To the Last Man - Jeff Shaara [72]
DeLaage stepped closer to Thenault, said, “Then, what do they want us to do?”
Thaw rose from a chair, looked around at the others, said, “I’m guessing, Captain, that they want us to change the damned name.”
Thenault smiled now, surprising Lufbery.
“Mr. Thaw, you are a wise man. I have been ordered that the designation of this squadron eliminate any reference to America. The official correspondence from the Ministry of War in Paris has suggested that Escadrille N-One twenty-four now refer to itself as the Escadrille des Voluntaires.”
The hum of protest filled the room and DeLaage said, “Ridiculous! Every flying squadron in France can claim to be made up of volunteers!”
Thenault held up a hand. “I said the name was suggested. I just spoke with Dr. Gros by telephone. He offers a suggestion of his own. If we must change our name, how do you feel about honoring the man who is a hero to both our countries? I am speaking of course of the marquis de Lafayette.”
There was a hum of approval, and Lufbery looked at Thaw, who shrugged, said, “The Lafayette Escadrille? Sounds all right to me. Hell, we named a drink after him.”
WITH THE DEBACLE OF THE RAID ON THE MAUSER WORKS BEHIND them, the Aeronautique Militaire began to examine ways to make better use of its fighter squadrons. As the fighting around Verdun had settled into slow strangling exhaustion, the focus of the air commanders shifted northward, to the activity along the Somme River. With the weather growing colder, the newly named Lafayette Escadrille was ordered to relocate again, this time north of Paris, closer to the Belgian border. The village was called Cachy, and to the pilots who had grown accustomed to the comforts of Luxeuil, the change was a shock. The Americans began to experience what the British already knew, that autumn meant rain, and that any airfield was just as likely as the no-man’s-land along the front lines to become a muddy lake. On those days when the planes could fly at all, the Americans also learned that along this part of the Western Front, the Germans spent as much time bombing airfields as they did troops. If any pilot among the escadrille had thoughts of belonging to the elite, that the men who flew the aeroplanes should be immune from facing the same misery and horror as the infantryman, at Cachy, that illusion was swept away. As the infantry huddled in the perfect misery of their trenches, the pilots suffered as well. The Germans were perfecting the art of night bombing, and the Americans shared the new terror of the unseen enemy: the sudden shattering blast that shook them from their beds, that destroyed hangars and the planes within them. Lufbery understood that there could be no sanctuary now, no peaceful escape through the gentle forests. This was a war that had no end.
BY THE AUTUMN OF 1916, GERMANY’S MONUMENTAL EFFORT TO CAPTURE the French fortress of Verdun had bogged down into a bloody tit for tat, both sides continuing to launch attacks against their enemy without accomplishing any lasting success. With so much of Germany’s resources aimed at Verdun, to the north, across the flatlands and low hills of Flanders, the British sensed an opportunity. Their commander, Field Marshal Sir Douglas Haig assumed that the German strength in front of him had been weakened, that the German High Command must surely have shifted enormous amounts of manpower southward in their efforts to envelop Verdun. In July, Haig had ordered his own attack, three-quarters of a million men surging across the fields of Flanders. The British command was confident that a weakened German front might allow the British to sweep the enemy out of northern France and Belgium, driving the kaiser’s troops all the way back into Germany. But the German lines were far more formidable than Haig’s intelligence had realized, and the British found themselves embroiled in another quagmire, any hope of a quick breakthrough shattered by