Aces

by T. E. Cruise

  It was over, and he was alive.

  Goering’s all-white D VII buzzed Goldstein as he came in for his landing, swooping past the still burning wreckage of the Spad that Bodenschatz had shot down. Goldstein wondered what that was all about as he touched down, cutting his engine and rolling to a stop before his Fokker’s hangar tent, where a number of pilots were congregated. Froehlig and Bodenschatz were hurrying toward him. Glancing into his rearview mirror, Goldstein saw Goering’s airplane touch down a couple of hundred feet behind him.

  “Congratulations, Herr Sergeant!” Froehlig exclaimed as Goldstein climbed out of his Fokker. “That was a magnificent performance.”

  Bodenschatz was dancing about madly, overcome with excitement. “Did you see it, Herr Sergeant?” He laughed. “I shot down an airplane! I must be the first ground officer to get himself a confirmed kill!”

  “I saw, Herr Adjutant.” Goldstein grinned. “My congratulations. You can fly with me anytime.” He noticed the other pilots standing some distance away. They were scowling at him. “What’s the problem with them?”

  “They’re angry because you had all the fun, I suppose,” Froehlig replied. “Those fine young gentlemen weren’t prepared to do the job, and I suppose they just can’t accept the notion that you, of all people, saved their aristocratic asses.”

  Goldstein shrugged wearily. “The important thing is that J.G. 1 has been saved.”

  Goering’s white airplane had come to a halt beside his own. “You!” Goering screamed, hopping out of his cockpit. “You disobeyed my orders!” He tore off his goggles and helmet and hurled them to the ground as he raced toward an appalled Goldstein.

  “Sir, begging the Herr Oberleutnant’s pardon,” Goldstein stuttered. “I-I thought you’d be pleased. I saved the aerodrome—”

  “What you did was disobey my orders!” Goering roared, stopping short just inches from where Goldstein was standing. The Firstlieutenant’s face was red, and spittle was flying from the corners of his mouth. “I specifically confined you to quarters! I specifically grounded you! But you took it upon yourself to fly—”

  “Sir, we were under attack, and my Fokker was the only machine that was flight ready—”

  “I don’t care!” Goering looked around, his eyes wild. “My orderly! Where’s my orderly? Where’s my stick?”

  The orderly, looking deathly pale, seemed to appear out of nowhere. He quickly ran over with the Oberleutnant’s swagger stick. Goering grabbed it away and began to rhythmically slap it against his boots.

  “Herr Oberleutnant,” Bodenschatz began. “You may not understand the situation—”

  “I don’t need to understand anything but that this man disobeyed my orders!” Goering shouted. His breath thudded into Goldstein’s face. “Must I have insubordination from you, as well, Adjutant?”

  “May I remind the Herr Firstlieutenant that we hold the same rank,” Bodenschatz quietly replied.

  “Yes, and may I remind the Herr Adjutant that he is a ground officer,” Goering sneered. “And may I also remind him that the Herr Rittmeister left me in charge. I am acting C.O. of J.G. 1.” Goering’s stick sounded like a whip as it slapped against his boot.

  “That’s all quite true, Herr Oberleutnant,” Bodenschatz acknowledged.

  “And as for you, Herr Sergeant,” Goering began, “I will not have you disobeying my orders, no matter what.” The tip of his swagger stick found Goldstein’s chin, tipping it up, tipping back Goldstein’s head. “Do you understand me, Herr Sergeant?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Goering grinned fiercely. “I don’t think you do—”

  Goldstein saw Goering’s left hand flash up in a roundhouse arc, but with his head still tilted awkwardly back by Goering’s stick, Goldstein had no time to dodge or deflect the blow. Goering’s palm caught him on the side of his face, the noise of impact as sharp as a pistol crack.

  Goldstein’s head rocked as white-hot pain erupted all along his jawline. His knees sagged, but he kept himself from crumpling as he looked at Goering with dazed, shocked eyes.

  All around him was quiet. Froehlig, Bodenschatz, and the other pilots and ground personnel who’d been watching were too shocked to do or say anything.

  “Now I think you understand how it is, yes, Herr Sergeant?” Goering asked lightly.

  Goldstein, still punch-drunk, shook himself. Never in his life had he intentionally harmed another human being, but right now he felt as if he could tear Goering apart with his bare hands.

  “Herr Sergeant!” Goering shouted. “I asked you if you understood. Have you bitten off your tongue?—”

  “You bastard!” Goldstein snarled at Goering.

  Goering’s smile instantly disappeared. “What? What did you call me?”

  “Calm down, now, Herr Sergeant,” Bodenschatz was saying.

  “I called you a bastard!” Goldstein repeated. “Because that’s exactly what you are.”

  “You swine!” Goering said thickly. “You insufferable Jewish swine!”

  Goldstein charged forward, tackling Goering, and then they were falling; struggling and rolling in the mud. For one brief instant Goldstein was straddling Goering. His hands found Goering’s throat—Then he felt hands pulling him up and away.

  “How dare you!” Goering was on his feet, dripping mud; the sable trim on his leather jacket was matted with the stuff. “How dare you!”

  Goldstein struggled to reach Goering, but found himself smothered in Corporal Froehlig’s powerful bear hug. “No, Herr Sergeant!” Froehlig was desperately pleading in Goldstein’s ear. “No! Stand still!”

  Goldstein sagged, the fight gone out of him. He would be court-martialed for this, he realized. Court-martialed for attacking a superior officer.

  “Look there!” Bodenschatz called out. “A motorcar is coming.”

  Goldstein turned, as did everyone else, to watch a mud-splattered, gray Mercedes touring car approach. The car gave the still smouldering, wrecked Spad a wide berth as it bounced its way across the field.

  “Thank God,” Bodenschatz said. “It is the Herr Rittmeister returning.” He looked at Goering. “Herr Oberleutnant, I trust you will agree that you are no longer C.O.? Herr Corporal Froehlig!” Bodenschatz continued before Goering could reply. “You will escort Herr Sergeant Goldstein to the infirmary to see if he needs medical attention. Then you will escort him to his quarters, where he will remain until further orders. Dismissed!”

  (Four)

  At the infirmary an attendant examined Goldstein’s jaw and told him that nothing was broken. His jaw would ache for a few days, and the long, purple bruise running along the side of his face would fade in about a week.

  Froehlig accompanied Goldstein back to his quarters. Once they were inside the hut the corporal pulled a small silver flask from the back hip pocket of his mechanic’s overalls and offered it to Goldstein. “For the pain, my young friend.”

  “I’m tempted, but I can’t,” Goldstein sighed. “The Herr Rittmeister will soon be summoning me. I can’t report to him with schnapps on my breath.”

  “Hermann,” Froehlig said sourly. “Considering your circumstances at present, I really wouldn’t worry about taking a little drink.”

  Goldstein nodded sadly as he took the flask and had himself a long swallow of schnapps. The stuff burned his throat going down and made his eyes water.

  “Have another,” Froehlig coaxed as Goldstein tried to hand back the flask.

  Goldstein shook his head. “I’m not used to it, Heiner.” He returned the flask and flopped down on his cot. “Although I suppose I should get drunk now. They don’t allow schnapps in prison, right?”

  “A court-martial and prison are hardly a certainty,” Froehlig reasoned. He turned the straight-back chair around and straddled it, resting his forearms and chin on its back rail. “The Herr Rittmeister is the one who will decide. If he tells Goering not to pursue the matter the Herr Oberleutnant would not dare try to go over the Herr Rittmeister’s head.” />
  “But the Herr Cavalrycaptain is himself a stickler for discipline,” Goldstein said sadly.

  “But he’s also fair,” Froehlig pointed out between sips from his flask. “Mind if I smoke?” When Goldstein shook his head, Froehlig put away his flask and took out a short-stemmed, black briar pipe and a leather tobacco pouch. “The other pilots who witnessed the incident have it in for you, and will probably back whatever story Goering chooses to tell.” He filled his pipe, then found a wooden match in his pocket and flicked it against his thumbnail. “But Bodenschatz will tell the truth.” He puffed his pipe alight in a cloud of blue smoke.

  “Well, whatever happens, I hope it’s soon,” Goldstein said. “It’s getting dark out. I don’t want to spend the night worrying about what’s going to happen.” He paused, to smile at Froehlig. “And whatever happens, I want to thank you, Heiner. When you grabbed me, and stopped me from attacking Goering a second time, you probably saved me from having to face a firing squad.”

  Froehlig, scowling, waved away his pipe smoke, along with Goldstein’s thanks. “The way I see it, you saved my life, and the lives of everyone else, thanks to your defense of the aerodrome. You deserve a medal for what you did today, not a court-martial.”

  “I feel like I’m in a dream,” Goldstein muttered. “A few days ago I thought I was in line for honors: a promotion and the Blue Max. Now my neck seems to be on the chopping block for insubordination, and assaulting an officer…”

  There was a knock at the door. “Come!” Goldstein called.

  Two infantry privates carrying Mauser rifles stood in the doorway. “Herr Sergeant,” one of them began. “The Herr Rittmeister will see you now.” The private eyed Froehlig. “Our orders are that you come alone.”

  Goldstein, feeling sick, stood up. He smoothed his rumpled uniform and took his cap from its wall hook. “Heiner, if I don’t get the chance to see you again—”

  “You’ll see me again,” Froehlig cut him off gruffly. “One way or the other, you will. Friends stick together.”

  The soldiers silently escorted Goldstein to the Herr Rittmeister’s office, located in the administrative section and attached to the pilots’ mess. One of the privates knocked once on Richthofen’s door and opened it for Goldstein. He stepped inside and heard the door click shut behind him.

  The office was lit by a narrow, golden funnel of light cast by a polished brass lantern hanging from the ceiling. The walls were covered with canvas serial numbers cut from the fuselages of the Herr Rittmeister’s kills. Off to one side, bracketed by file cabinets, was a mahogany and glass case which housed Richthofen’s legendary collection of almost eighty diminutive silver cups, each one engraved with the particulars of a confirmed kill. Leaning in a corner were several propellers taken from fallen enemy airplanes, and on a sideboard was a collection of pistols taken from vanquished Allied pilots.

  Richthofen was seated behind his desk. “Herr Sergeant Goldstein.” He looked at Goldstein with interest, gesturing for him to stand beneath the lantern.

  Goldstein took his place beneath the light and came to attention.

  “Tell me, Herr Sergeant. The enemy has never managed to cause you to lose your temper and resort to violence to the extent reported to me today. How did the Herr Oberleutnant manage it?”

  Goldstein told his story. When he was done, the Herr Rittmeister nodded.

  “Your version of the events matches the Herr Adjutant’s,” Richthofen said, and then smiled. “Tell me, did Herr Oberleutnant Bodenschatz really shoot down that Spad?”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “My God, I would have liked to have seen that,” Richthofen sighed. “But let’s return to the matter at hand. Herr Oberleutnant Goering is at this moment on his way back to his own squadron. I have persuaded him not to press charges against you.”

  “Thank you, Sir!” Goldstein said, hugely relieved.

  Richthofen nodded. “You may stand at ease, Herr Sergeant. I’d like to get a few things straight between us. We both know that what the Herr Oberleutnant did was inexcusable,” Richthofen continued. “As a matter of fact, you would technically be within your rights to file charges against him. I assume you understand that you cannot do so, that you would hurt only yourself?”

  “Yes, Sir,” Goldstein said evenly. “I understand perfectly, Sir. What happened isn’t important. The reality is that the Herr Oberleutnant wears the Blue Max; he is an officer and a gentleman. And I am—” Goldstein smiled thinly. “Well, Sir, we’ve already discussed what I am…”

  Richthofen frowned. “I’m very sorry, Herr Sergeant.”

  “Yes, Sir,” Goldstein deadpanned. “Thank you, Sir.”

  Richthofen looked uncomfortable. “Well, then, if we understand each other,” he shrugged. “I suppose that you’re dismissed.”

  Goldstein came to attention and saluted. He turned on his heel and went to the door.

  “Herr Sergeant,” Richthofen called softly.

  “Sir?” Goldstein turned.

  Richthofen stood up. His smile was almost shy. “Hermann, thank you for saving my Circus.”

  Goldstein felt the anger and hostility drain out. He grinned. “My pleasure, Sir.”

  Chapter 3

  * * *

  (One)

  Jadgeschwader 1

  Cappy

  21 April 1918

  Goldstein was in the hangar tent, overhauling his Fokker’s machine gun synchronizer mechanism, when he heard that Richthofen had been shot down over enemy lines.

  Goldstein’s initial reaction was an illogical one: that the tragedy was his fault. If only his armament hadn’t malfunctioned, if only he could have gone along with his Jasta on its patrol, then the Herr Rittmeister wouldn’t have gone down.

  J.G. 1 waited, along with the rest of the military and the German people back home, for word from the British concerning Richthofen. There was no question that the nation’s hero had fallen, but perhaps he was a prisoner, alive and well.

  On the evening of the twenty-second a British airplane buzzed Cappy Field to drop a tersely worded note of condolence from the R.A.F.—along with a photograph purported to be of Richthofen’s grave. On April 23 the British officially announced that the Red Battle Flier Richthofen had been buried with full military honors in the cemetery at Bertangles.

  That evening, as the pilots of J.G. 1 somberly drank memorial toasts, Adjutant Bodenschatz announced that Lieutenant Willhelm Reinhard would be the new Geschwaderkommandeur. Goldstein couldn’t shake the feeling that all of this was an awful dream, and that tomorrow he would wake up to find the Herr Rittmeister alive and well and ready to lead his cubs into battle in the heavens.

  A few days later the order came down to change the Circus’s official standard, from Richthofen’s red to Reinhard’s favored royal blue. It was only when Goldstein watched the painter’s brush eradicating his Fokker’s proud scarlet that his heart finally acknowledged that Richthofen was gone.

  J.G. 1 spent the rest of April and the month of May traveling along the front lines, trying its best to shore up the exhausted German Army. General Ludendorff’s second offensive at Lys, and his third, across the Aisne and Vesle Rivers, had stalled. Now the Allies, bolstered by the influx of fresh American troops, were on the offensive.

  Goldstein spent his days flying double patrols, and his nights trying to grab a few fitful hours of sleep in tents or in the backs of jolting lorries traveling ruined roads. Each day J.G. 1 took its share of kills—Goldstein’s count reached twenty—but each day there seemed to be more Allied planes to confront. There were swarms of them, and while most of their pilots were green, the Allies’ sheer numbers bought them victory.

  Goldstein knew that Germany had lost this war. He discussed it in private with Corporal Froehlig, who agreed with him. Now Goldstein only wondered if he would live to witness his country’s surrender.

  In June the Jadgeschwader received its allotment of Fokker D VIIs. Goldstein did not object when the armorer equipped his machine wit
h twin Spandau guns. He didn’t dare; the mood of the Circus was far too grimly vengeful. He still took his time and chose his shots. Goldstein was fighting hard now; fighting not only to avenge Richthofen’s death, but to survive, and still he was determined to remain true to himself. To maintain the quality of mercy in a world gone rabid with cruelty.

  But Richthofen had been right that night in Goldstein’s hut: this was no game. It had taken the Herr Rittmeister’s death for Goldstein to realize that.

  (Two)

  J.G. 1

  Coincy Field, near Château-Thierry, France

  3 July 1918

  The day started out badly. Coincy was a mud-bog. Goldstein had spent the night in a sodden tent that stank of mildew. He’d been plagued by gnats so small that they moved freely through the mesh of the mosquito nets. He would never get used to tents: the insects, the filth, and the dark, dank atmosphere. It was like living in a cave.

  At breakfast he was greeted with news that the Germans, still reeling from their defeat at Belleau Wood, had just been chased out of the strategically located village of Vaux by American Marines.

  Later, while flying morning patrol with Jasta 11, Goldstein and the others encountered American pilots over Château-Thierry. The Yanks were flying superb Spad 13s. There were eight of them, jauntily daubed with the red, white, and blue of the American flag.

  It was the first time that Goldstein had run into Yanks. Others of J.G. 1 had encountered them, and they’d had discouraging stories to tell about the Americans’ prowess and bravado. Lieutenant Reinhard had said not to worry about the Americans: that they would be inexperienced, and would fall before J.G. 1’s guns.

  Reinhard was wrong.

  The Yanks Goldstein encountered that morning were not inexperienced, or, if they were, they were incredibly swift learners. The dogfight started out even, eight against eight. When the tangle broke apart, the Yanks remained unscathed, but three of Jasta 11, including Lieutenant Dorn, had spun earthward in flames. Goldstein had spiraled down like an anxious mother bird around Dorn’s burning Fokker, but there was nothing he could do for the lieutenant. Nobody could have survived Dorn’s fiery crash.