Flight to Saigon

Only the Schöneluft had the fuel stores and engine power for a run from the Himalyas across southeast Asia to the French capital of Vietnam. She could fly nearly 80 miles an hour under the right conditions, but those conditions had not been met in years. The more children they acquired, the more comforts the von Hedwigs had deemed desirable, and the slower the great airship had become.

With their children’s lives at stake, the von Hedwig parents took no chances. An hour’s work here, in the shadow of the mountain that had swallowed their offspring, could save them hours in flight. Ulrik was securing the Schmetterling inside the tunnel’s mouth to keep it safe from storm and avalanche in their absence. Herr von Hedwig plotted their course to Saigon, and Madame was in the Galley, negotiating with Chef.

They spoke in French, a language Madame spoke fluently, although despite rumors she had carefully started, it was not her native tongue.

“Monsieur, we leave within the hour, and the galley stays here. We need sufficient food supplies for two days brought into the ship in the next twenty minutes. And coffee. Lots of coffee.”

“But no, Madame, no! To leave my kitchen in the wild snow-torn mountains? No, no! It is inconceivable! I have such a pudding curing! Who will keep the fire? The cheeses will freeze.”

“Bring the cheeses. Damn the pudding. There are no children to serve it to.” Madame’s mouth was a thin line. She threw open a cupboard and began pulling baskets and picnic hampers from it.

Chef intercepted her between the cupboard and the cheese safe. “No, Madame! This is your ship, but it is my kitchen. This barbaric action must stop!”

Herr von Hedwig entered the galley a few minutes later to check on preparations there. Madame was filling basket after basket with essentials, working like a whirlwind. Chef was pale as a ghost, with a bright, thin line of red blooming on the skin of his neck. Chef kept his knives very sharp.

“Here, old chap,” Herr von Hedwig murmured, “let’s get a poultice on that little cut you’ve got.”

Chef raised a shaking finger at Madame, but said nothing, shaking his head. He took a handkerchief from his apron pocket and tied it around his neck.

“If you will pack the coffee service, Herr von Hedwig, I will attend to the meat.”

Twenty-three hours later, they were anchored above the administrative headquarters of the Armée Aeronautique of the Republic of France. Madame had sent one of her messenger pigeons ahead as soon as they were in range, so the Commander was waiting to receive them, despite the lateness of the hour. Because he was French, the frantic parents had to endure the compliments of the evening, congratulations on the speed of their flight, and a glass of excellent sherry before they could bring the fellow to speak to their immediate need.

“I regret, Monsieur and Madame, that after your remarkable time from Tibet to Saigon, that you are five hours too late. Capitaine, pardon moi, Madame Charette has resigned her commission. I have no idea as to her current location. I should be delighted, if I had it, to give you her address, as I am aware that you have rendered assistance to the Republic in the past. My duty is to France, and you, Monsieur and Madame, have ever been friends to France, more than that ungrateful devil woman. She has left her quarters, and shall not return.”

Madame von Hedwig looked at her husband, raising an eyebrow. He nodded, scooped up the Commander’s empty glass and strolled over to the sherry.

“Do excuse me, Commander,” Madame said, rising as well. “The events of the last days have been most distressing.”

The Commander bowed as she left the room. As she closed the door behind her she heard her husband offering him a cigar. Satisfied that her beloved would extract the necessary gossip from the Frenchman, she pursued her own inquiries.

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This story began with On Grandmothers. The previous episode is The Search is On and the next is On the Streets of Saigon.