To the Last Man - Jeff Shaara [49]
“I will not occupy your time more than necessary, Lieutenant. As you know, I am on my way back to Berlin. It has become part of my job to visit aero squadrons along the way. I thought it especially important to come here.”
“Yes, sir. Your brother is a fine officer. It is a pleasure to serve with him.”
Boelcke smiled. “Yes, I enjoy visiting with Wilhelm. But that is not entirely the reason for my visit. I have been urging Berlin to allow me to return to flying. I am not comfortable being some sort of symbol. I believe that I may best serve my country by fighting the enemy. My wishes have finally been heard, and I am delighted that my plans have been approved.”
Richthofen felt an odd sense of relief, said, “I am pleased for you, sir. Though it is not my place to question the wishes of the High Command.”
Boelcke smiled, held up a hand. “Please be at ease, Lieutenant. Are you aware that in the West, the enemy is rapidly gaining superiority over our air forces?”
Richthofen was surprised at Boelcke’s frankness. “No, sir. I have not heard anything of that.”
“No, it is not something the High Command discusses with newspapers. However, it is true. I have been authorized to confront the problem directly. It is my intention to form an elite fighter squadron whose sole purpose is to hunt down enemy planes, be they fighters, bombers, or observers. Berlin has given me a free hand in selecting those pilots I consider worthy of the job.” Richthofen felt a stirring in his stomach, and Boelcke continued. “I have had considerable discussion with my brother about the pilots in this command. What I require are men who have a natural ability to control their aeroplane, whose performance in the air is not injured by their behavior on the ground. I am not interested in men who are prone to speak loudly of their accomplishments. This has nothing to do with glory and newspapers. I require men of discipline and focus and aggressive spirit. We will have one mission, Lieutenant: Kill the enemy. Shoot his planes out of the air.”
Richthofen felt his own excitement growing, matching the fire in Boelcke’s words.
“Sir, is there an opportunity for a pilot of my abilities? I believe I have the experience. . . . I would prefer nothing more—”
“The decision has already been made, Lieutenant. Prepare your baggage. We leave immediately.”
NEAR LAGNICOURT, FRANCE—SEPTEMBER 17, 1916
HIS JOB WAS TO STAY IN FORMATION, CLOSE ON BOELCKE’S RIGHT. There were four planes in the patrol, the number decided by Boelcke himself, the mission, the technique all determined by the captain. Boelcke had continued his amazing string of successes, had used his mastery of the air not only to decimate the British air forces he encountered, but to educate the young men who were still very much his students. He had shot down nearly thirty aircraft. The lessons were being learned by his students firsthand.
At dinner the night before, Richthofen had been chosen for today’s squadron, had been surprised and enormously relieved. He had observed Boelcke sitting in quiet judgment of his students, more than once caught Boelcke staring at him, appraising his responses to the lessons. It was quickly obvious to all of the young pilots that the captain placed a high priority on their mechanical aptitude, that a pilot’s survival might depend on his ability to repair his plane. It had always been Richthofen’s primary weakness, and beyond the mechanics of the plane itself, Richthofen still didn’t completely grasp the working of the machine guns. The Albatroses were equipped with two Maxims, the latest incarnation of the efficient weapon used with such deadly skill by German infantrymen. The guns’ ammunition was fed by a continuous cloth belt, the number of shells determined only by how much weight the Albatros could carry. Richthofen had been impressed when he saw the belts being folded into the boxes beside the motor, a thousand