The Bloody Red Baron: 1918 ad-2

by Kim Newman

  Richthofen had been flying full-strength dusk-till-dawn missions for several nights, leading his hunting pack, bringing up his score until he was within sight of an unprecedented hundred victories. The general order was that no Allied aircraft be allowed to return to the lines with intelligence of the gathering forces of the Kaiserschlacht. In addition, JG1 were destroying balloons by the half-dozen, ensuring the Allies were running short of trained observers. The Baron was not tired by such exertions. Rather, with the glut of foes' blood, he swelled sleekly and seemed almost fat. He thought faster and was more expansive.

  'I do not care for balloons,' he said.

  'Because they don't add to your score?'

  At the outset of the collaboration, Poe would not have dared make the suggestion. Now he knew his man, he could afford to be facetious.

  There's no sport in it. But it's dangerous. As you know.'

  JG1 had suffered its first loss, to ground fire. Ernst Udet, swooping on a balloon, was transfixed by a lucky silver bullet and shape-shifted to human form, tumbling from the sky a broken wreck.

  'Your father-in-darkness will be here soon.'

  'I have met Dracula.'

  A Sahnke card, sold by the million, commemorated the event, the Baron and the Graf together. Though Richthofen could be photographed, Dracula had no reflection and so appeared in photographs as an empty uniform. The card showed the Baron posed stiffly, shaking the hand of a figure whose head was drawn in, a magnificent coin profile.

  'On my twenty-fifth birthday, shortly after my fiftieth victory, I was summoned to Berlin. I met Hindenburg, Ludendorff, the Kaiser, the Empress and Graf von Dracula. I found the Empress to be a pleasant lady, very grandmotherly.'

  'And the others?'

  Richthofen hesitated, knowing praise of his superiors was his duty.

  'Our Kaiser gave me a birthday present, a life-sized bronze and marble bust of himself. A characteristic gesture, I think.'

  Poe smiled at the understatement. He was surprised the Baron should express even such mild criticism.

  'What did you do with it?'

  'I sent it to my mother in Schweidnitz, to be placed with my boyhood hunting trophies. In transport, one moustache was snapped off. I dare not exhibit an imperfect thing.'

  'What of the others?'

  'Hindenburg and Ludendorff lectured and asked technical questions, many beyond my poor knowledge. Hindenburg was struck by a nostalgic impulse when he learned we had occupied the same cadet room at Wahlstatt. I gather it changed very little between his time and mine, and that he had happier memories of the place than I.'

  Hindenburg must have been at Wahlstatt only shortly after Poe was suffering at West Point.

  'My own memories of military school have not become fonder with age.'

  'That does not surprise me.'

  'And Dracula?'

  Poe remembered his own brief encounter with the Graf. And how overwhelming it had been.

  'He is a huge person. He has his own gravity. There is a mental pull, an invisible fist. Those of his line, he has made his slaves.'

  'New-borns who have been turned by elders are often bound to them.'

  'It was not so with 'Auntie' Perle. She is meek and knows her place. But with Dracula's blood in me, I am chained to him. To be in his presence is like being buffeted by strong winds which threaten to tear one's mind to fragments. This is not even his intention, it is what he is. I cannot best serve him by becoming like those creatures who have attended him down the centuries. His wives and his serfs.'

  'Have any of the others ...'

  '... been in his actual presence? I hope we are strong enough to survive him long enough to do his will.'

  A warm woman, Marianne, was presented to him in the evening. A train brought a company of such to the Schloss Adler, to feed those vampires not on active combat duty and reward those who were. The woman's neck was not too scabby, though she was rouged to conceal, advancing years and so docile as to suggest she had been used by vampires for quite some time.

  Her blood carried traces of the others who had tapped her. Poe sensed little of her own life. Her mind was almost drained, used up. Still, she took the edge off his red thirst.

  She was lulled into sleep and he drank again from the dribbling wounds on her neck and breast. Her blood cleared the fog from his mind, the jitteriness that he had, like the rest of the castle's inhabitants, been feeling since the changes began.

  The door was rudely opened. Poe raised a sheet over Marianne's face.

  'West tower,'Theo said. 'Full dress uniform. A quarter of an hour.'

  Pre-dawn haze and thick cloud made the landscape seem like the bottom of the sea. Poe and Theo stood with General Karnstein. The fliers were out killing Englishmen, but the rest of the castle's staff were assembled in ranks as if for a parade. Everyone was in uniform: Ten Brincken, Caligari, Rotwang and the other scientists had reactivated reserve ranks, even the Graf von Orlok wore a pickelhaube and braided tailcoat.

  The fliers of JG1, a flock of giant bats, appeared from the west, in perfect formation. Richthofen was the arrowhead, wings spread wide. The sight of the creatures still awed Poe.

  Through thin cloud which ripped as barbed wings sliced, the fliers approached Schloss Adler. The Baron landed on a stone platform, crouching slightly then standing erect. His men fell in smartly behind him.

  Engineers fussed by the sky-hook set into the tower. A shadow fell on the castle and everyone looked up. A vast black whale-shape was descending through the clouds. A smartly assembled band struck up Wagner's 'Ride of the Valkyries' from The Ring.

  Hardt gave orders as cables tumbled from the sky. Engineers scrambled to catch the whiplike things. A dirigible loomed lower. The cable was fixed to the hook and an electric winch whirred. It was rare to see a Zeppelin so close to the lines. This was a magnificent specimen, painted black as night. On the nose of the gasbag, just in front of the gondola, the crest of Dracula was picked out in scarlet.

  All necks locked at an angle. All eyes fixed on the wondrous craft, the dreadnought of the clouds. It was the Attila, flagship of the German aerial fleet.

  A trap opened in the underside. A batwing-cloaked figure stepped into empty air and floated down. He wore a face- covering helmet crowned with horns. His body was encased in burnished armour. As Dracula alighted on the tower, everyone saluted.

  Part Four: Journey's End

  38

  Offensive Patrol

  Winthrop awoke before two in the morning. He hauled out the bucket stowed under his cot and was sick into it. With his changes, keeping down food and drink was difficult. His alarm clock was set to sound in five minutes. In the dark, outlines of objects were almost clear. Things seemed to glow with a deeper black. In the air, he was gifted with apprehensions and insights. Like a bat's, his inner ears sensed other creatures in the sky.

  Sitting on the cot, he pulled on his Sidcot and boots. He didn't allow himself funk. This would be his first night patrol since ... Since the first time.

  Not quite a night bird, he needed a few hours' sleep. The vampires were downstairs, carousing. The other vampires? He was stricken with a shivering spasm. The queasiness in his stomach told him he was still warm. The sharpness in his mouth told him how close he was to living death. He couldn't afford to worry about such things. He must focus on duty and retribution.

  Suiting up was automatic. He buttoned and strapped himself together, then stumped downstairs, joints thickened by protective gear. On the ground, he felt swaddled and stuffy. In the air, he was agile as his Camel. The cold cut through a dozen layers.

  'Hullo,' said Bertie. War was a continuous rag to him. Those who went west had just popped out for a smoke and would be back in a minute. 'Wrapped up warm?'

  'You've fixed up your Sidcot like Ball,' Ginger commented.

  Winthrop had instinctively come into the mess through the low doorway and steadied himself by gripping Ball's hand-holds.

  The boots made him clumsy. Suited
-up pilots often fell over like clots. People were always saying he did things like Albert Ball: flying, shooting, crawling, fighting.

  The pilots for tonight's jaunt were already in flying kit. Allard had a few veterans of the old Condor Squadron, but most, like Winthrop, were from the new intake. Mainly, they were American vampires, purposeful as blades, solitary as cats.

  'Cheerio, old thing,' Bertie said as Winthrop left the mess. 'See you at dawn.'

  Winthrop nodded ambiguous reply. He had no time to pretend each patrol didn't potentially end in true death. He made no arrangements beyond each flight.

  Allard liked to have the patrol line up as if for inspection, and go over the particulars once more. Winthrop fell in by Dandridge, a Yank new to the war but skilled in predation. The elder had passed among the warm for centuries, stalking in the cities of the living. Others of the intake - the cowboy Severin, the insatiable Brandberg, the idealist Knight - were old, turned before the 1880s. Mr Croft reasoned that those who lived through ages of persecution must have the instinct to kill and survive. There was friction between these elder aces and Cundall's contemporaries. No arguments, just mutual distaste.

  Winthrop, not a vampire, was apart from both factions. From Allard, he understood Croft approved of him. He had flown patrols with elders. They were better suited to daylight excursions than sensitive-skinned new-borns.

  Allard appeared in front of his men, emerging swiftly from shadow.

  'The objective of this patrol has been changed,' Allard said. Behind him stood Caleb Croft, greyness a gloomy gleam in velvet black. 'Tonight, we visit the Château du Malinbois.'

  Icy calm radiated from Winthrop's heart. He must not let himself be excited or afraid. He had known this would come.

  'Or, as it is now known to the German High Command, Schloss Adler.'

  The intake had been briefed on Malinbois. Winthrop's report on his flight with Courtney was the only authoritative intelligence on the shape-shifters of JG1. While Winthrop was in hospital, Richthofen's bat-staffel had been glimpsed frequently from the ground, hunting spotters and scouts, killing balloonists, buzzing the lines. Only Winthrop had encountered the creatures in the air and lived to make a report.

  Allard continued: 'Richthofen's brood have made it impossible to gather intelligence on the nocturnal movements of the German army. Vast numbers of men and much materiel are reinforcing their lines, to prepare for their push. This activity is being conducted by night. In this sector, no single aircraft has managed to return with information. We have no more balloons to put up or trained observers to put in them. It is vital the reign of JG1 be broken. To this end, we shall set out to engage the German fliers and prove they are not invincible.'

  Suddenly, out of nowhere, observing the stricken expressions of even the oldest of the old, Allard laughed. It was not a reassuring laugh, but a sinister chuckle that grew to a maddened and maddening howl. Again, Winthrop noted that, for a comparative new-born, Allard was among the strangest of the strange.

  The pilots dashed for their waiting aircraft. Winthrop was in his seat before the echoes of Allard's laughter died.

  Condor Squadron had been equipped with new Camels. Tricky birds to tame, but on a par with any machine the Boche could put in the air.

  Allard favoured a barbed arrow formation: taking the tip position himself, ranks falling back above and below and to both sides. Winthrop kept steady immediately above and behind the flight commander, with the high man, Dandridge, immediately above and behind him.

  Without fuel, the shape-shifted Boche were not vulnerable to the most common killing shot of aerial combat. They could not go down in flames. But they were still vampires: silver in the head or the heart should do the trick. Every other bullet in the drums of the Camel's twin Vickers guns was silver. A twenty- second burst of fire cost a hundred guineas. Both sides were reduced to recovering silver from the amputated limbs or smashed corpses of casualties.

  Winthrop carved crosses into the tips of all his bullets, silver or lead. Nothing to do with the supposed allergy of vampires to crucifixes, it ensured the bullets fragmented on impact, bursting inside a wound. In the course of a dozen daytime patrols over the last week, he had qualified as an ace, shooting down six of the enemy. He was happiest with the ones who had gone down in flames. He had a taste for the fray and Albert Ball's instinct for it. Now, he wanted to fight by night. He wanted to add a Richthofen to his bag. Then, perhaps. Ball would be assuaged.

  His stomach spasmed again. He'd learned to live with the stitches of pain, not to let them show. Kate had tried to tell him his course was dangerous. He would make things right with Kate when it was all over. No, he would make things right with Kate if it was all over. No, he could not think of Kate, or Catriona, or Beauregard. Only the moment, only now.

  He gripped the stick and kept level. The pain-burst faded. The night sky was alive. Without turning in his cockpit, he knew where the other Camels were. A picture of the arrowhead stayed in his mind.

  Down below, a column of vehicles advanced along a road, feeding men and materiel to the Boche lines. He ignored it. This was not an observation flight. This was an offensive patrol, a hunting party.

  A tiny noise. A lone Hun on the ground fired a futile shot upwards, at the Camels. Winthrop's thumbs almost depressed firing buttons. Albert Ball told him to be a cool hand. Ball sat on one shoulder, Kate on the other. Not a comfortable arrangement.

  The patrol flew the course Winthrop had flown with Courtney. Up ahead was the newly named Schloss Adler. This was where the Bloody Red Baron lived.

  Reports were in from the lines. JG1 were out of their nest tonight, towards Amiens, attacking a row of patched-up balloons suitable only for hauling aloft Guy Fawkes dummies. They'd return frustrated to find a fight waiting for them. No one had ever attacked the shape-shifters before. That was a tiny advantage, a surprise.

  Before he saw them, he sensed them. His ears thrilled. A silent formation returning to the castle. They flew like bats, gliding between wing-flaps, riding unmapped currents.

  Allard saw the Boche too. He raised his hand. The arrowhead expanded. The Camels let distance grow between them, but kept in formation.

  Remember, short bursts. Accurate fire, not hosepipe spray.

  His mind stripped down, surplus thought and feeling done away with. He was a new person, unencumbered. A purpose behind Vickers guns.

  They saw the Camels.

  Allard was close to the flank of the enemy formation. He fired first. Silver flashes appeared in the wings of one of the creatures. The horribly human scream was louder than an elephant's bellowing. The injured monster fell out of formation. His wings were torn but bullets passed through. He'd have to be hit in the torso or head to be seriously damaged.

  Winthrop watched the flier tumble, wings like an umbrella reversed by a sudden wind. He recovered and cruised downwards. Severin was on the wounded vampire's tail, whooping and firing like Broncho Billy. The elder had a killing thirst and was ignoring tactics. When his guns were empty, his enemy would recover and come for him.

  The formations passed through each other. Winthrop smelled the shape-shifters' musk and felt the cold rush of their wings. Wheeling in the air, he tried to draw a bead on a black shape darting past. He nearly fired, but managed not to waste precious bullets.

  The Boche weren't firing either. They would have used up most of their firepower on the dummy balloons. It was often the habit of fliers to get rid of the extra weight of ammunition by emptying guns into enemy trenches on the way home.

  A wing filled his whole field of vision and he squeezed the firing-buttons. White flashes seared his eyes as his guns discharged. The wing was gone and he let up the pressure on the buttons.

  The burst, only a few seconds' worth, jarred his ears. On instinct, he fired again, moments before another wing passed in front of his prop. This time, the shape-shifter flapped into his burst, and was twisted, screeching, in the air. A row of holes appeared in a curtain of wings. He
was sure he had sunk a few into the furry barrel of the flier's body.

  He tasted blood in his mouth. His own, mingled with Ball's and Kate's. His teeth were coral razors. This was as near to the vampire condition as he wished to come.

  Another burst. Another miss. The bat-creature executed a perfect Immelmann and swooped towards the slice of moon. Dandridge was on his tail, firing scientific bursts. The Boche came out of his turn and spread wings wide. Dandridge had hit him. Red gobbets dripped in black fur.

  With a sinking motion, the shape-shifter got beneath Dandridge's climb and latched like a lamprey on to the underside of the Camel, wings wrapping upwards, tail lashing. The Camel's frame buckled and its engine stalled. The prop sliced into the Boche's face but jammed.

  Winthrop was appalled.

  The Camel came apart. Dandridge's upper plane ripped off and disappeared like a kite in a storm. The shape-shifter detached from the aircraft. Dandridge's crushed wreck plunged, wind shrieking in the wires. As he went down, Dandridge emptied his guns.

  The creature that had killed Dandridge struggled to stay aloft. He had taken many hits and the propeller slice was severe. His wings were ragged and torn. Ribbons of dark blood flew from wounds.

  Was this the Red Baron?

  Winthrop had the mutilated monster in his sights. He fired, pouring out silver and lead. He swooped down and over the creature, briefly worried that he might latch on to his Camel, repeating the manoeuvre that had defeated Dandridge.

  His blood thrilled. There would be a reckoning. Turning for another pass, he saw Allard diving on the same prey. The monster struggled upwards to meet Allard. With what seemed a single shot, Allard put a lump of silver into the monster's skull. Instantly dead, the flier dwindled to human size, weighted by heavy guns, and fell towards black ground.

  The creatures could be beaten.

  His victory stolen, Winthrop wheeled, searching. He was at the heart of the dog-fight. Shape-shifters and Camels whirled around, firing guns, tearing wings. There was an explosion as a Camel (Rutledge's, Winthrop thought) burst into a fireball. An expanding ball of hot air hit his wings and forced him back.