To the Last Man - Jeff Shaara [43]
He was heading south now, back toward Behonne, dropped the nose slightly, thought, Well, hell, might as well go home. He scanned the sky above him, instinct, then looked below, the sun slightly behind him. He saw a single reflection, far below, his heart suddenly leaping in his chest. He nosed the plane down steeper, a single aeroplane, moving west. Could be French, an observer, heading home. He thought, Not much to see today.
He turned the Nieuport to move in directly behind the plane, could see now it was large, thought, It’s an observer, certainly. Two-seater. The wings were flecked in camouflage, and his heart jumped again. In the midst of the camouflage were two black crosses.
He was still nosing downward, gaining rapidly on the larger plane, both of them now moving through the smoky haze. He gripped the stick with one tight fist, glanced up at the Lewis gun, the drum of bullets, polished and perfect. He focused on the man in the back, the observer, could see a machine gun hanging to one side, the man not seeing him, never suspecting anyone else was up here with him. The Nieuport was straight behind the two-seater now, and he tried to measure the distance, a hundred yards, less, closer still. His heart was rattling hard in his chest, and he reached up, felt for the Lewis gun, pulled up just slightly on the stick, the Nieuport rising, then he brought the nose back down, the observer standing, seeing him now, reaching for the machine gun. Lufbery squeezed the trigger, the Lewis gun chattering above him. The observer was down in the cockpit, the German plane twisting to one side now, and Lufbery stayed close, his finger hard on the trigger, emptied the drum, the number in his mind, forty-seven, forty-seven. . . .
The two-seater was coming apart in front of him, began to spin, black smoke trailing in a corkscrew behind it. Lufbery followed, but the plane was falling rapidly. He pushed the Nieuport into a steep dive, could see nothing but smoke and haze, glanced at the altimeter, the plane now dropping below four thousand feet. He eased up on the stick, then banked hard, could still see the twist of black smoke, the German pilot out of control. He dove again, and now he saw it, the bright flash on the ground, and he brought the Nieuport into a wide circle, saw thick woods, flames erupting through the tops of the trees.
He leveled the plane, realized his hands were shaking. He stared at the fire, tried to see something else, anything, some details. He stared ahead now, began to feel sick, thought, There is nothing to see. You killed two men. I will never know if they died from the bullets, or from the fire. Should it matter? I hope it was the bullets. Forty-seven. Should have been enough. They were so close. The voice in his mind was manic, trying to distract him from what he had seen. He took a long deep breath, let the sharp wind from the prop push him back against the seat. The stirring in his gut was calmer now, and he focused on his job, looked at the compass, turned the plane to the south. He searched for landmarks, suddenly felt a cold shock. He looked up, searched the sky above him, turned as far as he could in the seat, looked behind him, banked the plane hard, as if to catch the surprise of the enemy on his tail. But there was no one, the sky above him empty. His hands were shaking again, and he said aloud, “Thank God.”
The ground was familiar now, a small shattered village beside a muddy river, a broken and battered church. He knew Behonne was ten miles to the southwest. He began to climb up toward the smoother air, watched the compass turn as he turned. Two of them. I killed two of them.
The sickness had passed, and he began to feel something else, wanted to get back to the field, to see them all, tell them what had happened. It will be a celebration, he thought. Unless they don’t believe me. They must. Surely they know I would not lie. But no one else was here; no one else saw.
He stared ahead, searched the smoky horizon for the field. He was angry now, thought