"Here is the World War I Flying Ace in the officers' club, drowning his homesickness and holiday sorrows in yet another tall mug of root beer," the Flying Ace in question narrated to himself, tossing the empty can of A&W into his nearby recycling bin. With an air of melancholy, he leaned his furry elbows (or were they his knees? he often wondered…) on the folding table which he had set up inside his doghouse. In his mind, the interior was filled with human officers in uniforms (but, of course, the Flying Ace was the best dressed, not to mention the handsomest and the bravest, of them all).
"A longing sigh escapes his lips. It is mid-December now. Going home for Christmas is out of the question, but he had hoped for a three-day pass in order to have a merry reunion with his brother, Spike, who is fighting bravely in the trenches, and his sister, Belle, who is in the Red Cross, but, alas! His request has been denied. 'We need you in the air!' the squadron commander said to him just that morning. 'The Red Baron will not be taking the holiday off, and only you are capable of shooting him down.'"
The Flying Ace gritted his sharp teeth at the injustice. Working the best pilots to the bone and destroying their fragile morale was no way to win a war!
Yet he knew his duty: he had to fly. He had to hunt down that Red Baron. He had to do his part, and eventually this excruciating war would at last end.
He reached for a plate of French pastries (which looked more like the vanilla Zingers from the Brown family's pantry), but even the creamy treat did little to raise his spirits. Perhaps if he somehow managed to catch the baron before Christmas, his squadron commander would allow him to have his holiday leave, but what if he did not see his rival at all this December? What if — the beagle clenched his jaw — the baron was allowed to go home to his family for Christmas while the Flying Ace was stuck hunting for an absent foe in the empty skies?
He pictured the baron at his family's estate, singing "Stille Nacht" with loved ones at a piano while a larger-than-life Christmas tree covered in flickering candles oversaw the festivities. Then the Flying Ace visualized the lonely Christmas awaiting himself: drowning his miseries in root beer and wondering if Spike and Belle were just as lonely and miserable as he was.
Oh, why must the best of the best be so few in number? Why were they required to carry the weight of the world on their furry shoulders?
"'Curse this never ending war!' he shouts, shaking a fist in the air…"
With a paw in the air, the Flying Ace suddenly stopped, looking over his shoulder. He could now picture the other officers giving him funny looks, and unfortunately some of those looks hardened. Too late, the Flying Ace remembered that in the real WW1, several French soldiers had started to mutiny out on the Western Front following the Second Battle of the Aisne. These humorless officers probably thought the world-famous Flying Ace was about to follow in the mutineers' footsteps and refuse to fly his Sopwith Camel.
Gulping, the Flying Ace flashed his imaginary comrades a quick, uneasy smile before he spun away from his table, abandoning his freshly poured root beer and sped out into the snow-covered French countryside (which greatly resembled the round-headed kid's backyard).
"Here is the WW1 Flying Ace bravely fleeing from an unsympathetic mob of pro-war zealots…"
Grabbing a rag to wipe off his paint brush, Schroeder leaned back in order to admire his handiwork. Two freshly painted signs laid on the cold floor of his garage. One declared in bright letters: TODAY IS BEETHOVEN'S BIRTHDAY! The other text was also red, but this year Schroeder had taken it upon himself to write something in German: FRÖHLICHER BEETHOVEN-GEBURTSTAG.
"My mom took German in high school," Schroeder explained with a smile to Lucy, who was leaning against his dad's workbench, bundled up in her yellow winter coat. "Mom says she doesn't remember a whole lot, but that's how you would say 'Happy Beethoven's Birthday.'"
"But why bother?" Lucy asked, giving him a dubious look. "The average person who sees your sign is going to understand English."
"It's the principle of the matter," he answered calmly. "Beethoven spoke German, so it makes sense to wish people a happy Beethoven's birthday in his mother tongue once in a while."
These were the last Beethoven Day signs he would paint for this year. Since November, he had been going out with his homemade picket signs, alerting everyone to how many shopping days they had left to prepare for Beethoven's birthday. Schroeder often went out by himself, sometimes carrying up to three different signs at once, but some years Lucy, Charlie Brown or even Snoopy helped him with his march through the neighborhood. This morning Lucy had come by early with the cake for the party which Schroeder would be throwing later that day, and she had offered to go with him and make a procession out of it.
"Might as well pass the time somehow before the party," she had stated before she had batted her eyes at him. "Unless you'd rather give me the traditional Beethoven's birthday kiss on the nose instead." (Schroeder had promptly retrieved one of the signs from last year and handed it to her.)
They had to wait another thirty minutes for the paint to dry, which Schroeder spent playing a few rousing renditions of his favorite Beethoven pieces (with Lucy lounging against his piano). When they were ready, he then hammered the two signs to opposite sides of the post and stapled the sides together so that they did not flop in the wind. With his coat and hat on, Schroeder slipped out the side door of the garage and immediately got into character, carrying himself with all the dignity of a faithful herald of Beethoven Day.
"Oh, I knew I should have worn those gloves Aunt Marian bought me, even if they are too ugly for a date," Lucy grumbled behind him, blowing on her hands. "I hope you appreciate all I do for you, Schroeder."
"This isn't a date, and I never asked you to carry signs with me," Schroeder replied, leading the way down the driveway to the sidewalk. "You're more than welcome to go home if it's too cold."
"What else am I going to be doing today?" she snapped. "Husbands and wives are supposed to support each other with their hopes and dreams, so I have to get my practice in now. That's why I carry these stupid signs around the stupid block every stupid year, all because I stupidly care about you."
It'll take more than doing favors with ulterior motives to get my attention, he considered saying, but Schroeder kept his eyes forward, maintaining his usual defense of silence. Ignoring her baiting was typically the best way to handle Lucy. Either she would huff and puff her way to a (comparatively) better mood, or she would give up and storm off, giving Schroeder some peace at last. At least for the moment, she was helping him spread awareness about Beethoven's birthday, and that was at least worth him tolerating her complaints for the present.
The Flying Ace glared in frustration at yet another downed Sopwith Camel, smoking and riddled with bullet holes, which came from none other than the Red Baron's own plane. He shook his fist in impotent rage at an overcast sky which seemed to be oscillating about whether or not to let sunshine pass through. He could almost see the familiar shape of the red Fokker Triplane circling around in the stretch of gray clouds, no doubt searching for the remains of his fallen rival. As he watched the imaginary plane with narrowed eyes, snow began to fall again, reminding him of his present danger.
"The Flying Ace's plan to shoot the Red Baron down before Christmas in order to get that three-day pass to visit his siblings has greatly backfired," he told himself. "Here he is, miles from the aerodrome, in winter, with no food or fire. If he cannot find shelter before nightfall, he will freeze to death. If he is spotted by the enemy, he will be captured and shot at dawn."
The Flying Ace shook his head at his bleak circumstances, but then he remembered something which lifted the corners of his canine mouth.
"Fortunately, white dog fur provides excellent camouflage in winter!" he declared confidently to his imaginary audience. He adjusted his red scarf and lowered his goggles over his black eyes, taking advantage of any protection from the cold. "He crouches low, and with the stealth of a shadow, he sets off, seeking a temporary hiding place before German search parties arrive to inspect the wreckage of his beloved Sopwith Camel."
The Flying Ace scurried over to the side of the backyard and ducked under a row of frosted bushes (which looked an awful lot like the neighbor's prized hedges). With his furry stomach grazing the hard, icy ground, he crawled out toward the street, reaching the edge of the recently salted sidewalk. He cast furtive glances in all directions; satisfied that the coast was clear, he bravely shot out of his hiding place and bolted to the other side of the street, ducking inside an opened wooden shed (which actually looked like a psychiatry booth which currently read THE DOCTOR IS OUT).
"He takes refuge inside a French woodcutter's shed. The poor peasant cannot afford a proper door for his wares, but the shed is clean and dry, and it offers some relief from the elements. But is it safe? Only time will reveal that."
The Flying Ace gulped down several breaths and dramatically laid a paw over his heart, mourning his rotten circumstances, but he quickly got a hold of his emotions. If he lost heart now or panicked, he would be captured for sure, and he would never see Spike or Belle or any member of his family ever again.
I still have to see what they got me for Christmas! he reminded himself.
No sooner had he thought this, his canine ears picked up the sound of distant voices. With a gasp, he crouched down, hugging the interior side of the psychiatry booth/woodcutter's shed. Carefully, he stuck his long nose out until he could get a good look at the outside.
Walking solemnly up the salted sidewalk, a pair of kids carrying signs made a dignified procession. A blond boy and black-haired girl — they looked an awful lot like Snoopy's friends, the piano-playing kid and the cute but crabby sister of the kid with the fuzzy blanket (he was horrible with human names, but he still considered the children his friends). Right then, however, the Flying Ace saw them as a pair of French citizens in era-appropriate clothing, but why were they carrying huge picket signs in the middle of December?
"Protestors!" the Flying Ace gasped to himself, at once recalling some of the black-and-white photos from the WW1 books which that round-headed kid had thoughtfully brought home for him. Men and women from different walks of life and different countries had marched with posters, protesting the war. At once the Flying Ace saw the two children leading a much larger group, all of them carrying large signs and banners with French text. Perhaps they had some connection to the French mutineers in the Western Front?
"The Flying Ace regards the protestors with mixed feelings," he murmured to himself, watching their steady trek. "Their anti-patriotic commotion is a slap in the face of all of the Flying Ace's brothers-in-arm fighting in the trenches, including his actual brother — poor Spike! — and yet the Flying Ace cannot entirely disagree with the poor blighters' cries for peace." He laid his white paw over his heart and sighed dramatically. "He too longs for the war to end at long last and for himself to be home in time for Christmas."
A car rolled up the street then, and the children stopped, turning their signs so that the driver could read them. The car passed by without slowing, and the children continued their trek.
"They could have at least honked to acknowledge us or something," the black-haired protestor grumbled, her voice sounding muffled with the surrounding snow. "We've been doing this for two weeks, and nobody ever honks."
"You don't honk for Beethoven's birthday," her companion declared. "This holiday must be celebrated with quiet dignity and reverence."
"If it's such a great holiday, how come nobody ever wrote any Beethoven Day Carols, huh?" she retorted. "Even Beethoven wrote that short song for New Year's, but you haven't written any new songs for his birthday in years."
"It's on my to-do list, okay?" he snapped, his fair face growing a little red from more than the cold. "You can always go home, you know."
"I told you. I'm practicing for our future marriage by supporting your dumb dreams. The least you could do is show a little gratitude for a change."
The blond protestor only rolled his eyes and adjusted his two-sided sign, turning it so that its English message faced the street, and the Flying Ace caught a clear view of the writing on the other side, and he gulped at the ominous text.
FRÖHLICHER BEETHOVEN-GEBURTSTAG
German? They spoke German?
The Flying Ace's eyes widened in shock, dread and no small amount of rage.
"Wait, these are not weary, pacifistic civilians protesting! These are German spies spreading dissension to destroy the morale of locals! They are taking advantage of the local population's fatigue from the war to distribute their propaganda — and they are also brazenly passing along coded messages in German!"
His furry digits curled into fists. Now was not the time to hide and wait until the coast was clear. A world-famous hero must be ready to act when he witnessed such blatant examples of espionage.
"The Flying Ace stays in the shadows, but he waits for an opportunity to act as the protestors pass by his hiding place. And then—!"
Something like a small locomotive collided with Schroeder's back. He yelped, flailing his arms to keep his balance, and something furry grazed across his right hand, and it yanked his dual-sided sign from his grasp. A flash of white, with a touch of green and red, passed through his line of sight, and he saw a tiny figure bolting down the sidewalk, waving the sign as though it were a captured enemy flag.
"Snoopy!" Schroeder bellowed after him, immediately breaking into a run. If it was not one thing with that dog, it was another.
"That dumb beagle!" Lucy cried, charging after him. "He really takes this World War One act too far!"
They thundered forward, sometimes skidding on unsalted patches of ice. Schroeder was vaguely reminded of when he and Lucy used to play Catch in his front yard, and Snoopy, still on all fours in those days, would steal their ball while it was in mid air and bolt away, and the two of them would have to chase him around the neighborhood to get their toy back. Back then, Snoopy would sometimes plop down in the middle of a running sprinkler, deterring the children from following him. If Snoopy tried to pull that stunt now with Schroeder's Beethoven sign—!
"Give it back already!" Schroeder shouted at the relentless beagle. "This does not align with the Beethoven holiday season!"
"Alas! The Flying Ace has been running at full speed, and the spies are still hot on his heels! He feints to the left — but the spies aren't fooled! He feints to the right — the spies are getting closer!"
The Flying Ace swung right, hopping off the sidewalk and onto a front lawn covered in a blanket of snow, leaving a tail of paw prints in the white. The blond spy lunged for him, but the Flying Ace jumped away just in time, and the spy crashed into the ice.
"Okay, beagle," the other spy glared, holding her sign like a baseball bat. "You give Schroeder back his sign, or I'll—"
But the Flying Ace cleverly ducked under her arm, not loosening his grip on her comrade's coded message. She tried to swing her sign at him like a club, but the air resistance on the cardboard slowed her otherwise powerful stroke. The Flying Ace avoided it with ease, and he boldly popped forward and planted a taunting smooch on her round nose.
"BLEAH!" she shrieked, hurriedly wiping her skin with her sleeve.
That distraction was all he needed. He spun and started running again, now back in the direction from which they had come. Perhaps by doubling back, he might lose them and conceal his tracks. The two spies maintained a steady chase.
"The spies fought bravely for a bunch of scoundrels, but they were no match for the Flying Ace's cunning. Even so, he still has to get rid of them if he's to make it back to the safety of the aerodrome. He sees no place where he can take refuge, and he is leaving a trail of paw prints behind him. But the Flying Ace is not one to run and hide like a coward! He is already planning his next brilliant move to defeat his foes…"
The Flying Ace skidded to a halt on the sidewalk, just managing to avoid flying into a snowbank. He whirled around, baring his white teeth.
The blond spy reached him first, but at the sight of the Flying Ace's display of defiance, he slowed, frowning. The Flying Ace spun the picket post around, grabbing it at the base of the German sign like a sword. That made the blond spy narrowed his eyes in outrage.
"Look, dog, don't even thinking about attacking—-"
"'En garde!' the Flying Ace bellows at the top of his lungs, brandishing the spy's own propaganda weapon against him!"
The Flying Ace lunged forward, slicing the wooden post through the air at his adversary.
Schroeder staggered back with a yelp, nearly slipping.
"Are you out of your mind?!" he cried, glaring at Snoopy's determined face.
Snoopy merely let out a growl, swishing Schroeder's post like a épée, and the dog lunged at him again. Schroeder had to scramble back, and at that moment Lucy zoomed past him, hurling herself straight at Snoopy.
"That's it, beagle!" Lucy yelled. "Now, you're going to get it!"
She promptly turned her own picket sign upside down, matching Snoopy. The two of them took their en garde stances, studying the other with hawk-like countenances (or vulture-like, in Snoopy's case).
They advanced — Snoopy swiped — Lucy parried and lunged — Snoopy twisted his body out of the way — their wooden blades met, and the clacks echoed over the snowy neighborhood — Schroeder tried to step in to help Lucy, but he had to jump away to avoid getting thrashed — Lucy pressed forward — Snoopy yelped and ran backwards a few feet.
"Are you going to surrender, beagle?" Lucy demanded, flourishing her impromptu sword.
Gritting his sharp teeth, Snoopy swung the sign back over his shoulder and hurled it forward like javelin. Fortunately, the dual signs provided some air resistance, but Lucy still had to jump back to avoid getting hit.
In that brief moment of distraction, Snoopy spun on his furry heel and bolted across the snow and ducked out of sight.
"With his enemies temporarily neutralized, the Flying Ace spins and charges away — he will live and fight another day! Now, he must make his way back to the aerodrome for an urgent debriefing. General Pushkin must know of these German spies…"
Lucy snatched up Schroeder's sign from the snow and carried it over to him.
"Here," she sniffed, holding out the post. "I hope you appreciate what I do for you."
Schroeder accepted his precious sign like he was handling a newborn. The English side had a dirt-colored paw print near the bottom, and the German side had a large dent on the right half, but both were otherwise presentable. He hugged the wooden post against his chest and let out a sigh mixed with relief and no small part of gratitude.
"I think I got a splinter," Lucy complained, resting her sign against her shoulder in order to inspect her hands. "Ugh, I just knew I should have worn those ugly new gloves after all. Let's grab the tweezers from my house before we go anywhere else, Schroeder."
Schroeder lifted his head, blinking as she turned for her still unshoveled front walk two doors down. It was then that Schroeder noticed her sign had also been crinkled during the impromptu fencing match. Her fingers had turned red from the cold, and they might have been a little bruised.
He swallowed slightly. Quietly, he fell into step behind her. Soon they reached her yard. Despite the fresh snow, her earlier footprints were still visible, and Lucy used these to make her way toward the stoop.
"You were pretty quick going after Snoopy like that, Lucy," he told her as he stepped into her fresh imprints. "You were in rare form."
"No, I was true to form," she huffed, not seeming to notice the sincerity of his compliment. "Who's usually the first person on the block to help you, huh?"
"That's a fair point," he admitted, giving his slightly damaged sign a small spin.
Her saddle shoes stomped through the ice. "And who helps you paint signs and carry them through subzero temperatures? Who brings the cakes for your Beethoven parties? Who sits through the Ninth Symphony every year even though it's almost ninety minutes long? Who memorized the German lyrics to 'Ode to Joy' just so that I can sing with you every year? But you never notice."
"I wouldn't say that," he said quietly. "I'm always grateful for your help. All of it."
Lucy barked a laugh, mounting the snowy steps. "Sure, and you have a bridge to sell me, right?"
"No, I mean it. I'm really glad you were here with me, Lucy. You're the best person to help me celebrate Beethoven's birthday," Schroeder declared — and promptly clamped a hand over his mouth, his eyes bulging.
Lucy whirled around, her grumpy face now lighting up. "Say it again."
Schroeder drew back a step. "….I don't want to."
She hugged her sign post to her chest as though it were a bouquet of perfect roses which Schroeder had just presented to her.
"See, Schroeder? You are glad to have me around!" she cried. "You do care about me!"
He held up his hands. "Let's not read too much into this now."
She leapt right over the stoop steps, gliding up to him. "You do! You do! You can't pretend you don't! I heard it with my own ears! You said I'm the best person to help you celebrate Beethoven's birthday! Not Freida! Not Charlie Brown or Snoopy or Violet or Shermy! Me! Your one and only!"
"I did not say 'one and only'—" he started to squawk, but she cut him off by jumping forward, and, still holding her sign, she threw her arms around his neck.
Schroeder staggered back under the force of her bear hug. He twisted his head side to side, hoping none of their friends were looking out their windows just then, before he awkwardly patted her back with his free hand.
"Don't you have a splinter to pull out?" he muttered.
Lucy drew back, beaming. "Oh, right! C'mon, Schroeder, you help me get it out, and then we'll go out with our signs again. We have to tell everyone that Beethoven's birthday is a wonderful holiday!"
She grabbed his gloved hand, and he did not resist as she hauled him toward the front door.
"Best Beethoven's birthday ever!" she declared with a delighted sigh.
The Flying Ace clicked his heels and saluted his squadron commander. Once his senior officer returned the salute, the Flying Ace went into a thorough account of his flight, his run-in with the Red Baron, his trek across the French countryside, and his encounter with the German spies. The squadron commander listened with rapt attention. Once the Flying Ace completed his report, the squadron commander came forward to shake his paw.
"As a reward for the Flying Ace's bravery, the squadron commander grants our hero his three-day pass. He will be able to have Christmas with his brother and sister after all!"
The Flying Ace tilted his snout up, beaming with pride and accomplishment — but what the squadron commander said next wiped the smile from his furry face. Gulping sheepishly, the Flying Ace hung his head and turned for the door of the office.
"...Right after he finishes KP duty for crashing yet another Sopwith Camel," he sighed heavily.
THE END