To the Last Man - Jeff Shaara [64]
He was not yet ready to return to Luxeuil, could see more antiaircraft fire, new bursts from another section of the line. The fine weather had brought the airfields alive, and he knew there would be more targets and more opportunity. He scanned the ground, saw the familiar ruins of what had once been someone’s village. He knew the area, knew of an airstrip, where a squadron of Nieuports were based, a small town called Fontaine. He dropped down, looked for the familiar landmarks, saw three Nieuports in formation passing below him. He saw the field now, two more Nieuports just leaving the ground. Very good. Perhaps you gentlemen can spare some ammunition, and a bit of gasoline?
THEY MET HIM AS HE TAXIED TO THE LONE HANGAR, AND HE SAW men pointing at the insignia on the plane. It was customary now, the Indian head becoming familiar to every squadron in the area. He switched off the motor, readied his greeting, was surprised to see so many men gathering. There was an officer now, and Lufbery released the belt, raised himself up. He was prepared to climb down from the plane, but he saw that the man was moving toward him quickly, waving.
“You are of the Americans, yes?”
There was nothing friendly in the man’s words, no smile.
“Yes. I was hoping you could provide some fuel—”
“Very sorry. Very sorry, indeed. We just heard.”
“Heard what?”
“Your man. American. Fell near here. The infantry retrieved his body before the Boche artillery destroyed his aeroplane.”
“What man? Who?”
The words had come out in a hard shout, and the officer said, “I don’t know his name. I’m very sorry.”
Lufbery sat down in the cockpit, stared blindly at the instruments in front of him. Men were moving around the plane now, and he caught the smell of gasoline. He looked up, saw the officer close beside the plane.
“I am very sorry. Please, allow me to offer my sympathy. France is grateful for such men as you.”
Lufbery had no words, saw the mechanics backing away, their job complete, one man standing beside the prop. He felt the officer’s hand on his shoulder, said the only thing he could think of. “Thank you.”
Lufbery nodded to the propman, the plane sputtering to life. He turned the Nieuport back out toward the open field, his movements coming from instinct. The Nieuport rolled ahead, left the ground, carrying him up into the great open blue.
THEY WERE WAITING FOR HIM AT LUXEUIL, HAD RECEIVED A TELEPHONE message from the officer at Fontaine. He rolled the plane to a stop, saw their faces, the mechanics standing together, LeBlanc crying. The pilots moved toward the Nieuport, and Lufbery saw tears in DeLaage’s eyes, saw a grim stare from Thaw. Lufbery said, “Was it Kiffin?”
DeLaage nodded, said, “Shot in the chest. The infantry said he was already dead when he crashed. A blessing.”
Lufbery looked at the gun on the cowling of his plane, his mind filling with dark rage. He wanted to rip the gun from the plane, tear it to small pieces of scrap metal. He stood up in the cockpit, tore the helmet from his head, his hands shaking.
DeLaage was up on the side of the plane, seemed to read him, said, “Nothing for you to do now. Come.”
Lufbery felt the hand on his sleeve, wanted to slap it away, stared at the machine gun through a teary fog in his eyes.
DeLaage said, “Captain Thenault has taken an auto to pick up his body. The infantry recovered him.”
“What happened to him?”
Thaw was there