To the Last Man - Jeff Shaara [32]
“And you shall have your opportunities, Mr. Lufbery. All that is required of you here is that you fly well, that you fight hard, and that you behave like a man. I understand your desire to kill the enemy, but I must mention that Captain Thenault and I require absolute obedience when we are on patrols.” He laughed now. “Some of you Americans seem convinced you can take on all of Germany in your one little Nieuport. I promise you, if you allow us to lead you, this squadron will enjoy a great deal of success.”
Lufbery downed the last bit of brandy, looked down at his bag again, and DeLaage said, “Of course! You are probably tired. Go up to your room. The others should return from their patrol at any time. I know that Captain Thenault is anxious to meet you.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Lufbery picked up the bag, began to climb the steps, heard the clatter at the front door, a breathless voice, “Sir! They’re back! Sergeant Thaw is down! He did not return! They say he crashed in the combat area!”
“Did he survive?”
“We don’t know, sir. The captain is already driving to the front!”
DeLaage followed the man out the door, the house suddenly empty, silent. Lufbery stood on the steps, stared down at the empty foyer, the front door open slightly, swinging slowly closed. He turned, moved slowly up the stairs, thought, So, it has begun.
HE HAD THOUGHT OF WAITING AT THE HOUSE, BUT THE SILENCE was awful. Once his bag was emptied, he could not just sit. After several long minutes of staring out the window, his patience snapped shut. In one quick motion, he was down the stairs, out into the dusty road, and on his way to the airfield.
He moved up behind the canvas hangars, heard many voices this time, could already smell the exhaust, the spent gasoline of the returning planes. He moved out in front, saw a crowd of men, some of them mechanics. But there were others as well, a tight circle of men, animated, the voices growing louder. Lufbery moved closer, could hear the words now, one man, the uniform of a captain, a heavy French accent.
“Do you wish to fly? It is that simple! I will not have this!”
The captain’s fury was directed at one man, the others standing back just a step, allowing the man to endure the full brunt of the officer’s rage. There was silence for a long moment, and Lufbery could see the captain’s face now, the color of Bordeaux wine.
“Well, Mr. Chapman?”
“Sir, I believed you did not see the enemy. I could not allow them to pass without a look.”
“A look! Mr. Chapman, you broke formation against my orders! You attacked a squadron of enemy planes without any investigation! Your outrageous behavior nearly cost the life of your comrade!”
Lufbery stayed back, could see the face of the guilty pilot, recognized the name, Chapman. Victor Chapman was young, early twenties, and far taller than any of the men around him. He seemed to bend under the weight of the captain’s dressing-down. Behind him, the other men were silent, no one even suggesting a smile. They began to notice Lufbery now, one man pointing, the perfect excuse to interrupt the captain’s relentless lecture.
“Sir. The new man.”
The captain turned abruptly, and Lufbery could see he was about his own age, wore the same tight moustache as DeLaage. Lufbery felt the stares from all of them, said, “Sorry to interrupt. I am Raoul Lufbery. I was assigned—”
“Good!” The captain moved close to him, glanced back to the others. “Yes, good! He should hear this as well! Mr. Lufbery, I am Captain Georges Thenault, your commanding officer. Some of these men do not yet seem to recognize my authority. We nearly lost a man today because one of your fellow pilots decided to play cowboy. The fight he got us into could have sent us all to the ground.”
Lufbery could see the guilt on Chapman’s face, the man clearly aware of what he had done. Chapman seemed to welcome Thenault’s change of