To the Last Man - Jeff Shaara [216]
NEAR VILLENEUVE, FRANCE—MARCH 1918
HE SCANNED THE HORIZON, GLANCED ABOVE AND BELOW, HIS EYES TUNED to any movement, any sign that the enemy was close. They were flying east, into the sun, were passing over the German lines now. Far below, the flashes of fire began, and he held tight to the stick, waited for the antiaircraft shells to reach them. The first bursts erupted down to his right, puffs of black smoke, but the aim was too low, and he looked out toward the other two planes, raised his hand, waved slowly: this way.
Lufbery banked the Nieuport, and they followed, and immediately another series of black bursts filled the sky, closer, the gunners on the ground making the adjustments. But Lufbery knew the routine too well to give them the time, waved another hand signal, banked the plane again. The ground fire was increasing, and he felt the Nieuport rock, the shock from a blast only a few yards below him. He held the stick steady, looked out to both of his companions, saw them staring at him, steady as well, keeping their planes in the formation. He nodded so they could see, yes, that’s right. It’s just a little bumpy. Use your head and they won’t hurt you.
There was another cluster of black puffs far below, off to the south, a formation of two-seaters paralleling his course. The Germans gunners had turned their attention to a more immediate threat, French bombers, and Lufbery felt himself relaxing, hoped the pilots on either side of him would do the same. The lessons he had taught them were rolling through his mind, stay focused, scan the skies, keep close in formation, no daydreaming. But they had absorbed those lessons for weeks now, and if they had learned, those same words would be rolling through their minds as well.
He turned again, a sweeping circle, did not want to move too far past the German lines. He could see another trio, a mile or more to the north, higher, heading toward the morning sun. Below them, he saw another formation, a wide V, as low as the two-seaters, coming westward. He stared hard, yes, those are Boche. All right, this is far enough. He motioned to the other two, another prearranged signal. Home.
They kept the formation together with surprising precision, the other two Nieuports staying just behind him, on opposite sides of his tail. They were soon on the French side of the lines, and still he scanned the horizon, knew that they could run into a returning Boche patrol, but at least, the sun was behind them now, and they would have the advantage, could make the first move. That move had been well rehearsed, the instructions given to the other two pilots with absolute authority. There would be no confrontation with the enemy. None. No close-up inspections, no flirtations. The pilots were not hard to convince. Their Nieuports didn’t have machine guns.
IT HAD TAKEN THE AMERICAN AIR SERVICE NEARLY A MONTH TO SECURE any usable aircraft, and despite the frustration and anger of his new pilots, Lufbery had made good use of the idle time to instruct them on the ground. He expected them to be overconfident and full of bluster, the same idiotic boastfulness that infected so many of the administrators, the men whose jobs would never require them to fly. But the pilots seemed to understand that if they were going to succeed, they could make good use of the experience of the men who had done this before. Lufbery had been amazed at their attentiveness, not one of them trying to tell him how it should be done. It was such a pleasant contrast to Lufbery’s experience at Issoudun, enduring the men like Major Gray who considered the seasoned veterans to be obstacles to the glorious future of American aviation.
Despite Bill Thaw’s enthusiasm for Lufbery’s new assignment, Lufbery went to Villeneuve