by T. E. Cruise
“Except the Herr Rittmeister, of course,” Goldstein said in hushed and respectful tones.
“Do you really think so, Herr Sergeant?” Richthofen asked. “Shall I tell you something I’ve never told anyone? That I couldn’t tell any of the others?”
I have to be dreaming this, Goldstein thought. “I would be honored to hear such a thing, Sir—”
Richthofen cut him off with a wave of his hand. “My time is coming,” he said.
“No, never!” Goldstein said, horrified.
“If you can’t understand this now, you may, someday,” Richthofen said, shaking his head. “Skill and experience count only up to a point, against the odds. It may be an ace who brings me down. It may be a fledgling pilot firing his guns for the first time. It may be my own machine that betrays me. It’s the ever-mounting odds that will get me, my boy. In our business, sooner or later, everyone’s luck does run out.”
Goldstein didn’t know what to say. It had never occurred to him that this handsome and accomplished idol of an entire nation could have a dark side to his shining existence. Richthofen seemed to sense Goldstein’s total bewilderment. He tried to smile, but his weary grin only made Goldstein more aware of just how heavy the Herr Rittmeister’s burdens had become.
“I bring up such morbid topics only because I’m concerned about you, my boy,” Richthofen soothed. “For instance, what if the odds decree that your single gun should jam?”
Goldstein pointed a thumb over his shoulder at the disassembled weapon. “Sir, I see to it that it doesn’t jam.”
“As you see to your airplane? I’m told you spend as much time working on your Fokker as you do flying it.” Richthofen picked up some of the books on the crate to scan their titles. “Principles of Aeronautics,” he read out loud. “Flying Machine Design; The Theory and Maintenance of the Rotary Engine—”
“Sir, your own book is there,” Goldstein quickly said.
“No doubt,” Richthofen murmured wryly. “Do you really understand these technical subjects, Herr Sergeant?”
“Yes, Sir. As a boy I received a mechanic’s training.”
“Yes, in Berlin. At that orphanage.” Richthofen nodded as he set the books aside. “I did read in your file that your parents died early on.”
“My mother during my birth,” Goldstein replied, wondering where all of this was leading. “My father, a few years later, of consumption, or so I’ve been told. I really don’t know very much about my parents, Sir.”
“Except, of course, that they were Jews,” Richthofen declared.
“Yes, Sir. They were—I am—a Jew.” Goldstein nodded, and then shrugged. “But I don’t know very much about that, either. The orphanage in which I was raised was a Christian institution, and, um, well, I guess I’m not very well versed in any sort of religion…” He trailed off.
“But you were born a Jew,” Richthofen said softly, almost to himself. “That’s the beginning and end of it, you see…”
“See what, Sir?”
Richthofen looked uneasy. “Herr Sergeant, I came here to discuss a matter of some delicacy with you. It’s a difficult matter, and because of that, I have been procrastinating. It concerns your application for the Iron Cross, and your application for promotion, and, of course, now that you have sixteen confirmed kills, your intended application for the Blue Max…”
Goldstein, sitting very still, and feeling absolutely quiet inside, nodded slowly. “These honors will be coming to me, won’t they, Sir?”
“No.”
Goldstein winced. “Is it because of my record, Sir? Because I sometimes break formation? I promise to do better—”
“Herr Sergeant,” Richthofen looked him in the eye. “It’s because you’re a Jew.”
“I don’t understand, Herr Rittmeister,” Goldstein said slowly. “I know that the other fliers ostracize me because of my background. I accept that. I don’t expect anything better. I mean, I wish for their friendship, but I don’t really ever expect it. But we’re not talking about the men’s behavior. We’re talking about decorations and promotions that are rightfully due me… Sir, with all due respect, there are rules concerning anti-Semitism. Proclamations from the Herr Kaiser himself. There is to be no anti-Semitism in the military.”
“Officially, there is none,” Richthofen nodded. “Officially, all the papers for all the honors due you will be processed, but I tell you now, Herr Sergeant; I tell you frankly; those papers will never finish being processed. Signatures will be missing. Records will be misplaced. Finally, the completed forms will be lost in transit, so that the entire laborious process will have to begin again.” Richthofen studied him carefully. “Now do you understand?”
Goldstein struggled to hide his broken heart. “I do, Sir,” he made himself say calmly.
“It’s simply not up to me,” Richthofen was saying. “If it were, things might be different, but as things stand, I’ve been told by my superiors that there can be no Jewish officers in the Air Service. For the same reason you haven’t received the Iron Cross due you, and from that we can assume that the Blue Max will be out of the question. I debated letting things drag on, and letting you build false hopes, but I decided you deserved to know the truth.”
“I appreciate the Herr Rittmeister coming to speak with me concerning this matter,” Goldstein said evenly. “The other pilots have always felt that they have valid reason to shun me because of my social and religious background. Tonight they must think I’m such a fool for spouting off about receiving the Blue Max…”
“No one thinks you’re a fool, Herr Sergeant,” Richthofen said as he stood up.
Goldstein quickly jumped up from his chair and stood at attention.
Richthofen put on his cap and picked up his walking stick. “Your abilities as a flier are respected,” he continued. “You must not forget that you really are a hero, an ace, and a gentleman, at least, in my eyes.”
Goldstein smiled. “That means a lot to me, Sir,” he earnestly replied. He meant it. If his achievements couldn’t bring him official honors, he could at least continue to add to the Herr Rittmeister’s stature, and add to his own, in Richthofen’s eyes. “Thank you for saying that.”
Richthofen nodded. “You’ve made our chat relatively easy for me, Herr Sergeant. For that, I thank you. Perhaps I can use my influence to at least get you your Iron Cross,” he added as he walked toward the door.
“The Herr Rittmeister mustn’t trouble himself.” Goldstein meant that, as well. He’d coveted the Iron Cross as a military honor. He would not have it as a bribe.
“We’ll keep this little chat our secret, yes, Herr Sergeant?” Richthofen was reaching for the door.
“As the Herr Rittmeister wishes.” Goldstein saluted.
Richthofen absently returned the salute. His thoughts had already moved on to other concerns, Goldstein realized. In a moment the Herr Rittmeister would be gone and Goldstein would once again be alone, except for his dashed hopes, and the ugly reality of his lowly status.
“I’m relieved to get this unpleasantness out of the way,” Richthofen said as he opened the door. “I’ve been called to the rear for staff meetings, you see. My senior officers will be coming with me.”
“Who will lead J.G. I?” Goldstein asked.
“A very good flier,” Richthofen said, stepping outside. “An Oberleutnant, the C.O. of Jasta 27. He flew in this afternoon.”
“The Herr Firstlieutenant who was with you this evening, Sir?” Goldstein thought about the plump, effeminate young officer he’d seen with the Herr Rittmeister in the mess hall.
“I’ve known him a while, and I’m quite impressed.” Richthofen nodded. “His name is Hermann Goering.”
Never heard of him, Goldstein thought. He stood at attention as the Rittmeister left.
Chapter 2
* * *
(One)
Jadgeschwader 1
Cappy
14 April 1918
The weather had turned overcast, matchin
g Goldstein’s gray mood. Despite what he’d told the Herr Rittmeister, Goldstein had grown increasingly bitter as the realization sunk in that he was to be deprived of his promotion and decorations.
He avoided the pilots’ mess as much as possible; being around the other fliers only made him feel worse. He was lonely when they ignored him, yet he felt if they spoke to him he wouldn’t be able to rid himself of the feeling that their polite countenances were a sham, that he was being mocked.
From now on, he’d decided, he would respond to the other fliers’ aloofness with an indifferent, cool contempt of his own.
The continuing poor weather grounded all flights. Since there was no need to ready the airplanes, Goldstein knew that the hangar tents would be pretty much deserted. The solitude and the opportunity to relax and forget his troubles by tinkering with machinery appealed. Goldstein got up early and grabbed some breakfast before any of the other pilots were awake. By midmorning he was in the hangar tent, wearing a pair of mechanic’s overalls over his field uniform, engrossed in overhauling his Fokker’s throttle mechanism.
“I am at the Herr Sergeant’s service—”
Goldstein looked up. It was Corporal Froehlig. “You needn’t be. I know you’re not on duty this morning…”
Froehlig nodded. “I just thought the Herr Sergeant might like some help, and some company.”
Goldstein nodded, noncommittal. “Then grab a wrench. Some of these nuts are rusted in place…”
Froehlig went to the locker for a pair of overalls. He put them on, and then moved to the toolbox. “Begging the Herr Sergeant’s pardon, but I heard about it,” he said as he knelt to rummage through the tools for an appropriate wrench.
“About what?” Goldstein muttered, struggling with a cross-threaded bolt.
“About the Herr Sergeant’s talk with the Herr Rittmeister,” Froehlig replied. “About the Herr Sergeant being denied his promotion and medals.”
“It was supposed to be confidential!” Goldstein’s wrench slipped off the frozen nut, skinning his knuckles. “Dammit!” He threw the wrench against an empty oil drum. It clanged musically, and made a satisfying dent.
“The whole story has traveled the grapevine,” Froehlig said. “Some of the men, myself included, feel it’s wrong for the Herr Sergeant to be slighted.”
“That’s a comfort.” Goldstein scowled.
“Most of the men, however,” Froehlig continued, ignoring Goldstein’s sarcasm, “think the Herr Cavalrycaptain was correct to put you in your place.”
Goldstein nodded wearily. “Because I’m a Jew, yes, Herr Corporal?”
“What did you expect, Sir?” Froehlig asked philosophically.
“I’m no stranger to bigotry,” Goldstein muttered. “There were bullies in the orphanage who made my life hell over the fact that I was a Jew.”
Froehlig cocked his head. “The Herr Sergeant was an orphan?”
“Yes. In Berlin,” Goldstein said.
“But brought up as a Jew?”
“That’s the irony of it!” Goldstein exploded. “Despite the Jewish blood in my veins, I’m totally uninitiated into the mysteries of that faith. I’ve met Jews on several occasions, and I tell you that I am as uncomfortable with them and their strange ways as any Christian…”
“A changeling,” Froehlig said.
“What?”
“The Herr Sergeant seems to me to be like those unfortunate changelings in the fairy stories my mother used to read to me,” Froehlig elaborated. “You became lost to your own world early on through no fault of your own, and now there is no world in which you truly belong.”
“Hand me another wrench,” Goldstein replied. He busied himself attacking the cross-threaded bolt, disturbed and frightened by the truth in what Froehlig had said. “You know, Herr Corporal, I never really counted on friendship and acceptance around here, but I really believed in the military’s assurances of fair and equal treatment.”
“Why?” Froehlig shrugged. When Goldstein looked up, puzzled, the Corporal continued. “What is the Luftstreitkrafte, or the Reichstag, or any branch of the service, or ministry, or bureaucracy, but a bunch of old men more bigoted and set in their ways than these young gentlemen with whom the Herr Sergeant has been granted the honor of flying?”
“You know, I never thought of it like that,” Goldstein admitted. “But I’ll never be so naive again,” he vowed. “My loyalty to the Herr Rittmeister remains unshaken, but I no longer feel any allegiance to my country—”
“Now the Herr Sergeant is being naive. And foolish too; a foolish young pup to speak in such a manner!” Froehlig scolded.
“Excuse me—Herr Corporal,” Goldstein coldly emphasized.
Froehlig looked around to make sure that they were alone. “Excuse me for saying so, but I think that now I’m not speaking to a superior, but to a hurting, lonely boy.”
Goldstein tried to interrupt, but Froehlig waved him quiet. “I’m at least twice your age, Herr Sergeant. I’ve been around long enough to know how terribly stupid and cruel bigotry can be, but when you make such emotional, unpatriotic statements you play right into the hands of your worst detractors. The Herr Sergeant must know that of all the charges leveled against his venerable race, their tendency towards socialism, and disloyalty to the Fatherland, ranks among the most serious.”
“What’s your point, Herr Corporal?”
“My point is that here you are making rash statements that seem to prove your enemies correct. Why give the bigots that satisfaction?”
Goldstein had to smile. “How very clever is the Herr Corporal.”
“Not really,” Froehlig sighed. “I am older, and perhaps that makes me somewhat wiser than a certain young sergeant pilot of whom I am rather fond.”
Goldstein looked at Froehlig. “I have been a fool,” he said softly. “All this while I’ve been just as bigoted and snobbish as the other pilots. Being a flier, I felt ground personnel were my social inferiors. All these months I’ve been sulking over my lack of friends, and I’ve had a good one, and didn’t even know it.”
Froehlig winked. “It would be unbecoming of a corporal to contradict a sergeant.”
Goldstein chuckled. “Well taken. Allow me to introduce myself.” He stuck out his hand. “A friend should call me Hermann, and please forgive my greasy hand.”
“Heiner Froehlig, pleased to make your acquaintance, Hermann,” Froehlig joked. “And your hand is no dirtier than mine. Now let’s get working on those bolts.”
(Two)
By early afternoon Goldstein and Froehlig had managed to get the Fokker’s throttle working properly. They were surprised when the hangar tent began to fill up with mechanics.
“Patrols are going to be sent up, despite the bad weather, Herr Sergeant,” one of the newly arrived mechanics informed Goldstein. “Your Jasta is flying.”
“That’s odd,” Goldstein replied, going to the hangar tent’s entrance and peering at the sky. “That soup is still pretty thick up there. How are we supposed to see where we’re going, never mind fight?”
The mechanic shrugged. “The acting C.O. will give a briefing in the operations hut at thirteen hundred hours.”
“That’s just fine. The acting C.O.—” Goldstein muttered, returning to his partially disassembled Fokker. “The Herr Oberleutnant can’t know very much if he wants to send us up into the soup.”
“Calm down, Hermann,” Froehlig warned him. “Don’t go getting yourself grounded for insubordination.”
“I’m an experienced and talented pilot,” Goldstein bragged, remembering what the Rittmeister had told him. “I can’t be grounded. I’m indispensable.”
“What you are, is exceedingly young, if you believe that anyone is indispensable,” Froehlig said firmly.
Goldstein shrugged. It was almost time for the briefing. He wiped his hands on a greasy rag and stepped out of his mechanics overalls. He patted the Fokker’s cowling. “Get her ready for me, Heiner.”
“She’ll be ready
, Herr Sergeant.” Froehlig nodded, and began barking orders to his own newly arrived crew of mechanics.
Outside the sky was a mass of gray cotton wool. The air felt wet and heavy, threatening rain. Goldstein, hurrying to the operations hut, wondered what the Herr Oberleutnant was thinking, calling for a patrol in this soup.
Outside the hut there were many more pilots milling around the entrance than were going to be flying on patrol. Goldstein was not surprised. Everyone was curious about this mysterious Herr Firstlieutenant Goering.
As Goldstein took his place in the queue, waiting his turn to enter the hut, he noticed several pilots glancing at him, smiling and laughing as they nudged each other. It was as Froehlig had said: everyone knew about his conversation with Richthofen. Goldstein resolutely recalled what else the Herr Rittmeister had said: that Goldstein was a hero and a gentleman. If Richthofen believed that, Goldstein would not let his idol down. He would do his best to ignore the ridicule, and hold his head high.
It was just as crowded inside the hut as outside, but Herr Lieutenant Dorn waved to Goldstein and made a place for him at the end of one of the long backless benches. Goldstein was both grateful and surprised, but then, of all the pilots, Dorn was the most friendly. At least he was on occasion.
Up front, on the raised platform, was Herr Oberleutnant Goering, dressed in a flight suit and wearing knee-high black boots, a double-breasted, black leather jacket trimmed in brown fur, and an ivory-gripped pistol peeking out of the flapped holster strapped around his waist. He was impatiently tapping a swagger stick against his leg as he waited for everyone to find a seat. Behind Goering, on an easel, was a large map of the Somme, with black arrows depicting the Allied and German infantry positions.
“Gentlemen,” Goering began once everyone was settled. “The Weather Service has informed me that the cloud cover is expected to remain, and that there may be intermittent drizzle and fog. I have nevertheless scheduled a sortie for Jastas 11, and 6.” He approached the map. “Air Warning Service has telephoned reports of Allied fighters harassing our Infantreiflieger Schlastas ground-attack bomber squadrons as they attempt to soften a dug-in pocket of British resistance to our advancing infantry.”
