The Red Baron: A World War I Novel (13 page)

“You should have had this sooner.” He gave the captain a dirty look. “But there was an issue with the paperwork.”

Hoeppner tucked his walking stick under an arm and opened the box. A blue-and-silver enameled Maltese Cross, crafted gold eagles between each arm of the cross, lay on a bed of black satin. Manfred’s breath caught in his throat, the honor he’d longed for was finally at hand.

“Lieutenant Manfred von Richthofen, the Kaiser has bestowed the Pour Le Merite
to you for your conspicuous gallantry in the face of the enemy.” Hoeppner took the medal from the box and clasped it around Manfred’s neck. Hoeppner took his hands away from Manfred’s neck and shook his hand. He kept holding it until the camera flashed.

The pressure of the Blue Max around his neck felt warm, like a hot wire was around his neck and not a length of ribbon. He thought of Boelcke, who always wore the medal when he flew, and he vowed to follow his fallen mentor’s example. Despite the award, he still hadn’t lived up to Boelcke’s example.

“Well done, we expect nothing less from you in the future,” Hoeppner said. Hoeppner stepped back and began clapping. Manfred’s squadron joined Hoeppner in applause, and cheers broke out from the rows of soldiers.

Pilots broke formation and lined up to shake Manfred’s hand, each mouthing words of congratulations, all lost in the moment as Manfred allowed a smile to spread across his face. In this moment of triumph, he could let the mask of command crack in front of his men.

Hoeppner pulled Manfred aside and walked with him toward the flight line.

“I’ll need your expertise for a few moments while Gempp prepares things inside,” Hoeppner said. “What’s this I hear about you painting your plane red?”

Manfred suddenly felt very hot under his collar as they came around the corner of the manor.

“Sir, we’ve found that letting the pilots personalize their paint schemes helps with identification in the air.” Manfred wondered how long he’d get to keep the Blue Max after Hoeppner saw what he’d done.

“‘Pilots?’ What do you—” Hoeppner stopped dead in his tracks when he saw Squadron 11’s planes. Each plane was painted red with a different accent color: yellow, green, black, blue. Only Manfred’s Albatros was pure red. As a whole, the entire squadron was a riot of color.

“God in heaven, you’ve got a flying circus!” Hoeppner said.

“Sir, it works. The pilots see
me
in the air and follow my lead. It does make awarding victories a bit easier when the red-and-yellow plane shoots down a Tommy, it was my brother Lothar flying the plane,” Manfred hoped his explanation held up as Hoeppner appeared on the brink of hyperventilating.

“If we’re going to bill you as a knight of the air, you should have your own heraldry,” Hoeppner said. “Too bad we can’t take color photographs,” he said.

Captain Gempp reached out and tilted Manfred’s chin slightly higher and took two steps back to the camera trained on Manfred. Gempp bent to the same height as the camera and held a hand in front of his face, two fingers in a ninety-degree angle.

“OK,” Gempp said. The camera flashed, and the cameraman went about replacing the picture plate.

Gempp pursed his lips. “Richthofen, drop your right hand off your hip and hold it just in front of your waist. Smile, smile!”

“Captain Gempp, that was the nineteenth photo. How many more do you need?”

Gempp made a tsk-tsk noise and stepped closer to reposition his subject.

“This is just the beginning. The Intelligence and Propaganda Department needs you as the center of our efforts. I’ll have your Sanke card in the hands of every school boy by Christmas. OK.” the camera flashed again.

“Let’s get a close-in shot with his collar raised,” Gempp said as he consulted a clipboard. “Dress uniform, all medals,” he said to Metzger, who scurried from the room.

“This strikes me as a bit unnecessary,” Manfred said. He worked his jaw to lessen the ache that came with a half hour of constant smiling.

“Nonsense, you are a hero of the German Empire; it’s my job to make sure the people know it.” Gempp handed Manfred his flight jacket and officer’s cap and waited for him to put them on. “You’ll have an entire line of Sankes, and I’ll dribble them out to different parts of the country, get the rumor mill going about some rare card with you standing next to your D.III.” Gempp used his right hand to adjust Manfred’s collar; his gloved left hand never left his waist.

“We’ll need your autobiography for sale by the end of the year. Do you keep a journal?”

“I’m not much of a writer; how can I take the time from fighting for a book?”

“Don’t worry, the book is nearly finished. We just need a few details from you, give it your voice. OK.” the camera flashed.

“You wrote my life story without me?” Manfred said, surprised that such a thing was even possible.

“The Intelligence and Propaganda Department knows what it has to say. I’m afraid you don’t quite understand, Lieutenant. You are a symbol now. You’re handsome, brave, from a noble family—we couldn’t have created a hero like you even if Siegfried walked among us. All we need is for you to keep shooting down the English…and don’t get shot down in turn.” Gempp took the coat and hat from Manfred as Metzger arrived with the dress uniform.

“All this time I avoided getting shot just to stay alive, now I have to think of my fans,” Manfred said, without humor.

“Quite right.” Gempp ticked off another item on his clipboard. “I need Wolff and the other Richthofen after this. They’re good candidates for their own marketing campaign after they earn a Blue Max.”

A reconnaissance flight discovered the preparations an hour ago. The English had massed at least three brigades of infantry, nearly ten thousand men, for a push against the Germans at Lens. The mauled German defenders were undermanned and cut off from supply by an English bombardment that hadn’t let up in three days. There was little chance they could hold the line from the impending assault.

The general in charge of the imperiled sector called Manfred and begged him and his squadron to do something, anything, to help. Manfred hadn’t argued that his was an air superiority squadron, or stuck to protocol requiring such requests go through the corps commander. He asked for the map coordinates to the massing troops, and led his squadron into the air.

They found the English in the open, massed around mess carts and fires. His nine pilots strafed the English, scattering them like a handful of dropped marbles. Manfred stayed above the fray, keeping an eye open for English planes.

Lothar’s red-and-yellow plane peppered a half dozen English as they raced for a creek bed. They leapt into the creek and bobbed up and down in the water, as if Lothar was a swarm of angry bees chasing them.

The rest of the squadron dipped and dived at the English, none taking a chance of an aimed shot from an English rifle by flying as low as Lothar. They were there to break up the English formations and delay the attack, not build up a body count.

Allmenroder flew next to Manfred and pointed to the west. Manfred saw at least three dozen English planes heading right for them. Manfred looked at Allmenroder and made a slashing motion across his neck, their job was done.

Manfred pulled a flare gun from a holster and fired it. The flare burst, a falling star bright enough to garner attention in the sky darkening to purple and black. Manfred’s squadron pulled up from their attack runs and flew toward where the flare burst—all but Lothar.

Lothar flew over a trench, firing at the English and tossing grenades from his cockpit. English infantry were popping up in his wake and shooting at Lothar as he kept on a steady course. Manfred vowed, again, that if the English didn’t kill Lothar, he would do it himself.

Manfred let loose with his machine gun as he swooped down, parallel to his brother. At least he could give the English another target to fire at. He caught up with his brother and jabbed his hand back to the German lines.

Lothar nodded and pulled into a loop. Manfred’s heart leapt into his throat at his brother’s mistake; the loop robbed Lothar of all his forward motion, making him a nearly stationary target for the English.

A machine gun erupted and tracer rounds slashed at Lothar. Lothar came out of his loop and buzzed the top of an English trench as he escaped into no-man’s-land. Manfred pulled alongside him, shaking his head at his brother.

Lothar pressed a finger to his mouth, and then pressed it against his shoulder. He jerked the finger away and shook it, as if his shoulder was red hot. Lothar tossed his head back in a laugh, then his engine ground to a halt. Lothar’s demeanor changed instantly as his propeller slowed to a stop and his plane glided to the earth. A glut of benzene poured from a bullet hole in Lothar’s tank.

Manfred watched as his brother hit the ground, crushing the wheels. His plane dug into the earth and slid like a bull struck through the heart by a matador. Manfred banked around, praying to see some sign of life from Lothar’s plane.

Dust swirled around the Albatros as Manfred circled overhead. A column of dirt erupted a hundred yards from the wreck, an English mortar lobbing shells at Lothar.

Lothar emerged from the wreck and waved to his brother. Another mortar struck, this time between Lothar and the German lines. The English were bracketing Lothar’s plane, the next round would land right on top of him if the mortar men had any skill.

Lothar looked around frantically, as if he didn’t know which way to go.

Manfred twisted his plane so it was belly-up and flew over Lothar, pointing to the German lines. Lothar wasted no more time and took off running.

A mortar landed a few yards from Lothar’s plane, and then more came in quick succession, smashing the red-and-yellow craft into a million pieces.

Manfred watched as Lothar ran around barbed wire and finally made it to the German lines. Lothar disappeared into a trench.

An artillery shell ripped past Manfred. The near miss flung his plane into the air like a kite caught by a gust of wind. More shells hit the German trenches as Manfred fought to regain control of his plane. The English attack had begun, and Lothar was right in its path.

Wolff and Schafer sat next to each other at the dinner table, speaking to each other with a conspirator’s whisper.

“No word yet?” Schafer asked.

“Nothing at all from where Lothar went down. The bombardment must have cut the telegraph lines,” Wolff said.

They took a quick glance at Manfred, who wasn’t at the head of the table. Their commander stood at the windows facing west, watching the distant burst of artillery shells light up the horizon. His meal was untouched.

“Do you think he’d be this worried if it was you or me out there?” Schafer asked.

Wolff glared at Schafer. “I know it.”

Manfred kept his vigil at the widow, tapping his knuckles against the window frame in time with the shell bursts.

Metzger ran to greet Manfred’s plane as it returned from the dawn patrol. He snapped to attention as the Albatros came to rest on a chalk line running parallel to the hangar. Metzger saluted as the plane stopped; mechanics tossed blocks against the wheels to keep it in place.

“Any word from Lothar?” Manfred yelled over his engine as it wound down.

“Sir, your brother is back,” Metzger yelled. “He arrived just after you took off.”

Manfred climbed from the cockpit and slid to the ground. “He’s all right?”

Metzger paused, unsure of what words to use. “He’s uninjured, sir. But I don’t think he’s ‘all right.’”

Manfred, still in his furs, knocked at his brother’s door. A full plate of breakfast sausage and eggs lay against the doorframe. No answer to the knock.

Manfred knocked again.

“Piss off!” came Lothar’s muffled reply.

“Lothar, it’s me,” Manfred said.

The doorknob shook as it unlocked from within. Manfred opened the door a few seconds later.

Lothar’s room was full of smoke, a plate of smashed cigarette butts lay on a chair next to Lothar’s bed. A jaundiced yellow glow permeated the smoke, cast by a lamp in the corner. The curtains were still drawn against the dawn’s light. Lothar was nowhere to be seen.

Manfred closed the door behind him and found Lothar sitting in a corner, his head down, arms outstretched and perched on his knees, a lit cigarette in his hand. Manfred shoved the curtains aside and slid a window open. Fresh air pushed the smoke aside.

Lothar was filthy. Gray mud covered him from his knees to the toes of his boots. The same mud matted his hair. His left sleeve was stained dark by what must have been blood.

“Are you hurt?” Manfred asked.

Lothar picked his head up. His eyes were weary and sunken, and he looked at his bloody sleeve as if seeing the stain for the first time.

“It isn’t mine,” he said and lowered his head again.

“What happened?” Manfred said.

Lothar said nothing, and then he curled his arms and legs against his body. Sobs escaped from him.