To the Last Man - Jeff Shaara [44]
He simmered for a long few minutes, stared ahead at the spires of Bar-le-Duc, banked the plane in the familiar landing pattern. He brought the Nieuport straight in, bounced hard, a sloppy landing. He felt defiant, was ready for them, was surprised to see them coming, pilots and mechanics, hands in the air. He looked for Thenault, saw him now, expected some sort of tirade. Hell, you told me I could go. I don’t want to hear any damned dressing-down. He shut off the motor, the plane rolling to a stop, and they were around him now, smiles and cheers, men slapping the sides of the plane. Thenault ran up beside him, shouted, “They saw you! The plane fell inside our lines! You are confirmed!”
He pulled the helmet off, stood up in the cockpit, “What? Who?”
“The infantry observers. They saw the German go down in the woods. They saw the whole thing! They identified you from the Indian on the aeroplane! They telephoned just a few minutes ago!”
Thaw was there now, held out a beefy hand.
“Congratulations, Luf!”
Rockwell was smiling at him, said, “I told them about your bullets. I bet you didn’t misfire a one of them!”
Thenault stepped back, made room for Lufbery to climb from the plane. He jumped down, and they were on him now, hands on his back, cheers and smiling faces. He moved with them toward the hangar, heard all the congratulations, the questions, knew he would tell the story all night long, thought, Hell, I killed two Germans. After all, isn’t that the point?
IN THE NEXT WEEK, LUFBERY’S FORTUNES CHANGED DRAMATICALLY, wiping away the months of frustration. The day after his first confirmed kill, he scored again, another two-seater. Within a week he had shot down two more. The Aeronautique Militaire was quick to reward the sudden success of the American pilot, and Lufbery was astonished to receive the French Croix de Guerre, and the Medal Militaire. If the American Escadrille hoped to receive attention back home, some recognition that might inspire more Americans to take up the cause, Lufbery had opened the door. In a few short weeks, a copy of The New York Times was sent to Bar-le-Duc, a headline that regaled its readers with all manner of heroic exploits, some of them embarrassingly exaggerated. Lufbery had suddenly put them on the map. But the pilots always welcomed the excuse to tease one of their own. To their gleeful delight the Times had referred to him as “Loveberry.”
NEAR KOVEL, RUSSIA—AUGUST 1916
HIS BOMBS HAD MISSED THE BRIDGE, BUT HE HAD NOT THOUGHT of blaming the observer. His attention had been drawn instead to the chaos that spread below him, and he watched in amazement as an entire regiment of Cossack cavalry scattered away from the river. Men were tumbling from horses, their mounts running wildly to escape the strange horror of this great terrifying machine. His observer was patting him on the back, and Richthofen nodded, waggled the wings, the signal that the supply of bombs had been exhausted, the machine gun nearly empty. He swung the plane around in a wide arc, one last look at the Cossacks below, a crowd of Russian infantry gathering upriver, some of the men uselessly firing their rifles in his general direction. He paid more attention to the bridge, untouched, his bombs either splashing harmlessly in the river, or punching black smoking holes in the riverbanks. It didn’t matter if the fault lay with the observer, or with his own flying. The target had been missed. He clenched his fist, would probably not come out this way for a while, knew he had missed his one opportunity. It would be the observer’s job to make the report to headquarters, and the man would certainly paint a glowing portrait: hundreds of enemy troops sent into panic. Headquarters would be pleased, would judge the mission a success. But Richthofen had missed the bridge. The hunter had failed to find his prey.
He had been a hunter all his life, had spent most