To the Last Man - Jeff Shaara [47]
He had made some effort to understand the workings of the planes, from the delicate temperament of the machine guns to the motors themselves. Too often, the pilots seemed to treat the low-ranking men with disdain, had casual disrespect for the men who dirtied their hands. But no matter how many times he had studied the manuals or put his hands into black grease, it was not a talent Richthofen would ever master. To him, the mechanics were the most important members of the squadron.
The men of the squadron began to move through the hangar area, toward their quarters. They were housed in a row of railroad cars, brought up close to the aerodrome, the most rapid and efficient means of moving the squadron should the need arise. The planes themselves were often carried by train, an odd bit of illogic that Richthofen didn’t question. The men had simply made the rail cars their home, shared their meals in a dining car. He was still skeptical of their enthusiasm, could hear the men rehearsing their questions, all the guidance they would seek from the great Boelcke. He stepped out past the train, hopped across the tracks, followed the familiar trail to his tent. He wiped at the black grime on his face, thought, Well, of course, if he really is coming, I suppose I should clean up a bit.
Oswald Boelcke had replaced Max Immelmann as Germany’s most prolific flying ace. The two men had been in competition until Immelmann’s death, and Boelcke had continued his amazing string of victories, downing more than two dozen enemy planes. Richthofen had followed his exploits, had memorized every account he could find in the papers. He thought of Boelcke as more than some sort of national hero, had imagined himself often in Boelcke’s place, envied the man who must surely be the finest pilot of the war. All the pilots spoke of Boelcke with reverence, and not even the loud talkers dared to compare themselves to Germany’s great ace.
It was the kaiser who seemed to understand Boelcke’s value to Germany beyond his accomplishments in his plane. Not long after Immelmann’s death, Boelcke had been ordered out of the sky, was thought to be far more useful as an inspiration to troops and pilots on every front. Boelcke had been sent to aerodromes in nearly every theater of the war, and Richthofen had read about the man’s recent journey to Turkey. Richthofen had wondered about Boelcke’s reaction to all of that, the great fighter suddenly reduced to an instrument of public relations. You don’t teach men how to be efficient pilots by holding up one man as an example. Boelcke would surely know that. It’s simply propaganda. It must be driving him mad.
He reached his tent, stepped inside, looked toward the small table, a shallow metal bowl filled with soapy water, the washcloth folded neatly to one side. There was a burst of motion from under the bed, his dog exploding into a slobbering welcome. He smiled, caught the dog as the huge front paws came up onto Richthofen’s chest.
“Very good, Moritz! You wait for me like I instructed! Now, sit down!”
The dog obeyed reluctantly, and Richthofen moved toward the soapy water. He had not seen his orderly, but the man had done his work, a fresh bowl of water for Moritz, and the soapy one for himself. He wiped the oily crust from his face, the cold water refreshing, waking him. The dog sat up, whimpered slightly, and Richthofen turned toward him, said, “You cannot fool me, my friend. I know that Corporal Menzke has fed you. Now, sit quietly.”
The dog seemed to understand Richthofen’s command, sank down to its belly.
He had purchased the dog as a puppy, and though he knew the breed, he had not quite expected the young Great Dane to grow into such an enormous beast. Dogs did not serve well as mascots,