To the Last Man - Jeff Shaara [65]
Lufbery stood frozen, blinked at the tears. The anger was hard inside of him, and he reached down for the stick, pressed the trigger. The gun barked, a short burst that startled them all.
“I need ammunition. I should go back up.”
DeLaage still had his sleeve, said, “Not just yet. Collect yourself. We will all do what we must.”
“C’mon, Luf.” He looked down at Thaw, the soft kindness in the man’s face calming the anger. “We’ll get those bastards yet. But not just now.”
Lufbery felt himself growing weak, every part of him sinking into the sadness. He climbed down, jumped to the ground, felt DeLaage’s hand under his arm.
“Mr. Lufbery, there was nothing any of us could have done. He was struck by an exploding shell. It was his time.”
Lufbery looked at Thaw, who nodded to him.
“That’s right, Luf. Nothing you could have done.”
Lufbery turned, put his hand on the plane, stared at the gun for a long moment. He saw the face of the young southerner, heard the soft drawl, the man’s embarrassment at his own human frailties. He thought of DeLaage’s words, his time. Something Kiffin would say. You would know more about that than I would, my friend. And if that is true, if that is what God is about, then I suppose you are at peace. But there is no peace here, and my time has not yet come.
OCTOBER 28, 1916
HE HAD CONTINUED TO FLY BESIDE BOELCKE, HAD WATCHED HIS captain destroy the enemy with remarkable consistency, an astounding record of forty kills. Boelcke had chosen his fights carefully, singling out a vulnerable enemy, a lone flyer, perhaps, or a pilot who had allowed himself too much distance from his support. It was not merely that he sought the easy prey. The sky had become his classroom, each combat a lesson for his students. The captain had led his squadron to each engagement, but held them back, commanding his students not to participate, but to learn. The lessons were succeeding. Within a few weeks after Richthofen’s first kill, as Boelcke allowed him to join in the fighting again, Richthofen had shot down six more enemy planes. One more would total eight, the milestone that would qualify him for the Order Pour le Mérite, Germany’s highest award for its fighting aces.
Richthofen no longer took the foolish risks, would confirm that his victim was destroyed, but now he would return to the fight, follow each engagement to its conclusion. He would still visit the wreckage of his opponents, but later, usually driven to the site by car, guided by infantry. He learned that he was not alone, many of the pilots seeking some memento of their enemy’s last fight. Richthofen began to remove and retrieve the serial numbers from the British planes, providing not only the unquestionable authentication of his victory, but a record of the specific aircraft he had shot down.
Boelcke had led them on patrols throughout the day, returning to Lagnicourt to refuel, then up in the sky again. Boelcke’s description of the weather during the autumn months was accurate, and they had flown through dark clouds and misting rain for most of the day. Richthofen had seen a change in Boelcke, a silent determination to remain in the sky, regardless of the absence of enemy planes. Richthofen knew that the pressure was coming from Berlin, an insatiable appetite from the High Command for exploits they could print in the newspapers. As this dismal day had begun, Richthofen had stood beside his plane enduring a rain shower, had assumed they would be ordered back inside. But Boelcke had climbed into his Albatros, had barked the order for five others to join him. They had made five patrols, even going far into British territory, something the German fighters rarely had to do. But the British had stayed in their hangars.
The prop was billowing Richthofen with a thick wet mist, his overcoat soaking wet, the chill cutting all the way through him, down into his legs. After one miserable flight in the morning, it had occurred to him to carry along a dry cloth, protecting it in the map pocket,