To the Last Man - Jeff Shaara [172]
Richthofen sat back, leaned against the pillow behind him. “Are you in pain? I can have the nurse . . .”
“It’s all right. More blood than I was prepared to see. Made quite a mess of the Albatros. I offered my apologies to the orderlies, but they seemed more concerned about . . . this.” Wolff looked at his hand, then at Richthofen, and he studied the bandage on Richthofen’s head.
“A pretty sight yourself. Better than when I first saw you. You didn’t know your own name. They were pulling bushes out of your face.” He made a small laugh, but Richthofen saw more, something beyond the show of good humor. Wolff studied his own bed, pushed at a pillow with his uninjured hand. “Comfortable place. Don’t expect to be here long. Should take advantage. I hear you’ve done all right on that account.”
“What do you mean?” The words came out with more force than he had intended.
Wolff looked at him, said, “Sorry. Lothar said you didn’t want to talk about it. It’s none of my business.”
He always felt affection for Wolff, had regarded him like some kind of hurt puppy that needs attention. That description would infuriate Wolff himself, the man earning every bit of the attention he was receiving for his flying skills, putting to rest any of the indiscreet comments about his injuries, or supposed frailty. At Squadron Eleven, Wolff’s record of thirty-three kills had put a stop to the unflattering nicknames, and it had nothing to do with any order from Richthofen.
“I’m sorry, Kurt. It’s a sensitive matter. I don’t discuss my personal involvements.”
Wolff managed a smile, nodded. “Personal. Very good, Captain. I am happy for you. It is a difficult thing, having such a situation. I must send a letter to Maria immediately, telling her of my injuries. She will cry for days.” Richthofen knew that Wolff had a fiancée, the young man looking toward the end of the war as much as anyone in the squadron. “If I may ask, Captain, is it true she is a nurse here?”
Richthofen glanced around, was still nervous about revealing anything to prying ears. But he trusted Wolff, a young man who seemed much older than his years. Richthofen knew that anything he said would go no further.
“Her name is Kate. She should be here very soon. You will meet her.”
Wolff sat back against the pillow, said nothing, watched two nurses walk by, seemed to wait for privacy. He cradled the injured arm in his right hand, rubbed one finger along the rough bandage.
Richthofen was growing uncomfortable now, something strange in Wolff’s mood, something beyond the injury. “You have something to say, Kurt?”
Wolff stared straight ahead, said in a low voice, “I never thought you would be shot down.”
Richthofen smiled, said, “Is that it? Thank you, Lieutenant, but I am fine. This thing on my head looks much worse than it should, I promise you. I will be back at Marcke soon. Once your hand has healed, we will make the British pay for their momentary good luck.”
Wolff turned toward him, then looked down, stared at the floor between them. He shook his head. “Forgive me, Captain, but I am not so confident that it is luck. What is happening? In the spring, we were told we had destroyed most of the enemy’s air strength, and now, the sky is black with their new fighters. Every day I see more enemy planes than I have ever seen before. The Air Service says the new Camel should be in the air very soon. We are seeing more and more of the SPADs, and the Nieuports are improving as well. And what of the Americans? How long before we see new aeroplanes whose design we can only imagine?”
Richthofen looked around, saw no one close enough to hear, said quietly, “Kurt, we are still better flyers.”
Wolff looked up at him now, a hard frown. “ ‘It is not the quality of the box, it is the man who sits in it.’ Yes, I know, Captain, we have all memorized that. I believed it once. Before