To the Last Man - Jeff Shaara [51]
They followed the British squadron deeper into German territory, and Richthofen’s curiosity was digging at him. He pulled out a small stiff map from a pocket beside him, then glanced at the compass. They are heading for . . . Marcoing. There is a railway depot there. He glanced down, searched for smoke, a plume of gray always to be found somewhere. He spotted one now, spreading out in a low fan toward the East. They had a tailwind. He smiled, looked over at Boelcke, who ignored him now, the captain staring straight at the enemy far down in front of them. Richthofen followed Boelcke’s gaze, understood the routine of the British mission. They will drop their bombs, and then return to their bases. But they will face a strong head wind. They will consume their fuel, and so they will not be able to maneuver away from us for very long. Even if the fighters could escape, the bombers are slow and clumsy and cannot be left behind. He smiled, a hard grip on the controls. And then we will have them.
The bombers began to change formation, a maneuver Richthofen knew well. They were beginning their bombing run. He could see Marcoing now, partially hidden by low clouds, saw the larger planes dropping away, disappearing as they made their dives toward their targets. The air around the British was speckled with white dots now, antiaircraft fire coming from the ground. He began to think of the railroad depot and the men who worked there. What must be happening there? We could have attacked them before they reached Marcoing, stopped their mission. He looked over toward Boelcke, saw him concentrating on the action below them, and Richthofen thought, It was his decision. We could have attacked them before, but then we might not have had the advantage we will have now. He stared down, could see nothing of bombs and bullets, of the men dying. He scolded himself, Stop this! You have your mission. It is likely that the bombers missed their targets. He remembered Russia, that damned bridge, the panicking Cossacks. That day, he had no antiaircraft guns to contend with, and below, he could see that the gunners at Marcoing were pouring out a heavy fire. That will make the bombers lay their eggs too quickly, no time to be precise.
He realized now that the signs of the fight were out behind him, Boelcke leading them out to the east of the British bombardment. Boelcke waggled his wings, and Richthofen focused on the hand signals: circle. And wait.
They banked the planes into wide arcing turns, guided by the direction of the sun, and the blanket of smoke drifting above Marcoing. Now Boelcke straightened them out again, and the sun was behind them. Richthofen strained to see below, gray smoke rising higher through the low clouds. The British should be returning home now. It doesn’t take long to complete this kind of mission. He glanced at Boelcke, saw him waving, pointing, and then, one last signal. Dive.
Richthofen pushed the stick forward, clamped his jaw tight, the wind ripping at him, the goggles pressed hard against his face. He searched the clouds below, could see what Boelcke saw now, a ragged formation coming together, the fighters gathering up the bombers, herding their flock,