A STOP AT SUZANNE’S
The author of this sketch, a young American aviator, a resident of Richmond, Virginia, was killed in battle in August, 1918.
Suzanne is a very pretty girl, I was told, but the charm of “Suzanne’s” wasn’t with her alone, for, always, one spoke of the deliciously-tasting meal, how nice the old madame is, and how fine a chap is her mari, the father of Suzanne. Then of the garden in the back—and before you had finished listening you didn’t know which was the most important thing about “Suzanne’s.” All you knew was that it was the place to go when on an aeroplane voyage.
At the pilotage office I found five others ahead of me; all of us were bound in the same direction. We were given [v]barographs, altimeters and maps and full directions as to forced landings and what to do when lost. We hung around the voyage hangar until about eight in the morning, but there was a low mist and cloudy sky, so we could not start out until afternoon; and I didn’t have luncheon at “Suzanne’s.”
After noon several of the others started out, but I wanted to plan my supper stop for the second point, so I waited until about four o’clock before starting.
Almost before I knew it a village, which on the map was twelve kilometers away, was slipping by beneath me and then off to one side was a forest, green and cool-looking and very regular around the edges. Pretty soon I came to a deep blue streak bordered by trees, and was so interested in it—it wound around under a railroad track, came up and brushed by lots of back gates and, finally, fell in a wide splash of silver over a little fall by a mill—that I forgot all about flying and suddenly woke up to the fact that one wing was about as low as it could get and that the nose of the machine was doing its best to follow the wing.
Long before I came to the stopping point, I could see the little white hangar. The field is not large, but it is strange, so you come down rather anxiously, for if you can’t make that field the first time, you never will be able to fly, they tell you before leaving. I glided down easily enough, for, after all, it is just that—either you can or you can’t—and made a good-enough landing. The sergeant signed my paper, and a few minutes later away I went for “Suzanne’s.” The next stop is near a little village—Suzanne’s village—so when I came to the field and landed I was sure to be too tired to go up again immediately. Instead, off I went to town after making things right with the man in charge. That wasn’t a bit difficult, either, for all I did was to wink as hard as I could, and he understood perfectly.
I knew where “Suzanne’s” was, so I made directly for it. It was a little early, but you should never miss the [v]apertif. With that first, success is assured; without it, it is like getting out of bed on the wrong foot.
Up I marched to the unimposing door and walked in to the main room—a big room, with long, wooden tables and benches and a zinc bar at one end, where all kinds of bottles rested. It isn’t called “Suzanne’s,” of course; it only has that name among us.
As I closed the door behind me and looked about, a bonne was serving several men at a corner table, and behind the bar a big, red-faced, stout man was pouring stuff into bottles. He looked at me a moment and then with a tremendous “Tiens!“ he came out from behind the tables and advanced toward me.