To the Last Man - Jeff Shaara [190]
The old man was watching his wife, and Richthofen saw concern, curiosity.
“Yes, well, we should make some haste, before breakfast is replaced by dinner. I’ve not had even a good cup of tea! The entire house waits for my son! One would assume me to be a corporal. Shall I shine your boots?” He knew there was no anger in the old man’s words, the familiar smile cracking through his father’s stern demeanor. The old man moved into the hallway, glanced back at his wife. “You coming, my dear?”
She moved past her son, out into the hallway, said, “Patience, Major. Your tea will keep.”
Richthofen smiled, said, “Allow me one moment to dress. I will be there quickly.”
He opened the doors to the dressing closet, pulled out a shirt, heard a sound, turned, was surprised to see his father in the doorway. “Go on, get dressed. Can’t have you lounging about in your bedclothes all the damned day.”
Richthofen obeyed, his father glancing back out into the hallway, and the old man said, “What did she want?”
He was surprised at the question, continued to dress, said, “She brought me the message about Lieutenant Voss.”
The old man nodded. “Hmm. Yes, I know. She insisted on it. Wouldn’t let me come up. Damned strange of her. That all she wanted?”
Richthofen saw more than idle curiosity on his father’s face, said, “She is concerned about me.”
His father moved into the room now, reached down, handed Richthofen his boots. “Supposed to be. It’s her duty. She wants you to stop flying, you know.”
“She shouldn’t ask me that.”
“No, suppose not. Wouldn’t do any good, anyway. I hear even Ludendorff can’t get you to change your mind. Not too many people defy the High Command. Maybe no one but you.”
Richthofen sat, pulled on the boots.
His father stood back, stared at him with his arms folded on his chest. “If you won’t come down out of the air for Ludendorff, what about for your father?”
Richthofen was annoyed now, said, “You as well? You want me to stop doing my duty? You think I should become an ink spiller in von Hoeppner’s office, wear my uniform just so I can lead parades?”
He saw no change on the old man’s face; his father just shook his head.
“I would never tell you that.” He paused, rubbed a hand through the rough beard on his chin. “It was not prudent of me to ask you such a thing. Forgive me. Sometimes I allow her emotions to overrule good sense. Despite what the clerks in the High Command suggest, Ludendorff knows how valuable you are up there. Whatever hope there is of winning this war depends on men like you doing their job. There are too few of you left.”
“Fewer every day, so it would seem.” He absorbed the rest of his father’s words, one word rising in his brain. “Hope? Is that what we are depending on now? What happened to the inevitable defeat of our enemies?”
The question had no answer, and his father backed away, stood in the doorway again. “The High Command does not consult me with their strategies.”
Richthofen stood, was dressed now, caught the rich smell of warm bread coming from downstairs. He waited for his father to step out into the hall, but the old man hesitated, put a hand on his arm, said, “Only one thing I would ask of you. If you cannot stop flying, then at least you can be a little more careful up there.” The old man walked away down the hallway, his boots thumping heavily on the stairs.
Richthofen moved to the doorway, stopped, thought, You cannot be angry with them, certainly not with her. He thought of her suggestion, the telephone at the army post. His mind was swirling now with images, the aerodrome, the men mourning Voss as they had mourned Wolff and Allmenroder and Schaefer . . . and how many more? He snapped his mind shut, said aloud, “Enough of this!”
He looked back into the room, all the small trophies and mementos that spread across the walls. This is what everyone wants, is it not? If not for all of this, for the victories, then what good am I to my country, to Ludendorff