suddenly, the Vickers seemed to freeze in the air, the propeller coming to an abrupt stop. Richthofen raised the nose of the Albatros, streaked by the Vickers, a brief glimpse of the pilot, the man still holding tight to his controls. The Vickers fell away now, cutting sideways through the air, losing altitude rapidly. He turned the Albatros, dove down, followed. Boelcke’s words came to him, Beware the trick. The British pride themselves on aerobatics, will spin their plane as though they are dead, then bring her back to life far below you. And if you are not aware, then you will be the prey! He followed the Vickers down, could see the pilot moving, the wings jerking wildly, the man clearly struggling to keep it in the air. Richthofen noticed the ground now, surprising him, the first time he had thought of that. He eased the nose of the Albatros up slightly, looked at the altitude gauge, six hundred meters, pulled up into a shallower dive. The Vickers kept falling, but then the plane seemed to level out, slowing, then suddenly it was on the ground, a sliding cascading wreck, the plane breaking into pieces, pancaking on smooth ground, spinning slightly, then coming to a stop. He wanted to shout, something, words not coming, the sudden thrill overwhelming him, a moment of pure joy. He punched his fist in the air, then eased the Albatros around in a wide circle, studying the wreckage. He was surprised to see troops emerging from a thick row of brush, gray uniforms. German troops! They began to wave at him, some running for the wreckage, and he eyed the open field, smooth grass, slipped the Albatros lower, flew closer to the ground, only a few feet above the wreckage. The troops backed away now, scrambling to the edge of the open field. He was laughing, still punched at the air, eyed the field, thought, Grass, no stumps or, please God, no holes. He moved out beyond the end of the field, eased the plane around, aimed the nose toward the wrecked Vickers. He cut the motor, the plane easing down the last few feet, the wheels bumping hard, the plane tilting to one side, the wingtips nearly hitting the ground. He pulled at the stick, bounced again, and the plane was rolling now, then stopped a few yards from the wreckage. He was up and out of the plane as the soldiers swarmed around him, some cheering him, others surrounding the wrecked Vickers. He jumped down into soft grass, ran with them, reached the Vickers, stopped, saw a man on the ground crawling from the wreckage, pushing himself with one leg, the other dragging behind him. His clothes were bloody, one arm shattered, barely attached to his body. Richthofen shouted to the soldiers, some of the men already up on the wreckage, “Stop! Get back!”
The hard authority in his voice halted them, the soldiers backing away. The man still struggled toward him, dragging his leg, his helmet ripped, goggles gone, and the man looked up at him now, said something Richthofen couldn’t understand, seemed to point behind him. Richthofen stepped past him, saw another man’s hand, a sleeve, protruding from beneath the wreck. He motioned to the soldiers, “Lift, here!”
The men obeyed, the plane tilting, and he could see the observer now, the man crumpled low in his cockpit, his goggles still in place, his clothing soaked in blood, the man shot through several times. He looked at the pilot again, the man now lying in the soft grass, staring up at him, blinking through the red crust in his eyes. Richthofen said, “Get a litter. This man is still alive.”
He backed away, the soldiers moving forward, some probing and pulling at the wreckage. He walked slowly back to his plane, could see the undercarriage bent and twisted, his Albatros nearly wreckage itself. He thought of Boelcke. I should not have come down here; this was foolish. But it is my first. Surely he will understand. He leaned against his plane, the image of the British observer in his mind. I suppose a man should know what he has done, he thought. There is responsibility here. One of us was to die today. He thought of the observer emptying