by Richard Fox
Trant pulled himself back to his feet. A shadow passed over him an instant before something crashed into the table. Silverware leapt into the air, joined by Trant’s teacup and kettle as he leapt away from whatever struck his breakfast.
He found himself on the ground, cold water seeping through his uniform. He stood up and brushed himself off. The red tail of the departing Albatros vanished over the forest. A fur-lined box, attached to a foot long ribbon, was on the table.
“Was that…him?” Trant asked.
“I daresay it was. The bloody Red Baron,” Thom said. He tapped tobacco into a pipe and examined the box. “Looks like Valley’s personal effects.”
“Should we call it in—? 20 Squadron might get in the air in time to nab him,” Trant said.
“No, shame to repay his courtesy by trying to kill him,” Thom said. He raised the corner of the box with a butter knife, revealing a pulverized mass of eggs and crumpets. “So much for breakfast…and so much for Valley.”
Chapter 10— “A Lucky Man”
Squadron 11 flew between gray clouds. By all the reports from the railhead that was bombed, spotting by ground troops, and a few calculations based on wind speed and the top speed of the English planes, their quarry would be near. Eight enemy planes, a mix of Bristol two-seaters and Nieuport escorts, were an even match for the six Albatroses flying alongside Manfred.
They passed over a cloud, and Manfred spotted the enemy planes flying in an extended V formation.
Manfred wagged his wings to signal the attack, and dove.
He flew toward a Bristol at the far end of the enemy formation, the familiar rush of adrenaline and fear chilling his blood. The gunner of the Bristol must have been paying attention, as the Lewis machine gun fired at him from well beyond five hundred yards away.
Manfred flew on, heedless to the threat. At this distance, one simply did not hit. He glanced over his shoulder to check on the rest of the attack. His men were spread out, lining up on separate targets, just as he’d trained them.
He turned his focus back to the Bristol. A tracer round zipped over his top wing, too close for comfort. He continued his attack, undeterred by one lucky shot. A bullet sparked off the propeller and struck his skull. His world vanished into darkness.
Manfred’s body refused to move as he felt the plane roll over. He flopped from one side of the cockpit to the other as his plane spiraled to the earth. He was locked in his own body, able to feel and little else.
“Move, Manfred, you have to move,” a still, quiet voice said to him. His arms groped out in front of him with the coordination of a newborn baby. Sound returned slowly, the thrum of his engine, wind whipping over his wings, the distant pop of machine gun fire.
He found his control stick and held it steady, not knowing if he was leveling himself out or steering straight into the ground. He still couldn’t see, and he tried blinking his eyes over and over again. He mashed his goggles away from his eyes with a nerveless hand.
Hot blood gushed down his face as it welled up from beneath his cowl. Vision returned with a black-gray blur; a bluish field emerged over the black-gray, and Manfred knew which way was up.
The plummet ceased as Manfred pulled out of the dive, his arms barely strong enough to move the stick.
He fumbled against the control panel until he found the kill switch for the engine. The engine chugged silent, and Manfred readied his rubber legs to mash the rudder pedals.
The Albatros smashed to the earth; landing gear spat from either side as the supporting axle shattered. The propeller cracked apart with the sound of a gunshot. The plane fishtailed across a field before coming to a stop in a cloud of dirt.
Manfred pawed at his restraints, blood running from his face in thin streams down onto his chest, until they released. He crawled from his cockpit and fell to the earth.
He screeched as his body erupted in pain from the bite of a thousand thorns. Manfred pulled himself from the thorn bushes, using his elbows to gain purchase against the dirt.
Beets. It was a beet field that he’d crashed into. Worms and flies scattered as he knocked a rotten beet from his path. Manfred rolled to his back, his eyes swimming like a drunk. A swath of pain burned his skull with an acid grip.
He didn’t know how long he lay there. The pain time kept him in a never-ending instant of agony. There was the thump of approaching footsteps. Grasping hands and kind words. Darkness.
The hospital treated him well, too well, in his opinion. He had his own room with a window, clean sheets, and the attention of every passing doctor that could think up an excuse to check on him. His sat propped up on a mass of down pillows, which was a true luxury in the field hospital.
Manfred stared down at the bowl of turnip soup on a tray in front of him. He’d insisted on feeding himself, much to the dismay of the young girl passing out the morning’s breakfast. His hand managed to scoop up the spoon, but lacked the dexterity to make it to the bowl. She would chide him for it, again.
His bandages itched, a white dome over his skull that had to be changed out three times a day. He picked up the spoon again, and dropped it on his lap.
“I told you,” said a voice in the doorway.
Nurse Katy Otersdorf stood there, arms crossed over her stomach as she looked at him with a slight shake of her head. Her red hair was done up under her nurse’s cap, framing a lovely face that hinted at years of long hours and hardship.
“I will feed myself.” He patted his thigh and sent the spoon tumbling to the floor. He sighed, and gently lay his head back against his pillow.
“Not today.” Katy sat beside her patient and spooned up a dose of turnip soup. She held the spoon an inch from Manfred’s closed lips. Katy cleared her throat. Manfred opened his mouth and accepted the food.
Katy put the back of her hand against Manfred’s forehead, then pressed her palm under his chin. “No fever, good. How is your vision?”
“Fine,” he swallowed another bite. “The red knight of Germany spoon-fed like a child. My public image will never recover.”
“The red knight of Germany narrowly escapes death while in mortal combat with the enemy. He is resting well and will make a full recovery,” she brandished the dirty spoon at him “if he stops being so stubborn and eats enough to regain his strength.”
“Do you know a Captain Gempp?” he asked.
“No, why?” she fed him the rest of the bowl without further conversation. She gathered up the tray and made for the door.
“You’re due for fresh bandages. I’ll be back in a bit,” she said.
A rush of footsteps echoed through the hallway. Lothar, Udet, and Wolff fought to get through the door and managed to block their own advance. Lothar yanked Udet back by his collar and made it to Manfred’s bedside first.
“Manfred, are you OK?” Lothar looked him over, panic in his eyes. His brother reached out and squeezed his hand, then pulled away as Wolff peeked over Lothar’s shoulder.
“Can you hear us?” Wolff asked.
“I’m just fine, Kurt, Lothar,” Manfred said. “My pride took the biggest hit.”
“How bad is it? Can you come back with us?” Lothar said.
“Maybe not just yet,” Manfred did his best to straighten up while nestled in the pillows. “Was my plane recovered? How badly was it damaged?”
“Sorry, sir. That nag had to be put out to pasture,” Udet said.
“Nothing to worry about; you used up all the luck it had when you landed,” Wolff said.
“Where’s Allmenroder? He’s the ranking officer after me, I have some instructions for him until I return,” Manfred said.
The three visitors traded glances.
Wolff swallowed hard. “We…lost him, sir. He followed you down and fought off a pair of Camels looking to finish you off. It was quick…at least,” Wolff said.
Silence prevailed as Manfred took in the death of a friend. His mouth twitched as he fought down the urge to display emotion before his men. Even wounded,
he had to be the strongest man in the squadron.
“Reinhard’s the ranking officer,” Manfred said.
Wolff nodded. “He knows what he’s doing, and Metzger will keep him up to speed.”
Manfred frowned. “I’ve been here for almost two days, and now you come to visit?” He hoped they’d take the hint and discuss anything but Allmenroder.
“Tommy sent fighters to hit our reinforcements piling on some salient in the trenches. Reinhard kept us in the air until the infantry was safe. He said that’s what you’d want,” Udet said.
“He’s right.”
“Then someone forgot his east from west when we drove through Courtrai,” Udet said.
“Shut up,” Lothar said.
“That same someone almost drove us to Holland before a helpful farmer told us to turn around.”
“Shut up,” Lothar said again.
“You’d be flying against the Italians if you weren’t following me into the air every time, eh, Lothar?” Manfred said. It was his first joke since the crash; it felt good to see his brother squirm.
“Do you have a good doctor, or at least a pretty nurse?” Wolff asked.
“Gentlemen,” Katy said from the doorway. She had a tray of fresh bandages and dull medical instruments.
“We’ve got to get you to a new hospital before your terrible doctor amputates something,” Wolff said.
“Gentlemen,” Doctor Goldstein stepped from behind Katy. He was a slight man with a hawk face and spectacles that seemed to be in constant danger of slipping from his nose. Goldstein put his hands on his hips.
“Maybe we should go,” Wolff said.
“Captain Richthofen will be discharged as soon as he’s ready. Please don’t feel the urge to return. He needs his rest.” Goldstein’s tone wasn’t polite.
Wolff and Udet filled out, but Lothar stayed behind.
“Mother and Father haven’t heard yet,” Lothar said. “I wanted to see you before I sent a telegram.”
“Tell them it was just a scratch,” Manfred said. The throbbing pain in his head and the X rays showing shards of bone in his brain were anything but a scratch, not that his parents needed to know that.
Lothar kissed Manfred on the cheek, something he hadn’t done since they were boys.
“Miss,” he said to Katy as he left the room.
“Well, all is well back at the squadron?” Goldstein said as he and Katy pulled the bed away from the wall so that Goldstein could get behind Manfred.
“Well enough,” Manfred said. Katy put a pillow on his lap and put his arms on top of it. He leaned forward and buried his face in the pillow. Goldstein tucked a sterile piece of paper into the neckline of his hospital gown and began unwrapping Manfred’s bandages.
Allmenroder—he had fiancée. She pestered Allmenroder for the silk parachutes from illumination rounds. Fabric was strictly rationed and she swore that her wedding dress wouldn’t be made from potato sacks. Manfred had given Allmenroder a half dozen autographed Sanke cards to ply the supply officers, and his fiancée—what was her name—sent Manfred a sweet thank you letter for the help. The pillow under Manfred’s chin absorbed tears.
Cold air stung his wound as the final bandage came away. Goldstein murmured something to Katy.
“What was that?” Manfred asked.
“I said you’re a lucky man,” Goldstein said.
“And how is that?”
Goldstein tapped a finger against the side of Manfred’s head. “If the bullet had been one inch to the left, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.” Manfred heard the metal tick of a forceps and a slight tug against his scalp.
“There we go, a little less every time,” Goldstein said.
“Let me see it,” Manfred said. All he knew of his wound was the platitudes from a string of doctors and a brief glimpse of an X ray.
“Manfred, it’s normally best for a patient not to look at their wounds. You’ll think it’s worse than it really is, and that doesn’t help the healing process,” Katy said. She was the only one in the hospital with the temerity to use his first name.
“I’ve seen worse,” Manfred said.
“Go get a pair of mirrors,” Goldstein said. The doctor dabbed a cloth against the back of Manfred’s head and neck while they waited. Katy returned a moment later.
“OK, look up,” Goldstein said.
An imaged danced on the mirror as Goldstein did his best to bounce the reflection from one mirror to the other. A four-inch long tear cut across the back of his head. Bare bone, pink from smeared blood, glared from his scalp. The bare patch in the middle of the tear was as large as a coin, before it tapered close on either side of the wound.
“Enough?” Goldstein asked.
Manfred nodded his head slightly. Goldstein laid a strip of gauze over the wound, and went about reapplying the dome over the rest of his head.
“My thick head finally proved useful,” Manfred said. The quip earned a laugh and a kind smile from Katy.
A few days later, Manfred awoke to find a second bed in his room; white sheets pulled into impeccably tight corners. Had casualties from the Front overwhelmed the rest of the hospital? His questions to the hospital staff were answered by feigned ignorance.
An hour after breakfast, Katy pushed a wheelchair-bound Wolff into the room. Wolff wore a loose hospital gown, his right hand a mass of bandages. His lucky sleeping cap on his head, the long tail draped over his shoulder.
“Kurt, what happened?”
“Shaving accident,” Wolff mumbled. Katy helped Wolff onto the bed and went about positioning pillows around Wolff’s slight body.
Wolff tittered at his own joke, and squeezed his eyes shut for a second.
“I’m sorry, sir. They gave me a shot of,” his words slurred as he trailed off for a moment, “something wonderful.”
“Nurse Otersdorf, what’s his condition?”
Wolff raised his bandaged hand into the air. “I told you. Shaving.”
Katy took Wolff’s hand and guided it back to Wolff’s chest. “Shhh, take a nap.” She pressed her hand against Wolff’s face and turned to Manfred. “He suffered a single gunshot wound to the right hand. There’s tissue damage, but the bones are intact. The surgeons cleaned out the wound and sewed him up as best they could. The morphine should wear off in another hour or so.”
“Maria,” Wolff said, “tell her it was shaving.”
Wolff fell asleep, and came back around a few hours later. He felt well enough to eat lunch, black bread and spaetzel.
“Was anyone else hurt?” Manfred asked.
“No, just me,” Wolff said. Wolff gave a forlorn look at his bandaged hand; a spot of red blood had seeped to the surface of the gauze. “Do you know why I joined the air service? I was afraid of the trenches, all the giants I’d face on the other side of the barbed wire. War isn’t kind on anyone, but the weak have it the worst.
“In the air, I’m equal. Doesn’t matter how big the other guy is. It’s my skill in the machine against his. I like to think those Brits are outraged when they see a pipsqueak like me in the papers, their serial numbers on my wall.” Wolff looked up from his meal.
“Please, sir, don’t send me away for this.” He thumped his hand against his thigh and winced with pain.
“You’re afraid of the trenches, but the average pilot barely lasts a month before he’s wounded or killed. I think the sailors in the U-boats are the only ones with worse odds,” Manfred said.
“I can stay?” Wolff’s eyes pleaded with Manfred.
“Of course, Kurt. You’ll heal. Besides, I wouldn’t want anyone else on my wing.”
Wolff sank deeper into his hospital bed. “Strange that the recruiter never mentioned those survival odds, isn’t it?”
“‘Home by Christmas,’ remember that?”
“‘The French can’t fight!’”
“‘England won’t go to war for Belgium.’ That one was my favorite.” Manfred pushed his lunch around his plate, his appetite gone.
“I take it this isn’t how you thought our war would turn out,” Wolff said with a snort.
“A life of dull peace might not be so bad after all,” Manfred said.
Katy and Doctor Goldstein arrived with a double set of fresh bandages.
“Who wants to go first?” Goldstein asked.
Manfred’s dress uniform felt loose against his shoulders. He’d fastened the belt another notch tighter than he’d remembered from the last time Gempp insisted he wear this uniform. From all the time he spent in bed, and all the food the hospital put in front of him, he thought he’d have gained some weight.
“Cross your leg over your knee and fold your hands on your lap,” Gempp said. The propaganda officer looked through the camera and stuck his head back up. “Richthofen, lift your chin and think of how healthy you feel.”
Manfred raised his chin, but he felt anything but healthy. Headaches plagued him, and got worse every time he tried to do anything more physical than walking across a room. Direct sunlight was a hot iron on his eyes.
The camera clicked.
“Let’s do one inside your office,” Grieg handed Manfred’s cap back to him. The dome of pristine bandages had to be in the picture; all the better to reassure the public that Manfred wasn’t seriously wounded.
Manfred gently placed the cap, a larger size that he’d borrowed from Lothar, over his bandages. He stopped on his way into the manor as four planes came over the horizon and made for the landing field. Wolff, his right hand bearing only a few wraps of gauze, raised a set of binoculars to his eyes.
“It’s them,” Wolff said. Lothar, Reinhard, Udet, and Festner. He thought he could make his exit before they returned, but at least all four were back safe. “I’ll handle the post flight?” Wolff asked.
“Please do,” Manfred said as he went inside.
Manfred’s office was just as he’d left it before his injury, but there was a new pile of reports and supply requests waiting for his review and signature. According to Metzger, Reinhard had refused to occupy the office, showing confidence that Manfred would return.