To the Last Man - Jeff Shaara [183]
Lufbery had liked Lovell from his first days in the squadron, and it had nothing to do with the man’s age. Like Parsons, Lovell had the instincts to be a good pilot; he was a man who would not panic under pressure.
Lovell drained the glass, handed it to the bartender, said, “Think there’s any difference between thirty-one and thirty-two? If they haven’t told you yet, they will.”
The others had listened to Lovell in silence, faces turning to Lufbery now.
He didn’t know what to say, had no encouraging words, thought a moment, said, “I had trouble walking backward. That line on the floor. I kept turning to look at it.”
He had thought it funny at first, the doctors asking him to perform the ridiculous act as some sort of joke to relax him. But their expressions had not changed, and even Gros had seemed concerned. He looked around the dimly lit room, saw no one smiling. From a chair in the corner, he heard the low voice of Henry Jones.
“They said I have flat feet. Thought the examination was going to end right then. Dr. Gros convinced them to keep going.”
Carl Dolan spoke now, another of the younger men, and the only one among them who didn’t seem to enjoy alcohol. “They say I have a bad throat. Dr. Gros said my tonsils need to come out. I didn’t know what tonsils were until they explained it.”
Lufbery could feel the blanket of misery in the room, said, “It can’t be as bad as they’re trying to make it. Hell, everybody’s got something wrong with ’em.”
Thaw was there now, filled the doorway, said, “You’re right, Luf. Like me, for instance. I’m blind. Well, almost. Can’t see for crap out of one eye. Hell, it never bothered me, but Sweet Mother Mary, you shoulda seen their faces. Even Gros was upset. I thought he was gonna cry.” Thaw looked around the room. “Who’s left? Anybody they haven’t humiliated yet?”
Lufbery shook his head. “You were the last.”
THENAULT HAD GIVEN EACH MAN A LETTER, SEALED INSIDE AN ENVELOPE that carried the insignia of the American Medical Service. Some of the men had gathered, would share the experience, easing the suspense by comparing their own results with everyone else.
Thaw examined his, said, “Anybody open theirs yet?” Heads were shaking, and Thaw laughed, said, “Well, hell, it’s not as bad as a farewell letter from your sweetheart.”
He ripped open his envelope, slid the paper out, glanced at Lufbery, made a slow ceremony out of unfolding it. He read, made a grunt, said, “Well, gentlemen, it’s your war now. Seems I’m not fit to fly.”
The others began to examine their own letters, voices rising around the room. Lufbery opened his, saw the words he had expected: “. . . deemed unfit for duty in the American Air Service.”
He looked around the room, saw men staring at the words on the paper, said, “Anybody here make it?” He saw the faces of the younger men, expected happy nods, saw tears instead, low curses.
Thaw said, “Anybody?”
Thenault was in the doorway now, said, “I thought I would allow you time to read for yourselves, but I could have told you. Every letter is the same. Your medical service has determined that none of you meets the standards they have established for American pilots. I do not understand this. I assure you, Dr. Gros is most unhappy with this conclusion.”
Lufbery moved to the door, moved past Thenault, stepped into the hallway. He looked toward the front door, saw fading sunlight, heard the voice of Thaw behind him.
“Where you going, Luf?”
“There’s still daylight. Thought I’d make a flight.”
Thaw moved up close to him, put a hand on his shoulder.
“You okay?”
Lufbery shrugged.
“Yep. Doesn’t really matter, does it? Even if the Americans don’t want us, we still got a job to do right here.”
“Whatever you say, Luf.”
Thaw took his hand away, and Lufbery moved toward the door, pulled it open, looked up, soft gray clouds hovering low, the deep blue spreading out beyond. He could see the hangars in the distance, the rows of SPADs perched outside. He stepped down through the