To the Last Man - Jeff Shaara [205]
The door opened suddenly, jarring his thoughts, and he saw the starched uniform, the familiar pimply face of the young sergeant.
“Good morning, sir! You’ll be pleased about this! I wasn’t sure anyone remembered we were here, and then, look here! Major Gray sent word he will be arriving at nine o’clock. Just a few minutes now.”
Lufbery looked at the man without expression, said, “Why will I be pleased about that?”
“Well, sir, it means they found something for you to do! Besides, sir, there’s something about officers that brightens up the place. They bring so much authority. Makes me feel part of something important. Surely, sir, you know what I mean.”
There was the sound of a door out beyond the office, and the sergeant vanished in a rush, voices now filling the outer room. Lufbery stared at the vacant doorway, said aloud, “I have no idea what you mean.”
The major was there now, a man not much older than the sergeant, a skinny runt of a man with his hat pulled firmly down on his forehead. He marched into the office, and Lufbery waited for the inevitable, the whining voice that cut a deep slice into Lufbery’s brain.
“Mr. Loverbee, the thought occurred to me this morning that your experience could be put to good use. You have some paper, yes?”
“No.”
“Sergeant! Bring a stack of writing paper.”
The sergeant appeared at the door, said, “Excuse me, sir, but should I also bring a writing instrument?”
Gray scanned Lufbery’s desktop, seemed disappointed at the barren landscape. “Certainly, Sergeant.”
“Should I bring a pencil or a pen, sir?”
“Which do we have in greater supply?”
The sergeant hesitated, said, “I best go see, sir.”
The major stared at the blank wall above Lufbery’s head, seemed lost in thought for a moment. He nodded now, said, “That was very good, you know. The man’s using his head.” He looked at Lufbery now, as though seeing him for the first time. “You’re not used to this, I’m betting. There’s more to being in the army than just flying around the countryside. I don’t cherish the thought, mind you.”
Lufbery stared at the man through a growing tightness in his brain. Have you ever cherished a thought? He imagined the man suddenly exploding into nothingness in front of him, fought the temptation to make it happen.
“What thought do you cherish, Major Gray?”
“Training you! Scraping away all this . . . Frenchness. From what I’ve seen of you former pilots, there’s a remarkable lack of discipline. Not sure how that sort of thing was ever allowed. It won’t happen again, I can assure you. Not here! Every day that passes new pilots are arriving, men who are here because America wants them here! In a few weeks, these men will darken the skies over Germany!”
Lufbery felt his brain curl into a ball. That phrase again.
Gray pointed at him. “Some advice for you, Mr. Loverbee. Just because the army has commissioned you a major does not make you an officer in my book! I checked. Your commission is dated January tenth. Mine dates from the first. According to regulations I am your superior officer. Under my command, if you expect to share any of the privileges of rank, you must earn it! At this facility, we will teach men who have never seen an aeroplane not only how to fly their machine, but how to turn themselves and their craft into a single instrument of deadly force. At Issoudun, the Air Service must first mold the weapons that will make us successful. I want to see some cooperation, and some evidence that you have come here to do things the correct way! Put aside all that you have learned from these Frenchmen, and in time, you’ll do quite well here.”
The sergeant appeared, held a thick stack of yellow paper, a handful of writing instruments. “Sir! I thought it best you should decide, sir!”
Gray wagged his finger at Lufbery, a knowing smile on his face. “You see? Discipline!” He turned to the sergeant, examined the various pens and pencils, and after a long moment, he held one up, then pointed to Lufbery’s desk.
“Take this one. Put the paper down there, Sergeant.