To the Last Man - Jeff Shaara [179]
Lufbery smiled, felt Parsons’ hands gripping him hard. Lufbery said, “I guess it worked.”
Parsons was nodding, still holding the wide smile, then seemed confused, said, “What worked?”
Lufbery pointed out toward the SPAD, the small black mass wired to the wing. “Your talisman.”
Parsons turned, let out a yell, jumped, both fists high. “Yessir! It worked! Hee-hee!”
Lufbery saw others coming out, responding to Parsons’ infectious joy. There was another sound, the ringing of the telephone, and Lufbery heard a new shout, one of the mechanics running out, the words that Parsons still needed to hear. Lufbery already knew what the message would be, knew that when a man’s time came, all the signs would be with him. Talisman or not, Parsons had his first confirmation.
LUFBERY HEARD VOICES, SAW THENAULT MOVING INTO THE HANGAR, was surprised to see Dr. Gros as well. The two men were talking, and Lufbery could tell the conversation was not pleasant. He moved that way, and Thenault looked past him, said, “How many pilots are here? Five in the air, right?”
Lufbery nodded.
“Plus two. Lieutenant Maison-Rouge is out with Campbell, Peterson, Bridgman, and Marr. Been gone about two hours. Lovell and Thaw just went up a half hour ago.” He nodded a silent greeting toward Gros.
Gros said, “How are you, Luf? Got your twelfth confirmation, eh?”
“So they tell me.”
Gros looked down, had run out of small talk, and Lufbery could feel the awkwardness, said, “I didn’t mean to interrupt. I have some work to do over here—”
Thenault held up a hand, said, “No. Does not matter. I will tell them all as they come in. We have gotten word from your Air Service. There is still no decision on the issue of rank.”
Gros put his hands on his hips, seemed to stare down at Lufbery’s feet. He was nearly fifty, a tight-faced man, with sharp dark eyes. After a long silent moment, Gros said, “Clerks and secretaries. The whole damned army.” He looked at Lufbery now. “The War Department asked Mitchell for his recommendations. Pershing told him to be aggressive, so Mitchell tells them that we should commit twenty thousand aeroplanes to this war, that we should deliver five thousand here by next spring. They just stroked their chins and said, Oh, well, that sounds very good indeed. All the while he knows that if we can produce three hundred, we’ll exceed our most optimistic expectations. I give him credit for audacity. Apparently, he’s learning the way this game is played. Ask for too much, then take what you can get.” He paused, and Lufbery felt Parsons standing beside him. Gros continued, “We’ve been talking to the French about using their motor designs. The British as well. We propose to supply the raw materials, they supply the specifics, allow us to use the existing manufacturing plants. Sounds perfectly reasonable, eh? We have the Rolls-Royce, Clerget, Bentley, Le Rhone, the Hispano-Suizas in these SPADs, plenty to adapt to our purposes. Any one is proven reliable enough. But no. Someone in Washington is convinced that Americans should fly only American motors. Mind you, we don’t actually have one yet, beyond what some dreamer in the War Department has sketched on paper. They’ve even given it a name, the Liberty, someone in Washington telling Mitchell that we’ll have no less than thirty-five thousand of them in no time at all. All we need is for Woodrow Wilson to wave his magic staff, and we’ll have enough aeroplanes to darken the skies over Germany. Poor Mitchell. I’m surprised he hasn’t shot someone by now.” Gros caught himself. “I apologize. I didn’t come here to spew out my frustration. The real reason for my visit concerns you pilots. Captain Thenault will pass this along to everyone. I am sorry to say that the Air Service is still not convinced that the Americans presently flying in France should receive any kind of automatic rank in the United States Army. So, of course, that means we don’t know if you’re going to be paid or not.”
Lufbery said, “It also means we don’t know who’s going to be telling us what to do.”
Gros nodded, stared at the