To the Last Man - Jeff Shaara [227]
“Manfred. Thank you. I am so happy to see you!”
Richthofen could not take his eyes from the metal hardware attached to Lothar’s face, said, “Are you in pain?”
Lothar shook Richthofen’s hands with his own. “No. Not so much anymore. Morphine. Not needed often. Hurts when I try to move. So I do not move.”
Richthofen glanced around the ward, familiar rows of beds, none of them empty, the room reeking with the same smell he had grown used to at Courtrai. There were men lying on the floor, filling many of the spaces between the beds, something very different from the relaxed atmosphere of St. Nicholas. Lothar still held his hands, pulled at them, and Richthofen looked down at him.
Lothar said, “Worst nurses I have ever seen.”
Richthofen was concerned, said, “Are they mistreating you? I shall have a word with the administrator!” He caught the slight smile on Lothar’s lips.
“No. Not mistreating. Look at them. Fat and old. Not one pretty one in the place. Takes all the enjoyment out of bathing. The young ones must all be in France. You were fortunate.”
He was surprised at Lothar’s good humor, sat down now on the edge of the bed.
“I am fortunate that my brother is alive. Twice now.” The words rolled up in his brain: You should stop flying. But he caught himself.
Lothar said, “I should paint the figure of a cat on my aeroplane. Let the enemy know I still have seven more lives.” He smiled again, made a grunting sound, a hard grip on Richthofen’s hands, shock in Lothar’s eyes. His eyes closed for a brief moment, opened again, and Lothar said slowly, “I cannot laugh. It causes a problem. Enough problems already.” Lothar hooked a finger into the side of his mouth, pulled at his cheek, and Richthofen saw a gap, two missing teeth. “Only way I can eat. My insides are floating in soup.”
Richthofen took his brother’s hands again, said, “Do not talk. It cannot be good for you.”
“All right, Manfred. You talk. I have been here for a month. I have many questions. I was wondering. How many Camels have you sent down?”
Richthofen absorbed the question, had been asked the same thing by von Hoeppner. “I believe it has been seven. There is always chance for error.”
Lothar closed his eyes, patted his hand. “Very good.”
Richthofen knew how the boredom of the hospital could put questions in your mind, trivial ideas that served only to fill the time. The Camels had been a curious subject since they first confronted the German flyers, and the Air Service had been particularly interested how the German aircraft had measured up. There was no real answer—both sides claiming superiority of their equipment, both sides finding some success in shooting their enemy’s finest planes out of the sky. But Richthofen had paid little attention to the claims of either side, knew that, ultimately, Boelcke’s principles still applied. It was not the plane, but the man who flew it. Though he would never admit it to anyone, Richthofen had indeed kept count, not just the Camels, but every other plane he had shot down. Lothar was watching him, waiting for more. Richthofen already knew the next question that his brother would ask, said, “Seventy-eight.”
Lothar squeezed his hands again, said, “You order the cups too?”
He had never been sure what his brother thought of his trophy collection. No one in the fighter wing ever questioned his rigid dedication toward securing the scraps of cloth, or the pieces of hardware from his victims. Many pilots on both sides collected their mementos. But to Richthofen’s knowledge, the silver trophy cups had been his idea alone.
“The jeweler tells me silver is very hard to get now. He made a few of them in pewter. But I have not given much thought to that for a while now.”
Lothar looked up at him for a long moment, then said, “I miss the fight. I truly miss it. I don’t know how much longer I must stay here.”
Richthofen had spoken to the doctors weeks before, had heard talk that Lothar might require several months