To the Last Man - Jeff Shaara [173]
“You will feel better when your hand has healed.” Richthofen didn’t know what else to say, had never seen Wolff so discouraged.
Wolff ignored his words, said, “Do you believe God watches over us?”
Richthofen had rarely discussed his religion with anyone, thought a moment. “I don’t know. I would like to believe so.”
“I believed so. I truly believed that all of Germany was in His favor. I have been taught all my life that His Imperial Majesty is anointed by God Himself, that God’s wisdom governs this nation and all who serve her. Manfred, did we truly believe the Albatros was invincible? How many good pilots are gone? You were nearly gone. There is no end to this. You and I will both return to duty, we will both fly again, and face the enemy again. What will happen next time? How many more times can we ask for God’s protection?”
Richthofen tried to summon anger, to put an end to Wolff’s destructive mood. But Wolff was looking at him, the man’s sad eyes searching him for answers.
“Manfred, if you marry this girl . . . are you prepared for her to be a widow?”
Richthofen felt punched by the words, the anger coming more easily now. “Enough! First my brother, now you!” He stood up, tried to ignore the sudden dizziness, moved to the end of the bed, could see faces turning toward him. He fought to calm himself, to hold his temper. He paced a few steps, sat down again. He kept his words low, saw the dark despair in Wolff’s eyes.
“Kurt, we cannot ask such questions. We can only do what we are told. We are flyers. We have one duty, and we will continue to serve the High Command as best we can.” He put a hand on Wolff’s shoulder. “What else can we do?”
Wolff nodded, looked down again, said, “I just never thought . . . so many of us would have to die.”
There was commotion at the far end of the room, voices at the door, and he heard her calling out: “I am sorry to be so late!”
Richthofen felt her words slicing him like cold steel. She was there now, in perfectly pressed white, a smile that brought the sun inside. He stood, felt weakness in his legs, and she was closer now, lowered her voice, “You have a new friend! I am jealous!” He did not respond, and her smile vanished. She took his arm, said, “Are you all right?”
He eased away from her, said, “Fine, yes. Sorry, I stood up too quickly.” He looked at her again, saw the dark concern, tried to laugh, to bring her smile back. “Yes, this is my friend, Lieutenant Kurt Wolff. He had a rather unlucky time of it this morning.”
“So I see. I am pleased to meet you, Mr. Wolff.”
Wolff stood as well, made a short bow, motioned with his bandaged arm. “I did not have my captain there to protect me.”
“Lieutenant, this is my nurse, Miss Otersdorf.”
Wolff made another bow. “The pleasure is mine, Miss Otersdorf.”
They all stood for a silent awkward moment, and Wolff said, “I’m sorry, but may I have something to drink? Water?”
Kate moved closer to him, the softness in her face now focused only on her job. “Certainly. Are you in pain? Can I get you anything else?”
“No, thank you. Just water.”
She moved quickly away, gave a sharp command to an orderly, a soft flurry of white disappearing through a far doorway. Wolff sat again, looked up at Richthofen, said, “She is very special.”
He nodded a reply, had no words. Across the room, she reappeared, marching toward them with prim efficiency, followed by an orderly with a tray of water glasses, and one large pitcher. He watched her come closer, saw her smiling at him again, and he felt a sharp stab of pain. He could not look at her, turned slowly away, Wolff’s words digging into him, twisting and burning, and the answer now clear, the words echoing in his mind. Am I prepared to make her a widow? He sat down, stared ahead through the wetness in his eyes. No.
IT BEGAN AS SO MANY OF THE GRAND BATTLES HAD BEGUN, A MASSIVE display of artillery, the British guns in a ten-mile front across the Ypres salient launching more than four million shells against the German defensive positions. It was the third time in three years