CHAPTER XI of THE BRONZ EGLE by Baroness Orksey This LibriVox recording is in the public domain, recording by Dion Giants, Salt Lake City, Utah. THE LAST THROW It was close on half past nine, and the moon full up on the stormy sky, when a couple of riders detached themselves out of the surging mass of horses and men that were flying palmel towards Genow, and slightly checking their horses put them to a slower gallop and finally to a trot. On their right a small cottage gleamed snow-white in the cold searching light of the moon. A low wall ran to right and left of it, and enclosed a small yard at the back of the cottage. The wall had a gate in it which gave on the fields beyond. At the moment that the two riders trotting slowly down the road reached the first angle of the wall, the gate was open, and a man leading a white horse and wearing a gray redding goat turned into the yard. My God, the emperor exclaimed one of the riders as he drew rain. They both turned their horses into the field, skirting the low enclosed wall, until they reached the gate. The white horse was now tethered to a post, and the man in the gray redding goat was standing in the doorway at the rear of the cottage. The two men dismounted, and in their turn led their horses into the yard. At sight of them the man in the gray redding goat seemed to wake from his sleep. Berthier, he said slowly, is that you? Yes, Sire, and Colonel Bertrand is here, too. What do you want?  There is not the slightest hope of rallying any portion of your army now. The Prussians are on us. You might fall into their hands. Berthier, conqueror and prince of Wagram, spoke very earnestly and with head uncovered, but more abruptly and harshly than he had been want to do of your in the salons of the Tullarys or on the glory-crowned battlefields at the close of a victorious day. I am coming. I am coming, said the Emperor, with a quick sigh of impatience. I only wanted to be alone a moment to think things out, too. There is nothing quite so urgent, Sire, as your safety, retorted the prince of Wagram dryly. The Emperor did not, or did not choose to, heed his great marshal's marked want of deference. Perhaps he was accustomed to the moods of these men whom his bounty had fed and loaded with wealth and dignities and titles in the days of his glory, who had proved only to, ready, alas, even last year, even now, to desert him when disaster was in sight. Without another word, he turned on his heel and, pushing open the cottage door, he disappeared into the darkness of the tiny room beyond. With an impatient shrug of the shoulders, Berthier prepared to follow him. Colonel Bertrand busied himself with tethering the horses, then he, too, followed Berthier into the building. It was deserted, of course, as all isolated cottages and houses had been in the vicinity of Quatrebras or Mont Saint-Jean. Bertrand struck a tinder and lighted a tallow candle that stood forlorn on a deal table in the center of the room. The flickering light revealed a tiny cottage kitchen, hastily abandoned but scrupulously clean, white-washed walls, a red-tiled floor, the iron hearth, the painted dresser decorated with white crockery, shiny tin pans hung in rows against the walls, and two or three rushed chairs. Napoleon sat down. I again entreat you, Sire, began Berthier more earnestly than before, but the Emperor was staring straight out before him, with eyes that apparently saw something beyond that rough white wall opposite on which the flickering candlelight threw such weird gargantuan shadows. The precious minutes sped on, minutes wherein death or capture strode with giant steps across the fields of Flanders to this lonely cottage where the once mightiest ruler in Europe sat dreaming of what might have been. The silence of the night was broken by the thunder of flying horses hooves, by the cries of savet k'pout, and distant volleys of artillery proclaiming from far away that death had not finished all his work yet. Bertrand and Berthier stood by, with heads uncovered, silent, moody, and anxious. Suddenly the dreamer roused himself for a moment, and spoke abruptly, and with his usual peremptory impatience. De Marmont, he said, has either of you seen him? Not lately, Sire, replied Colonel Bertrand, not since five o'clock, at any rate. What was he doing then? He was writing furiously in the direction of Nevels. I shouted to him. He told me that he was making four Brussels by a circuitous way. Ah, that is right! Well done, my brave De Marmont, braver than your treacherous kinsman ever was! So you saw him, did you, Bertrand? Did he tell you that he had just come from Ganap? Yes, Sire, he did, replied Bertrand moodily. He told me that by your orders he had sent a messenger from there to Paris with news of your victory, and that by tomorrow morning the capital would be ringing with enthusiasm and with cheers. And by the time De Marmont came back from Ganap, interposed the Prince of Wagram with a sneer, the planes of Waterloo were ringing with the Grand Army's Savay K. Putt. An episode, Prince, only an episode, said Napoleon, with an angry frown of impatience. To hear you now one would imagine that Essling had never been. We have been beaten back, of course, but for the moment the world does not know that. Paris tomorrow will be be flagged, and the bells of Notre Dame will send forth their joyous peals to cheer the hearts of my people. And in Brussels this afternoon, thousands of our enemies, Belgians, Dutch, Hanoverians, Brunswickers, were rushing helter-skelter into the town, demoralized and disorganized after that brilliant charge of our croissiers against the Allied left. Would to God the British had been among them too, murmured old Colonel Bertrand, but for their stand, and a splendid stand it was, ah, but for that, to think that if Grouchy had kept the Prussians away in only another hour we, the dreamer paused in his dream of the might have been, then he continued more calmly. But I was not thinking of that just now. I was thinking of those who fled to Brussels this afternoon with the news of our victory and of Wellington's defeat. Even then the truth is known in Brussels by now, protested Berthier. Yes, but not before De Marmont has had the time and the pluck to save us and our empire. Berthier, he continued more vehemently, don't stand there so gloomy man, and you too, my old Bertrand, surely, surely you have realized that at this terrible juncture we must utilize every circumstance which is in our favor. That early news of our victory, we can make use of that, a big throw in this mighty game, but we can do it. Berthier, do you see how we can do it? No, Sire, I confess that I do not, replied the marshal gloomily. You do not see, retorted the emperor with a frown of angry impatience. De Marmont did at once, but he is young and enthusiastic, whereas you. But don't you see that the news of Wellington's defeat must have enormous consequences on the money markets of the world if only for a few hours. It must send the prices on the foreign borses tumbling about people's ears and create an absolute panic on the London Stock Exchange only for a few hours, of course. But do you not see that if any man is wise enough to buy stock in London during that panic he can make a fortune by reselling the moment the truth is known? Even then, Sire, stammered Berthier, a little confused by this avalanche of seemingly irrelevant facts hurled at him at a moment when the whole map of Europe was being changed by destiny and her future trembled in the hands of God. Ah, De Marmont saw it all at once, continued the emperor earnestly. He saw eye to eye with me. He knows that money, a great deal of money, is just what I want now. Money to reorganize my army, to re-equip and reform it. The chamber and my ministers will never give me what I want.  And some of them would rather see the foreign troops again in Paris than Napoleon Emperor at the Tuileries. You should know that, Marshal, and you too, my good Bertrand, De Marmont knows it. That is why he rode to Brussels at the hour when I alone knew that all was lost at Waterloo. But when half Europe still thought that the Corsican ogre had conquered again, De Marmont is in Brussels now. Tonight he crosses over to England. Tomorrow morning he and his broker will be in the stock exchange in London, calm, silent, watchful, and operation on the bourse. What? Like hundreds that have been done before. But in this case the object will be to turn one million into fifty, so that with it I might rebuild my empire again. He spoke with absolute conviction and with indomitable fervor, sitting here quietly, he, the architect of the mightiest empire of modern days, just as he used to do in the camps at Austerlitz and Jenner and Wagram and Friedland, with one clenched hand resting upon the rough deal table, the flickering light of the tallow candle illuminating the wide brow, the heavy jaw, those piercing eyes that still gazed in this hour of supreme catastrophe into a glorious future destined never to be. Scheming, planning, scheming still, even while his grand army was melting into nothingness all around him, and distant volleys of musketry were busy consummating the final annihilation of the empire which he had created and still hoped to rebuild. Berthier gave a quick sign of impatience, rebuild an empire, ye gods, an empire, when the flower of its manhood lies pale and stark like the windrows of corn after the harvester has done his work. Thoughts of a dreamer, schemes of a visionary, how will the quaking lips which throughout the length and breadth of this vast hecatome now cry, save, keep put, how will they ever in tone again the old Viva l'Empereur? The conqueror of Wagram gave a bitter sigh, and faithful Bertrand hung his head gloomily, but De Marmont had neither sighed nor doubted. But then De Marmont was young, he too was a dreamer and an enthusiast and a visionary. His idol in his eyes had never had feet of clay. For him the stricken man was his emperor still. The architect, the creator, the invincible conqueror, checked for a moment in his glorious work, but able at his will to rebuild the empire of France again on the very ruins that smoldered now on the fields of Waterloo. I can do it, Sire. He had cried exultantly when his emperor first expounded his great new scheme to him. I can be in Brussels in an hour and catch the midnight packet for England at Ostend. At dawn I shall be in London, and by ten o'clock at my post I know a financier, a Jew, and a mightily clever one. He will operate for me. I have a million or two Franks invested in England. We'll use these for our operations. Money, Sire, you shall have millions. Our differences on the stock exchange will equip the finest army that even you have ever had. Fifty millions?  God has not yet decreed the downfall of the empire of France. So De Marmont had spoken, this afternoon, in the enthusiasm of his youth and of his hero worship, and since then the great dreamer had continued to weave his dreams. Nothing was lost, nothing could be lost, whilst enthusiasm, such as that, survived in the hearts of the young. And still wrapped in his dream he sat on, while danger and death and disgrace threatened him on every side, berthier and Bertrand and treated in vain. In vain tried to drag him away from this solitary place, where any moment a party of Prussians might find and capture him. Unceremoniously the Prince of Walgrom had blown out the flickering light that might have attracted the attention of the pursuers. It was a very elementary precaution, the only one he or Bertrand was able to take. The horses were out in the yard for anyone to see, and the greatest spoil of victory might at any moment fall into the hands of the meanest Prussian soldier out for loot. But the dreamer still sat on in the gloom, with the pale light of the moon streaming in through the narrow casement window, and illuminating that marble-like face, rigid and set, that seemed only to live by the glowing eyes, the eyes that looked into the future and the past, and he did not the awful present. Close on a quarter of an hour went by, until at last he jumped to his feet with the sudden cry of, to gnaw. Berthier heaved a sigh of relief, and Bertrand hurried out to unfasten the horses. You are impatient, Prince, said the Emperor almost gaily, as he strode with a firm step to the door. You are afraid those cursed Prussians will put the Corsican ogre into a cage and send him, at once, to his victorious bourbon majesty, King Louis XVIII. Not so, my good Berthier, not so. The star of my destiny has not yet declined. I've done all the thinking I wanted to do. Now, we'll to gnaw, where we'll rally the remnants of our army, and then quietly await De Marmont's return with the millions which we want. After that, we'll boldly on to Paris and defy my enemies there. An avant, Marshal, the Corsican ogre is not in the iron cage yet. Outside Bertrand was holding his stirrup for him. He swung himself lightly in the saddle and turned out of the farmyard gate into the open, throwing back his head and sniffing the storm-laden air as if he was about to lead his army to one of his victorious charges. Not waiting to see how close the other two men followed him, he put his horse at once at a gallop. He rode on, never pausing, never looking round, even on that gigantic desolation which the cold light of the moon weirdly and fitfully revealed. His mind was fixed upon a fresh throw on the gaming table of the world. Overhead the storm-driven clouds chased one another with unflagging fury across the moonlit sky, now obscuring, now revealing that gigantic desolation of the grand army, so like the melting of ice and frost under the fierce kiss of the sun. More than men in an attack, less than women in a retreat, the finest cavalry Europe had ever seen was flying like sand before the wind. But thus some nambulist rode on in his sleep, forgetting that on these vast and billowing fields, twenty-six thousand gallant French heroes had died for the sake of his dreams. Bertrand and the Prince of Wagram followed, gloomy and silent. They knew that all suggestions would be useless, all saner advice remain unheeded. Besides, de Marmont had gone, and after all, what did it all matter? What did anything matter? Now that empire, glory, hope, everything were irretrievably lost. And in faithful Bertrand's deep-set eyes there came a strange, far-off look, almost of premonition, as if in his mind he could already see that lonely island rock in the Atlantic, and the great gambler there, eating out his heart with vain and bitter regrets. But de Marmont had never had any doubts, never any forebodings. He only had boundless faith in his hero, and boundless enthusiasm for his cause, accustomed to handle money since early manhood, owner of a vast fortune which he had administered himself with no mean skill. He had no doubt that the emperor's scheme for manufacturing a few millions in a wild gamble on the stock exchange was not only feasible, but certain of success. Undoubtedly the false news of Wellington's defeat would reach London tomorrow, as it had already reached Paris and Brussels. The panic in the money market was a foregone conclusion. The quick rise in prices, when the truth became known, was equally certain. It only meant for stalling the arrival of Wellington's dispatches in London by four and twenty hours, and one million would make fifty during that time. As de Marmont had told his emperor, he had several hundred thousand pounds invested in England, on which he could lay his hands. Operations on the bores were nothing new to him. And already, while he was still listening with respect and enthusiasm to his emperor's instructions, he was longing to get away. He knew the country well between here and Brussels, and he was wildly longing to be at work, to be flying across the low lying land on to Brussels and then across to England in the wake of the awful news of complete disaster.  He didn't care which. It wouldn't take long to strip the dead, and the greatness of the work at stake would justify the sacrilege. In the uniform of one of the Allied army, he could safely continue his journey to Brussels and, with luck, could reach the city long before sunset. In Brussels, he would at once obtain civilian clothes and then catch the evening packet for England at Ostend. Oh, no, it was not likely that Wellington could send a messenger over to London quite so soon. At this hour, it was just past five, he was still on Mont Saint-Jean, making another desperate stand against the imperial cavalry with troops half worn out with discouragement, and whose endurance must even now be giving way. At this hour, the Prussians had appeared at Brain la Allude, they had engaged real at Plansenoy, but Wellington and the British had still to hold their ground, or the news which de Marmont intended to accompany to London might prove true after all. Ye gods, if only that were possible, how gladly would Victor then have lost the hundred thousands which he meant to risk tomorrow. Wellington really vanquished before Blucher could come to his rescue. Napoleon, once more victorious as he had always been, and a mightier monarch than before. Then he, Victor de Marmont, the faithful young enthusiast who had never ceased to believe, when others wavered, who at this last hour, when the whole world seemed to crumble away from under the feet of the man who had once been its master, was still ready to serve his emperor, never doubting, always hoping he would reap such a reward as must at last dazzle the one woman who could make that reward for him doubly precious. Victor de Marmont had effected the gruesome exchange. He was now dressed in the black uniform of a Brunswick regiment wherein so many French royalists were serving. By a wide detour he had reached the approach to Brussels. Indeed it seemed as if the news which he had sent flying to Paris was true after all. Behind the forest of Sonye, where he now was, the fields and roads were full of running men and galloping horses, the dull green of Belgian uniforms, the yellow facings of the Dutch, the black of Brunswickers all mingled together in a moving kaleidoscopic mass of color. The men were flying unpursued yet panic-stricken towards Brussels, carrying tidings of an awful disaster to the Allied armies in their haggard faces, their quivering lips, their blood-stained tunics. de Marmont joined in with them, though his heart was full of hope, he too contrived to look pale and spent and panic-stricken at will. He heard the shouts of terror, the hastily murmured, all is lost, even the British can no longer stand, as horses maddened with fright, bore their half-senseless riders by. He set his teeth and rode on, his dark eyes glowed with satisfaction. There was no fear that the great gambler would stake his last in vain. The news would travel quick enough, as news of disaster always will. Brussels even now must be full of weeping women and children, as it soon would be of terror-driven men, of wounded and of maimed, crawling into the shelter of the town to die in peace. As he rode, de Marmont thought more and more of crystal. The last three months had only enhanced his passionate love for her, and his maddening desire to win her yet at all costs. St. Janus would, of course, be fighting today. Perchance a convenient shot would put him effectively out of the way. De Marmont had vainly tried in this wild gallipade to distinguish his rival's face among this mass of foreigners. As for the Englishman, well, no doubt he had disappeared long ago out of Crystal de Cambrae's life. De Marmont had never feared him greatly. That one look of understanding between Crystal and Clifford, and the latter's strange conduct about the money at the inn, were alone responsible for the few twinges of jealousy which de Marmont had experienced in that quarter. Indeed the Englishman was a negligible quantity. De Marmont did not fear him. There was only St. Janus, and with the royalist cause rendered absolutely hopeless, as it would be, as it must be, St. Janus and the comp de Cambrae, and all those stiff-necked aristocrats of the old regime, who had thought fit to turn their proud backs on him at Brestelo, three months ago, would be irretrievably ruined and discredited, and would have to fly the country once more. And Crystal, faced with the alternative of penury in England, or a brilliant existence at the Tularese as the wife of the Emperor's most faithful friend, would make her choice as he, de Marmont, never doubted that any woman would. Hope for him had already become reality. Brussels was the halfway halt to the uttermost heights of his ambition. Fortune, the Emperor's gratitude, the woman he loved, all waited for him there. He reached the city just as that distant horizon in the West was lit up by a streak of brilliant crimson from the fast-sinking sun, just when, had he but known it, on the crest of Mont St. John, Wellington had waved his hat over his head, and given the heroic British army, exhausted, but undaunted, the order for a general charge, just when the Grand Army, finally checked in its advance, had first set up the ominous call that was like the passing bell of its dying glory. Savay K. Putt, Savay K. Putt, Bobby Clifford heard the cry, too, through the fast-gathering shadows of unconsciousness that closed in round his wearied senses, and as a film that was so like the kindly veil of approaching death spread over his eyes, he raised them up just once to that vivid crimson glow far out in the West, and on the winged chariot of the setting sun he sent up his last sigh of gratitude to God. All day he had called for death. All day he had wooed her there, where bullets and grapeshot were thickest, where her huge scythe had been most busily at work. Sons of fond mothers, husbands, sweethearts that were dearly loved, brothers that would be endlessly mourned, lives that were more precious than any earthly treasures, the ghostly harvester claimed them all, with impartial cruelty. And he, desolate and lonely, with no one greatly to care, if he came back or no, with not a single golden thread of hope to which he might cling, without a dream to brighten the coming days of dreariness, with a life in the future that could hold nothing but vain regrets, Bobby had sought death twenty times today, and death had resolutely passed him by. But now he was grateful for that. He was thankful that he had lived just long enough to see the sunset just long enough to take part in that last glorious charge in obedience to Wellington's inspiring command up guards and at them. He was glad to have lived just long enough to hear the savi-kaiput, to know that the Grand Army was in full retreat, that Blucher had come up in time, that British pluck and British endurance had won the greatest victory of all times for Britain's flag and her national existence. Now, with a rough bandage hastily tied round his head, where grapeshot had lacerated cheek and ear, with a bayonet thrust in the thigh and another in the arm, Bobby had remained lying there with many thousands round him, as silent, as uncomplaining as he, in the downtrodden corn, and with the tramp of thousands of galloping, fleeing horses, the clash of steel and fuselade of tir-re-leurs, and artillery reaching his dimmed senses like a distant echo from the land of ghosts, and before his eyes, half veiled in unconsciousness, there flitted the tender, delicate vision of crystal, the cambray of her blue eyes and soft, fair hair, done up in a quaint mass of tiny curls, of the scarf of filmy lace, which she always liked to wrap round her shoulders, and through the lace the pearly sheen of her skin, of her arms, and of her throat.  It was roses, roses all around him, crimson roses, sweet and caressing and fragrant, with soft velvety petals that brushed against his cheek, and from somewhere close by came a dreamy melody, the half-sad, half-gay lilt of an intoxicating dance. It was delicious, and Bobby, wearied, sore and aching in body, felt his soul lifted to some exquisite heights, which were not yet heaven, of course, but which must of a truth form the very threshold of paradise. He saw crystal more and more clearly every moment. Now he was looking straight into her blue eyes, and her little hand, cool and white as snow, rested upon his burning forehead. She smiled on him, as on a friend. There was no contempt, no harshness in her look, only a great consoling pity, and something that seemed like an appeal. Yes, the longer he himself looked into those blue eyes of hers, the more sure he was that there was an appeal in them. It almost seemed as if she needed him in a way that she had never needed him before. Apparently she could not speak, she could not tell him what it was she wanted, but her little hands seemed to draw him up, out of the trodden, trampled corn, and having soothed his aches and pains, they seemed to impel him to do something that was important and imperative, something that she wanted done. He begged her to let him lie here in peace, for he was now comforted and happy.  He had seen her, and she had gone. All of a sudden she had vanished, and darkness was closing in around him. The scent of roses faded into the air, which was now filled again with horrid sounds, the deafening roar of cannon, the sharp and incessant retort of rifle-fire, the awesome mullet of cries and groans and bugle calls and sighs of agony, and one deafening cry so like the last wail of departing souls which came from somewhere not very far away. Viva, la Emperor! Bobby raised himself to a sitting posture. His head ached terribly, he was stiff in every limb, a burning, almost intolerable pain, nod at his thigh and at his left arm. But consciousness had returned, and with it all the knowledge of what this day had meant. All round him there was the broken corn, stained with blood and mud. All round him lay the dead and the dying in their thousands. Far away, in the west, a crimson glow like fire lit up this vast hecatome of brave lives sacrificed this final agony of the vast empire. The might and grandeur of one man laid low this day by the mightier hand of God. It lit up with the weird light of the dying day, the pallid, clean-shaven faces of gallant British boys. The rugged faces of the scot, the olive skin of the child of Provence, the bronzed cheeks of old veterans, it threw its laurid glow on red coats and black coats, white facings and gilt epaulettes. It drew sparks as of still-living fire from breastplates and broken swords, discarded casks and bayonets, sabotages and kilts and bugles and drums, and dead horses and arms and accoutrements, and dead and dying men, all lying palmel in a huge litter with the glow of midsummer sunset upon them. Poor little chessmen, pawns and knights, castles of strength, and kings of some lonely mourning hearts, all swept together by the almighty hand of the great master of this terrestrial game. But with returning consciousness, Bobby's gaze took in a wider range of vision. He visualized exactly where he was, on the south slope of Mont Saint-Jean, with La Haye Saint on ahead, a little to his left, and the white-washed walls of La Belle Alliance still further away, gleaming golden in the light of the setting sun. He saw that on the wide road, which leads to Ganap and Charleroi, the once invincible cavalry of the mighty emperor, was fleeing Helter Skelter from the scene of its disaster. He saw that the British, what was left of them, were in hot pursuit. He saw from far Plantsenois the scintillating casks of Bluker's Prussians, and on the left a detachment of Allied troops, Dutch, Belgian, Brunswickers, had just started down the slope of the plateau to join in this death-dealing palmel, where amongst the litter of dead and dying in the confusion of pursuer and pursued, Comrade fought at times against Comrade, brother fired on brother, Prussian against British. Down below behind the farm buildings of La Haye Saint, two battalions of chasseurs of the Old Guard had made a stand around a tattered bit of tricolor and the bronze eagle, symbol of so much decadent grandeur and of such undying glory. A moi chasseur's brave general pellet had cried, Let us save the eagle or die beneath its wing. And those who heard this last call of despair stopped in their headlong flight. They forged a way for themselves through the mass of running horses and men. They rallied to their flag, and with their tirilers kneeling on one knee, ranged in a circle round them, they now formed a living bulwark for their eagle of dauntless breasts and bristling bayonets. And upon this mass of desperate men, the small body of raw Dutch and Belgian and German troops now hurled themselves with wild husses and blind impetuousness against this mass of heroes and of conquerors in a dozen victorious campaigns, men who had no longer anything to lose but life, and to whom life meant less than nothing now, against them a handful of half trained recruits, drunk with the cry of victory, which drowned the roar of the cannon and the clash of sabers, drunk with the vision of glory which awaited them if that defiant eagle were brought to earth by them. And as Bobby staggered to his feet, he already saw the impending catastrophe, one of the many on this day of cumulative disasters. He saw the Dutch and the Belgians and the Brunswickers rush wildly to the charge, young men, enthusiasts, brave, but men whose ranks had twice been broken today, who twice had rallied to their colors and then had broken again, men who were exhausted, men who were none too ably led, men in fact, and there were many French royalists among their officers who had not the physical power of endurance which had enabled the British to astonish the world today. Bobby could see amongst them the Brunswickers and their black coats. He would have known them amongst millions of men. The full brilliance of the evening glow was upon them. On their black coats and the silver galoons and tassels, two of their officers had made a brave show in Brussels three days, or was it a hundred years, ago at the Duchess of Richmond's Ball. Bobby remembered them so well for one of these two officers was Maurice de Saint-Jeanus. Oh, how crystal would love to see him now, even though her dear heart would be torn with anxiety for him. For he was fighting bravely, bravely and desperately as everyone had fought today, as these chasseurs of the Old Guard, just the few of them that remained, were fighting still, even at this hour, round that toutered flag and that bronze eagle and with the cry of Viva Emperor dying upon their lips. Despair indeed on both sides, even at this hour, when the mirrorist incident might yet turn the issue of this world conflict one way or the other. Bobby, as he steadied himself on his feet, had seen that the attack was already turning into a rout. Not only had pellets, chasseurs held the Dutch and Brunswickers at bay, not only had their tear-rollers made deadly havoc among their assailants, but the latter now were threatened with absolute annihilation, even whilst all around them, their allies, British and Prussian, were crying victory. Bobby could see them quite clearly, for he saw with that subtle and delicate sense which only a great and pure passion can give. He saw the danger at the very moment when it was born, at the precise instant when it threatened that handful of black-coated men, one of whose officers was named St. Janus. He saw the first sign of wavering of stupefaction that followed the impetuous charge. He saw the gaps in the ranks after that initial deadly volley from the tear-rollers. It almost seemed as if he could hear those shouts of Viva Emperor and the rallying cry of commanding officers. It was all so near, not more than three hundred yards away, and the clear, stormy atmosphere carried sights and sounds upon its wing. Another volley from the tear-rollers and the Dutch and Brunswickers turned to fly. In vain did their officers call. They wanted to get away. They tried to fly, to run. For now the chasseurs were at them with bayonets. They tried to run, but the ground was littered with their own wounded and dead. With the wounded and the dead of a long day of carnage, they stumbled at every step, fell over the dying and the wounded, over dead and wounded horses, over piles of guns and swords and bayonets and sabretaches, over forsaken guns and broken carriages, litter that impeded them in front, even as they were driven with the bayonet from the rear. Bobby saw it all, for they were coming now, pursued and pursuers, as fast as ever they could. They were coming, these flying black-coated men, casting away their gay trappings, as well as their arms, trying to run, to get away, but stumbling, falling all the time, picking themselves up, falling and running again. And in that one short moment, while the whole brief tragedy was enacted before his eyes, Bobby also saw, in a vision that was equally swift and fleeting, the blue eyes of Crystal drowned in tears. He saw her with fair head drooping like a lily. He saw the quiver of her lips, heard the moan of pain that would come to her lips, when the man she loved was brought home to her dead. And in that same second, so full of portent, Bobby understood why it was that her sweet image had called to him for help just now. Again she called, again she beckoned, her blue eyes looked on him, with an appeal that was all compelling. Her two dear hands were clasped, and she begged of him that he should be her friend. Such visions come from God, no man sees them, save he whose soul is great, and whose heart is pure. Poor Bobby Clifford, lonely, heartbroken, desolate, saw the exquisite face that he would have loved to kiss. He saw it with the golden glow of evening upon the delicate cheeks, and with the lurid light of fire and battle upon the soft, fair hair. And the greatness of his love helped him to understand what life still held for him, the happiness of supreme sacrifice. All around him was death, but there was some life, too. One or two poor, abandoned, riderless horses were quietly picking bits of corn from between the piles of dead and dying men, or were standing, sniffing the air with dilated nostrils, and snorting with terror at the deafening noise. Bobby had steadied himself, neither his head nor his limbs were aching now, at any rate he had forgotten them. All that he remembered was what he saw, those black-coated Brunswickers who longed to fly and could not, and who were being slaughtered like insects, even as they stumbled and fled. And Bobby caught the bridle of one of these poor, terror-stricken beasts that stood snorting and sniffing not far away. He crawled up into the saddle, for his thigh was numb, and one of his arms helpless, but once on horseback he could get along over trampled corn and over the dead, on toward that hideous corner behind the farm of La Haye St., where desperate men were butchering others that were more desperate than they, in among that seething crowd of black coats and fur bonnets, of silver tassels and of brass eagles, into a whirlpool of swords and bayonets and gunfire from the tirilers. For there he had seen the man whom Crystal loved, for whose sake she would eat out her heart with mourning and regret. In the deafening noise of shrieking and sighs and whizzing bullets and cries of agony he heard Crystal's voice telling him what to do. Already he had seen St. Janus struggling on his knees, not fifty meters away from the first line of tirilers, not a hundred from the advancing steel wall of fixed bayonets. Maurice had thrown back his head in the hopelessness of his despair.  The next moment Bobby Clifford was by his side, all around him bullets were whizzing, all around him men sighed their last sigh of agony. He stooped over his saddle.  The horse, dazed with terror, snorted at the smell of blood, but he did not move. Maurice equally dazed, scrambled into the saddle, almost inert, a dead weight, a thing that impeded progress and movement. But the thing that Crystal loved above all things on earth, and which Bobby knew, he must rest out of these devouring jaws of death and lay safe and sound within the shelter of her arms. After that it meant a struggle, not for his own life, for indeed he cared little enough for that, but for the sake of the burden which he was carrying, a burden of infinite preciousness since Crystal's heart and happiness were bound up with it. Maurice de Saint-Jeanus clung half inert to him, with one hand gripping the saddle-bow, the other clutching Bobby's belt, with convulsive tenacity. Bobby himself was only half-conscious, dazed with the pain of wounds, the exertion of hoisting that dead weight across his saddle, the deafening noise of whizzing bullets round him, the boring of the frightened horse against its bridle, as it tried to pick its way through the tangled heaps upon the ground, but every moment less than the danger from stray bullets and the chance of the bayonet charge from behind. The cries of Viva la Emperor round that still-standing eagle were drowned in the medley and confusion of hundreds of other sounds. Bobby was just able to guide his horse away from the spots where the fighting was most hot and fierce, where Vivian's hussars attacked those two battalions of cuirassours, where Adam's brigade of artillery turned the flank of the chassours and laid the proud bronze eagle low, where Nay and the Old Guard were showing to the rest of the Grand Army how grizzled veterans fought and died. He rode straight up the plateau, however, but well to the right now, picking his way carefully with that blind instinct which the tracked beast possesses and which the hunted man sometimes receives from God. The dead and the dying were less thick here upon the ground. It was here that earlier in the day the Dutch and the Belgians and the Brunswickers had supported the British left during those terrific cavalry charges which British endurance and tenacity had alone been able to withstand. It was here that Hacks' Cumberland hussars had broken their ranks and fled, taking to Brussels and thence to Ghent the news of terrific disaster. Bobby's lips were tight set and he snorted like a warhorse when he thought of that, when he thought of the misery and sorrow that must be reigning in Brussels now, and of the consternation at Ghent where the poor old bourbon king was probably mourning his dead hopes and his vanished throne. In Brussels women would be weeping, and Crystal, for Lorne and Dusselet would perhaps be sitting at her window watching the stream of fugitives that came in wounded and exhausted from the field of battle, recounting tales of a catastrophe which had no parallel in modern times, and Crystal seeing and hearing this would think of the man she loved and believing him to be dead would break her heart with sorrow, and when Bobby thought of that he was spurred to fresh effort, and he pulled himself together with a desperate tension of every nerve and sinew, fighting exhaustion, ignoring pain, conjuring up the vision of Crystal's blue eyes and her pleading look as she begged him to save her from lifelong sorrow and the anguish of future loneliness, then he no longer heard the weird and incessant cannonade, he no longer saw the desolation of this utter confusion around him, he no longer felt exhausted or the weight of that lifeless, impeding burden upon his saddle-bow. Stray bands of fugitives with pursuers, hot on their heels, passed him by, stray bullets flew to right and left of him, whizzing by with their eerie whistling sound, he was now on the outskirts of the Great Pursuit, anon he reached the crust of Mont Saint-Jean at last and almost blindly struck back eastward in the direction of the forest of Sonnaix. It was blind instinct and nothing more that kept him on his horse, he clung to his saddle with half paralyzed knees, just as a drowning man with clutch of floating bit of wreckage that helps him to keep his head above the water, the stately trees of Sonnaix were not far ahead now. Through the forest any track that bore to the left would strike the Brussels Road, only a little more strength, another effort or two, the cool solitude of the wood would ease the weight of the burden, and the throbbing of nerves and brain, the setting sun shone full upon the leafy edge of the wood. Hazelnut and beech and oak and clumps of briar rose quivered under the rough kiss of the wind that blew straight across the lowland from the south-west, bringing with it still the confusion of sounds, the weird cannonades and dismal bugle calls in such strange contrast to the rustle of the leaves and the crackling of tiny twigs in the tangled coppers. How cool and delicious it must be under those trees, and there was a narrow track which must lead straight to the Brussels Road. The ground looked soft and mossy and damp after the rain, oh, for the strength to reach those leafy shadows, to plunge under that thicket and brush with burning forehead against those soft green leaves heavy with moisture. Oh, for the power to annihilate this distance of a few hundred yards that lie between this immense graveyard open to wind and scorching sun, and the green, cool moss and carpet of twigs and leaves and soft, sweet-smelling earth on which a weary body and desolate soul might find eternal rest. On, on, through the forest of Sonnier, there was no question as yet of rest. Maurice had not yet wakened from his trance. Bobby vaguely wondered if he were not already dead. There was no stain of blood upon his fine uniform, but it was just possible that in stumbling, running and falling, he had hit his head, or received a blow which had deprived him of consciousness. There was no consciousness directly after he had scrambled into the saddle. Bobby remembered how pale and haggard he had looked, and how his hand had, by the merest instinct, clutched at the saddle-bow, and then had dropped away from it, helpless and inert. They quite still, with his head resting against Bobby's shoulder. Under the trees it was cool, and the air was sweet and soothing. Bobby, with his left hand, contrived to tear a handful of leaves from the coppers as he passed. They were full of moisture, and he pressed them against Maurice's lips, and against his own. The forest was full of sounds, of running men and horses, the rattle of wheels, and the calls of terror and of pain, with still and always that awesome background of persistent cannonade. But Bobby heard nothing, saw nothing, saved the narrow track in front of him, along which the horse now ambled leisurely, and from time to time, when he looked down, the pale, haggard face of the man whom Crystal loved. At one moment, Maurice opened his eyes and murmured feebly, Where am I? On the way to Brussels, Bobby contrived to reply. A little later on, horse and rider emerged out of the wood, and the Brussels road stretched out its long straight ribbon before Bobby Clifford's dull, uncomprehending gaze. Close by at his feet, the milestone marked the last six kilometers to Brussels, only another half-dozen kilometers, only another hour's ride at most, only when even now he felt that the next few minutes must see him tumbling head foremost from the saddle. Far away beyond the milestone on his right, in a meadow, the boundary of which touched the edge of the wood, women were busy tossing hay after the rain, all unconscious of the simple little tragedy that was being enacted so close to them. Their cotton dresses and the kerchiefs round their heads stood out as trenchant, vivid notes of color against the dull gray landscape beyond. A couple of hay carts were standing by. Beside them, two men were lighting their pipes. The wind was playing with the hay as the women tossed it, and their shrill laughter came echoing across the meadow, and even now the ground was shaken with the repercussion of distant volleys of artillery, and along the road a stream of men were running toward Brussels, horses galloped by frightened and riderless or dragging broken gun carriages behind them in the mud. The whole of that stream was carrying the news of Wellington's disaster to Brussels and to Ghent, not knowing that behind them had already sounded the passing bell for the Empire of France. Bobby had drawn rain on the edge of the wood to give his horse a rest, and for a while he watched that running stream, longing to shout to them to turn back. There was no occasion to run, to see what had been done, to take a share in that glorious final charge for victory. But his throat was too parched for a shout, and as he watched, he saw in among a knot of mounted men, fugitives like the others, pale of face, anxious of men, and with that intent look which men have when life is precious and has got to be saved. He saw a man in the same uniform that St. Janus wore, a Brunswicker in black coat and silver galoons, who stared at him persistently and strangely as he rode by. The face, though much altered by three days' growth of beard, and by the set of the chaco worn right down to the brows, was nevertheless a familiar one. Bobby, stupefied, deprived for the moment of thinking powers through sheer exhaustion and burning pain, taxed his weary brain in vain to understand the look of recognition which the man in the black uniform cast upon him as he passed. Until a lightly spoken, hello my dear Clifford, uttered gaily as the rider drew near to the edge of the road, brought the name of Victor de Marmont to Bobby's quivering lips, and just for the space of sixty seconds fate rubbed her gaunt hands complacently together, seeing that she had brought these three men together here on this spot, three men who loved the same woman, each with the utmost ardour and passion at his command, each even at this very moment striving to win her and to work for her happiness. Behind them, in the plains of Waterloo, the cannon still was roaring. de Marmont was on his way to redeem the fallen fortunes of the hero whom he worshipped, and to win imperial regard, imperial favours, fortune and glory, wherewith to conquer a girl's obstinacy. St. Janus, pale and unconscious, seemed even in his unconsciousness to defy the power of any rival by the might of early love, of old associations, of similarity of caste and of political ideals. He had fought for the cause which she and he had both equally at heart, and by his very helplessness now he seemed to prove that he could do no more than he had done, and that he had the right to claim the solace and comfort which her girlish lips and her girlish love had promised him long ago. Whilst Bobby had nothing to promise and nothing to give save devotion, his hope, his desire, and his love were bounded by her happiness, and since her happiness lay in the life of the man whom he had dragged out of the jaws of death, what greater proof could he give of his love than to lay down his life for him and for her? De Marmont's keen eyes took in the situation at a glance. He threw a quick look of savage hatred on St. Janus, and cast one of contemptuous pity on Clifford. Then, with a shrug of the shoulders and a light triumphant laugh, he set spurs to his horse and rode swiftly away. Bobby's lackluster eyes followed horse and rider down the road till they grew smaller and smaller still, and finally disappeared in the distance. For a moment he felt puzzled. What was De Marmont doing in this stream of senseless, panic-stricken men? What was he doing in the uniform of one of the allied nations? Why had he laughed so gaily and appeared so triumphant in his mean? Did he not know then that his hero had fallen along with his mighty eagle, that the brief adventure begun in the Gulf of Joanne, had ended in a hopeless tragedy on the field of Waterloo? But why that uniform? Poor Bobby's had ached too much to allow him to think, and time was getting on. The road now was deserted. The last of the fugitives formed but a cloud of black specks on the line of the horizon far off toward Brussels. From the hayfield there came the merry sound of women's laughter, while the faraway cannon and musket-tree still roared, and over the long straight road, bordered with straight poplar trees, the setting sun through ever-lengthening shadows. Maurice opened his eyes. Where am I? he asked again. Close to Brussels now, replied Bobby. To Brussels murmured St. Janus feebly. Crystal. Yes, assented Bobby. Crystal. God bless her. Then, as St. Janus was trying to move, he added, Can you shift a little? I think so, replied the other. If you could ease the pressure on my leg. Steady, now steady, can you sit up in the saddle? Are you hurt? Not much. My head aches terribly. I must have hit it against something. But that is all. I am only dizzy and sick. Could you ride on to Brussels alone, think you? Perhaps. It is not far. The horse is very quiet. He will amble along if you give him his head. But you? I'd like to rest. I'll find shelter in a cottage, perhaps, or in the wood. St. Janus said nothing more for the moment. He was intent on sliding down from the saddle without too much assistance from Bobby. When he had reached the ground, it took him a little while to collect himself, for his head was swimming. He closed his eyes and put out a hand to steady himself against a tree. When Maurice opened his eyes again, Bobby was sitting on the ground by the roadside. The horse was nibbling a clump of fresh green grass for the first time since that awful moment when stumbling and falling against a pile of dead with death behind and all around him. He had heard the welcome call. Can you pull yourself up? And felt the steadying grip upon his elbow. Maurice de St. Janus looked upon the man to whom he owed his life. With that stained bandage round his head, dulled and bloodshot eyes, face blackened with powder and smoke and features drawn and haggard, Bobby Clifford was indeed almost unrecognizable. But Maurice knew him on the instant. Hitherto he had not thought of how he had come out of that terrible hellfire behind Lahaise St. Indeed he had quickly lost consciousness and never regained it till now. And now he knew that the same man, who in the narrow hotel room near Lyons had ungrudgingly rendered him a signal service, had risked his life today for his Maurice's sake. No one could have entered that awful malay and faced the bayonet charge of pellets, chorissors, and the hail of bullets from their tirilers without taking imminent risk of death. Yet Clifford had done it. Why? Maurice wide-eyed and sullen could only find one answer to that insistent question. That same deadly pang of jealousy which had assailed his heart after the midnight interview at the inn now held him in its cruel grip again. He felt that he hated the man to whom he owed his life and that he hated himself for this mean and base in gratitude. He would not trust himself to speak or to look on Bobby at all lest the ugly thoughts which were floating through his mind set their stamp upon his face. Will you ride on to Brussels? He said at last I can wait here and perhaps you could send a conveyance for me later on. Masor Lacombe de Cambray would. Masor Lacombe de Cambray and Mademoiselle Crystal are even now devoured with anxiety about you, broken Clifford, as firmly as he could. And I could not ride to Brussels even though someone were waiting for me there. I really am not able to ride further. I would prefer to sit here and rest. I don't like to leave you after what you have done for me. I would like you to scramble into that saddle and go, retorted Bobby, with a momentary return to his usual good-natured irony, and to leave me in peace. I'll send out a conveyance for you, rejoined St. Janus. I know Masor Lacombe de Cambray would wish. Mention my name to Masor Lacombe at your peril, began Clifford.  Then, as the other, still reluctantly, turned to take hold of the horse's bridle, he added more gently, Can you mount? Oh yes, I am better now.  I don't think so. Talk about the halt leading the blind, murmured Clifford, as he stretched himself out once more upon the soft ground, whilst Maurice contrived to hoist himself up into the saddle. Are you safe now? he added, as the young man collected the reins in his hand, and planted his feet firmly into the stirrups. Yes, I am safe enough, replied St. Janus. It is only my head that aches, and Brussels is not far. Then he paused a moment ere he started to go, with lips set tight, and looking down on Bobby, whose pale face had taken on an ashen hue. How you must despise me, he said bitterly. But Bobby made no reply. He was just longing to be left alone, whilst the other still seemed inclined to linger. Would to God, Maurice said with a sigh that Messor Lecompt heard the evil news from other lips than mine. Evil news, and Bobby, whom semi-consciousness was already taking off once more to the land of visions and of dreams, was brought back to reality, as if with a sudden jerk, with those two preposterous little words. What evil news, he asked. The Allied armies have retreated all along the line. The Corsican adventurer is victorious, our poor king. Hold your tongue, you young fool, cried Bobby hoarsely. The Lord help you, but I do believe you are about to blaspheme. But the Allied armies, the British army, God bless it, have covered themselves with glory. Napoleon and his empire have ceased to be. The Grand Army is in full retreat. The Prussians are in pursuit. The British have won the day by their pluck and their endurance. Thank God I lived just long enough to see it all, ere I fell. And when we charged the Coursers, began St. Janus, not knowing really if Bobby was raving in delirium, or speaking of what he knew, he wanted to ask further questions, to hear something more, before he started for Brussels. The only thing which he remembered, with absolute certainty, was that awful charge of his regiment against the Coursers, then the panic and the rout, and he judged the whole issue of the battle by what had happened to a detachment of Brunswickers. And yet, of course, before the charge, he had seen, and known all that Bobby told him now, that rush of the Brunswickers and the Dutch down the hillside was only a part of the huge and glorious charge of the whole of the Allied troops against the routed Grand Army of Napoleon. He had neither the physical strength nor the desire to think out all that it would mean to him personally, if what Bobby now told him was indeed absolutely true. He was longing to make the wounded man rouse himself just once more, and reiterate the glad news which meant so much to him, Maurice, and to Crystal, but it was useless to think of that now. Bobby was either unconscious or asleep, for a moment a twinge of real pity made St. Genesis heart ache, for the man who seemed to be left so lonely and so desolate, jealousy itself gave way before that more gentle feeling. After all, Crystal could only be true to the love of her childhood. Her heart belonged to the companion, the lover, the ideal of her girlish dreams. This stranger here loved her, that was obvious, but Crystal had never looked on him with anything but indifference, even that dance last night.  He turned his horses head round to the road, pressed his knees into its sides, and then as the poor weary beast started to amble leisurely down the road, Maurice looked back for the last time on the prostrate, pathetic figure of the lonely man who had given his all for him. He looked at every landmark which would enable him to find that man again, the angle of the forest where it touched the meadow, the milestone, the trees by the roadside. Oh, he meant to do his duty, to do it well and quickly, to send the conveyance, to neglect nothing. Then with a sigh, half of bitterness, yet full of satisfaction, he finally turned away and looked straight out before him into the distance where Brussels lay and where the happiness of Crystal's love called to him. And he would find rest and peace in the warm affection of her faithful heart.


1944, high over the Pacific Ocean. A fleet of the mightiest super bombers in the world were completing a 5,000-mile flight from San Francisco to Saipan. Less than four months before, the island was in Japanese hands. It was for bases like these that American soldiers, sailors, and Marines had fought the costly battle. On Columbus Day 1944, B-29s discovered Saipan. Our arrival was a real historic event, celebrated with a ballot by a local poet, and it went like this. On the 12th of October, back in 1944, the citizens of Saipan heard a great four-engine roar. Bulldozers fled the runway. The soldiers stopped to cheer as down came Jolton Josie, the Pacific pioneer. It was a great day for the aviation engineers and service groups who had hacked the airfield out of jungle. To them, Jolton Josie was a sensation who shamelessly stole the show. Some JAP officials already knew that Saipan, as an American base, with its threat of aerial bombardment, spelled eventual defeat for Japan. The landing of the B-29s gave reality to that threat. The new arrivals were men who had flown fortresses and liberators in all theaters of war. They were led by a former 1928 flying cadet, who in 1944 was named Deputy Chief of Air Staff, and was now commanding the 21st Bomber Command, General Haywood Hansel. The first element of the 21st Bomber Command has arrived. When we've done some more fighting, we'll do some more talk. All over the Marianas, B-29s were getting ready to carry out the general's promise. Saipan, Tinian, and Guam had been seized by Admiral Nimitz forces and the primary purpose of serving as bases for the very long-range bombers now parked on circular heart stands. The 21st was building up its massive air power as it prepared for the ultimate crushing defeat of Japan. The long arm of the 73rd Bombardment Wing, led by General Rosie O'Donnell, began punching the enemy with appalling strength. Behind this strength was more than bombs and bullets. There was planning. In January, the 21st Bomber Command changed hands. Major General courtesy LeMay replaced Hansel. By sheer weight of attack, LeMay believed he could force the surrender of Japan. To that end, he ordered a furious pace of operations. Here was his weapon, the Supraform, with 2,200 horses warming up in each of its four engines. Designed to carry more destruction and carry it higher, faster and farther than any bomber before, the B-29s were like artillery pointed at the heart of Japan. End was armed with 12 50-caliber machine guns, a 20-millimeter cannon, and four tons of bombs. Fully armed, the 21st Bomber Command was taking off for Japan. The bombers out in 100-plane formations to hit Kobe, Nagoya, Tokyo. In two months, he increased the attack missions to 200 planes, building to an 800-plane climax. Jap raids had tried to stop the B-29s. They might just as well have tried to stop an onrushing typhoon. Who has ever fought over such vastness? We who had battled over Berlin, Ploesti and Schweinfurt knew it. Berlin and back was 1,000 miles. The Fosya Ploesti run, 1150. But Saipan to Tokyo and back was more than 3,000 miles. B-29s were the planes for the job. For all their destructive power, those of us who flew the Superports felt they were things of beauty. In flight, our navigators were on the spot. An error of two degrees could put all of us over nothing but ocean in a plane with empty gas tanks. It was a long ride and the longest, toughest bomber missions in the world. As we approached enemy sky, the crews prepared for the deadly business ahead. While making the slow climb to altitude, our gunners warmed up the central fire control system. Inside a Superport, you can't see a gun.  We had electronics, superhuman brain power at the flick of a switch. Then we waited for the Japs. Initial point, Mount Fuji, meant we were 60 miles from Tokyo. The leading B-29s found their objectives. Now, below us, Tokyo. Tokyo, which the Jap High Command had boasted was outside the range of land-based American bombers. For six months, we had proved them wrong. Wasn't satisfied with the results of these high-level precision tactics. Suddenly, in March, he switched to low-level nighttime, maximum-effort fire raids. And Japan's dreams of world empire went up in a flaming inferno. The B-29s burned out the industrial heart of Japan. One by one, 66 principal cities received their devastating bath of fire until Japan's military situation was hopeless. They could not have held out. They had lost control of the air. Their capacity to wage war was destroyed.  B-29s were making Japan bleed internally. Then President Truman made a grave decision to deliver a special bomb field orders were signed by General 20. They instructed Colonel Paul Tibbets and his B-29 crew to drop what they called the gimmick. At 08.15 on August 6, over military target Hiroshima, Bombardier Major Farabi took over. He was about to drop the atom bomb. A bomb of unprecedented destructiveness had exploded. Three days later, a second atom bomb was dropped on Nagasaki. Atomic energy had made air power all important. Dread were the threats for the future. Strong the requirement for air power. As suddenly as it started, the war came to an end and surrender ceremonies aboard the Missouri. Without being invaded, without losing a foot of homeland, Japan was surely and utterly defeated. Before the atom bomb, before the Soviet entry into the war, Japan was beaten through the forceful application of Allied land, sea, and air power. The Japanese surrender had come so quickly after mounting the B-29 offensive and the atom bomb climax, that advocates of air power felt our most optimistic predictions were confirmed. Fully recognizing the contributions by Army and Navy, General Arnold felt that air power share in the victory may fairly be called decisive. In addition to ushering in the atomic age, the war's end marked one of the revolutionary points in the history of warfare. Control of the air proved to be essential to the success of every major military operation. Coordinated planning and command of ground, sea, and air forces, backed up by the full effort of the home front had enabled the Allies to secure this control of the air. Air power is the technical instrument of our country's defense. Air power can also be the instrument of peace. The United States Air Force has made it apparent to any potential aggressor that an attack on the United States would be immediately followed by a devastating air atomic counter blow. The atomic weapon thus makes air power the primary requisite of national survival. The United States Air Force