To the Last Man - Jeff Shaara [178]
HE WIPED HIS HANDS ON A SOFT RAG, MOVED OUT TOWARD THE mouth of the hangar, was surprised to see Parsons, supervising some work on the wing of his SPAD. Lufbery moved that way, said, “A problem?”
Parsons leaned close to the wing, seemed not to hear him, was focused on the work of the mechanic.
“Tighten it good. Don’t need the damned thing blowing away.”
The mechanic stepped back, said, “It’s tight. The wire will hold, Mr. Parsons. Anything else?”
Parsons seemed genuinely excited, said, “Thank you, Henriot. No, that’s very good.”
Lufbery was curious now, moved around the end of the wing, saw a black mass attached to one of the SPAD’s wing struts. “What the hell is that?”
“That, my dear Luf, is . . . um . . . well, he doesn’t have a name. I’ll think of one. It’s my talisman.”
“Looks like a stuffed cat.”
“Precisely. Vicious little monster. Look at the claws. He’s facing forward, hissing his venom in the direction of the enemy.”
Lufbery leaned close, saw the cat was made of black velvet, its back arched upward, the mouth open in a snarling growl. “A toy?”
Parsons seemed to puff up. “Hardly! I told you: my talisman. Renée is quite certain this will change my luck.”
“Renée?”
“Oh, you haven’t met her. My new friend in Paris. She is quite a talisman herself. Something mystical about her. She claims to be quite the expert in this sort of thing, and she guarantees this will work. I have no reason to doubt her. She’s already shown to be an expert in quite a few . . . other things.”
Lufbery held tight to his smile, said, “Is this the same woman who insisted you wear her stockings?”
Parsons looked at him with a frown, seemed annoyed by Lufbery’s lack of clarity. “Of course not. That was Marie. And just to be clear, I wear her stocking on my head, under my helmet. I’d rather avoid any confusion on that point. Actually keeps my ears warm. You should try it.”
“Right. I forgot. And the medals? How many good-luck charms do you require?”
“Now you know damned well I’m not the only one who does that. I didn’t originate the custom, I just take advantage of it. Every girl I’ve ever met here gives me some sort of little medallion. Hell, I’ve run out of room on my neck chain. Put a bunch on my ID bracelet now. There seems to be a common theme. Look here.” He held up his arm, and Lufbery saw a half dozen small silver and bronze discs dangling from Parsons’ wrist. “Nearly all of these are Saint Elijah, the Patron Saint of Aviators, so I’m told. Rode triumphantly into heaven in a chariot of fire. Seems rather appropriate.”
Lufbery didn’t respond, saw the smile fade from Parsons’ face.
“Sorry, Luf. That’s not funny.”
Lufbery moved toward the wing again, examined the cat.
Parsons seemed pleased to change the subject. “So, Renée tells me as long as I have him with me, I can’t be hurt.”
“How do you know it’s a him?”
Parsons thought a moment. “I figured it has to be. If the Boche thought it was a female, they’d probably just laugh.”
SEPTEMBER 4, 1917
Lufbery heard the motor, wiped the grease from his hands, stepped out into the cool dusk. The single SPAD dropped rapidly down, a hot landing, bounced once, then again, and Lufbery said aloud, “Slow down. Easy, now.”
The plane made a slow circle in the grass, rolled toward him, the motor quieting, the prop jerking to a stop. The plane was still rolling slightly, and the pilot was up already, jumped to the ground, tore at his goggles, ran at Lufbery, one hand in the air. It was Parsons.
“I got him! Big bastard! Blew him to hell!”
He stopped in front of Lufbery, breathing heavily, put both hands on Lufbery’s shoulders.
“Big two-seater. Right in front of me. Not even thirty yards. Just fell apart, busted to pieces right in front of