To the Last Man - Jeff Shaara [31]
“Not so much during the day, mind you, but . . . well, no one else is here. He winked at Lufbery now. “If they were, this bottle would quickly disappear. It is a curious thing. You Americans have an astounding capacity for alcohol.”
The glasses were filled, and Lufbery sipped the powerful tonic, felt his face curling from the aroma. DeLaage laughed, said, “My own private stock. Quite a treat, I promise you. Most of these fellows seem happy with anything the villagers provide. A Frenchman should take pride in his country’s spirits. Regrettably, it requires more than patriotism to swallow some of what inhabits the cellars hereabout. Have you received word of your promotion?”
Lufbery did not expect the question.
“Um, no, sir.”
“Soon, I promise. Once this unit was established, it was merely a formality before all of you were granted the rank of sergeant. A small token of appreciation. Some would say very small. However, there are other rewards as well. Bill Thaw is already a sergeant, his papers coming through this morning. He doesn’t know yet. Mr. Rockwell should be as well. Headquarters is determined to reward success. With Mr. Rockwell’s confirmed kill, he will soon receive promotion to adjutant, the equivalent to your, um, sergeant-major, I suppose.”
Lufbery could sense that DeLaage knew far more of what was happening around him than the mechanics.
“Is Mr. Rockwell all right? Are his injuries severe?”
“Oh, you heard! No, far worse in appearance. Cut up his face rather badly. The doctors spent some time just picking glass out of him. The captain ordered him to the hospital, but I am confident Mr. Rockwell will return quickly.”
Lufbery glanced down at his bag, said, “Is there room for me here in this house?”
“Oh, certainly! You will room with Norman Prince. Fine fellow. Top of that stairway, to the right.”
Lufbery glanced up the narrow stairs, reached down for his bag, and DeLaage said, “Your record says that you were born in France.”
“Yes, Clermont-Ferrand.”
“Ah yes, beautiful down there.”
“My father is American. I became an American citizen several years ago. Is there anything else, sir?”
“Forgive me for mentioning this, Mr. Lufbery, but I was quite familiar with Marc Pourpe. He was an inspiration to many young men, including myself. Flying was something new to this world, and I was in awe of his skills. You were close, eh?”
Lufbery did not speak of Pourpe often, chose his words, said, “He taught me how to fly. He taught me everything I know about aeroplanes. His death was very . . . difficult.”
“I apologize, Mr. Lufbery. It is not my place to open such a wound.”
“He is the reason I am here, sir. There is no apology for that. The finest man I ever knew is dead because of this war.”
“He is your inspiration, then? How fortunate that you hold something positive from his loss. Tragedy destroys some men, steals their will to fight. I have seen it in this army, from the beginning of the war. When a man loses a friend, he has a choice to make. He can lose himself in mourning, or he can fight on.”
“I have every intention of fighting on. It is all I care about.”
DeLaage studied him, nodded slowly. “Revenge can be a powerful tonic.” He held up his glass. “Like the strongest brandy.”
Lufbery thought a moment, did not like the word. “I would not call it revenge. Marc Pourpe was a man who had a passion for life. He never wasted a single day with mundane concerns; he never complained about the trivial. Every sunrise meant the start of some new adventure. Even this war . . . when he learned of it, he was scheduled to begin a new flying tour of the Orient. But of course, he would not turn his back on his country, so he volunteered immediately with the Aeronautique Militaire.”
“Yes, I recall. It was in the newspapers.”
“The newspapers. When he was killed, they came to me, his mechanic, had to know every detail. I had nothing to tell them. His death had meaning to me that they would not understand.” He paused,