The Red Baron: A World War I Novel (20 page)

“Manfred? Breakfast is ready,” his mother said from behind him.

Kunigunde opened her cupboard and reached deep inside. Past the jarred pickles and beets, her fingers found tiny cardboard box. She pulled the box out and kept it against her chest, hidden from her son.

Her Manfred sat at a round table they kept in the kitchen for informal meals. He poked at the cooked sausage and powdered eggs on his plate, his face long and mind far away.

Kunigunde poured the beans into the hopper of her coffee crusher and cranked the handle.

“Did you hear that your cousin Wolfram is at pilot’s training?” she asked.

Manfred shrugged his shoulders.

She put the ground beans into a filter and poured piping hot water over the grounds.

He’d changed so much since the war began. She could still see the boy who loved to laugh, whose ready smile could melt any girl’s heart, but those qualities were smothered by the weight of whatever Manfred carried inside him. His face was lined, his jaw constantly worked with some nervous tick. He looked far beyond his twenty-five years, as if an acid had worn him down from the inside out.

She brought the steaming cup of coffee to the table and placed it in front of her son. Manfred grabbed the cup without looking at it and brought it to his mouth. His eyes opened wide as the smell hit his nose.

“Mother, is this real coffee?”

Kunigunde smiled and nodded with pride. “I’ve been saving up beans for whenever you or your brother came back to visit.”

Manfred took a small sip, his eyes closed. He took a second sip, then opened his eyes. He extended the cup toward her.

“Have it. You always loved coffee more than I did,” he said.

“No, darling, it’s all yours,” she left him to his drink and went to find the photo album she kept in her study. By the time she brought it back to the kitchen, the coffee cup and Manfred’s breakfast plate were empty. The smell of coffee lingered in the air as she sat across from her son.

She opened the album and picked up some loose photos from between the pages. “There are so many photos of you. I don’t want you to end up like your father, clueless as to who’s in all of his old pictures.”

She slid over a picture of her son and half a dozen pilots in formal attire.

“Who’s the one on the left?” she asked. Manfred looked at the photo and what little life he’d had inside of him seemed to shrivel away into nothing.

“Bohme, dead over Verdun.”

“Oh, what about the man next to him?”

“Voss. Dead.”

“And—”

Manfred pushed himself away from the table and turned away. He put his hands on a windowsill; his head hung low between his shoulders.

“Dead.” His voice went ragged. “Do not ask anymore. They are all dead.”

She looked back at the photo, Manfred was there. His face smiling with pride.

“Manfred, don’t talk like that. You aren’t…you’re just a little hurt.”

She could see his head shaking in the reflection of the window.

“It doesn’t matter what happens to me.”

“Of course it does!” She slammed the album shut. She choked back her fear and anger, keeping her emotions in check with her wounded son in front of her was almost too much to bear. “Manfred, I…I want you to stop flying.”

Manfred turned to face her. “Would it please you if I were somewhere safe? Resting on my laurels while others take my place?”

“Yes, yes, it would. You’ve done more than enough for the war and your injury…I spoke to the doctors and they aren’t sure how bad it really is.”

“What if every officer, every leader, escaped from the war? There would be no one left but the soldiers. The war would fall apart. All our sacrifice for nothing.”

“You aren’t the entire war, Manfred. You’re my son. Don’t condemn me for being selfish and wanting you to be safe.”

“I don’t. It is my duty to lead, to fight.”

“Are you doing this for the medals? Don’t you have enough?” she pleaded.

A smile came to her son’s lips, and for a moment she saw the old Manfred shine through. “I don’t care for the medals anymore. Do you know what makes it all worthwhile? When I fly over the trenches, the soldiers will climb out and shout for me, wave their rifles in the air. I see their gray faces, worn from hunger and sleeplessness and battle, and something rejoices within me. That is my reward, Mother, my greatest reward.”

He reached out and rested a hand on her shoulder. “I have nothing to worry about while I’m in the air. I’m ready for them. The worst thing that can happen is that I land behind enemy lines.”

The bandages covering the gash across his skull spoke louder than he did, but Kunigunde decided to play along. Let her son think she could tolerate his continued role in the war. He had enough to worry about.

“You think they would treat you well? After all the men you’ve—after everything you’ve done?”

“I believe so.”

The sound of clicking heels announced Metzger’s arrival. The orderly walked up to Manfred and handed him a telegram, his face stoic.

Manfred’s mouth tightened into a thin line. He looked at his mother.

“Lothar is wounded,” he said, and Kunigunde’s heart skipped a beat, “but not badly.” He handed the telegraph back to Metzger.

“Pack our things. I’m going back.”

There were new faces in his squadron. As a commander and the preeminent pilot in Germany, he was spoiled for choice when it came time to fill out his roster. He knew the new men, Brauneck and Gussman by reputation and record, but not by face. Only he and Reinhard remained from the day he took command of Squadron 11.

Reinhard saluted Manfred, and passed over a dark-stained wooden walking stick, long enough to stretch from the ground to Manfred’s waist. The length had a screw’s twist, a cap of brass over the handle.

Manfred raised an eyebrow.

“I made it from the propeller of your fifty-eighth. You…had to leave before I could give it to you. Every commander deserves a good walking stick,” Reinhard said. “I stand relieved.” He clicked his heels and fell in with the rest of the squadron.

Manfred snapped the stick under his arm and looked each of his men in the eye. They looked as worn as ever, but Wolff’s death seemed to have given each man a new measure of resolve.

“I missed you all,” Manfred said to his men. “Even those of you I haven’t had the chance to meet in person, I thought of you each and every day I was away from the fight. Nothing changes now that I’m back. We fly and we fight.”

His head pounded as he spoke, threatening to make a liar of him before he could get back into the cockpit.

“I have good news.” Manfred turned to the barn behind him. “Savage, if you please.”

Savage and a pair of mechanics pushed the barn doors open. Murmurs of approval spread from the pilots as the Fokker Dr.I was revealed. The triple sets of wings and squat body set it apart from the Albatroses.

Manfred ran his hand along the bare fabric. “Not as pretty as what we were flying, but this plane can climb like an ape and maneuver like the devil. Brauneck, Gussman, you will fly with me tomorrow, so that I can be sure you’re brave.” The named pilots nodded and smiled.

“Savage, I need you to fix my plane immediately,” Manfred said.

“Fix it? It still smells like factory grease. What’s wrong with it, sir?” Savage said.

“It isn’t red.”

“What happened to Lothar?” Manfred asked Reinhard as they walked across the airfield. New Fokker planes were unloaded from trucks and assembled by technicians from the factory. Anthony Fokker, of the eponymous aircraft, had been very generous in his support to Manfred’s squadron once von Hoeppner approved his new plane for use.

Manfred knew Fokker would have more orders for the plane if Squadron 11 and other units adopted it quickly. When it came to helping his pilots, Manfred didn’t mind flexing his celebrity status.

“He got hit in the leg and tried to make an emergency landing. Odd, really, the wound wasn’t that deep,” Reinhard said.

“He never could handle the sight of his own blood. He once passed out between rounds of a boxing match when he saw a drop of blood fall from his nose onto his gloves,” Manfred said.

“The plane was under control, but he came over a tree line and found the empty field he wanted to land in full of soldiers. He pulled up to miss them, and clipped a telegraph line. It got ugly after that.” Reinhard opened the door to the small house that was repurposed to the squadron’s infirmary.

“See that the mechanics learn everything they can from the Fokker engineers. I don’t want a maintenance question to pop up when they’re halfway back to Berlin.” Manfred took his cap off as he entered the infirmary.

“Of course, sir.” Reinhard said, saluting. “Good to have you back.”

Manfred touched the brass cap of his walking stick to his eyebrow and found Lothar’s room.

Lothar’s right leg was suspended in the air, a cast covering from below the knee to his toes, gauze wrapped around his thigh. The left side of his face was a mass of purple and black bruises, his left eye swollen shut.

Katy sat beside him replacing a splint on Lothar’s right hand.

“You look better,” Lothar croaked.

“Lothar, I’m going to have to lie to Mother when she asks about you,” Manfred said. He pulled up a chair and sat down.

“Why? I’ll heal up and be as good looking as ever. Right, uh, Katy, is it?”

“You two have astonishingly thick heads. If your bones heal right you’ll be fine,” Katy said. She finished his splint and laid his hand over his stomach. “But your bones won’t heal if you push yourself too hard too soon,” she said, glaring at Manfred. Manfred knew that comment was meant for him as much as it was for Lothar.

“I like this one,” Lothar said.

“Katy, would you excuse us?”

She left without another word. Even in his wounded state, Manfred saw Lothar admire Katy’s figure as she walked out.

“Did you?” Lothar asked.

“Lothar, what? No. There’s a ‘von’ in your name, same as mine. Act like a gentleman.”

“How’s Mom?” Lothar shifted in his bed, wincing from a sudden pain.

“Worried sick about you. Too proud to say so, of course. She’s set herself up as the stalwart war mother for the whole of Schweidnitz. Appearances must be maintained, even in front of me.” Manfred took a small box from his pocket.

“She sent these to you,” Manfred opened the box, displaying two chocolate bonbons with powdered sugar.

Lothar smiled, his teeth were pink from blood and more than one was missing. “Maybe later.”

“As for later, you’re done flying,” Manfred said. His brother looked at him as if he’d just announced that he was defecting to the English. “I’ll arrange for your transfer once you’re well enough to travel.”

“Don’t you dare, Manfred! I am not going to leave you,” Lothar said.

“The matter is settled.” Manfred stood up and went to the door. Something silver flashed past his head and careened off the door with a clang. A bedpan bounced off Manfred’s chest and clattered to the ground.

“No! This is not settled. Come over here so I can beat the hell out of you.”

“Lothar, your injuries are—”

“Are nothing! I don’t need two legs or a pretty face to fly. Don’t…don’t send me away, please,” Lothar said.

Manfred sat at the end of the bed. “Lothar, after Wolff, Schafer, Voss, I can’t lose you too.”

“If they were lying here in front of you, would send them to some easy post with the territorial guard? Forbid them to fly?” Lothar asked.

Manfred turned his head away.

“You are my brother, but you are also my commander. Be my commander first, until this war is over. Besides, are you going to stop flying? You wouldn’t still have all those bandages if you were healed up.”

“Of course I’m not going to stop flying,” Manfred said.

“How can you expect any less from me?”

Manfred sighed; this was one battle he wouldn’t win.

“There’s no one I’d rather have in the air with me than you, Lothar.”

“It will take me a bit longer to catch up to you now, I’ve got twenty-nine. You’ll just have to go on being the famous one and I’ll be the handsome one.” Lothar shifted in his bed. “Hand me that bedpan.”

“At least it was empty when you threw it.” Manfred complied with the request. “If you give Katy a hard time, the only thing you’re going to fly is a beat-up Aviatik back and forth to headquarters.”

“Fine.”

“Lothar.”

“I said ‘fine.’” Lothar looked at the bedpan. “Do you want to be here for this?”

“I’ll check on you in the morning,” Manfred said.

He found Katy in the hallway, her arms crossed and face sour.

“Katy,” Manfred said as he walked passed her.

“I heard all of it. You can’t be serious about flying again,” she said, following him out the door.

Manfred kept his pace going as he made his way to the chateau. “I am quite serious.”

“Do you know what that thin air will do to your wound when you get up there? Your headaches are bad enough, and you want to see what happens while people are shooting at you.” She dogged his steps before grabbing his leather coat. Manfred stopped, but didn’t turn around.

“I saw the orders from General von Hoeppner. You’re to fly only when ‘absolutely necessary,’ not at the whims of your ego,” Katy said.

Manfred whirled around and pointed his walking stick toward the hangars. “You see those men? They just lost one of their best friends. The English fly with more and better planes every single day. The Americans just joined the wrong side of the war, and their families are starving. The only thing I have to offer them is my example. So that, nurse Otersdorf, is why it is ‘absolutely necessary’ for me to fly.”

They stared each other down for a few seconds before Katy crossed her arms and looked to the infirmary.

“I’ll see to Lothar, then come to change your bandages,” she said. Manfred had a feeling this discussion was not over.

“Katy, my wound. If anyone asks, tell them it’s just fine. I don’t want them to worry,” Manfred said.

“I will tell them nothing, but Hoeppner gets the truth.” She walked back to the infirmary.

“Thank you,” he said after her. She kept walking.

The sound of the Fokker’s engine was hard, aggressive. The higher horsepower made hearing anything difficult, not that it mattered in the air. Manfred gave his twin Spandau machine guns a final check, then strapped himself into the cockpit. The controls were similar to the Albatroses he’d flown for years, but looking around and past the third tier of wings would take some getting used to.

Savage tapped his shoulder and gave him a thumbs-up. When Manfred returned the gesture, Savage would pull the chocks from beneath the wheels, and Manfred would be airborne seconds later.

Manfred looked over at the other Fokkers readying for combat, the new pilots readying for their first flight with their commander.

To his surprise, Manfred wasn’t ready. Try as he might, he couldn’t get his feet onto the rudder pedals or his hands on the control stick. It was as if he knew the controls were illusions, and it was useless to even try to fly.

Savage tapped Manfred’s shoulder again.

Manfred looked at his mechanic and made a small sign of a cross over his forehead. Savage tilted his head in confusion. Manfred repeated the gesture and Savage shook his head. Manfred cupped a pair of imaginary breasts on his chest and pointed back to the infirmary. Savage finally understood and ran off.

A minute later, Katy was next to Manfred. Her red hair whipped about in the propeller blast, her eyes scanning Manfred for injury.

“What is it?” she tried to yell over the engine.

Manfred tapped the side of his cheek. Katy gave him a disappointed look. He tapped it again. “For luck!” he shouted.

Katy rolled her eyes and leaned over to kiss Manfred’s cheek. Manfred turned his head at the last moment and got the peck on his lips. Katy stepped back from the cockpit and waved Manfred toward the end of the runway.

Manfred, his confidence back, gave a thumbs-up to Savage and was on his way.

Katy and Savage watched as Manfred took to the air, the rest of the flight right behind him.

“You didn’t see anything,” Katy said.

“See what, miss?”

“Good man.”

The Fokker performed as advertised, climbing to five thousand feet in a mere five minutes. Manfred led his flight to a higher altitude than he normally hunted from, both to test the new capability of the plane and to avoid the flack guns along the German lines. The brand new Fokker bore an unfortunate resemblance to the Sopwith triplanes active in this sector, and friendly antiaircraft fire was deadly all the same.

The thrum of the engine through the seat of his pants, the coffin-like tightness of the cockpit, and the opal-blue sky were welcome sensations to Manfred. Despite all the dangers, he felt as at home in the air as he did on horseback.

He looked down and caught a glimpse of a tan rudder as a plane slipped beneath a cloud. His mouth went dry as he tried to take his plane into a dive, but the stick wouldn’t move. The familiar cold burst of adrenaline hit him, but it was as if his nervous system had rewired itself since his last battle. He shivered inside his flight suit and had the intense urge to curl up into a ball. The vise around his skull returned with a caress, herald of a migraine.

He smelled dirt, dirt leading to Valley’s final resting place, and remembered the faces of the soldiers cheering his name.

His other hand grabbed the control stick and his Fokker slipped into the cloud masking his target. Emotions cleared as the cloud enveloped him. His mind was clear and focused as the cloud faded away and he found his target, a pair of Bristols.

The Fokker closed the distance quickly, with no reaction from the Bristol. From the front, it wouldn’t be easy to spot the red paint or distinguish his Fokker from the Sopwiths. He placed his thumbs over the twin Spandau machine guns and kept closing. Fifty yards and no reaction. He slowed down at twenty-five meters to keep from overrunning the Bristol.

Finally, the gunner in the rear seat stood up…and waved to Manfred.