To the Last Man - Jeff Shaara [118]
With the escadrille now some twenty miles closer to the front lines than they had been before, they had once again become prime targets for nighttime bombing raids. Within their first week, the pilots had been forced into underground shelters, while above them, the flimsy canvas hangars had suffered the fiery effects of the German assaults. It had become as dangerous to be a ground mechanic as it was to be airborne.
The Lafayette Escadrille had seen another change as well. The technology of the French air machines continued to improve, and the Nieuport 17 was rapidly becoming obsolete. All the flying squadrons had begun to receive a new aeroplane, sturdier and more powerful. Though it didn’t have the dancing flexibility of the Nieuports, it more than made up for the deficiencies by its ability to absorb punishment and remain in the air. It was called the SPAD.
HAM AIRFIELD, FRANCE—MAY 15, 1917
The narrow creek wound out across a wide stretch of open ground, and as he climbed a small rise, his eyes followed the snaking line to the horizon. Lufbery had hoped to find at least a small patch of trees, some bit of woodlands, some place where he might find success in his search for mushrooms. But the woods had been stripped from the land, and the only sign of any trees at all were ragged clusters of burned and broken timbers. He tried to imagine what this land had looked like before the war, wide pastureland, this one lone creek marking the property lines perhaps, centuries of cultivation carving permanent furrows in land that had been used by generations of family farmers. Now the furrows were gone, the ground rolling and broken by a new kind of machinery. As far out as he could see, the dirt was black and muddy, water-filled shell holes, punctured by ragged disfigured hulks, the crushed remnants of the tools of war. He stood for a long moment, his eye following the line of the creek. He could hear the sound of the water, a soft trickle, the creek undisturbed by the decay and desolation, flowing steadily forward, carrying the human stain, cleansing and renewing the soil as it made its way finally to the Somme River.
He looked down at the basket in his hands, felt suddenly ridiculous. For so much of his life he had enjoyed the forests, had sought out the peace and isolation of the dense sanctuaries in every part of the world. But this land offered no sanctuary, had not known peace now for three years. He could not help feeling that out there, in the upheaval of the tortured ground, bodies were scattered, most never to be identified, death covered over by more death. It will change one day, he thought. Eventually, this land will be green again, the trees will come back, the farmers will return. But the death will remain, the bodies feeding the soil, until one by one they are disturbed by the innocent work of some yet unborn farmer. It will be the plow, probably, exposing the bones, revealing the history of this place, a shocking reminder to every man who ever works this land that no matter how much you bury the past, what happened here can never truly be forgotten.
He glanced back at the setting sun, the western sky washed by a red haze, the smoke from distant fires, so common now. There was always a fire, sometimes hundreds of fires, darkening the sky, masking the sun in a bloody curtain. In the field behind him, he saw Parsons, the man poking about some wrecked cannon, peering down into a barrel. Parsons had asked to accompany him, laughingly curious about Lufbery’s odd quest for mushrooms. Lufbery had never minded anyone tagging along, would still go about his search in silence, responding only to the questions they might ask, how and where do you find them, and, of course, the inevitable: is that one edible? Parsons had kept beside him at first, but when the creek led them out into the open ground, he had fallen back, had begun a quest of his own. Lufbery didn’t collect souvenirs, had never