To the Last Man - Jeff Shaara [67]
But there had been one extraordinary surprise, an unexpected farewell, and as Richthofen followed Boelcke to his final rest, the words echoed through his mind. The day before the funeral, he had heard the low hum of a motor, had rushed outside the hangar to watch a single British plane circling low over the aerodrome. The men had scrambled to the antiaircraft guns, but it was not an attack, no bombs, simply a wreath dropped into the wide field, black ribbon trailing a tightly wound gathering of flowers. It was a message, a salute that would mean more to the fallen soldier than any headline, a show of respect that fighting men had shared on this same land for a thousand years:
To the Memory of Captain Boelcke, Our Brave and Chivalrous Foe
COMMAND OF BOELCKE’S FLYING SQUADRON WAS GIVEN TO LIEUTENANT Stephan Kirmaier, a capable veteran pilot, who made no attempt to change Boelcke’s methods. Richthofen was pleased with Kirmaier’s disciplined approach, and the squadron had continued its successful dominance over the airspace near Lagnicourt. In only three weeks, Kirmaier and his young pilots had shot down another two dozen British planes. But the squadron would not enjoy the luxury of celebration. Less than a month after Kirmaier had taken command, he went down himself, a victim of the increasing accuracy of the British gunners. Kirmaier’s successor was named quickly, another veteran, Lieutenant Stephan Walz. But Walz was more of an administrator than a fighter, and though Richthofen had not thought of himself as commanding anything but his own plane, the young flyers of the newly named “Boelcke Squadron” increasingly looked to him to lead them into combat. It was a responsibility he accepted.
NOVEMBER 23, 1916
It had been another intense fight, a flurry of swirls and dives, more than a dozen planes involved, the British pilots responding with surprising skills. As the fight spread out over the vast landscape of the combat zone below them, Richthofen had engaged a single-seater, a de Haviland, the distinctly odd “pusher” design with the motor and prop behind the wings, the pilot’s seat jutting out in front. The “DH” was a much more maneuverable fighter than the Vickers, but it could still not outrace the Albatros. There had been no surprise attack for either pilot, no chance for Richthofen to make his careful approach from the de Haviland’s blind side. The British pilot had dueled Richthofen for more than thirty minutes, loops and banking turns, the two men circling each other in tight spirals, until, finally, the westerly wind and the DH’s lack of fuel had forced the British pilot to break off the engagement. But Richthofen would not let him go and continued the pursuit. The DH continued to dodge and weave in front of him, Richthofen amazed at the dexterity of the British plane and its pilot. The DH led Richthofen down close to the ground, the two planes finally racing barely a hundred feet over the astonished faces of the German troops below. But the Albatros was simply too fast, and Richthofen kept his craft moving in as straight a line as possible, knowing that each dip and turn of the DH slowed it down, allowing the gap to close between them. Before the British pilot could reach the safety of his own antiaircraft guns, Richthofen had closed within range. The burst from the Maxims had been fatal to the pilot, and the DH dropped heavily, slid and tumbled into a heap of wreckage near the German trenches. It was Richthofen’s eleventh kill.
HE SAT ALONE IN HIS ROOM, SCRATCHED THE DOG’S EARS, THE huge animal spread out across the single bed. Richthofen was simply passing time, expected to hear from his orderly at any moment. He had sent a customary request to the infantry commander where the DH had gone down. If Richthofen could not go to the