To the Last Man - Jeff Shaara [232]
He heard a voice calling out to him, turned, saw a man aiming a camera at him. The man lowered the camera, waved to him, “Thank you, Captain! Very nice!”
Richthofen froze, and the dog sensed the change, dropped away from him. “Who are you? How dare you photograph me!”
The man was already moving away, oblivious to Richthofen’s sudden anger.
The orderly moved up close now, some of the others as well, and Menzke said, “Sorry, sir. I should have stopped him. He did not ask permission.”
Richthofen wanted to pursue the man, wanted the camera shattered, felt an uncontrollable rage at the violation of his private moment. But the man was gone, swallowed up by the swarm of visitors. He saw guards appearing, the belated effort to herd the civilians back beyond the hangars. They will complain, he thought, but so be it. We do not fly so that important civilians can gawk at our aeroplanes. Must they always bring photographers? He looked at Menzke, the man still holding his helmet, saw concern on the orderly’s face.
Menzke said, “He had no right to take your photograph, sir. All of them know about the jinx.”
Richthofen took the helmet, said, “Foolish talk, Corporal.”
“If you insist, sir.”
It had begun with Boelcke, though some believed it was a curse on every pilot who flew. To many it had become a rigidly accepted custom, that no pilot should be photographed before taking flight. Boelcke had died the same day his photograph was taken. But Richthofen had endured the intrusion from photographers for so long now that it had not occurred to him if his picture had ever been taken before a combat flight.
He took the goggles from the orderly now, said, “There is no jinx, Corporal. The captain of the guard was remiss this morning. That’s all.”
“Yes, sir.”
Richthofen stepped toward the triplane, adjusted his flying suit, put one foot up on the step, lifted himself into the cockpit. He slid his legs down, settled in, adjusted the suit again. He looked to the side, saw the rest of the squadron following his silent command, all climbing up into their planes. He glanced up, the fog completely gone, looked now at his watch: ten-thirty. Good. The sun will be behind us still. In front of the plane, his mechanic, Holtzopfel, stood with one hand resting on the prop, waiting for his signal. Richthofen raised his hand, then paused, was surprised to see the dog, still sitting upright, watching him. He smiled, waved his hand, said, “Don’t worry, Moritz. I will return soon.”
He pointed to the prop now, the mechanic giving one hard pull, the motor roaring to life.
RICHTHOFEN SAW THEM FIRST, A SQUADRON OF CAMELS, SWIRLING around two German observation planes. The others knew to wait for his signal, followed him as he turned the triplane toward the outnumbered Germans. He had counted eight Camels, had glimpsed another cluster of planes farther off, probably British as well, but the five Fokkers had the momentum, were closing fast on the first group of Camels. In seconds, the fight was on, a swirl of confusion as each pilot sought out his own target. He roared right through the formation of Camels, could see his men spinning off, each one trying to find the advantage, the Camels answering with spins and loops of their own. He turned the Fokker hard to one side, banked around in a tight turn, saw a Camel dropping down, escaping the fight. He smiled, thought, No, you will not go home today. There is no escape.
He felt the heat rising in his chest, his eyes coming into sharp focus on his prey. The Camel did not evade him, and he thought, So, you do not think anyone will follow you. It will be your final mistake. He nosed the Fokker down, gaining speed, closing the distance on the Camel. He stared hard at the brown mound in the center of the plane, the pilot’s head, moved the stick slightly, the Fokker dancing at his commands. The triplane slipped sideways, the Camel now coming into his sights. He felt the button that would fire