Aces
Page 7
Flying as low as he could, Goldstein ran for home, following what remained of his once proud squadron. High above, the Yanks were flying victory loops, rejoicing in the wide expanse of blue that had become their domain.
That afternoon Goldstein was in the umbrella tent that served as the pilots’ mess. He was sitting apart from the other fliers, and, as usual, his nose was in a book. He’d borrowed the shop manual on the D VII’s Mercedes engine from Corporal Froehlig and was studying it, doing his best not to think about the early evening patrol he was scheduled to fly.
“Gentlemen—”
Goldstein glanced up. It was the adjutant.
“Gentlemen, your attention,” Bodenschatz repeated. “It is my sad duty to inform you that Herr Lieutenant Reinhard has been killed.”
Goldstein put aside his book out of respect, and pretended to listen as Bodenschatz recounted the details of Reinhard’s death. The truth was that while Goldstein felt sorry for Reinhard, who’d been a good man and an able leader, he couldn’t find it within himself to mourn. So many acquaintances were dying that Goldstein had become numb to further loss.
It’s the odds, Goldstein remembered Richthofen had said. Sooner or later, the odds get everyone.
Through luck, or destiny, Goldstein had managed to become one of the senior members of J.G. 1. This made him a figure of awe to the green pilots newly assigned to the ragtag caravan of lorries and airplanes roaming the faltering front lines.
That these boisterous and enthusiastic inexperienced fliers looked up to him the way that he had looked up to Richthofen appalled Goldstein. He went out of his way to discourage the friendship of these new pilots. He didn’t want to get to know them. What was the point? Tomorrow they would be dead, and strange new faces would appear to take their place. The fact that these new fliers were blithely oblivious to the fact that they had a mayfly’s life expectancy enraged many of the veteran pilots. One day there appeared a gruesome addition to the ridgepole of the tent that housed the new recruits. It was a carved wooden buzzard, winking as it contemplated the new pilots. The buzzard’s claws held a carved scroll on which was engraved the question, Wet or Dry?
Every pilot knew that “Wet” meant bloodied in a crash. “Dry” meant burned to a crisp when one’s airplane caught fire in the air.
The worst about the new pilots was that they knew Richthofen only as legend. The realization that the Herr Rittmeister—who had been so vital—had been relegated to myth profoundly shook Goldstein. It made him realize just how real death was; how it wiped you from the face of the earth, not caring one bit about your prior accomplishments in life.
It made him realize how fragile was his mortal existence. It made him, at long last, afraid to die.
Goldstein spent his off-duty hours with Corporal Froehlig, in the hangar tent, where the two of them explored the mechanical intricacies of the D VII beneath the hissing, flickering lanterns. While they worked they would quietly chat. Gradually Goldstein and Froehlig began to talk, at first shyly, but then with increasing enthusiasm, about a partnership in a motorcar garage in Berlin come the war’s end…
“Gentlemen, a moment of silence,” Bodenschatz commanded, shaking Goldstein from his dark thoughts. “Silence for all our fallen comrades, and, as always, for the Herr Rittmeister…”
It was nonsense, Goldstein thought. Those men didn’t want silence; they wanted another chance at being alive.
After a decent interval Goldstein asked, “Herr Oberleutnant, who will be the new Geschwaderkommandeur?”
Bodenschatz looked away. “I’m sorry to say that your old friend Goering has been given command.”
Goldstein, shocked, followed the adjutant out of the tent. “Sir, I respectfully request a transfer—”
Bodenschatz shook his head. “Not possible. You know as well as I do how understaffed we are.”
“But the other Jagdgeschwadern must be understaffed, as well,” Goldstein argued. “You could trade me for one of their pilots. I don’t care where I’m transferred, or what I’m asked to do—”
“I’m sorry, Herr Sergeant.”
Bodenschatz began to turn away. Goldstein pulled him around by his shoulders.
“You of all people should understand!” Goldstein pleaded. “You were there, you saw how Goering treated me—”
Bodenschatz frowned. “Herr Sergeant…” He trailed off. “Hermann,” he said softly. “There’s nothing I can do.”
(Three)
J.G. 1
Near Soissons, France
17 July 1918
Goldstein, along with the rest of J.G. 1, stood at attention in the mess tent as Bodenschatz officially handed over command of the Jagdgeschwader to Herr Oberleutnant Hermann Goering.
“Thank you, Herr Oberleutnant Bodenschatz,” Goering said. As the adjutant sat down, Goering, his arms folded across his chest, scanned the pilots who made up his new command.
Goldstein thought Goering had put on weight since he’d last seen the man. It came from piloting a desk rather than an airplane, Goldstein guessed. Rumor had it that Goering had been awarded command of J.G. 1 due to his administrative abilities rather than his flying skills.
Goldstein barely controlled himself from flinching when Goering’s eyes flicked past, but the new Geschwaderkommandeur showed no expression at all as he looked at Goldstein. It was as if Goering didn’t recognize him.
“Gentlemen,” Goering began. “I needn’t tell you that I take command of J.G. 1 at a desperate moment for the Fatherland. Our armies, intent upon a peace offensive, have been engaged in a desperate struggle, and I have personally informed Herr General Ludendorff that J.G. 1 stands ready to fight to the death to lend air support to our soldiers in their hour of need.” Goering paused. “I don’t wish to disparage the memory of Herr Lieutenant Reinhard, but I believe that your former C.O.’s lax adherence to the dicta handed down by the great German ace, and the founder of air battle tactics, Herr Hauptmann Oswald Boeleck, is what has led to the recent crippling losses suffered by J.G. 1.
“Accordingly, and because so many of you are inexperienced, new recruits, I will take total command of all of your actions in the air. Personal initiative in battle is hereby forbidden. The airplanes of J.G. 1 will operate together like the individual cogs of a single, finely honed machine. I will sit at the controls of that machine. During patrols there will be no breaking of information; no firing until I give the command; no free-for-alls, which means no chasing of targets, no matter how tempting.
“Any pilot who can report to me that another man has broken these rules will be rewarded. Any pilot caught breaking these rules will be punished. Is all of that clear?”
When no one spoke, Goering nodded. “Well, then, if you will all follow me outside, gentlemen…”
Goldstein glanced at Bodenschatz, but the adjutant seemed to be just as mystified as everyone else. Goldstein waited until it was his turn to join the throng filing out, and then followed Goering through the mud to the tent that housed the new recruits. The pilots all formed a half circle behind Goering as he drew his Luger and fired three shots at the ghoulish wooden buzzard, blasting the carving off the tent’s ridgepole.
“Gentlemen, ‘Wet or dry?’ is not a question we ask ourselves,” Goering said pleasantly as he holstered his smoking pistol. “It is a question we ask our enemy. You are dismissed.”
Goldstein had to grin. At that moment he almost liked Goering.
* * *
“I’m glad to see you,” Corporal Froehlig said when Goldstein came into the hangar tent. “When I heard those three shots I couldn’t help picturing Goering shooting you—”
Goldstein smiled. “No, he didn’t shoot me. Goering didn’t take any special notice of me, at all.” He hesitated. “Heiner, do you think he’s forgotten about it?”
Froehlig looked uneasy. “I doubt that.”
It rained hard all that night, drumming loudly, soaking through the threadbare tent canvas and making it impossible to sleep. Goldstein ho
ped it would keep raining. Every day spent grounded was a day closer to the war’s imminent, inevitable end. In the three months since Richthofen’s death Goldstein had come to feel very much older, and infinitely wiser. He’d become a confirmed devotee of “Pilot’s Sunshine.”
The rumble of artillery, like distant thunder, began around dawn. Those were German guns, located at Soissons, and they were rumbling at the advancing Frenchies, bolstered by those seemingly unstoppable American Marines.
Goldstein got dressed and went to the mess tent, the driest, warmest place in camp thanks to the big cook stoves. A number of pilots were already at the long tables, hunched over their coffee. It was quiet, except for the coughing spells of those suffering from the respiratory infections that were making constant rounds. Over everything was the patter of rain, and the rumble of the artillery battle for Soissons that they would sooner or later be asked to join.
Goldstein got himself some coffee and sat down at an unoccupied table, thinking that it was pitiful what had become of Richthofen’s Circus, once the pride of the Luftstreitkrafte, now just a handful of tired and dirty men in tattered uniforms, coughing and sniffling like derelicts.
Goldstein smiled. It all would have been funny, if he weren’t so tired and uncomfortable. And if the sounds of the battle weren’t drawing closer.
At seven hundred hours the rain tapered off. Goldstein was about to leave the mess tent to go for a stroll when Goering, creaking in his black leather flying outfit, his medals jangling, appeared in the doorway. Goldstein announced the Geschwaderkommandeur, and the pilots came to attention.
“Gentlemen, we’ve been informed that the American Expeditionary Force, supported by French armor, have broken through our lines southeast of our position,” Goering announced calmly. “Allied forces are also battling for control of Missy-aux-Bois, a few kilometers to our west. Accordingly, there is some danger of our position being overrun, so I have given orders for the Circus to break camp and fall back. Meanwhile, our soldiers need all the help they can get. Jastas 4 and 6, report to your flight leaders for briefing. Jasta 10 will remain with the Circus to fly air cover as it moves to its fallback position.”
At least he learns from his mistakes, Goldstein thought cynically.
“Jasta 11, get into your gear and report to me at the ready line in fifteen minutes,” Goering ordered. “All of you, dismissed.”
On the ready line, Goldstein and the four other pilots who currently filled Jasta 11’s roster stood at attention. Goering was pacing up and down, doing his best to be heard over the tumult of planes being rolled out.
“We have no bombs, but at least we can fly strafing runs against the enemy at the town of Missy,” Goering shouted. “There is a possibility that we will encounter enemy fighters. Reports have it that the American 94th Pursuit Squadron has moved into Château-Thierry.”
Shit, Goldstein thought. That was the American ace Rickenbacker’s squadron. The 94th had developed a formidable reputation during its few months at the front.
“If any enemy fighters appear,” Goering continued, “Jasta 11 will immediately break off its attack and retreat—in formation—to the Circus rendezvous point.”
“Begging the Herr Oberleutnant’s pardon,” one of the newer pilots called out. “But we’re not afraid to fight, Sir.”
“Of course you’re not afraid,” Goering growled. “You’re Germans! But most of you are inexperienced. It is better to live to fight another day. I repeat, at the first sign of enemy fighters you will retreat. Myself, and another experienced pilot—” Goering’s eyes ranged across the small group, and stopped on Goldstein. “Myself and Herr Sergeant Goldstein will remain behind to prevent the enemy from pursuing.”
Goldstein was not happy as Goering dismissed the line. These days, when the Allies flew they flew in force. Two airplanes would not stop them.
“Herr Sergeant, a word with you,” Goering called as the other pilots ran to their planes.
“Sir.” Goldstein came to attention.
“Herr Sergeant,” Goering confided. “I didn’t want to alarm the men, so I told them that it was only a possibility that we will confront fighters. Actually Air Warning has informed me that there are American fighters in the vicinity, and that a clash is definite.”
Goldstein glumly nodded. “Will it be Rickenbacker, Sir?”
“That I don’t know,” Goering replied. “But in any event, when the enemy appears, you and I must delay their pursuit of the rest of the Jasta. It is imperative that the enemy does not discover the new location of the Circus.”
Goldstein nodded. “Who watches whose back, Sir?”
“I’ll watch yours,” Goering said. “Recently I’ve been doing a lot more administrative work than flying,” he gruffly added. “I’m probably a little rusty.”
“Yes, Sir.” Goldstein nodded. “Sir.” he blurted out as Goering was turning away.
“Yes, Herr Sergeant?”
“Sir, is everything between us… I mean…”
Goering’s face was expressionless. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Sir, I mean concerning what happened last—”
“Get to your airplane,” Goering interrupted, and walked away.
It’d been weeks since Goldstein had exchanged his old Fokker “tripe” for a D VII, but he still hadn’t become jaded to the breathtaking surge of power when the D VII’s wheel chocks were pulled, giving its magnificent Mercedes engine free rein.
Goldstein went down the field full throttle, feeling himself being pushed back in his seat as his ground speed built as quickly as the Mercedes’ roar. The sleek D VII seemed to gather its strength like a predator as it leapt into the sky.
Goldstein banked sharply, gained altitude, and took his place in the staggered Vee formation. When all the Fokkers were up, the formation of six planes, with Goering flying point, headed east toward the battle that was raging for control of Missy-aux-Bois.
They were there within a couple of minutes. Off in the distance Goldstein could see the tall oaks of Retz Forest, looking invitingly serene as compared to the smoke-shrouded, rubble-strewn town below.
As Jasta 11 circled, Goering gave the signal to break up into three pairs. Four planes would make strafing runs while Goering and Goldstein stayed high to watch for fighters. At least that was something to be thankful for, Goldstein thought. He’d grown cynical and hard these past few months, but not so hard as to enjoy the idea of shooting helpless men running in terror from his machine guns.
Of course, that kind of strafing took place when an airplane happened to catch the enemy out in the open. Today, Jasta 11 was simply wasting ammo. With all the smoke, it was impossible to see what was going on down on the ground.
After a few minutes Goering seemed to recognize the futility of the mission. He signaled the planes to break off their runs. The six Fokkers were just coming around into the Herr Oberleutnant’s cherished formation when the damnable enemy saw fit to make an appearance. There were ten of them, coming in fast from the southwest.
Goering dipped his wings to signal that he’d spotted them. The rest of Jasta 11—those lucky bastards—hightailed it out of the vicinity at full throttle; dwindling into specks, and finally disappearing into the clouds to the east. Goldstein, meanwhile, was climbing fast, to gain the advantage of altitude in the dogfight that was imminent. He saw Goering’s all-white plane take up position behind him, on his right, and breathed a sigh of relief. Anybody watching his back, even an anti-Semitic pencil pusher like Goering, was better than nobody.
When the enemy got close enough Goldstein saw that they were Spad 13s, and that by their markings, they were members of Rickenbacker’s 94th.
Now that the fight was about to begin Goldstein felt cool and quiet inside.
Anticipation was always the worst part. He idly wondered if Rickenbacker himself was flying with his men. If he was, Goldstein was prepared to show the American ace that the German Air Service still had some teeth.
“So far, so good,” Goldstein muttered to himself as he sighted in on the closest Spad rushing toward him. “We’ve had our differences, Herr Oberlieutnant, but surely we can put them aside while we deal with our common enemy.”
The Spad’s cowling filled his gun sight. Goldstein thumbed his firing button. His airplane shuddered, and glinting brass tumbled from the ejection ports of his guns as his orange tracers skittered forward, chewing bites out of the Spad’s wings and fuselage.
The Spad slid away, its prop slowing. Goldstein glimpsed it leaving the battle.
One down. He grinned. Nine to go.
He put his own machine into a climb and was looking for another target when he saw tracer rounds streaking past him from the rear, tearing at his Fokker’s wings, chipping away at his struts. He glanced in his rearview mirror. The glass was filled with a Spad on his tail, its twin guns winking fire at him.
“Get him off me, Goering,” he muttered, as he twisted around in his seat to look over his shoulder.
Goering was nowhere.
“Bastard!”
Goldstein slammed the D VII’s stick into the pit of his stomach, zooming quickly upward into a loop so that the enemy on his tail slid beneath him. He dropped down on the offending Spad’s tail and let loose a burst, but now other Spads were coming at him from every direction. His Fokker took more tracer fire. Rounds tore through his cockpit, shattering the compass near his foot. His engine began to cough and smoke. The needle on his petro gauge was sinking fast. A round must have cut his fuel line.
There was no longer any question of fighting. Goldstein was merely desperate to get away so that he could either glide to earth or parachute in relative safety. He kicked his rudder right, pushing his stick in the same direction, and the Fokker fell over, sliding sideways into a whirling, gut-wrenching spin.