To the Last Man - Jeff Shaara [104]
The words came at him like a burst of machine-gun fire, and Richthofen felt buried by the man’s raw energy.
“I will attempt to do so, sir—”
“Attempt, hell. We know what you can do out there. Every man in this army must perform if we are to win this war. There must be more to a fighter than what the newspapers print.”
“Yes, sir. I agree, sir.”
“The Americans are soon to arrive. They are no threat now, but we must address their potential. Some are comparing the Americans to the Russians, vast resources and the inability to use them properly. I do not agree. The Russians have been swept aside, but their army was empowered by the old and weak, unrest and turmoil is spreading through their country. America is young, a clumsy restless child who does not yet understand its own strength. We must not allow them the luxury of time. The Italians are no match for the Austrians. The French are already a beaten army, and the British have exhausted their manpower. Why am I telling you this? Because I want you to understand something, Captain. Victory is right here, right in our grasp! We can tolerate no failures. You will carry that message to your new command. Every pilot must perform. I am told you are on leave. How long?”
“Six weeks, sir. General von Hoeppner—”
“Six weeks? Very generous of General von Hoeppner. No matter. Time passes quickly, Captain. When you return, I expect a renewed effort on your part. How many planes have you shot down?”
“Fifty-two, sir.”
“Fine work, Captain. I’d like to see a hundred.”
HE MOVED OUT THROUGH THE HEADQUARTERS IN A DAZE, LUDENDORFF’S words still boring into him. He had been lulled by his time with von Hindenburg, the soft comfort that the war was in the hands of wise old men. But a few minutes with Ludendorff had taught Richthofen an unexpected lesson. It is not wisdom that wins a war. It is power. Richthofen felt exhausted, Ludendorff using him up like some piece of notepaper, words cluttering every free space of his mind. He had been nervous about meeting men in such positions of authority, the ridiculous concern for his unkempt uniform, his clumsiness with words. Now he was terrified. As he stepped out into the open air and sunshine he realized he was one small piece of a vast world controlled from behind those very walls. He felt ridiculous thinking he was ever in command of anything. Even his new assignment, the name that still meant nothing to him, JG-1, was simply a speck on a map, a minuscule part of a vast show of power. And for a brief few minutes, he had been in the presence of the man who controlled it all. He had dared to believe that he was indeed a hero, and despite his grumbling to the others at the aerodrome, he had growing accustomed to the photographers. It was a foolish exercise in self-indulgence, and he scolded himself for it now. You are merely a tool, a weapon, an extension of the machine guns on your plane. Your red plane. A good commander knows how to make the best use of his resources. So they have made the best use of you. You are not merely a pilot who kills the enemy, you are a weapon to inspire the people as well. Your memoirs will be a candle in the darkness, distracting the people from what is really happening in this war. He could not avoid his father’s words, a victorious army does not retreat, thought now of Ludendorff’s elaborate description of