To the Last Man - Jeff Shaara [182]
WORD HAD COME FROM DR. GROS. THE FLEDGLING AMERICAN AIR Service had finally, reluctantly, agreed that any American pilot with combat experience could transfer from the French Escadrilles and receive a commission as a lieutenant in the United States Army. The one condition was that every man who applied had to undergo, and pass, a rigorous physical examination.
The doctors arrived in a bulky black limousine, a hulking quartet of black wool suits, descending on the airfield like a flock of gloomy crows. They were Americans, stern-faced men who had been forced to accept that their service to the army might actually include some duty outside the pleasantries of the brightly lit headquarters of Paris. The one bit of hopefulness for the pilots was that Dr. Gros was among them, trying desperately to force a lighthearted mood on the other three, men whose involvement in the war thus far had been as vacationers who kept as far away from actual duty as their special skills would allow.
The pilots had been examined singly, each man poked and prodded and bled, offering up all variety of fluid and specimen, ordered to demonstrate physical dexterity as well as acuity of sight, sound, and smell. As each pilot exited the examination, the humiliation of his body and spirit could be made well again only by a lengthy visit to the bar. It was an opportunity no one passed by.
LUFBERY WAITED FOR THAW, EXPECTED SOME SORT OF JOKE, SOMETHING to cut through the grumbling that filled the darkened room. The bottles had been drained, and replaced, something that had once been commonplace, but now had become a gesture of rebelliousness, especially to the veterans. There had been an urgent plea from their beloved and invaluable matriarch, Madame Vanderbilt, whose husband was responsible for much of the escadrille’s financial support. The good Mrs. Vanderbilt had been appalled that some newspapers in America were making note of the particular talent the American pilots had shown for absorbing alcohol, some suggesting that the men were more often confronting the enemy with a trigger in one hand and a flask of brandy in the other. To address this obvious slander, Mrs. Vanderbilt had asked them to abstain from the numbing necessities of drink. The pilots had done the proper thing. They removed all liquor from their residences at the airfield, and made a loan to a French squadron stationed nearby, with the express understanding that the French facilities were to be available to all. The French had agreed, made more willing by the bribe of several cases of Scotch that Thaw had secured in Paris. The arrangement had satisfied everyone. But with the indignities suffered by the men during the examinations, all concerns for the fragile feelings of Mrs. Vanderbilt had been temporarily set aside.
The talk was quiet, each man more focused on the glass in his hand. Lufbery heard a door close, the same sound that preceded each man’s arrival at the bar. The doctors had invaded the kitchen of the large house, and when Lufbery’s turn had come, he understood why. With a kitchen came a sink, and glasses, and the torturously hard surface of a table, blessedly shielded with a cotton sheet. The latest man to be released was Lovell, and Lufbery watched him move purposefully to the bar, retrieving a full glass, already set out by the diligence of the bartender.
Lovell turned, saw Lufbery, said, “Well, did they tell you too?”
He shook his head. “They didn’t tell me anything. Said just wait for the results.”
“Well, they sure as hell told me. I’m too old. Thirty-two is too