To the Last Man - Jeff Shaara [48]
Moritz rolled over now, hopeful of a brisk rub, and Richthofen leaned down and obliged him. It was their ritual, the dog begging for the underserved meal, Richthofen rewarding him only with a playful rub of the dog’s upturned belly.
He noticed a clean uniform on the narrow bed, polished boots below, more good work from his orderly. He stood up, pointed, the dog moving obediently to the far corner of the tent. Well, more evidence that everyone around here believes Boelcke is coming. All right then, we shall see.
A TOAST TO THE FATHERLAND’S FINEST AIR WARRIOR!”
“A salute!”
Boelcke had indeed arrived, and all evening long, the wine had flowed freely. Richthofen had watched Boelcke carefully, could see the man was growing weary of the celebration. He glanced toward Boelcke’s brother, Wilhelm, the senior pilot in the squadron, wondered if Wilhelm was jealous for his younger, far more famous brother. Wilhelm was raising his glass with the others, seemed to share their revelry, and Richthofen obliged as well, his glass in the air.
It was typical to assume that a great war hero carried some age with his experience, but Boelcke was only twenty-five, and he seemed younger still, a clean-cut boyishness that gave no hint of his extraordinary talent for killing the enemy. Richthofen could see fatigue on Boelcke’s face, the smiles and appreciation forced now, and Richthofen wondered if the attention and endless toasting had become tediously commonplace. Richthofen had not been as boisterous as some of the other men, and he could feel that the evening was nearly concluded. If he was to speak to Boelcke it would have to be soon. He had fought for the courage all evening, wanted to ask what the man knew that made him so very good at what he did.
“Allow me, um. Excuse me.”
The faces turned to him, some of the men surprised that he had spoken up at all.
“My apologies, Captain Boelcke, but I have wanted . . . perhaps we have all wanted to inquire. Can you offer this gathering some gift of your skill, some instruction we might follow?”
He was immediately embarrassed, the room suddenly dead silent. Of course, it was the question they all wanted to ask. Boelcke smiled, surprising him, said, “Very simple, Lieutenant. I get close to my prey, aim well, and when I shoot him, he falls down.”
The others laughed, wineglasses raised, but Richthofen did not share the humor. Boelcke nodded toward him, the smile gone, and Richthofen understood. It was not a joke.
THE PARTY CONTINUED LONG AFTER RICHTHOFEN HAD RETIRED. HE was expecting to rise early, another mission toward the Russian lines. He sat on his cot in the darkness, pulling on his boots, knew that his observer would be up as well, would be waiting for him beside the plane. He heard voices, listened, heard Menzke, his orderly, and another man. He stood, moved to the opening in his tent, raised the flap, peered out. There was lantern light, and, walking beside Menzke, a man in uniform. It was Boelcke.
“Excuse me, Lieutenant. I regret the early hour, but then I am told that you are often in the air at daybreak. I share the habit. May I speak with you?”
It was the first time Richthofen had been embarrassed that his quarters was a tent.
“By all means, Captain. Please, um, if you would like, come inside.”
He backed into the tent, unsure, but Boelcke seemed not to notice the humble surroundings. Menzke handed Richthofen the lantern, said simply, “Sir.” The orderly disappeared into the darkness. Boelcke