To the Last Man - Jeff Shaara [42]
“You . . . polishing them too?”
“Damned right.” He stopped now, looked at Rockwell, saw a smile. “Laugh if you want. Until they give us a better machine gun, we have to make do with these. Damned if I’m going get shot to pieces because my gun jams. It happened to Balsley, could happen to any of us.”
Rockwell moved close, reached into the metal box, pulled out a handful of the shiny brass, said, “Hmm. I figured it was the gun, not the shells.”
Lufbery always enjoyed Rockwell’s southern drawl, shook his head now. “Nope. Some of those shells are just garbage. Same problem I have with the motors. I’ve seen parts that wouldn’t work in a child’s toy, and they’re sending ’em to us to keep us in the air.”
Rockwell sat back now, said, “I watched you fiddle with your motor. I always figured it was best not to know about such things.”
Lufbery wiped another bullet with the cloth.
“So they tell me.”
“No, I mean, I think it’s all fine that you know how to fix things. These mechanics seem to appreciate it and all. I figure if I know too much about what keeps these things up in the air, it just gives me something else to worry about. If I hear some strange noise, I tell the mechanic about it. If I’m at ten thousand feet, and I know that the noise means something bad, well, it’ll just scare me.”
Lufbery slid another shell into the drum, leaned back against the wheel of the Nieuport.
“Ignorance is bliss?”
Rockwell smiled. “Suppose so. I’d rather leave it all in God’s hands. If it’s my time, not much I can do about it anyway.”
Lufbery looked again to the metal box, pulled out another shell.
Rockwell stood, said, “The captain said you were going up a little later. By yourself?”
“I want to test my gun, work on some ground targets maybe.”
“Keep an eye out up top. You know what can happen.”
Rockwell moved away, and Lufbery wiped at his brow again, the sweat soaking the collar of his shirt. He examined another shell, tossed it aside, thought, God’s hands. If that makes you happy, not much I can say. I’d rather worship the well-tuned motor and the well-oiled machine gun.
HE ROSE UP THROUGH A DENSE HAZE, A SWIRLING WIND THAT rocked and bounced the plane. The wind was from the north and east, unusual, and the clouds of dust and smoke rose from the great expanse of desolate ground around Verdun. There had been a brief lull in the fighting, and though Lufbery knew nothing of tactics and strategy, he had guessed that both sides were probably drained as much by the heat of the sun as by the heat of the fight.
He headed north, had expected to fly low, but the smoke and glare was blinding him through the goggles. He circled, drove the plane higher, could feel the updrafts from the heat, the plane still rocking, dipping into air pockets made worse by the heat. After a long few minutes, the air was cooler, the motion of the plane smoothing out, the smoke now below him. The sky above was sharp and blue, no clouds anywhere, and he circled again, thought, Hardly the time to test the guns. Not much to shoot at up here.
Lufbery glanced at the altimeter, had passed twelve thousand feet, the chill finding him again, his feet already turning numb. He curled his toes, flexed them, anything to keep the circulation going. As much as he loved flying, the frustration had become constant, so many patrols, with nothing to show for it. He banked hard to the right, could barely see the ground, caught a glimpse of fire, something burning, a narrow stream of black smoke extending westward. It had always been an odd sensation flying over the combat zones, so far removed from so much that was happening below. Even today, he thought, this hot insufferable day, and someone must die, some artilleryman still doing his job, taking aim at what was probably a truck. And some poor jerk, thinking it was safe to drive around in the daylight, that everyone was, what? Taking a holiday? He stared down at the black smoke, shook his head, no, you don’t know what happened, and it’s not for you to ridicule