Manfred didn’t know how, or when it had come about, though he knew the Kaiser had used him for propaganda—oh, with Manfred’s full consent and the aid of Manfred’s slim autobiographical volume—but there was more to it than that.
In this war of slow attrition, flyers stood out. They got to survey things from above. They were free of the mud—though not of the death and blood—the ground fighters endured. And most of them lived charmed and all-too-short lives.
It was the daring and the risk that had attracted Manfred. But he’d stayed alive despite the risk. Most flyers died with maybe ten kills to their count. He had over 80 kills. Most flyers, before he’d first painted his plane red, had tried to be as inconspicuous as possible, hiding against the sky, so they could take the enemy by surprise.
His style, his flamboyance, the touch of old-fashioned, unapologetic knighthood—the tradition of fighting in the open and boldly, laughing in the face of danger—that clung to him; the way he treated downed enemy flyers like equals temporarily on the other side; the way he looked for his fledglings and young flyers, all of it had made him a legend not just to his own side but the other side as well.
The double-edged quality of being used for propaganda was that you become a pivotal point of the war effort.
In his own case, and for himself, he’d done very little. Surely, yes, the English airmen were a danger to those in the trenches, both because of aerial bombardment and being the English artillery’s eyes in the sky.
But yet Manfred was a single man, and his death would not win or lose the war for his side.
The scar itched again, and some other thought, a memory from the dream, perhaps, tried to rise. It didn’t manage to reach his consciousness, no matter how much he frowned, attempting to retrieve it. It was like trying to recall where one had left something, and thus it retreated further and further the more he tried. Something about his importance to Germany. He was sure they’d lose the war, yes. He’d been for some time. Staying alive would make no difference. But he still felt there was something, something to his life and death that—No, it was gone.
He gave an uneasy shrug and put his now empty cup down. “As well I have some breakfast,” he said. “While waiting for the weather to clear.”
Bodenschatz nodded, though he looked trouble.
Probably only because I’m having strange reactions this morning, Manfred thought.
“I had a nightmare,” he said finally.
“Oh?” his adjutant asked.
“I can’t remember it,” Manfred hedged. “It just left behind an uneasy feeling.”
“Ah,” Bodenschatz said, but didn’t sound reassured.
They crossed the muddied field side by side, Moritz gamboling beside them, splashing water from puddles as he jumped them like a cat.
The mess hall, another long tent, was loud with young voices, alive with the smell of coffee—or yet more chicory, but close enough—eggs and marmalade.
Silence fell as Richthofen entered and all eyes turned to him.
“Good morning, gentlemen,” he said in way of greeting. He didn’t require formality here, and there was no more than a moment of silence, before the loud discussions returned. The Red Baron took his place at the table, asked for tea instead of coffee, and was grateful at the warm bread. So often it was coarse and made with who knew what, but this morning it felt and tasted like real bread.
I’ll have to compliment the cooks, he thought, looking over his flyers. His cousin Wolfram was waiting eagerly for Manfred’s permission to fly the hunt for the first time. With an air of dread he hoped did not cross his face, Manfred nodded at the young man, an indication he’d be allowed to join the dawn patrol. Just as he did, there was an uneasy prickle behind his eyes, the memory of Wolfram getting in trouble, of having to rescue—And just like that it was gone.
This is getting ridiculous, Manfred thought angrily. It would not be unusual, of course, for the young pup to get in trouble. They often did, despite all the rules Manfred laid down, the rules that had come to him from Oswald Boelcke. And often the trouble the young pups got into was fatal. But—
Yes, Lothar would be laughing at me a great deal by this point, Manfred thought. He ate his breakfast, smiling at the young men’s jests, then thanked the cooks for the meal. Leaving the mess tent, he then strode out into the field to inspect his plane. The scarlet Fokker Dr. I had been wheeled forth from the tent-hangar.
Please don’t fail me today, he thought, looking over the plane. It still looked new, being the replacement for the one in which he’d crashed, proud and red. He knew the young men in the trenches would be looking for that red dot above them, and he would not fail them. It was for them that Manfred had ignored the pointed “suggestions” that he he take a safer post at the rear. With his aircraft being so visible and well known, that route would be the same as his being killed, his disappearing.
The men need to know I am alive, flying above them and protecting them. He looked at the clearing sky, then towards his quarters. Menzke would be gathering his flying gear there, waiting to help him dress—with the unobtrusive ease of long practice—in coveralls, jacket and boots.
I need to shake off this dread and lead my men, Manfred thought as the orderly set to his task. He continued trying to rally as he walked back toward the flight line. On his way to his plane, he found that Leutenant Richard Wenzl had lain on a stretcher while the squadron waited him. Seeing their leader coming, several of the younger pilots tipped Wenzl out, with a sly smile, as Manfred passed by. The men laughed, and as Wenzl climbed back on the stretcher, Manfred stopped to tip him out. His men’s laughter and shouted jeers rising behind him, Manfred went and stood by his plane, looking back at the gathered pilots with an air of, “What, did something happen?”
At least they are all in good spirits, he thought, the laughter reaching a crescendo. As sunlight began to fall on the gathered assembly, Manfred looked up and realized the cloud cover was rapidly burning off. There had been reports of the Englishmen being more aggressive about trying to attack German fighters on the ground.
We must climb soon, Manfred thought. As always, the familiar need to be aloft, to be above, to be flying started to course through him. Utterly irrational though it was, he felt safer in the skies than down here, where they were sitting ducks for any English bombardment. So perhaps not irrational. The skies, after all, had been mostly safe for him, save for one incident.
I am not going to let this funk come back! He turned to speak to his flyers, but heard Moritz whine and turned. The poor dog was struggling towards him with a heavy plane chock tied to his tail.
Ah, Wenzl’s revenge, he thought, grinning. Or perhaps Wenzl and some of his friends’ retribution. He grinned. This was good, as it was obvious they were in great spirits, and great spirits increased their probability of survival.
“Come here, you silly hound,” Manfred muttered. He knelt to free Moritz and petted the animal, this time receiving a couple of unavoidable, grateful licks to the face. He stood, looking over his men, and felt suddenly grave. It was if, for a moment, he saw the passing shade of Oswald Boelcke standing in the back row, gazing at him sadly.
That…that was odd, Manfred thought. Surely a trick of the wound. Shaking his head, he suddenly felt as if whatever dark thing was reaching from his dream, the Dicta Boelcke were the way to avoid it.
“It is a beautiful day to fly patrol,” he said, informally, to scattered chuckles. “You’re all anxious to fly and sure of victory, as indeed am I. But it’s been awhile due to this abominable weather, so please indulge me in a quick review of the dicta Boelcke.”
The chuckles died down. All eyes turned to him, and he stood, petting Moritz, whose panting seemed suddenly very loud.
“So, to begin,” Manfred said. “Always try to secure?”
“An advantageous position before attacking,” the men answered, initially with some hesitance then with a strong common recitation. “Climb before and during the approach in or
der to surprise the enemy from above, and dive on him swiftly from the rear when the moment to attack is at hand.”
“Very good,” Manfred said. “And, try to place yourself between the sun and..?”
“The enemy,” the men finished, and added, with well-schooled harmony “This puts the glare of the sun in the enemy’s eyes and makes it difficult to see you and impossible for him to shoot with any accuracy.”
“Do not fire the machine guns,” Manfred prompted.
“Until the enemy is within range and you have him squarely within your sights.”
“Attack when the enemy least—”
“Expects it or when he is preoccupied with other duties such as observation, photography, or bombing,” the men continued, the recitation almost resembling a chant.
“Never turn your back—”
“And try to run away from an enemy fighter. If you are surprised by an attack on your tail, turn and face the enemy with your guns.”
“Keep your eye on the enemy and do not allow him to—” Manfred started, realizing he was grinning like a proud father.
“Deceive you with tricks. If your opponent seems damaged, follow him down until he crashes to be sure he is not faking.”
“Foolish acts of bravery only bring death!” Manfred shouted.
“The Jasta must fight as a unit with close teamwork between all pilots,” his men replied. “The signals of its leaders must be obeyed.”
“Attack in principle in groups of four—”
“Or six. When the fight breaks up into a series of single combats, take care that several do not go for one opponent.”
Manfred nodded. There was a feel something in the rules was very important, but he couldn’t think what. He always tried to follow them, at any rate.
“Very good,” he said. “Let’s keep it in mind as we bag our Lords.”
The last line was delivered with a sense of feline anticipation, a feeling which only grew as Manfred saw the telephone operator running from the communications shack. The Baron knew what the man was going to say before he gasped out his report.
“There are several English planes at the front.”
Like that, the levity and laughter, the boisterous good humor of the flyers vanished, replaced by determination. The men rushed to their planes.
“Wolfram,” Manfred said, treating the young man with the informality of family. The simple name arrested his cousin’s headlong rush. Manfred knew the dream had involved Wolfram, and though he didn’t believe in dreams, at least not as harbingers of fate, he thought perhaps his mind was trying to warn him of something, “Wolfram, obey the dicta, and stay clear of engagements, please.”
“Yes, Rittmeister,” Wolfram answered, seemingly obedient before plunging headlong towards his plane.
I hope that he’s not giving me a child’s simple promise to a parent before engaging in dangerous games, Manfred thought, frowning, before he climbed his own plane.
Shortly thereafter, his kette of five planes took to the skies, followed quickly by the rest of the Flying Circus.
It was a quick journey to the front. Adjusting his goggles as he closed with the trenches, Manfred scanned the surrounding sky. The men on the ground counted on him to keep the English off their backs as they massed for the Kaiser’s great push. He would do just that.
These clouds haven’t all burned off, he thought. The wisps of white were gradually thickening, breaking up lines of sight. Looking he saw a passing flight from Jasta 5. Counting, he saw that there were only three of the aircraft from their fellow unit.
That won’t do, he thought. Gaining Wenzl’s attention, he signaled for the man to join up on Jasta 5’s small formation. Waggling his wings, Wenzl led Weiss in a reversal to turn and join up with the trio of aircraft. Looking back, Manfred quickly took stock of the four other pilots still with him on his patrol: Wolfram, Scholz, Karjus, and Wolff.
Pups are always the most likely to get in trouble, Manfred thought to himself, justifying why he kept a close eye on Wolfram. In reality, something about the young man bothered him, something irrational and probably rooted in the unremembered nightmare.
The quintet followed the Somme, climbing to 10,000 feet before the trenches became visible. Putting his fighter into a shallow bank just on the German side of the lines, Manfred began to search their assigned sector. Just past Cerisy, a hamlet on the banks of the Somme, Manfred spotted the enemy. Or, at least, a gaggle so large he was fairly certain they were British.
At least my eyesight has not failed me, even if my nerves are trying to, he thought. A great part of his exceptional fighting prowess was not his ability as a pilot—he’d never been more than adequate, and knew it—but the vision which let him distinguish in a vague glimmer against a bank of clouds the presence of aircraft. That same vision now told him that the gaggle was British, apparently eight of their Sopwith Camels, lazily circling just on English side of No Man’s Land.
Let us begin, Manfred thought, then signaled his subordinates. From below Manfred there echoed the shellbursts from a battery of anti-aircraft guns. He ignored it. Unless you flew straight at them, the anti-aircraft were like an act of God: unavoidable, unlikely to be directed particularly at you, and a sign of bad luck if they struck you down. The best a pilot could do was hope it missed. Far more pressing were the enemy aircraft right here, up in the sky, with them., while you kept your eye on your enemy right here, in the sky, close up to you.
As if they’d been conjured from his thoughts, sudden movement and sound attracted Manfred’s attention.
Damn these clouds! He realized poor visibility had caused him to miss two Camels attacking Weiss’s all white triplane. Cursing softly at the loss of time, Richthofen wheeled his formation in a wide left turn, climbing, and prepared to single out a Camel on the edge of the melee for an attack. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the original eight enemy turning suddenly towards his flight.
Well, this is about to get interesting, he thought. But we will have an altitu…what is Wolfram doing?!
The pup had separated from the rest of Jasta 11, chasing some target that Manfred could not yet see. Then there was close-in jostling and shooting as his four remaining craft merged with the two, then eight more Camels. Fire passed close by, well too close to him, and Manfred jerked reflexively.
I cannot tell if that was the English or someone shooting at the English, Manfred thought, growing concerned at the chaos. Then he was too busy dodging and turning, the numbers preventing him from going over to the offensive. Despite their numerical advantage, the English were too clumsy to draw blood, while the Germans were too worried about getting possibly swamped to do so either. Two more Camels joined the fray, but ironically the increased numbers worked against the English as Manfred’s Jasta began working like a team versus the Englishmen flying as a dozen individuals.
That was, until the Jasta 5 flight joined the fray. Even as he was starting to gain an advantage on an Englishman, the five additional Fokkers disrupted Manfred’s command of the situation. The sky was suddenly filled with tracers once more, the Englishmen’s rounds creating thin white threads that crisscrossed in every direction. Still, the Fokkers outnumbered the Camels, and he watched as the advantage grew with a Camel falling out of the sky with an obviously dead pilot at the controls
Manfred looked around to select a target, simultaneously proud of his men for not breaking the dicta by rushing at the same plane and frustrated none of the Englishman would cooperatively separate away. Then, with a sudden rush of nausea, he realized Wolfram was in danger. Above his cousin’s gaily decorated plane, with its purple wings and silver fuselage, a Camel hovered, diving on Wolfram as the latter stooped on a pair of Englishmen.
No, Manfred thought as he saw the Camel plunge, guns blazing. He only remembered to breathe again as the Englishman’s initial burst missed behind the Fokker, the man having failed to lead Woflram. Wolfram, suddenly aware of his danger, plunged into a dive with the Camel in hot pursuit.
“Never try to run away from an enemy fighter. If you are surprised by an attack on your tail, turn and face the enemy with your guns,” Manfred whispered, whipping his fighter around. The pup had forgotten.
He saw Wolfram level off and head towards Cappy, but the Camel was in pursuit, spraying bullets in all directions. Then it was suddenly not spraying bullets at all, but following a determined course away.
He has run himself out of ammo or jammed his guns, Manfred thought, following almost instinctively. He had selected his prey. He’d take this daring Camel who had attacked Wolfram.
The Englishman, unlike Wolfram, had kept looking around. Therefore, he saw the scarlet triplane diving on him and doubled his efforts to escape. Firing an initial burst that the Camel just barely evaded, Manfred cursed and continued to close in.
I will not waste any more ammunition firing at long range, he thought angrily, closing. He knew the Camel was disarmed. Or at least, it wasn’t turning around to face him. Instead, it was attempting to zigzag in escape, which meant that Manfred would slowly gain on him.
Manfred was prey to excitement he hadn’t felt in a long time.
Forgetting caution and misgivings, he stayed on the plane’s tail. He forgot the ground flitting by behind him, forgot danger, forgot the very real possibility of death. This was the glory of fighting in the air: the chase, the heady flight, the air rushing past, the feeling that one was above it all.
The enemy was obviously trying to decide whether to land behind German lines or stick with his kite long enough to cross back over English lines. Manfred fired again, and once more the man ahead of him seemed to have a preternatural sense of when to zigzag. Even though it caused the Red Baron to miss, the maneuver also killed some of the Camel’s speed, leading to Manfred closing the distance some more.
The trench system flashed by under them, barbed wire and ugly jagged cuts in the landscape. And suddenly Manfred became aware of another memory from the dream. A voice in his mind, not his own, one with a distinct English accent saying something about chasing an enemy behind the English lines and getting cut down by anti-aircraft fire.
To Slip the Surly Bonds Page 8