To the Last Man - Jeff Shaara [84]
“Not yet, sir. I much prefer fighting the British. All I have heard of the French is that they prefer to lay traps, to fight by deceit and trickery. Their attack is like bottled lemonade. It lacks . . . tenacity. The British believe they can confront us and win. What their pilots believe to be pluck and bravery is all too often merely stupidity.”
Von Hoeppner laughed, and Richthofen was embarrassed, realized he may have become too informal. Von Hoeppner said, “So, you would rather face an opponent who will confront you, eh? More dangerous that way, certainly.”
“Forgive me, sir, but from what has been confirmed, my victories have all come against the Englishman. I prefer an opponent who believes he is brave, who believes he has the best aeroplane. None of that prepares him for combat against a foe who has the superior skill.”
“I cannot argue with your logic or your accomplishments, Lieutenant. Be aware, however, that the British are a Germanic race. Though they may not match you in skill, they can be our equal in tenacity.”
Richthofen was surprised at von Hoeppner’s warmth, was feeling much more comfortable in the old man’s presence. He had never expected any general to speak to him this way. He reached down, adjusted the heater, the air in the room growing oppressively warm.
“What do you think of your pilots, Lieutenant? Can you better the record of Squadron Boelcke?”
Richthofen sat upright again, realized that von Hoeppner was staring at him with cold eyes, the playfulness suddenly gone.
“I had not considered my former squadron’s record to be . . . attainable.”
Von Hoeppner frowned, said, “Of course it’s attainable. That’s why you’re here. I’m surprised you don’t appreciate that. You have one primary duty here, Lieutenant. You are to turn Squadron Eleven into a fighting squadron, not merely one that flies aeroplanes. You must give them something of yourself, whatever it is that has made you a hero to the German people. I want this squadron . . . I want every squadron in the Air Service to prove to me, to the High Command, to the kaiser himself, that they are the finest squadron in Germany. In other words, Lieutenant, I want competition. Squadron Boelcke has a formidable record of confirmed kills.”
“Over a hundred, sir.”
“Yes! Over a hundred! It is obvious what you must do, Lieutenant! You must put these men to work! And, one more thing.” Von Hoeppner paused, seemed to search for words. “I have noticed that many of my pilots have been adding nonregulation adornments to their aeroplanes. I had considered disciplinary action as a means to end this reckless practice. However, I noticed that these adornments have become a source of pride, as well as recognition. Despite my earlier reservations, I have decided instead to encourage this sort of practice. What is your feeling about this?”
Richthofen was surprised von Hoeppner would ask such a question, thought carefully, said, “Captain Boelcke had painted the motor cover of his Albatros red, so that in a large engagement, we might know which plane was his. I had thought of doing the same here. I thought as well that it might be an appropriate tribute to the captain. I am aware, of course, that it is against regulations.”
“Not any longer. Of course, his principle of recognition is entirely correct. By all means, you should do the same. Consider it a fine tribute, if you wish.” He paused, thought a moment. “It occurs to me that there is another reason why a skilled pilot should be recognized. Do you imagine that the enemy came to recognize the band of red on the motor of Captain Boelcke’s aeroplane? I would think so. I would assume that a British pilot who suddenly realized that his opponent was Boelcke . . . imagine, then, what he would experience, the fear that would spring into his mind in that moment of awareness. Surely, that provided some advantage.”
“I had