The Red Baron: A World War I Novel (16 page)

Ludendorff was interested in Manfred’s opinion of the planes they flew and the quality of the aircraft used by the English. Manfred asked for a plane with better climbing ability and more maneuverability. If there was anyone in Germany who could grant his wish, it was Ludendorff. Ludendorff promised that newer planes were in development, and that something from the Dutch engineer Anthony Fokker, would make it to the front lines soon.

“What did you think of the Kaiser’s offer to take you out of the air?” Riegel asked.

“I can’t refuse orders, but I don’t want to leave my men,” Manfred said.

Riegel chuckled. “You were the topic of some debate in headquarters for the past few days. After Boelcke was lost, the entire empire went into mourning. Taking you out of combat would eliminate a significant risk to morale.”

Manfred’s heart sank as he thought of Boelcke, his mind’s eye drawn to the last moment before Boelcke’s broken plane vanished into the clouds.

“Boelcke would never have stopped fighting. To hide on a staff far from the fight would have shamed him,” Manfred caught himself, realizing that he’d just insulted Riegel. “I’m sorry, please don’t think that I—”

“Don’t worry about it. I thought the same way until the decision was made for me.” Riegel shrugged the shoulder of his missing arm.

“I am to tell you that a staff position can be found. Should you want one, there’s plenty of room in the Great Shack.” Riegel said.

They continued on in silence as Manfred considered the offer.

“Do they think I’m a coward?” Manfred asked. “Do they think now that I have some rank and a few medals I can declare that my war is over?”

“I’ll tell them the offer was made, but politely refused,” Riegel said. “But the offer stands.”

“Is any soldier ever too important to fight?”

“I don’t think so, but others differ in opinion,” Riegel said.

Manfred shook his head in disgust as they entered the open field where Manfred’s plane waited.

Savage sat beneath an oak tree, his and Manfred’s flight suits hanging from branches as they dried in the spring air. A pair of boys climbed on top of the Aviatik; one straddled the back of the plane and pushed himself along the plane like it was a banister.

Manfred handed the plate to Savage, whose eyes lit up when he saw the treats beneath the napkin.

“It’s him!” one of the boys squealed. The two ran toward Manfred.

“Sorry, sir, couldn’t keep them off the plane. They overpowered me,” Savage said. The mechanic ran a square of Turkish delight covered in powdered sugar beneath his nose before shoving it into his mouth.

The boys fished Sanke cards from muddy pockets and brandished them before Manfred as the two jumped about like excited puppies. Manfred laughed and plucked the Sankes from their hands. He signed the cards as the boys shot rapid-fire questions at him. Manfred’s face ached from the genuine smile on his face.

One of the boys dragged Manfred by the hand to his Aviatik, and Manfred lifted the boy into the pilot’s seat. Then he had to lift the other boy into the observer’s seat before he burst into a tantrum.

“Die, you English dogs!” the boy in the pilot’s seat cried. He made machine gun noises and shook the lip of the cockpit.

“Take this, Frenchies!” The other boy dropped a rock over the side of the plane, watching his imaginary bomb fall to Paris and win the war in a single stroke.

Manfred watched the boys playing at war, and his smiled faded away. He was just as anxious to fight when he left his family at the train station at Schweidnitz.
Let them have their fun
, he thought;
maybe there won’t be a war to fight when they’re my age.

Allmenroder adjusted the wooden plank on his lap and leaned over. He blew charcoal dust away from picture he was drawing and glanced up at Manfred sitting in the cockpit of his D.III. Allmenroder took a sharpened stick of charcoal and added another line to his sketch.

“At least I don’t have to smile,” Manfred said.

Chuckles erupted from the men lounging behind Allmenroder. Half a dozen pilots sat along the wall of the hangar, half-dressed in their flight suits. So long as a fogbank blanketed the airfield, there was little more to do than sit and wait for better weather.

“Never rush an artist…sir,” Allmenroder said.

Udet entered the hangar holding coffee mugs by their handles.

“We put you in a
dirndl
, change the coffee to beer and you into a lovely young lady, and it’s Oktoberfest,” Reinhard said as he took a mug from Udet. The peasant woman’s work dress of Bavaria and Austria was known for its scandalous exposed ankles and ability to enhance the wearer’s bosom.

“Bit of a stretch,” Wolff said.

“I think he’d look cute in a
dirndl
,” Reinhard said.

“One more word and this coffee’s going down your shirt,” Udet snapped at Reinhard.

“I’ve never been to one of those. Think they’ll have it this year?” Lothar asked. He sneered at the smell of the ersatz coffee, and then he took a resigned sip.

“Oktoberfest? No, canceled,” Wolff said. He held a letter from Maria, the edges smudged from repeated readings.

“How are things for her in…Bremen?” Lothar asked.

“Food is scarce. Lines for everything: bread, clothes, pencils. All the paper she can buy is made from bleached newspapers. She had to sell her bicycle for scrap after a tire went flat; there’s no rubber for new tires.” Wolff sighed and turned the letter over.

“I wonder if it’s as bad in Paris or London,” Udet said.

“Maybe we should have asked those Tommys we had over for dinner,” Lothar said.

“That would’ve been pointless. What would you have said if they’d asked us how often our families have
jaeger schnitzel
and roast goose?” Wolff asked.

“Why, they eat that every Sunday,” Lothar lied.

“Exactly. We can’t depend on the enemy to tell us the truth,” Wolff said.

Allmenroder puffed on his sketch, then turned it around for Manfred to see. The sketch was all hard angles and wide lines, save for the eyes—drawn with as much talent as Allmenroder could muster. Manfred saw a man that looked well beyond his twenty-five years, but with a glint of humor in the eyes and mouth.

“Do I really look so worn down?” Manfred asked.

“No, sir, I’m just not that great of an artist,” Allmenroder said with a nervous laugh.

Schafer stuck his head around the corner, a smile on his face. “Are we ready for a photo?”

“Photo?” Wolff said.

“Photo,” Lothar said, slowly and with emphasis.

“Ah yes, of course!” Wolff said as he got to his feet.

“Let me get out of here,” Manfred said as he pushed himself up from the cockpit.

“No, stay right there,” Lothar said. Pilots donned leather jackets and service caps as they lined up against the Albatross. Manfred grew suspicious as Savage and Metzger set up a pair of cameras before the assembled pilots. Pictures weren’t unusual, but the air of mischief surrounding Lothar and Schafer was.

“OK, now with Lothar and me behind you,” Schafer said. “Let me grab the stools.” Schafer ran out of the hangar.

“Sir, could you sign these requisition forms while we wait?” Metzger said as he held up a clipboard and pen. Manfred signed the forms and heard a pair of stools thump against the ground behind him. Metzger took the clipboard back, a look of shame on his face.

What on earth was going on?

“Ready?” Savage asked from behind the second camera.

“Ready!” Lothar and Schafer said together.

A pair of heavy hands grabbed Manfred’s shoulders and something went onto his head and over his eyes.

“Now! Damn it, now!” Lothar said.

Manfred heard the snap of the camera lens and shook himself free of Lothar’s grasp. Riotous laugher burst from the room as Manfred snatched whatever was blocking his vision from off his head. It was a rounded helmet, fashioned from tin. A pair of long and braided pony tails made from rope hung from the helmet. It looked like a prop from a Wagner opera.

“We’ll drop the photo over the Brit lines, let them know they really are fighting a Valkyrie!” Schafer said as he removed the camera from its stand. Wolff was lying on his side, holding his stomach as he laughed.

Manfred put the helmet back on his head, and leapt from the cockpit. Schafer gave a mock scream of fright and ran from the hangar, the camera under his arm. Manfred gave chase, his mock ponytails trailing behind him.

“I’m sorry, sir! They made me do it,” Metzger called out as Manfred’s pursuit took him onto the airfield. Laughter from the rest of the pilots nearly drowned out Metzger’s admission.

Schafer turned around and backpedaled away from his commander. “Lothar! Catch!” he tossed the camera over Manfred’s head. Manfred spun around, the ropes whipping around his face. He pulled the rope away and lunged at Lothar.

Lothar handed the camera off to Udet, whose long legs took him away like a sprinter off the starting blocks. Manfred tackled his brother, and the two hydroplaned across the moist grass as they hit the ground.

The helmet clattered across the ground as Manfred joined in the laughter. He sat on his brother’s back, pinning the larger man to the ground.

The laughter died as the action bell rang. Manfred popped to his feet and helped Lothar up; he kept his grip on Lothar’s wrist.

“Suit up and get to your planes!” Manfred said. He looked to the sky. The morning sun had burned away most of the fog, and they could take off in a few more minutes. He turned to his brother. “Destroy that photo.”

Lothar winked and trotted toward his red-and-yellow Albatros.

A Sopwith roared toward Manfred, the flames from dual machine guns bursting behind the propeller. Manfred slammed his Albatross onto its side, missing the oncoming Sopwith by the shortest ten feet Manfred had ever seen.

Manfred watched the Sopwith bank hard to its right, then he pulled his plane into a flat turn. He closed his eyes as his path took him straight toward the sun and rolled the plane over and out of an inversion. With the sun to his back, he found the Sopwith over the rest of the dogfight. The bright colors of Manfred’s flight were in a scrum with the tan English planes.

He dived toward the Sopwith, praying the sun kept him hidden until he was ready to strike. At fifty yards, he fired, still closing on the target. Bullets tore into the Sopwith’s engine, and black smoke erupted from the damaged engine. Manfred kept his dive as he spat past his foe, and saw red flames grasping toward the pilots from behind the oily smoke. That plane was done for, and his men needed him.

A flare of light erupted above him. Manfred looked up and saw the burning cloud that remained of the Sopwith following an explosion. He heard a keening sound above the wind and his engine as a shape hurtled toward him from above. The keening turned into a scream as a flaming hunk of debris fell past him. Manfred looked down and saw it was a burning man, writhing as he plummeted to the earth. The man’s screams faded away, but the sound stayed with Manfred.

Manfred sank into his seat, his chest heaving as a sudden terror wrapped icy tendrils around his arms and chest. The fear crept into his hands, and he couldn’t will them into steering. Lothar’s D.III crossed in front of him.

Manfred shook his head out of his stupor and took control.
They need me,
he thought. He mumbled that phrase over and over as he looked around his plane and reoriented himself to the battle. He found four of his pilots quickly, only Schafer’s red-and-black plane was missing. Wolff and Allmenroder were on the tail of a Sopwith. Manfred caught a glimpse of a lone Nieuport flying just above the treetops toward the west.

Manfred banked over and dived toward the lower Nieuport, building up airspeed as he lost altitude. The Nieuport was fleeing the battle, leaving the rest of his comrades to their fate against the best squadron Germany had in the air.

Manfred cursed the Englishman’s cowardice as he closed in; he fired a burst from a hundred yards away. If this pilot was willing to run from a fight, he might land and accept capture. Another burst, but the Nieuport kept flying.

So be it,
Manfred thought.

The English pilot kicked his plane’s rudder bar, trying to fishtail Manfred off of him, to no avail. One of Manfred’s tracer rounds speared into one side of the Nieuport, through the cockpit and out the other side. The Nieuport banked sharply and veered into the ground. The engine and landing gear hit first, and the plane spun across the ground like a skater sliding across ice before coming to rest inside a copse of trees.

Manfred turned back and found his flight regrouping over the smoking ruin of a plane. He flew in front of his men and wagged his wings, signaling for them to follow. He looked across the countryside, but there was no sign of Schafer.

Manfred led them back toward the airfield at Douai, and spotted a knot of soldiers next to a road, surrounding what looked like a staff car that had driven off the road. Manfred flew low and slow overhead, and the soldiers broke away from the crash. It was a red plane, black wings broken away from the rest of the fuselage. He’d found Schafer.

The staff car turned down a packed-dirt road. Lothar and Manfred sat in the back, silent after examining Schafer’s crash site. Lothar checked their route against a worn map. He nodded to himself and pocketed the map; they were close now. The staff car had the top down to mitigate the summer air.

They’d finished their examination of Schafer’s plane an hour earlier, a difficult task, as what remained was a mass of ripped fabric and splintered wood. The soldiers at the scene reported that Schafer was dead by the time they reached him and they’d sent his body to the nearest field hospital before the Richthofens had arrived. While the wrecked Albatros had a few bullet holes, there was no way to determine why Schafer had crashed.

Manfred would have Schafer’s body returned to the city of Krefeld for a proper funeral. His duty to his comrade complete, Manfred went on to the next crash.

The car came up on a column of infantry, weighed down by full kit bags, marching along the road shoulders. The column was staggered, with more than five yards between each man, an innovation made necessary to mitigate the threat from enemy aircraft. A densely packed formation was a ripe target for a strafing run.

Metzger kept his speed up as they passed the infantrymen. Manfred saw a soldier, who looked like he’d turned seventeen that very morning, cough from the dust kicked up by the passing car. The soldier ahead of him carried half a Spandau machine gun atop his rucksack, his face gaunt from a long day of marching.

“Slow down,” Manfred said.

“Sir, we’ll be late,” Metzger said from the driver’s seat.

“Metzger,” Manfred said, a note of annoyance in his voice. Metzger tapped the brake and let the car coast to a slower speed.

Manfred half turned and waited until the dust had lowered. A familiar-looking sergeant gave him a quick nod of thanks for the courtesy.

Otto heard the car creep up on him. He looked over his shoulder to see what high and mighty staff officer deserved the privilege of driving around the Front, while he had to carry his whole kit plus a case of bullets.

He did a double take when he saw the captain in the rear seat.

“Richthofen!”

Manfred’s head popped up at the sound of his name. More voices took up his name as it echoed up and down the column of soldiers. Worn faces changed to smiles and wide-eyed excitement at his passing. Men waved to him as he passed, shook their rifles in the air, and saluted him. Sanke cards appeared from pockets.

His brooding over Schafer’s death stopped. Manfred returned the waves and touched any soldier’s hand within reach. He stood up in his seat and waved to either side of the column.

The chant of “Richthofen! Richthofen!” grew louder as a company of infantrymen resting under a grove stood up and ran to the side of the road to catch a glimpse of the passing car.

Lothar watched as tears hugged the corners of his brother’s eyes, a laugh on his lips as they passed the soldiers.

“Enjoy your triumph, Manfred. Remember that you’re only human,” Lothar said.

Manfred and Lothar got out of the staff car and walked toward the downed Nieuport, unmoved from where it came to rest earlier that day. The tip of a shorn wing was propped right beneath the lip of the cockpit. The English tricolor circle on full display.

Gempp stood next to a camera a dozen yards from the crash, looking at the crash through the camera.