To the Last Man - Jeff Shaara [188]
He drew back the curtain, looked across the garden, up at the gray sky, thought of his pilots. They can fly today, I would think. It will rain a great deal though, now until the winter. We must take advantage of every good day. The enemy will do the same.
There was a quiet knock on the door, and he reached for his robe, wrapped himself, said, “You may enter.”
She held a tray, a teapot, a single cup, said, “Good morning. I must tell you that you have caused concern to the major. He has grumbled all morning that you are sleeping too much.” She could not hide her smile. He took the tray from her, set it on the bed, said, “Perhaps I should tell him I have been ordered to rest. Even he cannot overrule General Ludendorff.” He expected her to laugh, but she turned away, moved toward the door, closed it.
“Before we join your father, may I speak to you?”
“What is it? He cannot hear you, you know.”
She shook her head, said, “It’s habit. I always assume he knows everything I’m thinking.” She moved toward the bed, straightened the linens, another old habit, and he saw sadness on her face, noticed now how much older she seemed to be.
“Mother, what’s wrong?”
She sat on the bed, looked down for a moment, said, “Do you read the newspapers?”
He started to protest, said, Mother, you can’t pay attention to all that glory nonsense—”
“Oh, no, I don’t mean that.” She paused, seemed unsure of her words. “You know, when your father is here, he pores through every word of every paper he can find, scribbles furiously in the margins, yells at the stories.” She laughed now. “You should hear the language he uses. He thinks because he is nearly deaf, that I can’t hear him either.” She paused, the smile fading. “Manfred, all I read is the obituaries. So many local boys are gone, so many families I have known for so many years. Some of them, barely a few words, a name, his age perhaps. I have seen the ones you have written for the pilots who have died. I admire you for doing that.”
“Thank you. It has become customary. The Air Service approved the suggestion, that I should write a few words about each man who has fallen. It is thought that if my name accompanies the tribute, the families would be appreciative. “ He saw her still searching for words, said, “Mother, what is this about?”
“Manfred, a man came to the gate this morning, a soldier. He had a message for you, a wire. It came to the army post in town. The man was very kind, wondered if you knew already, but I don’t see how. I feel foolish making such a drama about it.”
Her words were too familiar, another message, another piece of news that he would have to swallow. “Who is it this time?” The words came out in a hard burst.
She looked up at him, said, “Manfred, I’m sorry. Your Mr. Voss was killed this morning. I don’t know any more than that. The soldier apologized for not having any more information.”
Richthofen sat down beside her, closed his eyes for a moment. “It doesn’t matter. I will find out later.” He felt a laugh rising up inside of him, couldn’t help it, the sound surprising her. He put an arm around her shoulders, said, “He was quite a talker. Came to us not even twenty years old, so full of arrogance, prepared to give us the proper lessons on how to fight the enemy. I have never heard a man so confident of his place in the world. Voss had one goal above any other. He would become the hero of all heroes. The newspapers loved him for it, put him into some kind of competition with me, kept score of our victories as though we were in some kind of sporting match.” He paused, the humor exhausted, unable to hold back the anger he felt now. “I suppose he would be pleased on one count. He won the contest that matters