To the Last Man - Jeff Shaara [102]
Von Hoeppner laughed again. “Captain, leave those problems to the Information Section. As I said, they are skilled professionals at this sort of thing.”
Richthofen saw the smile fading on von Hoeppner’s face, the old man now showing signs of impatience. Of course, he thought. Skilled professionals. More censors.
“So, every day, I am to tell my thoughts to some . . . stenographer?”
Von Hoeppner leaned forward again, his arms on the desk, no smile now. “Yes, Captain. And, in return, you continue to fly.”
KREUZNACH, GERMANY—MAY 2, 1917
He had not expected the field marshal to be so elderly in appearance. Von Hindenburg seemed to expand into the great chair behind his desk, every part of him heavy and round, his face loose with age, masked only slightly by the bushy white moustache. Von Hindenburg watched him for a long moment, and Richthofen stood at rigid attention, was embarrassed by his lack of dress uniform. He had hoped to make his apologies immediately; if the field marshal allowed, it would be the first topic of conversation. Pilots did not normally travel with baggage. There was simply no room. It was understood and accepted easily at Air Service headquarters, but here, every officer he had seen had been adorned with perfect crispness. All Richthofen had packed was his toothbrush.
There had been only a few words spoken, all from von Hindenburg, casual conversation, pleasantries that surprised Richthofen. He had not even responded, felt completely dominated by von Hindenburg’s presence. Richthofen could feel the weight of history in the room, the power of the man’s influence, something that von Hindenburg’s longevity had only enhanced. Despite the newspapers, despite everything von Hoeppner had ever said to him, at this moment, Richthofen felt nothing like a national hero. The man in front of him was not only a hero, but the very symbol of Germany.
“Would you care to sit down, Captain? Forgive me. I have been rattling on, and did not even offer you the basic comforts.”
Von Hindenburg raised a heavy hand, pointed to a chair across the room. “Move it up close. My hearing is not what it once was. Most everything is not what it once was.”
Richthofen obeyed, moved the chair close to the desk, sat, kept his back straight, had yet to say a word. “Thank you, Field Marshal.”
“Is your aeroplane outside? I should like to see a red aeroplane. Wonderful notion. Let the enemy know who is killing him. May I see it?”
“My apologies, sir. I flew here in a two-seater. My red Albatros is still at the Squadron Eleven aerodrome. I’m sorry, sir.”
Von Hindenburg waved his hand, “No matter. I will come to your aerodrome one day. I would love to fly, Captain. Soar above the clouds.” He glanced down at the expanse of his uniform, a low chuckle. “Unlikely. I know that you would show proper etiquette, a kind offer to take me up and whisk me around the heavens. Your politeness is appreciated, but I do not require such patronizing. I am aware of my place in this war. The heavens will wait for . . . another time.”
The offer to pilot von Hindenburg had already formed in Richthofen’s mind, was drained away now by the old man’s surprising frankness. Von Hindenburg seemed lost for a moment, searching for something to say.
“Certainly General von Hoeppner has briefed you on the reorganization of the Air Service.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Hmm, of course. Good man, von Hoeppner. Unusual for a man his age to see so clearly into the future. I was not always convinced of the value of aeroplanes. It was General Ludendorff who convinced me to see beyond the old ways. I am not a stubborn man, despite what anyone here may tell you. I am simply a soldier from another time. You, Captain, are the voice of the future, calling back to us. If we fail to heed that call, we will be swept aside.” The old man retrieved a handkerchief, coughed into it, looked at Richthofen for a long moment, as though for the first time. “You’re very young.”
“I am twenty-five today,