To the Last Man - Jeff Shaara [165]
He was closing the gap, could see the British observer, the man suddenly standing, the machine gun swinging up toward the Albatros. The gun began to spark, and Richthofen could hear the small zips and hisses in the air, smiled again. You are too nervous, sir. I am still out of range. Just wait a moment, and you will have a better target. He dipped down, began to slip the Albatros under the tail of the British plane, but the bomber dropped down quickly, the pilot banking hard, the observer still holding to his gun. He was still out of range, but the gunner was spraying the air around him, and Richthofen saw sparks, bullets suddenly glancing off the barrels of his Maxims. Suddenly he felt a hard punch to his head, throwing him back, his hands knocked free of the stick. He reached out, jerked the stick to one side, his head suddenly swirling, sky, sun, then nothing at all. He was blind.
He felt himself spinning, his arms whipped numbly to one side. He pulled his elbows in tight, tried to keep his hands inside the cockpit. The numbness had spread through his body, and he groped for the stick, could feel nothing in his fingers. He tried to see, ripped at the goggles, his face now blasted by the wind, swiped a gloved hand across his eyes, felt a wet smear. The roar of his motor engulfed him, the wind tossing him side to side, a hot knife slicing into his brain. He tried to stab at the rudders beneath his feet, could feel nothing in his legs, his whole body paralyzed by a tingling numbness. The fear began to rise up in him, the pain in his head screaming at him, louder now, deafening. He fought to feel his hands, jerked himself sideways, one arm finding the stick, stiff dead fingers trying to close around it. He had it now, tingling in his fingers, tried to pull it straight, the blasting wind and the spin of the plane still pressing him back. He could see flashes of light, wiped at his face again, more wetness, but his eyes were clearing, glimpses of light and darkness. His brain was shouting at him: Stop this! Get control! He could see the dull shadows of the wings, blinked hard, felt a wave of relief. Thank God, the wings are still there, the plane is holding together. He held tightly to the stick, struggled to see the instruments, the altimeter, how far . . . how much time do I have left? The hard roar in his ears had grown quiet, his brain now swirling with a soft hiss. He fought to see, could tell the prop had stopped, realized he had switched off the motor, pure instinct, the sounds all coming now from the spin of the plane. He felt sickness, could not focus, the dizziness and the wetness masking his vision. He wiped hard at his eyes again, a glimpse of the altimeter, five hundred meters, the needle moving, the plane falling still, a new wave of searing pain rolling through his head. The numbness in his feet gave way to small bits of movement and he could feel the rudders, had the stick in both hands, pulled hard to one side, his foot punching the rudder. The plane shook and vibrated, fought against him, the whining groan of the twisting wings, the stick unyielding. But he would not give in, the plane growing calmer, the Albatros now in his hands, the control returning, his mind working through the pain. The plane began to ease out of its spin, the swirling ground beneath him slowing, the wave of sickness passing. The ground was drifting beneath him now, and he could hear new sounds, motors, stared up through the thick crust in his eyes, saw a plane, then another, circling above him, bits of red, a glimpse of black crosses on the wings, the small voice in his head again, Thank God.
There were open fields below him, dull and brown, a wide uneven cluster of circles, and he thought, Shell holes. He could see troops emerging from dark slices in the ground, some waving to him, and he was relaxed now, the plane a part of him again, the pain in his head growing numb as well, his eyes closing, soft sounds,