To the Last Man - Jeff Shaara [68]
He had adopted another habit as well, something that began with his first kill. He left the dog on the bed, stood now in front of the small glass cabinet, looked intently at a line of silver cups. Each cup was barely two inches high, was engraved with the details of a particular kill, the date and type of plane, how many men had died. The cups were in a neat row, spread across one shelf of the cabinet. After each new victory was confirmed, he would send word to a silversmith in Berlin, and a few days later, the newly engraved cup would arrive. He did not discuss the trophies with anyone in the squadron, knew it was something that Boelcke would frown on. It was, after all, a demonstration of self-praise.
He picked up the cup engraved with the number “8,” felt a slight rush of familiar anger. He had so counted on receiving the Order Pour le Mérite, had worked hard to keep that ambition tightly hidden. He really didn’t know himself how much the medal would mean to him, until suddenly it was withheld. Berlin understood the importance of the medal, and many of Germany’s pilots were quickly rising to the challenge, the number of their kills growing at an enormous rate, and that was exactly the problem. The more pilots who received the medal, the less significant it would become. Word came directly from General von Hoeppner, the commander of the entire German Air Service. In order to qualify for the Order Pour le Mérite, a pilot now had to claim sixteen victories, not eight. Richthofen knew better than to complain about the order, but had responded with a rare outburst of anger. Berlin had certainly perceived the sudden shock to the morale of the pilots, and within days, a brief explanation had been sent to the aerodromes: before his death, Max Immelmann had shot down fifteen enemy planes. In order to qualify for the medal, one must surpass Immelmann. The explanation had seemed to satisfy the pilots. Even in Berlin, the Order Pour le Mérite was beginning to be referred to now as the “Blue Max.”
The dog had moved up close to him, seemed to follow Richthofen’s every mood, staring into the glass cabinet with him, watching as Richthofen returned the cup to the shelf, lining it up evenly with the others.
Since Boelcke’s death, Richthofen found it harder to be social, could not escape the question: Which one of them would be next? Boelcke had been right: none of them was invincible. None of . . . us. He ran his finger lightly over the rim of each cup, thought, At least, if that time ever comes, someone, my family perhaps, can have these small treasures, a way to remember my own accomplishments. If they know little else about me, they will know I did . . . this. It may be all that I can give them.
There was a knock at the door, and Richthofen carefully closed the glass panel on the cabinet. He pointed to the bed, and the dog obeyed, jumping up out of the way.
“You may enter.”
He expected Corporal Menzke, was surprised to see pilots and mechanics; the hallway was packed with smiling men. Lieutenant Walz stepped forward, said, “Lieutenant, I have confirmation of the plane you bested today. It was a DH-Two.”
“Yes, sir, I am aware of that. I saw it from quite close up. Forgive me, sir. What is this? I don’t understand.”
Walz was smiling, said, “No, I don’t expect you do. There is no way for you to know, of course.” Walz glanced at the crowd packed in behind him, said, “Lieutenant, despite your distaste for seeing your name in the newspapers, I’m afraid