To the Last Man - Jeff Shaara [98]
The others were silent, hanging on the orderly’s words, heard as Richthofen heard, and now fists were pumped in the air, a loud cheer rising from the men. It had officially been his finest day as a flyer. During the day’s engagements, Richthofen had sent four British planes out of the sky. He could not help smiling, looked at his father now, the man confused by the roar of noise, and Richthofen formed the word, said slowly, so the old man could understand.
“Fifty.”
HIS FATHER SAT ON THE END OF THE BED, FOCUSED ON THE VAST stretching dog lying beside him. The old man seemed uncertain what to do, and Richthofen leaned close, said, “Like this.” He scratched the dog’s ears, Moritz responding by rolling over on his back, his belly in the air.
The old man understood now, laughed, said, “Yes, Moritz. Much as I prefer it.” He rubbed the dog’s belly, Moritz groaning softly, and Richthofen watched them for a long minute, surprised by the old man’s gentle touch. In a minute, the dog had enough of the attention, rolled back onto his side, and Albrecht looked up at Richthofen, said, “When I am too old to care for myself, I want you to hire a nurse. A young one. She should do that to me at least once a day. It will add years to my life.” His father’s indiscreet words surprised him, and Richthofen wasn’t sure it was a joke. Albrecht looked past Richthofen now, gazed at the trophies that covered his walls. “This is becoming a museum.” He stood, moved close to the glass cabinet, every shelf now lined with the silver cups. The old man shook his head.
“I never could have dreamed . . .” He looked at Richthofen now. “When you were attending Wahlstatt, I had to use all my influence so they would not expel you. You simply wouldn’t do what they told you to do. Not good practice for a soldier.”
“I was not a soldier, sir. I was a boy.”
“All soldiers begin as boys. The training must start early.” He laughed again, looked at the cabinet. “Not one of your instructors believed you would have a career in the army. They were convinced you did not have the discipline to fight. Apparently, they were mistaken.” He looked at Richthofen again, said, “What of Lothar?”
Richthofen was unsure what his father meant, and the old man could see the expression on his face.
“I mean, what kind of soldier is he?”
“He is a hero. Eighteen victories.”
The old man thought a moment. “He is a shooter, not a hunter. Yes?”
Richthofen smiled, nodded his head. It was the old lesson, a very small boy following his father into the forest. It was the lessons that had made Richthofen successful, whether he pursued the wolf or the aeroplane. It was a lesson that his brother had never seemed to learn.
“Lothar does not have the patience to be a hunter.”
His father nodded, his face showing a glimpse of sadness. “No. He is a shooter. Always will be. Karl, however . . .”
Richthofen had wanted to ask about his youngest brother, the boy only fourteen.
Albrecht paused for a moment, said, “He will be a soldier. Speaks of nothing else. Well, he speaks of you, of course. You are his inspiration.” The old man smiled now. “Unlike you, he actually enjoys Wahlstatt. Appreciates the value of taking orders. He has his eye on you, will do everything in his power, and mine, to join you someday. He’ll fly, that’s for certain. You dreamed of the forest. He dreams of aeroplanes.”
Richthofen stared at his father for a long moment, the old man peering again into the small cabinet.
“This war cannot last that long, Father. It will not take that many years for Germany to prevail.”
The old man stood straight now, stared at the wall for a moment, said, “You have heard that the High Command has withdrawn our forces back to the main defensive fortifications, what they now call the Hindenburg Line.”
“Yes, of course. It was a wise strategic move. Our lines will be more compact now, easier to transfer men and supplies.”
His father cocked one eyebrow at him, said, “You memorize that story word for word? We are told every day that our army is