To the Last Man - Jeff Shaara [202]
DECEMBER 14, 1917
Thenault was waiting for him, had already filled a wineglass, motioned to it as Lufbery came into the room. “Please, join me.”
Lufbery moved toward the desk, picked up the glass, took a small sip, was not in the mood for alcohol. He pulled a chair toward Thenault’s desk, sat, said, “What are we supposed to toast?”
Thenault did not respond, drank from his own half-empty glass. Lufbery heard him let out a long breath, and Thenault said, “Have you made your decision?”
“Does it matter?”
“Of course it matters! I do not understand you. Are you not willing . . . do you not share the enthusiasm of the others? What did you discover in Paris?”
Lufbery saw the flash of frustration on Thenault’s face, had not heard him raise his voice in a long time. “Captain, is it your intention to take me out of the air?”
The question seemed to surprise Thenault. “No, of course not.”
“Well, that is the intention of the American Air Service. Paris? What I discovered is that they have an office waiting for me. My own desk, just like this one. They even offered me a secretary, some eighteen-year-old cadaver who’s too consumptive to carry a rifle. Do you understand, Captain? An office.”
Thenault rubbed his chin, looked down, stared at the desk. “I do not understand, Mr. Lufbery. It is all very curious.”
“I don’t find it curious, Captain. I find it infuriating. And I’m not alone. How many of the others feel the same way?”
Thenault looked up at him now. “A few. Most of them are expecting to fly; some will serve in different ways. I understand Mr. Johnson has accepted an instructor’s position at the American center at Tours. Mr. Parsons is still on leave, so I do not know his decision. Some intend to remain here until a final decision is reached about the escadrille’s status.” He paused. “Perhaps your command feels you are more useful for what you have already accomplished. I do not wish to embarrass you, Mr. Lufbery, but more than any man here, you are a hero. You represent something the young pilots can look up to. I don’t know why else they would assign you to . . . an office.”
Lufbery could see the doubts on Thenault’s face, thought, He doesn’t even believe that himself.
“Captain, I know of no good reason why I should give up flying just to become . . . what? A symbol?”
Thenault thought a moment, poured another glass of wine, saw that Lufbery’s glass was still full.
“Mr. Lufbery, I do not claim to understand Americans. Even though you were a child of France, you know what it is to be American, you have experienced the differences between us. All that I know of America comes from all of you. This escadrille was created by men who left their homes and families and traveled to France possibly to lose their lives. Why? To protect my country. Every day I watched you take your aeroplanes into the sky, wondering if you would return. I do not have to tell you how often your friends did not return. But still you fly. All of you. Not one of you quit; not one of you chose to return home because of what you saw here. I understand fear, Mr. Lufbery. There are few soldiers in France who have not witnessed the death of a friend. I know what you feel when you climb into your aeroplane, what it does to your insides when you see a Boche in the air. How many of you were wounded, how many aeroplanes were shot to splinters, how many times have you felt the Boche on your tail, knowing that he has only one thought, one purpose: to kill you.” Thenault took a drink, and Lufbery saw a quiver in the man’s hand. “And still . . . you fly. I don’t know what to call that, Mr. Lufbery. What is your word? Guts? No, that is not sufficient. When I took command here, I was encouraged by the optimism of Dr. Gros, by Mr. Prince and Mr. Thaw. Their enthusiasm was entertaining to me, such men who dream of changing the world. But, to be