their mission complete. The British planes were all moving west, the sun at their back, blinding them to what might be behind them. Richthofen saw one fighter, out to the right of the squadron, eased his hand to the single trigger that would unleash the Maxims. The Albatros was closing the distance rapidly, and he could see the British plane in detail now, a two-seater, thought, A Vickers! His heart danced in his chest, his hand shaking, the cold slicing through his gloves, his finger hovering just off the trigger. The plane’s insignia was clearly visible now, the rainbow circles on the wings, two blind eyes staring up at him. He could see the two brown dots behind the top wing, the pilot and the man behind him, the observer. There was a machine gun mounted on the edge of the observer’s seat, hanging limply over the side of the plane, the men still with no idea of their fate. The Albatros screamed downward, and the Vickers seemed to grow, wide and fat, a great slow bird hanging in front of him. He tried to judge the distance, but he was close enough now, less than a hundred meters, then closer still, and he knew it was time. He pulled the trigger, the Maxims chattering in front of him, a rain of spent shells whistling past him. He expected the Vickers simply to drop, but the observer stood up quickly, turned toward him, the machine gun now in the man’s hands. Richthofen could see the flashes from the muzzle, the Albatros still gaining rapidly on the British plane. He stared for one frozen moment, the Vickers within thirty meters, closer, the gunner firing straight at him. His hands jerked at the stick, the Albatros spinning to one side, the Vickers now above him, turning about, the gunner still firing at him. Richthofen dropped the plane into a cloud, his hands shaking, the sounds of his heart tearing through his head. Damn! He stared at the white blindness for a long moment, took a deep breath. He thought of Boelcke, the others, had no idea what they were doing. He was embarrassed, thought, Thirty meters! And you missed! He tried to guess how much ammunition he had used, how much was left, thought, It was very fast, surely, not many shots. He banked the plane hard, said aloud, “It is not yet over!”
He emerged from the cloud, was amazed to see planes in every part of the sky, smoke and streaks of fire. The bombers were in a dense crowd below him, self-protection, their escorts darting above, fending off their attackers. He stared at the bombers, an easy target, thought of the pilots, terrified men, wondering if their protection would survive. The bombers had observers as well, probably the same mounted machine gun, but they were too slow, would be easy prey for the Albatros. He pushed his hand against the stick, the nose easing down, the bombers right below him. He could see the pilots and their observers, staring up at the great war in the sky above them. He glanced up, realized now, the Vickers was still above him, was turning away, seeking some new target. The bombers were forgotten now, and he gripped the stick, the nose coming back up, and he laughed, nervous, excited. He did not see me. He doesn’t know I’m here!
He was surprised how much slower the Vickers was, one of Boelcke’s lessons coming back to him. It was the great advantage of both the Fokkers and the new Albatroses, the larger and more efficient motor. He held the nose up, kept beneath the tail, out of sight of the British observer. He eased closer still, the Maxims pointing up into the motor of the Vickers, then back, just a bit . . . the cockpit . . . fifty meters, thirty. Now! The Maxims made a long burst, the underside of the Vickers ripped in two long tears. He was nearly into the tail of the British plane, pulled hard to the side, rolled away, a tight banking turn, was quickly out of range. But he pushed the Albatros forward, easing up closer again, expected to see the observer firing, but the machine gun was hanging limp, the man not visible at all. He could see one small round lump, the head of the pilot, low in the cockpit. He kept closing, and