The Red Baron: A World War I Novel

by Richard Fox

  “Have them push the plane clear,” Manfred said to his father. Then he and Lothar ran toward their waiting fighters.

  “Manfred, what are you doing?” Albrecht called after them. It was the only time Manfred had ever heard fear in his father’s voice.

  “Our duty!” Lothar said over his shoulder.

  The brothers found Voss next to his plane, filling his own gas tank as the mechanics scrambled to get the planes combat ready. They were airborne minutes later.

  They found the Sopwiths before they could slip over the lines. Voss flew well above the brothers, who were below the Sopwiths, and fired at the English well beyond the range Boelcke had taught him. The seemingly premature attack triggered the expected maneuver; the Sopwiths dived and turned into the attack, right into the Richthofens’ guns.

  Lothar pummeled his target with machine gun fire as it banked around. Bullets riddled the pilot, and the Sopwith reared up and over before plummeting to the ground.

  Manfred raked fire across his Sopwith, and smiled as the engine burst into flames. He flipped around and came up on the Sopwith’s tail. The enemy pilot was slapping at his burning engine, his arms alight with flaming oil. The Sopwith lost altitude and began its sure and deadly descent.

  Manfred kept his hand on the trigger, watching the pilot burn to death. He was tempted to let him burn all the way down; let it be the enemy’s penance for killing the German on Manfred’s doorstep.

  Manfred fired, bullets sparking against the Sopwith’s engine. The pilot sunk into the cockpit, and the Sopwith tumbled end over end to the earth.

  The red D.III taxied next to the veranda where Albrecht said. Manfred killed the engine, removed his goggles, and smiled at his father.

  “Father! I have shot down an Englishman,” Manfred said.

  Lothar, his mouth and jaws darkened, walked up on the veranda with Voss in tow. “Father! I have shot down an Englishman,” Lothar said.

  Albrecht let out a deep breath, and he pulled his shoulders back as if a great weight had been lifted. The older Richthofen waved his hand at the table, where their breakfast waited. “Well done, boys. Come eat, before your food gets cold,” he said.

  Chapter 7— “A Red Baron”

  The latest dictate from von Hoeppner directed all squadron commanders to have their pilots cycle back on leave at least once every six months. Manfred scoffed at the idea, as if the English would synchronize the war with anyone’s plans. Leaving the front in the middle of a battle was anathema to Manfred and anyone he flew with.

  The door to his office burst open, and an old friend hobbled into the room. Zeumer walked with a cane, his gait hunched and uneven. The great coat covering his shoulders looked like it belonged to a much larger man.

  “I’m sorry, sir; he wouldn’t wait,” Metzger said over Zeumer’s shoulder.

  Zeumer almost fell into the chair in front of Manfred’s desk.

  “It’s fine, Metzger,” Manfred said as his orderly closed the door to the office.

  “Manfred, you’ve done well for yourself,” Zeumer said with a low voice. He reached into his coat and pulled out a handkerchief, stained pink from blood, and dabbed at his lips.

  “You look…” His friend has wasted away to almost nothing since the last time he’d seen him, just before he’d joined Boelcke’s squadron.

  “I’ve been better, yes. I got shot down, banged up my leg pretty good.” Zeumer leaned back in the chair and moved a lock of greasy black hair away from his face. His hand was missing two fingers.

  “Then my ambulance took a detour into a ditch, and it got worse from there,” Zeumer said. “Let me get to the point before your little Prussian waiting outside the door has an episode. The bastard in charge of my squadron doesn’t think I can fly anymore. Wants me out. I need you to transfer me to your squadron.”

  “Zeumer, we fly single-seat fighters in this squadron, not bombers and the like.”

  Zeumer slammed a fist on Manfred’s desk, the wadded up handkerchief peeking from beneath skeletal fingers. “I need to die in the air.” Zeumer’s words stank of dying tissue. His words came between shallow breaths; the tuberculosis must have advanced since the last time they were together.

  “If I go back, I’ll waste away in some asylum. My family will remember me as an invalid, not as a soldier,” Zeumer said. “Please, let me die like a man. I can take a bullet for someone else. Maybe…” he trailed off into a wet cough.

  Manfred crossed his arms across his chest.

  “George, my squadron flies as a unit, with a purpose to protect the trenches and each other. Never for our own desires.” It broke Manfred’s heart to deny his old friend.

  Zeumer’s coughs ceased, and his shoulders sank even farther than Manfred thought possible. Zeumer looked up, his eyes huge in his sunken face. Every soldier Manfred had fought beside had wanted to live, wanted it so bad that the lives of other men were forfeited. Here sat a man that wanted to die.

  “But, Boelcke’s squadron still allows for solo hunting flights. I can arrange a transfer if that suits you,” Manfred said.

  Zeumer nodded, and ran his sleeve across his eye to take away a tear.

  Manfred escorted his old friend to the door, and hugged him, certain this would be their last meeting. Zeumer, who felt like nothing but skin and bones beneath his great coat, could barely return the hug.

  The roar of the first D.III’s engine signaled the rest of the squadron to come to life. Manfred led the way down the runway, his plane hopping into the air like a fawn as it gained speed. Just as the plane slipped away from the earth, the engine froze solid with a clang. Manfred waited for the plane to drift back to the ground, and slammed on the rudder to turn out of the path of the rest of his pilots.

  The engine hissed like an angry cat and the radiator cap popped off, forced free by a geyser of antifreeze.

  Manfred grumbled; he’d have to take an old D.II up today.

  The D.II was practically an antique at the rate the Allies and Central Powers fielded newer, faster, and more maneuverable aircraft. Despite its lackluster comparison to the B.E.2 Manfred was firing at, it was still an adequate war machine.

  Manfred danced around the rudder of the B.E.2, snapping off shots before the rear gunner could draw a bead on him. The B.E.2 was flying just over the treetops, dipping below the windbreaks to try to throw off Manfred’s pursuit.

  Manfred took his plane up and over an unfriendly looking oak tree and found the B.E.2 right in his sights, but the English plane found him as well. The two planes joined in fire and Manfred swore he saw a flash as two bullets collided between the planes, and the B.E.2 landed in a fallow field moments later.

  The pride of taking down a plane in an old D.II was replaced with fear when the engine belched gray smoke into his face. He killed the engine and glided on, unable to see where he’d land. The plane hit the ground and jerked as something caught a wheel, ripping it away. Manfred sunk into his cockpit to escape the smoke and to avoid slamming face first into his machine gun if the plane hit a tree.

  He braced himself against the walls of his cockpit, praying that if he died it would at least be somewhat dignified.

  He heard the propeller snap into pieces, and he felt the plane upend, flip over, and slam into the ground. He looked up and saw a muddy patch of ground above him. Holding against gravity didn’t last long, and he fell against his straps, which held him a finger’s width above the ground.

  Blood rushed to his head as he struggled with his buckles, the warmth of the flaming engine pressed against his legs. He looked over and saw the B.E.2, stopped against a tree. The pilot and gunner pointed at him and ran over. Both had pistols holstered on their chests.

  If they shoot me, at least I won’t burn to death, Manfred thought.

  He heard the crackle of the fire and beat at his belt buckle in frustration. Two pairs of boots kicked up dust as they came to a stop next to his wreck. One of the men knelt down, and Manfred wondered if the barrel of a pistol would be t
he last thing he’d ever see.

  A wide and freckled face smiled at Manfred with crooked teeth. “’Ello, guvna! You’re a dog’s meat from a loaf of brown bread, eh?” Manfred didn’t understand a word of what the man just said, but he was pretty sure he wasn’t going to kill him.

  Manfred sat at the head of the table, his officers on the flanks of the long tables shoved end to end so all the pilots could share a meal together. Two chairs to Manfred’s left were vacant. Pilots traded jokes and kept a low level of roughhousing going, as if they were schoolboys out of sight of the proctor. Manfred excused their lack of decorum for a few more minutes; the mood was always jovial after a day without the loss of one of their own.

  The service door creaked open. Metzger, his forehead glistening with sweat and his face pale, nodded to his commander.

  “I am Pierre ze French fighter pilot. If I’m going down, I’m going down in flames!” Shafer’s overly loud punch line elicited guffaws from the far end of the table. Manfred shook his head slightly. He hadn’t caught the rest of the joke, which was probably a good thing given Schafer’s penchant for crass humor.

  Manfred clinked his glass with the edge of a knife and the laughter died away.

  “Gentlemen, we have guests,” Manfred said as he stood. His men followed suit.

  Metzger opened the service door and two English pilots entered the dining room. They wore dark tan uniforms with winged aviator patches stitched over their left breast pocket, empty holsters on wide leather belts. An angry grumble seethed from Allmenroder, which ended the instant Manfred looked at him. Allmenroder had picked up his dinner knife and held it in a white-knuckled grasp.

  “Karl,” Manfred said. Allmenroder looked down at his hand, frowned, and set the knife against his plate.

  “Captain Oscar Grieg and Second Lieutenant John MacLennon of His Majesty’s Royal Flying Corps,” said the taller of the two Englishmen. He had a long face and a perfectly manicured moustache. The other man, the freckled man who first helped Manfred from his wreck, clicked his heels.

  “Please,” Manfred motioned to the empty seats.

  Once seated, Manfred’s pilots craned their necks to examine their dinner guests. Whispers skittered across the table as the squadron prepared to share a meal with the enemy they faced in the skies. Allmenroder stayed silent, the corners of his lips twitching in disgust as he stared down the two men sitting across from him.

  “These men helped me from the final resting place of our last D.II. The least I could do was invite them to dinner,” Manfred announced.

  “Well, when a chap’s in trouble, we do what we can,” MacLennon, of the freckled face, said as he snatched a slice of black bread from the table. “Especially if we’re going to be a long-term guest of his,” he lifted a small plate holding two whitish-yellow lumps to his nose. “Blimey, this is real butter?”

  “We’re fortunate to have such a luxury. Our families, thanks to your blockade, have to stand in line for an entire day to buy bread made from potatoes and ground beans,” Wolff said from the seat next to Allmenroder.

  “At least they don’t have to stand in line while waiting for a zeppelin to drop a bomb on their heads, eh?” MacLennon said. He put his bread and butter down and laid his hands on the table, fingers splayed out. Grieg jammed an elbow into his countryman, and MacLennon pulled his hands from the table.

  “Is it true that all English pilots are nobles?” Schafer asked from the end of the table. The sudden change in topic drained some of the tension from the table as stewards brought out the first course, sauerkraut and asparagus.

  “Captain Grieg here is the third Earl of Wessex,” MacLennon said.

  Grieg rolled his eyes before answering. “We’ve heard the same rumor about German pilots. But, the most important prerequisite for a pilot’s badge is a lack of good sense.” Chuckles rumbled over the table.

  “How about you, guv, are you the Kaiser’s eighth cousin or some such?” MacLennon asked as he bit off a lump of black bread.

  “No, my father is a preacher. I earned my commission on the battlefield,” Allmenroder said. “Lieutenant von Richthofen is a baron.”

  Manfred shrugged at the mention of his title.

  “What do you know about the German pilot who flies an all-red plane?” Manfred asked. Grieg and MacLennon only knew him from the dull-colored plane he’d crashed earlier that day.

  “We call it the little red devil; all our pilots know of it,” Grieg said. “Tell me, is it true a woman flies that plane?”

  Silverware clattered to table.

  “I’m sorry…what?” Manfred said. Someone choked down a laugh at the end of the table. Manfred would have bet a month’s pay it was Lothar.

  “Such a garish crate, only a girl would fly something like that. A German Joan of Arc, if you will,” Grieg said.

  Manfred’s jaw clenched as he thought of an answer. Lothar was biting hard on his knuckles, his body shaking with suppressed laughter.

  “Or one of those Valkyries,” MacLennon said.

  Lothar had turned a shade of purple and slapped a hand on the table.

  “No, gentlemen, I am the pilot of the all-red plane,” Manfred said. He vowed to send a telegram to Gempp at the Propaganda and Intelligence Department, urging them to publish an English-language version of his memoir.

  “A red baron,” Grieg said. “I’ll send a letter to my comrades and correct the misconception.”

  Lothar took several deep breaths, high-pitched giggles escaping every other exhalation.

  “Is your man all right? A touch of consumption, maybe?” MacLennon asked.

  “He’s fine…for now,” Manfred said.

  The English left under armed guard following dessert, but before the stewards poured the after-dinner coffee. Metzger stood at the opposite end of the table from Manfred and began the post dinner ritual.

  “Sir, the mail,” he said.

  Udet, the newest addition to the squadron rubbed his hands together and reached for the first letter. Taking a deep whiff from the letter, Udet shook his head as he placed it on the table. He sniffed the next letter and held it over his head.

  “Richthofen!” He passed it up the table before Lothar could snatch it away from him. As the letter made its way to Manfred, each pilot smelled it and nodded his approval. The letter smelled of roses with a hint of lilacs, expensive perfume. Manfred sliced open the short end of the envelope and shook out a letter and photograph.

  As per the game, Manfred turned his head away from the picture and held it out for his men to see. They hooted and rumbled the table with their fists before Manfred looked at the photo—a woman in her late teens with a parasol over her shoulder, blonde hair, and dark lips smiling for the camera.

  Manfred nodded his approval and slipped the picture back into the envelope. Someday he would have the time to answer letters like this.

  “Wolff! Wolff…and Wolff!” Udet announced, passing the regular tranche of letters from Maria across the table.

  “Richthofen! Lothar?” Udet frowned at the addressee and sniffed the envelope again.

  “Yes, such things can happen.” Lothar snatched the letter away.

  “I have a Pour Le Merite and twenty-two victories. What do I have to do to get a letter like that?” Schafer asked.

  “Have you looked in the mirror? You need at least fifty,” Reinhard said. Schafer dipped his finger in the remains of mashed turnips on his plate and flicked the mush at Reinhard.

  “Reinhard!” Udet announced.

  Schafer smashed a fist against the table and cursed Udet’s timing.

  Metzger left Udet to the sorting and carried a final letter to Manfred. The envelope was sealed in an old-fashioned manor, an imperial eagle pressed into the wax.

  “Something official, sir,” Metzger said.

  “Odd that they wouldn’t send a telegram,” Manfred said. He cut the envelope open, reluctant to break the seal. His eyes danced over the letter.

  “What is it? A second Pour
Le Merite?” Allmenroder asked.

  “No.” Manfred handed him the letter. “I’ve been invited to the see the Kaiser.”

  Chapter 8— “How many points?”

  Manfred landed his plane, an old Aviatik used for administrative tasks and maneuver training, on the open field outside of the Hotel Oranienhof in Bad Kreuznach, far from the war. A German flag marked the entrance through the ring of trees surrounding the castle.

  An officer fidgeted at the base of the flagpole, scowling at the golden pocket watch in his hand as the Aviatik rolled to a stop. Manfred killed the engine and climbed from his seat. Savage, his mechanic, followed suit from the rear seat.

  “Lieutenant von Richthofen! You were supposed to be here three and a half hours ago,” the officer, a captain with a Pour Le Merite, said. He had an empty sleeve pinned to his shoulder, a monocle at one eye, the other covered by a patch.

  Manfred leaned against the plane and held up a fur-clad boot. Savage grabbed the boot and wrenched it free with a grunt. “Sorry, sir. We had to fly around a thunderstorm at Bastogne, then land and refuel at Kaiserslautern.” Savage took the other boot off and went about unfastening latches on the back of Manfred’s overcoat. “We got a little mixed up over Arlon, as all the new rail lines aren’t on our maps and—”

  “Yes, yes, yes.” The captain waved off Manfred’s explanation, the gold chain from his watch flashing in the sunlight. “I’m Captain Riegel. Good thing your audience isn’t for another hour anyway. Where is your luggage?”

  Savage mumbled something about “hurry up and wait” as Manfred shrugged off his overcoat, revealing Manfred’s leather jacket and Pour Le Merite at his neck.

  “No luggage, sir, not in this crate,” Manfred said as he unbuttoned his jacket.

  “Lieutenant, the Kaiser and the general staff for the entire front are about to see you. You can’t just waltz in there wearing leather,” Riegel said.