To the Last Man - Jeff Shaara [56]
Lufbery shook his head, had not thought to look at his watch.
“No idea.”
Lufbery thought of offering Rockwell his chair, but no part of his body seemed willing to move. Rockwell simply sat on the floor beside him, said, “Where is everybody?”
Lufbery fought through the headache, said, “I heard singing. Think it was Prince.”
Rockwell stared down between his knees, said, “I didn’t hear anything.” He looked up now, took a deep breath. “I am somewhat embarrassed, Luf. Have to admit I never did anything like this before.”
“Like what? Have fun?”
Rockwell looked up at him, a goofy, crooked smile. “It was fun, wasn’t it? Did you see that girl? The one who kept buying me champagne?”
“The nurse. Yep, I remember her. From New York, she said. Loves all us heroes.”
Rockwell’s head dropped again, and Lufbery put a hand on his shoulder. “You okay?”
“Not sure I can come back to Paris. Dangerous place.”
Lufbery managed a small laugh. “Why? You paid your bill, didn’t you?”
Rockwell looked up again. “There was a bill?” He laughed as well, said, “No, well, that’s not what I meant. I don’t think my folks would have been too proud of their boy last night. Not the sort of thing they taught us at VMI.”
Lufbery patted Rockwell’s shoulder. “They didn’t teach you how to shoot down German aeroplanes either. Nobody can teach you what to expect in a war.” Lufbery leaned forward now, rubbed his neck, probed the headache. “I had no idea how badly I needed this. Probably everybody in the squad feels the same way. We’ve been at it for five months, without a break. It takes a toll. Look what happened to Cowdin.”
“I know. A shame. Just couldn’t handle it.”
Lufbery had tried to stay clear of Elliot Cowdin, a combative, disagreeable man who had been one of the original members of the Escadrille. Cowdin had responded to the pressures of confronting the enemy by drinking himself into a cold stupor nearly every night. Every man in the squadron enjoyed a good party, but Cowdin took it a step further, had gone missing more than once. By midsummer, Captain Thenault had endured enough, and Cowdin was quietly transferred out of the Escadrille.
Lufbery said, “I’m surprised more of us don’t fall apart like that.”
Rockwell looked up at him. “You have to love it.”
“Love what? Flying? Or killing? Or how about dying? How do you love one part of it and pretend the rest doesn’t happen?”
Rockwell still looked at him, said, “I don’t know, Luf. It’s what a soldier does. I can’t explain that. Shouldn’t have to. You’re maybe the best flyer we have. Even the captain says so, says you ought to be on every patrol, to keep us all straight.”
Lufbery was surprised. “He really said that?”
“I don’t understand you, Luf. I thought you came here to kill Germans. That’s why I’m here, for certain. When I’m not trying to get on the tail of one of those Boche bastards, I’m thinking about it. When I’m asleep, I’m dreaming about it.”
“How often you dream about one of them getting on your tail?”
Rockwell smiled. “Luf, every time I climb into that Nieuport, my guts turn upside down.” He paused. “Any man who says he’s not afraid is either a liar or he’s nuts.”
Lufbery sat back again, said, “Thanks, Kiffin. I thought maybe I was the only one who needed to get puke-faced drunk.”
“I told you, Luf, this week ain’t the kind of thing I can write home about. But you know what? A few months from now, I’ll be ready to do it all over again. Did you see that nurse?”
Lufbery laughed, heard a commotion outside the hotel, a burst of singing. He looked toward the front entrance, saw Prince and Thaw burst through the door. The two men stopped, put their arms out wide, began to sing, their voices anchored in distinctly separate keys.
“Two valve springs you’ll find in my stomach,
Three spark plugs are safe in my lung,
The prop is in splinters inside me,
To my fingers the joystick has clung.
Pull the cylinders out of my kidneys,
The connecting rods out of my brain,
From the small of my back get the crankshaft,
And assemble the motor again!”
They waited,