To the Last Man - Jeff Shaara [66]
He hunched his shoulders up, but the cold was all through his clothes, and he glanced over toward Boelcke, saw him waving, pointing straight ahead. He looked that way, was surprised to see two small dots, outlined against dull gray clouds. Boelcke began to climb, the others following, and Richthofen shook off the cold, thought, Finally! What fools would be out here this late in the day? They are heading west. It is obvious they believe their day has concluded. We shall change their minds.
Boelcke led them closer, six Albatroses now above and behind the two British planes. Richthofen could see the details of the planes now, single-seaters. Six against two. If the British pilots did not see them in time, it would be over quickly. Boelcke pointed toward him, and Richthofen understood. Boelcke would pursue one, Richthofen the other, with the other four planes in support. Richthofen glanced to the other side, caught the nod from the man on his right. He would be close behind should Richthofen need him.
The dive began, the Albatroses gaining quickly on the two British fighters. But the British were vigilant and immediately began to turn away, dodging the oncoming assault. Richthofen tried to follow the enemy’s tight turn, was close enough to fire, but the British pilot spun back the other way, Richthofen turning to keep pace. His target climbed up in front of him, then banked again, and Richthofen caught sight of the other planes, Boelcke in close pursuit, Boelcke’s wingman just behind him. Richthofen’s prey cut right in front of Boelcke, and Richthofen saw Boelcke’s plane lurch up, then slip sharply to the side, his wingman now right on top of him. The two planes seem to touch, then separate, and Richthofen felt a cold horror, turned, followed Boelcke, saw his plane dipping, lurching in the air. Small pieces of Boelcke’s plane ripped free, fluttered away into the clouds, the plane itself circling slowly downward. Richthofen scanned the sky above him, searched frantically for the enemy planes; but there was no sign of them, the British pilots making good their escape. The German pilots now brought their planes into a loose formation, all following Boelcke down. Richthofen watched in cold horror, shouted to Boelcke, the words useless, the man’s plane falling into a cloud, out of sight. He stabbed at the controls, circled the cloud, waited for Boelcke to appear, saw it now, the plane emerging below, twisting in an ugly spiral, the top wing now gone, ripped completely free. Richthofen was suddenly in a cloud now, unexpected, and he stared ahead, the wetness blinding him, closed his eyes for a long moment, the hard cold emptiness filling him. The cloud gave way, the sky in front of him empty, the darkness covering them all.
CAMBRAI, FRANCE—NOVEMBER 3, 1916
The procession took them into the cathedral, a vast crowd of silent observers standing motionless as they passed. Six pilots from Boelcke’s squadron bore the coffin, while Richthofen carried a velvet pillow, which held Boelcke’s extraordinary collection of medals. As he stepped in rhythm to the solemn procession around him, Richthofen held tightly to his emotions, stared at the medals, various shapes, different colored ribbons. But he stared hard at the one medal that topped the display, the one that mattered above all the others, the Order Pour le Mérite. He knew Boelcke would scold him for such thoughts, that no man should care so about medals and decorations, but Richthofen understood that it was not about glory or anything that would be in the newspapers. That one medal meant that you had bested your enemy, and had done it consistently. There was no recognition that could equal that, not to a fighter.
The air was thick with scent, great wreaths and displays of flowers, sent from all over Germany. Of course,