To the Last Man - Jeff Shaara [229]
RICHTHOFEN COULD HEAR THE WAIL OF THE TRAIN, LOOKED AT HIS watch, thought, Ten minutes. The station was close, and he moved that way, felt a hard chill in the dampness of the air. He glanced up, saw a blanket of solid gray, no chance that anyone could fly today. He moved at a steady pace, did not look at the people who passed by, was relieved that no one recognized him. He felt guilty about upsetting his brother, scolded himself now, Do not tell so much. There is no need for you to cry on anyone’s shoulder. There is no need for you to cry at all.
The image of Lothar’s face would not leave his mind, the awful wires holding his jaw together. He knew that von Hoeppner would order Lothar not to fly again, and that Lothar would fight the order. It is what we must do, after all. It is what they expect of us. He knew that once Lothar’s wounds had healed, his mother would expect him to come home. But Richthofen had heard none of that from her in a long while. She had grown strangely silent about her fears for her sons, her letters speaking only of family now, the idle gossip of Schweidnitz. He wondered if his father was responsible for that, stern lectures to her about meddling in her two sons’ perfectly heroic lives.
It had been months since von Hoeppner or anyone else had suggested that Richthofen stop flying, the energy for such a foolish effort drained away by the necessities of war. He knew that in Cologne, they spoke now of the Americans, whispers from dark corners of the Air Service of a vast wave of new pilots, like so many big-hatted cowboys riding in from the West, rumors of thousands of new aeroplanes no one had yet seen, new motors, better guns. As the rumors grew more fantastic, Richthofen forced himself to ignore them, instructed his men to do the same. The real enemy was still right in front of them, the same British pilots flying the familiar planes. If the Americans arrive at all, they will bring loud talk and no experience, nothing to prepare them for what we can do to them. He winced, the image of the two burning men digging into him again. Why? You have seen death before. A great many deaths. Is that it? Too many? How much longer, how many more will die in front of my guns? Seventy-eight. He knew the number was on everyone’s mind at the Air Service, that every newspaper was keeping a close watch on the tally. He thought of Ludendorff now, the casual expectations, one hundred, the general tossing out the number to him as a foregone conclusion. Perhaps it is. Richthofen did not believe in fate, could not accept that some unseen hand was guiding him. And if there is no angel protecting me, then what? Destiny? Luck?
He glanced up at the column of smoke that rose above the train station, the train firing its engine. He quickened his steps, heard his name now, a man’s voice, calling out to the Great Hero. He ignored the man, kept his head down, focused on the uneven cobblestones, the rhythm of his boots. Seventy-eight. If Boelcke had lived, he would have more, certainly . . . the thought jarred him, as it always jarred him. Boelcke had not lived. None of the good ones . . . he froze his mind. You are alive, and tomorrow, if the clouds permit, you will fly again. And if someone over there finds your weakness, outflies you or outshoots you, then perhaps destiny will ride with him.
CAPPY, FRANCE—APRIL 21, 1918
The skies had cleared the day before, and Richthofen had led them aloft at first light. He took six Fokkers of Squadron Eleven into a confrontation with what soon became a much larger number of British Camels. The fight began as a melee of pursuit and maneuver, but what could have become a disastrously one-sided fight for Squadron Eleven was suddenly transformed by Richthofen himself. In just under five minutes, he