To the Last Man - Jeff Shaara [27]
“What of you, Poilu? Someone waiting for you, eh?”
The name belonged to all of them, every man in the French army referring to himself and everyone else as poilu. Lufbery saw the young man’s smile fading as he saw the age on Lufbery’s face. “You’re not one of us, eh?”
“I am not a recruit, no.”
The man’s eyes widened.
“A veteran, then!”
The others seem to savor the word, all faces looking to him now. The voices began to trample each other, but the questions were the same: “What have you seen? Where did you fight? Have you been to Verdun?”
He let the questions pour over him, held up a hand, said, “Sorry, I am not infantry. I am a pilot.”
The word seemed to puzzle them, the man in front of him leaning close. “You fly aeroplanes?”
The man laughed, the joke spreading through them all. One man slapped him on the back, nearly jarring Lufbery’s hat off his head. “A pilot! More like a dreamer! Tell me, Poilu, have you seen the angels?”
He did not understand their reaction, said, “I have been assigned to Escadrille Américaine, at Bar-le-Duc.”
The man in front of him seemed genuinely curious now, waved a hand in the air, tried to quiet the others. “American? You don’t sound like an American, Poilu.”
Lufbery felt their innocence, their teasing coming only from their ignorance. These were men who had certainly never seen an aeroplane, or anyone who flew one. But if they were going to Verdun, they would learn much more. Every available flying squadron was relocating closer to the fighting, and the skies above the battlefields were already growing crowded, bombers and observers, and now, the fighter planes that would try to shoot them down.
“I was born in France. My father was American.”
But the young men had no real interest in explanations, and the jokes began again, birds and balloons, men calling out to the bus driver, a small man with dark skin.
“Driver! Take me to Bar-le-Duc as well! I wish to fly with the hawks!”
The jokes faded away, and they were mostly ignoring him now. Lufbery felt the pressure in his back again, pushing him into the window. The bus was silent for a long moment, the men suddenly trapped by the thoughts of the journey, the destination, the fear energizing another round of noise, any distraction to wipe those thoughts away. The bus swerved, stopped abruptly, the man beside Lufbery leaning hard against him, crushing him. The curses began, every man shouting something obscene to the driver, who stood, faced them, his voice barely audible.
“Bar-le-Duc!”
Lufbery strained to stand, and the man beside him leaned away again, silence spreading through the bus. He moved toward the aisle, said, “Permit me. I must get off here.”
The driver broke the silence. “Bar-le-Duc! Now!”
Lufbery reached the front of the bus, saw angry impatience on the driver’s face. He ignored the talk, the laughter around him. But they did not all laugh, and he saw some of them staring at him, innocent curiosity. He was older than any of them by ten years, and as he reached the door he saw the freckled face of a boy, too young to be here, to wear the uniform. But the boy was looking at him with genuine respect.
“Good luck, sir.”
Sir. He wanted to correct the young man, sir is for officers. I am merely a corporal.
“Good luck to you as well, Poilu.”
Another man reached out, surprised Lufbery by taking his arm.
“Sir, what is it like to fly?”
Their was honesty in the young man’s face, and Lufbery heard the angry voice