To the Last Man - Jeff Shaara [157]
Richthofen’s six weeks of leave had not been all peace and quiet. He had been home barely a week when news had come that Lothar had been shot down and was recovering from his wounds in a hospital nearby. That particular engagement had been a wild free-for-all in the fading daylight of a dark misty day, and though Lothar had taken a severe wound in his hip, his adversary had not been so fortunate. Captain Albert Ball had been England’s most illustrious flying ace, had shot down forty German planes, and had been considered by the Royal Flying Corps to be their answer to the nearly mythical domination of the Red Baron. News of Lothar’s victory had spread throughout all of Europe, the younger Richthofen suddenly as celebrated as his famous older brother.
JUNE 27, 1917
He looked around the office, realized that for the moment he had nothing to do. He glanced out the window, bright sunshine, the damp mist of the early morning now burning away. He cursed silently, thought, You should have gone out with them. Perhaps this afternoon. Bodenschatz was out of the office, some matter that required his attention at Squadron Ten, and he looked over at Bodenschatz’s desk, neat stacks of papers, thought, Perhaps I should go through them, examine the details. The task held no appeal, and the thought abandoned him as quickly as it had arrived.
Across from Richthofen, Krefft was talking on the phone, some discussion of motors and oil consumption. The stenographer sat at a desk behind Krefft, and was sorting through papers. He watched her for a long moment, soft blond hair, the perfect neatness in her appearance, her collar buttoned up tightly, discreetly. He had tried to guess her age, was too shy to ask, scolded himself for his awkwardness around her. She looked up, caught his gaze, smiled. He turned away, embarrassed, felt he had been caught at some inappropriate mischief. He knew that talk had already begun of some romantic connection between them, and it had infuriated him, a needless waste of energy from men whose focus on their job had to be absolute. He had finally succumbed to the questioning looks, informing his entire command that he had no interest in the woman at all beyond the job she was assigned to do. The pilots accepted his word, but the newspapers wanted more. The reporters would not accept the simple truth, and finally, Richthofen had ordered them out of the aerodrome, would allow them to attend briefings only at his discretion. If they wanted to know more about her, they could ask the Information Section.
He looked at the floor, pretended to adjust his boots, felt completely foolish. It annoyed him intensely that he was as uncomfortable around her as he had been around girls all his life; even as a youth he had confronted his shyness by simply avoiding the problem altogether. But she was there every day, sitting quietly at her desk, notepad ready. He was rarely in the mood for anything of the sort, but then the inspiration would come, prompted usually by the thought of von Hoeppner’s veiled threat to pull him out of the sky.
From her first day, he had tried to become comfortable speaking of himself, had thought it logical to begin by relating his family’s history. She had been diligent, recorded every word he said, preparing the text into neatly arranged pads, something that some professional would sort out later. But there were days when he just didn’t want to talk about any of it, and he felt guilty avoiding her. She had begun the process with professional detachment, but his story seemed to affect her, and he quickly realized she had a talent for casual flirtation. But it never went beyond the smile, the soft glance, and no matter how much intimate detail he would share with her, he did not believe she had any ambitions beyond doing her job.
He stopped fiddling with his boots, sat up, glanced at his own desk, looked for something that might require his immediate attention. Krefft was off the telephone now, said, “Captain, the new Albatros D-V appears