Georges Guynemer | Page 9

Having no respect for boys
who would not play, he would skate into the midst of their group,
pushing them about, seizing their arms and forcing them to waltz round
and round with him like weather-cocks. Then he would be off at his
highest speed, pursued by his victims. Blows were exchanged, which
did not prevent him from repeating the same thing a few seconds later.
At the end of recreation, with his hair disordered, his clothes covered
with dust, his face and hands muddy, Guynemer was exhausted. But the
strongest of his comrades could not frighten him; on the contrary, he
attacked these by preference. The masters were often obliged to
intervene and separate the combatants. Guynemer would then
straighten up like a cock, his eyes sparkling and obtruding, and, unable
to do more, would crush his adversary with piquant and sometimes
cutting words uttered in a dry, railing voice."[9]
[Footnote 9: Unpublished notes by Abbé Chesnais.]
Talking, however, was not his forte, and his nervousness made him
sputter. His speech was vibrant, trenchant, like hammerstrokes, and he
said things to which there was no answer. He had a horror of discussion:
he was already all action.
This violence and frenzied action would have driven him to the most

unreasonable and dangerous audacity if they had not been
counterbalanced by his sense of honor. "He was one of those," wrote a
comrade of Guynemer's, M. Jean Constantin, now lieutenant of artillery,
"for whom honor is sacred, and must not be disregarded under any
pretext; and in his life, in his relations with his comrades, his candor
and loyalty were only equaled by his goodness. Often, in the midst of
our games, some dispute arose. Where are the friends who have never
had a dispute? Sometimes we were both so obstinate that we fought,
but after that he was willing to renounce the privilege of the last word.
He never could have endured bringing trouble upon his fellow-students.
He never hesitated to admit a fault; and, what is much better, once
when one of his comrades, who was a good student, had inadvertently
made a foolish mistake which might have lowered his marks, I saw
Georges accuse himself and take the punishment in his place. His
comrade never knew anything about it, for Georges did that sort of
thing almost clandestinely, and with the simplicity and modesty which
were always the great charm of his character."
This sense of honor he had drawn in with his mother's milk; and his
father had developed it in him. Everything about him indicated pride:
the upright carriage of his head, the glance of his black eyes which
seemed to pierce the objects he looked at. He loved the Stanislas
uniform which his father had worn before him, and which had been
worn by Gouraud and Baratier, whose fame was then increasing, and
Rostand, then in all the new glory of Cyrano and L'Aiglon. He had an
exact appreciation of his own dignity. Though he listened attentively in
class, he would never ask for information or advice from his classmates.
He hated to be trifled with, and made it understood that he intended to
be respected. Never in all his life did he have a low thought. If he ever
varied from the nobleness which was natural to him, silence was
sometimes sufficient to bring him to himself.
With a mobile face, full of contrasts, he was sometimes the roguish boy
who made the whole class shake with laughter, and involved it in a
whirlwind of games and tricks, and at others the serious, thoughtful
pupil, who was considered to be self-absorbed, distant, and not inclined
to reveal himself to anybody. The fierce soldier of the petite guerre was

also a formidable adversary at checkers. Here, however, he became
patient, only moving his pieces after long reflection. None of the
students could beat him, and no one could take him by surprise. If he
was beaten by a professor, he never rested until he had had his revenge.
His power of will was far beyond his years, but it needed to be relaxed.
To study and win to the head of his class was nothing for his lively
intelligence, but his health was always delicate. He would appear
wrapped in cloaks, comforters, waterproof coats, and then vanish into
the infirmary. This boy who did not fear blows, bruises, or falls, was
compelled to avoid draughts and to diet. Nobody ever heard him
complain, nor was any one ever to do so. Often he had to give up work
for whole months at a time; and in his baccalaureate year he was
stopped by a return of the infantile enteritis. "Three months of rest," the
doctor ordered at Christmas. "You will do your rhetoric over again next