Kindle Edition
Amazon
Category:
Historical Fiction
Publisher: CreateSpace Publishing
ISBN-10: 1977628796
Type: Fiction
Pages: 212
Copyright: Sep 26, 2017
ISBN-13: 9781977628794
Price: $5.99 (eBook)
Two young American pilots struggle to survive and compete for the love of an expatriate writer living and working in wartime Paris.
It is the Summer of 1918... The horrific First World War has been raging in Europe for nearly four years. The United States has joined the Allied cause and the pursuit pilots of America’s new Army Air Service find themselves pitted against a determined and battle-hardened enemy. The flamboyant flying ace Vincent Durand, veteran of the French Foreign Legion and the Lafayette Escadrille, is tasked with leading a new squadron of young Americans into combat. One of them is Marcus Keating, an idealistic and capable pilot fresh from the flying club of Princeton University. They will both cross paths with the sassy Emily Daniels, an expatriate writer and activist living and working in the decadent Montparnasse district of Paris. Mortal danger, cruel deception, furious passion and tragic loss lie ahead...in the days When Heaven Was Falling.
Excerpt
The kepi blanc that Vincent wore in what was intended to be a quiet homage to his fellow Legionnaires allowed him to be too-easily recognized and had attracted too much attention in Paris. Vincent was perhaps the only person in France who remained unaware of the adoration the French people held for him and that his wearing of the distinctive piece of headgear with an American uniform had added so much to his personal legend. He had been accosted by at least a dozen separate French civilians on the platform of the Gare du Nord, who insisted on thanking him and kissing him on both cheeks. The driver of the taxi had also recognized him and adamantly refused to accept a fare for the ride to the Crillon.
The scene at the train station had played out once again in the lobby of the famous hotel. Several of the guests and even some the hotel staff fawned over Vincent with a level of enthusiasm that only the French could exude, serving to further bewilder and embarrass him. Once inside the quiet sanctity of his hotel suite, Vincent decided that it would be best to leave the kepi behind. He placed a call to a friend who worked in the office of Services of Supply, District of Paris. Within the hour a messenger arrived at the door, bearing a crisp new garrison cap along with the shiny gold oak leaf insignia pin of a Major wrapped in tissue paper.
Vincent had never before worn one of the foolish- looking khaki envelopes, but after trying it on before the mirror and finally achieving the proper jaunty angle he decided that, although it was a poor substitute for the kepi, the garrison cap could be made to look sufficiently smart.
Vincent sighed at the thought and shook his head at his reflection. He wondered when it was that he had become so vain and cocksure. It had to have stemmed from his time in The Legion, he supposed, and their insistence on a sharp and impressive military appearance at all times.
Vincent had no expenses to speak of. He did not own a house, land or a motor car, had no family to support or debt to repay. He had been clothed, fed and housed by two different armies for the past six years. Consequently, month upon month of his salary had been stashed in a biscuit tin inside his foot locker. When ordered to go on furlough he had decided to stay at the finest hotel in Paris.
He might as well live it up, Vincent thought. If Billy Mitchell was correct it would be a long time before he enjoyed another holiday and the knowledge that this one might very well be his last was a relentless weight on his chest.
Before throwing open the balcony doors and drawing a hot bath, Vincent rang the concierge, instructing him to reserve a table in his name at Maxim’s. He then enjoyed a long, luxurious soak and a shave, dressed into a fresh uniform and headed downstairs for a drink before dinner.
It was at the bar, with the garrison cap and an Old Fashioned sitting before him, that Vincent detected the same familiar scent that he had whiffed in the courtyard three nights before. It was undoubtedly from the bottle of bespoke fragrance he had given to Emily as a birthday gift.
“I had a feeling I would run into you,” Vincent said to her reflection in the mirror above the bar.
“Oh, you know Paris, James,” Emily replied, taking the vacant barstool beside him. “It’s very much like New York. A lot of small towns jammed together to form one big city. Word gets around fast.”
She produced a cigarette and Vincent reached into the porcelain match holder on the bar to give her a light.
Emily took in a deep draft and then pursed her lips to send a stream of smoke toward the gilded ceiling.
“Thank you, James. Or is it Vincent? It’s all very confusing.”
The bartender approached and Vincent said to him, “Monsieur, Champagne pour la dame, s'il vous plaît.”
“Ne la dame ont une préférence?” the bartender asked.
Before Emily could respond, Vincent answered: “Henriot, s'il vous plaît. Dix-neuf onze, si vous en avez.”
“Bien sûr. Tres bien Monsieur,” the bartender responded with a gracious nod.
“Well, I must say, your French has vastly improved,” Emily admitted.
“The Foreign Legion,” Vincent replied. “You either learned to speak French or you got your teeth kicked in. And you may call me whatever you like. Vincent is the name they gave me. I rather like it.”
“I shall call you James,” Emily said with the perverse lift of an eyebrow.
“As you wish,” Vincent said, unbothered. He shifted in his seat to face her. “It is only proper that I should inform you that your young Marcus has been wounded.”
Emily stifled a gasp. Vincent watched with interest, letting the evocative announcement linger for a long moment. Already Emily’s keen imagination, Vincent knew, would undoubtedly be forming the ghastly picture of a badly burned or otherwise horribly disfigured Marcus, perhaps swathed head to toe in bandages or suspended in traction. You really are a cold- hearted bastard, Durand. She may deserve it but you’re a bastard just the same.
Emily took a breath and flicked ashes into the tray on the bar.
“Badly?”
Time to let her wiggle off the hook.
“Thankfully no,” Vincent told her finally. “There was a fight over the Château-Thierry battlefield. A German got behind Marcus and despite his best efforts to shake him off, a bullet apparently flicked away an earlobe. So I give you fair warning that he may be somewhat less handsome, or at least less symmetrical, the next time you see him. He is currently convalescing in one of the evacuation hospitals and should return to us soon.”
Emily accepted the flute of Champagne from the bartender with a slight tremble of hand, Vincent noticed, and she took a long drink. He took the moment to observe her. The auburn hair, which had been past her shoulders when they were married, was cut very short in the manner of the more fashionable Parisian women. Vincent had not cared much for the style when he had first learned of it, but it was quite alluring with Emily’s face and figure. She was also quite thin now, accentuated by the short, close- fitting and sleeveless deep green party dress that she wore. The two features combined to make her somewhat more provocative than he remembered, Vincent realized.
“And the German?” Emily asked suddenly.
“What about him?”
“He was killed.”
Vincent was somewhat taken aback by her display of intuition.
“Wasn’t he?” Emily pressed.
“Yes,” Vincent replied. “Henry Cooper is the leader of the flight of six airplanes to which Marcus is assigned. It was Henry who shot down the boche and saved Marcus. The German was well-known to us, a decorated squadron commander with over fifty victories. Marcus was very lucky.”
Emily shook her head and drew on the cigarette. “Quite the dangerous game you boys play. Just to what end, I still fail to see.”
“Marcus is a talented pilot at any rate,” Vincent told her, “and a fine young gentleman. I like him quite a bit, actually.”
“He is a good man,” Emily agreed.
Vincent drained his glass and removed a pewter clip from a batch of Franc notes. “I was about to go eat at Maxim’s,” he told her. “Why don’t you join me?”
“That sounds lovely,” Emily replied. “I’m currently adrift in the vast gulf of time that stands between the submission of my next work and compensation for the last, if you may recall what living with a writer is like. Tonight’s fare was going to consist of sardines and a cheap Chenin
Blanc from La Grande, unless I could find some libidinous richard or a lonely soldier on furlough to buy me dinner.”
“Well, you’ve found one. The latter, I mean.”
“Hooray for me,” Emily said with an impish smile.
A soft summer drizzle had the streets of Paris
glistening under the dim yellow light of the gas lamps. The doorman offered Vincent an umbrella for the short walk around the corner to Maxim’s.
“And so, Marcus Keating Junior,” Vincent began. “He’s quite a bit younger than you.”
“Yes,” Emily acknowledged. “By ten years.”
“He seems exactly the kind of man I would picture you with.”
“Marcus is a beautiful soul,” Emily said. “He’s kind, passionate, patient. Quite intelligent. A bit naïve at times, due to his youth.”
“And easy for you to manipulate,” Vincent said.
“Don’t be nasty, James.”
“You will break his heart,” Vincent predicted aloud. “As you broke mine.”
“That is not my intention,” Emily responded. “And it
was not my intention to break yours.”
“I believe that, actually,” Vincent allowed. “But it
hardly matters.”
“I have to be the person that I am, James, not the person our so-called polite society expects me to be. A society, I might add, that is working hard to assure its own destruction.”
“You have to be the person that you are? What is that supposed to mean, Emily?”
“It means that each of us must chart our own course as we navigate through this life. The sharing of love is something to be experienced along the way, and some of us don’t wish to place limits on that experience. That may not be how a lady is supposed to think, but I simply refuse to live someone else’s idea of a life.”
“Or adhere to someone else’s standard of what is right and what is wrong.”
“Well,” she thought for a moment. “Yes.”
“You’re incorrigible.” Vincent told her.
“I know,” Emily conceded.
|
