Aces (3 page)

The Fokker’s hard-pressed rotary engine screamed in protest as Goldstein pushed his throttle full-open. He checked his fuel
gauge. He was low, but that was good. The less fuel in the tank, the lighter the weight and the faster he could go.

He’d not very much closed the gap between himself and the Camel when Goldstein played his trump card: without even aiming
he pressed his firing button. His gun made the Fokker shudder, and the recoil actually slowed his forward speed, but his ploy
worked: the Camel’s pilot, seeing those chasing tracers in his rearview mirror, had begun evasive maneuvers, not realizing
that Goldstein didn’t have a prayer of hitting him. Every zigzag meant to throw off Goldstein’s nonexistent aim cost the Camel’s
pilot forward speed. Goldstein, sporadically firing short bursts while flying true as an arrow, was gradually closing on his
quarry.

They were now close to the German front lines, but Goldstein had cut the Camel’s lead by a quarter of a kilometer. The Camel’s
evasive maneuvers had also cost it altitude: it was now less than a hundred meters above the ground. Goldstein had ignored
the lunatic howl of his own engine as he’d power-dived in pursuit, and that had further increased his own speed, helping to
close the gap.

The terrain rushed past in a blur, as Goldstein followed the Camel down to what would have been treetop level, if the war
had seen fit to leave trees standing in this part of the world. He could imagine the troops in their trenches on both sides
of the line stopping what they were doing in order to crane their necks, shield their eyes from the sun, and watch the show.
It made him feel good to be the center of attention. It made him feel like he belonged; it made him feel alive.

The Camel had passed over the German front lines and was just entering into no-man’s-land when Goldstein, about seventy meters
behind, decided that it was now or never. He centered his sight on the Camel’s tail and fired. He kept up a steady stream
of bullets—he might as well empty his magazine—while delicately adjusting the angle of his Fokker’s nose to try to put the
orange tracers on target.

He managed to zero in by sheer dumb luck. For an instant the Camel’s tail and the Fokker’s chattering Spandau were linked
by an amber strand of gunfire.

Then the Camel abruptly dived.

Goldstein guessed that his bullets had either chewed up the Camel’s rudder or cut a control wire. Whatever, at the Camel’s
low altitude it was only an instant before it was leapfrogging along the uneven ground. It bounced out of control amidst the
shell-torn craters of no-man’s-land for about two hundred meters before its prop caught in a tangle of barbed wire, stopping
it dead. The Camel’s forward momentum caused its ruined tail to flip up and over. The plane came to rest, wings crumpled,
belly up toward the sky.

Goldstein made a pass over the downed Camel, anxious to spot the pilot. The Camel had not caught fire, which was promising,
but no-man’s-land was a bad spot in which to crash. If the pilot was hurt a local truce would have to be worked out to allow
a medical party to get to him. It could be done, but it took time, and time was something injured men didn’t always have—

There he was! Goldstein was elated as he watched the pilot scurry from the wreckage and run for all he was worth toward his
own lines. This British pilot would fly again. He’d crashed well out of German rifle range.

Goldstein banked toward his own lines, watching the first explosions blossom around the Camel as the German mortars lobbed
shells at the downed plane. It was just for fun. The Camel’s flying days were over, mortar-hit or not.

He put the Fokker into a slow climb, nursing it upward while gingerly working the throttle and fuel-tank air pressure pump.
He was pretty much flying on fumes now. He needed to nurse the last bit of time out of the engine.

The sun was beginning to set, a ball of molten fire, as he headed for home.

Goldstein was at three thousand meters and about three kilometers from Cappy aerodrome, when his fuel ran out. The engine
coughed and died, but that was fine. He’d learned long ago that his machine could glide about a kilometer per three hundred
meters of altitude, provided there was no headwind, and tonight the breeze was at his tail. He often cut his engine on the
way home in order to enjoy a glide. It was wonderful to fly with no engine noise to punish one’s ears; with no sound at all
but the rush of wind making the wing struts sing.

It was wonderful to be alive—

In full view of the German lines he had made his fifteenth and sixteenth kills! He would be getting his Blue Max!

Goldstein wondered if life could get any better than this. There was sex, of course… He’d overheard some of the other pilots
boasting about their sexual exploits…

Goldstein had never been with a woman, so he couldn’t know for sure, but he doubted that even sex could compare with how it
felt to own the sky.

As Cappy airfield came into view Goldstein felt the depression that always came with the end of a flight. Below was nothing
but mud and mildew and loneliness.

He still had enough altitude to make several circles of the field. He did so, like a bird reluctant to return to its cage.
As he spiraled down, the drab features of the place loomed up at him. The buildings and tents were all clustered at one end
of the field. There was the ready-room hut, beside the big tents that sheltered the planes, and next to the tents, the rows
of fuel tank lorries. Next came the operations hut; the long, single story wooden barracks; and the mess for the support personnel.
Behind that was the stables tent, and the parked transport lorries. Next was the pilots’ mess hall and administrative offices,
and, finally, the rows of pilots’ huts.

Goldstein could see that things had been happening here while he was gone. There were the smoking wrecks of two airplanes
smack in the middle of the field, and a bomb crater nearby the hangar tent. Work crews were busy disposing of the debris and
repairing the damage to the field.

Goldstein also noticed an unfamiliar-looking airplane parked near the hangar tents. It didn’t seem to have a triplane’s shape,
and its colors were wrong for J.G. 1: gleaming white all over, with the exception of its tail fin, which was raven black.
It couldn’t be a captured Allied machine, because it carried Iron Crosses on its top wings and fuselage.

It was getting too dark to fly, so Goldstein landed, knowing from experience just where to touch down in order for his machine
to lose enough momentum to come to a stop in front of the hangar tents. His ground crew was waiting.

“Your fifteenth and sixteenth, Herr Sergeant. Congratulations!” Corporal Froehlig exclaimed as he helped Goldstein extricate
himself from the cockpit.

“You’ve already heard, Herr Corporal?” Goldstein asked as he pulled off his goggles and helmet.

“The Air Warning Service boys telephoned in both confirmations fifteen minutes ago.” Froehlig’s smile was wide beneath his
walrus moustache. He almost bodily lifted Goldstein to the ground in his exuberance.

“That’s a relief,” Goldstein said. The last obstacle in his path to the Blue Max had been removed. A kill had to be officially
confirmed to count in a pilot’s record. He gestured toward the wrecks and the bomb craters. “What happened here?”

Froehlig shrugged. “A couple of Frenchies came in at us low, from the southwest. They carried the markings of the No. 30 Spad
Squadron, based at Matigny. They dropped a bomb and strafed the field, but nobody was hurt and nothing was really damaged.
Some of the fellows in Jasta 6 were about to take off and chase them away when that pale beauty popped out of nowhere to come
to the rescue.” He indicated the gleaming white airplane parked nearby. “Her pilot is no slouch, either. He shot both those
Spads down before they knew what was happening. Both Frenchie pilots were killed.”

The white machine was a biplane, of a sort that Goldstein had never seen. It carried the markings of Jasta 27, a squad based
to the northeast of Cappy, at Erchin.

Froehlig saw him looking. “A beauty, isn’t she, Sir?” Froehlig said.

Goldstein nodded. “What is she, Herr Corporal?”

“That’s one of the first of the Fokker D VII series.”

“I heard about them!” Goldstein nodded. “But if they’ve been built, then why don’t we have any?”

“We will, Herr Sergeant. That one’s a prototype,” Froehlig replied. “They’re still gearing up for quantity production, and
I heard that J.G. 1 is first on the list to get them. Go have yourself a look at her, why don’t you.”

Goldstein hurried over to the airplane. It was magnificent. Much longer and leaner than his own “tripe,” the D VII’s low profile
looked fast just sitting on the ground. This new machine made his own triplane look as outmoded as a horse and buggy.

“Word has it that she can do one hundred twenty-five kilometers per hour,” Froehlig said, coming up behind him.

“That’s faster than anything else in the air!” Goldstein exclaimed.

The mechanic chuckled knowingly. “She’s got a one hundred sixty horsepower Mercedes engine—”

“You don’t say! Christ! I’m in love! What I wouldn’t give to take her up.” He smiled. “Or take her apart, to see what makes
her tick…”

“You’ll have to wait for your own to do that, Herr Sergeant.”

“Why is she here?”

“She belongs to the C.O. of Jasta 27. He flew in to meet with Herr Rittmeister, why, I couldn’t say, and ended up arriving
in time to score himself two kills. Two
more
kills than he already has, I should say. He’s got to have at least sixteen. He was wearing the Blue Max.” Froehlig paused.
“Herr Sergeant? A question, if I may?”

“Um?…” Goldstein was engrossed with the D VII.

“Will
you
be getting the medal, Sir?” Froehlig asked.

Goldstein turned to regard his mechanic. “The Blue Max? Well, yes… I certainly expect to.”

“And the Herr Sergeant not even twenty years old!” Froehlig beamed. “You may turn out to be the youngest to ever wear it.”

“Well, we’ll see…” Goldstein muttered. Talk of the Blue Max reminded him that he still had to change out of his flight clothes
and report in. “Well, please see to my airplane, Herr Corporal.” He walked quickly away toward the ready room.

Behind him, Goldstein could hear Froehlig barking orders to the others on his ground crew. From the corporal’s tone Goldstein
sensed that he’d hurt the man’s feelings by not prolonging their chat. He wished that he weren’t so awkward with people…

In the ready room an orderly was waiting to take away his flying gear and return with Goldstein’s black leather boots and
field cap. Goldstein put them on and checked himself in the mirror.

He frowned.

Commissoned officers had their uniforms custom tailored, but N.C.O.s had to make due with government issued. They’d had trouble
fitting Goldstein because he was so much taller and thinner than average. His gray tunic with its black and scarlet piping
hung in ungainly folds. As he tugged and tucked the garment, he tried not to soil the linen embroidery on both collar and
sleeves that showed his rank. His matching gray trousers with scarlet piping down the side seams ended too far above his ankles,
but there was nothing he could do about that. Only his field cap, with its black band piped with scarlet around the crown,
fit him correctly.

Goldstein took his handkerchief from his back trouser pocket and polished his metal flier’s breast badge. It showed in relief
a Taube monoplane, flying over a landscape contained in a laurel and oak leaf wreath, with the Prussian royal crown at the
top.

He had no other decorations or medals. Others who had become aces had received the Iron Cross in recognition of their achievement,
but for some reason Goldstein’s Cross had not come through. When he had asked the adjutant about it the officer had said that
he would look into it, but so gruffly that Goldstein had not wanted to pursue the matter. What was the point of an honor if
you had to grovel and plead in order to receive it?

Anyway, an Iron Cross was nothing compared to the Blue Max… Goldstein, gazing at his reflection, let his fingers rise up to
his throat, where the blue and gold Maltese Cross would hang from its black ribbon. By then he would almost certainly be wearing
a custom-tailored lieutenant’s uniform with
lace
braid.

He left the ready room, breathing lightly through his mouth as he hurried along the lantern-lit path, past the stink of the
stables tents, to the offices, where he reported in.

“How will I file to receive my Blue Max?” Goldstein asked the bored lieutenant on duty when he was done giving his account
of his successful pursuit of the Camel.

“You’d better see the adjutant about that,” the officer said as he finished scribbling down the last of what Goldstein had
said.

“Is the Herr Oberleutnant in his office, now?”

The lieutenant shook his head. “Tomorrow, Herr Sergeant.”

Goldstein nodded, and left the office. He walked slowly down the long hall that connected to the pilots’ mess, feeling his
nervousness grow. The murmur of talk and laughter was audible even before Goldstein pushed through the double doors.

Inside the brightly lit hall the air was stifling; thick with swirling cigarette smoke and the sweet smell of spilled wine.
The place was crowded with pilots and ground officers lounging in deck chairs as they ate and drank, or standing in groups,
conversing.

Being a flier, Goldstein had every right to be here, even if it was a de facto commissioned officers’ club, but having the
right to do something, and feeling comfortable doing it, were two very different things.

Goldstein, uncertain, stood just inside the door. So far, nobody had noticed him. Goldstein didn’t expect much in the way
of acknowledgment, but he usually did receive a few congratulations for a kill, and today he had shot down
two
planes, and his tally had finally reached the magic number. Surely all of that would buy him some comradeship…