To the Last Man - Jeff Shaara [156]
On the platform, another speaker emerged, and Pershing watched him, nodded to the man, a quick grateful smile. It was Colonel Stanton, of his staff, a man good with words, who had volunteered to speak to the French audience with the eloquence Pershing did not have. As the men waited dutifully, Pershing scanned their faces again, imagined a vast sea of men just like this, an army a million strong, with a job yet to do. Beside him, Stanton began his speech, said, “Lafayette . . . we are here!”
It was not a question of would you die, it was just when.
—SERGEANT CARL DOLAN
The Lafayette Escadrille
MARCKE, BELGIUM—JUNE 1917
ALL FOUR OF THE PURSUIT SQUADRONS OF JG-1 HAD BEEN RELOCATED farther northwest of Douai, the German Air Service matching the concentration of British air patrols in that area. The British success at Messines had allowed several British squadrons to relocate, closing the gap between their bases and their German targets. Their bombing runs were increasing as well, the British pilots growing more adept at night flying, daring to drop their bombs farther behind German lines without fear of antiaircraft fire, or any interruption from German fighters.
Richthofen had made his headquarters at the field where Squadron Eleven would be housed, and established his residence at a nearby home, a magnificent mansion called Château de Bethune. The home was chosen much more for its proximity to the aerodrome than for any pretensions Richthofen had about living in splendor, and the mansion’s owner made every effort to keep it that way. The man still maintained his own residence there, and he did everything he could within Richthofen’s tolerance to make his German guests feel unwelcome, including sealing off the majority of the house for his own exclusive use. Despite the grandeur of the home’s exterior, inside, Richthofen had to be content with sparse surroundings, his host removing all but the most basic furnishings from Richthofen’s part of the house. Richthofen paid little attention, avoided his host as much as the host avoided him. Nothing could prevent Richthofen from providing his own decor: his ever-increasing volume of trophies and souvenirs.
When Richthofen arrived at the new base for JG-1, he was delighted to discover he would actually have a staff. His first command decision had been to name Kurt Wolff to command Squadron Eleven, a choice that satisfied not only von Hoeppner, but the pilots Wolff would lead. Despite Wolff’s nearly childlike appearance and damaged body, the young lieutenant had already received his own Order Pour le Mérite, and was shooting down enemy aircraft at a rate that nearly exceeded that of Richthofen.
He named Konstantin Krefft to be the technical supervisor to the JG-1, in charge of the mechanical health of the fighter wing’s fifty-odd aircraft. Krefft had already demonstrated a knowledge of the inner workings of the planes that impressed even the most senior mechanics in Squadron Eleven. But Krefft brought something more, the large man’s physical presence masking a smooth persuasiveness that made him a natural choice to deal with the constant wrangling over supply and equipment with his counterparts in Cologne.
Richthofen had an adjutant now as well, Karl Bodenschatz, a familiar face from the old Boelcke Squadron. Bodenschatz seemed to be everywhere at once, a man with a distinct talent for handling the paperwork required by the High Command.
As promised, the Information Section had assigned him a stenographer, and he was amazed that it was in fact a young woman. Women had never been a presence at the aerodromes, and every man there had made an admiring glance in her direction. Richthofen had been relieved to see that she did not return the