To the Last Man - Jeff Shaara [29]
LUFBERY WALKED ALONG THE SINGLE-LANE ROAD, COULD SEE A ROW of odd buildings, barnlike structures, massive sheets of canvas for walls. He stepped out onto a wooden bridge, crossed over a wide ditch, a trickle of muddy water flowing underneath. He was close to the soft-sided structures now, could see that out in front, the ground was a flat grassy plain, and beyond, there were trees and low hills. He listened, expected to hear something of motors, heard only silence, and the dull tramp of his boots on the hard dusty road.
He moved between two of the canvas buildings, heard voices now, French. He stepped out in front of the buildings, was surprised to see they weren’t buildings at all. The front side of each canvas shelter was open, and he realized, Of course, these are hangars. He walked out in front of one, empty and cavernous, saw a puddle of grease, the familiar debris of aeroplanes. He kept moving, followed the voices toward the great open maw of another hangar. He saw the men gathered in the center of the hangar, surrounding a plane, a ragged Nieuport 11. They saw him now, one man pulling a pistol from his belt.
“You! What are you doing here?”
He held one hand in the air, eased the bag from his shoulder, let it drop to the ground.
“I am Corporal Raoul Lufbery. I have orders to report here. Is this the American Escadrille?”
He scanned their uniforms, five men, no officers, dirty hands and greasy shirts. One man stepped away from the plane, moved toward him, appraising.
“Lufbery? They’ve been expecting you. I’m LeBlanc, chief mechanic. Welcome to the One twenty-four.”
The man was matter-of-fact, still appraising him, and Lufbery saw the pistol disappear. He looked at the plane now, ripped fabric, broken wing struts, a pool of oil spreading beneath the motor.
“What happened to this one?”
LeBlanc backed away, waved him forward, said, “See for yourself. You flown the fighters before?”
Lufbery moved closer to the plane, could see more than rips in the cloth, saw small round holes punched through, both wings, down the side, the tail shredded, one side barely attached.
“Bombers. I flew the Nieuports in training.”
“Well, Corporal, this is something you didn’t see in training. Shot to pieces, this one. He was lucky to make it back. Damned Boche bullet shattered his windscreen, busted up his face pretty bad. He’ll be in hospital for a few days.”
Lufbery had memorized the names, the first seven pilots of the American Squadron. He was the eighth. He saw jagged glass in front of the cockpit, all that was left of the windscreen.
“Who? May I know?”
LeBlanc was down on one knee, running his hand beneath the motor housing.
“No hole. Can’t find the oil leak. We’ll have to take her apart. Dammit.” He looked up at Lufbery now, said, “Corporal Rockwell. He made our first kill, you know.”
“I had heard, yes.”
“Made another one too, but he couldn’t get confirmation. The Boche bastard made it back behind his own lines.”
Kiffin Rockwell’s success had come just four days earlier, the first confirmed victory for the American Squadron, and in Paris, the newspapers had already shouted the story. But the lack of confirmation was something all the fighter squadrons had to contend with. Early in the war, pilots on both sides were claiming victories every time they flew, every puff of smoke from an enemy plane counting as a kill. Now, the victory had to be confirmed by another source, usually an infantry observation post, someone on the ground who had actually witnessed the enemy plane going down. Even if a pilot had watched his adversary crash, his word alone, or even the word of his fellow pilots, would not do.
Lufbery moved closer to the damaged Nieuport, ran his hand over the fabric, put a finger into one of the holes. Beside him, LeBlanc cursed, slid under the nose of the plane, stared up into the motor. “Excuse us, Corporal. We have some work to do here.”
“If I may ask . . . where are the pilots?