Aces (6 page)

Froehlig winked. “It would be unbecoming of a corporal to contradict a sergeant.”

Goldstein chuckled. “Well taken. Allow me to introduce myself.” He stuck out his hand. “A friend should call me Hermann, and
please forgive my greasy hand.”

“Heiner Froehlig, pleased to make your acquaintance, Hermann,” Froehlig joked. “And your hand is no dirtier than mine. Now
let’s get working on those bolts.”

By early afternoon Goldstein and Froehlig had managed to get the Fokker’s throttle working properly. They were surprised when
the hangar tent began to fill up with mechanics.

“Patrols are going to be sent up, despite the bad weather, Herr Sergeant,” one of the newly arrived mechanics informed Goldstein.
“Your Jasta is flying.”

“That’s odd,” Goldstein replied, going to the hangar tent’s entrance and peering at the sky. “That soup is still pretty thick
up there. How are we supposed to see where we’re going, never mind fight?”

The mechanic shrugged. “The acting C.O. will give a briefing in the operations hut at thirteen hundred hours.”

“That’s just fine. The
acting
C.O.—” Goldstein muttered, returning to his partially disassembled Fokker. “The Herr Oberleutnant can’t know very much if
he wants to send us up into the soup.”

“Calm down, Hermann,” Froehlig warned him. “Don’t go getting yourself grounded for insubordination.”

“I’m an experienced and talented pilot,” Goldstein bragged, remembering what the Rittmeister had told him. “I can’t be grounded.
I’m indispensable.”

“What you are, is exceedingly young, if you believe that
anyone
is indispensable,” Froehlig said firmly.

Goldstein shrugged. It was almost time for the briefing. He wiped his hands on a greasy rag and stepped out of his mechanics
overalls. He patted the Fokker’s cowling. “Get her ready for me, Heiner.”

“She’ll be ready, Herr Sergeant.” Froehlig nodded, and began barking orders to his own newly arrived crew of mechanics.

Outside the sky was a mass of gray cotton wool. The air felt wet and heavy, threatening rain. Goldstein, hurrying to the operations
hut, wondered what the Herr Oberleutnant was thinking, calling for a patrol in this soup.

Outside the hut there were many more pilots milling around the entrance than were going to be flying on patrol. Goldstein
was not surprised. Everyone was curious about this mysterious Herr Firstlieutenant Goering.

As Goldstein took his place in the queue, waiting his turn to enter the hut, he noticed several pilots glancing at him, smiling
and laughing as they nudged each other. It was as Froehlig had said: everyone knew about his conversation with Richthofen.
Goldstein resolutely recalled what
else
the Herr Rittmeister had said: that Goldstein was a hero and a gentleman. If Richthofen believed that, Goldstein would not
let his idol down. He would do his best to ignore the ridicule, and hold his head high.

It was just as crowded inside the hut as outside, but Herr Lieutenant Dorn waved to Goldstein and made a place for him at
the end of one of the long backless benches. Goldstein was both grateful and surprised, but then, of all the pilots, Dorn
was the most friendly. At least he was on occasion.

Up front, on the raised platform, was Herr Oberleutnant Goering, dressed in a flight suit and wearing knee-high black boots,
a double-breasted, black leather jacket trimmed in brown fur, and an ivory-gripped pistol peeking out of the flapped holster
strapped around his waist. He was impatiently tapping a swagger stick against his leg as he waited for everyone to find a
seat. Behind Goering, on an easel, was a large map of the Somme, with black arrows depicting the Allied and German infantry
positions.

“Gentlemen,” Goering began once everyone was settled. “The Weather Service has informed me that the cloud cover is expected
to remain, and that there may be intermittent drizzle and fog. I have nevertheless scheduled a sortie for Jastas 11, and 6.”
He approached the map. “Air Warning Service has telephoned reports of Allied fighters harassing our Infantreiflieger Schlastas
ground-attack bomber squadrons as they attempt to soften a dug-in pocket of British resistance to our advancing infantry.”

As he spoke he pointed to a sector on the Somme about fifteen miles northwest of Cappy to indicate where the action was taking
place.

Dorn nudged Goldstein. “We were talking about the situation over breakfast this morning,” he whispered. “It’s very bad.”

Goldstein was amazed that Dorn was being so cordial to him. Maybe he had a friend in Dorn, after all. “But how can that be?”
he whispered back. “Our troops are advancing, aren’t they?”

Dorn shrugged. “The talk is that the Herr Rittmeister has been called to the rear to advise the Herr General.”

Up on the stage Goering was rambling on. “German fighters are needed to neutralize this Allied air attack on our Schlastas.
Only then can the Schlastas do their job of supplying air support to our soldiers. As J.G. 1 is closest to the action, the
escort and protection sortie falls to us.”

Goldstein looked around. None of the others seemed perturbed by Goering’s use of the word “us,” as if he’d been with the Jagdgeschwader
a long while.

“We will be flying at a very low altitude to stay beneath the cloud cover,” Goering said. “And, of course, to be of use to
the low-flying Infantreiflieger Schlastas. There will be no room for pilot error, and, obviously, parachutes will be useless.
We will also be flying past our own lines, so there is some chance of being shot down over enemy territory. Accordingly, all
pilots will see to their sidearms, and be sure that their airplanes are equipped with flare guns. It is expected that any
pilot downed in enemy territory will avoid capture long enough to use his flare gun to set fire to his machine. Any questions?”
Goering looked around. “Very well. Pilots of Jastas 11 and 6 will be on the ready line with their airplanes for my inspection
in thirty minutes. Dismissed.”

In the ready room Goldstein shrugged on his flying gear. He hesitated, then called to the orderly to bring him his sidearm.
When it was handed over to him Goldstein gingerly drew the nine-millimeter Parabellum from its flap holster. The Luger was
dusty, and slightly sticky. He pressed the magazine release near the trigger on the lefthand side. The magazine popped out:
there were no cartridges in it. He worked the gummy toggle slide to make sure that there was no cartridge in the breech. There
wasn’t. That was just as well, Goldstein thought as he peered down the Luger’s grimy, four-inch barrel. If this fouled weapon
were fired it would probably blow up in his hand.

Goldstein knew that he had no time to fieldstrip and clean the weapon. He slid the Luger back into its holster, buttoned down
the flap, and strapped it around his waist. He would have to hope for the best during the inspection. The fact that the pistol
was useless didn’t personally bother Goldstein. He had every intention of immediately surrendering if he went down behind
enemy lines. He was a flier, not an infantry soldier. If the Herr Oberleutnant had any problem with that he could just come
visit Goldstein in the P.O.W. camp in order to reprimand him.

On the ready line Goldstein made sure that his flare pistol was clipped in place in his Fokker’s cockpit. He came to attention
in front of his airplane as Goering appeared, swagger stick in hand, with Adjutant Bodenschatz, thirty years old and matinee-idol
handsome, in tow.

Standing ramrod straight, staring straight ahead, Goldstein watched out of the corner of his eye as the Herr Oberleutnant
walked the line, pausing here and there to look over an airplane, or nod to a pilot. The suspense mounted as Goering approached,
but he seemed unconcerned with Goldstein; was passing him by; Goldstein was about to breathe a sigh of relief—

Goering glanced at Goldstein’s Fokker, and then stopped. “Herr Sergeant, why is there only one machine gun mounted on your
airplane?” he asked ominously. “How can you expect to perform your duty of shooting down enemy machines with only one machine
gun?”

“Sir, using only one gun I have shot down sixteen airplanes up to now with no great problem—”

“Quiet!” Goering snapped. He looked at the adjutant. “This man’s name?” he demanded.

“Hermann Goldstein,” Bodenschatz replied.

“Ah, yes.” Goering nodded jovially. “I thought he looked familiar. This is the young fellow who made that touching speech
about winning his Blue Max.” He smiled at Goldstein. “I presume the Herr Sergeant has been set straight concerning that ludicrous
notion?” When Goldstein didn’t reply, Goering’s smile faded. “I asked you a question, Herr Sergeant.”

“Yes, Sir, I have been set straight concerning that, Sir.”

Goering gestured toward Goldstein’s single Spandau gun with his swagger stick. “Your airplane’s armament is totally against
regulations. All the other pilots see fit to fly with standard-issue, twin machine guns.” He stepped in close to Goldstein,
and used his swagger stick to tilt up Goldstein’s chin. “What’s good enough for
decent, Christian, gentlemen
,” Goering took his time, spitting the words into Goldstein’s face as he used the stick to lever Goldstein’s chin ever higher,
“ought to be good enough for the
likes of you
, Herr Sergeant.”

Goldstein heard snickers of laughter up and down the line. His rage, so long bottled up, bubbled over inside of him. “Begging
the Herr Firstlieutenant’s pardon,” Goldstein heard himself say, “your decent Christian gentlemen are content to fly guns.
I
fly airplanes.”

“Not today will you fly airplanes!” Goering exploded. “I won’t have your insolence! You’re grounded! Herr Adjutant! Make note
in the official record that Herr Sergeant Hermann Goldstein had been officially reprimanded and grounded by the acting C.O.
of J.G. 1. —”

“Sir, the Herr Rittmeister knows about the Herr Sergeant’s single gun,” Bodenschatz tried to protest. “The Herr Rittmeister—”

“Isn’t here!” Goering snapped. “But I am here!” He stepped back to address the entire line. “All of you better realize that
I will brook no insolence! No nonsense! Things will be done exactly as I order them! Exactly by the book! Understood?”

The line was deathly silent. Goering shifted his attention back to Goldstein. “You, Herr Sergeant, are to consider yourself
confined to quarters until further notice!” He waved his swagger stick as if he were flicking away an insect. “Dismissed!”

Goldstein stood where he was, too dumbfounded to move. Goering, staring at him, turned red. “I said that you were dismissed—”

Goldstein saluted, and stepped back, out of the line. He felt everyone’s eyes upon him as he briskly walked to the ready room
to turn in his gear.

Goldstein was stretched out on his cot, trying to read about the principles of aircraft design, without much success. He was
still too angry concerning the way that Goering had ripped into him two hours earlier to see the words on the page.

He set his book aside, and surrendered to an elaborate fantasy dogfight in which he, with his single Spandau gun, managed
to punch enough holes into Goering’s white D VII to blow the machine right out from under the screaming Herr Oberleutnant’s
fat ass—

And then, Goering’s wails in Goldstein’s daydream turned into the air raid siren’s mournful howl.

Goldstein sat up, skeptical, expecting it to be a false alarm. Then he heard the roar of airplanes overhead, and the flat,
kettle-drum boom of a bomb exploding. He ran to the door, but then hesitated. The Herr Oberleutnant had restricted him to
quarters.

The window-rattling explosion of a second bomb decided it for him. At any moment the enemy might begin strafing the pilots’
huts. He had no intention of dying in this flimsy wooden hovel.

Outside everything was noise, smoke, and confusion. Panicked pilots and ground crews were dashing about, shouting conflicting
orders at each other. Overhead, three bright orange Spads, wearing the coiled serpent insignia of the French Squadron 30,
had command of the sky. Goldstein heard the distinctive chatter of the Spads’ Vickers machine guns as they strafed the field
and the answering racket put out by the sleigh-mounted, water-cooled Maxim machine guns manned by the ground air-defense crews
assigned to Cappy.

As Goldstein approached the hangar tents he saw one of the Spads dive toward the nearby rows of parked fuel-tank lorries.
A half-dozen sandbag emplacements of Maxim guns bordering the lorries put up crisscrossing lines of defensive fire. The fast-diving
Spad shot back, tearing up a Maxim gun and its three-man crew. As the Spad roared past, it came out of its dive to release
a bomb which whistled down toward the lorries.

Goldstein, like everyone else, threw himself to the ground and waited for the bomb to detonate—and then the huge fireball
as the fuel-laden lorries ignited. The image of the Spad and the number painted on its tail was emblazoned in his mind:
The airplane that’s killed me is number 17
.

Nothing happened. The Spad’s bomb was evidently a dud.

Goldstein got to his feet, dripping mud. He saw Corporal Froehlig standing at the entranceway to one of the hangar tents and
ran toward him. Froehlig was screaming orders to mechanics and ground crew to get the closest Fokkers fueled and rolled out
to the ready line.

As Goldstein reached Froehlig he saw the adjutant, Herr Oberleutnant Bodenschatz, approaching. The adjutant was riding as
the passenger in a motorcycle sidecar on which was mounted a shoulder-stock, drum-fed, Parabellum light machine gun. Bodenschatz
was hopping out of the car almost before the cycle driver had skidded to a halt, spraying mud.

“What’s going on?” Goldstein yelled over the noise of the Spads, shouting men, and ground defense machine gun fire.

Froehlig looked furious. “The Herr Oberleutnant Goering neglected to issue orders for a squad to be prepared for air-defense
of the field.”

“An understandable oversight,” Bodenschatz cut in, loyally attempting to defend a fellow officer. “With the weather so poor
the Herr Oberleutnant didn’t believe Allied fighters would attempt the venture.”