To the Last Man - Jeff Shaara [61]
With the grim rumors flowing around them, the squadron needed little excuse for a party, anything to take their thoughts away from the duty that loomed in front of them. On this night, the excuse was easy. It was Kiffin Rockwell’s twenty-fourth birthday.
Luxeuil was famed for its grand spa, and the spa had become famed among the pilots for its spacious party rooms and well-stocked supply of alcohol. By midnight, Lufbery was working the bar, a concession from the usual bartender, Bert Hall, the only man among the squadron who rarely drank. Even Rockwell himself had accepted that in France, polite hospitality usually included some variation of the grape.
ROCKWELL WAS STEADIER THAN MOST OF THE OTHERS, MOVED toward the bar bearing an empty glass. Lufbery put down his own champagne glass, and Rockwell said, “What’s this? The bartender drinking his own wares?”
“French tradition. What you need?”
Rockwell seemed to think for a moment, said, “Champagne, I suppose. Wish I felt more like a party. This has been very nice of you. Most of you.”
Lufbery could hear the tone of Rockwell’s words, said, “What’s the problem?”
Rockwell shook his head.
“Not the time, Luf. It’s my birthday.”
“Hey, it’s your party. Somebody giving you grief?”
Rockwell took a sip of his champagne, set the glass down.
“I’m just getting tired of the blowhards. There’s some here who think that if they actually fly over German territory, they get to claim a victory.”
“Prince?”
Rockwell looked at him. “Not for me to say.”
“Look, Kiffin, I know you been having some problems with ole Nimmie. He’s different from you and me. If we were that rich, we’d be different too.”
Rockwell leaned close, tried to hush his own voice. “Luf, being different doesn’t give you the right to claim glory that’s not yours to claim. Bert Hall’s no different. You know as much as any man here how tough it is to shoot down a Boche plane. But listen to them strutting about; you’d think they were shooting pigeons out of a barn.”
“Kiffin, they can claim anything they want to. There’s no official confirmation, and without confirmation, it doesn’t matter. Hell, you knocked those two Boche down a few weeks ago, couldn’t count them officially. I’ve sent down one or two behind their lines. What difference does it make? A dead German is a dead German.”
“It seems Prince has been putting the pressure on Thenault to put him in for a medal. Thenault approved it. Is that fair?”
“So, rich boys measure their success with medals. Kiffin, when this is over, there’ll be medals enough to go around.”
There was a sudden burst of singing from across the room, DeLaage showing off his talents at an old piano. Lufbery slid Rockwell’s glass toward him.
“Here. Go join them. It’s your damned party.”
Rockwell picked up the glass, stared at it.
“Thanks, Luf. I’m glad I met you. You’re one of the good guys. You know, I been meaning to tell somebody. If anything happens to me, I want to be buried right where I fall. Right in the spot.”
“What the hell are you taking about?”
“Oh, come on, Luf, you can’t tell me you don’t think about this stuff. I got some money, too. Haven’t spent much here. If the Boche don’t steal it, I want you to take whatever’s left and have a party with it. Bigger than this one. Invite the British even. Thaw wants to know how much they can drink.”
“Jesus, Kiffin. What’s gotten into you? It’s your birthday, for crying out loud.”
Rockwell raised the champagne glass, smiled. But Lufbery saw sadness in the young man’s eyes. Rockwell moved away toward the men gathered at the piano. Lufbery saw Prince on the far side of the room, the man keeping space between him and Rockwell. Lufbery wiped a damp rag on the bar, thought, Damned shame we can’t all get along. Too many differences.