“Blast! Have Chevalier send to the Langley we need a relief flight. We can stay out here for another half hour or more, but we’re going to need help if he doesn’t go away.”
After a moment. “Signal sent and confirmed.”
“Let’s get her attention. Send to Lieutenant Mustin to do a bombing run. He is to drop one bomb at about four hundred yards ahead of the sub.”
One of the BE.2.cs curved around gracefully to fly ahead of the sub.
“Bomb released, sir!” announced Stolz.
A moment later, they heard the sharp crack of the bomb exploding on the surface of the ocean.
“Any change, Melvin?”
“No, sir.”
“Damn his soul.” Ellyson looked to the west. “The Lusitania is just coming straight this way. Send to Chevalier to warn that idiot of a captain we’re over a submarine, maybe he’ll do something smart.”
“Radio telegraph message sent, sir.”
Spuds stared at the liner, willing her to shift course or do something, anything. Nothing happened.
“Stolz, tell Mustin to do another run.”
Afterward, the submarine and liner were still headed for each other.
“By Christ! Hang on.” Spuds twisted his controls, and the BE.2.c dived towards the shadow beneath the water. At the very last moment he pulled up, yelling at Stolz to release two bombs.
Behind him he heard them explode and he twisted around.
“Still no change, sir.”
“Tell Bellinger and McIlvain to drop two of their bombs each right on top of the shadow. Then they are to circle above it.”
The shadow continued to settle into what would be a perfect shot if the liner did not adjust.
Spuds thought for a moment. Finally, he yelled to Stolz, “Signal Mustin and Chevalier to keep on my tail.”
“Confirmed.”
Ellyson pulled the stick around and aimed his aeroplane at the Lusitania. A few minutes later, he dove right at her. If the earlier pass to cheer the passengers had seemed close, this one was insane. The three planes went across the liner’s bow right in front of the bridge windows.
“That got their attention, sir, but…”
“But what?”
“They seem angrier at us than worried about anything else.”
“Tell Chevalier to keep sending the warning.”
“He is.”
Spuds kept flying around the Lusitania, but Stolz’s assessment proved correct. A number of officers appeared on her deck, waving them away. One even had a revolver, though Ellyson never saw him fire it.
He looked over. The planes over the sub seemed far too close. Not even a mile away.
The sub is well within range.
“Signal to all planes, we’ll drop our last bombs right on top of the sub. Follow me.”
After a moment, the flight regained its formation and Spuds led them down. Whatever inexperience these pilots might have had when they left the Newport News shipyard had long since been trained out of them. Each put their bombs directly on top of the black shadow.
But nothing changed.
And then something did.
“Sir, I have a track in the water!”
“What?”
Ellyson banked his plane over and there, to his horror he saw a line on the water heading directly for the Lusitania.
Six hundred yards away.
Five hundred.
“Melvin. I wish you weren’t here.”
* * *
8 May 1915
“It has always been the great heart of our men, beating as the one heart of a great country—simple, vigorous, young, trying out its strength—on the background of old Europe, which appealed to me. It is the spontaneous incidents of emotion breaking out of routine which revealed character.
Yesterday, a flight of aeroplanes landed on the Langley. The aviators of that flight stepped down from their amazing examples of human ingenuity and technology. They did not move quickly off the deck, as they usually did. Instead, they simply stood and stared at each other. I cannot tell you for how long, for I too was mesmerized. I do not know if a single word was said among them, but the fellows, at some length, went below decks. It was also their wont, as they left the deck, to laugh, shout, and show with their hands the incredible aerial maneuvers they could achieve, and indeed inflicted upon myself. This, too, they did not do on this day.
It is but ten days since it was my sorrowful duty to report the death of Lieutenant Richard C. Saufley. It was yet another in what seemed to be an endless string of deaths for little gain in the field of naval aeronautics. The very recent addition to the Navy Hymn by the poet Mary C. D. Hamilton that asked, “Lord, guard and guide the men who fly through the great spaces in the sky,” seemed in that ancient time, but ten days ago, a desperate plea for clemency as they lifted their way to assured death.
Today, I have learned more of the great hearts of our men, for there was to be one more aeroplane in that flight. In peril in the air, these aviators certainly are and will be, yet this they offer, and willingly, that others may live. That plane, piloted by Lieutenant Commander Theodore G. ‘Spuds’ Ellyson accompanied by Lieutenant Melvin Lewis Stolz, through great skill and bravery, prevented an attack by a German submarine on the RMS Lusitania by intercepting its torpedo with the incredible feat of diving their plane into the torpedo headed for the liner, knowing they would die, and saving perhaps as many as two thousand souls. It is possible, as I think of it, the more than two score deaths accrued by these, the bravest and best of our great country, is but the price to pay that we become greater than old Europe has ever been.”
- Frederick Palmer [2]
* * * * *
Rob Howell Bio
Rob Howell is the creator of the Shijuren fantasy setting (www.shijuren.org) and an author in the Four Horsemen Universe (www.mercenaryguild.org). He writes primarily medieval fantasy, space opera, military science fiction, and alternate history.
He is a reformed medieval academic, a former IT professional, and a retired soda jerk.
His parents discovered quickly books were the only way to keep Rob quiet. He latched onto the Hardy Boys series first and then anything he could reach. Without books, it’s unlikely all three would have survived.
His latest release in Shijuren is Where Now the Rider, the third in the Edward series of swords and sorcery mysteries. The next release in that world is None Call Me Mother, the conclusion to the epic fantasy trilogy The Kreisens.
You can find him online at: www.robhowell.org and his blog at www.robhowell.org/blog.
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Perchance To Dream by Sarah A. Hoyt
Near the destroyed village of Cappy, by the bank of the Somme, where the river flowed due west, a muscular young blond man turned on his camp bed inside a stone hut.
Despite the rain falling outside, sending tendrils of dampness through every crack in the old walls, the hut was almost too warm thanks to the blaze in the fireplace. The blaze itself was a sign of the occupant’s importance, since wood in the French countryside—long martyred by the marche and countre-march of armies in the conflict the world called the Great War—had grown scarce.
Manfred von Richthofen, youthful leader of Jagdgeschwader 1, flung the woolen blanket from him and turned again, this time lifting his arm above his head as though to ward off some threat. The scar on the side of his head, imperfectly hidden by the short blond hair, seemed to pulse, livid.
“No,” he whispered.
He was not speaking of the distant thrumming of artillery that served as the devil’s lullaby to a countryside devoid of innocent sleepers. He’d heard it too much over the last three years for this, the Kaiser’s latest and desperate push to victory, to disturb his sleep. And the flapping of the tent-hangars, like housing for prehistoric beasts, was a true lullaby. For beneath those hid the planes of the Jagdgeschwader 1, his very own flying circus, the source of his glory and, more importantly, a source of com
radery, of hope.
And yet Richtofen’s sleep was agitated, perturbed by dreams that marched beneath his eyelids. In the morning, sitting on the side of his bed, rubbing the place on his head where an old and never perfectly healed injury sometimes spit up fragments of bone, he couldn’t remember anything of the dream.
No, that wasn’t true. As he pulled his coveralls over his monogramed gray silk pajamas, a single memory came back, sharp edged, like a fragment of ice on the surface of a deep frozen lake, like a fragment of bone emerging from the flesh.
It was a pamphlet, white and crudely printed. It showed a picture of a flower-covered grave, and beneath it read in English:
To the German Flying Corps.
Rittmeister Baron Manfred von Richthofen was killed in aerial combat, on April 21st 1918. He was buried with full military honors.
The memory was so sharp that Richthofen stood, fastening the coveralls, staring ahead, as though the pamphlet hung there, in midair, in front of him.
It’s just a dream, the Red Baron thought. A strange one, but still a dream.
“No, Moritz,” Menzke’s voice sounded, with just an edge of exasperation, as he tried to prevent the Deer Hound-Great Dane cross from rushing the Rittmeister and bowling Manfred over with exuberance.
The orderly carried a ewer Manfred would know was filled with cold water. Manfred woke enough from his thoughts to brace against the dog putting his paws on Manfred’s shoulders. Managing, just barely, to stop his face from being licked, Manfred managed a half-laugh, “No, Moritz,” he said. Then, scratching at the dog’s ears as the animal fell to all four paws and squirmed in happiness, “How is my little lap dog this morning?”
But even Moritz couldn’t distract him from the nightmare.
Moritz was dry. And Richthofen, looking out his window, could see that the pervading rain that had dogged them for days had finally lifted to reveal a hazy sky. Great wisps of fog drifted across the airfield, like fingers searching out something.
Chances were that later on the fog would burn out, and the sky would clear, revealing good hunting weather. Which they’d had rarely enough of in this wretched place. He should be eager to climb the sky in his red plane, but something felt wrong.
Where had that damnable note come from to invade his dream? Why now? What dormant thing in his life had kicked up that shard of fear to put horror in his night and confusion in his morning?
It wasn’t that he thought himself invincible. Oh, once perhaps, long ago, when he watched the enemy flyers go down in flames and thought that he was too good, too lucky for such a fate to befall him. But since the crash that had left the scar on his head, it had become far too personal, far too possible. Richtofen knew that like the many men he’d shot down, he was mortal. He knew very well that not all crashes ended in an awkward landing and being taken prisoner. He paused again, absently petting Moritz, where in his mind the flames that had almost consumed him before he could land and escape were felt anew.
For a time, he got ill every time he shot someone down, and only the greatest of will power could keep him flying and serving his country in the air.
Menzke poured his water in the basin, and Manfred splashed it on his face, welcoming the cold as a reviving shock.
I should shave, Manfred thought. Before his wound, it would not have been a question, as he was a fastidious man. When his thought was in disorder, it was doubly important that he present himself as ordered and in full control. Catapulted into command at the age of 25, he maintained the respect of his men by behaving as though he were someone apart. That included appearing impeccably dressed and shaved, whenever humanly possible.
No, instead I will have breakfast, he thought. I can shave after the mission. He knew lately—since his wound in October of the year before—he’d relaxed a little, and might sometimes be seen to drink a little too much, or stay up too late, with his companions. But he no longer had the courage some of his men had, who decided to forego breakfast in order to fly as early as possible. They’d return from the hunting, ravenous as hawks. The ones who returned.
Manfred had never understood how anyone could cheerfully face death on an empty stomach. Facing death, surely. He did it every time he flew. But not on an empty stomach.
The thought of death brought the image of that damnable note again. The problem wasn’t even being aware of his own mortality, but being aware of his people’s mortality. So many of those he commanded had died. He thought of his friend Werner Voss, now gone. He’d promised Werner’s father he’d come over and hunt during his upcoming leave. Normally the prospect would cheer him up, except he felt as though it would never happen. As though it were a dim and distant prospect, something he could not quite reach. And it brought thoughts of Werner, and the other youths who had been his friends and crashed down in fire and blood.
Manfred shook his head to the inner voice, wiped his face, and gave Menzke, standing by anxiously, the slight head shake that meant he wouldn’t require warm water for shaving. The orderly silently retreated, stepping outside of Richtofen’s quarters. There was a single, precise knock on the door, as if the next visitor had been waiting for this precise opportunity.
“Come,” Manfred said. He knew it who it was, as his adjutant, Karl Bodenschatz was his customary morning visitor, usually with a cup of warm chicory to replace the coffee which had lately been in short supply. In fact, Manfred had not tasted coffee since he’d been home, recovering from his wound. And even that, procured at who knew what expense by his mother, had had more than its normal proportion of chicory embittering its taste.
Bodenschatz looked immaculate as he usually did, but his face was unusually grave. He handed Manfred one of the cups he carried, and absently used his free hand to pet Moritz who’d come nosing around him for his morning greeting. “Rittmeister,” he said, just the one word on handing the cup over.
The formality while in quarters was preserved between them, even if Bodenschatz was one of Manfred’s remaining friends and the one scheduled to go hunting with him in the coming leave.
Manfred’s acceptance was an as perfunctory, “Danke,” but his eyes searched his subordinate. “Out with it, Bodenschatz. What troubles you?”
There was a half-embarrassed chuckle and a click of the tongue. “Nothing troubles me, Rittmeister. The air should clear, and the weather should be fine for hunting a Lord or two.”
Since the Royal Flying Corps had initially been composed mostly of noblemen, the Germans had referred to them jocularly as “Lords.” The phrase “hunting a Lord” was often used by Manfred himself, but the joke rang hollow today. In fact, every flyer he’d downed alive and taken prisoner had been a splendid fellow, the kind that might have become friends with Manfred, had Manfred met the man during his visit to England before the war.
It seemed to him the scar itched, and he rubbed at it. There was something to that. A scrap of dream, reaching for him like the fingers of fog outside. He made a sound, not quite a snort, expelling air through his nostrils. He was not usually given to foreboding and second thoughts. You are becoming an old woman, Manfred von Richthofen, he told himself severely. Lothar would laugh at you.
He knew this was true, too. Though Lothar, himself becoming an ace of some renown—though a hunter of rage, not of brain like his older brother—at the moment lay in a hospital bed, recovering from injury. He shook himself.
“And yet you are troubled,” Manfred persisted.
“Nothing to speak of, Rittmeister. Only…” Bodenschatz took a sip from his cup, as though to hide his expression. “Only I saw a fresh column heading towards the front this morning.”
And Manfred understood. Bodenschatz had been infantry himself. While Manfred’s own time on the ground had been limited, Bodenschatz had had experience of the front in a more prolonged and fraught way. He felt for those going forth into the mud, the barbed wire, and the ubiquitous stench of death.
“I know,” Manfred said. “I know.” He didn’t say what else he knew,
because he couldn’t say where the certainty came from. He’d started the war sure that they’d be in Paris in no time, and in fact had burned with fear Lothar would be ahead of him in both honors and glorious moments. The certainty they’d lose, and that the Kaiser’s last effort was just that, and utterly doomed, had come from nowhere. He’d tried to dismiss it as the result of his head wound, but he didn’t think that was it. He thought it was rather the things he saw from the air, the comparative strength of the forces, the churned and desolate ground between, covered in the unrecovered remains of dead men.
Bodenschatz gave a half-hearted laugh, as though recovering himself. As though he too understood the words that Manfred hadn’t said, and must distract himself from them lest they come out and raise despondency and fear. Both of them were too loyal to do that. “Well, at any rate, they somehow knew who we were, and they asked about you and told me to tell you they’d be looking to you for protection.”
Manfred smiled.
“They always ask,” Bodenschatz said. “They always ask for you, and seem comforted you’ll be flying above, protecting them.”
“Well, it is certainly better than what they used to say, when I was doing my milk and eggs delivery,” Manfred said, referring irreverently—as always—to his time as a courier. “Which was, God punish the Englishmen, their artillery, and our flyers.”
“I’m not sure they don’t still say it, Rittmeister. Except, of course, for you.”
Manfred opened his mouth to protest that he was just a flyer, like other flyers, but that note from his dream rose before his waking eyes again:
To the German Flying Corps.
Rittmeister Baron Manfred von Richthofen was killed in aerial combat, on April 21st 1918. He was buried with full military honors.
In the dream, that note and the grainy, black-and-white picture of a flower-covered grave had been dropped over the airfield. Would they bother doing that for any other flyer? No. Obviously not.
To Slip the Surly Bonds Page 7
