The Red Baron: A World War I Novel (23 page)

The English were kind enough to leave an intact airfield for Manfred and his squadron. Tents, a full kitchen and a hundred gallons of fuel were abandoned in their retreat. They managed to take all their bullets and planes, which Manfred could respect.

Cappy airfield maintained its name. If the offensive continued at the current pace, the Flying Circus would move closer to Paris in the next few days.

Fog kept Manfred and his planes grounded that morning. Manfred took the opportunity to walk through the airfield, testing the ground with the tip of his walking stick. Red poppies grew in clusters over the green field. Manfred stepped around the poppies, not wanting to disturb them out of respect for something so beautiful that dared to grow amid the violence.

Manfred wandered far enough into the field that he’d lost sight of the tents and planes of the airfield. He was alone in the mist. Manfred put his hands on the brass cap of his walking stick and closed his eyes. He felt the fog tease his face with wet air, heard the pop of wood from an unseen fire. Moments of peace were rare; a gift to remember that there was anything else but war.

He opened his eyes and saw a figure in the distance, wandering without a sense of direction. The figure froze, and then ran toward him. Metzger emerged from the fog, holding a letter.

“Sir, what are you doing out here?”

Manfred tapped his stick against the ground. “Checking for soft spots, rabbit holes. Old cavalry habit to keep horses from injury. Works the same for airplane wheels.”

Metzger’s thick mustache twitched; anything beyond paperwork and Manfred’s well-being rarely interested him. “This came over the wires. General von Hoeppner asks that you take over as commandant at the Doberitz flight school, effective immediately.”

Manfred laughed and shook his head.

“Send my polite refusal,” he said.

“Sir, think of all the pilots you could mentor. Every new pilot would learn straight from you, the whole German air corps just like your squadron, like the wing,” Metzger said.

“Metzger, back there is not out here. How could I live with myself if I left the battle now, spent the rest of my life as a pensioner of my own dignity? No, old friend, we’re here to the end.”

The sun burned through the fog, and the shadow of the airfield emerged in the distance. Wind blew in from the east, a rare occurrence at this time of the year, and helped ease the fog from the sky.

Manfred watched as his pilots materialized from the gray, like an old memory coming back with concentration. Men lounged around a small fire. Most part dressed in their flight suits as they sat on cots and fine Scottish pinewood chairs left by the previous occupants. A dachshund leapt from a warm lap and charged into the underbrush, the panicked squeaks of a mouse mixed with nervous laughter from the men.

One pilot wore his gloves and cowl, his flight suit buttoned up to his neck. His edge of the blade level of readiness was misplaced; they wouldn’t be airborne for another half hour at least. The English, suffering from the same weather, weren’t an imminent threat. Manfred’s cousin, Wolfram, would only exhaust himself while sitting around in his full kit.

“Look at him, Metzger. A lamb in a field full of bulls.” Wolfram had
joined the squadron two weeks ago after minimal training and no kills to his credit. A manning decision, not from Manfred, that played well to headlines and not to Wolfram’s odds of survival.

“He has a respectable combat record,” Metzger said.

“Not in aircraft. I pick the best pilots because I lead them to wherever the fighting is thickest, where we can make a difference. To throw children into that fight would be…cruel. Someone at headquarters thought it would make a great Sanke card to have
three
Richthofens standing in front of a twisted plane and dead man,” he said.

“Lothar worked out,” Metzger said.

Manfred grunted and made his way to the fire. Cousin Wolfram would live up to expectations or die trying. Without proving himself before joining Manfred’s squadron, the odds were stacked against Wolfram.

“Come, time to get ready,” Manfred said.

The men kept up their conversations as Manfred approached, nothing talk meant to keep nerves at bay before they took to the air. Only Wolfram jumped to his feet and saluted Manfred.

“Stop that, Wolfram. No need for such formality while the big brass is away,” Manfred said.

“Yes, Manfred—sir! Sir. I meant sir,” Wolfram said. Only three years Manfred’s junior, they’d spent summers at their grandmother’s forest cabin together. Wolfram started shivering, and under the down flight suit, Manfred knew it wasn’t from the cold. Manfred put his hand on his cousin’s shoulder.

“I told your mother you wouldn’t get into the fight until you’re ready. Are you ready, Wolfram?”

Wolfram’s shivering got worse. “Yes, sir.”

“You’ll be fine. I got two kills on my first flight, no pressure,” Lothar said.

“I got shot down,” Udet said.

“I crashed into a lake,” Reinhard added.

“Gentlemen,” Manfred put an edge of command into the word. He squeezed Wolfram’s shoulder. “All I require on your first flight with me is that you prove you’re brave. Results can come after that.”

Manfred looked up at the grey sky, corroded with paths of blue. The breaks in clouds favored gave whoever saw the enemy first a distinct advantage in the attack.

“Mount up,” Manfred said.

Manfred climbed into his cockpit and looked over at Wolfram, already seated and ready to go.

“Wolfram, you stay close to me and return to the air field if I give you the signal. Understood?”

“Of course, sir,” Wolfram said. Even from ten feet away, Manfred could see Wolfram shaking. Good, fear and adrenaline meant Wolfram didn’t take air combat lightly.

Lothar leaned against Manfred’s plane, scratching the stitches on his thigh. “You want me and half the squadron over Villers? Doing what?”

“Keep the fighters off the advancing infantry first, go after observers second, don’t get into a fight you can’t win,” Manfred said as he handed Lothar his walking stick.

“Fair enough.” Lothar gave his brother a punch on the shoulder and walked off.

Manfred checked his six and caught an eyeful of direct sunlight. A web of pain spread from his temples and crept around his head, it felt like the bones of his skull were grinding like tectonic plates. Each tremor a new wave of pain.

“Sir?” a small voice said from the edges of his misery.

“Sir, would you mind?” Savage had a Sanke card and pen in hand. Manfred pressed a knuckled against his temple and the pain subsided enough to feign normalcy.

“What’s the matter, Savage? Afraid I won’t come back?” Manfred said, a half smile on his face.

“Right, never mind, sir. Good hunting.” Savage pocketed the card and spun the Fokker’s propeller to life.

Manfred’s flight of five Fokkers hugged the cloud ceiling as they flew west. Wolfram had stayed on Manfred’s wing as ordered, the neophyte pilot mirroring every twitch of Manfred’s plane.

Through a gap in the clouds, Manfred saw Fokkers and Sopwith Camels swirling in battle hundreds of yards above them. Manfred wagged his wings and led his flight towards the dogfight.

They cut through the rump of a cloud, and ran into a pair of Camels heading straight for them. One of the English planes dove on Wolfram’s Fokker, tracer rounds flashed past his cousin.

Wolfram didn’t react, his Fokker waddling on its axis. Manfred knew what was happening, in his first air combat all of Wolfram’s training had come to the fore at once, leaving him unable to make a decision. Manfred had seen it countless times in the planes he had shot down.

Anger blossomed in Manfred’s heart. Wolfram was nearly helpless against the Camels. He would die just like that pilot that came down on the day his father visited. He thought of Wolfram lying before him, bleeding to death and struggling to comprehend why the greatest ace in Germany had failed to protect him.

The Camel assaulting Wolfram sliced through the air above Wolfram’s Fokker and broke off the attack.

Manfred didn’t look to the rest of his flight. Didn’t check to see if Wolfram was injured. Didn’t locate the Camel’s wingman. The rage in his heart and growing pain in his head drove him into pursuit.

His red Fokker caught up with the Camel and he fired a quick burst from his Spandaus. The Camel spun out of control and fell in an ugly spiral. Manfred followed the plane down, sure that he had hit the pilot. He wanted to see the plane a twisted wreck of wood and flame against the ground.

Manfred glanced over his shoulder and couldn’t find the rest of his flight. He looked back to the Camel and ground his teeth in anger as it came out of the dive and retreated west.

He wasn’t going to let this one get away so easily.

He kept after the Camel and followed it over the English lines.

The Camel had frustratingly good luck to dance out of Manfred’s line of fire just as he closed, each miss stoking his rage. Manfred closed farther and fired again. The left Spandau seized up with a crunch as a round misfired. A split cartridge in the chamber took the weapon out of the fight. He had one functioning gun, enough to take down the Camel.

The Camel tried to throw off Manfred’s aim by zig-zagging and Richtofen realized he was dealing with an amateur. Someone more experienced with the Camel would have known he could simply outrun the Fokker by going full throttle. Even with a single gun, Manfred knew he had nothing to fear from his prey.

The Camel dived towards a river and flew a few feet over the water. Manfred fired again; white geysers of water marked his missed shots. He looked ahead and saw the river bend around a forest. If this pilot was a rookie, Manfred guessed he’d follow the bend of the river and that gave him the chance to close the distance between him and the Camel.

Manfred broke off his chase and flew over the forest. The Camel had stuck to the river’s path as expected, and Manfred’s shortcut brought him right on top of his target. He was close enough to see his target look over his shoulder, shock on his face.

Manfred fired and his remaining gun jammed after two shots. He re-cocked the weapon and got two more shots before it jammed again. The firing pin must have broken. He slammed a fist against the machine gun again and again in frustration, his headache flaring with each blow.

Bullets snapped past him and struck the river. 

He glanced over his shoulder and found another Camel behind him, flames shooting from the guns as it swept past him.

The grip of anger subsided as he looked around. He was alone. Defenseless. Far behind enemy lines. How had this happened to him? Manfred’s only hope was to run.

He thought of Lothar, Wolfram, Udet. All the men who counted on him. Who needed him. He’d left them all behind in a fit of rage and pain.

He took his plane into a flat turn and ran straight into a headwind.

Sergeant Cedric Popkin of the Australian army swung his Lewis gun on its swivel and took a bead on the red Fokker. He held his fire as the Fokker came up in a loop. He waited until it was at the apex of the loop, when the airspeed would be the slowest, and opened fire.

He burned through an entire magazine of bullets, as the Fokker turned over and flew past him. He ripped the magazine off and slapped another into the gun. He was about to pull the charging handle, when he saw the Fokker spin to the ground and land with a thud. The Fokker’s engine quit as it rolled to a stop fifty yards away.

Popkin picked up his rifle and ran toward the downed plane. “Come on!” he ordered the two soldiers in his charge.

He drew down on the Fokker and slowed to a walk a few yards away. Dust billowed in the air from the rough landing; one of the Fokker’s wheels had snapped off and lay broken in the dirt.

“Hands up, you!” Popkin said. The pilot lay against the controls, motionless.

Popkin poked the pilot with his rifle. No response.

Wolfram landed at Cappy and scanned the planes readying for their next sortie. Manfred’s all-red Fokker was absent.

Lothar ran up to Wolfram’s plane. “Where’s Manfred?”

“I was going to ask you the same thing,” Wolfram said.

Lothar slammed the phone against its cradle.

“Nothing from Bapaume,” Udet said. He made an X on a chalkboard next to the airfield’s name. The chalkboard had every airfield within range of Manfred’s Fokker, and more than one beyond it. All had more than one X next to their name.

Metzger glanced out the window; the sun had risen on the first full day of Manfred’s disappearance.

“Maybe he’s with the infantry somewhere. Shouldn’t we call the units along the Front?” Metzger asked.

“I tried. It’s chaos all up and down the Front. Von Hoeppner knows he’s missing,” Lothar said. “And he would have gotten word to us by now.” Lothar sat down in a chair and rubbed his face. He hadn’t slept the night before, his every waking moment dedicated to finding his brother.