To the Last Man - Jeff Shaara [23]
“This way!”
He ran slowly, deliberately, looked again for the flicker of light, didn’t have to look back, could feel the strength behind him, pushing on toward the enemy. There was nothing of Blighty in this, no lesson from bitter sergeants, no way to train a man to feel the energy that drove him forward, raw and savage. He searched the ground in front of him, thought, Where? It must be close! He heard a dull pop, then another, ignored the sounds, and suddenly the sky exploded into bright light, bursting rockets, hissing torches floating slowly to the ground. All along the line, bright lights hovered overhead, some finding the ground, spewing up sparks and flame, the wave of men silhouetted in perfect detail. There was a new sound now, flickers of light ahead of him, like a long thin row of sparks. The sounds grew, rolling over him, the chatter and rattle of rifle fire, and another new sound, strangely familiar, a flash of memory, a child holding a piece of wood against the turning spokes of a wagon wheel. But the memory was shattered by the flashes of light, and the cries of the men around him. Machine guns.
The air around him was alive, men falling, punched and jerked down, some tumbling forward, others turned and twisted. Behind him, the opening in the barbed wire was gone, seeming to close, disappear behind all of them. He looked for an officer, someone in command, someone to tell him what to do. Men were spread on the ground around him, others firing their rifles, then cut down as well. He searched the ground for a shell hole, but the ground was flat and undisturbed, and he saw the face of the sergeant, Cower, the man they would all remember, the man who had called him a soldier. He turned toward the machine guns, held the bayonet high, and moved forward.
THE OFFICERS STUDIED THE MAP, TEACUPS SPREAD ON THE TABLE. Questions were asked and answered, an aide standing ready with a pointer. There were pins on the map, blue and red, undulating rows in two parallel lines. The room was busy, staff officers moving in and out, reports read, orders dictated to aides who wrote quickly on pads of paper. One man, a colonel, studied the pins, heard words of encouragement from the others, shared their smiles. He said something to an orderly, who obeyed quickly, took his tea away, brought him a fresh cup. Now more aides appeared, more dispatches, and the officers read each one, much talk, the smiles giving way to concern, and then, the smiles were gone. The room was quiet now, and the colonel stared at the map for a long moment, reached out across the wide table, pulled a blue pin out of the map, and tossed it aside.
Outside, the reporters held their daily vigil, newspapermen, waiting for the official posting of the day’s events, something to send home to readers already weary of bad news. An aide appeared, tacked a paper to a board, the reporters gathering, expectant, then disappointed. The paper read, “Minor activity along Ypres front. Engagements of no importance.”
DÖBERITZ, GERMANY—DECEMBER 1915
HE SAT STRAIGHT UPRIGHT IN THE FRONT SEAT, WAITED, COULD hear the pilot behind him fiddling with controls, the cables groaning slightly as the pilot worked and tested. Richthofen watched another man standing out front, his hand on the prop, impatient, annoyed with the pilot’s careful appraisal of the plane. Finally the pilot said, “Now!”
The man at the propeller gave one strong pull, the prop jerking into motion, the engine coughing black smoke. Richthofen jumped in his seat, smiled—finally, the adventure would begin! The pilot revved the engine, and the black exhaust and the wind from the prop hit Richthofen full in the face, and suddenly his leather