To the Last Man - Jeff Shaara [171]
He saw the wounded look on his brother’s face, felt guilty now for his anger. He knew his brother too well, nothing in Lothar’s inquiries that went beyond playful curiosity. Lothar stayed back for a moment, seemed to drift into his own thoughts.
“Manfred, I need to speak to you. Is there a private space?”
Richthofen felt his own curiosity now, said, “We can go to the garden, back here. What is it? Is Mother all right?”
Lothar’s mood had changed, the smiles gone, said, “Mother? Oh, yes, she is well. They are both well. I need to speak to you about another matter.”
Richthofen had rarely seen such seriousness form his brother, moved toward the rear doorway, Lothar following, still limping from the aftereffects of his own wound. He led Lothar into the garden, but the daylight was gone, the only light a small glow from the guardhouse. Richthofen looked toward the one bench, under the wide tree, but stopped, could not take his brother to that special place.
“We are alone. What is it?”
Lothar shook his head, said, “I don’t know what I should do. It has gone too far already.” Richthofen waited, knew Lothar’s energy would push his words out soon enough. “You know, Manfred, that the entire country believes I killed Albert Ball. The High Command, von Hoeppner, you should see the letters, all the congratulations! They are comparing me to you, saying I am the second Red Flyer, a great hero!”
“Praise can be difficult, Lothar. I have struggled to accept—”
“No, Manfred! You don’t understand!” He glanced around, lowered his voice again. “We had a British flyer brought to the aerodrome, a prisoner. Surprisingly nice fellow. Captain . . . Poole, I think. He told me that Ball flew a biplane, usually an SE-5. He never flew anything else. Manfred, I was thirty yards away. The plane I shot down that day was a triplane, one of the Sopwiths. I have tried to get confirmation of the plane I sent down, something about the identity of the pilot, but the Air Service won’t hear any more of it. What do I do? I don’t feel right taking credit, especially not for someone like Ball. He was certainly brought down by one of our men who doesn’t even know it.”
Richthofen put a hand on Lothar’s arm, said in a low voice, “Let me tell you about the official word. The official word is that I am flying today. The official word is that every German soldier is a better man than every other soldier in this war. The official word is that we do not retreat.” He paused. “What you and I believe to be the truth matters to no one. If you want truth, just look in the newspapers. If it says in the headlines that you killed Captain Ball, then you will add Captain Ball to your list of victories. And if General Ludendorff offers you his congratulations, and the Air Service celebrates your heroism, then you say ‘thank you,’ and you drink their champagne.”
JULY 11, 1917
He woke to the sounds of nurses, voices, a man moving close. He could hear the commotion around the bed beside him, and the voice was familiar now. He jerked awake, sat up, ignored the sudden headache, saw the man sitting on the edge of the next bed, a weak smile on the boyish face.
“Good morning, Captain. If you don’t mind, I shall be your companion for a couple of days.”
It was Kurt Wolff.
Richthofen saw the bandage on Wolff’s hand and arm, a thick wad of white cloth, said, “What happened? An accident?”
Wolff shook his head, raised the left arm. “Perhaps that is a good word for it. Early this morning, I led the patrol up this way, a little farther north. We had a call from the infantry, some British photographers were making a pest of themselves to the artillery. We got there pretty quickly, ran into a dozen DH-2s, hiding in the clouds above. They thought they had laid us a tight little trap, but I had suspected the observers weren’t alone, and we were ready for them. It was a pretty mess for a while. I was signaling to my wingman, and apparently I held my hand precisely where an Englishman was shooting. It was not a fair fight, the bullet