To the Last Man - Jeff Shaara [161]
He began to search the skies, focused mainly on the German side of the lines. He knew of their airfields, some close behind what they were calling the Hindenburg line, the German defensive position that no commander seemed to know how to break. He scanned the French side of the lines below him, wondered how many men were there, how many French soldiers were still staring out at their barbed wire.
He had been as skeptical as anyone when rumors of the French mutiny reached the airfield. Thenault had been furious, suspected the reports were fabricated by spies and malcontents, someone’s vicious assault on French pride. But then, the columns had passed by on the road, ragged soldiers in their filthy blue uniforms, some unarmed, all marching away from the front. Thenault could not simply let them march past, had gone out to confront them, to try to rally them. But the captain had found himself staring at dozens of angry men who had no interest in listening to officers. Their response was the bayonet, backing the surprised captain off the road, out of their way.
They had all expected word of a sudden German push, that surely the German High Command would take advantage of the weakness in the French defenses, but amazingly, it did not come. The pilots could only guess that, for once, the Germans had no idea what was happening in front of them.
Lufbery didn’t think much about tactics and strategy, had rarely met a senior officer he cared for. He had heard too many stories from those pilots who had come first through the French Foreign Legion, the men like Kiffin Rockwell and Bill Thaw, who had known the war from the trenches. Too often it was about breeding and class, so many of the officers believing in their inherent superiority to the nameless troops who obeyed them. But good breeding had no impact on good leadership, and the results were known to every army in every war the Europeans had ever fought: it was the soldier who died, while, too often, the man who sent them across the bloody field was safely in the rear. Lufbery had seen class distinction all over the world, touring with Marc Pourpe’s air exhibitions. In Europe or Asia or Arabia, rich men gave the orders and the poor obeyed. To Lufbery, it was the one reason why America had to fight this war. In the escadrille, the rich men flew beside men like him, and respect came from ability, not class. If the war was lost, if the kaiser’s arrogance prevailed, Europe might never again see that kind of equality.
He scanned the ground beneath him, caught a flash of light, then another, bursts of fire from an artillery battery. He looked across to the far side of the lines, waited for the result, the impact of the shells, saw more flashes there, a battery responding to their enemy. He looked out ahead of him, searched the sky, tried not to think of what was happening beneath him. It was the luxury of flying, of being so far removed from all of that. He tried to flex his toes, numb and stiff even in the captured German’s plush boots. At least I have boots, he thought. Some of those fellows down there are knee-deep in mud.
He was well over German territory now, dipped the wings to one side, looked out toward the lines of trenches, searching for aeroplanes, observers perhaps, someone flying low. The sun was behind him, the perfect position, and he scanned for reflections, some speck of light, any sign that someone else was up here with him. His heart jumped: he saw them, an open “V” formation below him slightly, moving parallel to the trenches, as he was. He ignored the misery of his frozen feet, focused on the planes, thought, I’m in the sunlight. How perfectly damned convenient. He watched for a few seconds, could see the sun reflecting