To the Last Man - Jeff Shaara [54]
He looked up, could see streaks of smoke in the air, some of the fighting still going on above him. He had the sudden image of horses in his mind, the cavalry, facing your enemy, and leading your men straight into the fight. As a boy he had always hoped to be a cavalryman, but there was a new reality now. Horses do not make good charges into barbed wire and machine-gun fire. He had left the cavalry believing it to be obsolete, a relic of another time. But if the weapons had changed, the art of war had not. He ran his hand along the side of the plane, simply another kind of horse, the obedient servant.
He could see soldiers carrying the litter out of the field, others still milling around the wrecked British plane. He thought, The pilot will die, no doubt. He is too badly wounded. So I killed two men today. The sight of the wounded man had been unexpected, but he was surprised at himself, that he had not really felt any emotion. He looked again at the wreck, could not deny the thrill that still ran through him. He wondered about that now, Am I supposed to feel some kind of sorrow, some regret? No, you have hunted too much, have seen too many wounded animals. A wounded man is no different. The pilot will die soon, and the observer did not suffer at all. Remember that. It is part of the successful hunt. That is, after all, the most important thing.
THE DINNER THAT NIGHT HAD BEEN A BOISTEROUS AFFAIR. ALL four of Boelcke’s planes had claimed a victory. Throughout the evening, the wine had flowed, and Boelcke insisted that each one share every detail of his own engagement with the British fighters. As the students crowed about their accomplishments, Boelcke sat back quietly, allowing them their special moment. Richthofen understood. They were being graded. As the evening drew to a close, Richthofen retired to his small room, expected to rise again before the first light. He was surprised that Boelcke followed him.
BOELCKE SAT IN A SMALL CHAIR, POINTED AT THE BED, A SILENT command for Richthofen to sit.
“We will not fly tomorrow. The weather in the autumn is usually poor in this part of France.” Boelcke paused, and Richthofen still didn’t know why he was here. Boelcke rubbed his chin, stared down for a moment, said, “From what I observed, and from your description of your engagement with the enemy, it appears your approach was more aggressive than discreet. When I gave the command to dive, I did not anticipate that you would attempt to devour the enemy plane with your propeller. You claim he didn’t see you until you opened fire?”
“Yes, sir.” Richthofen felt a burn in his cheeks, realized now that Boelcke had come to admonish him.
“You had sufficient time to prepare a careful and precise attack. Yet you overtook your enemy with such haste that you could not make the fatal shot. When you see a man shooting his gun at you, you can be sure that you have made a mistake. An experienced gunner can kill you with every bullet he fires, every one. You were fortunate he did not shoot well. You were also fortunate that you made your escape into a cloud, that the enemy was not simply waiting for you to emerge from your cover. It was to your advantage that the fighting was all around you. Did you consider that another of the enemy planes might have fallen in behind you?”
Richthofen weighed every word, felt foolish now for his pride. It had never occurred to him that another British fighter might have been coming up behind him. Boelcke stood slowly, moved toward the window, stared out into darkness.
“Why did you land? You caused severe damage to the undercarriage of your plane. And you abandoned your comrades. Did you consider that your own glory was more important than the lives of the rest of us?”
He could not look at Boelcke now. “Sir, you are correct.”
Boelcke spun around, said, “That does not excuse you, Lieutenant. On this day, we all returned