The Winged Ghost by John Beechem

Archie’s teeth chattered in a frozen grimace. This high in the sky, the only thing keeping him from being a crater in the ground was his Nieuport 28, a motley construction of wood, canvas and steel. His scarf flapped in the wind, goggles protecting his steel blue eyes. Frozen snot seeped into his auburn moustache, now finally reaching a manly thickness in his nineteenth year. Gloved hands gripped his yoke tight. His feet danced with the pedals that steered his rudder. An exhilarating excitement kept his heart beating a ragtime beat.

One day, the older pilots told him, a numbing boredom would pervade these patrol  missions. But the novelty of flight was still in him. So he scanned the sky for Huns. But all he could see was empty blue all the way to the horizon.

Beneath him, the land was scarred. This patch of France had seen war for nearly four years. His plane (and his family’s wealth) kept him from the trenches. He envied the doughboys for their camaraderie, but wouldn’t trade his wings for the world. 

Jean-Luc was their flight leader, flying at the front of their echelon the way the largest goose would lead its feathered vee. Eddie flew on the left side of the vee. Chuck, the rookie, was behind Eddie. This was his first flight. Maybe his only flight. Archie shook off the thought, and said a prayer to Saint Michael to keep them all safe in battle. All of them except the Huns who could burn in hell for all he cared.

Archie was ready to die. In fact, he expected it. Mortality rates for pilots, especially new ones like him, were ridiculously high (most novices only lasted a few weeks). But he believed God would welcome him home, that Jesus Christ had redeemed him all those centuries ago on a hill in Palestine. So he fought with a ferocity that shocked those who flew with him. Already, he had earned six kills, all confirmed. The youngest ace in his squadron. Christ, forgive me. He imagined his hands stained with blood, but knew he was fighting a noble cause, despite the fact that most of these Huns were also his brothers in Christ, some of them even Catholics like him. 

And forgive me for the wine. Last night, he and Eddie had snuck into the chapel and stolen some of the sacramental wine, just a bottle among the dozens, to split among them. Jean-Luc explained it would only be a mortal sin if the wine had already been sanctified, but of course that wouldn’t happen until Mass. So the boys had shared it together. Two of the nurses had joined them, bringing a pair of jazz cigarettes. Archie’s head had been in the clouds, figuratively speaking. He remembered the taste of Lucy’s lips on his own. Lucy was a nurse, at least a good ten years older than him. Maybe fifteen. But he wasn’t ready to die in a state of mortal sin, so he’d resisted some more of her most aggressive advances. And by the end of their party, he’d lain his head in her lap as she ran her fingers through his short brown curls.

Archie could remember the feel of her fingers in his hair, could even remember the scent of something womanly and forbidden that had clung to her when they kissed. Maybe damnation was worth it. He laughed despite himself, the brief wave of a headache passing through him before he said another prayer asking forgiveness for the blasphemy that he never spoke aloud. But he vowed to himself that if he made it back to his aerodrome once this mission was over, he’d ask Lucy to be his girl, maybe even marry her someday despite the fact she might be old enough to be his aunt. It didn’t matter. She spoke English well enough (her real name was Lucille), but with that devilish French accent that Jean-Luc had. Only her voice was textured in satin while his was more like hemp. 

He tightened the grip on his yoke, and checked to make sure his ammunition was ready to fire once it was time. And now, finally, it was. At the furthest edge of the horizon, four tiny spots appeared upon the vast blue emptiness. One of them was a scarlet red, as if the sky itself had been pinpricked. Could it be him? Richtofen? The Red Baron himself? What are the odds? Damn my luck! He brought his St. Michael medal to his lips and matched Jean-Luc’s speed. 

This was the worst part. It was like a suicide pact, two little squadrons flying as fast as they could at each other, taking shots head-on before scattering to the wind to chase each other’s tails, to dogfight, to shoot one another to death or cripple each other’s planes until all opponents had fallen or fled back home with tails between their legs. But Archie was ready. Ready to die, yes. But an even darker side of him was ready to kill.

As soon as the enemy planes came into range, Archie fired his machine gun. Short bursts to conserve ammo. A few flakes of wood chipped off the tail of his target, but it wasn’t enough to really damage the plane. In the nick of time, he jerked his plane hard to his left, narrowly evading the bullets aimed at him. Richtofen flew so close, he made eye contact. His blood chilled. It was like looking into the devil’s eyes. 

Once the squadrons had flown past each other, two pairs flew off in opposite directions, he with Eddie, and Jean-Luc with Chuck. Archie pulled back against the yoke, and shifted his pedals so that his plane made a sharp turn in a counterclockwise direction. His stomach flattened with the pressure of his turn. His luck held, and soon he was behind one of the Huns. Close, within striking distance. This time, he held down his trigger and ripped through the tail of the plane in front of him. It trailed bitter black smoke. Archie relished the scent of it, like a hunter savoring the blood of his prey. 

But then he realized his mistake. Bullets flew past him, whizzing by his head, splinters of wood peppering his neck. He turned for the briefest second, and saw Richtofen’s scarlet plane only a few dozen yards away. His Nieuport lurched as he rose as fast as he could, hoping that his engine wouldn’t stall. Behind him, Richtofen’s guns fired once more. The Red Baron hungered for his kill, and this time he earned it. A bullet tore into Archie’s shoulder, and a powerful surge of pain filled his whole being. He felt panic rise in his heart, as a fiery heat radiated from the wound in pulsing waves. 

Christ, save me! His prayer felt hollow. But he heard Richtofen’s plane fade away, unable to match the Nieuport’s engine as it continued to rise. 

Archie flew down to gain speed, and give his engine a rest. No one pursued him. He was fleeing and they would let him. The Huns had lost a plane too. But still they battled, so Archie felt like a coward. Yet it would do them no good for him to fall out of the sky in the next twenty minutes from blood loss, or worse, one of the other planes finishing him off for good. 

No, the only option he had was to land near the front, and hope one of the medics could patch him up before he was a goner. He looked at his compass, but the glass had shattered, and the needle spun aimlessly. His altimeter was damaged too, but at least he could see by looking at the ground how close he was to landing. Yet the noonday sun floated high above him, refusing to guide him east or west.

God, guide my hand. He chose a direction and flew, slowly descending closer to the ground. Yet he could hear no artillery, and the villages below him looked the same, one just like the other. Archie began to lose hope. 

Suddenly, a bright blue light blazed to his right, blinding him. He’d never seen anything like it. But then it formed the shape of a plane. One that the Huns flew, an old fashioned Eindecker. He could even see the shimmering form of a pilot. Instead of pursuing him, the plane flew by his side. I must have lost a lot of blood already to be seeing visions. Yet that explanation felt too simple. No, this strange light was more real than real. It was like seeing a dream come to life. Archie felt a wave of deja vu pass through him, and remembered (or felt he was remembering) a dream about this very moment, about a plane and a pilot made of light flying right beside him.

Follow me. He heard the sauerkraut-scented voice in his mind and nodded, not knowing what else to do. But then he had a doubt.

Are you a trick of the devil? Archie thought as loudly as he could, hoping the spirit could hear him.

Ha! My God. No. I am just a ghost doing penance. I still have…four more pilots to save. Somehow, it feels more special when they’re not from the Motherland.

The pilot was flying even closer to Archie now. Archie’s propeller would be cutting through the ghost’s tail if the spectral plane was actually really there, the way his own plane was.

I am Hermann. The sound came from inside Archie’s brain. I do not know any English, but if that is how you hear me, then some wonder of the Universe is translating my words to you. 

And mine to you, I imagine, Archie thought back. The land was rising up now. He could see individual trees instead of green splotches. The streams glimmered in the sun. Even the birds flew not too far below them now.

How are you feeling? Hermann asked.

I’m…cold. Archie said.

Right. That won’t do. I don’t get credit if you’re not alive in the medic’s tent at least. Come, there’s an encampment I’m not supposed to know about. They’ll likely want to skin you alive once you’re saved, but…that’s not my problem.

Hermann steered sharply left. Somehow, Archie felt his own hands and feet work the yoke and pedals to match the turn. It was as if Hermann was a puppeteer and Archie was his marionette.

Now the bright blazing blue of Hermann’s form had faded, along with his Eindecker. Archie could study it without being half-blinded. How this model, now close to four years old, could match the speed of his own plane, Archie didn’t ponder. But now that they were practically wing men, he could see seven marks carved into the fuselage, almost like the carvings of a naughty school boy into his desk. Seven kills. One more than I have. Whatever Hermann had gotten up to since becoming a ghost, in his own life, he’d been a killer. A good one. Just like him.

Keep talking to me, Archie.

The young man shook free from his reverie. Did you know Richtofen? he asked.

Know him? I taught him everything he knows!

You're to blame then. I have his bullet in me.

Pity that. Alright, Archie. We’re going in for the landing. Do your best to stay conscious, won’t you?

Archie nodded, not sure whether Hermann could ‘hear’ him do that. He let go of any effort, and let Hermann guide his plane to the ground. Now Archie’s Nieuport had been enveloped by Hermann’s, and all the way through him, a warmth spread through Archie’s body. It was very hard now to tell if he was dreaming or awake. Or if he were awake, how to stay that way, now that his vision was closing in on him, a blackness threatening to consume everything.

Archie! His heart raced with Hermann’s voice ringing in his ears. The angels say you’ll make it. If you believe in those bastards. 

THUMP! 

Archie’s tires bounced up from the grass, then fell down again. His plane skidded to a halt. That damn Hun. Hermann’s ship was nowhere to be found. Nothing was. It was an empty field. Just an hallucination then? Christ, forgive me for my sins.

Archie pulled a Colt .45 from his belt, one he carried on him in case he ever crashed behind enemy lines and needed a weapon to defend himself. He realized with it in his hand how pathetic it was. His shot rang through for a mile at least, and echoed back at him.

“Cease fire! Cease fire!” An American covered in a green uniform, leaves and dirt came up from what had looked like a moment ago was a clump of trees, but was now obviously some sort of blind used for observation or who knew what else. 

Someone else came up with him, this one a colored man who carried bandages and a syringe. 

“Get his jacket and shirt off. Damn, he’s bled a lot. Help me bandage him. Boy, how did you find us? This bullet don’t kill you, Sarge just might.”

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

* * * * *

“Well, he’s not going to lose any more blood, Sarge.” The medic cut the last bit of gauze and pinned the bandage together. “But we need an ambulance to get him to a field hospital. He needs a transfusion. And someone needs to make sure this wound doesn’t get infected.”

“Damn it, Freeman. We bring an ambulance here, and any artillery spotter worth his salt is going to find this spot and obliterate us.” The sergeant looked down at Archie with beady green eyes, his brow covered in an anxious sweat. 

“They won’t fire on an ambulance,” Freeman said. “Well, not on purpose.”

“No, of course not.” Sarge glanced at the man who still had bits of dirt and mud on him, the one who’d rushed out of his hiding spot once Archie had landed. “They’ll just wait until the ambulance is half a mile away, and blow us all to hell.”

“Then we leave with the ambulance.” The muddied man had a long scoped rifle, now strapped to his back. “Get us out of this shit detail.”

“That’s not your call to make, Jenkins! You think they’ll be happy with us for abandoning our post? An over the hill field sergeant, a court-martialed sniper, and a damned darkie?!”

“That court-martial’s a bunch of malarkey, I’m a hell of a shot—”

“Ain’t no doubting that, but friendly fire helped us get into this mess…”

Sarge ignored Freeman and Jenkins both, looked down at Archie, and pointed a gloved finger at him. “And you! Just why the hell did you land here of all places?”

Archie remembered Hermann’s glowing plane, his words of angels and survival. He thought of St. Michael, and the medal’s cold touch upon his chest. He hoped these were men of God, like him. But he didn’t want to waste time on what would have sounded like the delusions of a man close to death.

“Just lucky, I guess.”

“Ha!” Sarge grinned incredulously. “Lucky for you maybe. And for Jenkins. Not lucky for our boys in the trenches. Hell, half the telegraph lines for the 28th Infantry aren’t even operable. And who’s going to find all those breaks in the line if not for the Signal Corps? Especially ones like this, within range of enemy snipers and artillery fire.”

“Still going to be breaks to find somewhere else, Sarge.” Freeman finished putting his unused bandages and gauze back into his kit, and snapped it shut.

“Goddamn right there are,” Jenkins said. “And maybe it’ll be someone else’s turn to cover your ass.”

Sarge looked back at Archie, then to the busted telegraph gear that lay at his feet, half of it in disrepair. “Christ, forgive me.”

“He will,” Archie said. Only realizing he had spoken his words aloud when Jenkins cursed once more, and Sarge scoffed.“He’d better.” Sarge began hitting the Morse key. Its little taps the tip toes of salvation.

* * * * *

“Archie, no no, this simply will not do.” Lucy shook the mercury of the thermometer and shone it into the sunshine streaming through the hospital window. His fever stubbornly hovered near 39 degrees Celsius, a temperature that dismayed his nurse, even though the  surgeon was pleased with his work. Already, Archie had survived three days and had been transferred back to his aerodrome where Lucy could care for him.

“What will you do after the war?” She’d asked him this after letting go of a small cloud of reefer all those nights ago. 

“I’m meant to go to college,” was his simple reply. 

“Oui, but of course.” Lucy placed her hand upon the lower part of her belly, and looked sad for a moment. “College boys have gotten me in trouble before.”

She’d taken another drag then, and passed the cigarette back to Archie. 

He hadn’t asked what she’d meant by that, but he’d heard rumors. Only he had the feeling he’d have to get to know her a bit better before he asked if they were true. Even if she had lost a child, who knew if it had even been her fault? These were desperate times, and women sometimes had to be…very accommodating.

Lucy changed his dressing then, putting blood-stained rags into a metal bucket, and wrapping fresh cloth onto him. Richtofen’s bullet threaded a needle that avoided his heart and lungs, and any artery that would have sprayed his life-blood into his Nieuport. His squadron leader reported the plane to be perfectly flyable and only required minor repairs.

“Bonjour, cherie,” Jean-Luc came into the infirmary, his goggles around his neck, leather flying cap still atop his head. Lucy gave him a brief nod, then gingerly laid Archie back into his bed. She took a shock of his hair, curled it around her fingers, and winked at him. Archie felt a rush in his cheeks, and thanked God for the thousandth time at least that bit of flesh hadn’t been blown off of him. 

“Archibald, I have good news for you. Richtofen is dead. A Canadian shot him down, a man named Brown. A pilot even more green than you.” Jean-Luc smirked.

“That’s good news,” Archie said. “But Jean-Luc, I think I need to rest.” He was tired, that much was true. But he also wanted more time alone with Lucy, and didn’t like the idea of a handsome devil like Jean-Luc being around her while he was still laid up in bed.

“I bet you do. Very well, Archie. Rest easy. There’s more Yanks in our squadron now thanks to you. And Eddie, he’s got two more kills. An ace like you. You’d better get back into the sky soon if you have any hope to keep up with him.”

Christ, he’s right. Patience was never Archie’s strong suit.

“Tais-toi, je t’en prie!” Lucy shooed Jean-Luc away. 

As he made his way to leave, Jean-Luc turned around. “Say a prayer to St. Michel for me, Archie. He seems to favor you.”

Lucy sighed. She glanced over at the dozens more beds under her care. She leaned over and kissed Archie’s temple, squeezed his hand and began to make the rest of her rounds.

Archie sighed as he watched her walk away. As much as he enjoyed her coddling, it was much more fun smoking jazz cigarettes, drinking wine, and shooting Huns out of the sky. 

Outside the infirmary, a klaxon sounded. A couple airmen, visiting another patient, rushed out the door. Already, Archie could hear engines roaring and propellers sputtering to life. 

“Enemy aircraft, incoming! Take shelter!” One of the doctors shouted above the noise, and Archie prayed once more to St. Michael. 

He glanced out the window. Up in the sky, he found a blazing blue light, following the Nieuports now rising into the air. An old Eindecker—even at this distance, he knew its tally marks by heart. 

Until we meet again, Archie…

The blue light through the windows made a shadowed cross form on Archie’s bed.

May St. Michael welcome you home.