To the Last Man - Jeff Shaara [116]
HERE’S ANOTHER ONE.”
The faces turned, waiting for Parsons to read.
“In only weeks, the valiant struggle against the oppressive Hun shall be given renewed energy by the overwhelming wave of American youth. A thousand aeroplanes, flown by a thousand young pilots, shall soon embark on their nation’s greatest adventure. The Hun shall be vanquished from France, nay, from all the world, never again to plague civilized humanity with the scourge of their bloodlust. From the most blessed skies of their homeland, to the troubled skies of Europe, this unstoppable tide of American flying machines shall obliterate the Hun, and cast him into the dusty memory of the past.”
Parson looked up from the newspaper, waited for the response.
Thaw was mixing a drink, said, “Impressive. A thousand aeroplanes. In only a few weeks.”
Lufbery was feeling a hard weight in his chest, felt the gloom spreading around the room. DeLaage moved to the piano, a particularly shabby-looking instrument. He sat, said, “Shall we salute the spirit of America?”
Thaw had completed his task, took a drink, sampling his work, made a twisted face. He said to Lufbery, “I don’t have your knack for this.” He looked at DeLaage now, said, “Lieutenant, you may salute America. You may salute President Wilson, France, and anyone else you choose. But I would hold off saluting the unstoppable wave of American aeroplanes. That is, until they exist.”
DeLaage played, the notes grinding through Lufbery’s despair. He watched the lieutenant’s delicate fingers, coaxing the melody from an instrument that had lost most of its dignity. The piano was missing its outsides, and when the word had come that this strange rattrap of a bar had suddenly opened for business, DeLaage had been as excited about finding the piano as the men were for a source of drink. The bar was owned by a withered old man who seemed to despise everyone who came to do business with him. No one knew how the old man had procured the piano, or how it had come to rest in this ramshackle structure. The old man seemed not to care what DeLaage did to it, as long as he didn’t steal it, and the lieutenant had spent several evenings hovering over the wounded instrument like a mother caring for a crippled child. He had repaired and tuned it as well as anyone could, using instruments from LeBlanc’s tool chest. But despite the occasional sour note, DeLaage and the grease-covered wrenches had given music back to both the piano and the men who gathered nearly every night to listen.
The music that filled the drafty building was something Lufbery had heard DeLaage play before, some kind of waltz, slow and soothing. Lufbery could see the effects on the faces of the others, the same look he had seen on faces that were no longer there. The music stirred something of home, or peace, or whatever particular dream each man held inside. Lufbery tried to let his mind drift away, but he was pulled back by the sound of a brief argument, watched as Thaw gave money to the old man, satisfying some complaint about wasting his good brandy.
Thaw caught Lufbery’s look, did not smile, unusual, and Lufbery moved closer, said, “He giving you trouble tonight?”
“No more than usual. I’m still wondering how he survived the Germans. I suppose he’s just a good businessman.”
Lufbery laughed. “An entrepreneur.”
Thaw pointed to Parsons, the piece of newspaper still folded in Parsons’ hand. “You hear that crap? It’s bad enough we get trumpeted about as God’s gift to the war. Now, those damned papers are filling people’s heads with nonsense about . . . hell, about all of it.”
“You sure it’s not true?”
“What do you think, Luf? You know of a single aircraft factory anywhere in the States? Hell, I don’t. You got people like Parsons’ buddy, Curtiss. Probably can build a new aeroplane