To the Last Man - Jeff Shaara [164]
Thaw stood up, said, “Major, how many American aeroplanes do you expect to have in service in six months?”
Mitchell stared at Thaw for a brief moment, the hard stone of his expression beginning to break. He smiled now, said, “You’re Bill Thaw?”
“Yep.”
“You read newspapers, Mr. Thaw?”
“Yep.”
“You ever work in a stable?”
There were low laughs and Thaw said, “Yes, sir. With a shovel, sir.”
“Then you understand newspapers. I’ve seen the same bull you’ve seen. There are some people in Washington who insist you men aren’t needed, that we can build a home-grown air force from the ground up. I happen to believe that kind of thinking comes straight out of Mr. Thaw’s stable. The men who have been appointed to oversee the formation of the Air Service know as much about aeroplanes as a hog knows about skating. All I can do is shovel my way through as much of that nonsense as General Pershing permits. I have confidence in the general, and you should as well. But I’ll be honest with you, Mr. Thaw. The entire American Air Service presently consists of one Nieuport, which is flown exclusively by me. I’m here because your country doesn’t require any more dreamers. We need men who know how to fly.”
JULY 6, 1917
THE SKY WAS WARM AND CLOUDLESS, AND HE HAD WAITED IMPATIENTLY in his office for Wolff to lead them back home after the early-morning patrol. As the planes began to land, the call had come from an infantry observation post, a flight of British planes heading east, passing over the German positions near the small village of Menin, not far from Marcke. Within minutes, Squadron Eleven had been refueled, and minutes later, Richthofen led them aloft in the red Albatros.
It didn’t take him long to locate the enemy planes, bombers, large two-seaters, protected by an escort of Sopwith triplanes. Richthofen led the squadron down into their usual dives, the British responding by maneuvering into a large circle, nose to tail, a tactic that Richthofen had not yet seen. His pilots stayed just out of range, skirted around the British in wide sweeping circles of their own. The British machine guns chattered in short bursts, too far away to inflict any real damage. No, it is just their warning, he thought. He climbed the Albatros above the swirling activity, looked down at the ring of British planes, began to enjoy himself, not just the hunt, but more, the entertainment the British were offering. Do they truly believe this will save them? He imagined a British officer in some aerodrome, chalk on blackboard, imparting this new bit of ingenuity to his pilots. The British are like that, he thought, full of arrogance, the man probably congratulating himself on this defense that will counter our success. Did any of them believe we would see this impenetrable ring of planes and simply run away? Did it never occur to them that they cannot maintain this formation for more than a few minutes? They are far beyond their own lines, and the bombers did not have time to complete their mission. They are still carrying their heavy eggs. Very soon their fuel gauges will show them the folly of this grand defense, and then they will have to run for home. Those who survive this day can return to the officer and his blackboard, and offer him the lesson we shall teach them.
He kept the Albatros banked at a steep angle, studied the targets circling below him, knew some of them would be watching him, this lone red hawk, circling the prey, while the other Albatroses flitted in and out of range, seeking to separate or break up the formation. One of you will be the first to jump, he thought, like the partridge, nervous, bolting out of your protective cover. I will just wait.
After several minutes, the ring of British planes seemed to collapse, someone giving the order to break formation, and Richthofen smiled. Yes, you know you have no fuel. It is a long way home. The other Albatroses began the pursuit, some trying to get in close to the slower bombers, others already dancing around the triplanes. He eased down on the stick,