The Red Baron: A World War I Novel (4 page)

“Who?”

“Sir, I thought you knew everything at headquarters. Oswald Boelcke, won an Iron Cross for shooting down a French plane. He got a
Pour Le Merite
from the Kaiser after the fourth plane he shot out of the sky,” Haas said. As the Kingdom of Prussia’s highest award for merit, and the Kaiser being Prussian, the
Pour Le Merite
was the highest award a Germany could give a soldier, on par to the English Victoria Cross or American Medal of Honor.

Haas pulled a dagger from his belt. “Which reminds me,” he said. He walked to the other side of a ceiling support beam and put the blade to the wood. Manfred joined the sergeant, who was carving another notch next to a palm-sized photo of a powerfully built officer smiling for the camera. There were seven notches next to the picture.

“I saw him shoot down his third a few weeks ago. Damnedest thing watching two planes dancing in the sky like that.” Haas sheathed the blade on his belt, which was covered with a mismatch of buttons and brass insignia.

“You like this, sir?” Haas said when he caught Manfred looking at his belt. “My hate belt—been adding to it since the first few days of the war.” He pointed to a worn button with a bugle emblazoned on it. “Got that one in Alsace off a French lieutenant wearing white gloves—strange thing to wear into battle.” He pointed to another button, “Got this off an English soldier that rode a bicycle to the battle…where was it?”

“You took those from the dead?” Manfred asked.

“Yes, sir, but only from the ones I killed myself. The man that had this,” he raised the lower lip of his hate belt, and he ran his thumb over a French rank pin, “gave me this.” He turned his face so Manfred could see the stitches closing up what would turn into a lifelong scar. “I came out ahead in that deal.” He barked a laugh.

The bunker shook as a French shell landed nearly on top of them. Someone cried out in fear from the other end of the bunker. Haas and Manfred turned and saw a young soldier sitting in a corner, his knees pulled against his chest.

A pair of soldiers knelt next to the young man. One put a reassuring hand on the frightened man’s shoulder as the other spoke. Another explosion sent tremors up Manfred’s body.

“Dieter and Gregor, they do what they can for the fresh soldiers,” Haas said.

“How long has that man been here?”

“About two hours longer than you,” Haas said.

The rest of the soldiers in the dugout took the bombardment with practiced unease, by Manfred’s estimation. Men cleaned weapons, played cards, and took the time to sleep. How anyone could sleep with tons of metal screaming down on their heads was a miracle to Manfred.

Eisen approached, carrying a spiked helmet. He handed it to Manfred.

“Here, wear this when we leave,” he said.

“I’m an officer, not an enlisted man,” Manfred said.

“Pretend you’re a Frenchman. Who would you shoot first, an officer or just another soldier?”

“Then how can the men recognize us?” Manfred put the helmet on his head and adjusted the chin strap. The felt and cloth of the helmet provided little assurance against the threat of bullets and shrapnel.

Eisen pulled a whistle from a cord under his uniform and slapped the pistol at his hip. “Easy, I’m always out front.”

The bombardment lasted another two hours. Manfred sat next to the sleeping Eisen, who’d given him strict instructions to wake him up if more than thirty seconds passed without an artillery strike.

Manfred passed the time watching the soldiers. They joked among themselves and kept up raucous stories of French girls at the rest camps, and they grumbled over the food that made its way to the trenches. They weren’t, Manfred noted with sadness, that different from the cavalrymen he led into battle.

The new arrival, Private Otto, had kept to himself in a corner, his arms wrapped around his knees, trembling with the shell impact tremors.

After the first hour and a half, Dieter took a violin from a case and played songs from Wagner’s opera,
Siegfried
. Gregor sang the role of Mime, Siegfried’s adoptive father, and changed many of the lyrics to poke fun at the German army’s supply system. The two had worked for the Berlin opera houses before volunteering for the war, according to Haas.

Gregor was good enough that Manfred didn’t notice when the bombardment stopped. Soldiers looked toward the ceiling, as if the packed earth would give answers.

Manfred nudged Eisen with his foot. Eisen came awake with a snort. The lull in the shelling held.

Eisen put the whistle to his lips, but he didn’t blow it.

“Let me out!” Otto squealed. The soldier burst from his spot in the corner and ran for the door. Eisen placed himself between the door and the would-be escapee and stopped him with a stiff arm to the chest.

Dieter and Gregor scrambled to their feet and wrestled Otto to the ground, as he squirmed against their grasp.

A dozen shells fell within a few seconds of each other, rattling the entire bunker. Dirt rained down from the ceiling, creating a knee-high fog in the bunker. The pinned man cried harder.

“It’s a trick! They stop the bombardment long enough to lure us out, then they hit us again. Lieutenant Eisen saved your life!” Dieter said to his captive, who’d given way to sobs.

Eisen pressed his ear against the bunker door, and then blew his whistle as he opened the door. The ear-rattling call to battle shook Manfred more than the bombardment; the safety of the bunker was about to end.

Manfred followed Eisen out into the trenches, fumbling with the ill-fitting helmet. Whistles from other commanders reverberated up and down the trench line. Twilight gave a glimpse of the partially collapsed communications trench leading away from no-man’s-land. A wall had blown out, flooding the passageway with earth. The air reeked of ozone and old death, disinterred from the beginning of the war.

Soldiers raced past Manfred and took up positions on the foot-high fire step at the base of the trench. He drew his pistol and locked the hammer back. A jagged chunk of metal the length of his forearm stuck from a trench wall. He reached to pull it out, and then snatched his hand back as the metal burnt his fingers.

Someone chuckled behind him. Haas was there, holding a spade in one hand, a grenade in the other.

“What are you going to do with that? Dig to Paris?” Manfred asked.

Haas pushed the spade toward Manfred’s face; it was sharpened to a razor’s edge.

A machine gun cackled from the French lines, green tracer rounds zipped over the trench line. Soldiers, Manfred included, crouched against the wooden slats of the trench, seeking protection from the earth’s bosom.

“Here we go,” said Haas.

A roar erupted from the French lines. Thousands of voices raised as men went over the top and charged the German lines.

“Fix bayonets!” Eisen said. The blades hissed as they came from their scabbards, followed by the sound of dozens of clicks as the bayonets were attached to the rifles. Manfred looked at his meager pistol and felt like he’d gone to a formal ball only half-dressed.

Manfred stood up to look over the parapet, but was jerked back by Eisen.

“Not yet, there’s—”

A burst of machine gun fire cut Eisen off. A bullet kicked through the dirt where Manfred’s head would have been and impacted the rear of the trench with a thud. Eisen tightened his grip on Manfred’s uniform, his face stern as he opened his mouth to chastise the other lieutenant, when machine guns in the German lines opened up. Red tracer rounds burned through the air. Eisen let Manfred go and took a lightning-fast glimpse over the parapet.

“Open fire!” he ordered.

Soldiers pushed their rifles through small openings in the parapet and lashed out at the French. Manfred, emboldened by the chance to finally do something meaningful, looked into no-man’s-land.

The final rays of sunlight stung Manfred’s eyes, the timing of the French attack meant for precisely that advantage. Inconsistent lines of barbed wire filled the space between shell holes, some of it gnarled into clumps from the indiscriminate shelling. An undulating mass of French troops made their best speed toward him, their bodies striated by red pants and blue tunics.

French soldiers fell as bullets found their marks. Manfred aimed his pistol and pulled the trigger. The blast from the shot was almost lost in the din from the rifles firing around him. No idea if his bullet hit someone. He fired until his gun clicked empty, and a mortar round landed among the French advance before he could retreat behind the parapet. The explosion flung a body into the air and erased a segment of the attackers. He ducked back into the trench before the body could land.

Manfred fumbled with the bullets as he attempted to reload. He’d perfected reloading his pistol while galloping on horseback, but trying to reload while men, determined to kill him, were approaching added an element to the process he couldn’t work through.

A soldier standing next to him shook with a sudden palsy, then fell from the fire step like a puppet with its strings cut. Manfred leapt to the ground next to him, where the soldier lay on his stomach, motionless. Manfred rolled the man onto his back, his helmet askew over his face. A hole the size of Manfred’s thumbnail was present just over the brim; wisps of red smoke came from the hole. Manfred paused as he reached for the helmet, sure of what he’d find underneath.

“Grenades!” Eisen said.

Haas and others hurled their explosives into no-man’s-land. The blast from the grenades was enough to pop Manfred’s eardrums. Screams rang out from no-man’s-land He grabbed the fallen soldier’s rifle and returned to the firing wall. He slipped on a muddy patch and nearly tumbled to the ground as panicked shouts erupted from the German soldiers.

Manfred made it back to the firing step and looked over the parapet. He found a pair of boots right in front of his face. He looked up to see a French soldier holding a rifle over his head like a club. Manfred pushed himself away from the firing wall as the club swung down, missing his head by inches.

Manfred flopped against the duckboard, hitting his head hard enough that a white flash overwhelmed his vision. He shook his head clear as the French soldier dropped onto the firing step. The Frenchman’s red face was drenched in sweat, his moustache dropping over his mouth.

Manfred still had hold of the rifle. He kept his eyes on the Frenchman as he brought the rifle to bear and squeezed the trigger. The Frenchman jerked back against the trench, and then sunk to the ground as if his hands suddenly held great weights. He left a welter of red and black gore on the wall behind him. The dead French soldier sat against the wall for a moment, his head bowed, before falling over on his side.

More French soldiers leapt into the trench and joined the melee. Manfred got back on his feet and racked the bolt of his Mauser to chamber another round. A scrum of blue and gray uniforms kept him from firing for fear of fratricide. He charged into the fray and slammed the butt of his rifle into the back of a French soldier wrestling with someone.

The Frenchman cried out in pain. The German he’d struggled with, Haas, slammed his sharpened spade down against the base of his enemy’s neck, ending his cries. Haas nodded his thanks to Manfred, and then pointed over Manfred’s shoulder. His mouth opened to shout a warning, which turned into a ragged scream as a bullet struck him in the arm.

Manfred whirled around to find three Frenchmen behind him. Two had their weapons raised as one reloaded. There seemed little else Manfred could do; he was dead as soon as they pulled the trigger.

One of the French riflemen reared back and screamed as Eisen slammed his trench knife into his kidneys. He pushed the wounded man into the other two, knocking them off balance. A French rifle fired, kicking up dirt next to Manfred’s foot. Eisen wrenched the knife from the man’s body then slammed the spiked handguard into a hairy face. Manfred heard bone and cartridge crunch from the blow.

The remaining Frenchman dropped his rifle and tried to put his hands up. Eisen slammed the trench knife through the man’s palm and drove the blade into his forehead, pinning the hand against the now dead man’s head.

Eisen pulled the blade free with a sickening pop, and then pointed to Haas. “Help him,” he said to Manfred. Manfred turned to see Haas lying on the ground. No living French soldiers remained.

Haas pressed a hand against his arm, blood spilling from between his fingers. His face was pale and contorted in pain. Manfred placed his hand over Haas’s and cried out for help. His voice was overpowered by the sound of Eisen’s whistle. Three quick shrills and every uninjured German soldier went over the top to attack the retreating French.

Haas let out a low grunt and tried to follow the rest of the Germans. Manfred pushed him back down.

“You’re in no condition to go anywhere,” he said.

A pair of soldiers with a stretcher arrived. The first pulled Manfred’s and Haas’s bloody hands away from the wound gingerly. A fount of blood spat from the wound onto Manfred’s uniform.

“Nicked the artery.” The stretcher-bearer looked at Manfred. “Hold him down. This’ll hurt.” Manfred did as asked. The soldier took a clamp from his belt and worked it into the wound. Haas gritted his teeth and groaned as the medic crimped the wounded artery. The other stretcher-bearer tied a tourniquet over the bullet hole.