The Red Baron: A World War I Novel (3 page)

Steiner had a terrible limp, but no obvious wound to his leg, which kept their pace slow as they made their way to the field hospital. The hospital was one of the few buildings surrounded by motorized vehicles, the field ambulances that had already proven their worth in the short time since the war started.

The hospital was bedlam. Walking wounded clustered around a woodburning stove, dark blood seeping through bandages. They did their best to remain silent, as the pain they felt was nothing compared to the soldiers still on litters. The moans and infrequent cries of those who’d lost limbs or struggled to breathe through the agony of a sucking chest wound as harried nurses and orderlies tended to them.

Manfred could see the shadows of a surgical team at work on the bed sheets hung up around the patient, a jerry-rigged attempt to give some privacy and spare the other wounded the ghastly spectacle of what awaited many of them.

A nurse, tall with red hair bound tight under her cap, knelt next to a litter bearing a wounded soldier, his right leg missing from the thigh down, the sheet over his lower body soaked in blood from a blown tourniquet. She held a mirror beneath his nose for a few moments, and then placed it back in her red-stained apron when no fog formed on the surface. She pulled the sheet over the dead man’s head and stood up.

She approached Manfred and looked him over.

“Where are you hurt?”

“Me? No.” Manfred helped Steiner stutter-step toward the nurse. She ran her fingers under Steiner’s earlobes and gave a grim look at the milky fluid she found.

“What treatment has he received?”

“I don’t know…”

“When was he injured?”

“I’m not sure. I found him like this…”

Her lips pressed into a thin line as she brandished a finger toward Manfred.

The tent flap was thrown open, and a pair of wet orderlies burst into the hospital, a wounded man writhing on the litter they carried.

“Otersdorf! We’ve got five more out here—help us!” the lead orderly said to the nurse.

Nurse Otersdorf pulled Steiner over toward the rest of the walking wounded. He stood stock still, staring at the side of the tent.

“You,” she said to Manfred, “make yourself useful and take him through the back.” She pointed to a dead soldier. “Karl! Help him.”

A squat, pudgy orderly came away from a basin where he was cleaning surgical instruments and grabbed the litter handles closest to the dead man’s remaining foot. Manfred grabbed the other end and lifted him up. The newly arrived wounded soldier took up the space a moment later.

Karl led them past the surgery bays. Manfred did his best to focus on the orderly’s back, not wanting to look at the dead man’s vacant eyes.

Outside the hospital, rows and rows of sheet-wrapped bodies lay in the mud. Karl set the litter down at the end of a row and went about wrapping the body in the sheet. The orderly worked with care, tucking the sheet below the body and tying a knot at the corpse’s foot, despite the driving rain.

Manfred stared at the row of bodies, the faces of the deceased visible through the wet vails. Some faces were at peace, others had slack jaws and drooping features as though their vacated souls had served as the scaffolding for their countenance.

Karl moved passed Manfred, giving him a slight nod and a pat on the forearm as he went back inside.

Manfred stood there, among the rain, the dead, and the cries of pain from the wounded.
            “So this is war.”

He touched the list in his breast pocket. At least he could remove Steiner’s name from the missing.

Duty in regimental headquarters was insufferably comfortable. Meals were hot, work hours regular, and the only danger Manfred faced came from staff cars driven by reckless messengers.

His shift at the field telephone would end soon. The war had boiled down to nothing more than him answering the phone, jotting down whatever message came through, and passing it on to its recipient. On rare occasions, he led a crew of wiremen to repair lines cut by French shelling. He hadn’t ventured near the trenches or heard a shot fired in anger since his one, and only, battle.

He’d been reassigned to the communications staff after he lost his platoon. The rest of the squadron met a similar fate. Cavalrymen were sent to the infantry, where they suffered the ignominy of walking to and from battle, the war-horses relegated to nothing more than draft animals. Manfred hadn’t kept up with his fellow officers, partly out of shame for his defeat by the French, and partly out of fear to learn they’d found a new and meaningful place in the war.

The field telephone hadn’t rung in hours, so Manfred used the time to finish up a letter to his father. In the last letter, his father had gone on and on about Lothar receiving the Iron Cross for capturing a French machine gun. His father’s pride begged the question of when Manfred would finally accomplish something of note during the war. He didn’t know how to romanticize copious note-taking or his unblemished driving record.

The distant thump of artillery broke Manfred’s concentration. His ear, trained by months of exposure, told him it was outgoing German fire, and the phone wouldn’t ring to report another French shelling. He sighed.

“Another day at war,” Lieutenant Huber said, patting Manfred’s shoulder with a heavy hand. Then again, every part of Huber was heavy. His belly stretched the front of his tunic to the point where his undershirt was clearly visible between the buttons. His double chins and heavy jowls might have been considered jolly anyplace but the army. “At least we’re spending it here and not a few kilometers west, right?”

Not for the first time, Manfred wondered if launching Huber over French lines would be a war crime.

“Keep the coffee hot and we’ll both have medals to wear home for Christmas,” Huber said. The portly officer glanced at the dwindling fire under the tent stove. He headed to the exit and the pile of wood outside the tent.

Huber collided with a massive soldier, the new arrival’s bulk in his chest and shoulders, at the entryway. The impact sent Huber to the ground, sputtering in surprise and indignation. The man lost control of a pouch he was carrying, spilling half-oval pieces of metal across the floor. Two pieces slid under Manfred’s desk.

Huber clambered back to his feet and straightened his uniform. “Why don’t you watch where you’re going, you oaf?”

The other man was on his knees, collecting the fallen metal pieces, gave no heed to Huber.

“Who’s your commander? This headquarters runs on good order and discipline.”

The man sprang back to his feet. His stern face, seemingly dyed brown from trench mud, matched the ferocity of the trench knife at his hip, the brass handguard adorned with spikes. He took a step toward Huber and cocked his head.

“You’re right. How can I present myself now that I reek of a base hog?” he said.

Huber, suddenly less inclined for a confrontation, stepped around the soldier and bolted through the exit.

Manfred knelt down and picked up the two half ovals at his feet. Both had the name, religion, blood type and unit of a soldier stamped onto them. One had a dried smudge, the deep red of old blood.

He stood and handed the dog tags to the man, a lieutenant by his rank shoulder boards, whose hands were dirty and rough, like a farmer fresh from the field.

“Sorry about Huber. He’s territorial guard,” Manfred said. Even when mobilized for war, the regular army considered the territorial guard a repository for retirees and those who never really wanted to serve; it always made for a good joke.

The lieutenant grunted and placed the two dog tags back in the pouch.

“What was it you called him? A ‘base hog’? I haven’t heard that one before.”

“Are you new to the staff?” the lieutenant asked.

“A bit,” Manfred said, not wanting to admit the months of boredom he’d spent in and around the headquarters.

“A base hog is someone who enjoys all of this,” the lieutenant gestured to the hot stove, steaming coffee pot, and the trays of half-eaten meals waiting to be cleared away by orderlies. “While my men and I sleep in the mud. You should come see the trenches, see the real war.”

The lieutenant pushed past Manfred and walked toward the adjutant’s section.

Manfred watched the lieutenant go and felt ashamed. Ashamed of his clean uniform, his easy life answering a phone that never rang. Ashamed that his failure as a leader would ensure that all the glory he’d ever win at this war would be an offhand compliment from a senior officer on the quality of his staff work.

Huber returned with his arms full of firewood. An idea lit up Manfred’s mind. Huber might prove useful after all.

“Huber, take the rest of my shift. I’ll make it up to you later,” Manfred said as he scooped up his cap from the desk. He didn’t wait for an answer; Huber had a morning shift, and those didn’t agree with his hangovers. Manfred rushed off to find his supervisor, Captain Adler. He’d need permission for what he had planned.

Manfred ran from the command tent and spotted the lieutenant walking past an artillery piece limbered to a carriage. He caught up to the man moments later.

“Is your offer to see the trenches still good?” he asked.

The lieutenant looked Manfred over, but didn’t stop walking. “Don’t you have to set the table for dinner?”

“No, I’m only a lieutenant, a captain handles the china.” His joke fell flat. “Look, Lieutenant…”

“Eisen”

“Lieutenant Eisen, I had to beg, literally beg, my captain to—”

“All right, shut up,” Eisen said. “You been in combat?”

“Some,” Manfred said. Was one losing battle enough to impress him? “I was in the cavalry, but horses don’t do well against machine guns.”

“Men don’t do too well either.” Eisen sighed heavily and shook his head. “Fine, you do what I say and stay out of the way. Got it?”

“Yes!” Manfred said, a smile on his face for the first time in months.

“Won’t matter. Should be quiet for the rest of the day,” Eisen said as he looked to the sky, the afternoon sun giving way to early evening.

Their march toward the trenches was quiet, Eisen deflecting Manfred’s attempts at conversation. The green farmland around the headquarters morphed into earth rent by war. Shell craters dotted the landscape with greater frequency as they moved west. Dark soil, kicked up by explosions, stained fields like blood splatter.

They passed through a forest, now nothing more than blackened trunks with little more than stubs for branches. Red poppies sprang from the soil, bits of color across the churned earth.

Manfred picked up a poppy and examined it.

“I haven’t noticed these before,” he said.

Eisen stuck his arm out, his hand halting Manfred’s progress.

“Quiet,” he hissed. Eisen craned his neck, searching the sky for something.

Manfred did as ordered. He saw orange-and-red bands of sunset creeping up from the horizon, but nothing else.

“Sorry, thought I heard an airplane,” Eisen said. “We’re almost to the trenches.” A ripple of distant thunder claps washed over them, the source of the sound far to the west. Eisen continued walking.

“You’re more worried about an airplane than that French artillery?” Manfred said.

“Those are French one-oh-five mortars, they can’t range us from here,” he said.

A gust of wind stole the sound of the distant artillery, and brought with it a smell of rot. The smell reminded Manfred of a wolf-ravaged deer carcass he’d come across while hunting years ago. The deer was tucked beneath a patch of bush, maggots writhing in the flesh.

“Good god, what is that smell?” Manfred asked.

“Bodies in no-man’s-land. We’ll have a truce with the French every once in a while to get them, but then some new commander will show up on one side of the lines and put an end to that. Soon as the wind blows strong enough, the truce will come back.”

Eisen looked to the sky again, and led Manfred into the trenches. “The aircraft are spotters for the artillery. Normally, the barrage is off the first few rounds. We have enough time to get into bunkers, and the guns might never find the right range.” Eisen’s voice shrank and seemed to come from a faraway place as he continued. “With a spotter, the rounds are dead-on almost from the start. I had to dig out two bunkers that took direct hits.” His hand went to the now empty pouch dangling from his belt.

The trenches were deep enough that Manfred couldn’t see over the top and zigzagged every few yards to stop an invader from shooting straight down the entire length of the trench. The crooked line of trenches would contain the explosion of an artillery shell or hand grenade well enough that a soldier the next section over might survive the blast. Manfred appreciated that Vauban forts, one of the many topics that hadn’t held his interest at the academy, were resurrected for twentieth-century warfare.

Manfred kept within arm’s distance of Eisen, who navigated the maze of trenches, machine gun nests, and dugouts with ease. Soldiers they passed gave quick nods of respect to Eisen and curious glances to Manfred.

“What can be done about the spotters?” Manfred asked. A dark spot in the amber sky caught Manfred’s attention.

“Not much we can do down here. There are a few pilots who can—”

“What do the spotter planes look like? Is that one?” Manfred pointed to the spot, which had changed into an oblong shape.

Eisen’s answer was a string of expletives. The lieutenant started running.

Manfred, caught flat-footed, took off in pursuit. Soldiers across the trench line shouted warnings and ducked into their dugouts. Eisen moved with surprising quickness for such a large man. Manfred managed to catch a fleeting glimpse of him disappearing around a trench wall as the first shell landed.

His only warning was a sibilant rush as the shell exploded outside the trench line. A wave of overpressure popped his eardrums and pounded the air from his lungs. He stumbled against the wooden boards that made up the trench wall and looked for Eisen. More rounds landed, each sending a tremor through the earth.

Manfred was at an intersection of the trench line, alone. Fear curled unyielding fingers around his chest.

“Eisen!” he yelled, the cry sounded distant to his battered ears.

A shell exploded in the trench line with enough force to throw Manfred to the ground. He lay in the mud as chunks of soil rained down on him. He rolled over to his hands and knees and pounded at his chest to force his stunned diaphragm into compliance. He managed a raggedy breath and saw something in the dirt in front of him.

A severed leg lay before him, adorned with a black boot and a gray trouser leg. It looked natural lying there, as if the owner had simply forgotten about it.

Manfred turned away from the limb and half-ran, half-stumbled away from it. More shells buffeted him before another near miss sent him into a fetid puddle. A chunk of roots and soil landed in front of him, splashing his face and mouth with horrid-tasting water. The idea of being buried alive suddenly became very real to the young officer.

Manfred felt himself being pulled from the puddle, then thrust into darkness. He wheezed and coughed as he groped around. Whispers greeted him from the blackness.

A match flared, illuminating the worn face of a soldier, a line of black stitches tracing their way up from his jawbone to his temple. The match lit a lamp, which cast a jaundiced glow through the dugout.

“Told you I’d find him,” said the soldier holding the lamp.

“Richthofen, are you all right?” Eisen asked as he knelt next beside the dirty and stunned officer.

Manfred nodded and spat out a glob of mud.

“Is this Lieutenant Weissgerber’s replacement?” asked the man with the lantern.

“No, he’s on loan from headquarters. Richthofen, this is Sergeant Haas, my ranking noncommissioned officer,” Eisen said. He pulled Manfred to his feet. “Show him around. I need to check on the kids.”

Haas hung the lantern from a wooden beam and handed Manfred a canteen.

“Here you are, sir. Nothing like trench mud to spice up a visit, eh?” The sergeant chuckled at his own joke as Manfred cleaned his mouth out with the vaguely cleaner water from the canteen.

The dugout was full of soldiers. Gaunt men, all too filthy for the parade field with faces that hadn’t seen a razor in days. The room stank of feet and an open privy. A near miss from a shell shook dirt from the ceiling and sent the lantern swaying.

“Is it always like this?” Manfred asked.

“No, it’s been worse since the spotters showed up. Too bad there’s only one Boelcke,” Haas’s face twitched as he ran a finger gingerly up and down the row of stitches.