The Final Flight

Heavy gray clouds greeted Alexandre as he took off from his base next to Montfaucon. Though it was almost noon, the overcast skies made it seem much later. As he passed over the German lines, a few random shots zipped past his right wing, but he stayed on course, knowing there was little chance he’d be hit. The Kaiser’s men were used to shooting at an enemy in front of them, or maybe behind, but not 200 meters over their heads.

Within two minutes of taking off, Alexandre found himself above the Argonne Forest. Below him, a stark landscape of scorched trees, jagged craters, and demolished buildings unfolded. Dead soldiers tangled in barbed wire or half buried under mud added to the horror. Near a bridge, a shattered wagon lay on its side with two dead horses still tethered to the shaft. Alexandre felt sorry for them and all the other animals caught up in this wretched conflict. Mules in particular suffered a heavy toll. On an earlier mission, he’d seen a dozen or more of the poor beasts dead or dying on paths leading to supply stations. Some had been killed by artillery but others, he suspected, had simply been worked to death. It wasn’t fair that animals paid such a heavy price for the follies of men. They hadn’t started this war, but they still ended up in harm’s way often enough.

About half a kilometer beyond the bridge, Alexandre saw a large oblong-shaped mass of metal with its nose sticking above the edge of a crater. It was a tank, and though apparently undamaged, it failed to climb out onto level ground. Alexandre had seen a few tanks before. They were one of those technical wonders that was going to turn the tide of the war in favor of the Allies. Except they didn’t. Most tanks, like this one, broke down before getting past “No Man’s Land.” So much for turning the tide against the Bosch.

Alexandre pulled his eyes away from the ground and scanned the skies around him. The clouds had thinned and soft tendrils of sunlight now streamed through. He saw nothing – yet – but knew danger lurked ahead. Rather than think of that danger, he turned his thoughts to Jeannette. By now, she would have eaten breakfast, bathed, and gotten ready for the day. She was the reason he flew this mission and all the missions before. Only by making a safe landing at Binarville would he ever see her again.

As he cleared a small hill, Alexandre saw the outline of buildings at the edge of Binarville, a sure sign that his mission neared its end. A far-less welcome sight also caught his eye: a trench filled with German soldiers less than a kilometer from the town. Though these soldiers probably were no better marksmen than the ones near Montfaucon, there were more of them and he would have to fly a lot closer to their rifles.

When Alexandre was still 100 meters from the German trenches, the soldiers inside opened fire. The air around him quivered with high-pitched whines, which grew louder as bullets whizzed ever closer to him. Somehow, he cleared the trenches without being hit and now zeroed in on the outskirts of the town where Jeannette waited. Seven hundred meters to go, six hundred meters… he thought he could see her house now and imagined her outside, searching the skies, trying to find him. Five hundred meters, four hundred meters… the first bullet struck his left wing, piercing the greater coverts; the second sliced through his right eye. Crippled and half- blind, Alexandre still managed to stay aloft. Two hundred meters, one hundred, fifty…. Descending, he grazed the side of an oak tree and plowed through a lilac bush before coming to rest in a rain puddle. With his one remaining eye, he searched for Jeanette, and – maybe only in his last dream – found her.

The lieutenant came to attention in front of the colonel’s desk, which was nothing more than a board laid across a couple of sandbags.

“C Company will be heading to the front within the next half hour,” said the colonel. “They’ll be sending over a man to get a pigeon from us.”

“Yes, sir,” said the lieutenant. “I’ll have one ready for him.” He saluted and pivoted toward the door.

“By the way, how’s your wounded guy doing?” asked the colonel.

The lieutenant turned around. “I’m afraid he died about a half hour ago.”

The colonel’s face slumped. “He was quite a hearty fellow. Got that message to us even after being shot.”

“Shot twice, actually.”

“How do you suppose he managed to get here?”

“He was a homing pigeon, sir. His instincts guided him back to us.”

“Yes, of course. Well, go get your bird ready. Make sure it’s the one who’s had the most rest.”

“Yes sir. That’ll be Jeanette.”

The lieutenant left the Colonel’s office and went outside to a row of cages that were lined up next to a crumbling building that had once been a barn. He scanned the names over the cages. Marcel, Sophie, Antoine, Richard, Jeanette…

The lieutenant opened Jeanette’s cage and gently brought her into his arms. He stroked her head a few times and then let his eyes fall on the empty cage next to hers. Alexandre. The young soldier wondered if something more than instinct brought Alexandre back to Binarville. It didn’t matter. War was war. People had to make sacrifices; so did animals.

A sergeant, a small wooden cage in his hand, came up and saluted. “You have a bird for us, sir?”

“Yes, take this one,” the lieutenant said, holding out Jeanette. “She hasn’t carried a message in a week, so she’s plenty strong.”

The sergeant put his fingers under the pigeon’s body and nestled her into the cage, which he then shut. He snapped another salute and took off, the caged bird tucked under his arm like a rugby ball.

“Good luck, sergeant,” the lieutenant called out before the man was out of earshot. “Where’s your company going?”

The sergeant slowed his pace and spoke over his shoulder.

"Montfaucon"