To the Last Man - Jeff Shaara [233]
The Camel continued to drop, and Richthofen forced himself to be patient, glanced toward the ground, very close, trees winding along the banks of a river. The Camel went lower still, and Richthofen followed, could see the ground undulating now, was low enough to see the rise and dip of shallow hills. He caught movement on the ground, glanced to one side, men in earthworks along the river, unfamiliar colors, the uniforms nothing like the solid gray of the Germans. The plane shook suddenly, a burst of white smoke engulfing him, behind him now, and he cursed again. Antiaircraft guns. He stared to the front, to the wobbling tail of the Camel, thought, Well, you have succeeded, my friend. You have reached your own lines. But I’m too low for your foolish gunners. The Fokker lurched again, more smoke, and he fought to see through it, saw the Camel rise up, then turn hard, slipping over a rise along the river. The Camel was gone for a brief second, and Richthofen fought the urge to follow, no, stay straight. He will come back. This is the only way home. He stared toward the river, saw it bending across in front of him, a valley opening up. He held his breath, held tightly to his patience. Come on. I know you are there. Your time is just about up. The Camel was there suddenly, nearly broadside to him, the pilot twisting to avoid him, the Maxims’ gun sights squarely on the motor. Richthofen pressed the trigger, but the Fokker lurched again, more gunfire from the ground, smoke blinding him again.
“Damn you!”
He guided the nose toward the Camel again, could see he was barely a hundred meters above the ground, the trees racing past beneath him. He fired the Maxims again, another miss, thought, You are very lucky today, Camel. Suddenly the air ripped around him, streaks of fire. He turned, could hear a machine gun, caught a glimpse of a plane behind him.
He jerked the stick, still focused on the Camel in front of him, thought, You will not yet get away, my friend! The plane behind him fired again, bullets ripping the fabric on his top wing. He moved the nose, tried to put the Camel in his sights again, heard more bullets punching the triplane, saw flashes of fire from the ground, heard a chattering of rifle fire, machine guns. The plane behind him fired again, shredding fabric, the sickening crack of wood behind him, bullets smashing into the tail. He twisted the Fokker to one side, still searched his gun sights for the Camel. He was very close again, twenty meters, the Camel gyrating up and down, and he waited, anticipated, could see it settling right into the path of his guns, slowly, the perfect place, the head of the pilot in his sights. . . .
The hard shock punched a burst of fire through his chest, sucked his breath away. He still held tightly to the stick, could not help the reflex, pulled the plane up, tried now to hold it steady. He fought to breathe, still tried to see the Camel, the voice in his brain, no, not yet! I must find him! He tried to calm the triplane, felt the fire spreading inside him, put one hand on his side, where the shock had come, his suit ripped, saw his glove wet with blood. There was no breath at all now, the hot wetness rising in his throat, the fire spreading up into his face, his eyes, blinding him, the sound of the motor and the guns