To the Last Man - Jeff Shaara [180]
The sound echoed into the hangar, and Lufbery heard a voice, one of the mechanics.
“They’re coming in. All five.”
Lufbery let out a breath, saw the same relief on Thenault’s face, the same emotion they felt every time a full patrol returned.
They began to move outside and Parsons said, “What the hell?”
Lufbery moved out quickly, looked up as the planes passed over the hangar, beginning their landing formation.
Thenault was beside him, pointed up, said, “What the hell’s he doing?”
As the planes circled toward the open end of the field, Lufbery could see something unusual in the formation. Two of the SPADs were nearly stacked together, one on top of the other. The top plane seemed to tilt and bounce above the other, and Thenault said, “The one below . . . is Maison-Rouge. What the hell?”
The mechanics had come out now, more men gathering, and Lufbery stared up at the odd spectacle, thought, Whoever that jackass is, he’s playing with Maison-Rouge. He’s playing with him.
Thenault had binoculars now, seemed to share Lufbery’s thoughts, said, “It’s Campbell. That insane bastard. He’s going to kill them both.”
Parsons was close to Lufbery again, said, “It has to be Campbell. That stupid son of a bitch. He nearly chopped my tail off last week, flew right up my ass, put his prop inches away, just to get a laugh. He gives me the creeping jitters.”
Andrew Courtney Campbell had been with the squadron since the spring, had established himself firmly as the court jester of the escadrille. But he was far more than a source of amusement. He had already destroyed several aircraft, some by surviving near-certain catastrophe at the hands of the Germans, a wave of good fortune that had only bolstered Campbell’s recklessness. Lufbery had tried to stay clear of him, had seen enough of those men who believed themselves invincible. While Campbell had shown he could be a capable fighter, he fancied himself a daredevil, would often take ridiculous chances just to impress the others with a reckless show of bravado. Some of the younger pilots spoke of him with reverential awe. But the veterans were in agreement with Lufbery. The escadrille had no room for what Parsons called a wild man.
Lufbery stared at the two planes, could see the lower one locked in place, no effort to break away. Of course, he thought, Maison-Rouge is terrified. If he moves in any direction, they’ll probably collide. That’s right. Keep calm. Let Campbell do whatever stupid thing he’s going to do. Then when he lands, kick his ass.
The other three planes were still circling, the pilots watching the spectacle just like the men on the ground. The top plane was bouncing up and down, each time closer to Maison-Rouge’s top wing, flirting with the collision.
Suddenly Thenault let out a shout. “He hit him! His wheels are into the wing! Oh, God, they’re tangled!”
Lufbery could see the planes making a slow turn, locked together, the men around him shouting out. The futility settled over them now, painful memories of DeLaage, the men helpless to do anything but watch the awful spectacle. The shouts became muted now, small prayers, men cursing at Campbell, urging him to pull himself free.
The planes were slipping lower, not more than a couple hundred feet above the field, and Thenault shouted, “Call the ambulance! Get water! They could come down anywhere!”
No one responded, the men frozen, all eyes fixed on the two planes. Lufbery could see Maison-Rouge waving at Campbell, gesturing for him to pull up. After another turn toward the hangar, Lufbery heard the hard revving of a motor, and suddenly Campbell’s