To the Last Man - Jeff Shaara [86]
He looked at one paper on his desk, held it up, had studied it repeatedly, the mechanical specifics of the new aeroplanes. He still didn’t understand what some of the numbers meant, but he knew enough to be excited. Von Hoeppner had sent Squadron Eleven a group of the new Albatros D-IIIs, a machine vastly superior to the plane Richthofen had already mastered. The D-III was only slightly faster than its predecessor, but it could climb more quickly, and could fly comfortably at more than seventeen thousand feet. It will take more than a new aeroplane to make them good pilots, he thought. But it will be a very good way to begin. He glanced again out the small window, saw a flurry of snow, thought, They have waited long enough. And I must get this over with.
He moved out through the door, the vast open building smelling more of gasoline now, several of the new planes lined up nose to tail. He enjoyed looking at them, had already singled out his own, stared at it for a long moment, then stepped out into the blast of cold air.
Each man was bundled up in the thick overcoat that would accompany him in the air. A few were talking, low voices, some watching him as he approached. He kicked his boots through the snowy grass, stopped in front of them, was pleased that most of them reacted by coming to attention. He was still putting names to faces, had been surprised to learn that some of them had as much experience in the Air Service as he had. He looked at the large man on the end of the line, his heavy coat giving him the appearance of a great brown bear, the name coming to him now: Konstantin Krefft. Krefft was a young lieutenant whose record surprised Richthofen, the man actually flying alongside Max Immelmann. Krefft was also a man who had demonstrated a strong aptitude for mechanics, something that impressed Richthofen even more. Beside Krefft were the two brothers, Karl and Wilhelm Allmenroder, who had learned as Richthofen had learned, by flying the two-seat bombers. He scanned the line of men, could see that they were appraising him as well, thought, Certainly. You are entitled to know something of your new leader, to wonder if I am anything more than what is in the newspapers. His eyes stopped at the far end of the line, and he focused on a tall, thin man, who seemed to bend with the wind. Kurt Wolff was something of a mystery to him, a frail man not quite twenty-two years old, who appeared much younger. Wolff had the unfortunate distinction of having killed his flight instructor by crashing during his very first flight. More crashes had followed, but despite a permanent injury to his shoulder, Wolff had persisted in the Air Service. Richthofen had already heard something about a nickname, some reference to Wolff as a delicate flower. We have no use for delicate flowers, he thought. But I cannot condemn a man for a history of recklessness. It is something I share with him. He is serious about flying, and as much as any man here, he seems eager to learn.
Richthofen pulled his heavy coat tightly around him, braced himself against an icy breeze, patches of loose snow blowing into small powdery clouds across the open ground. He had put it off long enough, the task was unavoidable, and he stepped closer to them, said, “Does the cold bother any of you? Would you prefer to be inside?”
No one spoke, and he nodded, thought, I dare them to show weakness; they dare me as well.
“Very soon, we will fly. I am as impatient with this weather as you must certainly be. I have not called you out here just to torture you. You have seen the new Albatroses. You know what they are capable of doing. We must use their climbing ability to our advantage, and that means you will fly higher than you have ever flown before. And, I am hoping you understand just how cold you will get.” He paused for a moment, saw only nods of confirmation. “Very good. Now, does anyone here believe he knows how to kill the enemy? Your record would