To the Last Man - Jeff Shaara [41]
Lufbery was impressed as he watched Thaw prepare the fish, a sizzling pan awash in generous amounts of butter and garlic. Lufbery had completed his work with the mushrooms as well, more garlic and more butter, the maid silently fuming that the two amateur chefs had wiped her larder clean. When they were finally ready to make their presentation, she had followed, surprised in spite of herself that even though these two Americans had left her kitchen in complete shambles, the dinner they had prepared was actually edible.
The men had gathered, and Lufbery held the platter of mushrooms in one hand, removed empty bottles of wine from the table with the other. He set his platter down now, waited while Thaw did the same. The groans and murmurs grew, and Thaw beamed at him from the far end of the long table, said, “See? I told you they would approve! The French aren’t the only ones who can cook!”
More wine was poured, and Lufbery sat, waited for the inevitable congratulations, saw forks ripping into Thaw’s heaping mound of fish. Beside him, Rockwell leaned close to the dark steaming mass of mushrooms, said, “Uh . . . what we got here?”
Lufbery puffed up, said, “France’s finest bounty. Enjoy!”
“Hmm. Nope, I’ll just have the fish.”
Lufbery tried to ignore Rockwell’s lack of southern graciousness, moved the platter toward Prince, who seemed to recoil.
“Thanks, Luf, but I try not to take unnecessary risks. You sure these are the, um, eating kind?”
Rockwell seemed pleased to have some support for his doubts, said, “I knew a fellow once. Ate a mushroom and dropped dead, facedown into his soup.”
Lufbery saw the faces of the others now, the frowning insults to his skill, had not expected to be questioned.
“I assure you . . . I am quite capable of identifying—”
DeLaage reached out, grabbed the platter, said, “I have confidence, Mr. Lufbery. Gentlemen, what you decline I shall enjoy.”
The portions were divided, the Americans diving into the fish, the Frenchmen spooning out great heaps of Lufbery’s mushrooms, while behind him, the maid mumbled low curses in the kitchen.
THEY HAD DISCUSSED ADDING SOME ADORNMENT TO THE PLANES, something appropriate for the American Escadrille, something to distinguish them from the French. There had been only one good suggestion, and they had all agreed it was the perfect American symbol. Once the planes were adorned, every other squadron, friend or enemy, would know that these Nieuports belonged to the Americans.
They had found the painter in Bar-le-Duc, an old man whose shaking hands had stilled with the grasp of his brushes. Now his job was done, and the old man stood back, waited for the compliments. Each pilot studied the old man’s work, the perfectly crafted portrait of an Indian chief in full headdress on the fuselage of each plane. They moved closer now, eyeing the careful attention to detail. Thenault said, “Anyone have any objections?”
They all shook their heads, and Rockwell reached out, probed with his finger, said, “When will it be dry? Can we fly now?”
Thenault translated the question to the man, who shrugged, and Thenault said, “Once you fly, the paint will dry quickly. Perhaps we should find out, eh?”
JULY 30, 1916
The patrol had gone out, DeLaage leading four of them in an escort mission to protect a squad of French observers. Lufbery sat on the ground near his plane, wiped sweat from his eyes with his sleeve, ran his fingers through the metal box of bullets. He plucked one out, looked at it closely, thought, Rust. Damn it all. He tossed it aside into a growing pile beside him, retrieved another. Rockwell was there now, said, “What are you doing?”
Lufbery didn’t look up, wiped a bullet with a polishing cloth, slipped it gently into the Lewis drum.
“These damned guns jam too easily. I’m finding out why. Some of these bullets are junk. Look here.” He pointed to the pile of rejects. “Some of them have bulges, some are showing rust. Some are just plain bent.”
Rockwell knelt