To the Last Man - Jeff Shaara [228]
“You are supposed to be talking, Manfred. Tell me about the squadrons.”
Richthofen sorted through the words, the names, said, “So many new faces. Only a few have good experience. I am not happy with their recklessness.” He saw the look in Lothar’s eyes. “Just as I have never been happy with yours.” He made a small laugh, saw the smile on his brother’s face. “I fear the instructors are teaching them the wrong lessons. They come to the aerodrome eager to show off what they believe is skill.” He paused, had given this same lecture many times before, scolding the young fresh pilots. “Flying upside down makes you an acrobat. It does not make you a fighter pilot. The new aeroplanes are very forgiving of such stunts, but it can only give these young men false confidence. And that will get them killed.”
It was a sore subject with him, and his voice had risen. He realized now that faces were watching him, a small crowd of white-coated men was gathering behind him. He turned, said, “I apologize. I do not wish to make a disturbance.”
Lothar pulled his hand again, and he looked down at his brother, saw something new, sadness. Lothar said quietly, “Why are you angry? This is not like you.”
Richthofen looked down, saw fragility in his brother’s hands. You should not fly again. But he had heard the same words, would not inflict that kind of selfishness on Lothar. He shook his head, said, “I apologize to you as well. You do not need such a sour visitor.”
“What is wrong with you, Manfred?”
Richthofen glanced behind him, the white-coated men moving away. “I do not enjoy hospitals. Not when my brother lies here.” He paused. “I have told no one this. My seventy-fifth victim was a two-seater, a bomber. We fought for a long while. The observer was very skilled with his gun, the pilot was an exceptional flyer. We pursued each other for some time before I gained the advantage. I nearly collided with them. We were not more than five meters apart when I shot them.”
He paused, and Lothar said, “Very good. Not much chance of missing.”
“I did not miss. The gasoline tank exploded. The plane was immediately engulfed in flames right in front of me. As it fell, I followed. I could see the men trying to free themselves. I watched them burn to death in their seats. The sight made me ill. In all the fights, with all the deaths I have inflicted, none has ever affected me like that. Because it was my seventy-fifth, everyone insisted on a celebration. Von Hoeppner sent a wire, the High Command as well, all cheers for the great victory. That night I sat down at the dining table and enjoyed the feast in my honor, while the ashes of two men lay scattered out on some ground.” He stopped, could see questions in his brother’s eyes. “It has never bothered me before.”
“Then why does it bother you now? You should be accustomed to such things. We all are.”
“What if the ashes were mine? Or . . . yours?”
Lothar squeezed his hands hard, said, “They were not. They were the enemy! I do not understand you. You cannot tell me that you have lost your heart for the fight. I cannot accept that. No one . . . no one in this country will accept that.” Lothar’s words were choked away by a grunt, and Richthofen could see pain on his face, the emotion in Lothar’s words stirring his injury.
Richthofen leaned close, said, “No, of course not. I am sorry. I would never say that. Do not worry. Please, calm yourself.” He put as much softness in the words as he could muster.
Lothar squeezed his hands again, gently this time. “It’s all right, Manfred. It passes.”
Richthofen was overwhelmed now by the gloom of his day, the women on the train, the mindless reverence he received from the hospital officials. He could not help staring at the wire that clamped around his brother’s face and head, the bandage, so similar to what Richthofen himself had worn for so many weeks. He stood, and Lothar released his hands.
“I should leave now. Allow you some