To the Last Man - Jeff Shaara [57]
Thaw made a deep bow, appraised the indifference of the crowd. “Apparently, the French have no taste for music.”
Lufbery could see something tied to Thaw’s wrist, a leather strap hanging down, the end still dangling beyond the doorway. People were moving past Thaw now, and suddenly a woman screamed outside the entranceway. Prince rushed out, and Thaw said, “Oh, for crying out loud. It’s just a big kitty.”
Prince returned now, held a large tan animal in his arms, its collar attached to the strap on Thaw’s wrist. The two men moved closer, and Rockwell said, “What in God’s name is that?”
The two men were beaming now, and Thaw said, “Gentlemen, allow me to introduce our newest member. Only four months old, and already he has seen the world, traveled all the way from Africa, where he was destined to spend his adult life confined to the cell of some Parisian circus cage. But for five hundred measly francs, we have rescued him.”
Prince leaned close to Lufbery, bathing him in the smell of sour champagne. “We decided his name should be Whiskey.”
Lufbery stared at the animal, thought, Entirely appropriate.
Rockwell inched closer, put a hand out, the animal sniffing his fingers. “What the hell is it?”
Thaw feigned offense, said, “Sir, have you no appreciation for Mother Nature’s most profoundly respected beast?”
Prince said, “He’s our new mascot.”
Lufbery could not help a laugh, said, “I’ll be damned. It’s a lion cub.”
He put his finger out, the lion licked it, and Rockwell said, “Careful, Luf. That thing’s got teeth.”
Lufbery rubbed the lion’s nose, and the cub suddenly took the finger in its mouth, began softly sucking. Thaw looked at Lufbery with surprise, said, “Well, hello. You must be his mother!”
LUXEUIL, FRANCE—SEPTEMBER 18, 1916
Kiffin Rockwell had been right about the captain’s respect for Lufbery’s flying ability. Thenault began an experiment, positioned Lufbery several thousand feet above the rest of the formation, to keep watch and act as a reserve weapon should the squadron find itself in a sudden disadvantage. For Lufbery it was a different experience to fly alone, above it all, to see the patrols below you swirling around each other, each side seeking the advantage. If any one of the Escadrille pilots got in trouble, Lufbery could dive in quickly, turning the tide of the battle. The Germans had perfected the ambush, using their slow two-seat observers as bait. The German observers would fly low, under ten thousand feet, tempting prey for any fighter patrol. The trap would be sprung from above, the new Albatroses suddenly diving out of the sun onto anyone foolish enough to ignore the skies above them. Thenault’s strategy was for his patrol to attract the complete attention of any enemy fighters. No one would search the clouds for one straggler high above. Lufbery had always respected the birds of prey, the soaring majesty of the eagle and the falcon. Now, he had become one. Of course, his increased altitude had one very definite disadvantage. The higher he flew, the colder his feet would get.
The clouds around him were tall and gray, and he struggled to keep the patrol in sight below him. The larger clouds could be a godsend in a fight, could offer sanctuary, and a means to turn back on the enemy before he could respond. But now, they were simply in his way. He looked at the altimeter, had kept the Nieuport just above fifteen thousand feet. The sun broke through now, a mile-wide gap in the tall gray pillars beside him. Lufbery turned the Nieuport slightly, kept close to the cloud wall on his right, leaned out to the left to scan the air below him. He could see the patrol again, five planes, the open V formation that Thenault preferred. He tried to flex his toes, shifted his feet in the tight space above the rudder pedals, thought, Why should this be such a torment? He clenched