The Red Baron: A World War I Novel (22 page)

“Manfred didn’t care. With thirty miles to go, Blume threw Manfred. Broke his collarbone in two places. Manfred got back on the horse and won the race. Thirty miles, Katy. In pain the whole way to win nothing but a ribbon and a pat on the back from his commander. Then he went to a doctor. Stakes are a bit higher right now.”

“His pride is worth more than his life?”

“It isn’t in his nature to quit, Katy. Besides, his ego isn’t why he keeps flying.” Lothar sniffed and winced as Katy tightened up his stitches.”

“Has this war ever made you want to quit being a nurse?” he asked.

“God, yes.”

“Then why are you here?”

“Because you need me. He needs me. All those boys in the hospital…”

“You have a purpose. He has his. It keeps him in the air, fighting for this squadron and all those men in the trenches. If we take it away, it will end him.”

Katy propped her bloody hands on her knees and mulled over Lothar’s words.

“Damn you Richthofens and your thick, stubborn heads.” Katy opened a jar of iodine and dabbed a cotton swab in the red liquid. An iron stench filled the room, and Lothar groaned.

“Don’t want the iodine? Don’t bust your stitches.” She rubbed the iodine over the stitches, and Lothar gritted his teeth against the pain.

“Was…worth…it,” he said.

Manfred signed off on a letter complaining about ersatz engine lubricant and blew air across the ink. The latest batch of “lubricant” gummed up the engines within a few days of use, creating a logistic headache that kept him from fielding his entire squadron at the same time.

He grabbed a pack of Sanke cards and popped his knuckles.

Someone rapped at the door.

“Come in,” he said without looking up. The smell of potatoes and beans wafted over with the opening of the door.

“Thank you, Metzger, leave it on the table,” he said.

“Have I been around him so long that I’ve grown a mustache and shrunk a foot?” Katy asked.

Manfred looked up and frowned. “Sorry.”

“That is…different,” she said, pointing to the chandelier in his office. The front of a rotary engine hung from the ceiling, a burning light bulb sticking from each cylinder. The interplay of the lights cast long polygons across the ceiling.

“Corporal Siemens made it from my…I can’t remember which victory. Bit garish, in retrospect.”

“Then why keep it up?” She slid the plate of food to him. He shoved it away with the back of his hand and turned his attention back to the Sanke cards.

“Serves its purpose. Keeps Siemens happy.” Manfred signed a card and put it aside. He repeated the process with the next card.

Katy picked up a card and read, “‘To my brave front line companion, Baron Manfred von Richthofen.’ Who is this for?”

“For whoever wants one badly enough to trade.” He signed another card. “Metzger will take this pile of cards with him the next time he goes on a supply run. Any base hog that wants proof he isn’t a base hog once this war ends will want to barter.”

“Aren’t you taking from some other unit at the front by doing this?”

“Ever seen a soldier behind the lines go hungry? Cold? We need lubricant, bullets, gas, something to eat other than turnips and bread made from chestnut powder.”

“I wondered why the cooks always seem to have butter,” she said.

Manfred put an ink-stained finger to his lips. “State secret.”

Manfred jabbed a lump of potato with his fork, then looked to Katy. “Did you eat? You look thin.”

“And you look exhausted. Eat.” Manfred kept looking at her. “Yes, I ate.”

He took a bite and picked up another card. He put his pen to the picture, and stopped.

“Such a strange feeling. Another man shot dead, lying out there, waiting for a shallow grave. I sit at my desk and the food tastes as good as ever.” He gave a sideways glance at his plate, appetite gone.

“Would you rather switch places?”

“He certainly felt that way. Would you mind reading those letters to me? See which ones I have to answer now.” An unruly pile of posted correspondence took up a corner of his desk.

Katy opened a letter and read, “The most esteemed Grand Duke of Thuringia invites you to—”

“Trash.”

Katy unwrapped a small package. Inside was a velvet case and a note.

“The king of Saxony has awarded you the Military Order of Saint Henry, in honor of your seventy-fifth victory,” she said.

Manfred sighed and shook his head.

“What? I’m sure this is…very impressive,” she said.

“All these medals are a pain. If I wear them in the wrong order I’ll offend half the nobles in Germany. Not trash, leave it on the desk.”

She read from the next letter, “Heinrich Bullow says that, due to rationing, he’s out of silver and want to know if he should use pewter or some other metal for the cups. Does he mean those cups in your trophy room?”

“Not trash. I’ll get back to him tomorrow.”

“What will you use instead?”

“Nothing, it’s a moot point. We’re getting ready for one last push. All the men from the Russian front will be here soon. It will be over by Christmas—again.”

Katy took a folded piece of paper from her apron and put it on top of the stack of unsigned photos. Manfred grabbed it without looking, then turned it over in his hand.

“What’s this?”

“A transfer request. There’s an offensive brewing, and that means casualties. I want to be at a field hospital when that happens,” she said.

Manfred looked from Katy to the request before him. He set his pen down.

“I don’t want you to leave. You’re…you’re the only one I can talk to.”

“I don’t want to leave either, Manfred. But you don’t leave me any choice,” Katy said. She dabbed a tear from her eye.

“What are you talking about? Just stay.” He pushed the request back to her.

“Manfred, every time you fly, it breaks my heart, because I don’t know if you’re coming back. As much as I—” she swallowed hard. “I know why you fly. I know why you won’t escape this war even though you could save yourself with a single phone call to headquarters.”

She crossed her arms. “I’ve been selfish in staying for so long. I will follow your example and do what I can, where I can, for the war. The sad, stupid thing is that the reason you should send me away is the same reason I stayed for so long.”

“Love,” Manfred said.

“Maybe you aren’t as dense as I thought.”

Manfred looked her, his eyes mourning. “There’s some boy out there, seventeen years old and in a uniform two sizes too big, a hand-me-down from the last man to die wearing it. He has a rifle he doesn’t know how to use and a stomach full of fear. Soon, he’ll charge over the top and charge across no-man’s-land with nothing to keep him going but the men at his side and hope that he might live to see tomorrow.

“If he’s wounded, you should be there to save him. I can’t keep you here. His life outweighs my wishes.” He signed the request and handed it over.

She took his hand and squeezed. He pulled his hand back and sprung out of his chair and away from her.

“Go! I already regret what I’ve done. Go before I change my mind,” he said.

She left for the door and stopped when her hand touched the doorknob.

“Manfred, this war can’t last forever,” she said.

He half turned to her. “No, it can’t.”

“Then you had better make it.” She opened the door and left.

Pilots of Squadron 11 huddled around a small fire, dawn a hint on the horizon. Frost spread across the dead grass airfield. The winter snow was gone, but its chill lingered.

Manfred checked his wristwatch in the firelight.

“Almost time,” he said.

“Sir, not that we don’t love a good sunset, but some of us have been wondering…” Gussmann said, but didn’t finish his question.

“Why are we up so early?” Lothar asked.

“History, gentlemen. This is the beginning of the end, one way or another. Operation Michael, High Command’s plan to push the English into the sea and force Paris to surrender. Divisions from Russia, newly trained storm trooper units, all the artillery we can muster. Speaking of which…” Manfred pointed to the north.

White flashes of light sparked in the distance, reflecting off the low clouds that promised fog. The flashes grew in intensity until they mimicked dawn’s early light. Seconds after the first flash, the rumble of artillery reached Manfred and his men.

Udet pointed to the south, where another artillery park sent rounds east. The constant blast of artillery filled the air with a low growl.

“Smack in the middle of it, aren’t we?” Lothar said.

“I wouldn’t have it any other way.” Manfred straightened up. “The end of the war is on the other side of their trenches; we’re going to help our soldiers reach it. Suit up and be ready to take off in thirty minutes. All of us.”

The artillery barrage had turned the English trench into a ruin. Lieutenant Otto led his men past steaming shell holes, splintered duckboards, and the remains of defenders caught in the barrage.

“Dugout!” One of his men pointed to the top of a wooden doorway blocked by the collapsed trench. Otto ran over at a half crouch as his men found cover in the wounded earth. A soldier took a hand ax from his belt and chopped at the few inches of the door still visible. A plank broke loose and cries for help emerged from the bunker.

Otto pulled the pin from a grenade and tossed it through the hole. The cries turned to panicked screams. The blast expanded the bunker beneath the dirt like a puff of air into a balloon. Moans of pain came from the darkness. Otto threw in another grenade and moved on before it exploded.

“Sir! Sir, Tommy planes!”

Dozens of English planes in tight formation, flights stacked on top of each other, were heading toward Otto and his men. Otto looked around for any kind of protection from the air. The moonscape of shell holes offered nothing.

“Spread out, ready to defend against aircraft!” Otto yelled. Against that many planes, his orders would make the same difference as spitting on a forest fire. Otto dived into a shell hole and flattened himself against the earth. The brass casing he’d rescued from no-man’s-land years ago pressed against his chest.

He gripped the earth, willing himself into its bosom as the sound of engines filled the sky. His men. He had fresh soldiers that lacked the fear and respect for enemy aircraft. He looked over the shell hole for errant soldiers, and he saw the distant English planes, too far to be heard.

Otto rolled over and saw squadrons of Fokkers flying overheard. A riot of colors centered on an all-red Fokker.

They were outnumbered. Even with four squadrons in the air, the English had half again as many planes. Lothar was on Manfred’s right, Udet, with twenty-three victories, on his left. Every German pilot in his wing was handpicked from the best of the best.

His knights of the air readied to charge.

The English Sopwith Camels and closed quickly, head on to Manfred’s wing. Manfred gunned his engine and flew straight toward a Camel. Bullets crisscrossed as the two planes slashed past each other. Manfred slammed his rudder, and his tail swung his Fokker around, robbing him of airspeed.

The maneuver brought him around and behind the Sopwith, which hadn’t completed its turn. His engine shook the Fokker as he opened the throttle and pounced on the Sopwith. A five-second burst of fire was enough to send the Sopwith to the ground, tumbling end over end.

Manfred didn’t have time to waste. He checked his tail for an enemy then looked to the rest of the battle. The air was a maelstrom of planes; bright yellow and green tracer rounds stitched across the sky.

The Fokkers could climb and turn faster than the Sopwiths, an advantage his pilots used to the hilt. Two English planes burned in the air, Manfred spotted another crumbled against the battlefield in addition to his victory.

He spotted Lothar, an Englishman on his tail, turning toward him. Manfred aligned with Lothar and flew straight for him; he prayed his brother had the same idea, as the distance between their collision evaporated in seconds. Bullets from Lothar’s pursuer snapped through Lothar’s wings and past Manfred’s head.

Manfred dipped his Fokker on its right side, and Lothar did the same. Manfred, hidden from the Camel by Lothar’s plane, was now heading right for the Camel. Manfred fired his machine guns and looked up at his brother as they passed each other. They were close enough to see each other’s eyes as they passed within a few yards of each other. Damn Lothar for smiling like that.

The pilot of the Camel panicked at Manfred’s sudden appearance, and pulled up into a loop, exposing the belly of his plane to Manfred’s guns. Manfred’s shots riddled the fuselage behind the cockpit, and it tore in half. The engine and cockpit hurtled to the earth; the tail followed, flittering like a lost feather.

Udet chased another Sopwith off Gussman’s tail. The neophyte Richthofen knew enough to be a danger to himself in the air, and not much else. Udet flew alongside Gussman and pointed back to their airfield. Gussman shook his head and looped into an Immelmann turn, back to the battle.

Udet shook his head and followed suit. If the kid survived, Udet might start to like him.

A wingless green-bodied Fokker plunged through the air ahead of Udet and Gussman, the pilot slumped against the controls. Udet cursed and climbed to get back into the melee.

He didn’t see the direction of the bullets that hit his plane, but he saw them wreck his engine. A propeller blade broke off and tore through two wings. His Fokker surrendered to gravity; what remained of his engine pulled the craft’s nose down.

Black smoke choking his lungs and fowling his goggles, Udet slapped at his restraints until they finally came loose. He leapt away from the cockpit, hoping his parachute would work as promised. The earth and sky spun around until a tremendous jerk slammed him back against his plane.

His parachute had caught on the rudder, fate seemed determined to send him down with his plane. Udet yanked at the parachute, hit his fist against the rudder, nothing. He looked down and saw the shell craters and gray earth that would be his gravesite if he didn’t do something constructive in the next few seconds.

Udet braced his feet against the rear elevator and grabbed the risers. He thrust his legs against the elevators and pulled the risers with all he could muster. The rudder broke from the plane with a crack.

Udet tumbled away from his plane, and the straps around his body squeezed the air out of him as air filled the canopy. He looked down and saw his burning wreck waiting to welcome him with smoke and fire.

Udet grabbed one of the risers and pulled with everything he had left; the canopy tilted and swung him clear of the wreck.

His right ankle hit the ground first, twisting as it caught against a splintered board. He flopped into the ground face first, his canopy dragging him over rocks and a bit of barbed wire that tore open his flight suit.

Udet’s slide ended when his parachute tangled in a burr of razor wire. He pushed himself to his feet, favoring his left leg, and looked around. The fight continued in the air; mortars pounded German infantry a hundred yards away, machine guns and rifles cracked around him.

Udet raised his arms over his head. “I’m alive!”

“Get down, you idiot!” came from a shell crater. A bullet ricocheted off a rock a few feet away; the tiny whistle of the tumbling bullet missed his arm by inches.

Udet took the advice and jumped into the crater. Two German soldiers greeted him and helped cut his parachute off him.

“After what I just saw you do, I think I’ll stay in the infantry,” one of the soldiers said.

Manfred’s Fokker came to a stop outside the hangars. The rest of his squadron, minus Udet, had landed before him.

“Eighty!” Gussman announced.

Pilots and mechanics shouted the number of Manfred’s victories as he dismounted; they pounded his plane in celebration, shook his hand, and slapped his back.

Manfred pushed his way past them all, unable to hear their cheers over the ringing in his ears. He peeled off his gloves and cowl, leaving them in the dirt as he lurched to his room, a dribble of saliva at the corner of his lips. Light haloed around the lights in the hallway as he stumbled into his room and fell to the ground, gripped by the pain in his head.

“Katy,” he said. But she wouldn’t come. He’d let her go.