Missing Star

Chapter 1

The once lovely French wine country rolled slowly under the wings of the bi-plane. Danny had traveled on trains, trucks and tanks through other regions of France on his way to the Argonne Forest. A few fortunate areas were still untouched by the Great War. Verdant vineyards, pastures and forests covered rich dark soil, with a few horses, cattle, and chickens walking around rough stone farmhouses and weathered wooden fences. He imagined it had looked the same a thousand years earlier.

Not here in Argonne. This was devastation. Most of the soldiers and Marines would never see the battlegrounds from this vantage point. Ten thousand feet up, the sky was as clear as if God had just created it. But the land sliding below Danny? Mankind had ruined it. The crops were trampled, the forests were blackened by fire and crushed by artillery. Gray and green trucks and tanks and artillery wagons had replaced the farm animals. With his binoculars he spied uncountable dead bodies scattered across the ashen earth and shredded vegetation. He knew first hand that the smell was horrendous down there.

The De Havilland DH-4 Danny was piloting was noisy as hail stones on a tin roof, and the engine was practically in Danny’s lap. He felt a tap on his shoulder and twisted around to look at his observer, Joe Dawson. Joe sat behind Danny, but the plane’s fuel tank separated them. They were flying at 110 miles per hour so the wind noise added to the uproar in the open cockpit. Joe kept a wooden yardstick in his cockpit to poke Danny for attention.

Joe, also looking through binoculars, pointed down and left. Danny spotted the fresh-looking German fighting holes in the no man’s land between the friendly and enemy trench lines. Time for a bombing run. He pushed the rudder pedals with his feet, turning the plane away from the target so he could descend and come at the Huns from the west. The sun was low in the late afternoon sky and he hoped the glare would give them a bit of an advantage as their plane raced toward the enemy fighting holes.

Danny pushed the throttle all the way in and the gravity of the plane’s descent did the rest. They hit top speed of 125 miles an hour. Joe quickly released four of their 20-pound bombs and Danny pulled the DH-4 steeply up. He noticed four little holes had appeared in the varnish-coated cotton fabric wing over his head. That should be no problem; thankfully the Germans had missed the engine and gas tank. He looked back at the target. Judging from the smoke and flames, it appeared to be a successful run. He turned around to get Joe’s reaction. Joe was pointing at his watch. Danny nodded. They’d been aloft for two and a half hours and the fuel was three-quarters empty. They’d destroyed five targets, a good day’s work. He turned the plane back toward their airfield. Now the sun was directly in his face.

They made it back across the German trenches. Cotton-ball clouds dotted the blue sky. A red Fokker bi-plane roared out of one of the clouds, flying directly at them. Danny reached for one of his two Marlin 30 caliber machine guns. Joe also had a pair of 30 caliber guns, by Lewis. With the enemy plane directly in front of them, Joe would not be able to fire without hitting Danny, and Danny hesitated to fire through the DH-4’s massive propeller. He swerved the plane to the right, positioning the German on their left. Both men opened fire, pouring out bullets at blurring speed.

The two planes whizzed past each other. Like knights jousting on horseback, they turned around and came at each other again, shooting frantically. Planes made big targets and much of a plane’s structure was vital: propeller, engine, fuel tank, and pilots. The wings could sustain hits, but too many holes would shred the cloth wings. Modern automatic weapons like the Lewis gun made it possible to stitch a line of holes all across a wing or fuselage.

The German pilot had hit the DH-4’s little auxiliary fuel tank, which was right over Danny’s head, and he could feel the fuel spraying on him and probably also blowing back onto Joe. Not good! Could they make it back to the airbase, outrunning the German? Maybe. The Fokker bi-plane had a BMW engine with roughly the same top speed as their De Havilland.

The planes darted past each other again. Joe managed to rip the Fokker’s lower left wing badly enough that the wind blew a big chunk of it clean off. The Fokker began to turn slowly upside down, out of control. Danny raised an arm in triumph and shouted. Just then the dripping fuel landed on the engine in front of him and caught fire. Danny’s leather flying helmet was by now damp with fuel and now it caught fire as the flames blew past his face. His goggles prevented the flames from blinding him. He unsnapped the helmet and ripped it from his head. This was exactly why the DH-4 was nicknamed the Flaming Coffin! The flames had blown out, and it seemed like the auxiliary fuel tank over his head had stopped dripping, meaning it was empty. Good news and bad news. He checked the fuel gauge – the main tank was also near empty.

He cranked his head around again to check on Joe. His friend had also ripped off his helmet and gave Danny a big grin and a wave. Danny turned back and checked on the plane’s altitude, direction and air speed and wondered if they would make the airbase. It was a tossup. Among its other shortcomings the DH-4 had no radio, just a Morse Code wireless. Neither he nor Joe was skilled at dots and dashes. Of course they had no parachutes. Danny knew there were two good reasons for that. The top brass apparently considered the planes more important than the crew. Equipping a plane with parachutes might encourage a pilot to save himself rather than doing everything he could to land his plane safely. And anyway, fighter pilots were a manly bunch. Parachutes were for the guys who flew observation blimps!

Danny could maximize the plane’s distance by reducing speed. By now they were probably safe from German planes and ground troops. So there was no rush. Danny throttled back to 60 miles per hour and tried to relax.

He and Joe had been flying combat missions for only ten weeks. It had taken until August to supply the Marines with the De Havilland planes. Between April and August the two men had occasionally trained on civilian planes, but safely behind the lines. There were only a few Marine aviators in France, so they all knew each other. All had had some flying experience, either in the Corps or prior to enlisting. Danny had logged hundreds of hours in a Curtiss JN-4 bi-plane, affectionately called the Jenny, back in his home town, Long Beach, California. It seemed like a lifetime ago.

Danny had enlisted in April 1917, within days of the United States joining the Great War. He’d been skimming through an issue of Scientific American, glancing at the pictures. One of the pages suddenly caught his eye.

It was a full-page advertisement, a recruiting poster for the Marines. A man with powerful shoulders was wearing a vested suit with white sleeves. He was sliding his suit coat off, as if preparing for a fight. He’d already discarded his hat, which lay at his feet. His strong jaw was set in a grim and determined line. Also at his feet was a newspaper, and on the front page was the bold headline: Huns Killing Women and Children. At the top of the advertisement was the sales message: Tell That to the Marines.

Danny had stared at the ad for a while without seeing it. The message was a bit ambiguous, perhaps assuming the reader had some familiarity with the Marine Corps. But the implication was clear to him. If there is a wrong to be avenged, tell the Marines, because they will surely do something about it.

The plane’s engine popped like popcorn in a sauce pan. Then it finally quit and all Danny heard was the air hissing through the wires and struts of the wings. The 400 horsepower V-12 Liberty engine was now a hunk of useless iron. The De Havilland drifted slower and lower. Danny played with the pedals and stick to maximize the distance, but it was clear they’d never reach the American airbase. There was nothing to do now but wait, so he took time to pray. They were 500 feet up, drifting lower with each minute. The sun had set, reducing the visibility. Ahead was a row of trees, which they’d be able to clear, but he could not yet see beyond them.

Sailing silently over the trees, he saw what looked like a dirt road lying at an angle from their direction of flight. This was where they’d have to land. He used the rudder to align the plane with the road and adjusted the elevator gently to descend.

They hit the road hard. It was not as smooth as he’d hoped. The plane bounced left and then right, slowing enough in the process that Danny whispered a quiet thank you. Then the road turned sharply left. The plane continued straight, and the plane’s wheels hit a rock the size of a cow. The heavy engine wanted to keep going and tipped the DH-4 onto its nose. Danny grabbed the edge of the stick to keep himself in the cockpit, but Joe flew out and over the top wing. Danny heard him smack the ground with a thump and lie still. Like a pine tree falling, the DH-4 tipped over onto its right side, with Danny bracing himself in the cockpit as the wings crumpled like an injured bird. Almost immediately he smelled the remains of the fuel spilling out of the gas tank. His heart jumped into his throat. There couldn’t be much fuel left – maybe just enough to burn him to death.

Danny jerked his canvas rucksack off the floorboard, wriggled out of the cockpit, and jumped to the ground. It was now so dark he did not see Joe at first. He fumbled his flashlight out of his pack and ran in the direction the plane had been going when it crashed. Twenty feet from the plane he found his friend inside a bush, his head lying at an unnatural angle. There was no pulse.

Danny turned off the flashlight and slumped to the ground next to Joe. It was dark and he was lost. The Germans may have seen the plane crash and could be heading toward him this very moment. He jumped to his feet and sprinted for the nearby tree line.

He hid in the trees. He had his Colt M1911 pistol holstered on his waist. He fished around in his pack for the Colt’s four magazines and put those in the button-down pocket of his uniform jacket. Next he searched for his compass. He had crashed into the setting sun, so that direction would be roughly west, but it would help to refine that estimate. A glance at the compass with the flashlight gave him true west. There was no moon to navigate by, but thank God there were stars, so he chose a few to guide his way west. He looked at his map in hopes of discovering his position, but the land was flat and it was too dark to see any landmarks. He had no choice but to travel westward. The further west he could travel the better his chances of getting to a friendly position.

He walked as silently as he could, but this late in the year the ground was covered with dead branches and crisp leaves. What nature had not killed off, the combatants had. Bullets, bombs, and bursts of fire had charred the area for huge swathes of the Argonne Forest. He stopped to listen every few feet. He watched carefully for the flash of a cigarette or a whispered conversation. He could be surrounded by friend or foe or both, and a mistaken shot from a fellow Marine would kill him just as certainly as a German bullet.

The Marines were a small fraction of the largest fighting force in US history – over one million men. Danny knew they were advancing on a long line, pushing the Germans east. The Marines were advancing swiftly, too swiftly, according to what Danny and Joe had heard just before taking off. The gung-ho unit had advanced so far ahead of their left and right flanks that they found themselves surrounded by Germans on three sides. Danny’s exact location on the uneven front was a complete mystery. As he considered his plight he decided to stop stumbling around and wait for dawn.

It was the longest night of his life. And the coldest. Once he stopped walking his body temperature felt like it was plummeting. The blanket in his pack was as thin as a dish cloth, but better than nothing. He lay next to a large rock on the frozen earth and covered himself with leaves. He dug out his canteen and ate some old crackers as he sipped the water. He had no pocket watch. Time became meaningless, except for the silent march of stars across the sky.

The last thing Danny pulled from his trusty pack that night was a rosary. He’d carried it everywhere every day since landing in France, just like he had done in the seminary. Had he stayed at the beautiful Santa Barbara campus, he’d have finished the four-year college by now and be in the first year of Theology, only three years from ordination as a priest. Perhaps he had made a colossal error joining the Marines. He slipped the rosary around his neck to keep it – and him – safe. The prayers came easily. Sleep came too, but only a few minutes at a time. Noises jarred his nerves all night, and he wondered if animals still prowled the Argonne when even plants had not survived.

It was in one of those brief periods of sleep that the Marines found him curled up and snoring. They were not sure if he was an enemy or one of them. Four of them pointed their rifles at him and a fifth kicked one of his boots. Danny awoke, saw the 1903 Springfield rifles, five-shot, 30-06, and grinned.

Good morning, men. Semper Fidelis!

They pulled him to his feet, gave him something to eat along the way and off they went, part of a company-sized unit heading east through an opaque blanket of fog. Danny felt incredibly relieved but wondered if his rescuers were the group that had out-run its left and right flanks. He soon found out.

The Marines began to receive rifle fire from all sides, including the rear. Mortars and artillery crashed in. The fog was so thick Danny couldn’t see more than twenty feet. His new buddies were being picked off, one by one. In the chaos the Marines disappeared into fog and he was alone with a dozen of the dying and the dead.

He looked around frantically, found a deep fighting hole and dragged one of the wounded men into it. The raging battle seemed to be moving away, the rifle fire less noisy. He ventured back out and found another Marine, conscious, bloody, and holding a Lewis machine gun. That would come in handy! Within a few more minutes, Danny had pulled two more wounded guys into the hole and was patching them up as best he could, using cloth from their uniforms for bandages and tourniquets. One of the men was near death with a sucking chest wound. Danny said a short prayer, placing the rosary’s crucifix on the man’s forehead.

The crescendo of gunfire returned. Danny ducked down in the hole to avoid being hit by the bullets hissing continuously over his head like bacon in a frying pan. He peered cautiously over the edge of the hole to see where the fire was coming from. The fog was as thick as clam chowder. Finally he saw the German soldiers drifting slowly through the fog like ghosts. They entered the clearing carefully, kicking the still bodies of the Marines to make sure they were dead. Seven of the enemy were in the clearing before they noticed him. He opened fire with the Lewis gun, spraying them as with a garden hose. Silence, but only for two minutes. A mortar shell exploded nearby and clods of dirt showered the fighting hole. Neither Danny’s prayers nor his first aid had helped much. Only one of the wounded was still alive. He opened his eyes suddenly, the terror in them frightening Danny. Mama! Mama! Mama! he screamed in a voice that weakened down to a whisper. And then he too was gone.

The clearing quieted again, a brief sign of respect for the dead. Leaving the bodies, Danny crawled away on hands and knees, not just to avoid being shot but too dispirited to stand. Bodies, buzzing with flies, covered the forest floor, which was slippery with blood and mud. Danny said a short prayer over each body he came across. He saw no sign of life; he was alone in Hell, now incapable of praying, too distracted by the horror.

The Catholic school nuns had described Hell in terrifying, unforgettable detail. Naked bodies on fire, tormented souls screaming, the absolute absence of love, no friends or family, hunger and thirst, monsters attacking with claws and jaws, being torn limb from limb. Danny wondered if in fact he was already dead and had somehow landed in Hell. The bodies of his comrades had in fact been torn limb from limb, not by monsters, but by mortars and grenades. Fires, body parts, broken weapons, and smoke were all he could see; screams of artillery and of humans were all he could hear; sulfur and burning flesh were all he could smell; and the sense of touch? Pain, excruciating pain, and nothing more. The world was devoid of beauty, devoid of love, and devoid of God.

I will be the next to die, he thought, shaking his head in disbelief. Suddenly furious beyond words, Danny was tired of waiting. He stood up with the Lewis gun at his hip and went looking through the fog for Germans to kill. The machine gun was light enough to fire while walking, so as soon as he came across a handful of enemy soldiers, he riddled them all with fire. A German shot Danny in the leg and then they both fell down, writhing in pain and unable to get up.

Chapter 2

Danny’s uniform and his handsome hardwood cane, or walking stick as he called it, had earned him five beers so far tonight in the Blarneystone Pub. His peaked campaign hat, emblazoned with the eagle, globe and anchor, the khaki uniform, and tall canvas boots defined him as a Marine, and a wounded one at that. He decided to call it a night and take a cab back to the barracks. The next morning he had to be on a train headed for California. He didn’t want to be nauseous with a hangover as the train swayed gently back and forth for thousands of miles.

What time is it? he asked the bartender, who wore a bright green vest and a matching derby.

The man didn’t hear him in the commotion of clinking glasses, shouted conversations and Irish ballads.

Danny tried once more and then shrugged and got off his stool to leave when he found a blond woman blocking his way to the door.

It’s only eleven-twenty, soldier. You have to stay till midnight. It’s New Year’s Eve!

Soldier? I’ll have you know I’m a Marine!

They’d leaned toward each other because of the noise, and he smelled jasmine.

Aye aye sir, she said, snapping a salute at him with a suddenly serious frown that was gone in an instant. May I buy you a beer for helping us win the war?

Danny smiled at her. She looked awfully cute in a baby blue sheath dress, holding one hand on her hip. The hair was bobbed a bit too short for his taste, but it went with her upturned nose, petite shape, and sassy attitude. He glanced at her left hand and saw no wedding ring.

How could I refuse?

She led him back to the bar. Unlike him, she got the bartender’s attention immediately. Danny grabbed the two mugs with suds spilling over the sides and followed her to a corner that was a bit quieter. No place to sit down, but at least they would be able to talk.

I’m Sandra, she announced.

Danny, he replied, and they clinked glasses with a smile.

Do you live here in New York or just passing through?

I’m on my way home in California. Leaving tomorrow. Where do you live?

My home’s in Kansas, but I’m a sophomore at NYU. I want to be a high school teacher.

They sipped their beers in silence, standing in the corner watching the working class partiers. Thankfully they were all smiles – no nasty drunks so far. Danny felt very relaxed with Sandra. Normally, being accosted by a pretty woman was a danger sign, and there’d be a large man lurking around nearby. But since Armistice Day plenty of women, both in France and the States, had approached him. It was usually just out of appreciation for his service and wanting somehow to share the danger he’d suffered through. Sometimes the women would hint at intimacy. It had been excruciatingly difficult to refuse them, but 15 years of Catholic school had shaped his values.

Do you have a girl back home, Danny?

Sort of. Her name is Joyce. We haven’t seen each other much for the last five years because of college and the Marines. She may not have forgiven me yet for enlisting. Not to mention telling Joyce he wanted to be a priest, choosing God over her, Danny thought.

So are you going to try to get back with her once you get home?

Maybe. I’ll play it by ear.

Sandra looked down at her glass, which was almost empty. He offered to go get refills. She shook her head. He was relieved, fearing she’d disappear during his trip to the bar.

Danny’s wounded leg ached and he shifted weight toward his walking stick.

She touched his arm in sympathy. Does it hurt?

From time to time. It’s been two months since I was shot. I lost a lot of blood and the docs almost sawed the leg off, so I’m happy to have a little pain now and then.

Danny sensed she wanted more details but he held back, not looking for sympathy or admiration.

The noise level in the pub was reaching a crescendo. The crowd stared at a big clock on the wall, where the second hand clicked toward midnight. Ten seconds to go and the mob counted down, yelling out each second. Danny felt Sandra’s soft hand slip into his. He turned toward her at two, grasped her other hand at one, and then they kissed. Happy New Year, Danny. Your Joyce better catch you while she can, he heard her whisper clearly despite the noise. Someone on a harmonica started blowing Auld Lang Syne which was actually a Scottish ballad, but the Irish customers didn’t care. They sang off-key and at the top of their lungs.

And surely you’ll buy your pint cup!

And surely I’ll buy mine!

And we'll take a cup o’ kindness yet,

For auld lang syne.

Danny and Sandra, hidden in the corner, held each other and danced to the slow wistful melody. More than any physical therapy, more than any number of beers, more than any prayers or vows to God, it was that dance that healed his soul, at least for a while.

The next morning at 0700 he humped his sea bag through Penn Station onto a train bound for the West Coast, a total of five days to get to Mare Island, California for discharge. Danny was able to spread out on the train, and it felt wonderful not to have to focus on military protocol, saluting etiquette, looking ship-shape, or worrying about incoming artillery. He had the whole row of seats to himself. Further up in the coach was a young couple all goo-goo-eyed with each other, blissfully unaware of him and any other passengers. On their honeymoon, he supposed.

That evening he stepped off the train for a stroll in the smoky air of Pittsburg, Pennsylvania. Then for the next 24 hours the train worked its way through the endless farms and factories of Ohio and Indiana, arriving at Chicago that night. Danny got a room at the YMCA and tried to see a motion picture, but discovered the picture shows were dark because of the Spanish Flu epidemic that was killing people all over the face of the earth. In his Spartan room he tried to pray for their souls, but God was not listening and he gave up. The Great War had seen the death of almost twenty million people and now influenza threatened millions more. There was no end to the losses piling up. God was AWOL. Maybe he had given up on the human race.

Danny still felt haunted by evil spirits the next morning, but the constant coming and going of passengers distracted and cheered him. They were all dressed in civilian clothes. He was the odd man out, and everyone treated him with courtesy and friendship. Sometimes a conversation would ensue. How was the war? How is your leg? Where you headed? Danny appreciated their kindness and interest. He was polite but kept the talk short. There was simply no way to explain combat. The experience was either bone deep in you or it wasn't.

He marveled at the Mighty Mississippi as the train creaked to a stop at Clinton, Iowa. He got off to stretch his legs and work the stiffness from his wounded leg. It had started snowing, the first snow of the journey. Inside the depot the Red Cross had spread out tables with free food, cigarettes, and a warm welcome from a dozen young women. Danny was the only one in uniform, so they gave him a lot of attention, though all the train’s passengers flocked to the food tables.

The train rocked along. He would read for a few minutes, but then nod off. He was halfway through The Land That Time Forgot by Edgar Rice Burroughs. It was entertaining enough, but the passing scenery and slight motion made him lethargic. The cat naps in the day messed up his sleep in the night. He sat in the dark, alternating between nightmares and worries about the future. He’d jolt awake in a panic, the dark train disguised as a trench with him lying at the bottom with the two earthen walls collapsing on him.

He’d barely survived the campaign of Belleau Wood in June of 1918, where he’d been a platoon commander with the 4th Marine Brigade. On June 6, the brigade had sustained over a thousand men wounded and killed, more than half of