To the Last Man - Jeff Shaara [159]
Wolff looked down, then put a hand on his face, pressed at his eyes. “I must report, sir, the loss of Lieutenant Allmenroder. There was nothing anyone could do to help him. I am terribly sorry, sir.”
Richthofen stared straight ahead, heard a faint cry from the young woman across the room. He leaned back in the chair, said nothing for a long moment, allowed Wolff time to collect himself.
Karl Allmenroder had become reckless, a sharp streak of revenge in him that affected the way he approached the enemy. It had begun when his brother Wilhelm shot down a British pilot, the plane crash-landing in plain sight. When Wilhelm flew low to see the condition of his opponent, the pilot had detached his machine gun from the wing of his crumpled plane, and fired at Wilhelm as he passed by, wounding him so severely he had been forced to leave the squadron. The entire squadron had been outraged that the British pilot had refused to accept his defeat with the grace that men on both sides had come to expect. Karl had insisted on adding his brother’s flying time to his own, would revenge the dishonor by killing every Englishman he could find. Though Karl Allmenroder had shot down thirty enemy planes and received his Order Pour le Mérite, Richthofen knew that it was a matter of time before his hatred caused him to make a mistake.
“Thank you, Lieutenant. I will notify his brother. You must tend to your aircraft.”
Wolff composed himself, nodded, stood straight, said, “Yes, sir. Of course.”
Wolff was out the door now, the office silent, Krefft staring down at his desk. Richthofen saw the face of Allmenroder in his mind, the others as well, so many, too many. He motioned to the young woman, said, “We will walk outside. You may bring your notepad.”
CHAUDUN, FRANCE—JULY 1917
THE DESOLATION AT HAM HAD BEEN LEFT BEHIND, THE AERONAUTIQUE Militaire ordering the Lafayette Escadrille to make another move. The airfield at Chaudun was farther south, close to the town of Soissons, an oasis of civilization the pilots had thought they might never see again. Chaudun was as sophisticated as any airfield in France, housed six complete escadrilles. The field itself was groomed and maintained, had none of the hidden potholes and tufts of thick grass that so often plagued the pilots and their landing gear.
The missions would be as so many had been before, escorting the observers and bombers, but there was no urgency, no major push along this part of the front lines, and the schedule had settled into a routine that Lufbery found maddening. Thenault had agreed that the pilots could make their own impromptu patrols, usually in pairs. But Lufbery often chose to fly alone, something Thenault rarely allowed the others to do. It was an understanding between them, Thenault’s confidence in Lufbery’s abilities. It was something of a mystery to the others, but no one took offense. They seemed to understand that there was nothing in Lufbery of loud bravado, no selfish quest for personal glory that sent him aloft on his solitary patrols. And as long as he was successful, not even Thenault could object.
LUFBERY COAXED THE PLANE FORWARD, EASED THE RUDDER TO THE side, the early-morning breeze catching the tail, the plane swinging around slowly, the nose centering now on the long straight field. He switched the ignition to full throttle, felt the power, the familiar roar, the plane surging forward through the gray darkness. He was pushed back against the seat, stared ahead through the invisible spinning of the prop, looked for the lone telegraph pole at the far end of the field, the focal point he used for each takeoff, gauging the distance to the end of the field. The SPAD took longer to leave the ground than the Nieuport, a testament to its weight and solid structure. It was unnerving to some of the men, especially on the shorter, primitive airfields. But Lufbery had grown accustomed to that, just one more piece of the plane’s personality.
He spotted the telegraph pole, eased the rudder just slightly, lining the plane up perfectly with