To the Last Man - Jeff Shaara [85]
Von Hoeppner stood now, seemed energized by his own words. “Regulations! A colossal mistake, Lieutenant.” He looked at Richthofen, leaned close to him, the old man’s hands on the small desk. “I told you that every staff room in Kreuznach echoes with your name, every bureaucrat’s office in Berlin. Lieutenant, I want more. I want every staff officer in London to know your name. I want every enemy pilot who flies the Western Front to live in dread that his next opponent will be Richthofen!” He straightened, turned away, a wide smile. “Indeed. This is precisely what we need. The newspapers will put this on every front page.” He moved toward the door, and before Richthofen could rise, von Hoeppner pulled it open, then turned toward him, said, “This meeting is concluded, Lieutenant. I will follow the progress of Squadron Eleven with great interest. And you will immediately order that your personal aeroplane be painted red. Do you understand me, Lieutenant? Not just the motor. The entire plane!”
JANUARY 17, 1917
The Order Pour le Mérite had finally been awarded to him, a brief ceremony the day before. It had been without fanfare, Richthofen avoiding the photographers, accepting the medal with somber silence. It occurred to him to offer his own tribute to Max Immelmann, something the newspapers didn’t need to know. He would wear the medal under his flight suit, would always have it close to him every time he flew. It would become a habit, a part of his clothing. He did not want the ceremony of it, would wear the medal only as his private gesture. As much as he had wished for it, and as hard as he had worked, he was already looking ahead.
With the medal and the new command there had been something else new to Richthofen, a sense of pride he had never really known before. It was not merely the newspaper headlines, or the enthusiasm of von Hoeppner. All his life he had been the focus of his father’s critical eye, had gone to military school to please the old man, had joined the cavalry to satisfy his family’s dependence on honor, something that had stayed inside Richthofen from his first days in the military. But flying had been his choice alone, and it had humbled him. It was a new kind of aristocracy, with excellence the new bloodline. No one had inherited the right to be a good pilot. The rich man could make as many mistakes as the poor, and even a small error could kill you. Boelcke had taught him not just to be a good flyer, but to be the best fighter a man could be. Despite the newspapers, Richthofen understood that he was still learning, that each experience, each victory added to what Boelcke had given him. There had been significant changes in the air, and he thought of von Hoeppner’s words, that the British were not so different from the Germans. Richthofen had seen it himself, could no longer depend on the enemy to make his usual mistakes. The British were learning themselves, the quality of their planes and the skills of the men who flew them increasing with every confrontation. Lanoe Hawker had been an exceptional pilot, and Richthofen would no longer deny himself the accomplishment, the pure skill it had required to bring Hawker down.
When Richthofen arrived at La Brayelle, his first task had been to study the records and reports of his pilots. Though the men made something of a motley appearance and seemed to lack pride in themselves and in their skills, there was nothing on the papers in front of him that condemned any man to mediocrity. He realized now something that Boelcke would certainly have told him. What they require is leadership.
He knew they were waiting for him, had observed them through the small window of his office as they gathered into formation. He had never tried to offer anyone a speech, had no intention of making one now. It is not my job to give them passion, he thought, to heighten their loyalty to the kaiser. Any one of them who does not understand why he is a pilot would never have volunteered in the first place. But still . . . I am here . . . I have this