To the Last Man - Jeff Shaara [226]
Richthofen had taken the train, unavoidable with the weather, was surprised that he had not been recognized. The passengers had been a subdued lot, a few men in uniform sitting quietly, most just staring out the windows into gray mist. There had been women as well, both young and old, some sitting in small groups, some traveling alone. But there was no cheer in these people, none of the bright chatter he had heard so many times before. Many of them were draped in black, some with faces covered. When he finally arrived at Dusseldorf, his mood was as black as the mourning dresses.
The hospital was enormous, and nothing like the pleasant airy surroundings of Courtrai. The open grounds around the oppressive buildings were packed with ambulances, both horse and motor, and he understood now that this place was one of those final stops for the long trains of wounded.
He did not talk to anyone, moved quickly through the front entrance, received a polite salute from a guard. He scanned the corridor in front of him, a bustling mob of white gowns, wheeled carts, and walking wounded. To one side there was an office, and he moved that way, saw a man in a dark suit seated behind a desk, said, “Excuse me. Are you a doctor?”
The man ignored him, was writing on a pad of paper, and Richthofen felt his anger boiling up, had no patience for bureaucrats.
“I asked you, sir, are you a doctor?”
His voice had a hard edge that the man could not avoid. He looked up at Richthofen, unsmiling, seemed to appraise Richthofen’s uniform, said, “No. I am the assistant administrator. Do you require a doctor?”
Richthofen forced himself to calm, thought, Just an ink spiller. “What I require is the location of my brother. Lieutenant Lothar von Richthofen. He is a patient here.”
The man stood abruptly, said, “Oh, yes! You are Captain Richthofen! I am honored, sir! If you will allow me, I should inform the administrator you are here. He will be most excited to meet you!”
The man moved past him in a rush, left Richthofen alone in the small office. Out in the corridor, the assistant’s voice rose over the din, and Richthofen winced as he heard his name, the man enthusiastically spreading word of the Great Hero’s presence. Richthofen saw faces turning his way, the bustle giving way to silent stares. The assistant was coming back now, another man following, both of them halting in a stiff formality, crowding the doorway. The assistant said, “You see? I told you, sir. It is him!”
The other man seemed unable to speak, reached into his pocket, retrieved a small card, looked at it now. “Yes. It is him.” He held the card up, one of the thousands of postal cards that had filled pockets all over Germany. Richthofen recognized the particular card, the image of himself standing in front of a wrecked British fighter plane. The photo was a fabrication, his actual image clipped from a far more mundane setting, pieced together with a generic photograph of a crash scene. But to the civilians who cherished the memento, whether or not the photo was authentic made no difference. Richthofen forced a smile, and the man said, “If you would put your signature to this, it would honor me, sir.”
The man seemed to tremble, and Richthofen took the card, had no pen of his own, saw an inkstand on the desk. He signed his name, handed the card back to the man, whose hands were shaking.
“Oh! Thank you, sir! My wife will not believe me!”
The men continued to block the door, both of them staring at him like schoolboys. After a long moment, Richthofen said, “Please? May I see my brother?”
LOTHAR WAS LYING FLAT ON HIS BACK, A THIN PILLOW BENEATH HIS head. His jaw was wired shut, a thin brace around his face extending up into the white cloth bandage that wrapped the top of his head. Richthofen moved close to him, was surprised to see Lothar’s eyes open.
“Oh, you are awake. I thought I might be disturbing you.”
Lothar raised