helmet was swept up and behind his head, jerking at his goggles, blinding him. He tried to control the helmet, the chin strap too loose, fumbled with the small buckle. He pulled the goggles back around his eyes, tried to shout to the pilot, but the roar from the spitting engine was too loud. He blinked the smoke from his eyes, grabbed at his helmet, jerked it back down on his head, tightened the chin strap. He was breathing heavily, the exhaust burning his throat, choking him, and he could feel the plane bumping along the ground, rolling out toward the takeoff area. Richthofen fought through the misery, tried to see all that was happening around him, but now the scarf around his neck was whipping behind him, unwrapping from his collar, the silk sliding free. He grabbed for it, but the sharp blast of wind stripped it away, the scarf now gone. He called out again, could not hear his own words, remembered the notepad in his pocket, the advice from the instructor, the only way to communicate. He retrieved the stub of pencil, wrote a single word, wait! He reached his hand over his shoulder, expected the pilot to take the paper from his hand, but the paper was ripped away, gone as well. The plane bumped along, and he tried to turn in the seat, impossible, stared ahead through the whirl of the prop, pulled again at the chin strap, tightening it further. The pilot revved the engine, the roar growing louder still, the wind pressing Richthofen’s head back. Now the plane was rolling faster, the bumps more severe. The excitement was gone, replaced by cold terror, and he felt his flight jacket inflating, his body swelling into a fat sausage, thought, My God, I’m going to explode! He imagined himself catapulted up and away, thrown far behind the plane like his scarf, and he punched at his chest, realized now it was only air forced inside the jacket, his failure to close it completely. He worked his fingers frantically, fastened it tightly at his neck. He gripped the leather trim that lined the edge of the cockpit, held tight with his leather gloves, his mind screaming at him to end this madness.
“Stop! Enough!”
His voice was swept away by the prop, and the plane kept rolling, faster, the jerking motions fewer, one hard bounce, punching him into the small wood seat, then a long floating feeling. He felt his stomach rising, a wave of queasiness, tried to breathe, and the plane settled back down, another bounce, and up again. Suddenly the jerkiness was gone, the plane cutting through the air in a smooth rush. He stared ahead, his stomach calming. He glanced over the side of the plane, saw the ground falling away, the airfield gone, trees now, another open field, drifting past. He still held tightly to the sides of the plane, looked out the other side, but the terror was replaced by the sheer wonder. Yes, I am flying! He could not help a laugh, the plane continuing to climb, the trees growing smaller, a farmhouse, animals, doll-like, the ground now a patchwork of greens and browns.
Richthofen ignored the deafening roar, stared out at the horizon, could see a cluster of odd shapes, realized it was Cologne, the great cathedral rising above the town. He was smiling now, turned as much as he could in the seat, tried to see in every direction. He was growing used to the wind, looked again at the magnificent cathedral, tall spires reaching up to God. Yes, this is what God sees, this is how He moves above us. He saw a flock of birds far below, rising up out of an open field, like so many small insects. There was a farmer, a team of mules, the man waving up at him, and Richthofen had not stopped smiling, thought of returning the greeting, but no, not a good idea. Keep your arms inside the plane. There was a tap on his shoulder now, and he tried to turn, but of course, he could not move that far, realized what the pilot was asking him . . . and the smile was erased. It flooded over him, the job he was supposed to do, the purpose of the flight. He focused, looked out to one side, Cologne, a road, the farms. He was supposed to navigate, to find a