To the Last Man - Jeff Shaara [55]
PARIS—SEPTEMBER 1916
THE SQUADRON HAD BEEN ORDERED TO LEAVE THEIR HANGARS AT Behonne, and relocate to Luxeuil-des-Bains, closer to the Swiss/German border. Luxeuil was the field where the American Escadrille had first organized, and as a base of flying operations, it was far more sophisticated and much larger than Behonne. The takeoff area was nearly two miles along, and because of the sheer size of the open ground, Luxeuil accommodated several flying squadrons, including a number of British units. But there would be an even more significant change. When the Americans vacated Behonne, they left their Nieuport 11s behind. At Luxeuil, they received their new aircraft, the Nieuport 17. The new plane was larger than the Eleven, with a more powerful motor, thus could climb higher and faster than the tiny bebes. Except for Lufbery, most of the pilots paid less attention to the mechanical specifics than to the armament the new planes carried. Finally, they would have the interrupter gear. Even though Lufbery was happily anticipating dirtying his hands with the grease of the new motors, he knew, as they all did, that the antiquated Lewis gun had been replaced by a weapon that could match what they faced from the Germans. And the new guns were belt-fed. Lufbery had every intention of continuing his rigid inspection of his bullets, would still clean and polish every one. But he shared the grateful relief of every man in the squadron, that the nightmare of struggling with the ridiculous drum of the Lewis gun was a thing of the past.
The road to Luxeuil led southward out of Bar-le-Duc, but the squadron first traveled west, to Paris. The holiday had been granted them by the Aeronautique Militaire, in recognition of their fine work, but was also to allow time for the final preparation and delivery of the Nieuport 17s. Once in the city, each man began to explore his desired form of recreation, most of it in the enormous variety of bars and nightclubs that surrounded their hotel. After a week that seemed far too brief, they gathered together again, bleary eyes and vacant smiles, some already talking of their adventures, others struggling in the fog of a deadly hangover to recall exactly what it was they had done.
LUFBERY SPOTTED A CHAIR ON THE FAR SIDE OF THE HOTEL LOBBY. He moved that way, tried not to step in rhythm to the sharp pounding in his head. He reached the chair, sat slowly, stared blindly at the people who passed. The hotel was busy, but Paris could not hide from the effects of the war, and Lufbery had noticed that many of the guests were foreigners, diplomats and various government types. The uniforms were there as well, and they caught his eye now, brought him into focus. He watched a small gathering, engulfed in a cloud of cigar smoke, saw older men whose chests were blanketed by the adornments of their nations’ prestige. Most every uniform he had seen had been accompanied by medals, a great many medals. Lufbery studied the men, heard bits of a language he had not heard in a long time, thought, Greek perhaps. Wouldn’t be Turkish. Not here. His brain was weaving in a nonsensical dance, and he lost interest in the costumes of the dignitaries, saw Rockwell suddenly appear, looking as unsteady as Lufbery. Rockwell saw him now, made a feeble wave, crossed the lobby.
“Good morning.