To the Last Man - Jeff Shaara [103]
“My word! Happy birthday, Captain. May you enjoy many more.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Richthofen began to feel affection for the man, had not expected the gentleness, von Hindenburg seeming more of a kind old grandfather than the military leader of a powerful nation.
“Are you aware, Captain, that the British have put out a bounty on your head?”
The change in topic caught Richthofen off guard. “No, sir, I was not aware.”
Von Hindenburg was smiling, said, “Oh yes. I’m surprised you don’t know. It was in the newspapers. The Royal Flying Corps has apparently grown frustrated with you. Cannot say I blame them. Our intelligence tells us that they have formed a squadron for just one purpose, to seek out this Red Devil in his damned Albatros. They intend to make quite a production of it, have required that a photographer accompany the squadron, to record the incident for posterity. They are offering a reward of five thousand pounds and a Victoria Cross, and all manner of gifts to the successful pilot.” Von Hindenburg stopped smiling, seemed suddenly embarrassed, said, “I apologize, Captain. I do not mean to make light of this. Despite the reliability of our intelligence, I have my doubts as to the authenticity of this British scheme. This is your life we are talking about. You may not be so amused. It was indiscreet of me.”
Richthofen absorbed the concept, wondered if it could be true. “I am not upset, sir, except on one account. If I were to shoot down this special squadron, could I make my own claim for the reward? I should rather enjoy receiving a Victoria Cross.”
The smile returned to von Hindenburg, and he pointed at Richthofen, nodded, “Yes! Very good! I should insist on it!”
The old man’s warmth had returned, and Richthofen was feeling genuinely comfortable.
“If nothing else, sir, perhaps I should simply shoot down the photographer.”
HE HAD WAITED FOR MORE THAN AN HOUR, PERCHED UNCOMFORTABLY on a flat wooden bench, watching the activity flow in and out of Ludendorff’s staff rooms. The contrast to the relaxed atmosphere of von Hindenburg’s office was unmistakable, and for the first time, Richthofen understood where the decisions of the High Command originated. The officers moving quickly through the waiting area were men of importance, soldiers and civilians both, men speaking in hard serious tones, some with hushed voices. Though Richthofen felt awkward hearing the fragments of conversation that flowed past him, he passed the time by watching the secretaries, seated behind rows of desks, all of them occupied with some intense amount of work. There was the constant ringing of phones, the sound of typewriters, and behind them, he could see a doorway, a sign above: “Telegraph Room.” Messengers stood in line along the wall, each one either delivering or receiving some piece of information, each man then hurrying away to some designated office.
Richthofen had been told to wait, a curt order from a colonel who showed no recognition of his name. The man appeared again, handed a folder to one of the secretaries, stepped quickly toward him, said, “You have five minutes. The general is quite busy. This way.”
Richthofen followed the man, felt a painful stiffness in his back, the effects of an hour on the hard bench. The colonel moved quickly, and Richthofen matched his pace, was suddenly confronted by a massive wooden door, which the man opened. Richthofen peered in, saw a flutter of activity, a flock of aides hurrying past him. The colonel said, “Enter, Captain.”
Richthofen stepped into the room, the door closing behind him with a hard thump. The room was silent, anchored by a great fat desk, larger even than the impressive furnishings that had surrounded von Hindenburg. Ludendorff sat behind the desk, a dark spark plug of a man, staring at him with hard eyes.
“Come in, Captain. Sit there. So tell me, can we win this war with aeroplanes?”
Richthofen moved obediently to the chair, felt the energy of the room, Ludendorff’s question sounding more like a demand.
“Yes, sir. I believe so.”
“I believe so as well. We require