That grand menu meant that guest of honour had to watch his diet. "If I ate this much I would not be able to get into a cockpit for six months!" he declared. Though he had eaten as well during the War, he had eaten to fight. This was different.
Roars of laughter filled the mess. B'gad, he was a jolly good sport, wasn't he? Practically British, for a Hun chap. (The officer who (in honour of the late Mick Mannock, no doubt) declared of their guest that "I wish he had been shot down and burned all the way to the ground," had been given charge of the orderly room for today and one week from today.) They could show the Hun a thing or two.
Amid the exulting exuberant rejoicing of the RAF officers, Manfred felt quite the black swan. And, he noted ironically, this cheery welcome he was receiving was the very attitude he himself had wished for and praised.
He had resolved to remain in his cabin when the ship docked in Southampton. There were matters that had to be dealt with at home, and he could not be diverted by harassment in England.
He was distracted, but hardly by anything approaching harassment. An officer of their new Royal Air Force astounded the ship's captain (and the passengers and crew) by coming on board, inquiring, getting directions, marching down to his cabin, and presenting a formal invitation to the Herr Major Manfred Freiherr von Richthofen to attend the local RAF station's Christmas Party. He had had to dig out his decorations, and after a brief debate over whether or not to wear an old uniform, had the question settled for him by dint of not having any packed.
He was hard-pressed by the RAF again. Like with Rickenbacker, it was a matter of discussing old times as seen from the other side of the hill. There was a lot to discuss, too. They introduced him to one of their Kanone, a fellow with an American accent -- Canadian, they told him -- named Collishaw.
Someone got him back to his cabin that morning, and when he awoke he made a re-acquaintance with headaches. He resolved to stay away from that single-malt. Well, maybe a little at New Year's.
The English papers followed him home to Schweidnitz. The party had been reported -- not, thank God, the bit where he had shown that trick with the champagne cork! What they did report was interesting. The Daily Telegraph had said, "Germany's Red Baron met with several of his former foes this Christmas and came away victorious again. His modesty and charm were a surprise to some, but others have read his memoirs and are aware of his good character. If more men like von Richthofen had been in authority in Germany, the late war would not have happened." The Times had been less effusive but had been positive. Now that paper run by that Bottomley man . . .
Home was not much better. Father had left financial affairs themselves in good shape. Would that the rest of the country was so. Prices were going even higher. Lothar was getting uneasy, and thinking of getting a job flying civilian planes. "If you can do it, I can do it," he said. Bolko, not seeing much hope in what army the Dictated Treaty left them, wanted to go into business.
There was always that money in America, but speaking of business, Rickenbacker's business affairs were in less than sound circumstances, and so he could not draw on his share of the money quite yet. Perhaps he should invest in some aircraft companies. That engineer Herr Junkers, for example, seemed quite enthusiastic.
At the end of January, Rickenbacker wired, "Booked for West Coast this time. More money than before." He wired back, "Put a little money into fixing the airplane." This time he packed the Geschwader-Stock, his Kommodore walking stick -- if he was going to be a showman, he ought to give a proper show.
Also, there was one little matter to take care of. For all those years, he had not been able to fulfill that promise. What future was there for a man who could have died at any moment? Now he had a future. It worked both ways, Lothar was already married. Thus it was that the night before the wedding Manfred said to him, "What was it that you were saying, brother? 'If you can do it, I can do it.'? Now I suppose it applies to me."
Young Bolko, jolly and cheery at getting to go to a real party, something to blow off the miasma of the War, toasted the fortunate bridegroom. "You've broken the hearts of half of Germany, brother," he said.
"More than half," Lothar chimed in. "Think of all the fathers who wanted their daughters to marry well!"
"Congratulations," Rickenbacker said when he stepped into the cabin. Manfred did not care much for the crossing, but flying like Alcock and Brown wasn't quite feasible on a reliable basis just yet. In a few years, though . . . but for now it was by ship or not at all. Now he could take an English ship, anyhow. Outside it was a pretty April day in New York. His partner went on, "You're setting a bad example for the rest of us. Mother said 'Eddie, now that your friend Richthofen has settled down . . .' But tell me, where is this paragon of womanhood?"
"Home sick. Throwing up in the mornings."
Rickenbacker laughed. "The Red Baron scores again! Well, enough of that."
"Did you know I am an uncle? Lothar has married and their girl is named Carmen. And my sister, Ilse, she is married and they said their first son would be named Manfred."
"Congratulations again. Now westward ho! The Aces have Gone To Texas!" he proclaimed.
Almost everyone in Texas had a horse, it seemed. He could get the castor oil out of his ears and nose by a good ride, and the country being so flat and all made it easy.
The cities were interesting in a different way. In San Antonio the locals made them pose for hours (it seemed) for photographs in the state shrine, that ruined church where the big battle had been. In some ways it reminded him of Kolberg. That evening he made a speech at the local German Society, and that went over very well.
Then they went north, flying in the capital and other towns, and then the oil fields. One day Manfred went as high as he could during a flight and looked around in every direction, but it was all still Texas. Small wonder the Americans were so effective, with all this to draw on.
Same as the people. He got many invitations to entertainments on estates that made the biggest of those old Junker landholdings in East Prussia seem small. They almost had to fly to get there, and in fact they did a time or two. Texas was big in several ways. His hunting stories were almost overwhelmed by their tales of shooting in Canada, or in the Rockies, or in Africa.
Then one day in May Eddie went off to a dinner in Washington. "It's the anniversary of General Pershing's arrival in France," he said. "Not exactly your sort of party."
"I understand the British Ambassador goes to your Independence Day celebrations," Manfred said, but there were a few years difference to be taken into account. So he watched Rickenbacker take off in a borrowed Army DH.4 and then went hunting rabbits.
One of the ground crew was from around there, and he offered to show where the best hunting was. At one point Manfred took off the big broad-brimmed hat that they all seemed to wear and wiped off his forehead -- it was hot there, only May, but already in the high thirties! This exposed his head wound, the long bare patch in his hair, above his left ear.
"You all right? How'd that happen, Major von Richthofen?" the guide said, curious.
"British bullet back in '17, a two-seater, the pilot was a Captain Cunnell. I'm lucky I have such a thick skull. I had headaches for all the rest of the War and a year after. The doctors at the Mayo Clinic cleaned it up and put in a skin graft.. It's all right now."
"You better see the spirit doc. My aunt, she had the megrims real bad, and he told her where to find some medicine that fixed her right up."
He bagged a dozen rabbits that day -- hardly on a par with his bison or stags back home, but it meant fresh meat at dinner for everyone, a walk in the fresh air for him, and all-round satisfaction. Perhaps it was the heat; he went to bed uneasy, and wondered if this gypsy witch or whatever was worth a visit.
The spaces in Texas still overwhelmed him, and Manfred wondered if he should have flown to this farm out in the middle of nowhere. But he was driving, and hoping the constabulary would feel merciful if he erred.
It wasn't "Manfr
ed, Freiherr von Richthofen" going for the consultation. He was going under a mask, as it were. He had been warned of how some of these seers carried around files with all the juicy information about their potential clients, so they would know what to say.
Back home during the War, going around in civilian clothes had spared the Hero of Germany much mobbing (Rickenbacker had once commented about that unfortunate Italian actor in California who had almost been killed by a passionate mob of women in love with him and Manfred had said, "I know how he feels."). Where everyone dressed like a character from the pages of Karl May, in sticking to the local custom he certainly did not resemble much the Red Battle-Flyer of the pictures.
He had another aid to his disguise. There were a lot of new-stamped Smiths and Browns around there who spoke with the tones of Hannover and the Rhineland. So he sailed -- or, more appropriately, flew -- under false colors. Mother's name -- well, part of it, and something close to Manfred, something more of the pathetic man in nightcap and gown who woefully inhabited the pages of Kladderdatsch. Which he felt like at times.
He had been following the directions given him to the soothsayer's place of operations, and had only been lost once, getting there right before noon. There was an oil drill, boring its way into the ground and promising wealth tomorrow, like there was on every farm in the area, it seemed. The prices were reminding him of home, too. He parked the auto and went over to the building. "Case Petroleum", he said, reading the sign. Was that right? He still had trouble with English pronunciations.
The door opened and a man came out, looking and talking over his shoulder, saying, "I suppose it's more of the same."
Manfred stopped and waited for the man, who saw him and came over. He looked a bit like a gnome, but he was tall, taller than Manfred. "You're Mr. Foot, Michael Foot?" he said.
"You've got it," Manfred said. "Where do I see Mr. Casey for this reading?"
"We'll go in Grandma Moore's parlor."
They went over to the house and went in. Presumably this seer or whatever was partners with this oilman he was following into the house, where he practically stumbled in a darkened room. But no, the man went over to the couch, took off his boots, and lay down, as if he had done this a thousand times before. At least he guessed that once his eyes adjusted to the dimness.
There was someone else there, a younger man, and a woman with a notepad. "Please sit down, Mr. Foot," the man said "You're lucky Edgar could spare the time for a reading." Manfred took a seat, and waited, puzzled The host then said, "You have before you the body of Mr. Michael Foot, of Texas. Diagnose his illness and recommend a cure."
"Yes, we have the body here," the man on the couch said, making Manfred sit upright with a jerk. Talking in his sleep? "The man calling himself Michael Foot has been injured four years ago, fighting in the late War." And he proceeded to describe that wound. "The body has recovered from this injury and will serve well for years to come. You should avoid excessive exposure to the sun, as this will cause a recurrence of the headaches."
Then the man's voice changed. "You have a great task before you. The period of service in the aerial service has prepared your will and your skill for this burden. In times to come, you will be faced with the greater burden of serving your country in a higher office, defending it in a different field, in a just cause now. Your renown and your character have prepared you for this task, which will prove a salvation for the world."
And I will marry a beautiful woman and become rich and powerful, Manfred thought cynically, this man was handing out the usual fortuneteller line. The "reading" went on for a while longer, speaking in terms of astrology and theosophy, past lives and such.
Then the man fell silent. Manfred got to his feet. "Thank you. Here is the payment. My associates were worried about my health. Oh, what a lovely war it was!" And he walked out to his ground vehicle, putting his hat on as he did. It was good advice, in spite of how it came to him.
He started the car. Well, he tried, the engine turned over and died. Swearing, he got out, took off his hat, lifted the hood, and tried to remember how airplane engines that had died sounded, and what happened when they did. A voice interrupted him. "Mr. Foot?"
He turned and saw the tall fortuneteller again. "What, er, well my engine is flooded, I think. I'll have to wait until the cylinders drain before I can start it."
"Grandma Moore was wondering where you had gone. She set a place for you, chicken-fried steak and her potato pie. Good Heavens, what happened to your head?"
Manfred had been scratching the skin graft that lay over his wound. Now was this man being disingenuous or what? "A man named Cunnell took a potshot at me," he said, which was true but hardly complete. The man had been the pilot in a FE.2d near Courtrai -- he hadn't even got credit for the shoot-down! Or so the RAF people had told him. He had said that they ought to have given him the credit. He had thought that any flier who had shot down the "Red Baron" would have been lionized, but evidently poor Captain Cunnel had been forgotten.
Cayce said, "Hard times everywhere. Let's go eat."
CHAPTER 3
Schweidnitz, Silesia, Germany, Sunday, December 11, 1921
"Prices are getting absurd," Bolko said.
The nursery was a bit warm -- though coal, like everything else, was going up.. The Head of the Richthofens would have to stay home for a while, particularly as gasoline and airplane parts were costing more. At least Manfred got to marvel at the wonder of a child, his son, the heir of the Richthofens.
"Bolko, not now," Manfred said, and picked up the little bundle. He waved fists at his father and made unformed gurgles. "Now I remember how Father looked at you, when you were this little one's age, and you know what, it seems to be something fathers do."
"He was doomed to be 'Manfred Albrecht, Freiherr von Richthofen.'"
"Manfred Albrecht Eduard," Manfred Albrecht, Freiherr von Richthofen said. "I told Eddie and he seemed to like the idea. Speaking of Eddie, he finally got the problem with the bank cleared up and I can draw on the rest of the American funds. Whatever is this idea you have?"
"Options. Buying options on farmland, but also industrial plant. Not buying outright, but options to buy -- and people are readier to sell options for good Yankee dollars, which you were so thoughtful as to earn. I don't think the government or the Allies are going to stop."
"'Playing chicken'," Manfred said, and then translated the English, literally and then the meaning. "Is this kind of financial wizardry what you've been learning in school?"
"Learning and guessing. They had a speaker up from Austria and he had a few worthwhile things to say about finance and the economy.
"'Playing chicken'. That sounds about like what that government we have is doing."
While an uncle built the future for him and his father, young Manfred Albrecht Eduard, Freiherr von Richthofen brought the conversation to an end with a loud bawl. The Red Battle-Flyer, victor of countless combats in the air, could not win this one on the ground.
At dinner that evening, the lady of the house was the mother of the house. "Be careful with that, bread costs now ten times what it did before the War," Kunigunde von Richthofen said to the serving maid, and then stared at her two sons. "Manfred, after the doctor called on your poor sick wife he said she did not have this dreadful Spanish influenza that the War brought, so you can go up and see her after we eat. Even if it were just a common cold, we certainly would not want your son to catch it, so stay away from him until tomorrow. Bolko, I do hope this financial game you are playing does not leave us all beggars on the street."
"Yes, Mama." "Yes, Mama."
"And Lothar, he should follow your example and Ilse's and settle down. Little Carmen practically has to be raised by her mother, and here she is, six months along. Whatever is he doing with himself?"
Manfred had the answer. "Flying. He can make a living and, Mama, he does have a family."
"As long as you set him an example. That dreadful time in California . . . "
But that was Mother's version of a dreadful time. His version was the time the movie producers had dragged the two of them into an office and hectored them about the wonderful prospects of a movie career if only they would come to their senses and sign this contract here. At one point the man went off to the latrine and Rickenbacker said to him, "I went through this once already and turned it down. I can't see myself pretending to be romantic with one of those Hollywood women, and seeing it on the screen . .. "
"Why don't we take a flier?"
They escaped unharmed -- and unsigned, their careers on the screen shot down before takeoff. Performances in Oregon and Utah seemed a lot more attractive after that and they went from one fair to another.
When the summer had wound down he had taken ship home again. Being out of the country had kept those damned ex-stosstruppen, each wanting the sacred blessing of the Red Battle-Flyer on their private army, from getting it. What Göring was doing, for example . . .
Manfred dragged himself back to the present. "It isn't all bad, Mama," he said. "Perhaps when things settle down we can take a tour there. The United States is an enormous place. The name of Richthofen was known there long before the War."
Mother lifted the gravy boat. "Not too much. It's not as bad as the War, when everything was short, but now it costs far too much."
Next week he went to Dessau to see some of those businesses his brother was obligating him for. The airstrip evoked old memories, even if the planes were different. This firm was run by a former partner of Tony Fokker, and he had taken over one of their lines. The world was always changing. Herr Ingenieur Hugo Junkers was quite enthusiastic about his new aircraft. "You remember our J-8 all-metal monoplane? From during the War? This is our new version of it, the F-13. It will carry passengers, four passengers, and we've already set some altitude records. Unfortunately we can't operate it here . . ." he said, his voice dropping.
A Man and a Plane: An Alternate Germany Page 4