To the Last Man - Jeff Shaara [95]
“You got a punch like a damned mule.”
Lufbery held out a hand, said, “Help you up?”
The captain took his hand, struggled to his feet, towered over him again. The man steadied himself against the bar, and Lufbery saw Thaw rising up from behind, facing both of them, nursing a bruise of his own. The captain looked at Lufbery, smiled, said to Thaw, “Now . . . you can call us Tommy.”
SAINT-JUST-EN-CHAUSSÉE—MARCH 30, 1916
Thaw walked with him, the two men probing the dark solitude of the forest. The ground was soft and muddy, the aftermath of a daylong soaking rain. Thaw had learned that Lufbery would time these expeditions, that the rains would inspire the mushrooms to sprout. He had brought his fishing pole, but there had been no fishable ponds, just shallow mud holes, and Thaw had given up the search, seemed content to follow Lufbery up into the trees.
The basket was nearly full, and Thaw had slipped his way down a muddy embankment, waited for him on a narrow trail, called out, “Getting dark soon.”
Lufbery had said nothing for a very long time, something else Thaw had grown accustomed to. Lufbery looked up through the treetops, a light breeze stirring the thin branches. He glanced at the basket, satisfied, said, “Yep. That’s enough. Let’s go.”
He joined Thaw on the trail, the two men retracing their steps. They walked in silence, as they had done most of the afternoon, and finally Thaw said, “You ever think about what those Brits said? All that stuff about the president?”
“I do now.”
“Never occurred to me how pissed off they were. Makes sense, I guess. They’re fighting their guts out, while we sit off to the side. Like we’re waiting to see who wins, so we can throw in with the right folks.”
Lufbery stopped, said, “I don’t think it’s like that at all. I don’t think the president understands his own people. Look at us. Look at all the men who want to join us, all the Foreign Legion boys. I think the American people want to fight. But the government’s afraid, for some damned reason. I can hear that Brit spouting off Wilson’s words: Peace at any price. It’s like a bad joke to them. The French too. What peace is Wilson talking about? It’s like his head’s in the sand.”
Thaw laughed.
“You calling the president of the United States an ostrich? I thought that kind of thing’s what started the fight with the Brits.” He rubbed his chin. “Damn. This is gonna hurt for a while.”
Lufbery started to walk again. “I shouldn’t insult the president. Don’t mean it like that.”
“Well, on behalf of Woodrow Wilson, no offense taken.”
They walked in silence for a few minutes, Thaw beginning to hum some unfamiliar tune. Lufbery said, “I just wonder what the government thinks is gonna happen over here. These countries are killing each other off. How’s it gonna end? They fight to the last man? How about us? We supposed to keep shooting down Germans until there’s none of them left? Or maybe they’ll do the same to us. I hate that word . . . stalemate. All it means is nobody knows what to do next.”
Thaw moved up beside him, put a hand on his shoulder, said, “Luf, if it was up to me, everybody could go home tomorrow.”
“Bill, nobody’s going home until this war ends. And the only way this war is gonna end is if somebody makes it end. I just wish the president would realize that.”
THE BRITISH WERE CALLING IT “BLOODY APRIL,” THE MOST CATASTROPHIC period in the brief history of the Royal Flying Corps. Despite innovations in British aircraft, the massive April offensives launched by both British and French forces along the Western Front had compelled