To the Last Man - Jeff Shaara [33]
The name flowed into Lufbery’s mind now, and he said, “Bill Thaw?”
Chapman nodded. “Yep. He was wounded, was able to pancake his plane near the French lines. He’s all right, should be back here tonight.”
Thenault had said his piece to Chapman, held a hand out to Lufbery now, said, “Forgive my temper, Mr. Lufbery. We experienced a problem today.” He looked at Chapman. “I believe it is solved, yes?”
Chapman glanced at the others, said, “Yes. Very sorry.”
The others began to move toward Lufbery, a few sympathetic hands patting Chapman on the back. The introductions began, the names all familiar to Lufbery, the roster he had studied. He felt the warmth of their greetings, saw smiles on each face, even Thenault. DeLaage was there, emerging from the hangar, and Lufbery could see the row of Nieuports behind him, the mechanics tending to each one.
“Ah, Mr. Lufbery! So you have met your comrades. Have you explained your particular talent? Quite unusual, certainly for this group.”
Lufbery wasn’t sure what DeLaage meant.
“No? Well, Mr. Lufbery here is quite the mechanic, isn’t that right?”
Lufbery was embarrassed now, had never thought of himself as having talent at all.
“I was first trained to be a mechanic, before I learned to fly.”
“So, you’re handy with a wrench, eh?”
The voice belonged to Norman Prince, one of the men responsible for the squadron’s birth. Prince was younger than Lufbery had expected, but unlike the baby-faced Chapman, he wore the French-style moustache. Prince laughed now, said, “Don’t tell Kiffin Rockwell. He hates mechanics. Thinks they’re all witches or something.”
The others laughed, obviously agreeing with Prince’s odd description. Lufbery wasn’t sure how to respond, and Prince seemed to read him, said, “He’ll be back here in a couple days. Only man in the squadron who speaks English worse than the captain. Has to be because he’s from Tennessee. Must have learned how to shoot when he was three years old, with some damned squirrel gun or something. He took down our first Boche plane. Our first hero.”
“Yes, I heard.”
Prince continued, seemed to enjoy his own story.
“Rockwell’s a genuine Confederate. I think he believes Germans are just Yankees in disguise. Hates the Boche more than any man alive.” He glanced at Thenault, seemed to test the captain’s mood. “But if the captain here doesn’t let him back in the air before much longer, old Kiffin might begin to hate Frenchmen too. Hell, I have to keep quiet about going to Harvard. He might take a shot or two at me.”
Even Thenault laughed, surprising Lufbery. He could feel the humor in all of them, something shared, could feel the openness extending toward him as well. Prince said to Thenault, “We have a Nieuport for our new man yet?”
Thenault shook his head, said, “Mr. Lufbery, we have only five aeroplanes thus far. We had six.” He glanced at Chapman. “But I have been promised more in a few days. In the meantime, we shall patrol in shifts. Mr. Lufbery, you shall accompany me tomorrow morning.” He looked at the others. “Mr. Prince, Mr. Hall, Mr. Cowdin. We will make the first patrol. Six o’clock is typical for us, Mr. Lufbery.”
“Yes, sir.”
Prince moved close to him, one arm around Lufbery’s shoulders.
“You ready to kill some Germans?”
Lufbery didn’t answer, could see DeLaage looking at him, quiet concern in the Frenchman’s eyes.
DeLaage said, “Mr. Prince, Mr. Lufbery may teach us all how to do that.”
BEHONNE AIRFIELD, FRANCE—JUNE 18, 1916
HE BROUGHT THE PLANE IN SLOWLY, SETTLED ON A CLEAR STRIP of grass, could see DeLaage’s plane already moving toward the hangar. Bert Hall was behind him, circling, and Lufbery eased the nose down, felt the Nieuport settling beneath him in a sinking glide. He flicked the toggle, cut the gasoline to the motor, the prop still spinning, washing him with warm air. The plane now dropped the last couple of feet, bouncing gently over tufts of soft grass. He flipped the switch again, the motor engaging, and