To the Last Man - Jeff Shaara [93]
Thaw pointed to Lufbery, said, “That would be our crack ace, Mr. Lufbery. Never fired a shot. In fact, we’ve established that he couldn’t have fired if he’d tried. He and his mechanic captured a whole aeroplane with an empty pistol.”
The captain moved toward him, a huge brick of a man, held out his hand, said, “Lufbery? Yes, indeed. We’ve heard of you. Is that your secret then? Just snare the enemy in your trap? The spider and the fly, eh?”
Lufbery felt his hand swallowed by the captain’s grasp, saw seriousness through the good humor, something intense in the man’s eyes.
“I should hope your skill rubs off on us all, Mr. Lufbery. Might I inquire as to your tally?”
Lufbery felt the captain leaning over him, the man’s gaze boring into him. He was feeling uncomfortable now, rarely mentioned his score of victories. Thaw moved up beside the big man, rescuing Lufbery.
“Ah, old Luf here doesn’t like to brag. We do it for him. Not sure we can add his little adventure today. But otherwise, he’s got eight confirmed kills. And at least that many more unconfirmed. Damned Boche pilots have the miserable habit of falling down behind their own lines.”
The captain still stared down at Lufbery, said, “Honor to meet you. No offense to your compatriots, but we hear you’re the best American pilot in the war.”
Lufbery felt smothered by the man’s graciousness, said, “There have been better. We have lost some good men. I have been more fortunate than some.”
The captain nodded, seemed to appraise Lufbery still. “Modest of you. Of course, in war, truth is always a suspect quality. Regardless, I offer a toast to you. To . . . all of you.” The captain turned toward the rest of them, said, “To the Americans of the Lafayette Escadrille! May your nation appreciate the stand you have taken! And may your president as well! God knows your newspapers have!”
The glasses were raised, but there was tension in the man’s words. Lufbery drank from his glass, scanned the faces of the other British pilots. There were few smiles now, the only sounds the clinking of glasses, the bottles emptying. Even Thaw seemed unsure of what to say, the stench of politics rarely infecting the parties.
It had become an embarrassment to the squadron that in America, the newspaper stories had blossomed like flowers in a field, and none of them were accurate. The American people were being fed a steady diet of exaggeration about the Lafayette Escadrille, ridiculous accounts of their success, claims that no American pilot ever took to the air without destroying entire squadrons of German planes. To the Americans, it was a minor annoyance, the cascade of letters pouring onto them from well-wishers and admirers, none of whom had any idea what was actually happening in France. But to the French and British pilots who fought the same enemy, it was an offense, many of them assuming that the stories were originating at the airfield, that this small group of Americans was spending as much time promoting their own glory as they were engaging in actual combat.
The bottles continued to appear, and Lufbery felt a nagging sense of danger, that as more wine was consumed, the simmering antagonism of the Brits might erupt into something far more unpleasant. He heard the sound of the inevitable piano, raised himself up, was surprised to see DeLaage in his familiar seat. But the music was unsteady, DeLaage struggling slightly, no voices joining in. There were small conversations around the room, some of the Brits focusing on individuals, others keeping to themselves. Through it all, Lufbery was growing more uncomfortable, sought out Thaw, saw him mixing a drink for the huge British captain, imparting the secrets of the Lafayette Cocktail. At the piano, he saw DeLaage working the keys, and Lufbery eased his way through the crowd, could sense the young Frenchman’s nervousness. DeLaage saw him coming, nodded to him, a tight smile on the Frenchman’s face. He continued to play, the music having no effect on the