely visible till

the German recoil on the Siegfried line took place in March, 1917. While

the first battle of Flanders had closed the gates of Dunkirk and Calais

against the Germans, and marked the end of their invasion, the second

one drove a wedge at Ypres into the German strength, made formidable by

three years' daily efforts, secured the Flemish heights, pushed the

enemy back into the bog land, and threatened Bruges. In the first

battle, the French under Foch had been supported by the English under

Marshal French; this time the English, who were the protagonists, under

Plumer (Second Army) and Gough (Fifth Army), were supported by the First

French Army under General Anthoine.

It was as late as June that General Anthoine's soldiers had taken their

stand to the left of the British armies, and after the tremendous fights

along the Chemin des Dames and Moronvillers in April, it might well be

believed that they were tired. They had borne the burden from the very

first; they had been on the Marne and the Yser in 1914, at the

numberless and costly offensives of 1915 in Artois, Champagne, Lorraine

and Alsace; and in 1916, after the Verdun epic, they had had to fight on

the Somme. Indeed, they had only ceased repelling the enemy's attacks in

order to attack in their turn. Among the Allies, they represented

invincible determination, as well as a perfected military method. Those

troops arriving on June 15, on ground they had never seen before, might

well have been anxious for a respite; yet on July 31 they were in the

fighting line with the British. Two days before the attack they crossed

the Yser canal by twenty-nine bridges without losing one man, and showed

an intelligence and spirit which added to their ascendancy over the

enemy and increased the prestige of the French army. And while Marshal

Haig was finding such an exceptional second in General Anthoine, Pétain,

now commander-in-chief, was aiding the British offensive by attacking

the Germans at other points on the front: on August 20 the Second Army

under Guillaumat was victorious on the Meuse, near Verdun, while the

Sixth Army under Maistre was preparing for the Malmaison offensive which

on October 23 secured for the French the whole length of the Chemin des

Dames to the river Ailette.

General Anthoine had had less than six weeks in which to see what he

could do with the ground, organize the lines of communication, and post

his batteries and infantry. But he had no idea of delaying the British

offensive, and on the appointed day he was ready. The line of attack for

the three armies was some 20 kilometers long, namely, from the

Ypres-Menin road to the confluence of the Yperlée and Martje-Vaert, the

French holding the section between Drie Grachten and Boesinghe. It had

been settled that the offensive should be conducted methodically, that

its objective should be limited, and that it might be interrupted and

resumed as often as should seem advisable. The troops were engaged on

the 31st of July, and the first rush carried the French onward a

distance of 3 kilometers, not only to Steenstraete, which was the

objective, but further on to Bixchoote and the Korteker Tavern. The

British on their side had advanced 1500 yards over heavily fortified or

wooded ground, and their new line lay along Pilkem, Saint-Julien,

Frezenberg, Hooge, Sanctuary Wood, Hollebeke and Basse-Ville. Stormy

weather on the first of August, and German counter-attacks on

Saint-Julien, prevented an immediate continuation of the offensive, but

on August 16 a fresh advance took the French as far as Saint-Jansbeck,

while they seized the bridge-head of Drie Grachten. General Anthoine had

been so careful in his artillery preparation that one of the attacking

battalions had not a single casualty, and no soldier was even wounded.

The French then had to wait until the English had advanced in their turn

to the range of hillocks between Becelaere and Poelcapelle (September 20

and 26), but the brilliant British successes on those two dates were

making another collective operation possible; and this operation took

place on October 9, and gave the French possession of the outskirts of

Houthulst forest, while the British fought on till they captured the

Passchendaele hills.

Every great battle is now preceded and accompanied by a battle in the

air, because if chasing or bombarding squadrons did not police the air

before an attack, no photographs of the enemy's lines could be taken;

and if they did not afford protection for the observers while the troops

are engaged, the batteries would shoot and the infantry progress

blindly. It is not surprising, therefore, that the enemy, who could not

be deceived as to the importance of the French and British preparations

in Flanders, had as early as mid-June brought additional airplanes and

"sausages," and throughout July terrible contests took place in the air.

Sometimes these engagements were duels, oftener they were fought by

strong squadrons, and on July 13 units consisting of as many as thirty

machines were seen on either side, the Germans losing fifteen airplanes,

and sixteen more going home in a more or less damaged condition.

While in hospital, Guynemer had heard of these tremendous encounters,

and wondered if the enchanting cruises he used to make by himself or

with just one companion must be things of the past. Was he to be

involved in the new tactics and to become a mere unit in a group, or a

chief with the responsibility of collective maneuvers? The air knight

was incredulous; he thought of his magic airplane and could not persuade

himself that, whatever the number of his opponents, he could not single

one out for his thunder-clap attack.

* * * * *

Meanwhile the artillery preparation had begun, towards the fifteenth of

July, and the earth was quaking to the thundering front at a distance

of 50 kilometers. These are flat regions, and there would be no beauty

in them if the light radiating from the vapors rising from the fields or

the sea did not lend brilliance and relief to the yellow stone villages,

the straggling woods or copses, the well-to-do farms, the low hedges, or

the tall calvaries at the crossroads.

Guynemer was in splendid condition. His indisposition of the previous

month had been caused by his refusing to sleep at Dunkirk, as the others

did, until their new quarters were ready. He wanted to be near his

machine the moment there was light enough to see by, and slept in some

unfinished hangar or under canvas in order not to miss any enterprising

German who might take advantage of the dusk to sneak over the lines, spy

on our preparations, or bombard our rear. He had paid for his imprudence

by a severe cold. But now, comfortable-looking wooden houses stood along

the shore, and Guynemer was himself again.

On July 27, while patrolling with Lieutenant Deullin, his chum of Somme

and of Aisne days--in fact, his friend of much older times--he brought

down in flames, between Langemarck and Roulers, a very powerful

Albatros, apparently a 220 H.P. of the latest model. This fell far

within the enemy lines, but enthusiastic British soldiers witnessed the

scene. Guynemer had chosen this Albatros for his victim among eight

other machines, and had pulverized it at a distance of a few yards.

This victory was his forty-ninth. He secured his fiftieth the very next

day, bringing down a D.F.W. in flames over Westrobeke, the enemy showing

fight, for Guynemer's magic airplane was hit in the tail, in one of the

longitudinal spars, the exhaust pipe, and the hood, and had to be

repaired. This day of glory was also one of mourning for the Storks.

Captain Auger who, trusting his star after seven triumphs, had gone

scouting alone, was shot in the head, and, after mustering energy enough

to bring his machine back to the landing-ground, died almost

immediately.

Fifty machines destroyed! This had been Guynemer's dream. The apparently

inaccessible figure had gradually seemed a possibility. Finally it had

become a fact. Fifty machines down, without taking into account those

which fell too far from the official observers, or those which had been

only disabled, or those which had brought home sometimes a pilot,

sometimes a passenger, dead in their seats. What would Guynemer do now?

Was he not tired of hunting, killing, or destroying in the high regions

of the atmosphere? Did he not feel the exhaustion consequent on the

nervous strain of unlimited effort? Could he be entirely deaf to voices

which advised him to rest, now that he was a captain, an officer in the

Legion of Honor, and, at barely twenty-two, could hardly hope for more

distinction? On the other hand, he had shown in his unceasing effort

towards an absolutely perfect machine a genius for mechanics which might

profitably be given play elsewhere. The occasion was not far to seek,

for he had to take his damaged airplane back to the works; and what

with this interruption and the precarious state of his health--for he

had left the hospital too soon--he might reasonably have applied for

leave. Nor was this all. The adoption of the new tactics of fighting in

numbers might change the nature of his action: he might become the

commanding officer of a unit, run less risk, indulge his temerity only

once in a while, and yet make himself useful by infusing his own spirit

into aspiring pilots.

Slowly all these ideas occurred, if not to him, at all events to his

friends. Guynemer has slain his fifty--they must have thought--Guynemer

can now rest. What would it matter if some envious people should make

remarks? "It is a pleasure worthy of a king," Alexander once said after

Antisthenes, "to hear evil spoken of one while one is doing good." But

Guynemer never knew this royal enjoyment; he never even suspected that

well-wishers were plotting for his safety. He took his machine to the

works, supervised the repairs with his customary attention, and by

August 15 he was back again at his sport in Flanders.

* * * * *

Meanwhile his comrades had added to their laurels. Auger was dead, it is

true; but Captain Derode, Adjutant Fonck--a perfect Aymerillot, the

smallest and youngest of these knights-errant, Heurtaux, Deullin (both

wounded, and the latter now risen to a captaincy), Lieutenant Gorgeus

and Corporal Collins--all had done well. Besides them many, too many,

bombarding aviators ought to be mentioned, but we must limit ourselves

to those who are now laid low in Flemish graveyards: Lieutenant Mulard,

Sergeant Thabaud-Deshoulières, _sous-lieutenant_ Bailliotz,

_sous-lieutenant_ Pelletier, who saved his airplane if he could not save

his own life, and was heard saying to himself before expiring: "For

France--I am happy...."; finally Lieutenant Ravarra, and Sergeant

Delaunay, who had specialized in night attacks and disappeared without

ever being heard of again.

Guynemer had reported at the camp on August 15. On the seventeenth, at

9.20 o'clock, he brought down a two-seated Albatros which fell in flames

at Wladsloo, and five minutes later a D.F.W. which collapsed, also in

flames, south of Dixmude. This double execution avenged the death of

Captain Auger and of another Stork, Sergeant Cornet, killed the day

before. On the eighteenth, Guynemer poured a broadside, at close

quarters, into a two-seated machine above Staden; and on the twentieth,

flying this time on his old _Vieux-Charles_, he destroyed a D.F.W. in a

quick fight above Poperinghe. This meant three undoubted victories in

four days under circumstances which the number of enemy machines and the

high altitude made more difficult than they had ever been. The weather

during this month of August was constantly stormy, and the Germans were

taking every precaution to avoid surprise; but Guynemer was quick as

lightning, took advantage of the shortest lulls, and baffled German

prudence.

The British or Belgian airmen of the neighborhood called on him, and he

liked to return their politeness. He loved to talk about his methods,

especially his shooting methods, for flying to him was only the means of

shooting, and once he defined his airplane as a flying machine-gun.

Captain Galliot, a specialist in gunsmithery, who overheard this remark,

also heard him say to the Minister of Aviation, M. Daniel Vincent, who

was inspecting the camp at Buc: "It is not by clever flying that you get

rid of a Boche, but by hard and sharp shooting."

It is not surprising, therefore, that he began his day's work by

overhauling his machine-gun, cartridges, and visor. He did not mind

trusting his mechanicians where his airplane and motor were concerned,

but his weapon and ammunition were his own special care. He regarded as

an axiom the well-known maxim of big-game hunters, that "it is not

enough to hit, but you must shoot down your enemy with lightning

rapidity if you do not wish to perish with him...."[26]

[Footnote 26: _Guynemer tireur de combat_ (_Guerre aérienne_ for October

18, 1917, special number consecrated to Guynemer).]

Of his machine itself Guynemer made a terrible weapon, and he soon

passed his fiftieth victory. On August 20 his record numbered

fifty-three, and he was in as good condition as on the Somme. On the

24th he was on his way to Paris, planning not only to have his airplane

repaired, but to point out to the Buc engineers an improvement he had

just devised.

II. OMENS

"Oh, yes, the dog always manages to get what he wants," Guynemer's

father had once said to him with a sad smile, when Georges, regardless

of his two previous failures, insisted at Biarritz upon enlisting.

"The dog? what dog?" Guynemer had answered, not seeing an apologue in

his father's words.

"The dog waiting at the door till somebody lets him in. His one thought

is to get in while the people's minds are not concentrated on keeping

him out. So he is sure to succeed in the end."

It is the same thing with our destiny, waiting till we open the door of

our life. Vainly do we try to keep the door tightly shut against it: we

cannot think of it all the time, and every now and then we fall into

trustfulness, and thus its hour inevitably comes, and from the opening

door it beckons to us. "What we call fatalism," M. Bergson says, "is

only the revenge of nature on man's will when the mind puts too much

strain upon the flesh or acts as if it did not exist. Orpheus, it is

true, charmed the rivers, trees and rocks away from their places with

his lyre, but the Maenades tore him to pieces in his turn."

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

Compiègne 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 embarrassed 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 parishioners 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 Hôtel Edouard VII when one of his

schoolmates at the Collège 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 fellowship 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 _communiqués_. 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 Compiègne. 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 amusement 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.

In the Iliad, Hector, after breaking into the Greek camp like a dark

whirlwind unexpectedly sweeping the land, and which the gods alone could

stop, returns to Troy and stopping at the Scæan gates waits for

Achilles, who he knows must be wild to avenge Patroclus. Old Priam sees

his son's danger, and beseeches him not to seek his antagonist. Hecuba

joins her tears to his supplications. But tears and entreaties avail

little, and Hector, turning a deaf ear to his parents, walks out to meet

Achilles, as he thinks, but indeed to meet his own fate.

On September 4, Guynemer was at the flying field of Saint-Pol-sur-Mer

near Dunkirk. His old friend, Captain Heurtaux, so long Commander of the

Storks, was not there; he had been wounded the day before by an

explosive bullet, and the English had picked up and evacuated him.

Heurtaux possessed infinite tact, and had not infrequently succeeded in

influencing the rebellious Guynemer; but nobody was there to replace

him. September 5 was a day of extraordinary activity for Guynemer. His

magic airplane was still at the works, where he had complained of not

having another in reserve; and not being able to wait for it, he sent

for his old machine and immediately attacked a D.F.W. at close quarters,

as usual; but the Boche was saved by the jamming of both of Guynemer's

guns, and the aviator had to get back to his landing-ground. Furious at

this failure, he promptly soared up again and attacked a chain of five

one-seated planes, hitting two, which however managed to protect each

other and escape. After two hours and a half, Guynemer went home again,

overhauled his guns, found a trigger out of order, and for the third

time went up again, scouring the sky for two more hours, indignant to

see nothing but prudent Germans keeping far out of his reach. So, he had

flown five hours and a half in that one day. What nerves could stand

such a strain? But Guynemer, seeking victory, cared little for strain or

nerves. Everything seemed to go against him: Heurtaux away, his best

machine not available, his machine-guns out of order, and Germans

refusing his challenge. No wonder if he fretted himself into increased

irritation.

* * * * *

Guynemer liked Lieutenant Raymond, and every now and then flew with him.

This officer being on leave, Guynemer on September 8 asked another

favorite comrade, _sous-lieutenant_ Bozon-Verduraz, to accompany him.

The day was sullen, and a thick fog soon parted the two aviators, who

lost their way and only managed to get clear of the fog when

Bozon-Verduraz was over Nieuport and Guynemer over Ostend.

September 9 was a Sunday, and Guynemer over-slept and had to be roused

by a friend.

"Aren't you coming to mass?"

"Of course."

The two officers went to mass at Saint-Pol-sur-Mer, and the weather

having grown worse Guynemer did not fly; but instead of enjoying the

enforced rest, he resented it as a personal wrong. Next day he flew

three times, and was unlucky again every time. On his first flight, on

his two-gun machine, he found that the water-pump control did not work,

and had to land on a Belgian aërodrome, where he was welcomed and

asked to sit for his photograph. The picture shows a worried, tense,

disquieting countenance under the mask ready to be pulled down. After

frightening the enemy so long, Guynemer was now frightening his friends.

[Illustration: "GOING WEST"]

The photograph taken, Guynemer flew back to camp. The best for him,

under the circumstances, would have been to wait. Was he not hourly to

hear that he might go to the Buc works for his machine? And what was the

use of flying on an unsatisfactory airplane? But Guynemer was not in

Flanders to wait. He wanted his quarry, and he wanted to set an example

to and galvanize his men, and even the infantry. So, Deullin being

absent, Guynemer borrowed his machine, and at last discovered a chain of

German flyers, whom he attacked regardless of their number. But four

bullets hit his machine and one damaged the air-pump, an accident which

not only compelled him to land but to return by motor to the aërodrome.

Once more, instead of listening to the whisper of wisdom, he started, on

Lieutenant Lagache's machine; and this time the annoyance was the

gasoline spurting over the loose top of the carburetor. The oil caught

fire, and Guynemer had to give in, having failed three times, and having

been in the air five hours and a half on unsatisfactory airplanes. No

wonder if, with the weather, the machines, and circumstances generally

against him, he felt tired and nervous. He had never done so much with

such poor results. But his will, his will cannot accept what is forced

upon him, and we may be sure that he will not acknowledge himself

beaten.

III. THE LAST FLIGHT

On Tuesday, September 11, the weather was once more uncertain. But

morning fogs by the seaside do not last, and the sun soon began to

shine. Guynemer had had a restless night after his failures, and had

brooded, as irritable people do, over the very things that made him

fretful. Chasing without his new airplane--the enchanting machine which

he had borne in his mind so many months, as a women bears her child, and

which at last he had felt soaring under him--was no pleasure. He missed

it so much that the feeling became an obsession, until he made up his

mind to leave for Buc before the day was over. Indeed, he would have

done so sooner had he not been haunted by the idea that he must first

bring down his Boche. But since the Boche did not seem to be willing....

Now he is resolved, and more calm; he will go to Paris this very

evening. He has only to while away the time till the train is due. The

prospect in itself is quieting, and besides Major du Peuty, one of the

chiefs of Aviation at Headquarters, and Major Brocard, recently

appointed attaché to the Minister of Aëronautics, were coming down by

the early train. They were sure to arrive at the camp between nine and

ten, and a conversation with them could not but be instructive and

illuminating; so, better wait for them.

But, in spite of these tranquillizing thoughts, Guynemer was restless,

and his face showed the sallow color which always foreboded his physical

relapses. His mind was not really made up, and he would come and go,

strolling from his tent to the sheds and from the sheds to his tent. He

was not cross, only nervous. Suddenly he went back to the shed and

examined his _Vieux-Charles_. Why, the machine was not so bad after all;

the motor and guns had been repaired, and yesterday's accident was not

likely to happen again. If so, why not fly? In the absence of Heurtaux,

Guynemer was in command, and once more the necessity of setting a good

example forced itself upon him. Several flyers had started on scouting

work already; the fog was quickly lifting, the day would soon be

resplendent, and the notion of duty too quickly dazzled him, like the

sun. For duty had always been his motive power; he had always

anticipated it, from the day when he was fighting to enlist at Biarritz

to this 11th of September, 1917. It was neither the passion for glory

nor the craze to be an aviator which had caused him to join, but his

longing to be of use; and in the same way his last flights were made in

obedience to his will to serve.

All at once he was really resolved. _Sous-lieutenant_ Bozon-Verduraz was

requested to accompany him, and the mechanicians wheeled the machines

out. One of his comrades asked with assumed negligence: "Aren't you

going to wait till Major du Peuty and Major Brocard arrive?" Guynemer's

only answer was to wave towards the sky then freeing itself from its

veils of fog as he himself was shaking off his hesitancy, and his friend

felt that he must not be urgent. Everybody of late had noticed his

nervousness, and Guynemer knew it and resented it; tact was more

necessary than ever with him. Let it be remembered that he was the pet,

almost the spoiled child, of his service, and that it had never been

easy to approach him.

Meanwhile, the two majors, who had been met at the station, were told of

his nervous condition, and hurried to speak to him. They expected to

reach the camp by nine o'clock, and would send for him at once. But

Guynemer and Bozon-Verduraz had started at twenty-five minutes past

eight.

They had left the sea behind them, flying south-east. They had reached

the lines, following them over Bixchoote and the Korteker Tavern which

the French troops had taken on July 31, over the Bixchoote-Langemarck

road, and finally over Langemarck itself, captured by the British on

August 16. Trenches, sections of broken roads, familiar to them from

above, crossed and recrossed each other under them, and they descried to

the north of Langemarck road the railway, or what used to be the

railway, between Ypres and Thourout and the Saint-Julien-Poelkapelle

road. No German patrol appeared above the French or British lines, which

Guynemer and his companion lost sight of above the Maison Blanche, and

they followed on to the German lines over the faint vestiges of

Poelkapelle.

Guynemer's keen, long-practiced eye then saw a two-seated enemy airplane

flying alone lower down than himself, and a signal was made to attract

Bozon-Verduraz' notice. A fight was certain, and this fight was the one

which Fate had long decided on.

The attack on a two-seater flying over its own lines, and consequently

enjoying unrestricted freedom of movement, is known to be a ticklish

affair, as the pilot can shoot through the propeller and the passenger

in his turret rakes the whole field of vision with the exception of two

angles, one in front, the other behind him under the fuselage and tail.

Facing the enemy and shooting directly at him, whether upwards or

downwards, was Guynemer's method; but it is not easy on account of the

varying speeds of the two machines, and because the pilot as well as the

passenger is sheltered by the engine. So it is best to get behind and a

little lower than the tail of the enemy plane.

Guynemer had frequently used this maneuver, but he preferred a front

attack, thinking that if he should fail he could easily resort to the

other, either by turning or by a quick tail spin. So he tried to get

between the sun and the enemy; but as ill-luck would have it, the sky

clouded over, and Guynemer had to dive down to his opponent's level, so

as to show him only the thin edges of the planes, hardly visible. But by

this time the German had noticed him, and was endeavoring to get his

range. Prudence advised zigzagging, for a cool-headed gunner has every

chance of hitting a straight-flying airplane; the enemy ought to be

made to shift his aim by quick tacking, and the attack should be made

from above with a full volley, with the possibility of dodging back in

case the enemy is not brought down at once. But Guynemer, regardless of

rules and stratagems, merely fell on his enemy like a cannon ball. He

might have said, like Alexander refusing to take advantage of the dark

against Darius, that he did not want to steal victory. He only counted

on his lightning-like manner of charging, which had won him so many

victories, and on his marksmanship. But he missed the German, who

proceeded to tail spin, and was missed again by Bozon-Verduraz, who

awaited him below.

What ought Guynemer to do? Desist, no doubt. But, having been imprudent

in his direct attack, he was imprudent again on his new tack, and his

usual obstinacy, made worse by irritation, counseled him to a dangerous

course. As he dived lower and lower in hopes of being able to wheel

around and have another shot, Bozon-Verduraz spied a chain of eight

German one-seaters above the British lines. It was agreed between him

and his chief that on such occasions he should offer himself to the

newcomers, allure, entice, and throw them off the track, giving Guynemer

time to achieve his fifty-fourth success, after which he should fly

round again to where the fight was going on. He had no anxiety about

Guynemer, with whom he had frequently attacked enemy squadrons of five,

six, or even ten or twelve one-seaters. The two-seater might, no doubt,

be more dangerous, and Guynemer had recently seemed nervous and below

par; but in a fight his presence of mind, infallibility of movement, and

quickness of eye were sure to come back, and the two-seater could hardly

escape its doom.

The last image imprinted on the eyes of Bozon-Verduraz was of Guynemer

and the German both spinning down, Guynemer in search of a chance to

shoot, the other hoping to be helped from down below. Then

Bozon-Verduraz had flown in the direction of the eight one-seaters, and

the group had fallen apart, chasing him. In time the eight machines

became mere specks in the illimitable sky, and Bozon-Verduraz, seeing he

had achieved his object, flew back to where his chief was no doubt

waiting for him. But there was nobody in the empty space. Could it be

that the German had escaped? With deadly anguish oppressing him, the

airman descended nearer the ground to get a closer view. Down below

there was nothing, no sign, none of the bustle which always follows the

falling of an airplane. Feeling reassured, he climbed again and began to

circle round and round, expecting his comrade. Guynemer was coming back,

could not but come back, and the cause of his delay was probably the

excitement of the chase. He was so reckless! Like Dorme--who one fine

morning in May, on the Aisne, went out and was never heard of

afterwards--he was not afraid of traveling long distances over enemy

country. He must come back. It is impossible he should not come back;

he was beyond the reach of common accidents, invincible, immortal! This

was a certitude, the very faith of the Storks, a tenet which never was

questioned. The notion of Guynemer falling to a German seemed hardly

short of sacrilege.

So Bozon-Verduraz waited on, making up his mind to wait as long as

necessary. But an hour passed, and nobody appeared. Then the airman

broadened his circles and searched farther out, without, however,

swerving from the rallying-point. He searched the air like Nisus the

forest in his quest of Euryalus, and his mind began to misgive him.

After two hours he was still waiting, alone, noticing with dismay that

his oil was running low. One more circle! How slack the engine sounded

to him! One more circle! Now it was impossible to wait any more: he must

go back alone.

On landing, his first word was to ask about Guynemer.

"Not back yet!"

Bozon-Verduraz knew it. He knew that Guynemer had been taken away from

him.

The telephone and the wireless sent their appeals around, airplanes

started on anxious cruises. Hour followed hour, and evening came, one of

those late summer evenings during which the horizon wears the tints of

flowers; the shadows deepened, and no news came of Guynemer. From

neighboring camps French, British, or Belgian comrades arrived, anxious

for news. Everywhere the latest birds had come home, and one hardly

dared ask the airmen any question.

But the daily routine had to be dispatched, as if there were no mourning

in the camp. All the young men there were used to death, and to sporting

with it; they did not like to show their sorrow; but it was deep in

them, sullen and fierce.

At dinner a heavy melancholy weighed upon them. Guynemer's seat was

empty, and no one dreamed of taking it. One officer tried to dispel the

cloud by suggesting hypotheses. Guynemer was lucky, had always been;

probably he was alive, a prisoner.

Guynemer a prisoner!... He had said one day with a laugh, "The Boches

will never get me alive," but his laugh was terrible. No, Guynemer could

not have been taken prisoner. Where was he, then?

On the squadron log, _sous-lieutenant_ Bozon-Verduraz wrote that evening

as follows:

_Tuesday, September 11, 1917._ Patrolled. Captain Guynemer started

at 8.25 with _sous-lieutenant_ Bozon-Verduraz. Found missing after

an engagement with a biplane above Poelkapelle (Belgium).

That was all.

IV. THE VIGIL

Before Guynemer, other knights of the air, other aces, had been reported

missing or had perished--some like Captain Le Cour Grandmaison or

Captain Auger in our lines, others like Sergeant Sauvage and

_sous-lieutenant_ Dorme in the enemy's. In fact, he would be the

thirteenth on the list if the title of ace is reserved for aviators to

whom the controlling board has given its visé for five undoubted

victories. These were the names:

Captain Le Cour Grandmaison 5 victories

Sergeant Hauss 5 "

_sous-lieutenant_ Delorme 5 "

_sous-lieutenant_ Pégoud 6 "

_sous-lieutenant_ Languedoc 7 "

Captain Auger 7 "

Captain Doumer 7 "

_sous-lieutenant_ Rochefort 7 "

Sergeant Sauvage 8 "

Captain Matton 9 "

Adjutant Lenoir 11 "

_sous-lieutenant_ Dorme 23 "

Would Guynemer's friends now have to add: Captain Guynemer, 53? Nobody

dared to do so, yet nobody now dared hope.

A poet of genius, who even before the war had been an aviator, Gabriele

d'Annunzio, has described in his novel, _Forse che si forse che no_, the

friendship of two young men, Paolo Tarsis and Giulio Cambasio, whose

mutual affection, arising from a similar longing to conquer the sky, has

grown in the perils they dare together. If this book had been written

later, war would have intensified its meaning. Instead of dying in a

fight, Cambasio is killed in a contest for altitude between Bergamo and

the Lake of Garda. As Achilles watched beside the dead body of

Patroclus, so Tarsis would not leave to another the guarding of his lost

friend:

"In tearless grief Paolo Tarsis kept vigil through the short summer

night. So it had broken asunder the richest bough on the tree of his

life; the most generous part of himself ruined. For him the beauty of

war had diminished, now that he was no longer to see, burning in those

dead eyes, the fervor of effort, the security of confidence, the

rapidity of resolution. He was no longer to taste the two purest joys of

a manly heart: steadiness of eye in attack, and the pride of watching

over a beloved peer."

_For him the beauty of war had diminished_.... War already so long, so

exhausting and cruel, and laden with sorrow! Will war appear in its

horrid nakedness, now that those who invested it with glory disappear,

now, above all, when the king of these heroes, the dazzling young man

whose luminous task was known to the whole army, is no more? Is not his

loss the loss of something akin to life? For a Guynemer is like the

nation's flag: if the soldiers' eyes miss the waving colors, they may

wander to the wretchedness of daily routine, and morbidly feed on blood

and death. This is what the loss of a Guynemer might mean.

But can a Guynemer be quite lost?

* * * * *

Saint-Pol-sur-Mer, _September_, 1917

(From the author's diary)

Visited the Storks Escadrille.

The flying field occupies a vast space, for it is common to the French

and the British. A dam protecting the landing-ground screens it from

the sea. But from the second floor of a little house which the bombs

have left standing, you can see its moving expanse of a delicate, I

might say timid blue, dotted with home-coming boats. The evening is

placid and fine, with a reddish haze blurring the horizon.

Opposite the sheds, with their swelling canvas walls, a row of airplanes

is standing before being rolled in for the night. The mechanicians feel

them with careful hands, examining the engines, propellers, and wings.

The pilots are standing around, still in their leather suits, their

helmets in their hands. In brief sentences they sum up their day's

experiences.

Mechanically I look among them for the one whom the eye invariably

sought first. I recalled his slight figure, his amber complexion, and

dark, wonderful eyes, and his quick descriptive gestures. I remembered

his ringing, boyish laugh, as he said:

"And then, '_couic_'...."

He was life itself. He got out of his seat panting but radiant,

quivering, as it were, like the bow-string when it has sent its shaft,

and full of the sacred drunkenness of a young god.

Ten days had passed since his disappearance. Nothing more was known than

on that eleventh of September when Bozon-Verduraz came back alone.

German prisoners belonging to aviation had not heard that he was

reported missing. Yet it was inconceivable that such a piece of news

should not have been circulated; and, in fact, yesterday a message

dropped by a German airplane on the British lines, concerning several

English aviators killed or in hospital, was completed by a note saying

that Captain Guynemer had been brought down at Poelkapelle on September

10, at 8 A.M. But could this message be credited? Both the day

and hour it stated were wrong. On September 10 at 8 A.M.

Guynemer was alive, and even the next day he had not left the camp at

the hour mentioned. An English newspaper had announced his

disappearance, and perhaps the enemy was merely using the information.

The mystery remained unsolved.

As we were discussing these particulars, the last airplanes were

landing, one after another, and Guynemer's companions offered their

reasons for hoping, or rather believing; but none seemed convinced by

his own arguments. Their inner conviction must be that their young chief

is dead; and besides, what is death, what is life, to devoting one's all

to France?

Captain d'Harcourt had succeeded Major Brocard pro tem as commandant of

the unit. He was a very slim, very elegant young man, with the grace and

courtesy of the _ancien régime_ which his name evoked, and the

perfection of his manners and gentleness seemed to lend convincing power

to all he said. Guynemer being missing and Heurtaux wounded, the Storks

were now commanded by Lieutenant Raymond. He belonged to the cavalry, a

tall, thin man, with the sharp face and heroic bearing of Don Quixote, a

kindly man with a roughness of manner and a quick, picturesque way of

expressing himself. Deullin was there, too, one of Guynemer's oldest and

most devoted friends. Last of all descended from the high regions

_sous-lieutenant_ Bozon-Verduraz, a rather heavy man with a serious

face, and more maturity than belonged to his years, an unassuming young

man with a hatred for exaggeration and a deep respect for the truth.

Once more he went through every detail of the fatal day for me, each

particular anticipating the dread issue. But in spite of this narrative,

full of the idea of death, I could not think of Guynemer as dead and

lying somewhere under the ground held by the enemy. It was impossible

for me not to conjure up Guynemer alive and even full of life, Guynemer

chasing the enemy with strained terrible eyes, Guynemer of the

superhuman will, the Guynemer who never gave up,--in short, a Guynemer

whom death could not vanquish.

A wonderful atmosphere men breathe here, for it relieves death of its

horror. One officer, Raymond, I think, said in a careless manner:

"Guynemer's fate will be ours, of course."

Somebody protested: "The country needs men like you."

To which Deullin answered: "Why does it? There will be others after us,

and the life we lead...."

But Captain d'Harcourt broke in gaily: "Come on; dinner's ready--and

with this bright moon and clear sky we are sure to get bombed."

Bombed, indeed, we were, and pretty severely, but in convenient time,

for we had just drunk our coffee. A few minutes before, the practiced

ear of one of us had caught the sound of the _bimoulins_, the bi-motor

German airplanes, and soon they were near. We gained the sheltering

trench. But the night was so entrancingly pure, with the moon riding

like an airship in the deep space, that it seemed to promise peace and

invited us to enjoy the spectacle. We climbed upon the parapet and

listened to the breathing of the sea, accompanying with its bass the

music of the motors. There were still a few straggling reddish vapors

over the luminous landscape, and the stars seemed dim. But other stars

took their place, those of the French _Voisins_ returning from some

bombing expedition, their lights dotting the sky like a moving

constellation, while at intervals a rocket shot from one or the other

who was anxious not to miss the landing-ground. Over Dunkirk, eight or

ten searchlights stretched out their long white arms, thrusting and

raking to and fro after the enemy machines. Suddenly one of these

appeared, dazzled by the revealing light, as a moth in the circle of a

lamp; our batteries began firing, and we could see the quick sparks of

their shells all around it. Flashing bullets, too, drew zebra-like

stripes across the sky, and with the cannonade and the rumbling of the

airplanes we heard the lament of the Dunkirk sirens announcing the

dreaded arrival of the huge 380 shells upon the town, where here and

there fires broke out. Meanwhile the German airplanes got rid of their

bombs all around us, and we could feel the ground tremble.

The Storks looked on with the indifference of habit, thinking of their

beds and awaiting the end. One of them, a weather prophet, said:

"It will be a good day to-morrow; we can start early."

As I spun towards Dunkirk in the motor, these young men and their

speeches were in my mind, and I seemed to hear them speaking of their

absent companion without any depression, with hardly any sorrow. They

thought of him when they were successful, referred to him as a model,

found an incentive in his memory,--that was all. Their grief over his

loss was virile and invigorating.

* * * * *

After watching his friend's body through the night, the hero of

d'Annunzio goes to the aërodrome where the next trials for altitude are

to take place. He cannot think of robbing the dead man of his victory.

As he rises into the upper regions of the air he feels a soothing

influence and an increase of power: the dead man himself pilots his

machine, wields the controls, and helps him higher, ever higher up in

divine intoxication.

In the same way the warlike power of Guynemer's companions is not

diminished. Guynemer is still with them, accompanying each one, and

instilling into them the passionate longing to do more and more for

France.

V. THE LEGEND

In seaside graveyards, the stone crosses above the empty tombs say only,

after the name, "Lost at sea." I remember also seeing in the churchyards

of the Vale of Chamonix similar inscriptions: "Lost on Mont-Blanc." As

the mountains and the sea sometimes refuse to give up their victims, so

the air seems to have kept Guynemer.

"He was neither seen nor heard as he fell," M. Henri Lavedan wrote at

the beginning of October; his body and his machine were never found.

Where has he gone? By what wings did he manage thus to glide into

immortality? Nobody knows: nothing is known. He ascended and never came

back, that is all. Perhaps our descendants will say: "He flew so high

that he could not come down again."[29]

[Footnote 29: _L'Illustration_, October 6, 1917.]

I remember a strange line read in some Miscellany in my youth and never

forgotten, though the rest of the poem has vanished from memory:

Un jet d'eau qui montait n'est pas redescendu.

Does this not embody the upspringing force of Guynemer's brilliant

youth?

Throughout France some sort of miracle was expected: Guynemer must

reappear--if a prisoner he must escape, if dead he must come to life.

His father said he would go on believing even to the extreme limits of

improbability. The journalist who signs his letters from the front to

_Le Temps_ with the pseudonym d'Entraygues recalled a passage from

Balzac in which some peasants at work on a haystack call to the postman

on the road: "What's the news?" "Nothing, no news. Oh! I beg your

pardon, people say that Napoleon has died at St. Helena." Work stops at

once, and the peasants look at one another in silence. But one fellow

standing on the rick says: "Napoleon dead! psha! it's plain those people

don't know him!" The journalist added that he heard a speech of the same

kind in the bush-region of Aveyron. A passenger on the motor-bus read in

a newspaper the news of Guynemer's death; everybody seemed dismayed. The

chauffeur alone smiled skeptically as he examined the spark plugs of his

engine. When he had done, he pulled down the hood, put away his

spectacles, carefully wiped his dirty hands on a cloth still dirtier,

and planting himself in front of the passenger said: "Very well. I tell

you that the man who is to down Guynemer is still an apprentice. Do you

understand?..."

The credulity of the poor people of France with regard to their hero was

most touching. When the death of Guynemer had to be admitted, there was

deep mourning, from Paris to the remote villages where news travels

slowly, but is long pondered upon. Guynemer had been brought down from a

height of 700 meters, northeast of Poelkapelle cemetery, in the Ypres

sector. A German noncommissioned officer and two soldiers had

immediately gone to where the machine was lying. One of the wings of the

machine was broken; the airman had been shot through the head, and his

leg and shoulder had been broken in the fall; but his face was

untouched, and he had been identified at once by the photograph on his

pilot's diploma. A military funeral had been given to him.

Nevertheless, it seemed as if Guynemer's fate still remained somewhat

obscure. The German War Office published a list of French machines

fallen in the German lines, with the official indications by which they

had been recognized. Now, the number of the _Vieux-Charles_ did not

appear on any of these lists, although having only one wing broken the

number ought to have been plainly visible. Who were the noncommissioned

officer and the two soldiers? Finally, on October 4, 1917, the British

took Poelkapelle, but the enemy counter-attacked, and there was furious

fighting. On the 9th the village was completely occupied by the British,

and they searched for Guynemer's grave. No trace of it could be found in

either the military or the village graveyard.

In fact, the Germans had to acknowledge in an official document that

both the body and the airplane of Guynemer had disappeared. On November

8, 1917, the German Foreign Office replied as follows to a question

asked by the Spanish Ambassador:

Captain Guynemer fell in the course of an air fight on September 11

at ten A.M. close to the honor graveyard No. 2 south of

Poelkapelle. A surgeon found that he had been shot through the

head, and that the forefinger of his left hand had been shot off by

a bullet. The body could neither be buried nor removed, as the

place had been since the previous day under constant and heavy

fire, and during the following days it was impossible to approach

it. The sector authorities communicate that the shelling had plowed

up the entire district, and that no trace could be found on

September 12 of either the body or the machine. Fresh inquiries,

which were made in order to answer the question of the Spanish

Embassy, were also fruitless, as the place where Captain Guynemer

fell is now in the possession of the British.

The German airmen express their regret at having been unable to

render the last honors to a valiant enemy.

It should be added that investigation in this case was only made

with the greatest difficulty, as the enemy was constantly

attacking, fresh troops were frequently brought in or relieved, and

eye witnesses had either been killed or wounded, or transferred.

Our troops being continually engaged have not been in a position to

give the aforesaid information sooner.

So there had been no military funeral, and Guynemer had accepted nothing

from his enemies, not even a wooden cross. The battle he had so often

fought in the air had continued around his body; the Allied guns had

kept the Germans away from it. So nobody can say where lies what was

left of Guynemer: and no hand had touched him. Dead though he was, he

escaped. He who was life and movement itself, could not accept the

immobility of the tomb.

German applause, like that with which the Greeks welcomed the dead body

of Hector, did not fail to welcome Guynemer's end. At the end of three

weeks a coarse and discourteous paean was sung in the _Woche_. In its

issue of October 6, this paper devoted to Guynemer, under the title

"Most Successful French Aviator Killed," an article whose lying

cowardice is enough to disgrace a newspaper, and which ought to be

preserved to shame it. A reproduction of Guynemer's diploma was given

with the article, which ran as follows:

Captain Guynemer enjoyed high reputation in the French army, as he

professed having brought down more than fifty airplanes, but many

of these were proved to have got back to their camps, though

damaged it is true. The French, in order to make all verification

on our side impossible, have given up stating, in the past few

months, the place or date of their so-called victories. Certain

French aviators, taken prisoner by our troops, have described his

method thus: sometimes, when in command of his squadron, he left it

to his men to attack, and when he had ascertained which of his

opponents was the weakest, he attacked that one in turn. Sometimes

he would fly alone at very great altitudes, for hours, above his

own lines, and when he saw one of our machines separated from the

others would pounce upon it unawares. If his first onset failed, he

would desist at once, not liking fights of long duration, in the

course of which real gallantry must be displayed.[30]

[Footnote 30: Der Erfolgreichste Französische Kampfflieger Gefallen.

Kapitän Guynemer genoss grossen Ruhm im französischen Heere, da er 50

Flugzeuge abgeschossen haben wollte. Von diesen ist jedoch

nachgewiesenermassen eine grosse Zahl, wenn auch beschädigt, in ihre

Flughäfen zurückgekert. Um deutscherseits eine Nachprüfung unmöglich zu

machen, wurden in den letzten Monaten Ort und Datum seiner angeblichen

Luftsiege nicht mehr angegeben. Ueber seine Kampfmethode haben gefangene

französische Flieger berichtet: Entweder liess er, als Geschwaderführer

fliegend, seine Kameraden zuerst angreifen un stürzle sich dann erst auf

den schwächsten Gegner; oder er flog stundenlang in grössten Höhe,

allein hinter der französischen Front und stürzte sich von oben herab

überraschend auf einzeln fliegende deutsche Beobachtungsflugzeuge. Hatte

Guynemer beim ersten Verstoss keinen Erfolg, so brach er das Gefecht

sofort ab; auf den länger dauernden, wahrhaft muterprobenden Kurvenkampf

liess er sich nicht gern ein.--Extract from the _Woche_ of October 6,

1917.]

This is the filth the German paper was not ashamed to print. Repulsive

though it is, I must analyze some of its details. An enemy's abuse

reveals his own character. So this German denied the fifty-three

victories of Guynemer, all controlled, and with such severity that in

his case, as in that of Dorme, he was not credited with fully a third of

his distant triumphs, too far away to be officially recognized; so this

German also vilified Guynemer's fighting methods, Guynemer the

foolhardy, the wildly, madly foolhardy, whose machines and clothes were

everlastingly riddled with bullets, who fought at such close quarters

that he was constantly in danger of collisions--this Guynemer the German

journalist makes out to be a prudent and timid airman, shirking fight

and making use of his comrades. What sort of story had the German who

brought him down told? Was it not obvious that if Guynemer had engaged

him at 4000 meters, and had been killed at 700, that he must have

prolonged the struggle, and prolonged it above the enemy's lines?

Finally, the German journalist had the unutterable meanness and infamy

to saddle on imprisoned French aviators this slander of their comrade,

insinuated rather than boldly expressed. After all, this document is

invaluable, and ought to be framed and preserved. How Guynemer would

have laughed over it, and how youthfully ringing and honest the laugh

would have sounded! Villiers de l'Isle Adam, remembering the Hegelian

philosophy, once wrote: "The man who insults you only insults the idea

he has formed of you, that is to say, himself."

As a whole army (the Sixth) marched on May 25 towards that hill of the

Aisne valley where Guynemer had brought down four German machines, and

acclaimed his triumph, so the whole French nation would take part in

mourning him.

At the funeral service held at Saint Antony's Compiègne, the Bishop of

Beauvais, Monseigneur Le Senne, spoke, taking for his text the Psalm in

which David laments the death of Saul and his sons slain _on the

summits_, and says that this calamity must be kept secret lest the

Philistines and their daughters should rejoice over it. This service was

attended by General Débeney, staff major-general, representing the

generalissimo, and by all the surviving members of the Storks

Escadrille, with their former chief, Major Brocard. His successor,

Captain Heurtaux, whose unexpected appearance startled the

congregation--he seemed so pale and thin on his crutches--had left the

hospital for this ceremony, and looked so ill that people were surprised

that he had the strength to stand.

A few hours before the service took place, Major Garibaldi, sent by

General Anthoine, commander of the army to which Guynemer belonged, had

brought to the Guynemer family the twenty-sixth citation of their hero,

the famous document which all French schoolboys have since learned by

heart and which was as follows:

Fallen on the field of honor on September 11, 1917. A legendary

hero, fallen from the very zenith of victory after three years'

hard and continuous fighting. He will be considered the most

perfect embodiment of the national qualities for his indomitable

energy and perseverance and his exalted gallantry. Full of

invincible belief in victory, he has bequeathed to the French

soldier an imperishable memory which must add to his

self-sacrificing spirit and will surely give rise to the noblest

emulation.

On the motion of M. Lasies, in a session which reminded us of the great

days of August, 1914, the Chamber decided on October 19 that the name of

Captain Guynemer should be graven on the walls of the Panthéon. Two

letters, to follow below, were read by M. Lasies, to whom they had been

written. One came from Lieutenant Raymond, temporary commandant of the

Storks, and was as follows:

Having the honor to command Escadrille 3 in the absence of Captain

Heurtaux, still wounded in hospital, I am anxious to thank you, in

the name of the few surviving Storks, for what you are doing for

the memory of Guynemer.

He was our friend as well as our chief and teacher, our pride and

our flag, and his loss will be felt more than any that has thinned

our ranks so far.

Please be sure that our courage has not been laid low with him; our

revenge will be merciless and victorious.

May Guynemer's noble soul remember us fighting our aërial battles,

that we may keep alight the flame he bequeathed to us.

Raymond

Commanding Escadrille 3.

The other letter came from Major Brocard:

My dear Comrade:

I am profoundly moved to hear of the thought you have had of giving

the highest consecration to Guynemer's memory by a ceremony at the

Panthéon.

It had occurred to all of us that only the lofty dome of the

Panthéon was large enough for such wings.

The poor boy fell in the fullness of triumph, with his face towards

the enemy. A few days before he had sworn to me that the Germans

should never take him alive. His heroic death is not more glorious

than that of the gunner defending his gun, the infantryman rushing

out of his trench, or even that of the poor soldier perishing in

the bogs. But Guynemer was known to all. There were few who had not

seen him in the sky, whether blue or cloudy, bearing on his frail

linen wings some of their own faith, their own dreams, and all that

their souls could hold of trust and hope.

It was for them all, whether infantrymen or gunners or pioneers,

that he fought with the bitter hatred he felt for the invader, with

his youthful daring and the joys of his triumphs. He knew that the

battle would end fatally for him, no doubt, but knowing also that

his war-bird was the instrument of saving thousands of lives, and

seeing that his example called forth the noblest imitation, he

remained true to his idea of self-sacrifice which he had formed a

long time before, and which he saw develop with perfect calm.

Full of modesty as a soldier, but fully conscious of the greatness

of his duties, he possessed the national qualities of endurance,

perseverance, indifference to danger, and to these he added a most

generous heart.

During his short life he had not time enough to learn bitterness,

or suffering, or disillusionment.

He passed straight from the school where he was learning the

history of France to where he himself could add another page to it.

He went to the war driven by a mysterious power which I respect as

death or genius ought to be respected.

He was a powerful thought living in a body so delicate that I, who

lived so close beside him, knew it would some day be slain by the

thought.

The poor boy! Other boys from every French school wrote to him

every day. He was their legendary ideal, and they felt all his

emotions, sharing his joys as well as his dangers. To them he was

the living copy of the heroes whose exploits they read in their

books. His name is constantly on their lips, for they love him as

they have been taught to love the purest glories of France.

_Monsieur le député_, gain admittance for him to the Panthéon,

where he has already been placed by the mothers and children of

France. There his protecting wings will not be out of place, for

under that dome where sleep those who gave us our France, they will

be the symbol of those who have defended her for us.

Major Brocard.

These letters roused the enthusiasm of the Chamber, and the following

resolution was passed by acclamation:

The government shall have an inscription placed in the Panthéon to

perpetuate the memory of Captain Guynemer, the symbol of France's

highest aspirations.

On November 5 the foregoing letters were solemnly read aloud in every

school, and Guynemer was presented as an example to all French

schoolboys.

* * * * *

The army then prepared to celebrate Guynemer as a leader, and in default

of any place suitable for such a ceremony they selected the camp of

Saint-Pol-sur-Mer, whence Guynemer had started on his last flight. On

November 30 General Anthoine, commanding the First Army, before leaving

the Flemish British sector where he had so brilliantly assisted in the

success, decided to associate his men with the glorification of

Guynemer.

The ceremony took place at ten in the morning. A raw breeze was blowing

off the sea, whose violence the dam, raised to protect the

landing-ground, was not sufficient to break. In front of the battalion

which had been sent to render the military honors, waved the colors of

the twenty regiments that had fought in the Flemish battles, glorious

flags bearing the marks of war, some of them almost in rags. To the

left, in front of the airmen, two slight figures were visible, one in

black, one in horizon blue: Captain Heurtaux still on his crutches, the

other _sous-lieutenant_ Fonck. The former was to be made an officer, the

latter a chevalier in the Legion of Honor. Heurtaux, a fair-haired,

delicate, almost girlish young man, but so phenomenally self-possessed

in danger, had been, as we have said, our Roland's Oliver, his companion

of old days, his rival and his confidant. Fonck, whom I called

Aymerillot because of his smallness, his boyish simplicity and his

daring, the hope of the morrow and already a glorious soldier, had

perhaps avenged Guynemer's death already. For Lieutenant Weissman,

according to the _Kölnische Zeitung_, had boasted in a letter to his

people of having brought down the most famous French aviator. "Don't be

afraid on my account," he added, "I shall never meet such a dangerous

enemy again." Now, on September 30 Fonck had shot this Lieutenant

Weissman through the head as the latter was piloting a Rumpler machine

above the French lines.

While the band was playing the _Marseillaise_, accompanied by the

roaring of the gale and of the sea, as well as of the airplanes circling

above, General Anthoine stepped out in front of the row of flags. His

powerful frame seemed to suggest the cuirass of the knights of old, as,

silhouetted against the cloudy sky, he towered above the two diminutive

aviators near whom he was standing. The band stopped playing, and the

general spoke, his voice rising and falling in the wind, and swelling to

a higher pitch when the elements were too rebellious. He was speaking

almost on the spot where Guynemer had departed from the soil of his own

country on his final flight.

"I have not summoned you," he said, "to pay Guynemer the last homage he

has a right to from the First Army, over a coffin or a grave. No trace

could be found in Poelcapelle of his mortal remains, as if the heavens,

jealous of their hero, had not consented to return to earth what seems

to belong to it by right, and as if Guynemer had disappeared in empyrean

glory through a miraculous assumption. Therefore we shall omit, on this

spot from which he soared into Infinity, the sorrowful rites generally

concluding the lives of mortals, and shall merely proclaim the

immortality of the Knight of the Air, without fear or reproach.

"Men come and go, but France remains. All who fall for her bequeath to

her their own glory, and her splendor is made up of their worth. Happy

is he who enriches the commonwealth by the complete gift of himself.

Happy then the child of France whose superhuman destiny we are

celebrating! Glory be to him in the heavens where he reigned supreme,

and glory be to him on the earth, in our soldiers' hearts and in these

flags, sacred emblems of honor and of the worship of France!

"Ye flags of the second aëronautical unit and of the First Army, you

keep in the mystery of your folds the memory of virtue, devotion, and

sacrifice of every kind, to hand down to future generations the

treasures of our national traditions!

"Flags, the souls of our heroes live in you, and when your fluttering

silk is heard, it is indeed their voice bidding us go from the same

dangers to the same triumphs!

"Flags, keep the soul of Guynemer forever. Let it raise up and multiply

heroes in his likeness! Let it exalt to resolution the hearts of

neophytes eager to avenge the martyr by imitating his lofty example, and

let it give them power to revive the prowess of this legendary hero!

"For the only homage he expects from his companions is the continuation

of his work.

"In the brief moment during which dying men see, as in a vision, the

whole past and the whole future, if Guynemer knew a comfort it was the

certainty that his comrades would successfully complete what he had

begun.

"You, his friends and rivals, I know well; I know that, like Guynemer,

you can be trusted, that you meet bravely the formidable task he has

bequeathed to you, and that you will fulfil the hopes which France had

reposed in him.

"It is to confirm this certitude in presence of our flags, brought to

witness it, that I am glad to confer on two of his companions, two of

our bravest fighters, distinctions which are at the same time a reward

for the past and an earnest of future glory."

Then the general gave the accolade and embraced Heurtaux, now less

dependent on his crutches, and Fonck, suddenly grown taller, children of

glory, both of them, and still pale from the emotion caused by the

evocation of their friend's glory. He pinned the badges on their coats.

After this he added, in a lull of the conflicting elements:

"Let us raise our hearts in respectful and grateful admiration for the

hero whom the First Army can never forget, of whom it was so proud, and

whose memory will always live in History.

"Dead though he be, a man like Guynemer guides us, if we know how to

follow him, along the triumphal way which, over ruins, tombs, and

sacrifices, leads to victory the good and the strong."

Of itself, thanks to this religious conclusion of the general's ode, the

ceremony had assumed a sort of sacred character, and the word which

concludes prayers, the Amen of the officiating priest, naturally came to

our lips while the general saluted with his sword the invisible spirit

of the hero, and the blasts of the bugles rose above the gale and the

sea.

VI. IN THE PANTHÉON

In the Panthéon crypt, destined, as the inscription says, for the burial

of great men, the name of Guynemer will be graven on a marble slab

cemented in the wall. The proper inscription for this slab will be the

young soldier's last citation:

FALLEN ON THE FIELD OF HONOR ON SEPTEMBER 11, 1917. A LEGENDARY

HERO, FALLEN FROM THE VERY ZENITH OF VICTORY AFTER THREE YEARS'

HARD AND CONTINUOUS FIGHTING. HE WILL BE CONSIDERED THE MOST

PERFECT EMBODIMENT OF THE NATIONAL QUALITIES FOR HIS INDOMITABLE

ENERGY AND PERSEVERANCE AND HIS EXALTED GALLANTRY. FULL OF

INVINCIBLE BELIEF IN VICTORY, HE HAS BEQUEATHED TO THE FRENCH

SOLDIER AN IMPERISHABLE MEMORY WHICH MUST ADD TO HIS

SELF-SACRIFICING SPIRIT AND WILL SURELY GIVE RISE TO THE NOBLEST

EMULATION.

"To deserve such a citation and die!" exclaimed a young officer after

reading it.

In his poem, _Le Vol de la Marseillaise_, Rostand shows us the twelve

Victories seated at the Invalides around the tomb of the Emperor rising

to welcome their sister, the Victory of the Marne. At the Panthéon, in

the crypt where they rest, Marshal Lannes and General Marceau, Lazare

Carnot, the organizer of victory, and Captain La Tour d'Auvergne will

rise in their turn on this young man's entrance. Victor Hugo, who is

there too, will recognize at once one of the knights in his _Légende des

Siècles_, and Berthelot will look upon his coming as an evidence of the

fervor of youth for France as well as for science. But of them all,

Marceau, his elder brother, killed at twenty-seven, will be the most

welcoming.

Traveling in the Rhine Valley some ten or twelve years ago, I made a

pilgrimage to Marceau's tomb, outside Coblenz, just above the Moselle.

In a little wood stands a black marble pyramid with the following

inscription in worn-out gilt letters:

Here lieth Marceau, a soldier at sixteen, a general at twenty-two,

who died fighting for his country the last day of the year IV of

the Republic. Whoever you may be, friend or foe, respect the ashes

of this hero.

The French prisoners who died in 1870-71 at the camp of Petersberg have

been buried, on the same spot. Marceau was not older than these

soldiers, who died without fame or glory, when his brief and wonderful

career came to an end. Without knowing it, the Germans had completed the

hero's mausoleum by laying these remains around it; for it is proper

that beside the chief should be represented the anonymous multitude

without whom there would be no chiefs.

In 1889 the remains of Marceau were transferred to the Panthéon in

Paris, and the Coblenz monument now commemorates only his name. It will

be the same with Guynemer, whose remains will never be found, as if the

earth had refused to engulf them; they will never be brought back,

amidst the acclamations of the people, to the mount once dedicated to

Saint Genevieve. But his legendary life was fitly crowned by the mystery

of such a death.

One of the frescoes of Puvis de Chavannes in the Panthéon, the last to

the left, represents an old woman leaning over a stone terrace and

gazing at the town beneath her with its moonlit roofs and its

surrounding plain, looking bluish in the night. The city is asleep, but

the holy woman watches and prays. She stands tall and upright as a lily.

Her lamp, which is seen at the entrance of her house, is one long stem

illuminated by the flame. She, too, is like this lamp. Her emaciated

body would be nothing without her ardent face. Her serenity can only

come from work well done and confidence in the future. Lutetia,

represented in this picture by Genevieve, is not anxious; yet she

listens as if she might hear once more the threatening approach of

Attila. It is because she knows that the barbarians may come back again,

and can only be stopped by invincible faith.

As long as France keeps her belief, she is secure. The life and death of

a Guynemer are an act of faith in immortal France.

ENVOI

The _ballades_ of olden times used to conclude with an _envoi_ addressed

to some powerful person and invariably beginning with King, Queen,

Prince or Princess. But the poet was occasionally at a loss, for, as

Theodore de Banville observes in his _Petit traité de Poésie Française_,

"everybody has not a prince handy to whom to dedicate his _ballade_."

Guynemer's biography is of such a nature that it must seem like a poem:

why not, then, conclude it with an _envoi_? I have no difficulty in

finding a Prince, for I shall select him from among the French

schoolboys. There is a little Paul Bailly, not quite twelve years old,

from Bouclans, a village in Franche-Comté, who wrote a beautiful theme

on Guynemer: he shall be my Prince. And through him I shall address all

the French schoolboys or girls, in all the French towns and villages.

Little Prince, I have no doubt that you love arithmetic, and I will give

you accurate figures which will satisfy your taste. You will like to

know that Guynemer flew for 665 hours and 55 seconds in all, which I

added up from his flying notebooks: his last flight is not recorded in

them, because it never stopped.

As for the number of fights in which he was engaged, that is difficult

to ascertain. Guynemer himself did not seem anxious to be sure about it.

But it must be more than 600, and might well be 700 or 800. Your

Guynemer, our Guynemer, will never be surpassed: not because he forgot

to hand over to his successors, rivals, and avengers the sacred flame

which in France can never go out, but because genius is an exceptional

privilege, and because the present methods of fighting in the air are

not in favor of single combats but engage whole units.

You will also love to hear about Guynemer as an inventor, and the

creator of a magic airplane. Some day this airplane will be exhibited;

and perhaps some of your little friends have already seen at the

Invalides the machine in which Guynemer brought down nineteen German

airplanes. On November 1, 1917, thousands of Parisians visited it; and

it was strewn with magnificent bunches of chrysanthemums, to which many

people added clusters of violets.

In Guynemer the technician and the marksman equaled and perhaps

surpassed the pilot. Captain Galliot, who is a specialist, has called

him "the thinker-fighter," thereby emphasizing that his excellence as a

gunner arose from meditation and preparation. The same officer adds that

"accuracy was Guynemer's characteristic; he never shot at random as

others occasionally do, but always took long and careful aim. Perfect

weapons and perfect mastery of them were dogmas with him. His

marksmanship, the result of perseverance and intelligence, multiplied

tenfold the capacity of his machine-gun, and accounts for his

overwhelming superiority."[31]

[Footnote 31: _Guerre aérienne_, October 18, 1917.]

But when you have realized the technical superiority of our Guynemer,

you will have yet to learn one thing, one great thing, the essential

thing. You have heard that Guynemer's frame was not robust; that he was

delicate, and the military boards refused him several times as unfit.

Yet no aviator ever showed more endurance than he did, even when

developments made long cruising necessary in altitudes of 6000 or 7000

meters. There have been pilots as quickwitted and gunners as accurate as

Guynemer, but there has never been anybody who equaled him in the

flashlike rapidity of his attack, or for doggedness in keeping up a

fight. We must conclude that he had a special gift, and this gift--his

own genius--must be ultimately reduced to his decision, that is, his

will-power. His will, to the very end, was far above his physical

strength. There are two great dates in his short life: November 21,

1914, when he joined the army, and September 11, 1917, when he left camp

for his last flight. Neither a passion for aviation nor thirst for glory

had any part in his action on those two dates. Will-power in itself is

sometimes dangerous, enviable though it be, and must be wisely directed.

Now, Guynemer regulated his will by one great object, which was to

serve, to serve his country, even unto death.

Finally, do not place Guynemer apart from his comrades: even in his

grave, even in the region where there is no grave, he would resent it. I

hope you will learn by heart the names of the French aces, at any rate

those names which I am going to give you, whatever may become of those

who bear them:[32]

_sous-lieutenant_ Nungesser 30 airplanes brought down

Captain Heurtaux 21 " "

Lieutenant Deullin 17 " "

Lieutenant Pinsard 16 " "

_sous-lieutenant_ Madon 16 " "

_sous-lieutenant_ Chaput 12 " "

Adjutant Jailler 12 " "

_sous-lieutenant_ Ortoli 11 " "

_sous-lieutenant_ Tarascon 11 " "

Chief Adjutant Fonck 11 " "

_sous-lieutenant_ Lufbery 10 " "

[Footnote 32: List made September 11, 1917.]

These names will become more and more glorious--some have already done

so--and others will be added to the list which you will learn also. But

however tenacious your memory may be, you will never remember, nobody

will ever remember, the thousands of names we ought to save from

oblivion, the names of those whose patience, courage, and sufferings

have saved the soil of France. The fame of one man is nothing unless it

represent the obscure deeds of the anonymous multitude. The name of

Guynemer ought to sum up the sacrifice of all French youth--infantrymen,

gunners, pioneers, troopers, or flyers--who have given their lives for

us, as we hear the infinite murmur of the ocean in one beautiful shell.

The enthusiasm and patience, the efforts and sacrifices, of the

generations which came before you, little boy, were necessary to save

you, to save your country, to save the world, born of light and born

unto light, from the darkness of dread oppression. Germany has chosen to

rob war of all that, slowly and tentatively, the nations had given to it

of respect for treaties, pity for the weak and defenseless, and of honor

generally. She has poisoned it as she poisons her gases. This is what we

should never forget. Not only has Germany forced this war upon the

world, but she has made it systematically cruel and terrifying, and in

so doing she has sown the seeds of horrified rebellion against anything

that is German. Parisian boys of your own age will tell you that during

their sleep German squadrons used to fly over their city dropping bombs

at random upon it. And to what purpose? None, beyond useless murder.

This is the kind of war which Germany has waged from the first,

gradually compelling her opponents to adopt the same methods. But while

this loathsome work was being done, our airplanes, piloted by soldiers

not much older than you, cruised like moving stars above the city of

Genevieve, threatened now with unheard-of invasion from on high.

Little boy, do not forget that this war, blending all classes, has also

blended in a new crucible all the capacities of our country. They are

now turned against the aggressor, but they will have to be used in time

for union, love, and peace. _Omne regnum divisum contra se desolabitur;

et omnis civitas vel domus divisa contra se non stabit._ You can read

this easy Latin, but if necessary your teacher or village priest will

help you. The house, the city, the nation ought not to be divided. The

enemy would have done us too much evil if he had not brought about the

reconciliation of all Frenchmen. You, little boy, will have to wipe away

the blood from the bleeding face of France, to heal her wounds, and

secure for her the revival she will urgently need. She will come out of

the formidable contest respected and admired, but oh, how weary! Love

her with pious love, and let the life of Guynemer inspire you with the

resolve to serve in daily life, as he served, even unto death.

_December_, 1917, to _January_, 1918.

APPENDIX

APPENDIX

GENEALOGY OF GEORGES GUYNEMER

In _Huon de Bordeaux_, a _chanson de geste_ with fairy and romantic

elements, Huon leaves for Babylon on a mission confided to him by the

Emperor, which he was told to fulfil with the aid of the dwarf sorcerer,

Oberon. At the château of Dunôtre, in Palestine, where he must destroy a

giant, he meets a young girl of great beauty named Sébile, who guides

him through the palace. As he is astonished to hear her speak French,

she replies: "I was born in France, and I felt pity for you because I

saw the cross you wear." "In what part of France?" "In the town of

Saint-Omer," replied Sébile; "I am the daughter of Count Guinemer." Her

father had lately come on a pilgrimage to the Holy Sepulchre, bringing

her with him. A tempest had cast them on shore near the town of the

giant, who had killed her father and kept her prisoner. "For more than

seven years," she added, "I have not been to mass." Naturally Huon kills

the giant, and delivers the daughter of Count Guinemer.

In an article by the learned M. Longnon on _L'Elément historique de Huon

de Bordeaux_,[33] a note is given on the name of Guinemer:

"In _Huon de Bordeaux_," writes M. Longnon, "the author of the _Prologue

des Lorrains_ makes Guinemer the son of Saint Bertin, second Abbot of

Sithieu, an abbey which took the name of this blessed man and was the

foundation of the city of Saint-Omer, which the poem of _Huon de

Bordeaux_ makes the birthplace of Count Guinemer's daughter. It is

possible that this Guinemer was borrowed by our _trouveres_ from some

ancient Walloon tradition; for his name, which in Latin is Winemarus,

appears to have occurred chiefly in those countries forming part, from

the ninth to the twelfth century, of the County of Flanders. The

chartulary of Saint Vertin alone introduces us to: 1st, a deacon named

Winidmarus, who in 723 wrote a deed of sale at Saint-Omer itself

(Guérard, p. 50); 2d, a knight of the County of Flanders, Winemarus, who

assassinated the Archbishop of Rheims, Foulques, who was then Abbot of

Saint-Bertin (Guérard, p. 135); 3d, Winemarus, a vassal of the Abbey,

mentioned in an act dated 1075 (_ib._, p. 195); 4th, Winemarus, Lord of

Gand, witness to a charter of Count Baudouin VII in 1114 (_ib._, p.

255). The personage in _Huon de Bordeaux_ might also be connected with

Guimer, Lord of Saint-Omer, who appears in the beginning of _Ogier le

Danios_, if the form, Guimer, did not seem rather to derive from

Withmarus."[34]

[Footnote 33: _Romania_, 1879, p. 4.]

[Footnote 34: With this note may be connected the following page of the

Wauters, a chronological table of Charters and printed Acts, Vol. II, p.

16, 1103: "Baldéric, Bishop of the Tournaisiens and the Noyonnais,

confirms the cession of the tithe and patronage of Templeuve, which was

made to the Abbey of Saint-Martin de Tournai by two knights of that

town, Arnoul and Guinemer, and by the canon _Géric. Actum Tornaci, anno

domenice incarnationis M.C. III, regnante rege Philippo, episcopante

domo Baldrico pontifice_. Extracts for use in the ecclesiastic history

of Belgium, 2d year, p. 10."]

Leaving the _chansons de geste_, Guinemer reappears in the history of

the Crusades. Count Baudouin of Flanders and his knights, while making

war in the Holy Land (1097), see a vessel approaching, more than three

miles from the city of Tarsus. They wait on the shore, and the vessel

casts anchor. "Whence do you come?" is always the first question asked

in like circumstances. "From Flanders, from Holland, and from

Friesland." They were repentant pirates, who after having combed the

seas had come to do penance by a pilgrimage to Jerusalem. The Christian

warriors joyously welcome these sailors whose help will be useful to

them. Their chief is a Guinemer, not from Saint-Omer but Boulogne. He

recognizes in Count Baudouin his liege lord, leaves his ship and decides

to remain with the crusaders. "_Moult estait riche de ce mauvais

gaeng._" The whilom pirate contributes his ill-gotten gains to the

crusade.[35]

[Footnote 35: _Receuil des Historiens des Croisades_, Western

Historians, Volume I, Book III and XXIII, p. 145: _Comment Guinemerz et

il Galiot s'accompaignierent avec Baudouin_.]

In another chapter of the _Histoire des Croisades_, this Guinemer

besieged Lalische, which "is a most noble and ancient city situated on

the border of the sea; it was the only city in Syria over which the

Emperor of Constantinople was ruler." Lalische or Laodicea in Syria,

_Laodicea ad mare_--now called Latakia--was an ancient Roman colony

under Septimus Severus, and was founded on the ruins of the ancient

Ramitha by Seleucus Nicator, who called it Laodicea in honor of his

mother Laodice. Guinemer, who expected to take the city by force, was in

his turn assaulted and taken prisoner by the garrison. Baudouin, with

threats, demanded him back and rescued him; but esteeming him a better

seaman than a combatant on the land, he invited him to return to his

ship, take command of his fleet, and navigate within sight of the coast,

which the former pirate "very willingly did."

A catalogue of the Deeds of Henri I, King of France (1031-1060)[36]

mentions in this same period a Guinemer, Lord of Lillers, who had

solicited the approval of the king for the construction of a church in

his château, to be dedicated to Notre-Dame and Saint-Omer. The royal

approval was given in 1043, completing the authorization of Baudouin,

Count of Flanders, and of Dreu, Bishop of Thérouanne at the request of

Pope Gregory VI, to whom the builder had gone in person to ask consent

for his enterprise. Was this Guinemer, like the pirate of Jerusalem,

doing penance for some wrong? Thus we find two Guinemers in the eleventh

century, one in Palestine, the other in Italy. About this same period

the family probably left Flanders to settle in Brittany, where they

remained until the Revolution. The corsair of Boulogne became a

ship-builder at Saint-Malo, having his own reasons for changing

parishes. The Flemish tradition then gives place to that of Brittany,

which is authenticated by documents. One Olivier Guinemer gave a receipt

in 1306 to the executors of Duke Jean II de Bretagne. He held a fief

under Saint-Sauveur de Dinan, "on which the duke had settled tenants

contrary to agreements." The executors, to liquidate the estate, had to

pay immense sums for "indemnification, restitution and damages," and

took care to "take receipts from all those to whom their commission

obliged them to distribute money."[37] The Treaty of Guérande (April 11,

1365), which ended the war for the Breton succession and gave the Duchy

to Jean de Montfort, though under the suzerainty of the King of France,

is signed by thirty Breton knights, among whom is a Geoffrey Guinemer. A

Mathelin Guinemer, squire, is mentioned in an act received at Bourges in

1418; while in 1464, an Yvon Guynemer, man-at-arms, is promoted to full

pay, and he already spells his name with a _y_.

[Footnote 36: _Catalogue des actes d'Henri I, Roi de France_

(1031-1060), by Frédéric Soehnée, archivist at the National Archives.]

[Footnote 37: _Histoire de Bretagne_, by Dom Lobineau (1707), Vol. I, p.

293. _Recherches sur la chevalerie du duché de Bretagne, by A. de

Couffon de Kerdellech_, Vol. II (Nantes, Vincent Forest and Emile

Grimaud, Printers and Publishers).]

It is somewhat difficult to trace the history of this lesser provincial

nobility, engaged sometimes in petty wars, sometimes in the cultivation

of their domains. In a book glorifying the humble service of ancient

French society, _Gentilshommes Campagnards_, M. Pierre de Vaissiére has

shown how this race of rural proprietors lived in the closest contact

with French agriculture, counseling and defending the peasant, clearing

and cultivating their land, and maintaining their families by its

produce. In his _Mémoires_, the famous Rétif de la Bretonne paints in

the most picturesque manner the patriarchal and authoritative manners of

his grandfather who, by virtue of his own unquestioned authority

prevented his descendant from leaving his native village and

establishing in Paris. Paris was already exercising its fascination and

uprooting the youth of the time. The Court of Versailles had already

weakened the social authority of families still attached to their lands.

[Transcriber's Note:

The following typographical errors in the original were corrected:

batallion (to battalion)

Fleugzeg (to Flugzeug)

éclaties (to éclatiez)

Kamfflieger (to Kampfflieger)]