To the Last Man - Jeff Shaara [89]
MARCH 28, 1917
With the frozen silence of the battlefields, and the tempting proximity of Paris, the pilots had sought leave at every opportunity. Thenault had been obliging, most of the men hitching a ride on whatever mode of transportation happened by. At first, Lufbery had made his usual rounds to the familiar bars, and both he and Thaw had made regular visits to Clyde Balsley. Balsley was still confined to the American hospital, and would be for a long time. The severe wound to his leg had yet to heal, and despite Balsley’s amazingly positive spirit, Lufbery was certain the man would never fly again.
Lufbery had begun to tire of the constant partying in Paris. As much as he loved the city, the bouts of revelry seemed to appeal far more to the younger men, the new members of the squadron, some of whom seemed to think that wars were fought with champagne bottles. Lufbery had grown weary of starting each day suffering through the aftermath of an alcohol fog, usually with a blinding headache. Though Paris still beckoned, he had found another distraction. With the warmer air, the number of flights was increasing dramatically, and so the motors required stepped-up maintenance schedules. In addition, headquarters had responded to the increased activity in the air by providing several new aeroplanes. Despite the attraction of the nightlife, Lufbery had returned to his first love: digging his hands into the grease and oil of new pistons and valves and cylinders.
HE SAT UNDER THE RIPPLING FABRIC OF THE CANVAS HANGAR, surrounded by the disassembled fragments of a motor, the newer Clerget that was replacing the standard LeRhone that had powered most of the Nieuports. The distinction meant little to the other pilots, beyond the added power of the Clerget, which increased the speed of the Nieuports to nearly one hundred fifteen miles per hour. To the rest of the pilots, the Clerget was simply the tool that dragged the Nieuports into the air. To Lufbery, it was a marvel. The design was just different enough that many of the parts scattered around him were unfamiliar. It was an exploration he could not pass up.
He heard a strange rattling, a rumble of metal out beyond the hangar. It stopped, and he heard a voice.
“Eh, Mr. Lufbery! You are invited to come along!”
He looked out, saw DeLaage seated in the cab of a severely dented flatbed truck. Two of the mechanics were standing up in the back, and Lufbery said, “Thank you. I’ll remain here. Where did you get that . . . um . . . vehicle?”
There was laughter from the mechanics, and DeLaage shrugged, said, “I know better than to ask. In the army, we encourage the men to improvise.”
Lufbery waved, and the truck jumped forward, a burst of black smoke spewing out the rear. They were gone now, and Lufbery picked up one of the Clerget’s valves, slid his fingers around the top, measured it with a calipers, heard a voice behind him.
“There is talk that you are insane.” He saw LeBlanc walking up beside him now, staring down at him.
“That what you think?”
“Me? No. I would rather play with my motors than with my wife. But don’t tell her I said that.”
LeBlanc knelt down, and Lufbery said, “Have you seen the springs? Tighter, thicker steel. Should last longer.”
LeBlanc picked up one of the newly designed valve springs, said, “Yes. Many improvements. So, you do not go to Paris with the others?”
“You didn’t either.”
LeBlanc stood again, pointed to the line of Nieuports in the open field.
“Too much work to do. I thought it better to catch up on maintenance.” He