To the Last Man - Jeff Shaara [87]
They glanced at each other, no one responding, and he said, “Does anyone here believe he can survive when the enemy tries to kill him?”
One man stepped forward now, did not look at him, said, “We have mastered that, sir.”
Richthofen was not amused, looked at the ground at his feet, pushed the toe of his boot into a lump of snow, flattened it.
“I have examined your records, your reports. You have fought several engagements with the enemy that should have resulted in great success, and yet you have achieved nothing more than your own survival. Despite what your sweethearts may have told you, survival is not victory. Some of you have survived this war by merely keeping your distance from the enemy. If that describes you, then you have no place in this squadron. I do not intend to die because my wingman is distracted by dreams of his loved ones. Very quickly I will know if I can depend on you. Not too far west of here, your countrymen are dying in trenches, while you enjoy the privilege of gazing down upon them from the lofty perch of the eagle. There is many an infantry commander who would welcome a former pilot into his command.” He looked up at them now, felt an unexpected anger, his words growing hotter as he spoke. “Germany has given this war some of her finest men. I have known some of them personally. A great man taught me how to fight. I do not pretend to be Boelcke. No matter what my orders are here, I am still Boelcke’s student, his lessons are with me every time I fly. You will learn—” He stopped, the emotion choking off his words. No one was moving, no smiles, all eyes focused on him, and he was embarrassed now, could not talk about Boelcke without emotion, and he had no cause to scold them. Not yet. He found the control, took a long deep breath.
“It is my intention to instruct this squadron to pursue a single purpose: killing the enemy. I am not ashamed to admit to you that I have never before been in command. I could not have accepted this responsibility if I did not believe I could teach you how to be better pilots. It has been said in the newspapers that simply because I am here, Squadron Eleven will certainly become Germany’s finest. Those are foolish words. Nothing written in Cologne will change anything you do here. I have accepted the challenge assigned to me. You will as well. I have set one goal for myself. If I am killed, I will die knowing that one of you has learned the lessons necessary to take my place. If we are successful here, one day, when you receive your Order Pour le Mérite, each of you may say: I have learned the lessons of Boelcke. And I have learned them from Richthofen.”
THE LESSONS BEGAN AS THE WEATHER IMPROVED, AND RICHTHOFEN was pleased that among the young pilots of Squadron Eleven, a few began to surface as outstanding fighters. As the men increased their efficiency, Richthofen himself began a remarkable string of victories. On January 23, the first day of good flying weather in more than two weeks, Richthofen led them aloft in his newly painted red Albatros. The scene before them had unfolded like a perfect classroom display, and he took full advantage, keeping his pilots back as Boelcke had done, confronting by himself a small group of British fighters. Richthofen scored his seventeenth kill in plain sight of the entire squadron, the British fighter tumbling out of the sky in a streak of fire. Every member of the squadron got his first lesson in the tactics of Boelcke, and the skills of Richthofen. And Pursuit Squadron Eleven had recorded its first victory.
Within weeks his pilots had begun making kills of their own, Krefft and both Allmenroder brothers scoring victories. But it was their instructor who seemed inspired by the performance of his students. By the end of March, Richthofen had confirmed thirty-one kills, more than any living pilot in the war. General von Hoeppner’s wish was soon fulfilled. Photographers flocked to the aerodrome, and posters and banners began to appear in Berlin and every city in Germany, glorifying Germany’s “Red