October 1915, Artois Province, France
Several hours before sunrise the next morning, Warren ran through his preflight checklist. He had timed the flight so he would land in Holland shortly after dawn, thus having only one nighttime landing. Olivier and McDougall spoke a few yards away, probably repeating the same things McDougall had been drilling into his spy for hours on end.
When the plane was ready, Warren motioned the others over.
McDougall held his hand out to the Frenchman, who shook it. “I hope to hear from you soon.” He turned to Warren. “I will stop by your aerodrome this evening to see how everything went.”
“Fine.”
“And, Flynn?”
“Yes?”
“No insulting the Kaiser within earshot of anyone German, eh?”
If all went well, Warren wouldn’t be speaking to anyone in Germany, and the only person he would communicate with in Holland would be the farmer on whose field he planned to land and refuel. Warren checked his pockets. The gold promised to the Dutch farmer was still inside, as was his lucky teacup handle.
Warren made sure Olivier was seated properly in the observer’s seat of the B.E.2. It was a tight fit with his luggage shoved in between his legs. “I don’t suppose you’ve ever flown before?”
“No.”
“Just sit back and relax.” As Warren sat in his own seat, he grimaced at the inane words he’d said. He was flying Olivier at night into enemy territory so he could pretend to be someone who didn’t exist. The Germans executed spies—even female spies—so the chances of the Frenchman relaxing were slim.
Warren had practiced nighttime flights before—only a dozen times, but the darkness was less of a concern than the destination. The nearly full moon lit the field he would take off from. One of the mechanics from his aerodrome had come along, and when Warren gave him the signal, he spun the propeller.
Warren brought the reconnaissance plane up to speed and felt it lift off the ground. He hoped he’d find an equally useful field to use near Essen and that the moon would stay clear of clouds.
The plane didn’t handle as smoothly as usual—probably because of the extra petrol tank fitted on the previous evening. With a map strapped to his leg, Warren navigated toward his enemy’s country. He’d planned an indirect flight path that offered frequent checks over obvious landmarks to confirm he was heading in the right direction. The first check was the line of trenches. Even in the dark they looked sinister from above. They were different from their daytime appearance, now quiet and motionless. He supposed it was sleep that had overcome the infantrymen below, but a shiver went up his spine. Death too brought silent stillness.
His passenger didn’t talk during the trip. The engines made conversation impossible unless the men shouted, and Warren’s French needed work. Olivier seemed content to watch the landscape below while Warren flew.
Warren piloted the plane over a railroad junction and past a river—the Ruhr, if his calculations were correct. Then he passed another train junction and began hunting for a decent place to land. He decided against one field because there were too many homes nearby, then a second for the same reason. Another area appeared ideal, other than its proximity to a stream. He didn’t want to land on soggy ground and get stuck. If he couldn’t fly out, he wouldn’t last long. His German was limited entirely to ja, nein, guten morgen, danke, and predictions of where the Kaiser might spend the afterlife.
After another ten minutes of searching, he circled back to the third field he’d spotted and decided it was worth trying. He brought the machine down and felt it bounce lightly along the uneven ground. He turned at the end of the field, where he’d have more room for takeoff, and slowly came to a stop.
Armed with a pistol, he stepped from the plane and looked around. He didn’t see or hear anything suspicious, so he motioned Olivier out of the plane. “We flew over a train track. I would guess a half mile back, mostly to the south. It will lead to a station eventually.”
Olivier nodded and grabbed his gear. Just one canvas kit bag, as one would expect to see a soldier carry. One bag to see him through the war.
“Are you scared?” Warren asked. It wasn’t really any of his business, but Olivier seemed so calm.
“What’s the worst they can do to me?”
Warren hesitated, hating to appear blunt, but Olivier already knew the risks. “If they catch you, they’ll shoot you.”
“The French sent me to the trenches. Trust me, that’s far worse.”
“Do you have food and money?”
“Yes.” Olivier hauled the bag to his shoulder. “Lieutenant McDougall ensured I have enough for a few days. I’ve survived on less in the trenches, and here I’ll have the benefit of not being a target. Not yet anyway.”
Warren watched him for a few moments. Olivier appeared to have in abundance what he would most need: courage.
Olivier stretched out his hand, and Warren grasped it in his own. “Thanks for the ride.”
“Let me know when you need a ride home.”
Olivier’s lips pulled into a slight smile. “We both know I’m unlikely to return to France.”
Warren wanted to protest, but anything he said would seem trite. Besides, Warren didn’t believe in miracles anymore. Everyone spoke of “The Miracle on the Marne” the previous fall, but that hadn’t been a miracle, not really. The Germans had simply made a few tactical errors, reconnaissance aircraft had seen their weaknesses, and a determined counterattack had prevented the capture of Paris. Warren had grown up with people who believed in miracles, and he supposed at one time he’d believed in them too. But none of the earnest faith he’d grown up surrounded by in Cardston had done anything for his mother when she’d been sick.
“Let me know when to spin the propeller.”
“Thank you.” Warren climbed back into his plane, feeling as though he’d delivered a man to his death. “Spider?”
“Hmm?”
“Bon courage.”