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By Root 2328 0

to avenging their leader’s misfortune. But Richthofen did not share the good humor, had spent long hours reliving his own experience, trying to recall every moment that could have gone differently. He did not dwell on the crash or his wounds, that he could easily have died. What ripped into his mind was that his death could have come at the hands of an inexperienced gunner who had simply gotten lucky. His mind had taken him back to his pursuit of the two-seater, the image of the observer who had stupidly fired at him from too far away. Richthofen had wondered about the man’s name, thought, He would have been an undeserving hero, and I would have died for no other reason than bad luck. There is no worse fate.

The clouds began to slide behind them, and he could see the terrain more clearly now, a vast sea of brown, flecked by plumes of smoke, small fires. But there was more, and he focused to the front, a formation of planes moving parallel to the fighting below, artillery observers perhaps. He could see another formation just behind them, thought, Yes, that would be their escorts. The men on either side of him were watching him, had seen what he had seen, and he gave the signal, dive, knew that each man would find his target. He nosed the Albatros down, the British planes beginning to twist and maneuver, their observers already aware of what was to come. As he closed the distance between them, he could see that the enemy fighters were French Nieuports, single-seaters, the entire formation now turning away. They clearly did not want a confrontation, were instead seeking an escape. He saw one plane dropping lower, offering protection to the slower observers, and Richthofen moved in behind the Nieuport’s tail, the fast dive of the Albatros bringing him nearly within range. The Nieuport suddenly banked hard, trying to maneuver away from him, and Richthofen matched the move, smiled, felt the calm resolve, the familiar touch of the trigger, the Nieuport now squarely in front of him. The Maxims came alive, the Nieuport splintering, a direct hit, the plane suddenly spinning downward. He pushed the Albatros into a dive, followed, would make sure, knew the British trick of feigning a spin. But the Nieuport was tumbling now, more pieces breaking off, and he eased back on the stick, circled, watched as the Nieuport dove hard into the ground.

He pulled the Albatros back into a climb, looked for the others, could see the enemy planes far to the east, making good their escape. He saw flecks of red, all four of the Albatroses, felt a wave of relief. We have survived. They began to gather, moving toward him, regrouping for the trip home. There were fists in the air, those who had seen his success, and he smiled. Yes, it seems all is well. They were close now, and he made the signal, turning them toward Marcke, suddenly felt a cold stirring in his stomach. His eyes began to blur, and he put a hand on the goggles, blinked hard, his head now swimming with dizziness. He gripped the stick, closed his eyes for a moment, the dizziness passing, but the nausea was growing stronger. He took a long deep breath, stared out past the prop, thought, This should not be. Take control!

He clamped his anger tightly around his sickness, passed the long minutes in a cascade of distracting thoughts, none of them effective. At last he could see the aerodrome, nosed the Albatros straight in, did not make the usual slow circle. The plane bounced hard, and he cut the motor. He held the nose up, kept the plane upright, slowed to a stop. The other planes were landing behind him, and he ignored them, saw the mechanics swarming out, the usual routine. He pulled himself up, swung his legs over the side of the plane, heard a voice, “Captain! The call just came in! A confirmation from the infantry! Your kill . . . number fifty-eight!”

Richthofen stared at the ground, a spinning blur, felt a cold fury, anger at his own weakness. He held tightly to the side of the plane, waited for his eyes to focus, the nausea twisting him inside. The mechanics were there now, asking