by Richard Fox
He was in a cloud, in his cockpit, but there was no sound. The engine dead, his propeller made a languid rotation before stopping.
Manfred removed his goggles and looked around. A gray abyss surrounded him, sunlight diffused evenly through the bleak sky. There was wet grass beneath his plane, a frame of reference that extended only a few feet.
He leapt from the plane, his breathing the only sound.
A yellow smudge appeared in the fog, undulating of its own accord. The grass field beneath him seemed to expand as the fog pulled away. More yellow spots, joined by red lights and columns of black smoke emerged in the distance.
“Hello?” he said.
The fog retreated from the closest light, revealing an F.E.2b, the engine crackling with flames. The upper wings and struts had surrendered to the flames. The body of a pilot lay next to the wreck, squashed from the impact with the ground. A gunner in the rear seat lay slumped against the fuselage.
More wrecks appeared in the distance, bloody bodies scattered about in impossible contortions.
Manfred ran to the nearest wreck, a Fee, and around the body lying parallel to the crash. He touched the ice-cold shoulder of the man in the gunner’s seat and shook it. The gunner’s head swiveled from side to side. No response, no sign of breathing.
The body sat up, slowly and smoothly. It turned its head to Manfred, a slack face with a day’s stubble, eyes still closed. The eyes opened, pale blue and devoid of life. A hand raised over the lip of the rear seat, holding a small silver cup.
The corpse held the cup, one of the sixty he had for each victory, toward Manfred.
“Take it.” The voice was calm, composed.
A low and terrified moan spilled from Manfred as he backed away.
A chill grasp wrapped around his ankle with the strength of a steel trap. The pilot he’d stepped over held him with one hand; the other offered a silver cup. No words came from the ruined face.
Manfred kicked himself free and looked for an escape. Dead men approached from every direction. Men burnt to a crisp, their pale bones shone bright through gaps in blackened skin. Bloody men, their steps sloshing in red-soaked boots. More crushed men with their skulls misshapen, as if a sculptor had erred in their final moments of creation.
“Take it,” came from the dead, repeated by dozens of voices. Each held a cup out to Manfred as they approached.
“No…get away from me.” Manfred spun around, finding only dead men in every direction. He knew his heart was beating only because each pound in his chest brought more pain to his head.
Valley was there, a gash down the side of his face and blood spread in a delta over the shoulder of his tweed jacket.
“Take it,” he said, proffering a cup to Manfred.
“No, I don’t want it!”
He pictured and there was Hawker, his greatest victory, holding his Ehrenbecher. Hawker’s words sputtered from the throat blown apart by Manfred’s bullet.
“Take it!”
Manfred opened his eyes. His fists gripped a pillow with white-knuckle strength. The dread and terror didn’t fade away. It turned his core to ice and stayed with him as the sun rose over the horizon.
Lothar walked with a limp, his wide-armed walking hobbled by a wrapped ankle and bandages around his thigh. By some miracle, he hadn’t broken any bones in his crash, yet bruises and strained tendons ran deep.
“Look at that beauty!” Lothar shouted as he saw his red-and-yellow Fokker. The taller Richthofen hugged his plane and babbled to it like he was speaking to a baby.
“Lothar, how hard did you hit your head?” Manfred asked from his cockpit.
“Don’t listen to him, darling, he’s just jealous,” Lothar said to his plane.
Katy sprung from the infirmary and trotted toward the Richthofen brothers’ Fokkers. She’d stayed on in the weeks since Manfred returned to the squadron, longer than expected, as Manfred’s wound had finally healed over. There were a few minor wounds and scrapes to keep her occupied, and no one in the squadron complained about her presence.
She handed Lothar a pair of bandages.
“I told you I won’t do anything to pop my stitches,” Lothar said.
“What you say and what you do are two different things, Lothar. These are for just in case,” she said.
Lothar bent at the waist and presented a cheek.
“For luck?”
“Oh no, I’m not falling for that Richthofen trick again,” she said.
“‘Again’?” Lothar cast a sly glance to his brother.
Manfred slapped the side of his plane. “You’ve been nagging at me to get back in the air for two weeks. Now you’re dragging your heels?”
Lothar tapped the brass knuckle trench knife at his waist. “Guess I’ll have to make do with this for luck.” Lothar used a stool to ease his way into the cockpit, his days of treating the side of his cockpit like a pommel horse gone until he fully healed. Lothar strapped in and adjusted in the seat.
“Bit cramped, but not that you’d notice, eh?” Lothar said.
“Contact!” Manfred commanded, and Savage swung the propeller to life.
White smoke coughed from the Bristol as it bounded over treetops, fleeing Manfred’s guns. Manfred held the trigger handle down, lifting it as soon as bullets fired. He had maybe twenty rounds left, only a few seconds’ worth of offense.
The top tier of the Bristol’s wings cracked in the headwind, then flapped loose, still attached by the fabric. The plane almost cleared the next tree line; the propeller chewed through the tips of pine trees, sending a spray of needles into the air.
The clearing beyond the trees hosted a length of telegraph poles. Heading straight for a pole, the Bristol pilot jammed his rudder and managed to turn the nose away from the pole. The Bristol flew into the taunt wires, shredding the plane as if it had charged into a phalanx of spear tips.
Manfred flew over the wreck and found Lothar circling over another field. Windbreaks blocked his view of what lay below Lothar.
They’d ambushed a pair of Bristol observer planes ten minutes ago; Lothar must have downed his target.
Manfred crossed over the windbreak and flipped his Fokker on its side to see Lothar’s kill. The muzzle of the Lewis on the rear gunner’s Scarff ring was staring right back at him. Shots snapped past his head as he ducked into his cockpit. He knew the fabric surrounding the thin metal of his seat offered no protection, but combat instincts prevailed. A bullet ricocheted off his engine block as the firing ceased.
Anger gave way to rage at the Bristol gunner. He was down behind enemy lines, no option but to be taken prisoner. Manfred pulled his plane into a half turn and bore down on the Bristol. He fired the last of his bullets into the stationary target. Rounds smacked into the dirt around the plane.
Then, his engine ground to a halt. A quick check of his gauges showed an empty fuel tank. One of the Lewis’s bullets got lucky.
Manfred landed smoothly, twenty yards from the still Bristol.
He jumped from his Fokker and backed away quickly. Empty fuel tanks were full of gas vapor and prone to exploding if agitated by sparks and fire.
Birdcalls echoed from the trees. Insects buzzed in the unruly grass of the field. There was no sign of life from the Bristol.
Manfred removed his goggles and gloves and walked over to the Bristol. Patches covering evidence of previous dogfights ran along the fabric, but there were fresh lacerations.
The pilot and gunner were on the far side of the plane. One lay on the ground, his chest and stomach covered in blood. The other knelt next to the departed, his back to Manfred.
“Are you hurt?” Manfred said. The kneeling man stirred, but didn’t reply.
Manfred stepped closer and couldn’t find any obvious wounds on the man.
“Sind Sie verletzt?” Manfred repeated himself in German.
The man stood up, then swung a fist into Manfred’s stomach. Manfred bent over double, his breath expelled by the blow. He held out an arm t
oward his attacker and looked up just in time to see a fist crash into his face. Light exploded behind his eyes and he crumpled to the ground.
“Son of a bitch Kraut,” the Englishman said, his voice nothing but malice.
The blow to the head awakened the pain of Manfred’s old wound. He managed to crawl a few feet away when a boot to the side sent him tumbling.
He came to rest on his side and saw the Englishman rip his gloves off, then paw through the inside of his flight jacket. Unable to breathe, his head threatening to split in half from pain, Manfred found himself helpless at the man’s feet.
“Darcy was a good man, you Hun. You think you can kill him and just get on?” He pulled a pistol from his coat and pointed it at Manfred. The darkness within the barrel promised to end Manfred with a flash of gunpowder.
The Englishman pulled the trigger, and the hammer clicked against nothing.
“Bloody thing,” he said. He pulled the slide back and slid a round into the chamber.
A roar took the Englishman’s attention away from murder. He turned his head just in time to see Lothar’s leaping tackle. The impact sent the pistol flying. Lothar and his foe rolled in the dirt before Lothar’s bulk pinned the other man to the ground.
Lothar reared up and smashed a fist across the man’s jaw, teeth ejected from the impact. Lothar wrapped his fists in the man’s loose flight jacket and yanked him higher as Lothar brought his forehead down. The man’s nose exploded in blood, nearly flattened against his skull by the blow.
Lothar dropped the limp man to the ground, and drew the trench knife at his waist.
“Lothar…don’t,” Manfred managed.
Lothar raised the knife over his head, the blade glinting in the sunlight.
“Stop!”
Lothar plunged the knife into the Englishman’s breast. He let out a final, ragged grunt. The Englishman tried to flail against Lothar, who twisted the knife in the wound. The Englishman spasmed…then went still.
Lothar wrenched the blade from the body and wiped the blade clean on the Englishman’s thigh. Lothar spat on the body and sheathed his weapon.
“Manfred? What the hell were you thinking? Walking up to him like that.”
“Why, Lothar? He was beaten.”
Lothar pulled his brother to his feet.
“He was. He was beaten when he fired on you. He was beaten when he knocked the hell out of you, and he was beaten when he was going to kill you.” Lothar pointed to the body. “He was going to kill you!”
Manfred clutched at his brother to stay on his feet.
“To hell with him,” Lothar said.
Manfred gave up the argument; concepts of morality and honor would do nothing for the dead. A red stain was spreading across Lothar’s thigh.
“Lothar, don’t look down,” Manfred said.
“What? Why?” Lothar looked down and touched his thigh. One glance at his bloody fingertips, and his eyes rolled back in his head. Lothar went slack and Manfred got his arms under Lothar in time to ease him to the ground.
A truck stopped on a road running alongside the field. German soldiers dismounted and ran toward them. Manfred tapped a welt growing over his eye and felt his ribs for a break.
“Damn this war,” he said.
Katy took a needle from a pan of alcohol and ran a thread through the eye.
“This will sting,” she said.
“I don’t care if it hurts; just don’t let me see anything,” Lothar said, his words edged in panic. He was on a bed in the infirmary, pillows propped on his chest to block the line of sight to his thigh.
Katy eased the needle into the flesh along the remaining stitches of Lothar’s almost-healed wound. Lothar responded to the discomfort with choice profanities.
“He scored again, didn’t he?” Katy said.
“Manfred? Yes, how did you know?”
“He went back to his room the moment you returned. Locked himself in there, same as always after he shoots down a plane,” Katy completed the stitch, and readied another.
“Huh, I never noticed that before.”
“Lothar, he needs to stop flying.”
Lothar’s chuckle nearly ruined Katy’s work. Blood seeped around the split stitches, and Katy dabbed the blood away, careful to keep the sponge out of Lothar’s sight.
“Katy, he’ll never quit. It’s not in his nature. Besides, his head is healed.”
“I can treat the wounds we can see. Manfred has wounds that run far too deep for me to help. Doctors have been talking about battle fatigue—”
“Manfred is no coward.”
“I’m not saying that. There are limits to what any man can withstand, and I think Manfred is there.”
“Let me tell you a story about Manfred. He was entered in the 1913 Emperor’s Prize race, one horse, two-hundred-mile distance from start to finish. The horse he’d trained with for months got a hoof infection days before the race, and Manfred went begging for another mount. He found this beautiful animal named Blume, black as midnight, descended from destriers. But Blume wasn’t trained for racing or jumping.
“Manfred didn’t care. With thirty miles to go, Blume threw Manfred. Broke his collarbone in two places. Manfred got back on the horse and won the race. Thirty miles, Katy. In pain the whole way to win nothing but a ribbon and a pat on the back from his commander. Then he went to a doctor. Stakes are a bit higher right now.”
“His pride is worth more than his life?”
“It isn’t in his nature to quit, Katy. Besides, his ego isn’t why he keeps flying.” Lothar sniffed and winced as Katy tightened up his stitches.”
“Has this war ever made you want to quit being a nurse?” he asked.
“God, yes.”
“Then why are you here?”
“Because you need me. He needs me. All those boys in the hospital…”
“You have a purpose. He has his. It keeps him in the air, fighting for this squadron and all those men in the trenches. If we take it away, it will end him.”
Katy propped her bloody hands on her knees and mulled over Lothar’s words.
“Damn you Richthofens and your thick, stubborn heads.” Katy opened a jar of iodine and dabbed a cotton swab in the red liquid. An iron stench filled the room, and Lothar groaned.
“Don’t want the iodine? Don’t bust your stitches.” She rubbed the iodine over the stitches, and Lothar gritted his teeth against the pain.
“Was…worth…it,” he said.
Manfred signed off on a letter complaining about ersatz engine lubricant and blew air across the ink. The latest batch of “lubricant” gummed up the engines within a few days of use, creating a logistic headache that kept him from fielding his entire squadron at the same time.
He grabbed a pack of Sanke cards and popped his knuckles.
Someone rapped at the door.
“Come in,” he said without looking up. The smell of potatoes and beans wafted over with the opening of the door.
“Thank you, Metzger, leave it on the table,” he said.
“Have I been around him so long that I’ve grown a mustache and shrunk a foot?” Katy asked.
Manfred looked up and frowned. “Sorry.”
“That is…different,” she said, pointing to the chandelier in his office. The front of a rotary engine hung from the ceiling, a burning light bulb sticking from each cylinder. The interplay of the lights cast long polygons across the ceiling.
“Corporal Siemens made it from my…I can’t remember which victory. Bit garish, in retrospect.”
“Then why keep it up?” She slid the plate of food to him. He shoved it away with the back of his hand and turned his attention back to the Sanke cards.
“Serves its purpose. Keeps Siemens happy.” Manfred signed a card and put it aside. He repeated the process with the next card.
Katy picked up a card and read, “‘To my brave front line companion, Baron Manfred von Richthofen.’ Who is this for?”
“For whoever wants one badl
y enough to trade.” He signed another card. “Metzger will take this pile of cards with him the next time he goes on a supply run. Any base hog that wants proof he isn’t a base hog once this war ends will want to barter.”
“Aren’t you taking from some other unit at the front by doing this?”
“Ever seen a soldier behind the lines go hungry? Cold? We need lubricant, bullets, gas, something to eat other than turnips and bread made from chestnut powder.”
“I wondered why the cooks always seem to have butter,” she said.
Manfred put an ink-stained finger to his lips. “State secret.”
Manfred jabbed a lump of potato with his fork, then looked to Katy. “Did you eat? You look thin.”
“And you look exhausted. Eat.” Manfred kept looking at her. “Yes, I ate.”
He took a bite and picked up another card. He put his pen to the picture, and stopped.
“Such a strange feeling. Another man shot dead, lying out there, waiting for a shallow grave. I sit at my desk and the food tastes as good as ever.” He gave a sideways glance at his plate, appetite gone.
“Would you rather switch places?”
“He certainly felt that way. Would you mind reading those letters to me? See which ones I have to answer now.” An unruly pile of posted correspondence took up a corner of his desk.
Katy opened a letter and read, “The most esteemed Grand Duke of Thuringia invites you to—”
“Trash.”
Katy unwrapped a small package. Inside was a velvet case and a note.
“The king of Saxony has awarded you the Military Order of Saint Henry, in honor of your seventy-fifth victory,” she said.
Manfred sighed and shook his head.
“What? I’m sure this is…very impressive,” she said.
“All these medals are a pain. If I wear them in the wrong order I’ll offend half the nobles in Germany. Not trash, leave it on the desk.”
She read from the next letter, “Heinrich Bullow says that, due to rationing, he’s out of silver and want to know if he should use pewter or some other metal for the cups. Does he mean those cups in your trophy room?”
