Aces (8 page)

“Look there!” Bodenschatz called out. “A motorcar is coming.”

Goldstein turned, as did everyone else, to watch a mud-splattered, gray Mercedes touring car approach. The car gave the still
smouldering, wrecked Spad a wide berth as it bounced its way across the field.

“Thank God,” Bodenschatz said. “It is the Herr Rittmeister returning.” He looked at Goering. “Herr Oberleutnant, I trust you
will agree that you are no longer C.O.? Herr Corporal Froehlig!” Bodenschatz continued before Goering could reply. “You will
escort Herr Sergeant Goldstein to the infirmary to see if he needs medical attention. Then you will escort him to his quarters,
where he will remain until further orders. Dismissed!”

At the infirmary an attendant examined Goldstein’s jaw and told him that nothing was broken. His jaw would ache for a few
days, and the long, purple bruise running along the side of his face would fade in about a week.

Froehlig accompanied Goldstein back to his quarters. Once they were inside the hut the corporal pulled a small silver flask
from the back hip pocket of his mechanic’s overalls and offered it to Goldstein. “For the pain, my young friend.”

“I’m tempted, but I can’t,” Goldstein sighed. “The Herr Rittmeister will soon be summoning me. I can’t report to him with
schnapps on my breath.”

“Hermann,” Froehlig said sourly. “Considering your circumstances at present, I really wouldn’t worry about taking a little
drink.”

Goldstein nodded sadly as he took the flask and had himself a long swallow of schnapps. The stuff burned his throat going
down and made his eyes water.

“Have another,” Froehlig coaxed as Goldstein tried to hand back the flask.

Goldstein shook his head. “I’m not used to it, Heiner.” He returned the flask and flopped down on his cot. “Although I suppose
I should get drunk now. They don’t allow schnapps in prison, right?”

“A court-martial and prison are hardly a certainty,” Froehlig reasoned. He turned the straight-back chair around and straddled
it, resting his forearms and chin on its back rail. “The Herr Rittmeister is the one who will decide. If he tells Goering
not to pursue the matter the Herr Oberleutnant would not dare try to go over the Herr Rittmeister’s head.”

“But the Herr Cavalrycaptain is himself a stickler for discipline,” Goldstein said sadly.

“But he’s also fair,” Froehlig pointed out between sips from his flask. “Mind if I smoke?” When Goldstein shook his head,
Froehlig put away his flask and took out a short-stemmed, black briar pipe and a leather tobacco pouch. “The other pilots
who witnessed the incident have it in for you, and will probably back whatever story Goering chooses to tell.” He filled his
pipe, then found a wooden match in his pocket and flicked it against his thumbnail. “But Bodenschatz will tell the truth.”
He puffed his pipe alight in a cloud of blue smoke.

“Well, whatever happens, I hope it’s soon,” Goldstein said. “It’s getting dark out. I don’t want to spend the night worrying
about what’s going to happen.” He paused, to smile at Froehlig. “And whatever happens, I want to thank you, Heiner. When you
grabbed me, and stopped me from attacking Goering a second time, you probably saved me from having to face a firing squad.”

Froehlig, scowling, waved away his pipe smoke, along with Goldstein’s thanks. “The way I see it, you saved my life, and the
lives of everyone else, thanks to your defense of the aerodrome. You deserve a medal for what you did today, not a court-martial.”

“I feel like I’m in a dream,” Goldstein muttered. “A few days ago I thought I
was
in line for honors: a promotion and the Blue Max. Now my neck seems to be on the chopping block for insubordination, and
assaulting an officer…”

There was a knock at the door. “Come!” Goldstein called.

Two infantry privates carrying Mauser rifles stood in the doorway. “Herr Sergeant,” one of them began. “The Herr Rittmeister
will see you now.” The private eyed Froehlig. “Our orders are that you come alone.”

Goldstein, feeling sick, stood up. He smoothed his rumpled uniform and took his cap from its wall hook. “Heiner, if I don’t
get the chance to see you again—”

“You’ll see me again,” Froehlig cut him off gruffly. “One way or the other, you will. Friends stick together.”

The soldiers silently escorted Goldstein to the Herr Rittmeister’s office, located in the administrative section and attached
to the pilots’ mess. One of the privates knocked once on Richthofen’s door and opened it for Goldstein. He stepped inside
and heard the door click shut behind him.

The office was lit by a narrow, golden funnel of light cast by a polished brass lantern hanging from the ceiling. The walls
were covered with canvas serial numbers cut from the fuselages of the Herr Rittmeister’s kills. Off to one side, bracketed
by file cabinets, was a mahogany and glass case which housed Richthofen’s legendary collection of almost eighty diminutive
silver cups, each one engraved with the particulars of a confirmed kill. Leaning in a corner were several propellers taken
from fallen enemy airplanes, and on a sideboard was a collection of pistols taken from vanquished Allied pilots.

Richthofen was seated behind his desk. “Herr Sergeant Goldstein.” He looked at Goldstein with interest, gesturing for him
to stand beneath the lantern.

Goldstein took his place beneath the light and came to attention.

“Tell me, Herr Sergeant. The enemy has never managed to cause you to lose your temper and resort to violence to the extent
reported to me today. How did the Herr Oberleutnant manage it?”

Goldstein told his story. When he was done, the Herr Rittmeister nodded.

“Your version of the events matches the Herr Adjutant’s,” Richthofen said, and then smiled. “Tell me, did Herr Oberleutnant
Bodenschatz really shoot down that Spad?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“My God, I would have liked to have seen that,” Richthofen sighed. “But let’s return to the matter at hand. Herr Oberleutnant
Goering is at this moment on his way back to his own squadron. I have persuaded him not to press charges against you.”

“Thank you, Sir!” Goldstein said, hugely relieved.

Richthofen nodded. “You may stand at ease, Herr Sergeant. I’d like to get a few things straight between us. We both know that
what the Herr Oberleutnant did was inexcusable,” Richthofen continued. “As a matter of fact, you would technically be within
your rights to file charges against him. I assume you understand that you cannot do so, that you would hurt only yourself?”

“Yes, Sir,” Goldstein said evenly. “I understand perfectly, Sir. What happened isn’t important. The reality is that the Herr
Oberleutnant wears the Blue Max; he is an officer and a gentleman. And I am—” Goldstein smiled thinly. “Well, Sir, we’ve already
discussed what I am…”

Richthofen frowned. “I’m very sorry, Herr Sergeant.”

“Yes, Sir,” Goldstein deadpanned. “Thank you, Sir.”

Richthofen looked uncomfortable. “Well, then, if we understand each other,” he shrugged. “I suppose that you’re dismissed.”

Goldstein came to attention and saluted. He turned on his heel and went to the door.

“Herr Sergeant,” Richthofen called softly.

“Sir?” Goldstein turned.

Richthofen stood up. His smile was almost shy. “Hermann, thank you for saving my Circus.”

Goldstein felt the anger and hostility drain out. He grinned. “My pleasure, Sir.”

Goldstein was in the hangar tent, overhauling his Fokker’s machine gun synchronizer mechanism, when he heard that Richthofen
had been shot down over enemy lines.

Goldstein’s initial reaction was an illogical one: that the tragedy was his fault. If only his armament hadn’t malfunctioned,
if only he could have gone along with his Jasta on its patrol, then the Herr Rittmeister wouldn’t have gone down.

J.G. 1 waited, along with the rest of the military and the German people back home, for word from the British concerning Richthofen.
There was no question that the nation’s hero had fallen, but perhaps he was a prisoner, alive and well.

On the evening of the twenty-second a British airplane buzzed Cappy Field to drop a tersely worded note of condolence from
the R.A.F.—along with a photograph purported to be of Richthofen’s grave. On April 23 the British officially announced that
the Red Battle Flier Richthofen had been buried with full military honors in the cemetery at Bertangles.

That evening, as the pilots of J.G. 1 somberly drank memorial toasts, Adjutant Bodenschatz announced that Lieutenant Willhelm
Reinhard would be the new Geschwaderkommandeur. Goldstein couldn’t shake the feeling that all of this was an awful dream,
and that tomorrow he would wake up to find the Herr Rittmeister alive and well and ready to lead his cubs into battle in the
heavens.

A few days later the order came down to change the Circus’s official standard, from Richthofen’s red to Reinhard’s favored
royal blue. It was only when Goldstein watched the painter’s brush eradicating his Fokker’s proud scarlet that his heart finally
acknowledged that Richthofen was gone.

J.G. 1 spent the rest of April and the month of May traveling along the front lines, trying its best to shore up the exhausted
German Army. General Ludendorff’s second offensive at Lys, and his third, across the Aisne and Vesle Rivers, had stalled.
Now the Allies, bolstered by the influx of fresh American troops, were on the offensive.

Goldstein spent his days flying double patrols, and his nights trying to grab a few fitful hours of sleep in tents or in the
backs of jolting lorries traveling ruined roads. Each day J.G. 1 took its share of kills—Goldstein’s count reached twenty—but
each day there seemed to be more Allied planes to confront. There were swarms of them, and while most of their pilots were
green, the Allies’ sheer numbers bought them victory.

Goldstein knew that Germany had lost this war. He discussed it in private with Corporal Froehlig, who agreed with him. Now
Goldstein only wondered if he would live to witness his country’s surrender.

In June the Jadgeschwader received its allotment of Fokker D VIIs. Goldstein did not object when the armorer equipped his
machine with twin Spandau guns. He didn’t dare; the mood of the Circus was far too grimly vengeful. He still took his time
and chose his shots. Goldstein was fighting hard now; fighting not only to avenge Richthofen’s death, but to survive, and
still he was determined to remain true to himself. To maintain the quality of mercy in a world gone rabid with cruelty.

But Richthofen had been right that night in Goldstein’s hut: this was no game. It had taken the Herr Rittmeister’s death for
Goldstein to realize that.

The day started out badly. Coincy was a mud-bog. Goldstein had spent the night in a sodden tent that stank of mildew. He’d
been plagued by gnats so small that they moved freely through the mesh of the mosquito nets. He would never get used to tents:
the insects, the filth, and the dark, dank atmosphere. It was like living in a cave.

At breakfast he was greeted with news that the Germans, still reeling from their defeat at Belleau Wood, had just been chased
out of the strategically located village of Vaux by American Marines.

Later, while flying morning patrol with Jasta 11, Goldstein and the others encountered American pilots over Château-Thierry.
The Yanks were flying superb Spad 13s. There were eight of them, jauntily daubed with the red, white, and blue of the American
flag.

It was the first time that Goldstein had run into Yanks. Others of J.G. 1 had encountered them, and they’d had discouraging
stories to tell about the Americans’ prowess and bravado. Lieutenant Reinhard had said not to worry about the Americans: that
they would be inexperienced, and would fall before J.G. 1’s guns.

Reinhard was wrong.

The Yanks Goldstein encountered that morning were not inexperienced, or, if they were, they were incredibly swift learners.
The dogfight started out even, eight against eight. When the tangle broke apart, the Yanks remained unscathed, but three of
Jasta 11, including Lieutenant Dorn, had spun earthward in flames. Goldstein had spiraled down like an anxious mother bird
around Dorn’s burning Fokker, but there was nothing he could do for the lieutenant. Nobody could have survived Dorn’s fiery
crash.

Flying as low as he could, Goldstein ran for home, following what remained of his once proud squadron. High above, the Yanks
were flying victory loops, rejoicing in the wide expanse of blue that had become their domain.

That afternoon Goldstein was in the umbrella tent that served as the pilots’ mess. He was sitting apart from the other fliers,
and, as usual, his nose was in a book. He’d borrowed the shop manual on the D VII’s Mercedes engine from Corporal Froehlig
and was studying it, doing his best not to think about the early evening patrol he was scheduled to fly.

“Gentlemen—”

Goldstein glanced up. It was the adjutant.

“Gentlemen, your attention,” Bodenschatz repeated. “It is my sad duty to inform you that Herr Lieutenant Reinhard has been
killed.”

Goldstein put aside his book out of respect, and pretended to listen as Bodenschatz recounted the details of Reinhard’s death.
The truth was that while Goldstein felt sorry for Reinhard, who’d been a good man and an able leader, he couldn’t find it
within himself to mourn. So many acquaintances were dying that Goldstein had become numb to further loss.

It’s the odds
, Goldstein remembered Richthofen had said.
Sooner or later, the odds get everyone
.

Through luck, or destiny, Goldstein had managed to become one of the senior members of J.G. 1. This made him a figure of awe
to the green pilots newly assigned to the ragtag caravan of lorries and airplanes roaming the faltering front lines.

That these boisterous and enthusiastic inexperienced fliers looked up to him the way that he had looked up to Richthofen appalled
Goldstein. He went out of his way to discourage the friendship of these new pilots. He didn’t want to get to know them. What
was the point? Tomorrow they would be dead, and strange new faces would appear to take their place. The fact that these new
fliers were blithely oblivious to the fact that they had a mayfly’s life expectancy enraged many of the veteran pilots. One
day there appeared a gruesome addition to the ridgepole of the tent that housed the new recruits. It was a carved wooden buzzard,
winking as it contemplated the new pilots. The buzzard’s claws held a carved scroll on which was engraved the question,
Wet or Dry?