To the Last Man - Jeff Shaara [71]
He moved away from the thick brush, found the main path, led the cub back toward the road to Luxeuil. The search for mushrooms had been futile, and he knew the maid would scold him for not looking hard enough. It was their game, humorless and routine, the old woman insisting that no American could master the art of the gathering the champignon. Even on those days when his basket was full, she would find some other excuse to scold him. But it was a game with rules, and he would defuse her scolding with a deep apologetic bow, then plant a kiss on her cheek, which would end her lecture and the game, and would bring the old woman a satisfied smile.
He glanced back, saw the cub bounding up behind him. It stopped abruptly, leapt off the trail, plunged into a boggy mud hole, began slurping the dark water noisily. Lufbery laughed, thought, Life’s simple pleasures. Drinking mud. He kept moving, glanced up at the fading sunlight, felt the chill in the air. He glanced at his watch, aware of the late hour. There would be a celebration tonight, another party of sorts, inspired by the energy of the French officers. The party was for Lufbery, the inevitable presentation that meant far more to the French than to him. But he would comply, would not do anything to appear ungracious.
On the same day that Prince had crashed, Lufbery had shot down an enemy three-seater, a clumsy hulk of a plane that was almost too easy a target. But there was more to the event than the downing of another enemy plane. The kill had been confirmed as Lufbery’s fifth victory. The number was significant for only one reason. It meant that Raoul Lufbery was the first man in the American Escadrille to be recognized officially as an ace.
THE PARTY HAD UNFOLDED AS USUAL, THE CEREMONY FIRST, THE nault presenting Lufbery with the certificate from the Aeronautique Militaire, the men congratulating him with their handshakes, their eyes focused squarely on the bar. He had been surprised by their enthusiasm, could not help feeling that the men were trying just a bit too hard. But then the bottles were passed, and according to the routine they all expected, DeLaage launched his assault on the piano. In minutes, the men had settled into their accustomed chairs, waiting for the wine to unroll the blessed fog over their brains.
Thenault had left the festivities, not unusual, but Lufbery was surprised to see him returning now, holding a piece of paper. The captain moved quickly toward the piano, and DeLaage responded to a silent order, the room suddenly quiet. Thenault had their attention, and Lufbery could not help eyeing the others, the reflex now, checking each man, making a silent roll call. But everyone was there, and the news could not be as horrible as what they had learned to fear. Thenault said, “Excuse me, gentlemen. I had thought this could wait until tomorrow, but, as you are all assembled, I should tell you. I have received an order from the Aeronautique Militaire, which was passed to them from Army General Headquarters.” Thenault paused, seemed to choose his words carefully. “There is one disadvantage to America. You live in a country that allows anyone to speak out. Even . . . the Boche. It seems that your government has been receiving considerable pressure from the German representatives in Washington. According to headquarters, the German ambassador has been aggressively protesting to your President Wilson, that since America professes to be neutral, it is an . . . outrage to the kaiser that Americans are fighting in the air for France.”
The voices began to rise, and DeLaage stood now, said, “Outrage? Shall we talk about the butchery—”
Thenault held up his hands, shouted the order: “Quiet!”
Lufbery saw the hard impatience on Thenault’s face, and the room was silent again. Thenault said, “This is not the time for protest. It should be no surprise to you that my government has been told by your secretary of state that the existence of the Escadrille Américaine is a violation