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By Root 2202 0

he should offer her. He had thought of his invitation to take her flying, the scene too unreal in his mind now. But if he survived this war, there could still be time, his mind telling him that it was the right thing to do, that she might still accept. It was a fantasy he kept buried deep inside, that there might still be something for them to explore, some way to restart what had begun so unwisely in the hospital. But there was to be no private good-bye, the crowd capturing him, officers and pilots, and the car waiting to take him back to Marcke. At the final moment, he had searched the crowd for her, but she was gone, and so the invitation would not be made. As he rode back to JG-1, he scolded himself for his foolishness, a schoolboy’s infatuation. He carried the doctor’s instructions, knew he would return within days for another examination. But he wondered if Kate would even be there, and if she was, if she would even remember his name.

MARCKE, BELGIUM—AUGUST 16, 1917

Richthofen had suffered through the rain with the rest of the squadron, most of them passing each miserable day poring over the tidbits of news from the front at Ypres. The High Command sent regular reports to each aerodrome, but Richthofen had only glanced at them, had become too accustomed to the grandiose claims of certain German victory. After two weeks, the skies were finally clearing, and the reports had changed, a steady flow that came not from headquarters, but from the infantry observers, urgent requests for JG-1 to confront the great squadrons of British planes pouring up into the sky. The other pilots had looked to him, had wondered when Richthofen would finally return to his Albatros. As the day had dawned, the clouds had seemed to break apart, and Richthofen had felt the old energy, decided that, finally, it was time for him to fly.

He still wore the bandage, caressed gently by the leather helmet, had climbed into the red plane with an odd twinge of fear he had not felt since his first flight. He taxied the Albatros into the open field, four other planes following him, the routine so familiar to all of them. He knew they were all watching him, waiting for the final hand signal that would tell each man to pour the fuel into each motor, pulling them through the short grass until each plane lifted itself slowly into the warm morning breeze. But he sat for a long moment, feeling the wind from the prop against his face, stared across the open ground aware of a small tremble in his hand. He fought it by clenching both fists, furious voices shouting in his head: What is wrong with you? It angered him, the show of hesitation, something the rest of them could not see. But finally the instinct took over, the hand signal given, and now, they were following him up past the thick patches of gray and white, the last remnants of the great storms.

He had seen the concern in their faces, the words none of them would say to him, that a pilot must fly often to keep his skills from rusting. It had bothered him every day in the hospital, and then every day since. But the fear was gone now, swept out of him with the stiff blast of air that held him tightly in his seat. The rush of wind was invigorating, and he glanced out toward the others, saw all faces watching him. He shot his fist into the air, shook it, the sign all of them would understand. He was back in the sky.

The ground beneath them was a swarm of activity, great lines of troops in motion, trucks and trains, all the energy to support the massive fight that was beginning again in front of them. He glanced downward, the patterns and movement meaningless to him. He had not read the latest reports, knew nothing of what was happening on the ground. He stared ahead through gaps in the clouds, thought of Wolff, returning from the hospital only days before, his wounds healing as well. Wolff’s dark mood had tempered, the young man pushing Richthofen hard for permission to lead Squadron Eleven again. Wolff still joked of vengeance against British luck, the other pilots sharing a good-natured toast