To the Last Man - Jeff Shaara [90]
Lufbery leaned back on his hands, looked up at LeBlanc, thought, Well, here’s something new. They all had felt the dividing line between mechanics and pilots, made more pronounced by their different nationalities. Every pilot had his favorite mechanic, and it was no secret that the mechanics respected some pilots more than others. Lufbery knew that some of the mechanics spoke harshly behind their backs about those pilots who could not avoid abusing their aircraft. Lufbery ran the faces through his mind, said, “Anyone in particular?”
LeBlanc shook his head. “No. I just wonder about them when the fighting begins. They are very good with the bottle, yes?”
“Not much else to do. Have to keep the blood from freezing.”
LeBlanc was silent for a moment, and Lufbery said, “They’ll be ready when the time comes.”
There was the sound of a motor now, and LeBlanc looked up toward the opening in the hangar, the sound coming from beyond the far rows of trees. The motor seemed to spit, uneven, was closer now, and LeBlanc said, “That’s not one of ours.”
Lufbery scrambled to his feet, scanned the trees out beyond the edge of the field, said, “Bombers? They just come at night.”
LeBlanc shook his head, “No. Smaller. Only one.”
The motor spit again, and they saw the plane now, drifting toward them over the treetops, dropping down toward the open field in front of them. Lufbery saw the wings dip and tilt, the prop suddenly motionless, the motor silent. LeBlanc said, “He’s coming in! Good God, it’s a Boche!”
Lufbery did not wait for the plane to land, ran into the makeshift hangar, scanned the wooden crates, boxes, and cans, saw now, propped up in one corner, an old Lewis gun. He grabbed it, jerked the bolt, saw the drum was empty.
“Damn it!”
LeBlanc shouted, “He stopped. It’s a two-seater. What do we do?”
“You have a gun? A pistol?”
LeBlanc ran past him now, shuffled through a cloth bag, pulled out a small revolver. “Here! I’ll go get the guards!”
“You’re not going anywhere! I can’t fight them by myself! Come on!”
LeBlanc followed him into the field, and Lufbery struggled to run with the unwieldy Lewis gun. He scanned the plane, saw the rear machine gun hanging limp, and he moved out to the side, avoiding the aim of the plane’s front machine guns. He hefted the Lewis gun, pointed it toward the men in the plane, moved closer, fat black crosses staring at him from the wings. The pilot raised his hands above his head, the observer now doing the same, and the observer said, “Please! We will not fight!”
Lufbery moved around the wingtips, the Lewis gun growing heavier in his arms. LeBlanc was still in front of the plane, seemed mesmerized, staring at the unfamiliar motor. The Germans pulled off their goggles, and Lufbery saw a cold glare from the pilot. The observer said, “You may put your weapon down. We did not come here to engage you.”
“You speak English?”
“Yes, I am an American. German by birth, actually. My family lives in Florida.”
Lufbery’s arms were screaming from the weight of the Lewis gun, and he looked at LeBlanc, said, “Corporal! Come here, please!”
LeBlanc seemed to regain his wits, moved around beside Lufbery, the pistol dangling in his hand. Lufbery set the Lewis gun down, flexed his arms, plucked the pistol from LeBlanc’s hands. The observer stood up in his cockpit, said, “Might I step down? I have a favor to ask. I assure you, I am not armed.”
“All right. Step out. Let me see your hands.”
The man jumped down, motioned to the pilot to stay put, the man complying, staring at the pistol in Lufbery’s hand. The observer kept his hands high, and Lufbery looked him over, the thick leather flying suit, fat furry boots. The man said, “Sorry to trouble you, but, as you can see, we had some difficulty. We seem to have gotten off course, and before we could right ourselves, we ran out of fuel. Could you possibly spare some gasoline?”
The man smiled pleasantly, and Lufbery absorbed his request, heard a sputter from LeBlanc.