To the Last Man - Jeff Shaara [97]
When Richthofen had requested transfer to the Air Service, it had been a shock to his father, the old man suspicious that anyone could achieve a soldier’s honor or perform any good service to the Fatherland by dancing around the sky in these new aeroplanes. But with his oldest son now a national hero, Albrecht’s blithe dismissal of the Air Service had grown silent.
ALBRECHT WAS STILL BEAMING, SAT AT THE HONORED PLACE AT the head of the table, and Richthofen could not help smiling with him. The food was piled in great steaming mounds in front of them, the other pilots enjoying the company of this old cavalryman as much as his sons. The room was alive with chatter, Lothar loudest of all, and Richthofen knew his father was struggling to sort out the sounds. He could see his father growing frustrated, and Richthofen motioned to him, eat, mouthed the words slowly, we will talk later. His father seemed to appreciate the gesture, stared at a mound of beefsteak in front of him, the smile returning, said to no one in particular, “No cavalry ever ate like this.”
Richthofen could feel himself relaxing, a tight coil unwinding inside of him. His mind was already drifting to thoughts of home, the great stretches of forest around Schweidnitz, and he had allowed himself to daydream about hunting, long quiet walks, and then, a visit with his mother. He had missed her most of all, wrote letters as often as he could. The letters were always positive, carefully worded to avoid upsetting her, filled with only the vaguest details of his successes, never a hint that there was any real danger to her son.
He would make the journey to Schweidnitz by plane of course, found it ridiculous that Germany’s most celebrated flyer should ride home in a train. But he would not pilot himself, would be ferried by Krefft, who had been granted a leave of his own. Though Richthofen thought his younger brother was too reckless, no one in the squadron could deny that Lothar was indeed fit for a command of his own. Not one of the pilots objected when Richthofen named Lothar to serve in his absence, even though Karl Allmenroder, Wolff, and Karl Schafer outranked him. Richthofen had thought Wolff was the most qualified, the frail young man having led several flights on his own. Wolff also was building his own impressive reputation. By the end of April, Kurt Wolff had confirmed twenty-seven kills. But a message had come from von Hoeppner, the wording subtle, the meaning clear. The High Command had expressed their “comfort” with the decision that a Richthofen should remain in command of Squadron Eleven. Richthofen had been stoic about von Hoeppner’s message. After all, Lothar had a reputation of his own. He had already downed eighteen enemy planes, and was already awaiting the final confirmation from Cologne for his own Order Pour le Mérite.
The table had been cleared, and Richthofen could see that his father was tiring. He glanced around the long table, thought of calling an end to the evening, that surely, with the old major at the head of the table, the men would retire with proper respect. He pushed back his chair, stood up slowly. The others knew the sign, the room growing quiet.
“Gentlemen, I should like to bid you a good evening. My brother and I are honored by your kindness toward Major Richthofen.” There was low applause, the old man understanding what Richthofen was doing. He stood himself, said, “Thank you . . .” His words were broken by the harsh ringing of a telephone in a small room to one side. Albrecht seemed to hear, could tell he was being interrupted, turned toward the sound. Richthofen saw his orderly now, the corporal moving quickly, answering the phone, speaking quietly. Richthofen could hear pieces of the conversation, and quickly, the call was over. His orderly stepped into the dining room, moved close to him, said in a low voice, “Sir, forgive me. It was Captain Hassler.