To the Last Man - Jeff Shaara [70]
NOVEMBER 23, 1916
He had allowed the lion cub to follow him, against the advice of Thenault. But the forest was quiet, the distractions few, and Lufbery had felt an aching need for the solitude.
He carried the small basket, poked the soft clusters of leaves, peered around the old stumps. The change of seasons had made his search for mushrooms more difficult, the forest floor now carpeted with the fading colors that had painted the trees around him. He glanced back, thought it was a good idea to keep a close watch on Whiskey’s adventures, making sure the cub didn’t simply disappear. Lufbery didn’t have to be told that some local farmer might not find it amusing if a lion cub suddenly appeared in his chicken coop.
The cub seemed content to nose its way along behind him, sniffing and pawing the soft ground. Lufbery bent low, searched beneath a fat dead tree, and close beside him, Whiskey suddenly launched himself into a small hole, digging furiously. The movement startled Lufbery, the cub’s playfulness shattering the silence.
“What the hell . . . ?”
Lufbery stood, observed the commotion, thought of scolding the cub, watched as Whiskey began to bounce around a fat stump.
“Now look, my friend. I didn’t bring you out here to go hunting. I don’t need you chasing some damned varmint all over hell and gone. Maybe Thenault was right. This might be a mistake.”
The cub abandoned his pursuit, scampered up beside him, rolled over onto Lufbery’s boots, the usual request for attention. Lufbery smiled, could feel his dark mood swept away. He reached down, a quick rub of the cat’s exposed belly, then withdrew his hand quickly. It was a routine painfully learned; the cub would offer his underside, but if your hand lingered, the cat would curl up around your arm, biting and clawing at your shirtsleeve. It was all play, of course, but Lufbery knew that Whiskey would soon be six months old. Though he was still a kitten, the animal’s strength and power was increasing. Sooner or later, the games might actually become dangerous.
The basket was still empty, and he scanned the woods around him, watched as the cub bounced away to some new adventure, plunging headfirst into a boggy pile of moss. Lufbery had made these trips more often lately, had felt the need to escape from the company of the other pilots, if only for an hour or two. They had all done the same, each in his own way—Thaw with his fishing pole, some by making themselves familiar to the local barmaids. The parties at the Luxeuil spa had become regular affairs, DeLaage doing his best to boost their morale with his piano playing. It was a distraction to be sure, the songs and the steady flow of alcohol waltzing the men into a gentle stupor. There was nothing of celebration to it, no one launching them into gales of laughter, the kind of spirit that had once brought them together. There were simple friendships now, the camaraderie of men who share the common experience. But the grand stories were few, most of the men content to keep their day’s combat to themselves. Even among the newer men, there was nothing to share, no new sensation or thrill that they had not all experienced by now. What had become more prominent in each man was something Lufbery had done his best to hide, to stuff down into some dark corner of his mind. As the months had passed, and the familiar faces had begun to disappear, the enthusiasm and the sense of adventure had been replaced by fear. He would never acknowledge it, knew that he had built a reputation for being utterly fearless, the one man among them who could stare into the face of the enemy and not blink. But he shared the certainty with all of them, that if this