To the Last Man - Jeff Shaara [169]
She said, “It is time for you to rest. I should not have kept you out here for so long.”
He held up his hand, said, “Nonsense. It was my wish.” He made a small laugh. “Remember what Dr. Kraske said. I am to be indulged. Besides, you have given me a wonderful gift. You have listened patiently while I bored you with endless talk of flying.”
“I assure you, Captain, I am not bored. I enjoy your enthusiasm. Your love for flying, is, I admit, somewhat contagious.”
“I do love it . . . perhaps more than anything in my life.” He saw her wide smile, caught the hint now. “Would you . . . perhaps you would one day like to fly with me? I could show you so much that you would never imagine.”
She put her hands on his, was still smiling, said, “I would enjoy that very much. But there are matters that must be tended to first. You must recuperate. And, the war.”
Her smile was gone, and he could feel the dark weight settling on both of them.
“Yes, I know. But it cannot last much longer.”
She shook her head. “I pray for that. But so many men come through here still. I read in the papers how the German soldier is the superior to every enemy, how we will triumph over the crimes committed against us. We receive notices here, to be posted on the walls, to raise the morale of the staff, that the kaiser is leading our armies in the destruction of the enemy.” She stopped, turned her head away. “I should say nothing further.”
He put a finger on her cheek, pulled her gently back to him. “Say what you think. I already know of such pronouncements. There are so many ridiculous claims. I am not even embarrassed anymore.”
“So many officers have come here, many have survived terrible wounds. Many have not. But I hear so much talk of fighting, but there is . . . there is never news of victories. I suppose I do not understand much about war, but if we are winning, should we not be hearing of great battles?”
He had no answer for her, thought a moment, said, “I can only do my duty. If I win victories, then I am helping end the war in the only way I can.”
She leaned close to him, surprised him with a quick kiss on his cheek. “Then perhaps one day, you can carry me above the clouds.”
The sun was going down, and he felt the headache returning. He stood up slowly, and she responded, her hand moving quickly under his arm, helping him.
“I’m sorry. I’m feeling tired. Hurting a little. We should go back.”
She held him by the arm, and they moved out onto the walkway. The air was warm and rich with the perfume of the flowers around them, and he looked at her, saw both the nurse and the young woman, felt her arm wrapped around his, supporting him, but more, holding him close to her. They walked slowly, Richthofen setting the pace, using the cane she had given him. It was black wood, etched the entire length with delicate carvings. He gripped the silver handle, helped himself along, wondered if she knew that he really didn’t need it. She called it a crutch, something merely to assist him, but he knew it was far too ornate for a hospital issue, had to have been purchased by her. He thought of the silversmith in Berlin, the man who engraved the small cups for him. I should have him do something on the handle, perhaps, something about this place. Or her name. The thought embarrassed him, and for a moment, he could not look at her, wanted to draw his arm away. He fought the urge, thought, She wants nothing from you, asks nothing of you. How different from everyone else. All she knows of this war is what she sees of the men who come to this place. Her question settled into him. Where are the victories? It is a question a soldier cannot ask. I can only do what I am told.
They reached the entranceway, and she stopped, said, “I must leave you for a while. My mother has been ill. I must look in on