The Red Baron: A World War I Novel (6 page)

“Lucky shot, I say,” Zeumer hacked up a bloody bit of phlegm and spat it out. “Lucky shot.”

“I’m sorry, Lieutenant Richthofen, but you will not receive credit for shooting down the Farman,” Major Fegelein said.

“Sir, you have the word of two officers of the German army. We saw it hit the ground and there was no chance that—”

“No doubt, Lieutenant.” Fegelein tapped a communiqué on his desk with a well-manicured finger. “But high command has strict standards for awarding air-to-air victories. Unless the plane landed on our side of the lines, or you have some piece of evidence from the crash, then there is no credit.”

“But, sir, we—”

Fegelein tapped the communiqué several times and with emphasis.

“Yes, sir.”

Manfred excused himself and left the office. Zeumer was a step behind him. Manfred waited until they were out of earshot of Fegelein’s office before he spun around to face Zeumer.

“Can you believe that? My credit denied because of some base hog’s demand for perfect paperwork. How long have bureaucrats been running this war?” Manfred asked.

“Since the before it started, Manfred,” Zeumer said.

Manfred crossed his arms. If his mother saw him now she’d chastise him for pouting.

“It doesn’t really matter, does it?” Zeumer lit a cigarette as he continued. “That Farman and the Tommy piloting it are done. Neither will ever bother us or the men in the trenches again, will they?”

“No…”

“Getting your name in the dispatches really that important?”

Manfred uncrossed his arms. His shoulders went slack. “I joined the air corps to do something important, to make a difference in the war.”

“You’re doing just fine. Thanks for shooting down that asshole and saving our lives; how’s that?” Zeumer said.

“Boelcke and Immelmann are famous because they get credit for shooting down the enemy. Your thanks is no medal.”

Zeumer chuckled. “Give it time, lad. Give it time.”

The kindest gift to a soldier in wartime is sleep. The officer cabins on troop trains boasted mattresses and closing doors, making them a luxurious place to nap compared to the enlisted cabins. The mechanics and staff soldiers in Manfred’s squadron made do with a passenger cabin stripped of seats to make room for more bodies. Soldiers joked that their cabins would be better suited for cattle, if only they could hose out the smell. But, they conceded, the worst ride was always better than the best road march.

Manfred left his plush cabin and made his way to the dining car. Sleep eluded him, despite the golden opportunity and the relatively stress-free position he found himself in. Traveling by train with an aviation unit was a great deal easier than when he was with the cavalry; aircraft weren’t as temperamental as horses.

Something had nagged at him since he’d shot down the Farman. It wasn’t the lack of official recognition, fighting the army’s bureaucracy was futile. For weeks, in the quiet moments when he’d nearly drifted to sleep, the moment the plane crashed to the earth played out in his mind. In that moment, he’d accomplished something finite. That plane and that pilot were out of the war, never to threaten him or the German lines. Subsequent reconnaissance missions bored him. As if they were a match compared to the bonfire of air-to-air combat.

Since the battle with the two Farmans, he’d caught a few fleeting glimpses of enemy planes during their reconnaissance missions. As much as he longed for another fight, going against a British fighter plane in the G.II was a losing proposition.

He found Zeumer between cars, his back against the dining car, bundled up against the fall air with a lit cigarette in his mouth.

“They’re serving supper,” Zeumer said. He was paler than usual, and he had lost weight after spending a week in bed with pneumonia. Zeumer looked more like the vagrants in Berlin than an officer in the Kaiser’s service.

Manfred stood next to Zeumer, shoulder to shoulder to avoid the traffic between the cars. Zeumer’s cigarette stank up the air, he’d switched to the Turkish Salem Aleikum brands after his preferred, and French, Gauloises supply ran dry.

“Zeumer, why do you keep smoking? Doesn’t it make your lungs worse?”

Zeumer tried to laugh, but managed to cough instead. “By my guess, the Brits will shoot me down long before the consumption does me in. Which is fine by me.” He waved at Manfred, the lit cigarette between his fingers. “Go. Eat.”

Zeumer turned his back to his copilot, ending the conversation.

The tables in the dining car had white tablecloths and proper silverware. The aristocracy that made up the officer’s corps preferred the trappings of high society when away from the trenches. Manfred scanned the patrons, looking for someone he knew to dine with as he waited for a waiter to seat him. He did a double take when his eye caught a Pour Le Merite
around an officer’s neck. The officer was blond, well built, and the best fighter pilot in all the Central Powers, Oswald Boelcke.

Manfred, nearly lightheaded with excitement, walked up to Boelcke’s table. Protocol be damned.

Manfred cleared his throat.

Boelcke looked up from his paper and glanced at Manfred’s uniform. His eyes lingered on Manfred’s observer badge.

“May I join you, sir?” Manfred asked.

Boelcke folded his paper and pointed to the open seat across from him with an open hand.

“Sir, how do you do it?” Manfred asked.

“No need for formality here, Lieutenant…” Boelcke said. Manfred introduced himself, adding his barony and unit.

“Do what?” Boelcke asked.

“Shoot down so many planes. How can I do it?”

Boelcke laughed, a friendly noise that Manfred would come to know well, and leaned over slightly, as if he didn’t want to the rest of the car to know his great secret.

“I fly as close to them as I can, and I shoot until they go down,” he said.

Manfred sat back, stunned at the answer. “Sir, we’re on the same side, and I will only use what you know for the service of Germany. Please, tell me.”

“That’s all there is to it, I’m afraid. Do you have any kills to your name?” Boelcke asked.

The word “kills” surprised Manfred. The newspapers and picture cards called Boelcke’s eight kills “points” or “victories,” like Boelcke was engaged in an Olympic event.

“No, well yes…sort of,” Manfred said. He explained the downing of the Farman and subsequent bureaucratic denial.

“Such a foolish rule. Pilots won’t put pressure on the British aerodromes if they think they won’t get credit for their kills. How close were you when you opened fire?”

“Two hundred yards,” Manfred said.

“That’s a mistake.” Boelcke took a napkin and twisted it into a cone. He held a hand up parallel to the tabletop. The other held the cone, the wider end close to the parallel hand.

“This cone is where your bullets will go. Vibration from the plane, air currents, and a thousand other things spray your bullets out like a shotgun blast.” He brought the cone closer to his other hand. “Get close enough and your bullets will find their mark.” Manfred looked on, soaking in Boelcke’s teachings.

“What do you fly?” Boelcke asked.

“A G.II, as an observer.”

“How did you manage to shoot down anything in that crate?”

“I hit him with my hunting rifle.” Manfred’s face blushed with the admission.

“Not bad. But I think I’ve found your problem. You must learn to fly fighters if you want to earn some victories. So you’re a hunter?” Boelcke asked.

Boelcke and Manfred spent the next several hours discussing hunting around Manfred’s estate and Boelcke’s native Saxony. Despite Boelcke’s fame—which Manfred feared would make him as aloof as the Kaiser’s family—he was personable and friendly. He invited other officers and pilots, who were a good deal more demure than Manfred, to his table, where he shared what he’d learned about piloting and air combat.

Discussion lasted into the next morning. When their train made its stop at Rethel, Boelcke stood up and stretched his arms. He shook Manfred’s hand and bowed slightly at the waist.

“I’ve formed a hunting squadron, all fighters with the newest planes off the factory lines. If you get your pilot’s badge, send me a telegram. I could use you,” Boelcke said.

“I’d be honored,” Manfred said.

“New vacancies open up all the time,” Boelcke said, a note of sadness in his voice. He put his cap on and touched the brim with the tip of a walking stick.

“Godspeed, Manfred.”

Manfred sat at the controls of an Albatros C.III, a two-seat observation plane, smaller and more maneuverable than the gargantuan G.II, repeating the list of aerial maneuvers he was about to demonstrate. Zeumer stood next to him atop a stool, flicking ashes from his cigarette over and over again with uncharacteristic anxiety.

“Manfred, maybe you should make a few more practice flights before you do this,” Zeumer said.

“Bank over the chapel and perform a dead-stick landing,” Manfred said from memory. He pulled a sleeve back to double-check the notes he’d written onto his forearm. “Show some faith,” he said to Zeumer. “I did just fine on the test with you in the air with me.”

“Once, and that was this morning,” Zeumer said with a hiss. Major Fegelein stood at the end of the airfield, a clipboard in hand. He would grade Manfred’s performance and decide if he would qualify for pilot’s training.

“It takes most pilots months to take their solo test. I’ve been teaching you to fly, in our spare time, for two weeks.” Zeumer’s breath reeked of stale smoke as he leaned in closer, pretending to point out something on the control panel.

“I have no time to waste. Boelcke made me an offer, and I’ll be damned if I let it go to waste,” Manfred said.

“Do you think the war will end tomorrow? You have plenty of time to do this right.”

“I’m ready now. Let’s get this over with before Fegelein loses his patience,” Manfred said.

“Remember, it will handle differently without me in the plane with you. So when you—”

Fegelein cleared his throat loudly.

“Just a moment, sir!” Zeumer yelled. He stepped off the stool, but stepped back on it a heartbeat later. “Good luck,” he said. He kicked the stool away from the plane and grabbed the propeller.

“Contact!” Manfred said. Zeumer spun the propeller, and the engine caught to life. Zeumer stepped out of the way and gave Manfred a wave as the C.III rolled forward.

Manfred opened the throttle and looked for the pile of painted white stones that marked where he should pull the stick back to go airborne. The C.III sprang across the field like a frightened deer, leaping into the air and gliding of its own volition.

Without Zeumer’s weight, the C.III gained enough speed to go airborne much sooner than Manfred had planned. Manfred pulled the stick back gently and took to the air. A moment’s doubt entered his mind—maybe it was too soon for him to do this on his own. The point was moot, as he was already flying over treetops.

He banked the plane to the left, and nearly sent it into a barrel roll with his heavy hand at the stick. He jerked the plane back to the right and the plane wobbled like he was in a canoe through white water rapids. Fegeline was deducting points from his score, Manfred was sure of it.

He repeated the prescribed maneuver with a lighter touch, and the C.III banked gracefully. Some confidence returned as he took the C.III over the white flags posted at each corner of the airfield.

A giddy smile crept across his face as he dipped the nose and gained airspeed. He pulled the Albatros into a loop and banked the plane over as it reached the apex so he was flying in the opposite direction from when he started. The Immelmann turn complete, Manfred readied for the next maneuver.

He cut his airspeed and brought the C.III about for a landing. The nose dipped much faster than he’d anticipated, and he had to gun the engine to make up some altitude. The front wheels hit the ground with great force, creating a fulcrum that crashed the rear wheel into the ground.

Manfred taxied past Zeumer, who had his head in his hands, and Fegelein, who scowled as he wrote on the clipboard. Manfred increased his speed and took to the air again.

He weaved figure eights over the airfield the required three times, then lined up for the final test, the dead-stick landing.

Not wanting to run out of airspeed like his last landing, Richthofen gave himself a bit more speed before he cut his engine. The engine went silent, the creak of the languid propeller and rustle of air over the wings struck Manfred as the most peaceful thing he would ever hear in the air.

Manfred struggled to keep the C.III steady as it glided toward the airfield. A sudden gust nearly flipped it on its side. As he came in low Manfred brought it level seconds before it hit the ground. The plane slammed into the ground and bounced back into the air. The sheer force of the impact dipped the wingtips into the dirt. Fabric ripped as wood broke through the upper wing like a bone in an open fracture.

The plane barreled toward a copse of woods at the end of the runway. Manfred realized that he’d come down with too much momentum. Unlike a car, his C.III had no brakes on the wheels.