To the Last Man - Jeff Shaara [168]
“Otersdorf.” She made the giggle again, put another bite in his mouth. “Nonsense, Mr. Richthofen. I have my orders.”
He surrendered, felt ridiculous, like some small child, but she was smiling as she worked, and he noticed her light brown hair, pulled neatly up under her nurse’s cap. He studied her eyes now, the same color as her hair, waited for her to put the fork on the plate, tried to form words, his shyness fighting him more than the ache in his head. He heard a soft sound, realized she was humming, another bite, meat this time, and she caught his stare, smiled at him, sweeping his shyness away.
“Is it proper to inquire of Miss Otersdorf if she has a first name?”
She sat back, seemed embarrassed at the question. “Why, no, I have no objection at all. My name is Kate, Mr. Richthofen.”
“Please,” he said. “It is Manfred.”
ST. NICHOLAS HOSPITAL, COURTRAI, FRANCE—JULY 10, 1917
The headache was with him most of the time, but had become less severe. Despite the caution of the doctors, Richthofen was growing impatient, felt there was no reason at all why he could not leave this place and return to his command. He had received visitors, but nothing like he expected, no great throng of reporters, no photographers. The reason was made clear to him in a note from von Hoeppner. Dr. Kraske showed him the general’s orders, that Richthofen was not allowed to leave until he was completely healed. But the orders also included instructions for the staff of the entire hospital. Very few people outside of the High Command knew he had been shot down, and even the soldiers who had come to his aid were ordered into absolute silence. On July 6, the official daily report from the Air Service claimed merely that an aeroplane had gone down over the front lines, the pilot surviving, though wounded. The British press made nothing of the incident, and von Hoeppner concluded that, amazingly, even the British gunner whose lucky shot had sent Richthofen’s plane to the ground had no idea who his target had been. Richthofen grudgingly accepted the need for secrecy, that if the British knew he was out of action, the Royal Flying Corps might redouble their efforts in that part of the front. Von Hoeppner reassured him that once he had returned to duty, and could again lead JG-1 into combat, there would be no further need for secrecy. For the time being, the German people were to be kept as uninformed as the British.
SHE WALKED WITH HIM IN THE GARDEN, A BEAUTIFUL EXPANSE OF luxury behind the hospital, protected by a stout stone wall and one tall iron gate. The gate was manned by soldiers, the only reminder of the war. He had walked through the narrow pathways, prodded by her playful insistence on exercise. He chose the moment precisely, waiting until they were close to a small narrow bench, shaded by a single wide tree. It was then that he complained of being tired, and she had insisted that they sit, but it was not just rest he was seeking. His excuse had worked exactly as he had hoped. Despite the attention he was ordered to receive, she had no real idea of his fame, and he told her only that he flew aeroplanes. He had amazed himself that his shyness had not paralyzed him, even allowed himself one indulgence, a bit of pride. He had shown her his medal, the Order Pour le Mérite. It had been around his neck when he had crashed, had been returned to him by Dr. Kraske, and Richthofen had been surprised to see a brand-new ribbon. The explanation had been obvious: there was too much blood on the old one.
Richthofen saw no need to fill her head with any of the horror of the war, would not speak of the enemy or give her any details of his successes. He knew that she had seen her own horror, saw it every day, the young men who flowed through this hospital, an unending stream of blood and suffering and death. She spoke of it without emotion, surprising him at first, but of course, he thought, she cannot have emotion. None of them can. None of . . . us.
They had