To the Last Man - Jeff Shaara [177]
Wolff was there now, dressed in his flight suit, preparing to lead the second squad.
“Good shooting! What did I say about British luck?” Richthofen stopped, saw Wolff’s foolish grin disappear. “Are you all right?”
Richthofen put a hand on Wolff’s shoulder, felt weakness in his legs, Wolff holding him up now. They were moving again, toward his office, and Richthofen said, “If I am to survive, Kurt, I must become healthy again. It will not have anything to do with luck.”
SENARD, FRANCE—SEPTEMBER 1917
THEY WERE AS CLOSE TO VERDUN NOW AS THEY HAD EVER BEEN, ordered to the airfield to support a massive new French assault around the fortress city. The mission for the pilots was routine, escorting the increasing numbers of bombers, targeting German defensive lines and supply dumps, opening the door for General Pétain’s all-out surge to remove the enemy from the Verdun sector.
In the north, around Ypres, the British were still struggling against both the stout German resistance and the soaking misery of the autumn rains. At Verdun there had been rain as well, but it was not as pervasive, and when the clouds parted, the pilots found they could fly at least three full missions per day. It was the most exhausted any of them had been.
The replacements had continued to fill the ranks of the escadrille, and none had been more anticipated than the man who would replace DeLaage. His name was Antoine Arnoux de Maison-Rouge, and from his first day’s service as Captain Thenault’s second in command, Lufbery despised him. Maison-Rouge was a tall, angular man, whose every movement betrayed the nervous twitching energy of a frightened spider. While his appearance alone stood him in stark contrast to the pleasant congeniality of DeLaage, it was Maison-Rouge’s attitude that alienated him from the entire squadron. He regarded Americans in general, and these pilots in particular, as barbaric savages. But the Aeronautique Militaire had based their decision on Maison-Rouge’s capabilities as a pilot, and Thenault had no choice but to accept the lieutenant as his executive officer. Whether the Americans would accept him was another matter entirely.
The squadron roster had grown to twenty-two active pilots, and their continuing success over their German rivals ensured that the Aeronautique Militaire would keep them supplied with a sufficient number of aircraft. Though Thaw and Lufbery continued to be respected as the squadron’s old veterans, Lufbery was no longer the oldest member of the group. That honor now fell to Walter Lovell, another New Englander, a Harvard man who had come to the escadrille by the familiar route of Dr. Gros’ American Ambulance Service. But Lovell, and the others who had added their names to the squadron’s roster, understood that in the Lafayette Escadrille, if you wanted to know how to combat the enemy, you spent time in the air with Raoul Lufbery.
Billy Mitchell had an ally in his efforts to bring the escadrille’s pilots into the American air arm. The squadron’s founder, Dr. Gros, had championed the move, using his influence with the men to ease their uncertainty about what could certainly become a dramatic change in their routine. Gros had made himself an example, had signed up in the new American Air Service, was commissioned a major, surprising everyone who had thought an experienced doctor would fit more ably into the medical corps. Like Mitchell, Gros had made his own speeches to the pilots, encouraging them to make the change. The pilots had met the proposal with enthusiasm, bolstered not only by Gros’ optimism, but their shared sense of patriotism as well. But as the weeks dragged on, the frustrations