To the Last Man - Jeff Shaara [63]
Lufbery ignored him, had heard enough teasing remarks about his special care for both his motor and his gun. He stood up in the cockpit, leaned out over the windscreen, said, “If you don’t mind, I could use some help. Find out what the hell’s wrong with this thing.”
LeBlanc was serious now, knew by the tone of Lufbery’s voice that the teasing could wait. Lufbery pulled on the bolt at the side of the gun, but the mechanism was frozen, and LeBlanc moved up close, pulled out a small hammer, said, “A moment. Let me try.” He rapped the side of the gun, and Lufbery pulled again, the bolt suddenly giving way, ejecting a bullet out to the side. LeBlanc picked it up, showed it to Lufbery, said, “Still shiny.”
Lufbery took the shell, studied it, saw nothing wrong, tossed it into the grass.
“Damned guns. What do I have to do?”
“Well, Sergeant, it’s like the motors. Sometimes they just want a little . . . affection.”
“Right.”
Lufbery pulled the bolt again, the action smoother now. LeBlanc pulled a small can of oil from his sagging pocket, squirted a stream into the gun, said, “That should help. But be nice to her.”
“Pull the prop, please.”
LeBlanc moved to the front of the plane, grabbed the prop, gave a hard pull, and the motor roared to life, LeBlanc waving at him, all clear. Lufbery jabbed at the rudder, spun the plane around, aimed for a fat tree to one side of the field. He moved the plane up to within fifty yards, pressed the trigger, the gun springing to life, a short blast into the bark of the tree. He spun the plane again, aimed for the long open field, saw LeBlanc walking back to the hangar.
Lufbery was airborne again, looked out across the vast expanse of blue, turned to follow the course he and Rockwell had begun a half hour before. I’ll probably never find him now. Bomber pilots are a nervous lot. They won’t dally about. They may have dropped their loads already.
He continued to climb, searched the sky, could see puffs of smoke on the horizon, the familiar signs of antiaircraft fire. Well, somebody’s over there. Best take a look. He moved toward the smoke, caught the reflection of a single plane, aimed the nose of the Nieuport to intercept it. He was within a half mile of the plane now, could see it was a two-seater, flying a low straight course along the French lines. The plane drew a steady pattern of antiaircraft fire, the smoke dotting the air around it, drawing a perfect line in the air for anyone to follow. Lufbery banked around, looked high above the plane, smiled. Oh yes, Mr. Boche, I have seen this little game before. Now, where are your friends? He scanned the blue above him, continued to turn the Nieuport in a slow sweeping arc. He saw the reflections now, a thin line of specks. He looked at the altimeter, eight thousand feet. He estimated the height of the other planes, thought, Twelve, at least. They’re not coming yet, don’t see me. If I can climb quick enough, I could give them a hell of a surprise. The sun was behind him now, and he continued to turn, pushing the Nieuport higher. He stared at the formation of German fighters, said to himself, You bastards just keep going. Don’t be looking around too much just yet.
Suddenly two of the planes broke away, turning and dropping, moving in his direction. Damn! He leveled out, looked at the gun, thought of LeBlanc. All right, you, um, beautiful piece of machinery. Oh hell, I was never good with mush like that. He pressed the trigger button on the stick, the gun responding with a short burst. Well, it worked. I’ll buy you a drink for that, LeBlanc.
THE FIGHT WAS LONG AND FRUSTRATING, NEITHER GERMAN