To the Last Man - Jeff Shaara [230]
HE MOVED OUT INTO DENSE GRAY FOG, STARED UP INTO THICK mist. He could feel the wetness in the air, said aloud, “Damn!”
In the hangars, the pilots were gathering, expecting him to lead them again, the mechanics already servicing the planes by dull lamplight. He stepped out of the dampness, a black fury growing in his mind, moved toward the red Fokker, saw pilots watching him, expectant faces, waiting for orders.
“The weather is fickle. We had our one good day. But now, the fog has returned. We must wait for the sun to rise higher. Perhaps the sky will clear.”
No one responded, even the newer pilots knowing the hard tone in his voice.
“Mechanics, continue your work. We will be prepared to fly at the first sign of improvement.”
He moved toward the makeshift office, the cloth walls of the hangar billowing out now with a soft chilling wind. He rounded a corner, a ragged wall built of wooden crates, moved through an opening, saw a light, Bodenschatz sitting at his small desk. The man stood abruptly, and Richthofen held up his hand, moved to his own chair, sat heavily.
“Sit, Karl. The weather has turned bad again. We must wait.”
“Yes, sir, I heard. France in the spring. No place for a war.” Bodenschatz laughed at his own joke, defying the hard scowl on Richthofen’s face. After a silent moment, he said, “Captain, the weather will clear soon enough. You have always said, if we cannot fly, neither can they.”
The young man’s words cut through Richthofen’s gloom, Bodenschatz’s good humor always infectious. Richthofen felt his dark mood lighten, said, “Yes, of course.”
He could see out through the opening in the hangar, dawn already spreading through the fog. He stood again, said, “Where is Moritz? I have not seen him this morning.”
Bodenschatz seemed suddenly nervous, hesitated a moment, said, “Um, sir. He is fine. I did not authorize . . . I wish to say that I had no part in this. The men thought it might lift your spirits.”
“What might lift my spirits?”
“I’m not certain I can answer that, sir. The men have observed that Moritz has been somewhat lonely, sir. They feel you have been neglecting him. Forgive me, but there is a conspiracy afoot. All in good humor, I assure you, sir.”
Richthofen was concerned now, said, “What have they done to my dog?” He didn’t wait for an answer, left the small office, stepped out into the cool mist, saw a gathering of men at the far end of the hangar. He looked around, called out, “Moritz!”
He focused on the men now, saw stifled laughter, heard a sudden clattering of wood, saw the dog, a mad scamper into the hangar, coming straight toward him. The dog was trailed by a wooden wheel chock, and Richthofen could see now that the block of wood had been tied to the dog’s tail. The dog came to an abrupt halt in front of him, spun around, the wood rattling after him.
“Stop! Moritz!”
Richthofen waited for an opening, leapt forward, grabbed the dog by the collar, held tightly. “Be still!”
The dog obeyed, settled down in a whining heap, and Richthofen knelt down, fumbled with the coarse rope, untied the knot. He stood again, looked toward the far end of the hangar, saw pilots scurrying away, disappearing rapidly out of the hangar, the mechanics staring intently into their motors.
“What is the meaning of this?” He tried to feel anger, but there was no cruelty in the men, Moritz as much a part of this squadron as he was a pet to his master. Richthofen looked down at the dog’s woeful expression, could not help rubbing the clipped ears, the dog responding by rising up, standing upright against him, his forepaws on Richthofen’s chest.
The mechanics began to look at him with sheepish grins, and he saw Krefft now, the big man emerging from under the red triplane. “Your dog has been lonely, sir. His master has been occupied. We felt he required your attention. No harm was intended, sir.”
Moritz