To the Last Man - Jeff Shaara [160]
Lufbery had grown accustomed to the SPAD’s particular quirks. He had refused to be nagged by the doubts about the motor whose sudden failure had killed DeLaage. After the accident, every motor had been stripped, every part examined, LeBlanc and his mechanics performing a grim ritual, trying to find some tangible reason to explain DeLaage’s death. But Lufbery knew what every mechanic knows, that sometimes the explanation cannot be found in pistons and valve springs. Lufbery had stood beside LeBlanc for hours, making his own inspection of the parts, the fuel lines and attachments. The mechanics had been frustrated by the lack of clues, had no choice but to reassemble the new motors with care and precision. After DeLaage’s death, it had taken some of the pilots several days before they would even climb into the cockpit of the SPAD, but Lufbery did not hesitate. There could be no superstition, no fear of the unusual accident. He flew as he had always flown, with his mind wrapping itself around the sound of the motor, all the mechanical movements becoming a part of his thoughts. He had his own theories about DeLaage’s accident, something as simple as an air bubble forming in the gas line, or some impurity in the gasoline itself. It had become one more part of his personal inspection, straining the gasoline through a wire mesh filter, one more precaution that the other pilots had copied.
He could see the red glow of the dawn, turned the SPAD eastward, aimed for the rising sun. The Aisne River snaked below him, and he could begin to see the spires that marked Soissons, the town that offered them many of the same temptations they had sought from Paris. Though they didn’t make the journeys to Paris as often now, the city had provided them with one more unique gift, something that even now made Lufbery smile. Bill Thaw had found another lion cub, a female, who seemed to be the perfect companion to Whiskey. There had been doubts at first, a careful watch as the two cubs confronted each other, all the usual sniffs and inspections. But then, the playfulness had begun, and the doubts had vanished. Whiskey did indeed have a new friend. With perfect logic, they named her Soda.
He scanned the horizon to the south, still too dark to see, focused again on the reddening sky to the east. The ground below him was becoming more visible, a dark smear in the earth that spread all the way to Verdun. He banked the plane to the left, knew the German lines were closer to the northeast, ignored the altimeter, could tell by the sharp chill in the air that he was passing ten thousand feet.
The Aisne River was behind him now, and he could see the desolation of the front lines, the rows of barbed wire twisting through the center of no-man’s-land. He continued to climb, looked down toward the German lines, thought, You hear the motor, eh, Boche? Get those antiaircraft guns tuned up. But, sorry, I’m too high for you. Maybe later, I’ll come in low, give you a look. He had no fear of the gunners on the ground, had seen too much of the manic spray of shrapnel the guns threw in the air, the random scattering of lead that some artillery commander must believe was an effective way to down an aeroplane. When he was low enough to be in their range, Lufbery had seen the predictable pattern of the gunners,