Aces

by T. E. Cruise

  The Spads backed off to see what would happen. Goldstein watched his altimeter, letting the Fokker plummet as long as he’d dared in order to buy himself some room. At five thousand feet he ran out of nerve. He didn’t want to get any closer to the ground with a faltering engine. He struggled to pull out of the spin. The controls were sluggish, and for a second he’d thought he’d waited too long, but at last the D VII responded. Goldstein brought her around hard, and began to run for his own lines.

  He was less than three minutes from safety, but he knew he wasn’t going to make it. He was losing RPMs and altitude. He decided to use his parachute, but before he could the Spads were at him like angry bees.

  He took a burst in his right wing. He slid his wounded Fokker sideways, but that just cost him more precious altitude and put him across the sights of another American pilot. Goldstein took more rounds into his engine, which died on him altogether.

  And then Goldstein’s guns were hit, and suddenly splinters were flying off the varnished wood trim of his cockpit, and he was screaming in pain as bullets leapfrogged across both thighs. His lap welled up with blood as his legs instantly, thankfully, went numb.

  Goldstein was approaching German lines, but a succession of Spads were diving down on him. Their tracers were falling around his airplane like orange rain. Bullets hit his fuel tank, and what was left of his petrol ignited in a puff, setting on fire his tail section.

  The Spads lifted off and veered toward their own lines. They knew he was finished.

  He unbuckled his harness and tried to haul himself out of his cockpit in order to parachute to safety, but he couldn’t make his legs function, and his arms were too thin and weak to hoist him over the cockpit’s high sill. By the time he thought to roll the Fokker upside down and just fall out of the cockpit, he’d lost still more altitude. Now he was less than fifty meters above the ground; too low to parachute.

  The wind was fanning the blazing tail section’s flames away from him, but the heat was still blistering. His goggles were fogged with sweat, but he didn’t dare remove them, not wanting to expose his eyes to the oily black smoke spewing from his killed engine. Sliding past beneath him in a blur were the men and machines of war, but Goldstein couldn’t tell to what army they belonged. The ground was coming up at him fast. Directly ahead was a wooded knoll. He jerked the stick, and, miraculously, the ailerons sluggishly responded. He just managed to avoid the knoll, the trees’ branches tearing at the Fokker’s underbelly. He saw that the grassy pasture ahead of him had more trees, but now he no longer had a choice. He was just skimming the ground.

  He belly-flopped hard. The impact collapsed the Fokker’s tail skid, cracked the fuselage in half just aft the wings. Goldstein hoped the Fokker’s broken spine would slow her down, but the flaming rear section of the fuselage dragged behind only a few yards before sheering off in a shower of sparks and twanging, snapped control wires. Goldstein cringed as what was left of the airplane careened on screeching wheels toward the trees. He threw up his hands as low branches stabbed into the cockpit. A tree trunk tore away the Fokker’s left wing. Goldstein felt the Fokker slammed to a halt, spinning like a top. The whirling airplane hurled him from the cockpit, into darkness.

  He woke up feeling blissfully comfortable. He was lying on his back, floating in warm sea. The sun was so bright! He had to squint, else the sun would make him sneeze.

  He was at one of the resorts along Germany’s northern coast. He was drifting on his back on the gentle waves, listening to the joyous cries of children frolicking in the surf. Far off, on shore, he could hear the bells and creak of the revolving carousel. He was thinking of going ashore to get himself an ice cream, when he fell back asleep.

  When he woke up the second time, Goldstein’s mind was clearer. He still felt comfortable, like he was floating, but he realized that he was lying on a cot, one of many cots, in a large, sunlit room. What he’d thought had been the laughter of children were the moans and cries of wounded men. The jingle and creak that had been his dreamy carousel was really the sound of traffic from the road that seemed to be just beyond the room’s open windows.

  He was alive. He’d survived the crash. He began to take stock of himself: he could think, see, and hear. His arms were all right, but he couldn’t move his legs. His legs didn’t hurt. They didn’t anything. It was if they weren’t there…

  Weren’t?—

  Oh, Christ. Oh, Jesus—

  “Help…” His throat was so dry. His lips seemed glued together. He raised his head to look down at himself, but he was covered with a blanket from his chest down. He was too weak to throw off the covering, and he just couldn’t tell what remained and was missing under there.

  “Help!” he croaked, adding his own voice to the cries of men in pain. “Someone, help!”

  A boy suddenly appeared, leaning over him. “Easy, Herr Sergeant, rest easy.”

  “Easy? Fuck easy!” Goldstein shouted above the chorus of moans going on all around him. “Who the hell are you, boy?”

  “I’m an orderly.”

  “My God, they’re really robbing the cradle…” The boy looked about fifteen. He had blond curls tumbling over his forehead, and big, soulful brown eyes behind gold-rimmed spectacles. He reminded Goldstein of a boy he’d known at the orphanage. That boy had apprenticed himself to a butcher. On second thought, maybe it was this orderly’s bloodstained white smock that reminded Goldstein of that other young meat cutter.

  “Where am I?” Goldstein managed. “What’s happened to me?”

  “You’re at a dressing station to the rear. You’ve been here since yesterday, when your flying machine crashed. You were thrown from the wreckage. Some infantrymen found you and you were transferred here by ambulance.”

  “I can’t feel my legs,” Goldstein murmured.

  “You will, Herr Sergeant!” the young orderly said wearily. “You’ll feel in spades! Right now you’re full of morphine, but our medicine supply is running low. When your injection begins to wear off, you’ll wish you were still numb.”

  “Why can’t I move below the waist?”

  “Your legs are in splints right now. The splints are intended to keep you immobile.”

  Goldstein’s eyes widened. “What’s happened? How seriously am I injured?”

  “Your legs were fractured by machine gun bullets. Otherwise you just have some bumps and bruises. You’re very lucky. It could have been your back, or your neck that was broken.” The boy’s puppy-dog eyes brightened behind his spectacles. “I almost forgot, your commanding officer has sent you a message.”

  “The Herr Oberleutnant?” Goldstein demanded. “What’s that about my C.O.?” Goldstein remembered how that bastard Goering had left him to the American Spads.

  “Your commanding officer was informed that you’d been brought here,” the orderly said. “He telephoned a message for you.” The boy took a scrap of paper from his smock, unfolded it, and handed it to Goldstein.

  The Herr Geschwaderkommandeur of J.G. 1 offers his sincerest condolences to Herr Sergeant Hermann Goldstein. How fortunate for him that he survived. The C.O. regrets that he was forced to withdraw from the air battle due to his airplane’s malfunctioning armament. The Herr Geschwaderkommandeur is certain that the Herr Sergeant will understand that the former could not remain in battle with just one functioning machine gun.

  Goldstein let the scrap flutter to the floor.

  The orderly quickly snatched it up. “You’ll want to save it, of course. I’ll see to it that it’s put safely with your personal items.”

  Oh, that bastard Goering, Goldstein thought. He could just see Goering’s eyes glinting with swinish malevolence as he’d dictated that note. How it must have aggravated Goering when he’d found out that Goldstein had survived!

  Goldstein hoped the fact that Goering’s cowardly strategy hadn’t managed to kill him festered in the Oberleutnant’s fat gut. Goldstein knew that was all the revenge he would ever have against Goering. As Richthofen
had made plain long ago, an officer and a gentleman is not to be challenged by a Jew.

  “I had hopes of being a flier, myself—” The orderly was blushing.

  “What?” Goldstein muttered. “What did you say?”

  “I wanted to fly, but I couldn’t pass muster.” The boy tapped his spectacles. “Weak eyes, you know. I hope there’s an opportunity for you to tell me about some of your adventures before they ship you out.”

  “Ship me?…” For a moment Goldstein didn’t understand. “You mean home?” he asked tentatively.

  “Home to Germany,” the orderly confirmed. “As soon as the doctors have set your fractures. Herr Sergeant, for you the war is over.”

  It was only when the orderly was gone that Goldstein thought to ask how the war was proceeding. Later he found out that the news was bad. The Allies had broken through all across the line and had crossed the Marne. Last night, while Goldstein slept, huge bonfires lit the sky as German soldiers burned everything they were unable to carry before pulling back.

  The constant traffic outside the window was the sound of the German army running away.

  Chapter 4

  * * *

  (One)

  Berlin, Germany

  12 June 1919

  It was a cool night. The breeze blowing down the Unter Den Linden smelled of smoke. Goldstein zipped up his brown leather jacket and stuffed his hands into the pockets of his loden trousers as he walked slowly, minding his steps across the rain-slicked, iridescent cobblestones. The sidewalk was crowded, and now and then someone would grumble an insult as they pushed past Goldstein, which he ignored.

  He’d been out of hospital a couple of months, but when the plaster casts came off Goldstein had to relearn the art of walking. The doctors assured him that he would eventually walk as well as he ever had, but for now using his legs delivered the same thrill, and required the same amount of concentration, as had flying.

  Goldstein kept his head bowed as he passed the disposed Kaiser’s palace and the sentries at the entrance who watched the street from behind their tripod-mounted machine gun. One man wore an army infantryman’s uniform and helmet, the other was nattily attired in a velvet-collared, gray tweed suit and matching fedora. He had on pearl gray, calf-skin gloves that looked intended for handling a furled umbrella, not ammo belts. Both men wore the armbands of the Social Democratic Party, which had swept the January elections for a New National Assembly to replace the exiled Kaiser’s Imperial Government. The newly elected Assembly had met in Weimar to elect as President of the Reich the Socialist Freidrich Ebert. The hope was that the Weimar Parliament would end the months of vicious street fighting in Berlin and other major cities between rival political factions on both the left and the right.

  Peace born of political stability was the hope, but the new government was taking no chances. The harsh provisions of the Versailles Treaty had stirred up bitter resentment all over the country. Nationalist politicians were making defiant speeches threatening rebellion, as if they’d forgotten that Germany had lost the war. The Officer Corps was especially alarmed by the Allies’ insistence that Germany disarm. The newspapers were filled with reports of bloody skirmishes: between soldiers and socialist or communist factions; between socialists and communists when the soldiers were not around. The machine gun emplacements and roadblocks infesting Berlin attested to the fact that the fledgling Weimar government was prepared to clamp down on this dissent using whatever means necessary.

  Goldstein turned left onto the Friedrichstrasse, past the imposing State Library. He was on his way home to his room in a boardinghouse near the railroad tracks, on the far side of the Spree River, about a quarter mile from the Weidendammer Bridge. He’d been walking for quite a while, and he still had a couple of kilometers to go, but the doctors had said that the more walking Goldstein did, the faster his legs would mend.

  He had the money to take a motorbus if he chose. He was getting by earning a living doing odd jobs. He’d put on his old uniform and go calling at shops and residences with his pack of tools on his back. With the terrible inflation, the mark was worth only a fraction of what it had been at the beginning of the war. Most everybody was broke, but people, seeing a young veteran at their door, seemed always able to find the money to pay him to fix something, and often invited him in to share a meal.

  For the chance to eat, Goldstein was especially grateful. Food was scarce, like most everything else in Germany excepting bitter recriminations. With his injured legs it was difficult for him to stand in one place for very long, and the lines were long at the sporadically open bakeries and groceries.

  In the evening, Goldstein went for long walks to exercise his legs, or read: either technical books on aviation and mechanics, borrowed from the library, or newspapers. He enjoyed current events. It was interesting, for instance, to follow what was going on in Palestine concerning the Jews, and to read about the American President Wilson, who especially fascinated Goldstein. In print, Wilson seemed an uncommonly just and kind man, considering the American President’s Fourteen Points for what would have been a merciful settlement toward Germany, and his attempt to establish a so-called League of Nations to mediate all future international disputes, and thereby avoid another world war. The more Goldstein read, the more it seemed to him that only America had a leader wise enough to want to put aside vindictiveness towards vanquished Germany. The Americans had certainly seemed more willing to be fair at Versailles than the English, and especially those bastard French…

  A crowd was backed up at a government sentry point on the Dorotheenstrasse, near the Winter Garden Theater. Goldstein was waiting his turn to pass when he saw Heiner Froehlig of all people, seated alone at a table for two in a sidewalk cafe across the street. Froehlig was wearing blue pinstripes and a derby, and had clipped back his once luxurious walrus moustache, but Goldstein was sure that it was his old comrade.

  In November, after the Armistice, Froehlig had frequently visited Goldstein in the hospital. For a few months Froehlig showed up a couple of times a week, to pass Goldstein his silver flask when the nurses weren’t about, and talk about their intended partnership in the motorcar garage.

  Gradually, though, Froehlig’s visits began to taper off. Finally, he no longer came at all. Goldstein was mystified, and deeply hurt. He concluded he’d been naive to have expected anything different. When would he ever learn? With the economy the way it was, the idea of starting a business was utter foolishness. Anyway, what did he have in common with Froehlig? Their friendship had been the result of a particular set of circumstances, a friendship of time and place.

  Goldstein hadn’t much thought about Froehlig since then. Now, seeing him again, Goldstein was filled with longing for his company. He was very lonely in Berlin. Perhaps his friendship with Froehlig could be resumed.

  It was worth a try, Goldstein decided. He crossed the street to say hello.

  Froehlig saw him coming, but did not look happy about it. “Hermann, such a surprise…”

  Goldstein waited for an invitation to sit down. When it was not forthcoming he indicated the empty chair. “May I join you for a coffee? I have money,” he quickly added, not wanting Froehlig to misunderstand. “Let me buy you a coffee,” he said proudly.

  “Well, I’m actually waiting for some people.” Froehlig looked around nervously. “I’ll be leaving at any moment…” Then he looked up at Goldstein and seemed to soften. “My young sergeant.” He smiled.

  “Not anymore,” Goldstein said whimsically. “Just a civilian, like yourself.”

  “But your legs!” Froehlig exclaimed. “How could I have forgotten. And here I’m keeping you standing! Of course you may sit down. And allow me to buy the coffee.”

  A waiter appeared, and Froehlig ordered for both of them. “Would you care for a schnapps?” he asked Goldstein.

  “It’s so expensive!” Goldstein protested. He smiled. “Unless, of course, you’re offering from the silver flask…”

  “No. I l
ost that flask. I don’t know what happened to it.”

  “Then just coffee is plenty,” Goldstein said.

  As the waiter left with their order, two young prostitutes leaning against a nearby lamppost strolled over, arm in arm. They paused at the table to raise their worn, faded skirts, showing off their high boots.

  “Get away,” Froehlig growled.

  “Perhaps your balls were blown off in the war,” one of the prostitutes taunted in oddly accented German. They sauntered off.

  “Did you hear? A foreigner,” Froehlig grumbled. “Berlin needs a good cleaning.”

  Goldstein nodded vaguely. There were lots of streetwalkers in his neighborhood, and he’d taken a girl up to his room on a few occasions. He saw nothing wrong with it. The girls were clean. Being with one once in a while eased his loneliness. “Tell me, Heiner, what have you been doing with yourself since we last met?”

  “I’ve been involved in politics,” Froehlig replied. “Organizing for the Deutsch Arbeiter-Partei.”

  “Heiner, you must excuse me, but I’ve never heard of it.”

  “Of us,” Froehlig corrected. “We’re all just decent, working stiffs, Hermann. Honest men who know that the government in power is to blame for our misfortunes.”

  “Heiner, I don’t see how you can blame the Weimar Coalition for losing the war.”

  Froehlig shrugged. “Well, I don’t see how President Ebert can claim it is the German military that failed us.”

  “I believe Ebert claimed it was the German military leadership that failed,” Goldstein quietly pointed out, but Froehlig seemed not to hear him, and he decided not to press the point.

  The waiter came with their coffees. Froehlig waited until they were served, and then said, “I don’t know about you, Hermann, but I resent what Ebert is claiming.” He scowled. “We soldiers fought hard, and risked our lives for our country. You yourself physically suffered on behalf of the Fatherland.”