To the Last Man - Jeff Shaara [218]
He realized the other pilots were still following his example, their motors idling as well, and he cut the power, the silence now giving way to the enthusiastic greetings from the men on the ground. Lufbery climbed slowly from the plane, saw the attention flowing around the two young pilots, saw their expressions, the pure excitement, every moment of the experience fresh in their minds. It had been the same for him, so long ago, climbing out to greet the knowing smile on the face of Marc Pourpe, a moment Lufbery would remember for the rest of his life. But these men would have a different memory, had flown right over the war itself, had seen the awful destruction of no-man’s-land, had even come under fire, the hapless inaccuracy of the antiaircraft guns. He watched them telling the tales, pouring out the adventure to their audiences. He felt an unexpected pride in his students. There was nothing significant about the mission itself, nothing more than an opportunity to gain valuable experience. But they had done everything right, no foolish maneuvering, none of the bull-headed disobedience of Victor Chapman.
Now would come another lesson, and Lufbery waited for the furor around the two men to quiet, said, “Mr. Campbell, Mr. Rickenbacker, we should discuss what you observed. This will be good for all of you.”
Lufbery removed his flying suit, and the two men did the same, each man eyeing the fur boots that Lufbery still treasured, his reward for capturing the German pilots. The men had gathered in a tight half-circle, were quiet now, and Lufbery said, “Comments?”
Rickenbacker spoke first, said, “I was . . . um . . . nervous about the archie. Didn’t expect it to toss the plane about so. Lucky thing we weren’t hit.”
Lufbery smiled at the word, archie, the term the British used for antiaircraft fire. It was the telltale sign that Eddie Rickenbacker had spent time at the training facilities in England.
“Lieutenant Rickenbacker, are you quite certain the Boche missed you?”
Rickenbacker seemed unsure, said, “Well, I suppose, sir. I didn’t feel like I got hit.”
Lufbery moved toward Rickenbacker’s Nieuport, looked along the wings, moved around to the fuselage. He bent low, put a finger out, poked it into a ragged hole just behind the cockpit.
“What do you suppose did this?”
Rickenbacker was close beside him now, and Lufbery heard a low groan. He moved back along the fuselage, saw another, larger hole, several more small ones near the tail.
The men were making their own low sounds now, and Lufbery said, “Every one of those antiaircraft shells is like a bucket of nails. They toss ’em up and let ’em blow all to hell. They don’t do much damage usually.” He looked at Rickenbacker, who was probing the holes, his face a soft shade of white. “But they usually hit something. That’s why you change direction often. Don’t give them time to do any more than sting you. Right, Lieutenant?”
Rickenbacker nodded furiously, and Lufbery said, “Other comments?”
Douglas Campbell had stayed back, quietly inspecting his own plane, said, “Um, sir, I was surprised we didn’t see anyone else up there.”
Rickenbacker seemed relieved for the change of subject, said, “Yes, I was thinking the same thing. Forgive me for saying so, Major, but I was disappointed we didn’t get to see a Boche.”
It was a theme Lufbery had heard so many times before, from nearly every new pilot he had flown with. “I see. Yes, the Boche stayed away from us for the most part. That formation of Albatroses ignored us completely, probably had better things to do. Good thing, since even if we’d been armed, they had us outnumbered five to three. Of course, the SPADs that flew below us would have helped us out. I suspect the Boche were looking for that patrol of observers we passed over no-man’s-land. At least three French two-seaters,