To the Last Man - Jeff Shaara [158]
Grateful for the interruption, Richthofen moved to Krefft’s desk, pretended to scan the paperwork Krefft had been studying. He fought the urge but couldn’t help it, glanced up to catch the young woman peeking up at him over a piece of note paper. “Yes, Lieutenant, keep at them. I will not have my pilots falling out of the sky because of inferior engineering.”
Krefft seemed surprised by Richthofen’s interest, something he rarely saw. “Oh, yes. There is some news from England, sir. We have of course seen their new Sopwith triplanes, but they are apparently introducing a new model of biplane as well. According to a report from the Air Service office, it is called the Camel, and is claimed to be superior to any model of Albatros.”
Richthofen was genuinely interested now, ignored the girl’s glances. “Camel? Do we know if it is faster?”
“Possibly. Claims to be more maneuverable by far. I will inform you if I learn any further details.”
Richthofen thought a moment, said, “The quality of the box matters little. What matters is the man who flies it.”
“Of course, sir.”
The words had come from Boelcke, and Richthofen had voiced the phrase often. He had even considered putting a sign up on the wall, a motto for every man to remember before he climbed into his own box. He moved back to his desk, sat down, felt an odd coldness, Boelcke’s philosophy clouded now, the words spoken so many times they seemed to lose meaning. He thought of his brother, the wound, and another name came to him: Albert Ball. The finest pilot those people had, and he is dead. What would Boelcke say about that? Ball was superior to forty opponents, until he confronted Lothar. More names came to him, men he had known from Squadron Boelcke, and before, very good pilots who are gone. He had lost men in his own command as well, his good friend Karl Schaefer, another Order Pour le Mérite, thirty victims to his credit, killed only three weeks prior. And of course, Boelcke and Immelmann. Does it matter now what kind of pilots they were? Their achievements are frozen in time, the clock stopping the moment of their deaths. No, if this Camel is a better aircraft, then we must do better ourselves.
He could hear the drone of motors, saw motion outside, mechanics emerging from the aerodrome. The squadron was returning from the morning’s first patrol. He stood, watched the planes, a ritual now on those days when he was not with them. The planes had all manner of odd markings now, some with red cowlings, some with red tails, various symbols, unique to each pilot. Squadron Eleven had adapted red as their particular color. The other squadrons had followed suit, each one unique. In the other squadrons, how the paint was used was up to each pilot himself, and the designs on the planes had been as varied as the personalities of the men themselves. Very soon, von Hoeppner had sent him a wire, mention of a London newspaper report, the British pilots returning home speaking of these new brightly dressed aircraft, referring to JG-1 as Richthofen’s Flying Circus.
He saw Wolff’s plane rolling to a stop, let out a breath, had grown to depend on the frail young man. Wolff had lead Squadron Eleven by example as Richthofen himself had done, aggressive without being foolish.
He watched as Wolff jumped down gingerly from his plane, the thin man always seeming to crumble when he hit the ground. His injuries would have kept him out of any other branch in the military, but Wolff had defied those who insisted he was too crippled to fly. Richthofen was surprised to see him walking quickly toward the office, saw the look on Wolff’s face, and the cold opened up inside of him again. He sat down, stared at the door, Krefft now silent as well. The door opened, and Wolff stepped inside, still engulfed by his thick flying suit.
“Captain.”
“You have something to