To the Last Man - Jeff Shaara [231]
He walked out across the open field, the hangars now behind him. The dog stayed close, unusual, keeping pace with him. They walked for several minutes, and then Richthofen stopped, could see the edge of the wide drainage ditch that bordered the airfield. He looked at the dog, was prepared to give a cautionary shout, knew that Moritz would typically launch himself into the deep muck in the bottom of the ditch. But the dog stayed beside him, seemed to wait for his master to make the next move.
“You surprise me. You are a fine fellow this morning.” He scratched the dog’s ears, thought, They are right. I have been neglecting you. He pointed toward the ditch, said, “I suppose, if you wish to swim in the mud, I will allow it. Just keep the mud to yourself.”
The dog sat, simply watched him.
“No taste for mud today?” Richthofen looked saw a short stub of wood lying in the grass, said, “Ah, it is pursuit, then? All right.” He picked up the stick, tossed it out into the short grass, the dog responding in one great leap of motion. It was a simple familiar game, the dog making a bounding scramble to retrieve the stick, dropping it dutifully at Richthofen’s feet. He picked it up again, another throw, the dog again playing the game. He made several throws, and the dog was panting heavily now, Richthofen flexing his arm, stiffness in his shoulder.
“It has been too long since I threw anything. We both need the work.” The stick was at his feet, the dog waiting for the next throw. But the game was over, and Richthofen stared at the exhausted joy on the dog’s face.
“Is this all you require of me? Very well. It seems your day is now made perfect.” He looked out across the field, the fog beginning to thin. He moved toward the hangars, and he realized the anger had drained out of him, the gloom that seemed to follow him every day. Is this all I need, after all? Walk out into a field and throw a stick to my dog? He stopped, the dog halting beside him, and he looked down, said, “You ask nothing more of me than this. I am fortunate to have such a friend.”
He could see more patches of blue above him, the sun burning through the gray mist. He started to walk again, could see the men gathering outside the hangars, pilots who knew another game, who would wait for their master to give the order. The dog was trotting beside him again, the stick forgotten, and they crossed the flat ground, moved closer to the hangars. He waved his arm, pointed upward, the signal they all understood, the men stepping into motion, planes rolling out of the hangars. He noticed a cluster of automobiles now, some just arriving, the inevitable visitors, but there would be no time for them, no tour, no interview. He moved toward the red triplane, the mechanics standing back, their work complete. Corporal Menzke appeared now, hurrying toward him, holding the heavy flying suit, the helmet and goggles. The orderly was out of breath, said something about the visitors, photographers, but Richthofen focused on the clothing, began the routine, pulled the heavy fur up over his legs, then higher, sliding his arms through the thick sleeves of the suit. He looked at the dog again, Moritz sitting, tongue dangling, simply staring up at him. The orderly held out the helmet, but Richthofen waved him back, put one hand on the dog’s head, smiled, the dog rising up, leaning against his master’s chest with the big paws. Richthofen laughed, thought of the dog flying with him, a puppy, days long gone now. So many things have changed, he thought. But there must always be time for this. Moritz still wrestled with him,