To the Last Man - Jeff Shaara [239]
“Gude, yes, I heard. Not a good idea. He’s never been in a fight.”
Huffer nodded slowly. “I know. But infantry says it’s only a single Boche. Maybe it’s meant to be. The man’s gotta face it sometime.”
Lufbery said nothing, turned away, moved quickly toward the door, and Huffer said, “You going out there?”
Lufbery didn’t look back, pushed through the doorway, said, “Yep.”
He stopped, heard the rumbling closer now, more antiaircraft fire, could see the puffs of smoke, closer than he expected. He heard the whine of a single Nieuport, the motor revving, the familiar sound of takeoff. He cursed to himself, saw a motorcycle parked beside the barracks, jumped on, cranked the starter hard with his foot, the motor spitting to life. He pushed the bike forward, began to roll, saw men at the door, more of the pilots emerging from their rooms, some following him on foot.
The ride to the airfield was short, and he roared around the opening of the hangar, stepped hard on the brake, slid the motorcycle to a stop. The mechanics were already gathering, a few with binoculars, staring up, and Lufbery joined them, said, “Where the hell is he?”
Hands pointed, and Lufbery saw them now, a German two-seater, the untested Gude working his way closer. The German plane seemed to be crippled, and Lufbery listened hard to the uneven rhythm of the motor, thought, Maybe the antiaircraft boys actually hit something. Gude was still climbing, too far away for a fight, but Lufbery heard a new sound now, the faint rattle of machine-gun fire, the Nieuport pouring out its bullets. Lufbery said, “Someone, I need binoculars!”
He felt the glasses pressed into his hand, raised them, found the Nieuport, saw the flashes of fire from Gude’s machine guns. “No, dammit. Too far away! Wait! The bastard’s not going anywhere. You’ll catch him quick enough.” The Nieuport continued to fire its guns, the German plane rolling and bouncing, and Lufbery felt raw frustration spinning into anger at Gude’s inexperience. He turned, said, “Enough of this.”
He looked for his Nieuport, saw it now, the cowling removed, the motor already in pieces. “Damn! Whose bus is ready to fly?”
“One there, sir. Lieutenant Davis.”
Lufbery was already moving, ran to the row of lockers, threw open the door, pulled out his flight suit. He hesitated, listened, heard only the whine of the two motors, thought, Of course, he’s out of ammunition!
He jerked on the boots, and the mechanics were already pushing the Nieuport into position, the men outside the hangar clearing the way. He jumped up, climbed into the cockpit, and the man at the prop said, “The magazine is full, sir. Should we check the guns?”
“No time. Start her up!”
HE SPOTTED GUDE’S NIEUPORT, THE MAN CIRCLING HELPLESSLY, and Lufbery ignored him, pushed his plane into a hard climb. He glanced at the altimeter, four thousand feet, thought, Good, not much room for him to escape. He focused on the horizon, saw puffs of white smoke, the French antiaircraft batteries still taking their shots at the wounded German. He could see the plane now, thought, Albatros . . . two-seater. Yep. Photographer. Well, Boche, here’s a portrait you’ll enjoy.
He was moving up quickly on the German plane, could see it was flying unevenly, the pilot working furiously to keep it straight. There were fragments of wood hanging from one wing, and he nodded. Good, he’s hit. This won’t take long at all.
The Albatros began to roll to one side, trying to escape him, and he followed, measured the distance, the Nieuport gaining rapidly. He could see the observer, the man’s machine gun up, pointing back at him, the German waiting for the right moment, just as Lufbery was. He was within range now, and he saw flashes from the German’s gun, dipped the nose of the Nieuport, dropped quickly beneath the tail of the Albatros, out of the line of fire. The gap was closing, and he waited, felt his own breathing, the hard heaving in his chest, the raw pure excitement, the kill so close.