To the Last Man - Jeff Shaara [62]
Thaw crossed the room now, weaved slightly as he reached the bar. “Somebody die? Bartenders are supposed to make people laugh.”
“Sorry. Just thinking.”
Thaw followed his stare, said, “Prince? Yeah, I know. A big damned mouth. I get damned tired of hearing him talk about the honor we’re bringing to our country. What the hell is honor anyway? History is full of men who do some pretty dishonorable things, all in the name of honor.”
“Profound, Bill. Obviously, you need more to drink.”
“If you say so. You’re the bartender.”
BRANDY. IT NEEDS MORE BRANDY.” THAW STOOD IN FRONT OF HIM, leaned heavily on the thick wooden bar, and Lufbery stared at the goblet, saw the thin lines of bubbles rising.
“Maybe. Gotta mix this quicker. The champagne’s getting flat.”
“Can’t have flat champagne.”
“Nope.”
Thaw had assumed the role of cocreator, most of the others immobile, spread out on various flat surfaces around the large room. Lufbery raised a squat black bottle, squinted at the label. “Napoleon Brandy.”
Thaw said, “Use that. He won’t mind.”
“Who?”
“Napoleon.”
“Nope.” Lufbery poured the brandy into the goblet, a near equal blend with the champagne. He held it out to Thaw, who took the goblet, swirled it in a meaningless ceremony, took a drink. “Ooooo. Yep. That’s it.”
Lufbery slapped his hand on the bar. “Success!” He leaned close to Thaw now, said in a low voice, “The secret is the proportions. Half. Double. Equal. The same.”
Thaw drank from the goblet again, pointed at Lufbery. “Mighty impressive. What’ll we call it?”
“What? The drink?”
“It’s gotta have a name. We invented it.”
Lufbery tried to think for a moment, nothing at all running through his brain. “It’s up to you.”
Thaw stood straight, his hands supporting him against the bar. “Thank you. All right then. In honor of the French. And the Americans.” He winked at Lufbery. “And of course the French-Americans. We should call this . . . um . . . the Lafayette Cocktail.”
Lufbery rolled the words through his brain, nodded. “On behalf of General Lafayette, I accept. What about Napoleon?”
Thaw shook his head. “Hell with him. He shoulda made better brandy.”
SEPTEMBER 23, 1916
It was to be a two-man patrol, Lufbery and Rockwell going up together to escort a small squad of bombers along the lines east of Luxeuil. They had begun just after sunrise, a perfect cloudless day, the kind of weather that was becoming rare now with the change of seasons. Lufbery had purchased a new pair of thick wool socks, knitted for him by an old woman in the town. He was surprised that anyone noticed, had drawn some quiet satisfaction when several of the others had asked for the woman’s name, some of them admitting finally that they were tired of cold feet.
He followed Rockwell, the Nieuports rocking from the sharp breeze that blew in from the North. It was habit now to test the machine guns, a luxury given them by the long belts of ammunition. Lufbery still cleaned his bullets, still tossed out the imperfect rounds, had noticed that Rockwell had begun to follow his example, and some of the others as well.
Rockwell banked to the right, waved at him, and Lufbery followed, could hear a brief burst of chatter from Rockwell’s guns. Lufbery pressed the trigger button on the stick, one shot ringing from the gun, then silence. He pressed again, no response from the gun, and he leaned forward, tried to see what was wrong. He reached over the windscreen, rapped on the gun with his gloved fist, a solution that had never worked. He saw Rockwell looking at him, his Nieuport drifting close alongside, and Lufbery pointed to the gun, said aloud, “Damn it all!”
Rockwell seemed to understand, pointed down, and Lufbery nodded, thought, Nothing else to do. I have to fix whatever the hell is wrong. He motioned to Rockwell, go on ahead. No reason for both of us to waste time. He knew the bombers were waiting, knew as well that Rockwell could hold his own against any German intruders, at least long enough for Lufbery to clear his gun. He pulled the stick to the right, peeled away from Rockwell,