To the Last Man - Jeff Shaara [187]
Richthofen sat silently in the rear seat, behind the pilot whose name he could not remember. He could not recall now if he had said anything more to his host, or to anyone else. I will write a letter, he thought, the proper thing to do, send some sort of apology for my behavior. They were only gracious, after all, and it was not appropriate to show them rudeness. I should have complimented the duke again. He is a man who enjoys compliments.
He stared down at his knees, jerked as the plane jerked, breathed the thinning air through a hard knot in his chest. The only image in his mind now was the painfully boyish face of Kurt Wolff. A new memory burst into his thoughts, Wolff’s fiancée. He tried to recall her name . . . Maria. They were not yet married. So she is not a widow. Does that matter, after all?
He thought now of another awful day, Wolff crying when he brought the news of Allmenroder’s death. I should have scolded him for such a display, should have told him to take control of himself. We cannot respond with so much sadness. So many have gone, so many more . . . will yet be gone. We cannot shed tears for any one man. Had I been there today, I would have made them face me with the news with their heads held high, tell me exactly what occurred so they would learn from the mistakes. He thought of the names, the pilots of Squadron Eleven. He did not think to ask Krefft who else had been in the squadron. Who saw him go down? Did they cry for him? No, it cannot be like that. We cannot allow it.
He saw the awkward sadness of Wolff’s smile, a man too young for his wisdom, the keen mind, the good fighter. But the image would not stay, the young man’s face fading to a soft blur. He blinked through the wetness, could not stop the tears, squeezed his hands into tight fists, his sobs blending now with the low quiet song of the plane.
SCHWEIDNITZ, GERMANY—SEPTEMBER 23, 1917
He was surprised that his father had come home as well, the atmosphere of the household always a little different when the major was there. Richthofen had always felt it as a child, a bit more formality, a hint of martial airs as though his father should command some sort of military respect even in his own home. But there was a softer air in the house as well, the quiet relief of his mother. Both of her sons had endured their scrapes with death, and both had survived. It was the answer to her prayers.
Richthofen awoke surprisingly late, stared at the small clock beside his bed: nine-thirty. As each day passed, he had become more relaxed, amazed at himself, enjoying every night’s sleep more than any he could remember. He yawned, rolled over, felt the softness beneath him, looked toward the drawn curtains of his room. It was the same every morning, the daylight screened by the thoughtfulness of his mother. He smiled, sat up slowly, thought, Of course, I would not have considered closing curtains. There is no need when you must awake before the dawn.
He pushed himself out of the bed, probed the bandage on his head, still secure. It was his routine now and quite necessary. If the bandage came apart, it meant a trip to the doctor, and Richthofen had grown too weary of hospitals.
He moved toward