- Chapter 1: The Crouching Dragon Roars Again -

. . . As I ran barefoot over the pebbly ground, Rapide, our only horse, was loping over to me, eyes fiery, nostrils flaring.
“You, too?!” I said. The night we secretly investigated Bersault’s ranch, Rapide had been the one who had sorted though hundreds of animals and found our cow, Leonore, snoring contentedly in the pasture.

I scooped my dog Chien up with one arm and, grabbing Rapide’s mane, leaped up on his bare back. He neighed happily and started towards the castle. I had forgotten to open the gate, but that didn’t stop him.
“Hold on!” I yelled to Chien, as Rapide gathered himself and soared over the fence. I was accustomed to riding the big guy bareback and I managed to hang on. I set Chien ahead of me and hunched low as we thundered over the rocks and through the briar, riding uphill. Rapide had been a champion thoroughbred, but he had cracked a bone in a major race. His owner hadn’t put him down, and Paul bought him for nearly nothing. His brilliant black coat was flecked with gray and the once bright diamond between his eyes was fuzzy, but he was still remarkably strong and fast.
“Willi?” A familiar voice crackled over the handie-talkie.
“That you, Louise?” I called. “I’m on the way to the Crouching Dragon.”
“Me, too,” she said.
Flames poured from the jagged mouth of the dragon and smoke rose around its head. Once again, the deep-throated roar came thundering down the hillside, and even though I thought I knew all about the dragon, I flinched.
As we galloped closer, I saw that the shapes in front of the walls were three trucks, all with their tailgates down and crews of men carrying heavy loads up the ramps: furniture, paintings, medieval weapons.
I kneed Rapide to a rearing halt.
“Are you from the government?” I yelled to two bulky men carrying a rolled up tapestry.
They both laughed and continued loading the tapestry.
“You can’t steal that tapestry!” I yelled (I had the button down on my handie-talkie and I was broadcasting to anyone who was on the same frequency). “Everything in the castle belongs to the people of France.”
One guy, a burly blonde with longish hair and a beefy belly that spilled over his pants, said, “I’m one of the people. I’m taking my share now.” They both laughed as they started down the ramp.
“Get out of here, kid,” the other man said, “before we tie you up and throw you in the truck.”
I kicked Rapide and we raced along the outside of the castle walls. It was a strange scene: all those hefty men lugging treasures from the Crouching Dragon, while the dragon roared in anger above them.
Chien slithered out of my arms and leaped to the ground. He was racing alongside, barking as loudly as he could.
I kept yelling “Stop!” and everybody ignored me, except for one guy with a thick metal chain who swung it at me. I ducked, but it hit Rapide on the rump, scoring a deep cut. Rapide roared a protest; I was furious, but Rapide didn’t miss a step.
“The gendarmes are on the way!” I yelled. “You won’t get away with this!”
Another man tried to whack Rapide with a large piece of wood, but I kneed my horse and we sideswiped him and knocked him down before he struck a blow.
“Get that kid!” somebody yelled. I wheeled Rapide around and saw a short, skinny man in a dark shirt and pants aim a gun at me.
“Don’t shoot him!” somebody called. “You’ll bring out the whole town!”
The guy didn’t shoot, but I could tell he wanted to.
Below us, I began to hear the sound of hoofbeats. I turned to see many of my friends on horseback—Louise, André, Maurice, Jules, Odile, and even Denise. Almost fifteen years after the war, few people in our area had tractors, and they still used horses to plow and to pull wagons.
The farm boys, Leon and Charles, were carrying a pitchfork and a shovel. Louise, riding up on her horse, Dumas, was brandishing a thick-handled hoe.
“They’ve got weapons!” the little guy with the gun said, and he raised his arm, aiming straight at Louise.
Rapide seemed to respond even before I moved a muscle. We virtually leaped at the gunman and Rapide, head low, hit the guy’s arm with his muzzle. The gun went flying and the guy screamed and grabbed his arm, probably broken. I reached out to try and grab the gun while it was still sailing through the air. But I was falling off Rapide; I kept falling and lunging and caught the gun just before it hit the ground—and then I did, too, right on the seat of my pants. It was a pretty good catch, but my bottom was very sore. Rapide stopped almost instantly and trotted back to me. I got up, slowly. I had never held a gun before in my life.
“He’s got a gun!” the brawny blonde with the floppy belly yelled.
I took one frowning look at the gun and flung it as far as I could down the hillside. It soared high and landed in the upper branches of a beech tree. I leaped back on Rapide and headed toward the gate. . . .

– Chapter 13: Solo –

More than four kilometers past the end of the runway, still climbing, now up to nearly five hundred meters, on my way to my assigned altitude, seven hundred. Banking Roxanne for a planned left turn. Stick to the left, rudder slightly left, a little bit of back pressure to keep the nose up. Thirty degrees of bank, the land below me to my left, under the side of the aircraft. Smooth. No slip; no slide.
Heading one hundred eighty degrees, I rolled the wings level and stopped the turn. Eight or nine kilometers from Le Bourget. Airspeed up to two hundred fifty kilometers. Little wind, little crabbing, easy to correct. Now at assigned altitude.
Level flight. All serene. Other aircraft in the sky. Many
aiming for Le Bourget from all parts of France. The largest
airport, the most flights.
“Tower, FT28-72. At assigned altitude of seven hundred meters. Circling the field.”
“We read you, Roxanne. Diverting all other aircraft in the area to Marseille.”
He was joking, of course. But that didn’t mean I wasn’t aware of other planes.
I had passed Le Bourget to my left and had begun to circle counter-clockwise, which would take me over Paris; no time for sightseeing. I was to circle the field, then land in the same direction I had taken off—into the slight angling breeze—on a parallel runway.
Roxanne was purring through the air, responding promptly to every command. Louise might think she looked like a fat cigar, but not to me. On this bright, sunny morning she was an elegant lady, and she was giving me the ride of my life. I radioed for permission to land.
“FT28-72, cleared to land, Runway 7 left.”
Nose slightly down, descending smoothly through the air lower and lower. Landing gear down, flaps down. The airport coming up at me rather quickly now. I slowed my descent by raising my nose, but not too much—have to keep coming down. As I crossed the end of the runway, I reduced the power to idle, easing the stick back so the airspeed slowed to near Roxanne’s stalling speed.
What a place to solo! God bless Major Gerard. He had been tough, but persistent, demanding but understanding. He taught us well.
I notice a four engine cargo plane lumbering along a feeder runway approaching runway 7—then, inexplicably, entering the runway.
The tower yelling, “Touch and go around!” But too late. I will hit her. I will crash. I will die.
Aiming straight at the cargo plane, but fighting the urge to pull up abruptly, I add full throttle, trying to tug Roxanne back into the air. Cargo plane so large she fills my windscreen, but we are beginning to climb.
Thump! Roxanne veers to the left, but I bring her back. Has my left gear hit the cargo plane? Later—now fly the plane! We are up, free of the field, soaring to safety. The tower is talking to other aircraft, changing their approaches to avoid me as I rise to pattern altitude again.
“FT28-72 requests permission to land,” I say, hoping my voice sounds normal.
“You have a slight problem, Monsieur Montreux. Your left wheel is lying on the end of Runway 7.”