Aces (4 page)

Beside him along the wall was a sideboard loaded with bread, cheese, and sausage and bowls of tinned fruit. Goldstein helped
himself and found a chair off in a corner. He was settled and had begun to eat when his eyes locked with one of the pilots.
The man pointed Goldstein out to his friends, and began to applaud. Quickly the other pilots and officers took note, stopped
what they were doing, and began to applaud Goldstein, who felt his face turn bright red with surprised pleasure. He put aside
his plate and self-consciously got to his feet.

“Speech! Speech!” Lieutenant Dom began. The others took up the cry.

Goldstein, his mouth suddenly gone bone-dry, struggled to swallow. He saw the Herr Rittmeister across the room. Richthofen
was twenty-five years old. He was of average height, but his square, muscular body gave him an imposing air. He had pale blue
eyes, cropped blond hair, and a solid jaw.

Richthofen was standing with a young Oberleutnant whom Goldstein had never seen before. The Herr Rittmeister wasn’t drinking,
but then he rarely did. The newcomer first lieutenant was sipping at a glass of champagne. He had to be the C.O. of Jasta
27, the fortunate owner of that exquisite, all-white D VII. He was wearing the Iron Cross on his tunic, and the Blue Max at
his throat. Despite the decorations, this officer didn’t look like much. He was plump, with a broad, fleshy nose and wide,
red lips. He had the impish, glinting eyes of a prankster. Those eyes seemed both amused and scornful as they looked Goldstein’s
way. Goldstein thought there was something unwholesome, even effeminate, in the manner in which the mysterious stranger took
Richthofen’s arm in order to draw him close to whisper something in his ear—

Goldstein instinctively knew that whatever this mysterious officer was whispering concerned him. He tensed, blushing again,
this time in humiliation. What the newcomer had whispered was making the Herr Rittmeister laugh. This was not the way Goldstein
had intended to be noticed!

“Speech, Herr Sergeant,” Richthofen abruptly commanded, and smiled at Goldstein, who forgot his discomfort as his knees went
weak.

It was the same wry half-smile that the Herr Rittmeister Baron Manfred von Richthofen wore in his photograph, the one that
had become the best-selling postcard in Germany. Back home everyone knew of Richthofen’s exploits. They could watch films
about him in the movie houses or read his best-selling book of memoirs. The book was even popular in England. The British
had put a five-thousand-pound price on Richthofen’s head and formed a crack squad of aces to hunt him. It was said that Herr
General Ludendorff regularly telephoned to ask Richthofen’s advice, and that the Kaiser invited him to lunch.

For Goldstein, just to be near the Herr Rittmeister was intoxicating. Richthofen gave off such heat and energy that it was
like turning his face up to the sun.

“Speech!” Richthofen repeated.

For a moment Goldstein was totally at a loss. Public speaking was one of his worst nightmares. His stomach was lurching as
if he’d just executed a tailspin in his Fokker. He’d much rather face tracer fire than this.

It was the glimmer of lamplight on the Blue Max around the Herr Rittmeister’s throat that inspired Goldstein.

“I, I made these kills, all sixteen of them, to b-bring victory to my c-country,” Goldstein began. His voice wavered, he couldn’t
catch his breath, but he forced himself to continue. “A-and to win the Blue Max—”

There was a scattering of laughter, but a sharp look from Richthofen silenced it.

“I sincerely hope my successes will bring further honor to my fellow fliers, a-and to my unit—” Goldstein hesitated. He looked
across the room, into Richthofen’s steady pale blue gaze, even as the passionate tears welled in his own eyes. “And to my
Herr Rittmeister and Geschwaderkommandeur…”

There was silence in the mess. Goldstein was embarrassed to find himself trembling. The others were all either steadfastly
staring at him or making it a point to look away, but nobody was laughing. Goldstein’s gaze dropped to the floor.

“Well said, Herr Sergeant,” Richthofen softly commented. He began to applaud, and the others quickly followed his lead.

Goldstein, weak with love, realizing how ludicrous it would be for a pilot who had mastered advanced combat aerobatics to
faint in a mess hall, blindly made his way to his chair and sat down, waiting for the dizziness to pass. The applause died
away, and the conversation level in the room again began to rise. The Herr Rittmeister disappeared from view as he and his
mysterious companion were surrounded by a group of pilots.

Well, that’s that
, Goldstein thought, feeling both relief and sadness.

He looked at his food, but he was no longer hungry. There was a pot of coffee keeping warm on the sideboard. He went and poured
himself a cup, and took it with him back to his corner, where he sat quietly.

Nobody talked to him. Now and then he heard snatches of conversations concerning hunting, and travel, and society gossip,
but he knew nothing about any of that, so how could he intelligently join in, assuming he found the nerve to try?

He wished that he smoked, or liked to get drunk. It would be something to do with his hands. To kill time. To look like he
belonged.

To have to be alone right now seemed bitterly unfair. Well, maybe things would be different when he wore a lieutenant’s uniform…

He finished his coffee, and left the mess. The clouds were moving back in, masking the stars. He hoped that the weather wouldn’t
interfere with flying tomorrow.

He walked along the dimly lit path that led to the pilots’ huts. The huts were all small, and one room; built out of planks
that let the weather in through the chinks. They were a far cry from the luxurious accommodations at Léchelle, but they were
a hell of a lot better than the tents the pilots had lived in when they’d first arrived at Cappy.

Goldstein’s hut had a window by the door, curtained with oilcloth. As he approached he saw light coming from inside, which
meant that an orderly had been by to light a lantern.

Inside his hut the floor was bare. One wall was taken up with a wrought-iron peat stove. Its smokestack vented through the
tar paper roof. On one side of the stove was a small pile of peat, and on the other a straight-back chair. Against the opposite
wall was his bed, his footlocker, and a crate piled high with books and a lantern. Another lantern hung down from the hut’s
rafters. Beneath it in the middle of the room was a long wooden table.

Goldstein looked at his Fokker’s machine gun laid out on an oily blanket on the table. Beside the table was a metal ammo crate
filled with cartridges, and on top of that was a small case containing an assortment of gunsmith tools.

Goldstein had issued standing orders to Herr Corporal Froehlig to deliver the gun to his hut after every engagement. Goldstein
had also ordered the armorer to deliver his replacement ammunition to the hut. It was the armorer’s responsibility to maintain
all guns and ammunition, but Goldstein preferred to look after his own armament. The Spandau machine gun was reliable, but
careless cleaning, or a misadjustment of the head space between the firing chamber and the face of the lock could cause jamming,
or misfires. A defective cartridge could also stop the gun.

So Goldstein cleaned his own weapon and checked every round of his own ammunition. It was his ass up there in the thin air.
Anyway, working on the gun relaxed him.

He took off his tunic and cap and hung them on a wall hook. He got a fire going in the stove, then brought the straight-back
chair over to the table, rolled up his shirtsleeves, and set to work.

He was finished fieldstripping the gun into its components, and was going over the feed-block mechanism with a small brush
and lead solvent, when he heard a knock at his door. The only visitor he’d ever had was Herr Corporal Froehlig, who would
sometimes come by at night to report on some maintenance problem concerning the Fokker.

“Come!” Goldstein called out. He heard the door open, but he did not raise his eyes from his work as he said, “Yes, Herr Corporal?
What is it?”

“Forgive me for disturbing you, Herr Sergeant,” Richthofen said.

Goldstein’s head sprang up. The Herr Rittmeister was standing in the doorway with his walking stick in one hand and his cap
in the other.

Goldstein slammed back his chair and bolted to his feet, almost putting out his eye as he snapped out a salute. He could not
have been more shocked. Goldstein worshiped Richthofen, but tonight in the mess hall was the first time he had ever actually
summoned up the courage to speak to the Herr Rittmeister, if you could call his tribute speaking to the man. Now, here Richthofen
was, come calling on a private visit!

“May I come in?” Richthofen asked.

Goldstein stared blankly.

“Herr Sergeant?” Richthofen coaxed gently. “May I come in?—”

Goldstein shook himself awake. “Of course, Sir!”

“Thank you,” Richthofen said as he entered, closing the door behind him. “You may stand at ease, Herr Sergeant.”

“Please, Herr Rittmeister, sit down on the bed, Sir,” Goldstein said. “It’s softer than the chair.”

“Thank you, the Herr Sergeant may sit down, as well.” Richthofen sat down on the edge of the bed, setting his cap and stick
beside him. He gestured toward the machine gun on the table. “Do you do that after every flight, Herr Sergeant?”

“Yes, Sir, I do… that is, if the gun has been fired.”

“You don’t trust the armorer to know his job, is that it?”

“No, it’s not that, at least, not totally that… It’s just… It’s a pleasure for me to do it, Sir.”

“Ah! Now I understand.” Richthofen smiled. “I always enjoyed cleaning my own shotguns after a day spent hunting boar on my
family’s estate.”

“Yes, Sir.” Goldstein had never seen a boar, nor an estate. He’d spent his life on the streets of Berlin.

“But you are cleaning just one gun, isn’t that so, Herr Sergeant? Your airplane was issued twin guns, but you choose to use
only one. Why do you put yourself at such a disadvantage?”

“With all due respect, I don’t see it as a disadvantage, Sir,” Goldstein explained. “Flying with only one gun decreases my
flight weight. By leaving one forty-pound gun behind I increase my top speed and ceiling by that much more—”

“But that’s not the real reason, is it, my boy?” Richthofen interrupted.

Goldstein couldn’t look Richthofen in the eye. “No, Sir.”

“What
is
the real reason, my boy?”

Goldstein thought that it seemed very natural for the Herr Rittmeister to address him so paternally. Richthofen, despite his
youth, commanded a father’s respect from all his pilots, and now that Goldstein had the chance to really study his leader’s
face, to see the deeply etched worry lines and the dark shadows under Richthofen’s pale blue eyes, he thought that the Herr
Rittmeister looked far older than his true age.

“Well, Sir, the real reason is that with just one gun I can fire more accurately…” Goldstein swallowed hard. “…And more
carefully.”

“Today’s report from the front says that you didn’t try to strafe the pilot of the Camel you downed when he began running
for his lines.”

“No, Sir.” Goldstein looked down at his boots.

“Before coming here, I read your file, Herr Sergeant,” Richthofen said. “I noticed something very curious about the fates
of the British personnel who have fallen to your guns —Excuse my error,” the Rittmeister dryly added. “Your
gun
.”

Goldstein’s heart was pounding. He was sweating, even though he was only in his shirt-sleeves.
Oh God! He was in his shirt-sleeves
. He shot a despairing glance at his tunic hanging on the wall. His first private conversation with the Herr Rittmeister was
turning into an argument, and he had to be caught out of uniform!

“All but two of the men you shot down were captured and made prisoners of war,” Richthofen continued. “Those two exceptions
escaped back to their own lines.” Richthofen paused. “Don’t you think it unusual that with sixteen kills to your credit you
have yet to spill a drop of blood?”

“May I speak frankly to the Herr Rittmeister?” Goldstein asked.

“You may.”

“Sir, by using only one machine gun, I can carefully place my shots to bring down the enemy plane without harming the pilot
or gunner.”

“So! My suspicions were correct.” Richthofen nodded. “You
do
go out of your way to spare the enemy—”

“Sir, with all due respect, I don’t
spare
the enemy,” Goldstein said carefully. “I always shoot them down, which is, after all, what’s most important. I just don’t
see the point of harming another human being when I’m good enough at my job to put the other fellow out of the game for the
rest of the war by dropping him and his machine into the hands of German troops.”

“Is that what you think? That battle flying is some kind of game?” Richthofen demanded, sounding angry.

“No, Sir,” Goldstein replied. “It’s my life.”

“But you needlessly risk your life with your sharpshooting—”

He doesn’t understand what I meant
, Goldstein thought, but he was too in awe of the man sitting across from him to interrupt.

“And when you put yourself at risk you put your fellows at risk.” Richthofen was frowning. “Don’t think that Herr Lieutenant
Dorn didn’t file a report on how you broke formation during your attack on those Bristols.” Richthofen shook his head. “I
believe in safe, conservative battle tactics, Sergeant. A flier keeps in formation and he shoots to kill.”

Goldstein felt sick to have to be reprimanded by the Herr Rittmeister. “I’m very sorry about everything,” he said plaintively.

Richthofen stared at him a long moment, and then he smiled. “Don’t be too sorry. You’re a strange one, Goldstein, but you
do seem to have the knack for shooting down the enemy. I don’t have many experienced pilots like you left, you know,” he sighed.
“Sooner or later, I’m afraid, the odds catch up with all of us.”