To the Last Man - Jeff Shaara [204]
Issoudun was south of Paris, and the new home of the primary training center for the supposedly massive influx of new American pilots. The facilities themselves covered an enormous piece of ground, a thousand acres of open fields and hangars, low buildings honeycombed with classrooms and windowless offices, none more oppressing than the one he occupied now.
He had accepted Thenault’s challenge, but he could still not muster any enthusiasm for his future. There was no home for him any more comfortable than the cockpit of his SPAD, and at Issoudun, he was dismayed to learn that the Americans had yet to secure any aircraft at all. Even if the men now in charge of building the Air Service were aware of the experience he was offering them, they had no way to carry that into the air.
There had been another dramatic change for him as well, something unexpected that had nearly caused him to change his mind about leaving Thenault and the escadrille’s base at La Noblette. When Lufbery was ordered to Issoudun, he had been told that there would be no place for the lion cubs. Those pilots who still remained at La Noblette had tearfully accepted that the only option was to turn Whiskey and Soda over to the Paris zoo. It was one of the most difficult farewells Lufbery had ever endured.
He began his reconnaissance of the desktop yet again, found a small glimmer of inspiration by noticing a bit of carving he had not yet seen. He focused on the variety of gouges for a moment, tried to picture the various artists, some minor officials, made so desperate by the insufferable boredom of their particular position as to assault this piece of furniture. He looked by his right elbow, saw the familiar name, small block letters: MAURICE. He had spent long minutes in speculation, wondered now, was it some tribute to the man’s supervisor, the name of the demon responsible for sentencing some free spirit to a life of despair behind this wooden prison? Of course, it could be the man’s own name, a brief display of vanity. No, that would make no sense. Lufbery ran his finger over the dull edges of the carving, thought, No sane man whose years were spent behind this oaken monstrosity would have any vanity left in his soul. His mind brightened at another possibility. Perhaps it is the name of a brandy, or even better, some obscure cognac, a symbol of the man’s longing, the only sanctuary the poor soul could find after a long day sitting here.
He had squeezed the last remnant of humor from his daydreaming, sat back, felt the square ribs of the chair cutting into him. He twisted slightly, tried to use the chair back to scratch the unreachable places, felt more pain than relief. He abandoned the effort, leaned forward again, his arms resting on the desktop. He looked up now, scanned the bare drab stains on the walls. On the first day, he had tried to pass the time finding shapes in the oily stains, like a child staring at white puffs of clouds, seeing the faces of animals. But that too was exhausted, and he focused now on the only other distraction in the room. Beside the closed door was a small painting, hanging crookedly, a girl holding a basket of faded flowers. He realized now it wasn’t the flowers that were faded, it was the entire painting, matching the muted color of the walls. The painting had been hung just beside the door frame, and he saw now, if the door was opened, the painting would be hidden. Of course, the painting must have been someone’s private piece of heaven, hidden from the rest of the office, from those people out there. It had to mean that whoever hung it there kept his door