To the Last Man - Jeff Shaara [184]
SEPTEMBER 1917
“CAPTAIN MANFRED VON RICHTHOFEN IS HEREBY INSTRUCTED TO COMMENCE a four-week recuperative leave of absence, to begin immediately.” Bodenschatz finished reading, waited for his response.
Richthofen sat back in his chair, said, “No room for maneuver, is there?”
“No, sir, apparently not. General von Hoeppner must have reason to believe that your wound is still troublesome.”
“The only thing troublesome about my wound is this ridiculous bandage. There is more to this order than what it says on that piece of paper. There is pressure from above. This is coming from Kreuznach, from General Ludendorff’s office.” He paused, stared at the desk, sniffed. “Or the Information Section. Some ink spiller feels I’m more valuable to the Fatherland as the subject of a simple photograph, so they can say, ‘Observe, all of you who fear for your future. Take inspiration from the great man standing beside his great aeroplane.’ ”
Richthofen looked up at him, wondered how Bodenschatz felt about his indiscreet comment, saw nothing on the man’s face, no hint of judgment. Of course, Bodenschatz had heard it before. He looked over to the corner of the office, the space entirely filled with the great mass of his sleeping dog. Richthofen shrugged his shoulders, said, “An order is to be obeyed. I suppose I can persuade you to tend to Moritz.”
“Certainly, sir.”
“Then I can offer the Air Service no further excuses. It seems I shall go home for a while.”
Bodenschatz seemed to be relieved now, set the order down in front of Richthofen, moved away toward his own desk. Richthofen ignored the paper, looked out the window. The sky was clear, unusual for September, a perfect day for flying. Two squadrons had already completed their patrols, and he had planned to lead another just after lunch. He looked at the order now, the official seal of Air Service headquarters, thought, All right, General. If you want me on the ground, I will remain on the ground. He looked toward the red triplane, could see mechanics at work, one man up on a ladder, doing something to the top wing. Richthofen watched them working for a moment, thought, Perhaps it is just as well.
As much as Richthofen loved the new models of the Albatros, another aircraft manufacturer had secured the full attention of the Air Service commanders. His name was Anthony Fokker. Though Fokker’s earlier fighters had been nearly as successful as the Albatros, Fokker had been innovative, had responded to the success of the Sopwith engineers with some engineering of his own. Finally, Germany would have a new plane to counter the Camel. It was the Fokker DR-1, Germany’s first triplane. And JG-1 would have the honor of receiving the first one to reach the front.
After several weeks of use, it had become apparent that the Fokker DR-1 had not been the salvation the Air Service had expected. As more of the triple-winged aircraft were delivered to the pursuit squadrons, there were accidents, signs of a serious design problem that caused the plane’s top wing to be unstable. In some cases, the damage had been catastrophic, the wing tearing free completely. Though Richthofen enjoyed the maneuverability of the triplane, and had used the new aircraft to shoot down his sixty-first victim, he had begun to look again to the faithful Albatros.
Richthofen picked up the order, folded it, put it in a desk drawer. He stood now, Bodenschatz responding, “Sir? Can I get you anything?”
Richthofen waved him away, said, “There is little for me to do here. Since I have been ordered to a month of peace and quiet, I might as well go home.”
He moved toward the door, glanced at the empty desks, knew that Krefft was outside supervising the mechanics. The small desk in the back of the room had not been occupied for several days now, the stenographer no longer required. Richthofen had completed work on his memoirs, the manuscript now in the hands of someone in Berlin. He had