To the Last Man - Jeff Shaara [30]
Another man looked up from the far side of the plane, said, “Flying. Where else might they be?”
At the tail, a man was taping the fabric. “They’ve been out about an hour,” he said, glancing at a watch. “Should be another hour or so.”
LeBlanc was ignoring Lufbery now, said, “Dent in the fuel tank. No hole though. No sigh of a bullet hole in the cowling. Where the hell is the leak?”
Lufbery knelt down beside him, said, “Mind if I have a look?”
“With all respect, Corporal, I’ve never met a pilot yet who didn’t just get in the way. You do your work, and we’ll do ours. We’ll fix this bird if we have to take the whole damned motor apart.”
Lufbery ignored the insult, said, “I agree with you about pilots. Most of them won’t get their hands dirty. However, I have considerable experience with motors. I was a mechanic before I was a pilot.”
“That so? All right then, Corporal Mechanic, five of us can’t find a hole in this damned motor, maybe you can. We figure a fragment of a Boche shell made its way in somehow. The oil drained right out of her.”
“How long did it take?”
LeBlanc looked up at him.
“Couple days. What the hell does that matter? There still has to be a hole. We came out here this morning to patch up the body, and there was a puddle.”
Lufbery bent low, turned over on his back, slid himself beside LeBlanc. He reached up, closed his eyes, worked his fingers up and around, felt his way through the motor’s shell.
“Well, Corporal? Where’s the hole?”
Lufbery eased his hand out of the motor, slid out from under the plane. He saw a rag, wiped his hands, said, “There isn’t one.”
There were low laughs, LeBlanc emerging from beneath the plane.
“Feel free to assist us again, Corporal, anytime.”
“The oil isn’t leaking from a hole. The motor’s been jarred. The gasket seals have cracked.”
LeBlanc looked at the others, then at Lufbery, said, “Cracked? Corporal, every one of us has checked the bolts. That motor’s sealed up tight as a drum.”
“No, actually, it isn’t. Each cylinder has been jarred.” He looked at the prop now, one blade with a long thin gash. “There. The imbalance in the prop caused the motor to jar, to shake just enough that it cracked the gaskets. The bolts are tight, but the oil is seeping right through the gaskets. That’s why it took two days to make a puddle. You’ll have to pull the cylinders, put new gaskets in.”
They stared at him in silence, and he wiped his hands again with the rag, said, “I should find my quarters. Are the pilots billeted here?”
LeBlanc pulled himself up now, said, “Um, no. There’s a château on the way to the village, number forty-five. A short walk. Lieutenant DeLaage should be there. He’s the second in command. Do you need help with your baggage?”
Lufbery moved toward the bag, hoisted it up on his shoulder, said, “No. I’ll find it. Thank you.”
He walked out toward the open field, stopped, thought a moment, then turned, saw the mechanics still watching him.
“I do not wish to offend, but if it is acceptable to you, I should like to assist with the preparation of any aeroplane that I fly.”
LeBlanc shrugged his shoulders, said, “By all means, Corporal.”
“Thank you.”
Lufbery turned again, moved out into the gray sunlight, pulled his bag up higher on his shoulder. He rounded the corner of the hangar, moved back toward the one-lane road, could hear the talk again, the brusque voice of LeBlanc, “All right, let’s pull these cylinders. I believe it’s the gaskets. . . .”
Lufbery could not help a smile.
HE DID NOT EXPECT A HANDSHAKE, LIEUTENANT DELAAGE GREETING him with a wide smile, and perfect English. DeLaage was a younger man, a neat cropped moustache, common among the French officers.
“Corporal Lufbery! Welcome! Most delighted to meet you! I trust your journey was not difficult.”
Lufbery held a salute, and DeLaage waved it aside, said, “Nonsense. I don’t hold to such formality here. Captain Thenault a bit more, perhaps. But I assure you, I am no different than any one of you. We are all here to fly, yes?”
The man’s smile was infectious, and Lufbery responded with a smile