To Slip the Surly Bonds

by Chris Kennedy

  Almost imperceptibly, he became aware of his surroundings again. He realized he was about to cross the lines. He heard anti-aircraft fire up below, still too far to inflict damage. But not too far. Another two seconds and he’d be upon them.

  He ceased firing and started climbing, watching the Camel fly on, lower and lower.

  Better the Lord escape to fly another day than for Manfred to be brought down in flames, riddled with fire, or whatever other dark fate hung upon his half-remembered dream.

  A sudden burst of fire behind him made him aware he had now become a target of pursuit. And that he’d become completely isolated, far from his own flight.

  Foolish acts of bravery only bring death.

  Well, at least he wasn’t going to run. He turned around, facing the enemy and letting out a burst of machine gun fire, which was returned. There was a brief impression of some strikes on the enemy craft, and he heard canvas ripping on his own craft before the two craft were past each other. Manfred reversed course, seeing the Camel follow suit.

  So, you accept my duel then, Manfred thought with a haughty smile. The planes circled, two hawks in a deadly fight. He was so close he could see the other man’s pose, hunched intent over control and machine gun.

  You’re a brave one, Manfred thought as he tried to circle behind for advantage. The Camel somehow managed to hold the turn long enough for his own triplane to shudder in warning of an impending stall. Manfred side slipped out of the turn, lowering his nose to regain some airspeed while risking a quick glance for his original prey possibly circling back in. His quick glance told him that it was merely him and the single Englishman, now less than a thousand feet over No Man’s Land.

  Once more the duel was rejoined. Manfred quickly realized that the two men and their aircraft were evenly matched, and neither was going to turn for home. While the stiff breeze blowing out of the west gave Manfred some advantage if he turned to run, he quickly realized that this Camel’s pilot was able to eke enough speed out of his aircraft to make that a difficult proposition. Likewise, Manfred was able to use his triplane’s slim maneuverability advantage to keep the Camel from gaining a decisive upper hand.

  As the sweat poured from his body and his arms began to burn with the onset of fatigue, the vision of that cursed pamphlet with the image of a grave and the announcement of his death floated before his eyes. And suddenly, as though broken forth by the burst of battle, he saw what would follow, or at least what had followed in his dream: the defeat of the Kaiser’s push.

  That part was no wonder. Manfred had thought this last, desperate, crazed attack would fail. Not that he could put in words why, but in his stroke of clairvoyance Manfred realized it would be scarcity of supplies, ammunition, and men that would doom the Kaiser’s last gamble. The best of Germany’s youth would die at the front, leaving the nation with the dregs, the boys and the oldsters. In the end the trenches would consume the new advance as they had consumed others. With the Americans looming, the war would become one of attrition. Germany, surrounded by hostile countries and consumed by blockade, would almost certainly lose.

  The dream showed me the future, he thought, even as he fired a snap burst that just missed his adversary. It will be a nightmare. The French and Englishmen will be vengeful.

  The Camel somehow whipped its nose around, the pilot nearly stalling it to bring the twin guns to bear. It was only Manfred’s own catlike reflexes and the Fokker’s maneuverability that allowed him to twist mostly out of the tracer’s path. Still, he heard several impacts and looked back to see a brief bit of smoke back near his tail as the canvas tried to ignite.

  Germany will perish, he thought. The country would be despoiled, made to pay for a war that was only partly its fault. It would be doubtful that the Kaiser could keep his current amount of power, or indeed the throne, after such a spectacular defeat.

  Once more the Camel was briefly in his sights, the Englishman having made a narrow mistake. Manfred fired, seeing bits flying off the Sopwith’s top wing and more canvas rips down the fuselage. Then the two fighters were past one another, Manfred immediately whipping into a climb to separate from his foe to the north. The Camel followed suit. Dimly, Manfred heard cheers from the German trenches.

  We are a proud people, he thought. Sure, they’d be defeated and broken, but they wouldn’t lie still very long. He had the awful presentiment—the dream had made it a certainty—that as soon as another generation grew up they would again engage in battle. That fire and blood would once again consume Europe.

  Just as certainly as I will die here if I continue this fight, he thought in a sudden realization of his own fatigue, so Germany will if she rises again. His own lands, pressed close by the eastern enemies, would be destroyed. But more than that, an entire way of life would be cast into doubt, destroyed.

  Just as the men on the trenches cursed their own flyers, who were, in their minds, above them both socially and physically, and cared not for their plight, so would the people who’d fought and died and suffered from this defeat come to view the war. It would be seen as having been a game of Lords, an unjust and heedless fight between battle-mad barons heedless of what it did to those on the ground, the lower classes who had paid in blood, treasure, and humiliation for what the nobility thought a grand fight.

  ‘Nothing good comes from the peasantry feeling like they’ve had enough.’ His history tutor’s words echoed in his ears. The last century, from the madness that had begun in France to his nation’s own aborted revolution in the 1840s, had been a constant reinforcement of such lessons. Even now, the Russians were in the middle of such a convulsion.

  What if that happens in Germany? he thought. Then again, his reflexes saved him, as a different Camel came slashing into the duel. Manfred whipped around on the interloper, firing a burst that saw a torrent of strikes into the enemy’s machine guns and cockpit. The Englishman never recovered from his attack, slamming into the ground just before the German trenches.

  Where is the…oh no, he thought, seeing his long-term duelist having positioned himself between Manfred and the German lines.

  Never turn your back and try to run away from an enemy fighter.

  Sure. He never had. And he wouldn’t again. But behind the Englishman he could see three more Camels attempting to move towards blocking his escape. Thinking back to his duel with Hawker, Manfred realized this was how the English ace had died.

  My men can criticize my decision only if I’m alive, he thought. Sometimes the best option was to disengage. This close to the English lines, the odds against him would only get worse. For the first time in many fights, Manfred felt a sense of being in imminent, immediate danger. Dodging his original opponent’s attack, Manfred circled upward then made for the German lines as fast as he could. The Camel pilot belatedly reversed, attempting to catch Manfred before he got away.

  Dammit, he thought, as his engine suddenly began running rougher. There was a sudden burst of fire, and his seat splintered. Manfred kicked his rudder, and the Camel turned away before overshooting given the Fokker’s sudden loss of speed. Looking forward, Manfred only then realized that some fire must have holed his engine, as there was a horrible streak of oil along the Fokker’s nose.

  I have to get away, he thought, suddenly feeling faint. He reached to where bullets had torn into his seat, touched his flight suit, and had it come away with a shade of crimson that matched his fuselage. He didn’t as yet feel pain, but he knew he’d been hit.

  I cannot afford to die of this! his mind protested. There was a sense he was very important for Germany, very important to avert the future his dream had shown. That future of more fire and blood. The future in which Europe plunged into a fight again and again, till all the things that had made it great, the things that had made it the primary world civilization were destroyed, and his own lands fell under the same sort of madness now consuming Russia.

  With a rush, he realized they were passing over the German trench system. He was now behind
his own lines, and his own anti-aerials were firing at the Camel. Manfred felt as though a haze was upon his thoughts, as a haze descended on his vision. The engine was now certainly in its death throes, and he had maybe 150 feet of altitude. Flames began shooting out of the nose in front of him, and Manfred had visions of crashing down in fire.

  I have to bring the aircraft down, safely, he thought. It flashed into his mind that at least the dream couldn’t be right. He might die, but it wouldn’t be the English burying him. It wouldn’t be the English sending that damnable pamphlet to his people.

  Not important, he thought, sighting one of the many supply routes that ran towards the front lines. Carefully, he controlled his descent into a road cutting through a muddy field. He was aware of the Camel still on his tail as he made an awkward landing. At least the Camel wasn’t landing. Just following him down, Manfred guessed, to make sure he wasn’t faking it. Or perhaps the pilot of the Camel had also been hit by the anti-aircraft machine guns.

  Manfred didn’t care. His blood thundered past his ears with a sound like a rushing train, and he knew his heart was straining, which told him he was fast losing blood. The thud of his wheels was a welcome relief as his vision went cloudy. The plane bumped on as he instinctively shut off his engine, flung off his goggles, then pulled on the brake lever to try and bring the Fokker to a stop. With a roar, the Camel flashed close by overhead, then slammed into the ground ahead of him.

  Is the Englishman mad? Manfred thought, as his conscious tried to fade. Through the enveloping darkness, afraid that the enemy would approach and—against all rules of gentlemen—put a bullet in his head, Manfred reached for his side arm. Then there were was a man climbing into his cockpit, a voice speaking in German.

  “Easy, Rittmeister. Easy. You’re among friends.”

  He was aware of being helped—pulled, to tell the truth—from the plane. Opening his eyes brought him confused glimpses of many men, of uniforms. He asked only, “The Camel?”

  “Captain Roy Brown has been taken prisoner, Rittmeister.”

  * * *

  It wasn’t till days later, fully conscious in a hospital, that Manfred’s brother informed him either one of his defensive bursts or one of the German anti-aerials had so damaged the Camel that it had no chance but to land.

  “I would have liked a chance to meet the man,” Manfred observed, his arm in a sling.

  “Well, if he hadn’t been so fixated on trying to bag the Red Baron, the man probably would have had a chance to meet you again once you recover,” Lothar observed. “That is, if you ever got over the embarrassment of trying to run from him.”

  Manfred fixed his brother with a silent glare. Lothar, after a few moments, broke away from the gaze while mumbling an apology.

  “It occurred to me,” Manfred said, candidly, “that being so famous, partly because the Kaiser made me so, I was needed. For…for the war.”

  If I tell him what I was really thinking, they’ll lock me in an asylum, Manfred thought. The grave covered in flowers in his dream had been so jarring that its significance had eluded him. Until he lay in a hospital bed, able to think. It was then he had realized that he was as famous—and respected—on the other side as on his own. He knew that from his encounters with the men he’d taken prisoner.

  The newspapers they’ve shared with me only confirms it, he thought. Several of the English papers were trumpeting his wounding and shooting down. Of course, they were far less triumphant in discussing the fact that he’d managed to, counting Roy Brown, take two of their pilots with him.

  Lothar looked at him dumbfounded.

  Lothar has never been a thinker or a planner, Manfred thought. That is fine; I will do the planning for both of us. For Germany and for Europe itself.

  “Now you won’t be able to avoid taking a backseat in the war,” Lothar said, scoffing. “They’ll put you in as an inspector at the rear. What with the shattered shoulder to recover from.”

  It was the sort of scoffing and teasing they’d engaged in as boys, each striving to be stronger and more visibly brave than the other. But Manfred was no longer a boy.

  “Yes,” he said. “That is likely.”

  He closed his eyes on Lothar’s expression of incomprehension, of not knowing what had changed. Manfred didn’t either. Except that whatever warning his mind had tried to send him in that nightmare had hit home.

  He’d be alive after this war. And try to make it the last great war to ravage Europe.

  Before worse happened.

  * * * * *

  Sarah A. Hoyt Bio

  Sarah A. Hoyt was born in Portugal and lives in Colorado. Along the way she’s published over 32 books (around there anyway. She keeps forgetting some every time she counts) she admits to and a round dozen she doesn’t. She also managed to raise two sons, and a countless number of cats. When not writing at speed, she does furniture refinishing or reads history. She was a finalist for the Mythopoeic award with her first book, and has won the Prometheus and the Dragon. To learn more about Sarah and read samples of her work, visit http://sarahahoyt.com.

  # # # # #

  Trial of the Red Baron by Richard Fox

  London, England

  January 5th, 1919

  The last time Flight Lieutenant Edmund Wells walked the halls of Holyport, there hadn’t been as many armed guards. Wrought iron bars over each and every window cast slanted lines across the marble floors as Wells strode past a pair of soldiers who clicked their heels together and saluted as he went by.

  Wells reminded himself to walk straight, even though the heavy briefcase in his left hand was doing everything it could to make him lopsided. He stopped in front of heavy oak doors, their handles bound by chain and a padlock the size of his fist.

  A guard standing next to the door offered Wells an impeccable salute.

  “Fine morning to you, sir. Lord Newton gave strict instructions that the prisoner’s not to be visited by any but the Red Cross,” the guard said. “Seems this Hun is right popular—or notorious, if you ask me—with a lot of folks and prisoners of war can’t be bothered as such. I’m to turn away anyone and everyone that comes to see him. Rank regardless.”

  “You’re doing a fine job, Sergeant.” Wells jabbed his fingertips into a small fold on the outside of his case and withdrew a piece of paper. He handed it off to the guard and waited as the man read.

  “Right unusual, but ignoring a written order from Lord Newton is a sure way to be reassigned to another camp on some bitterly cold Scottish island.” He handed back the note. “The prisoner’s been nothing but a gentleman since he arrived in May, but you’ve any problem just start shouting, and we’ll come most ricky tick.”

  The guard drew a key from within his tunic and opened the door.

  The prisoner’s ‘cell’ was almost opulent by any well-to-do Englishman’s standards. An oak desk with piles of paper, tall bookshelves along the walls and a window (barred, naturally) affording a view of London. A pile of unopened packages were stacked in one corner, enough that Wells could have climbed atop and nearly touched the ceiling if he’d been so inclined. On the other side of the room, cured meat, sausage, cheeses, and candy sat in wash baskets. All German goods, by their packaging.

  The prisoner, wearing a grey uniform and tall riding boots, faced out the window, his hands clasped behind his back. Another man, slight of build and in a simple uniform, stood beside the desk, holding a tray with a steaming tea kettle and chipped cups.

  “Du bist früh, Herr Schmidt,” the prisoner said.

  “I’m afraid I don’t speak German, my apologies,” Wells said as he walked up to the desk.

  Manfred von Richthofen, infamously known around the world as the Red Baron, half- turned toward Wells. With 80 victories, Richthofen was the top scoring fighter pilot ace of the entire Great War. Almost of his victims had been British, which made it unsurprising that he’d been shot down and captured in their sector a few months before the Armistice. His face was stern, eyes set like
every strict military commander Wells had ever come across. Noting Wells’ rank, the German fully turned to regard the new arrival, his bearing stiff. Wells noted an unfolded map of Germany on Richtofen’s desk. Large swaths of Prussia, the baron’s homeland, were given over to the proposed state of Poland. One town was circled in pencil, an arrow pointing to it.

  “Is there something I can do for you?” Richthofen asked with a heavy accent.

  “Flight Lieutenant Wells, pleasure.” He extended a hand, but Richthofen remained still. Well pulled his hand back and gave his brief case a pat. “Seems my arrival is a bit of a surprise. You’ve not heard?”

  “Heard what? I know the treaty negotiations at Versailles have stalled, but prisoners of war are being returned to their homelands,” Richthofen said. “Yet I, and many other officers and British citizens of German heritage, remain here. Your hospitality is noted, but I have no desire to stay in your jail a moment longer than necessary.”

  Wells felt a tinge of dread as he prepared his next words. Anger is a normal first reaction, he thought.

  “I’m your solicitor, and your barrister, for your upcoming trial, Baron. I’m sorry word of this didn’t reach you sooner.” Wells gripped the handle of his case tighter, ready for an outburst.

  Richthofen touched a hand to the map on his desk, then swept it beneath an unopened pile of letters. He motioned to a chair next to Wells.

  “Please, sit.” Richthofen went back to the window.

  As Wells sat, he noticed a long scar across the back of the prisoner’s head, wide as a coin in the middle and tapering to points close to the ears. Wells had served in His Majesty’s military long enough to know a bullet wound when he saw one.

  “This is all a bit of a surprise to me as well,” Wells said. “The military commission was called a fortnight ago. Seems things are in a bit of a rush.” He opened his case and removed a notepad and pen, uncovering a thin book with a red biplane and German words on the cover.