To the Last Man - Jeff Shaara [186]
The chauffer brought the automobile to a gentle stop, and Richthofen waited dutifully as the man scampered around to open his door. He stepped out of the auto, could see the plane parked at the far end of the field, surrounded by what seemed to be the entire staff of the aerodrome, four men standing in some sort of formation. Richthofen focused now on the plane, a large ragged-looking two-seater, empty bomb racks beneath the wings. Of course, he thought, it would require someone with royal prestige to have a bomber pulled away from the front just to be used as a personal carriage. Or, perhaps he told them it was for . . . me. He shook his head, knew there could be no protest for this ridiculous show of the duke’s high-handed influence. He felt a heavy hand on his shoulder, and the duke said, “Captain, it was a privilege to have you as my guest. You are always welcome. Always!”
The duke was beaming at him, stood back now, seemed to stand at attention. Richthofen suddenly realized he was expected to say something formal.
“Thank you, Your Excellency. Please convey my respects to the duchess and your family. Um . . . your hospitality is unequaled.”
There was a silent moment, the duke expecting more, and now another auto appeared, drove up rapidly, stopped abruptly. A man emerged, another of the duke’s aides, held up a piece of paper, said, “Captain! A telephone call . . . just now, sir. A message for you, sir!”
The duke intercepted the aide, proper protocol, took the paper, the aide now backing away. He glanced at the paper, handed it to Richthofen, said, “I do hope, Captain, it is nothing unfortunate. I have a rather sincere dislike of the telephone. It has been my experience that the sole purpose of that instrument is to impart bad news.”
Richthofen unfolded the paper, a sprawl of blue ink. The duke was still talking, but Richthofen heard nothing, the words on the paper shooting through him. He felt his knees grow weak, leaned back against the side of the car. He read the message again, the same words, no mistake, nothing misunderstood.
The duke leaned closer, said, “Forgive me. I fear the worst. May I inquire . . . ?”
Richthofen held out the paper, his words choked away.
The Duke read for a moment, said, “Oh, my. How awful. Yes, I have heard of this fellow. He is one of yours, yes?”
Richthofen nodded, straightened himself, said, “Yes. Kurt Wolff was indeed one of mine.”
WOLFF HAD BEEN SHOT DOWN WHILE LEADING SQUADRON Eleven. Richthofen had to know more, had to know it all. He found a telephone in the aerodrome, contacted his office at JG-1. The voice on the other end of the line belonged to Krefft, the man’s words pouring into Richthofen like some awful sickness, his mind absorbing every detail of Wolff’s last flight.
Wolff had flown Richthofen’s own triplane, had led the squadron as he had so many times before. But the fight had been one-sided, a large formation of Sopwith Camels laying the perfect ambush, and even the Fokker’s extraordinary maneuverability could not save the young man from the odds against him. When the plane impacted the ground, it had erupted into a massive ball of flame. It was the one blessing—that Wolff had been killed instantly.
Krefft had run out of words, and Richthofen had heard enough, caught some polite comment from Krefft about his visit home as he hung up the phone. He left the tiny office in the small hangar, walked outside, moved across the field alone. The duke and his aides were waiting for him with the others, out by the two-seater. Richthofen said nothing, and even if he had wanted to tell them anything, he could see from the tightly fixed smile on the duke’s face that this was a man who did not want to hear about death. There were more words, a final farewell from the duke, the man still avoiding Richthofen’s subdued silence. The pilot had difficulty climbing into the plane, had to be assisted by the mechanic, and Richthofen could see now that one of the