He suggested they go somewhere else, “Mademoiselle Sistair,” he whispered, “allow us to show you the mystères de Paree… afterwards we can come back to your plus orsairs. They will probably become intoxicate… plus orsairs invariably intoxicate.” They laughed. He had grey eyes and light hair, he said he was a Norman. She said he was the nicest Frenchman she’d ever met. She had a hard time getting her coat from the checkroom because she didn’t have any check, but she went in and picked it out while Pierre talked French to the checkgirl. They got into a long low grey car; Daughter had never seen such speeding. Pierre was a fine driver though; he had a game of running full speed towards a gendarme and swerving just enough at the right moment. She said supposing he hit one; he shrugged his shoulders and said, “It does not mattair… they are… ow do you call it?… bloody cows.” They went to Maxims, where it was too quiet for them, then to a little tough dancehall way across Paris. Daughter could see that Pierre was wellknown everywhere and an Ace. The other aviators met girls in different places and dropped away. Before she realized it she and Pierre were alone in the long grey car. “Primo,” he was explaining, “we will go to Les Halles to eat soupe à l’oignon… and then I shall take you a little tour en avion.” “Oh, please do. I’ve never been up in a plane… I’d like to go up and loop the loop… promise you’ll loop the loop.” “Entendu,” he said.
They sat a little sleepily in a small empty eatingplace and ate onion soup and drank some more champagne. He was still very kind and considerate but he seemed to have exhausted his English. She thought vaguely about going back to the hotel and catching the boattrain, but all she seemed to be able to say was, “Loop the loop, promise me you’ll loop the loop.” His eyes had gotten a little glazy, “With Mademoiselle Sistair,” he said, “I do not make love… I make the loop the loop.”
It was a long drive out to the aviation field. A little greyness of dawn was creeping over everything. Pierre couldn’t drive straight any more, so that she had to grab the wheel once or twice to steady him. When they drew up with a jerk at the field she could see the row of hangars and three planes standing out in deepest blue and beyond, rows of poplartrees against the silver rim of the plain. Overhead the sky sagged heavily like a wet tent. Daughter got out of the car shivering. Pierre was staggering a little. “Perhaps you will go instead to bed… to bed it is very good,” he said yawning. She put her arm around him, “You promised you’d take me up and loop the loop.” “Allright,” he said angrily and walked towards one of the planes. He fumbled with the engine a while and she could hear him swearing in French. Then he went into the hangar to wake up a mechanic. Daughter stood there shivering in the growing silvery light. She wouldn’t think of anything. She wanted to go up in a plane. Her head ached but she didn’t feel nauseated. When the mechanic came back with Pierre she could make out that he was arguing with him trying to make him give up the flight. She got very sore: “Pierre, you’ve got to take me up,” she yelled at the two men sleepily arguing in French. “Aw-right, Mademoiselle Sistair.” They wrapped a heavy armycoat around her and strapped her very carefully in the observer’s seat. Pierre climbed into the pilot seat. It was a Bleriot monoplane, he said. The mechanic spun the propeller. The engine started. Everything was full of the roar of the engine. Suddenly she was scared and sober, thought about home and Dad and Buster and the boat she was going to take tomorrow, no it was today. It seemed an endless time with the engine roaring. The light was brighter. She started to fumble with the straps to unstrap them. It was crazy going up like this. She had to catch that boat. The plane had started. It was bouncing over the field, bouncing along the ground. They were still on the ground rumbling bouncing along. Maybe it wouldn’t go up. She hoped it wouldn’t go up. A row of poplars swept past below them. The motor was a settled roar now, they were climbing. It was daylight; a cold silver sun shone in her face. Underneath them was a floor of thick white clouds like a beach. She was terribly cold and stunned by the roar of the motor. The man in goggles in front of her turned around and yelled something. She couldn’t hear. She’d forgotten who Pierre was. She stretched her hand out towards him and waved it around. The plane went on climbing steadily. She began to see hills standing up in the light on either side of the white beach of clouds, must be the valley of the Seine full of fog; where was Paris? They were plunging into the sun, no, no, don’t, don’t, now it’s the end. The white clouds were a ceiling overhead, the sun spun around once first fast then slowly then the plane was climbing again. She felt terribly sick, she was afraid she was going to faint. Dying must be like this. Perhaps she’d have a miscarriage. Her body was throbbing with the roar of the engine. She had barely strength enough to stretch her hand toward him again and make the same motion. The same thing again. This time she didn’t feel so bad. They were climbing again into the blue sky, a wind must have come up because the plane was lunging a little, took an occasional sickening drop into a pocket. The face in the goggles turned around and swayed from side to side. She thought the lips formed the words, No good; but now she could see Paris like an embroidered pincushion, with all the steeples and the Eiffel Tower and the towers of the Trocadèro sticking up through a milky haze. The Sacré Cœur on Montmartre was very white and cast a shadow clear to the garden that looked like a map. Then it was behind them and they were circling over green country. It was rough and she began to feel sick again. There was a ripping sound of some kind. A little wire waving loose and glistening against the blue began to whine. She tried to yell to the man in the goggles. He turned and saw her waving and went up into another dive. This time. No. Paris, the Eiffel Tower, the Sacré Cœur, the green fields spun. They were climbing again. Daughter saw the shine of a wing gliding by itself a little way from the plane. The spinning sun blinded her as they dropped.
Newsreel XXXIX
spectacle of ruined villages and tortured earth “the work of fiends” wrings heart of Mr. Hugh C. Wallace during his visit to wasted and shelltorn regions
WHIPPET TANKS ON FIFTH AVENUE STIR LOAN ENTHUSIASM
U. S. MOBILIZES IN ORIENT AGAINST
JAP MENACE
Rule Britannia, rule the waves
Britains never never shall be slaves
YOUNG WOMAN FOUND STRANGLED IN YONKERS
the socialrevolutionaries are the agents of Denekine, Kolchak and the Allied Imperial Armies. I was one of the organizers of the Soldiers, Sailors and Workmen’s council in Seattle. There is the same sentiment in this meeting that appeared at our first meeting in Seattle when 5000 men in uniform attended. EX-KAISER SPENDS HOURS IN WRITING. Speaking broadly their choice is between revolutionary socialism and anarchy. England already has plunged into socialism, France hesitates, Belgium has gone, Italy is going, while Lenine’s shadow grows stronger and stronger over the conference.
TEN SHIPS LAID BARRIER OF SUDDEN DEATH FROM
ORKNEYS TO SKAGGERAK
NO COAL? TRY PEAT
If you want to find the generals
I know where they are
If you want to find the generals
I know where they are
masses still don’t know how the war started, how it was conducted or how it ended, declared Maximilian Harden. The war ministry was stormed by demonstrators who dragged our Herr Neuring and threw him into the Elbe where he was shot and killed as he tried to swim to the bank