To the Last Man - Jeff Shaara [105]
HIS VISIT WITH THE KAISER HAD BEEN PLEASANT AND SOCIAL AND utterly meaningless, and Richthofen was ecstatic to be away from all the trappings of royalty, and on his way home. He had arrived with the same nervousness as before, the rumpled gray uniform standing out among the grandeur of the kaiser’s entourage. He had always believed that Wilhelm was as close to God as any man could be, had been given the right to rule the German people by some mystical decree that no mere soldier could understand. But from his first minute in the presence of so much luxury he could not escape the vision of Ludendorff’s office, the image held tightly inside of him. The kaiser had welcomed him like an old friend, the luncheon an elaborate and lazy affair, fluttering servants and great mounds of strange food. He had been surprised that Wilhelm knew it was his birthday, the kaiser making much show of the event. There had even been a gift, a bronze bust of Wilhelm that any soldier would treasure, and Richthofen had been appropriately grateful, could tell by the kaiser’s own surprise that the presentation was a hastily arranged formality, prompted by the efficiency of some unnamed assistant, someone who had simply plucked the bust off some shelf in the vast palatial residence.
MAY 3, 1917
The visits and social obligations were complete, and the last leg of the journey home had finally begun. They flew east, the ground sliding below in a patchwork of peaceful farms and vast blankets of forest, no visible signs of the war that rolled on in all directions. Krefft motioned to him, pointed ahead, and Richthofen could see a dark mass of clouds forming out in front of them. Krefft seemed to ask a question, and Richthofen understood, should we go around or through? He could see the ground disappearing beneath the blackness, thought, Rain, and probably a good deal of wind. But he had flown into a storm before, and Krefft was an excellent pilot. They would pass through the storm quickly. And, he had delayed the start of his leave for long enough. He tapped Krefft on the shoulder, pointed straight ahead.
The plane began to bounce, tossed about by the turbulence of the storm, but Krefft kept the nose steady, held the compass heading. Richthofen tried to relax, turned his thoughts to home, his mother’s gentle smile, woods and streams and the deer that waited there. Six weeks. He thought of Ludendorff’s emphasis on the number. Yes, General, you are correct. I will return energized, I do understand my duty. I will assume command of JG-1, and I will write my memoirs. But right now, I’m going home.
Krefft moved them closer to the rain, and Richthofen looked down at the vast shadows covering the dark patches of forest, but his thoughts would not yet release him from the experiences of the last two days. There had been a considerable number of dignitaries at the kaiser’s luncheon, including, of course, von Hindenburg. But Ludendorff was nowhere to be found, and Richthofen had paid special attention to that, realized that no one even acknowledged Ludendorff’s existence. It was a clear message, and Richthofen knew now what none of them seemed comfortable admitting. Ludendorff was, of course, tending to more important matters. Regardless of what elaborate feasts were created for the kaiser and his guests, no matter how many fat politicians gave speeches for every national hero at every aerodrome, it is this war that will decide our future. And, in the end, what happens with this war will be decided inside the mind of one intensely frightening man.
FOR NEARLY TWO YEARS SINCE THE SINKING OF THE LUSITANIA, GERMANY had grown