by Richard Fox
“No, sir, I’m just not that great of an artist,” Allmenroder said with a nervous laugh.
Schafer stuck his head around the corner, a smile on his face. “Are we ready for a photo?”
“Photo?” Wolff said.
“Photo,” Lothar said, slowly and with emphasis.
“Ah yes, of course!” Wolff said as he got to his feet.
“Let me get out of here,” Manfred said as he pushed himself up from the cockpit.
“No, stay right there,” Lothar said. Pilots donned leather jackets and service caps as they lined up against the Albatross. Manfred grew suspicious as Savage and Metzger set up a pair of cameras before the assembled pilots. Pictures weren’t unusual, but the air of mischief surrounding Lothar and Schafer was.
“OK, now with Lothar and me behind you,” Schafer said. “Let me grab the stools.” Schafer ran out of the hangar.
“Sir, could you sign these requisition forms while we wait?” Metzger said as he held up a clipboard and pen. Manfred signed the forms and heard a pair of stools thump against the ground behind him. Metzger took the clipboard back, a look of shame on his face.
What on earth was going on?
“Ready?” Savage asked from behind the second camera.
“Ready!” Lothar and Schafer said together.
A pair of heavy hands grabbed Manfred’s shoulders and something went onto his head and over his eyes.
“Now! Damn it, now!” Lothar said.
Manfred heard the snap of the camera lens and shook himself free of Lothar’s grasp. Riotous laugher burst from the room as Manfred snatched whatever was blocking his vision from off his head. It was a rounded helmet, fashioned from tin. A pair of long and braided pony tails made from rope hung from the helmet. It looked like a prop from a Wagner opera.
“We’ll drop the photo over the Brit lines, let them know they really are fighting a Valkyrie!” Schafer said as he removed the camera from its stand. Wolff was lying on his side, holding his stomach as he laughed.
Manfred put the helmet back on his head, and leapt from the cockpit. Schafer gave a mock scream of fright and ran from the hangar, the camera under his arm. Manfred gave chase, his mock ponytails trailing behind him.
“I’m sorry, sir! They made me do it,” Metzger called out as Manfred’s pursuit took him onto the airfield. Laughter from the rest of the pilots nearly drowned out Metzger’s admission.
Schafer turned around and backpedaled away from his commander. “Lothar! Catch!” he tossed the camera over Manfred’s head. Manfred spun around, the ropes whipping around his face. He pulled the rope away and lunged at Lothar.
Lothar handed the camera off to Udet, whose long legs took him away like a sprinter off the starting blocks. Manfred tackled his brother, and the two hydroplaned across the moist grass as they hit the ground.
The helmet clattered across the ground as Manfred joined in the laughter. He sat on his brother’s back, pinning the larger man to the ground.
The laughter died as the action bell rang. Manfred popped to his feet and helped Lothar up; he kept his grip on Lothar’s wrist.
“Suit up and get to your planes!” Manfred said. He looked to the sky. The morning sun had burned away most of the fog, and they could take off in a few more minutes. He turned to his brother. “Destroy that photo.”
Lothar winked and trotted toward his red-and-yellow Albatros.
A Sopwith roared toward Manfred, the flames from dual machine guns bursting behind the propeller. Manfred slammed his Albatross onto its side, missing the oncoming Sopwith by the shortest ten feet Manfred had ever seen.
Manfred watched the Sopwith bank hard to its right, then he pulled his plane into a flat turn. He closed his eyes as his path took him straight toward the sun and rolled the plane over and out of an inversion. With the sun to his back, he found the Sopwith over the rest of the dogfight. The bright colors of Manfred’s flight were in a scrum with the tan English planes.
He dived toward the Sopwith, praying the sun kept him hidden until he was ready to strike. At fifty yards, he fired, still closing on the target. Bullets tore into the Sopwith’s engine, and black smoke erupted from the damaged engine. Manfred kept his dive as he spat past his foe, and saw red flames grasping toward the pilots from behind the oily smoke. That plane was done for, and his men needed him.
A flare of light erupted above him. Manfred looked up and saw the burning cloud that remained of the Sopwith following an explosion. He heard a keening sound above the wind and his engine as a shape hurtled toward him from above. The keening turned into a scream as a flaming hunk of debris fell past him. Manfred looked down and saw it was a burning man, writhing as he plummeted to the earth. The man’s screams faded away, but the sound stayed with Manfred.
Manfred sank into his seat, his chest heaving as a sudden terror wrapped icy tendrils around his arms and chest. The fear crept into his hands, and he couldn’t will them into steering. Lothar’s D.III crossed in front of him.
Manfred shook his head out of his stupor and took control. They need me, he thought. He mumbled that phrase over and over as he looked around his plane and reoriented himself to the battle. He found four of his pilots quickly, only Schafer’s red-and-black plane was missing. Wolff and Allmenroder were on the tail of a Sopwith. Manfred caught a glimpse of a lone Nieuport flying just above the treetops toward the west.
Manfred banked over and dived toward the lower Nieuport, building up airspeed as he lost altitude. The Nieuport was fleeing the battle, leaving the rest of his comrades to their fate against the best squadron Germany had in the air.
Manfred cursed the Englishman’s cowardice as he closed in; he fired a burst from a hundred yards away. If this pilot was willing to run from a fight, he might land and accept capture. Another burst, but the Nieuport kept flying.
So be it, Manfred thought.
The English pilot kicked his plane’s rudder bar, trying to fishtail Manfred off of him, to no avail. One of Manfred’s tracer rounds speared into one side of the Nieuport, through the cockpit and out the other side. The Nieuport banked sharply and veered into the ground. The engine and landing gear hit first, and the plane spun across the ground like a skater sliding across ice before coming to rest inside a copse of trees.
Manfred turned back and found his flight regrouping over the smoking ruin of a plane. He flew in front of his men and wagged his wings, signaling for them to follow. He looked across the countryside, but there was no sign of Schafer.
Manfred led them back toward the airfield at Douai, and spotted a knot of soldiers next to a road, surrounding what looked like a staff car that had driven off the road. Manfred flew low and slow overhead, and the soldiers broke away from the crash. It was a red plane, black wings broken away from the rest of the fuselage. He’d found Schafer.
The staff car turned down a packed-dirt road. Lothar and Manfred sat in the back, silent after examining Schafer’s crash site. Lothar checked their route against a worn map. He nodded to himself and pocketed the map; they were close now. The staff car had the top down to mitigate the summer air.
They’d finished their examination of Schafer’s plane an hour earlier, a difficult task, as what remained was a mass of ripped fabric and splintered wood. The soldiers at the scene reported that Schafer was dead by the time they reached him and they’d sent his body to the nearest field hospital before the Richthofens had arrived. While the wrecked Albatros had a few bullet holes, there was no way to determine why Schafer had crashed.
Manfred would have Schafer’s body returned to the city of Krefeld for a proper funeral. His duty to his comrade complete, Manfred went on to the next crash.
The car came up on a column of infantry, weighed down by full kit bags, marching along the road shoulders. The column was staggered, with more than five yards between each man, an innovation made necessary to mitigate the threat from enemy aircraft. A densely packed formation was a ripe target for a strafing run.
Metzger kept his spe
ed up as they passed the infantrymen. Manfred saw a soldier, who looked like he’d turned seventeen that very morning, cough from the dust kicked up by the passing car. The soldier ahead of him carried half a Spandau machine gun atop his rucksack, his face gaunt from a long day of marching.
“Slow down,” Manfred said.
“Sir, we’ll be late,” Metzger said from the driver’s seat.
“Metzger,” Manfred said, a note of annoyance in his voice. Metzger tapped the brake and let the car coast to a slower speed.
Manfred half turned and waited until the dust had lowered. A familiar-looking sergeant gave him a quick nod of thanks for the courtesy.
Otto heard the car creep up on him. He looked over his shoulder to see what high and mighty staff officer deserved the privilege of driving around the Front, while he had to carry his whole kit plus a case of bullets.
He did a double take when he saw the captain in the rear seat.
“Richthofen!”
Manfred’s head popped up at the sound of his name. More voices took up his name as it echoed up and down the column of soldiers. Worn faces changed to smiles and wide-eyed excitement at his passing. Men waved to him as he passed, shook their rifles in the air, and saluted him. Sanke cards appeared from pockets.
His brooding over Schafer’s death stopped. Manfred returned the waves and touched any soldier’s hand within reach. He stood up in his seat and waved to either side of the column.
The chant of “Richthofen! Richthofen!” grew louder as a company of infantrymen resting under a grove stood up and ran to the side of the road to catch a glimpse of the passing car.
Lothar watched as tears hugged the corners of his brother’s eyes, a laugh on his lips as they passed the soldiers.
“Enjoy your triumph, Manfred. Remember that you’re only human,” Lothar said.
Manfred and Lothar got out of the staff car and walked toward the downed Nieuport, unmoved from where it came to rest earlier that day. The tip of a shorn wing was propped right beneath the lip of the cockpit. The English tricolor circle on full display.
Gempp stood next to a camera a dozen yards from the crash, looking at the crash through the camera.
“Hurry, we’re losing our light,” Gempp said. He ran to Manfred and looked him over. “A bit dusty, but nothing I can’t touch up later. Stand next to the plane, please.”
Manfred sighed and did as he was asked. The smell of stale cigarette smoke wafted over him. He saw a portly German soldier leaning against a tree, lit cigarette in his mouth, and a shovel propped against the same tree. The man took a final drag on the cigarette and spat the butt out onto the ground. He mashed the litter into the ground with his heel and picked up the shovel.
A pair of boots stuck out from behind an oak tree, resting at the odd angles akin only to a dead body, the rest of the body hidden. The soldier sank his shovel into a half-dug grave; the metal clinked against pebbles. Dirt fell from the shovel with a low sibilance as the digger went about repeating the task.
Clink. Hiss.
“All right, cross your hands in front of you; you can feel accomplished. This was your sixtieth victory!” Gempp said. The camera flashed.
Clink. Hiss.
Manfred ran his fingers over the few bullet holes in the Nieuport, a charred ring marked the fatal entry wound. He’d been to crash sites to collect trophies before, always with a sense of excitement. This time, he felt cold. Just nerves, he told himself. After that burning body, Schafer, the cheering soldiers—no one could process so much so fast. A decent night’s sleep and I’ll be back to normal, he thought.
Clink. Hiss.
Lothar wandered over and grabbed the rudder. He shook it from side to side, then peeked under the plane.
Clink. Hiss.
Lothar reached into the tall grass and picked up a fur-lined box. He undid the pair of latches holding it shut.
“Richthofen, let’s get you right next to the cockpit. Good, now put your foot up on top of the wing tip. Hand on your knee. Like this plane is a prize elk you’d shoot at the Kaiser’s hunting grounds…Smile! Sixty victories, need a big smile from you,” Gempp said as he directed Manfred.
Clink. Hiss.
Manfred did his best to smile before the camera flashed.
Clink. Hiss.
Manfred’s hands tapped against his leg of their own volition. The muscles in his upper back tightened and his breath cams in quick, shallow gasps.
Clink. Hiss.
“Can we hurry this up?” Manfred asked, his voice an octave higher than normal. What is wrong with me? he thought.
The grave digger’s metronome had stopped. Lothar was speaking to the man in a hushed voice, the open box held between them.
“Put your right hand on the lip of the cockpit and stand up straight,” Grieg said.
Manfred complied, and felt something slick against his fingers. His hand jerked back as the camera flashed. Blood stuck to his fingers, a drop ran down his palm and hung from his wrist. Manfred pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his stained hand frantically.
He made a beeline for the staff car, refusing to look at the body lying in the woods.
“We need to do that one again,” Gempp said.
“We’re done,” Manfred said.
“Nonsense, we have at least another—“
“I said we’re done!” Manfred snapped. He tossed the bloody cloth into the dirt and got into the car. He leaned forward and covered his face with his unbloodied hand. Manfred concentrated on his breathing, trying to calm the tension that threatened to twist him into knots.
He heard Metzger talking to Gempp, his adjutant immune to Gempp’s admonitions that the photo shoot continue. Lothar sank into the other seat a few moments later.
“Manfred, are you all right?”
Manfred sat up and took a deep breath.
“Long day,” he said.
Lothar held up the fur-lined box in one of his thick hands. “That piece-of-shit grave digger helped himself to the dead man’s wallet and such. I told him that if he didn’t cough it all up, he’d eat that shovel.” Lothar gave the box a shake and something metal bounced inside the box.
“Then, there’s this,” Lothar handed Manfred a thick envelope, the words “To the Victor” written in German.
“Bit odd, isn’t it? Must be for you,” Lothar said.
Manfred tested the weight of the envelope in his hand; it must have had a dozen pages in it.
“Metzger, take us home.”
Manfred tore the envelope open with a thumbnail as the car rumbled back down the road. Inside was a single loose sheet of paper and a pregnant envelope addressed to a Berlin address. A picture of a man with sandy hair and a pale complexion standing hand in hand with a dark-haired woman, so short that her eyes were level with the man’s collarbone. A date on the back of the picture read “March 14, 1914”
He flipped the sheet open and started reading:
To the Victor.
My name is James Valley, First Lieutenant in His Majesty’s Royal Flying Corps. If you’re reading this, then my number must be up. No matter, this is war, and I’ve seen it happen to plenty of my fellows.
As I probably went down behind German lines, I have a favor to ask of you. Before the war, I studied in Berlin. While there, I fell for one Magdelena Trautmann. She loved me as much I loved her. I know this in my soul and in my heart. I went home on holiday to tell my parents of my intention to marry Magdelena, and that’s when the war started.
Politics being what they are, I haven’t heard from my beloved since then, nor has she heard from me.
So, my request for you is to pass on this letter to her. I regret dying less than the thought that she might fear I abandoned her. Please, I beg of you, let her know that I loved her until my final moments.
Sincerely,
1LT James Valley, RFC
Manfred folded the letter and slipped everything back into the envelope. He looked over the side of the car and considered to
ssing the whole thing in the dirt. For all his victories, he’d taken scraps of their planes, a weapon, a gauge from the front panel. The dead pilots meant nothing to him, now this envelope was proof that all the dead men were just as human as him. He wanted to banish it from his presence, let him return to the cold comfort of thinking his kills were nothing but the planes they flew.
He rubbed the letter between his thumb and forefinger, debating. Tossing it away would accomplish nothing. Knowledge was as permanent as a scar. For the price of a stamp he could grant a man and a woman some measure of closure, of peace.
Manfred handed the letter over to Lothar, but his brother was fast asleep. He snored as the car jostled along the country road, his nose twitching from deep breaths of dusty air.
Manfred lowered his chin to his chest to follow suit, but sleep wouldn’t come.
The British officers of No. 29 Squadron took their breakfast outdoors. White tablecloths, polished silverware, and china teacups set the table for a meal of reheated bully beef served over rock-hard biscuits known to harbor weevils. The tea, at least, was from Ceylon. Major Thom, the commanding officer, insisted that some standards be maintained.
Second Lieutenant Trant sipped at his hot tea, his eyes crushed shut against the pounding headache that came with a night of too much whiskey. He opened an eye and took another sip, and spied a biplane flying low over a far end of their runway.
“Are we due a replacement?” he asked the table.
Officers laid their silverware on their plates and followed Trant’s gaze.
“My word, is that a Hun?” Major Thom asked.
The biplane turned, and flew straight toward the breakfast table. Officers moved away from the table slowly, their focus on the approaching aircraft.
Trant kept his tea in hand, and picked up the kettle with the other. The biplane dipped its nose toward the table and entered an attack run.
“Run away!” someone yelled. Trant opted to duck beneath the table, spilling hot tea over his hand in the process. The roar of an approaching plane filled the air, then passed over him. He looked up and saw a bright red Albatros pull into an Immelmann turn and head east.
