To the Last Man - Jeff Shaara [120]
They moved away from the stream, followed the path as it grew wider. Parsons took the lead, confident in the route home, and Lufbery glanced out toward the stumps of fat trees, his automatic habit, still searching the ground. Parsons stopped, waited for him to catch up, said, “You mind if I ask you something?”
“Nope.”
“You ever afraid to get into your aeroplane?”
Lufbery didn’t hesitate.
“Not anymore.”
Parsons seemed surprised by the answer. “I wish I could feel that way. Just go up with the mission in my head. Maybe that’s why I haven’t done any good. You think it’s bad to be afraid?” Lufbery shrugged, said nothing. Parsons said, “The early morning patrols are the worst. I don’t sleep worth a damn.”
“You get used to it. Wine helps.”
“God, I’ve drunk more wine here than I thought there was in the world.” He paused. “You mind me asking you something else?”
Lufbery could see fear in Parsons’ eyes, something he had never noticed before. “What?”
“You’ve shot down, what, ten?”
“I guess so. Confirmed. A few more they didn’t count.”
“I’ve heard that. That ever bother you? If I ever get my first Boche, I damned sure better get a confirmation. Hell, I’ve shot ten thousand rounds of ammunition at those bastards. That oughta be worth something.”
“You’ll get him sooner or later. Every time you go up, you get better at it. I can see it.”
Parsons seemed to brighten at the compliment. “Thanks. I’d really like to see that, the whole thing, shoot some Albatros up so bad that he just falls out of the sky. That has to be damned exciting. When you nail one, do you watch them all the way down? Dive after them? I would. Make damned sure I got the bastard.”
“Used to. But after a while, you just know. You shoot a few pilots, you know when he’s not going to make it. Sometimes there’s fire. Makes it pretty obvious.”
“God, I’d love to see that! Watch some big two-seater just explode right in front of me! I thought about aiming for the gas tank, but it’s tough. I’m happy just to hit the bastard.”
Lufbery thought a moment, said, “Don’t care for it myself.”
“What?”
He looked at Parsons, saw clear-eyed respect, the man absorbing every word. “I don’t care for the fire.” He thought a moment. “You asked me about being afraid. Sometimes, that’s the one thing I think about.” He felt embarrassed admitting a weakness. Parsons was wide-eyed, watching him, and Lufbery tapped the basket against his leg, said, “We best be getting back.”
“Wait. Tell me. I want to be prepared.”
Lufbery shook his head. “There’s no such thing. Nothing I can tell you will prepare you for the sight of a man burning to death. I don’t know why, but it’s different. Shooting a man, or watching someone fly hard into the ground. Sometimes they dive so fast, they lose their wings, the plane comes apart. Like Genet. Full throttle, straight in. You figure he was dead already, or out cold. But even if he saw it coming, he hit so hard he never would have felt it. Fire . . . you feel every second of it. I would rather die from a bullet or a crash, anything else. Burning alive . . . you have nightmares? That’s mine.”
Lufbery felt himself shiver, was still embarrassed. He looked at Parsons, expected to see a smile, the prelude to the usual teasing of any man’s exposed frailties. But Parsons was just staring at him, dark, serious eyes, said nothing.
Lufbery said, “Look, I’d appreciate it if you kept quiet about this.”
“Certainly. Whatever you say, Luf.”
“Let’s go.”
They moved along the path, the flat ground of the airfield opening out before them, walked toward the row of distant hangars. Parsons said in a low voice, “Burning alive. Wonderful. Something else to keep me awake.”
MAY 23, 1917
Thenault waited for the last of them to sit, looked out into the open hangar, satisfying himself that no one was missing. Lufbery was surprised to see the mechanics present as well, LeBlanc’s men seated to one