The Red Baron: A World War I Novel (17 page)

“Hurry, we’re losing our light,” Gempp said. He ran to Manfred and looked him over. “A bit dusty, but nothing I can’t touch up later. Stand next to the plane, please.”

Manfred sighed and did as he was asked. The smell of stale cigarette smoke wafted over him. He saw a portly German soldier leaning against a tree, lit cigarette in his mouth, and a shovel propped against the same tree. The man took a final drag on the cigarette and spat the butt out onto the ground. He mashed the litter into the ground with his heel and picked up the shovel.

A pair of boots stuck out from behind an oak tree, resting at the odd angles akin only to a dead body, the rest of the body hidden. The soldier sank his shovel into a half-dug grave; the metal clinked against pebbles. Dirt fell from the shovel with a low sibilance as the digger went about repeating the task.

Clink. Hiss.

“All right, cross your hands in front of you; you can feel accomplished. This was your sixtieth victory!” Gempp said. The camera flashed.

Clink. Hiss.

Manfred ran his fingers over the few bullet holes in the Nieuport, a charred ring marked the fatal entry wound. He’d been to crash sites to collect trophies before, always with a sense of excitement. This time, he felt cold.
Just nerves,
he told himself. After that burning body, Schafer, the cheering soldiers—no one could process so much so fast.
A decent night’s sleep and I’ll be back to normal,
he thought.

Clink. Hiss.

Lothar wandered over and grabbed the rudder. He shook it from side to side, then peeked under the plane.

Clink. Hiss.

Lothar reached into the tall grass and picked up a fur-lined box. He undid the pair of latches holding it shut.

“Richthofen, let’s get you right next to the cockpit. Good, now put your foot up on top of the wing tip. Hand on your knee. Like this plane is a prize elk you’d shoot at the Kaiser’s hunting grounds…Smile! Sixty victories, need a big smile from you,” Gempp said as he directed Manfred.

Clink. Hiss.

Manfred did his best to smile before the camera flashed.

Clink. Hiss.

Manfred’s hands tapped against his leg of their own volition. The muscles in his upper back tightened and his breath cams in quick, shallow gasps.

Clink. Hiss.

“Can we hurry this up?” Manfred asked, his voice an octave higher than normal.
What is wrong with me
? he thought.

The grave digger’s metronome had stopped. Lothar was speaking to the man in a hushed voice, the open box held between them.

“Put your right hand on the lip of the cockpit and stand up straight,” Grieg said.

Manfred complied, and felt something slick against his fingers. His hand jerked back as the camera flashed. Blood stuck to his fingers, a drop ran down his palm and hung from his wrist. Manfred pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his stained hand frantically.

He made a beeline for the staff car, refusing to look at the body lying in the woods.

“We need to do that one again,” Gempp said.

“We’re done,” Manfred said.

“Nonsense, we have at least another—“

“I said we’re done!” Manfred snapped. He tossed the bloody cloth into the dirt and got into the car. He leaned forward and covered his face with his unbloodied hand. Manfred concentrated on his breathing, trying to calm the tension that threatened to twist him into knots.

He heard Metzger talking to Gempp, his adjutant immune to Gempp’s admonitions that the photo shoot continue. Lothar sank into the other seat a few moments later.

“Manfred, are you all right?”

Manfred sat up and took a deep breath.

“Long day,” he said.

Lothar held up the fur-lined box in one of his thick hands. “That piece-of-shit grave digger helped himself to the dead man’s wallet and such. I told him that if he didn’t cough it all up, he’d eat that shovel.” Lothar gave the box a shake and something metal bounced inside the box.

“Then, there’s this,” Lothar handed Manfred a thick envelope, the words “To the Victor” written in German.

“Bit odd, isn’t it? Must be for you,” Lothar said.

Manfred tested the weight of the envelope in his hand; it must have had a dozen pages in it.

“Metzger, take us home.”

Manfred tore the envelope open with a thumbnail as the car rumbled back down the road. Inside was a single loose sheet of paper and a pregnant envelope addressed to a Berlin address. A picture of a man with sandy hair and a pale complexion standing hand in hand with a dark-haired woman, so short that her eyes were level with the man’s collarbone. A date on the back of the picture read “March 14, 1914”

He flipped the sheet open and started reading:

To the Victor.

My name is James Valley, First Lieutenant in His Majesty’s Royal Flying Corps. If you’re reading this, then my number must be up. No matter, this is war, and I’ve seen it happen to plenty of my fellows.

As I probably went down behind German lines, I have a favor to ask of you. Before the war, I studied in Berlin. While there, I fell for one Magdelena Trautmann. She loved me as much I loved her. I know this in my soul and in my heart. I went home on holiday to tell my parents of my intention to marry Magdelena, and that’s when the war started.

Politics being what they are, I haven’t heard from my beloved since then, nor has she heard from me.

So, my request for you is to pass on this letter to her. I regret dying less than the thought that she might fear I abandoned her. Please, I beg of you, let her know that I loved her until my final moments.

Sincerely,

1LT James Valley, RFC

Manfred folded the letter and slipped everything back into the envelope. He looked over the side of the car and considered tossing the whole thing in the dirt. For all his victories, he’d taken scraps of their planes, a weapon, a gauge from the front panel. The dead pilots meant nothing to him, now this envelope was proof that all the dead men were just as human as him. He wanted to banish it from his presence, let him return to the cold comfort of thinking his kills were nothing but the planes they flew.

He rubbed the letter between his thumb and forefinger, debating. Tossing it away would accomplish nothing. Knowledge was as permanent as a scar. For the price of a stamp he could grant a man and a woman some measure of closure, of peace.

Manfred handed the letter over to Lothar, but his brother was fast asleep. He snored as the car jostled along the country road, his nose twitching from deep breaths of dusty air.

Manfred lowered his chin to his chest to follow suit, but sleep wouldn’t come.

The British officers of No. 29 Squadron took their breakfast outdoors. White tablecloths, polished silverware, and china teacups set the table for a meal of reheated bully beef served over rock-hard biscuits known to harbor weevils. The tea, at least, was from Ceylon. Major Thom, the commanding officer, insisted that some standards be maintained.

Second Lieutenant Trant sipped at his hot tea, his eyes crushed shut against the pounding headache that came with a night of too much whiskey. He opened an eye and took another sip, and spied a biplane flying low over a far end of their runway.

“Are we due a replacement?” he asked the table.

Officers laid their silverware on their plates and followed Trant’s gaze.

“My word, is that a Hun?” Major Thom asked.

The biplane turned, and flew straight toward the breakfast table. Officers moved away from the table slowly, their focus on the approaching aircraft.

Trant kept his tea in hand, and picked up the kettle with the other. The biplane dipped its nose toward the table and entered an attack run.

“Run away!” someone yelled. Trant opted to duck beneath the table, spilling hot tea over his hand in the process. The roar of an approaching plane filled the air, then passed over him. He looked up and saw a bright red Albatros pull into an Immelmann turn and head east.

Trant pulled himself back to his feet. A shadow passed over him an instant before something crashed into the table. Silverware leapt into the air, joined by Trant’s teacup and kettle as he leapt away from whatever struck his breakfast.

He found himself on the ground, cold water seeping through his uniform. He stood up and brushed himself off. The red tail of the departing Albatros vanished over the forest. A fur-lined box, attached to a foot long ribbon, was on the table.

“Was that…
him
?” Trant asked.

“I daresay it was. The bloody Red Baron,” Thom said. He tapped tobacco into a pipe and examined the box. “Looks like Valley’s personal effects.”

“Should we call it in—? 20 Squadron might get in the air in time to nab him,” Trant said.

“No, shame to repay his courtesy by trying to kill him,” Thom said. He raised the corner of the box with a butter knife, revealing a pulverized mass of eggs and crumpets. “So much for breakfast…and so much for Valley.”

Squadron 11 flew between gray clouds. By all the reports from the railhead that was bombed, spotting by ground troops, and a few calculations based on wind speed and the top speed of the English planes, their quarry would be near. Eight enemy planes, a mix of Bristol two-seaters and Nieuport escorts, were an even match for the six Albatroses flying alongside Manfred.

They passed over a cloud, and Manfred spotted the enemy planes flying in an extended V formation.

Manfred wagged his wings to signal the attack, and dove.

He flew toward a Bristol at the far end of the enemy formation, the familiar rush of adrenaline and fear chilling his blood. The gunner of the Bristol must have been paying attention, as the Lewis machine gun fired at him from well beyond five hundred yards away.

Manfred flew on, heedless to the threat. At this distance, one simply did not hit. He glanced over his shoulder to check on the rest of the attack. His men were spread out, lining up on separate targets, just as he’d trained them.

He turned his focus back to the Bristol. A tracer round zipped over his top wing, too close for comfort. He continued his attack, undeterred by one lucky shot. A bullet sparked off the propeller and struck his skull. His world vanished into darkness.

Manfred’s body refused to move as he felt the plane roll over. He flopped from one side of the cockpit to the other as his plane spiraled to the earth. He was locked in his own body, able to feel and little else.

“Move, Manfred, you have to move,” a still, quiet voice said to him. His arms groped out in front of him with the coordination of a newborn baby. Sound returned slowly, the thrum of his engine, wind whipping over his wings, the distant pop of machine gun fire.

He found his control stick and held it steady, not knowing if he was leveling himself out or steering straight into the ground. He still couldn’t see, and he tried blinking his eyes over and over again. He mashed his goggles away from his eyes with a nerveless hand.

Hot blood gushed down his face as it welled up from beneath his cowl. Vision returned with a black-gray blur; a bluish field emerged over the black-gray, and Manfred knew which way was up.

The plummet ceased as Manfred pulled out of the dive, his arms barely strong enough to move the stick.

He fumbled against the control panel until he found the kill switch for the engine. The engine chugged silent, and Manfred readied his rubber legs to mash the rudder pedals.

The Albatros smashed to the earth; landing gear spat from either side as the supporting axle shattered. The propeller cracked apart with the sound of a gunshot. The plane fishtailed across a field before coming to a stop in a cloud of dirt.

Manfred pawed at his restraints, blood running from his face in thin streams down onto his chest, until they released. He crawled from his cockpit and fell to the earth.

He screeched as his body erupted in pain from the bite of a thousand thorns. Manfred pulled himself from the thorn bushes, using his elbows to gain purchase against the dirt.

Beets. It was a beet field that he’d crashed into. Worms and flies scattered as he knocked a rotten beet from his path. Manfred rolled to his back, his eyes swimming like a drunk. A swath of pain burned his skull with an acid grip.

He didn’t know how long he lay there. The pain time kept him in a never-ending instant of agony. There was the thump of approaching footsteps. Grasping hands and kind words. Darkness.

The hospital treated him well, too well, in his opinion. He had his own room with a window, clean sheets, and the attention of every passing doctor that could think up an excuse to check on him. His sat propped up on a mass of down pillows, which was a true luxury in the field hospital.

Manfred stared down at the bowl of turnip soup on a tray in front of him. He’d insisted on feeding himself, much to the dismay of the young girl passing out the morning’s breakfast. His hand managed to scoop up the spoon, but lacked the dexterity to make it to the bowl. She would chide him for it, again.

His bandages itched, a white dome over his skull that had to be changed out three times a day. He picked up the spoon again, and dropped it on his lap.

“I told you,” said a voice in the doorway.

Nurse Katy Otersdorf stood there, arms crossed over her stomach as she looked at him with a slight shake of her head. Her red hair was done up under her nurse’s cap, framing a lovely face that hinted at years of long hours and hardship.

“I will feed myself.” He patted his thigh and sent the spoon tumbling to the floor. He sighed, and gently lay his head back against his pillow.

“Not today.” Katy sat beside her patient and spooned up a dose of turnip soup. She held the spoon an inch from Manfred’s closed lips. Katy cleared her throat. Manfred opened his mouth and accepted the food.

Katy put the back of her hand against Manfred’s forehead, then pressed her palm under his chin. “No fever, good. How is your vision?”

“Fine,” he swallowed another bite. “The red knight of Germany spoon-fed like a child. My public image will never recover.”

“The red knight of Germany narrowly escapes death while in mortal combat with the enemy. He is resting well and will make a full recovery,” she brandished the dirty spoon at him “
if
he stops being so stubborn and eats enough to regain his strength.”

“Do you know a Captain Gempp?” he asked.

“No, why?” she fed him the rest of the bowl without further conversation. She gathered up the tray and made for the door.

“You’re due for fresh bandages. I’ll be back in a bit,” she said.

A rush of footsteps echoed through the hallway. Lothar, Udet, and Wolff fought to get through the door and managed to block their own advance. Lothar yanked Udet back by his collar and made it to Manfred’s bedside first.

“Manfred, are you OK?” Lothar looked him over, panic in his eyes. His brother reached out and squeezed his hand, then pulled away as Wolff peeked over Lothar’s shoulder.

“Can you hear us?” Wolff asked.

“I’m just fine, Kurt, Lothar,” Manfred said. “My pride took the biggest hit.”

“How bad is it? Can you come back with us?” Lothar said.

“Maybe not just yet,” Manfred did his best to straighten up while nestled in the pillows. “Was my plane recovered? How badly was it damaged?”

“Sorry, sir. That nag had to be put out to pasture,” Udet said.

“Nothing to worry about; you used up all the luck it had when you landed,” Wolff said.

“Where’s Allmenroder? He’s the ranking officer after me, I have some instructions for him until I return,” Manfred said.

The three visitors traded glances.

Wolff swallowed hard. “We…lost him, sir. He followed you down and fought off a pair of Camels looking to finish you off. It was quick…at least,” Wolff said.

Silence prevailed as Manfred took in the death of a friend. His mouth twitched as he fought down the urge to display emotion before his men. Even wounded, he had to be the strongest man in the squadron.

“Reinhard’s the ranking officer,” Manfred said.

Wolff nodded. “He knows what he’s doing, and Metzger will keep him up to speed.”

Manfred frowned. “I’ve been here for almost two days, and now you come to visit?” He hoped they’d take the hint and discuss anything but Allmenroder.

“Tommy sent fighters to hit our reinforcements piling on some salient in the trenches. Reinhard kept us in the air until the infantry was safe. He said that’s what you’d want,” Udet said.

“He’s right.”

“Then
someone
forgot his east from west when we drove through Courtrai,” Udet said.

“Shut up,” Lothar said.

“That same someone almost drove us to Holland before a helpful farmer told us to turn around.”

“Shut up,” Lothar said again.

“You’d be flying against the Italians if you weren’t following me into the air every time, eh, Lothar?” Manfred said. It was his first joke since the crash; it felt good to see his brother squirm.

“Do you have a good doctor, or at least a pretty nurse?” Wolff asked.

“Gentlemen,” Katy said from the doorway. She had a tray of fresh bandages and dull medical instruments.

“We’ve got to get you to a new hospital before your terrible doctor amputates something,” Wolff said.

“Gentlemen,” Doctor Goldstein stepped from behind Katy. He was a slight man with a hawk face and spectacles that seemed to be in constant danger of slipping from his nose. Goldstein put his hands on his hips.

“Maybe we should go,” Wolff said.

“Captain Richthofen will be discharged as soon as he’s ready. Please don’t feel the urge to return. He needs his rest.” Goldstein’s tone wasn’t polite.

Wolff and Udet filled out, but Lothar stayed behind.

“Mother and Father haven’t heard yet,” Lothar said. “I wanted to see you before I sent a telegram.”

“Tell them it was just a scratch,” Manfred said. The throbbing pain in his head and the X rays showing shards of bone in his brain were anything but a scratch, not that his parents needed to know that.

Lothar kissed Manfred on the cheek, something he hadn’t done since they were boys.

“Miss,” he said to Katy as he left the room.

“Well, all is well back at the squadron?” Goldstein said as he and Katy pulled the bed away from the wall so that Goldstein could get behind Manfred.

“Well enough,” Manfred said. Katy put a pillow on his lap and put his arms on top of it. He leaned forward and buried his face in the pillow. Goldstein tucked a sterile piece of paper into the neckline of his hospital gown and began unwrapping Manfred’s bandages.

Allmenroder—he had fiancée. She pestered Allmenroder for the silk parachutes from illumination rounds. Fabric was strictly rationed and she swore that her wedding dress wouldn’t be made from potato sacks. Manfred had given Allmenroder a half dozen autographed Sanke cards to ply the supply officers, and his fiancée—what was her name—sent Manfred a sweet thank you letter for the help. The pillow under Manfred’s chin absorbed tears.

Cold air stung his wound as the final bandage came away. Goldstein murmured something to Katy.

“What was that?” Manfred asked.

“I said you’re a lucky man,” Goldstein said.

“And how is that?”

Goldstein tapped a finger against the side of Manfred’s head. “If the bullet had been one inch to the left, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.” Manfred heard the metal tick of a forceps and a slight tug against his scalp.

“There we go, a little less every time,” Goldstein said.

“Let me see it,” Manfred said. All he knew of his wound was the platitudes from a string of doctors and a brief glimpse of an X ray.

“Manfred, it’s normally best for a patient not to look at their wounds. You’ll think it’s worse than it really is, and that doesn’t help the healing process,” Katy said. She was the only one in the hospital with the temerity to use his first name.

“I’ve seen worse,” Manfred said.

“Go get a pair of mirrors,” Goldstein said. The doctor dabbed a cloth against the back of Manfred’s head and neck while they waited. Katy returned a moment later.

“OK, look up,” Goldstein said.

An imaged danced on the mirror as Goldstein did his best to bounce the reflection from one mirror to the other. A four-inch long tear cut across the back of his head. Bare bone, pink from smeared blood, glared from his scalp. The bare patch in the middle of the tear was as large as a coin, before it tapered close on either side of the wound.

“Enough?” Goldstein asked.

Manfred nodded his head slightly. Goldstein laid a strip of gauze over the wound, and went about reapplying the dome over the rest of his head.

“My thick head finally proved useful,” Manfred said. The quip earned a laugh and a kind smile from Katy.

A few days later, Manfred awoke to find a second bed in his room; white sheets pulled into impeccably tight corners. Had casualties from the Front overwhelmed the rest of the hospital? His questions to the hospital staff were answered by feigned ignorance.

An hour after breakfast, Katy pushed a wheelchair-bound Wolff into the room. Wolff wore a loose hospital gown, his right hand a mass of bandages. His lucky sleeping cap on his head, the long tail draped over his shoulder.

“Kurt, what happened?”

“Shaving accident,” Wolff mumbled. Katy helped Wolff onto the bed and went about positioning pillows around Wolff’s slight body.

Wolff tittered at his own joke, and squeezed his eyes shut for a second.

“I’m sorry, sir. They gave me a shot of,” his words slurred as he trailed off for a moment, “something wonderful.”

“Nurse Otersdorf, what’s his condition?”

Wolff raised his bandaged hand into the air. “I told you. Shaving.”

Katy took Wolff’s hand and guided it back to Wolff’s chest. “Shhh, take a nap.” She pressed her hand against Wolff’s face and turned to Manfred. “He suffered a single gunshot wound to the right hand. There’s tissue damage, but the bones are intact. The surgeons cleaned out the wound and sewed him up as best they could. The morphine should wear off in another hour or so.”