Wells’ hands shot down to the side of his legs.
“Good.” Richthofen winked at him. “Very good.”
“Does my esteemed colleague need more time?” Mort asked.
“No. No further questions of the witness,” Wells said.
“Then the prosecution wishes to enter into evidence—” Mort picked up a water logged and mud stained log book from the table and opened it to a place marked by a red silk ribbon, “—the log entry of one Second Lieutenant Charles Etienne deBerigny, dated the 2nd of April, 1917. Which reads, ‘Warren and Dunn forced to land behind enemy lines. Observed all-red Albatross firing on grounded aircraft with crew still inside. Men listed as missing in action, likely dead.’”
Grumbles went through the crowd. Wells heard more than one utterance of “Murderer.”
“Your honors I must object,” Wells said. “Why are we reading from a logbook and not receiving this testimony from Lieutenant deBerigny?”
“Because deBringny died in a crash at the end of the same month,” Mort snapped. “This evidence corroborates testimony from Lieutenant Warren and there is no reason to doubt the authenticity of the entry. I doubt deBringny knew this would become evidence in a later trial.”
“The log entry doesn’t state if the defendant was fired on before he engaged Warren and Dunn. We have no way of knowing what else deBringny, or anyone else in their squadron, saw. There is no context for this information, and it must be rejected as hearsay.”
The judges conferred amongst themselves for a moment, then the judge in the center picked up his gavel and leaned over the bench.
“This court will adjourn for five days to give the prosecution an opportunity to locate other witnesses that can corroborate the log entry.” He banged the gavel, and the three of them exited out a door behind the bench.
“Yes, as expected,” Richthofen said.
“Bloody hell,” Wells said to him, “I don’t know how hard you hit your head when you crashed behind our lines, but you need to focus on what’s happening here. This isn’t going your way; you’re aware of this?”
A guard came to Richthofen’s cage and fumbled with a key ring.
“Come see me in two days,” the German said, “and bring all the newspapers you can.”
* * *
Wells dropped a half dozen newspapers onto Richthofen’s desk. He was on the front page of every single one. Pictures of him in irons with protestors to his back, in the courtroom cell, and with him sharing the unfortunate moment with Wells.
Richthofen picked one up and scowled. “I should have worn my Iron Cross.”
“You’re lucky this case isn’t tried in the court of public opinion,” Wells said. “Just look at these headlines, ‘The Red Baron shows no remorse when confronted with his victim.’ ‘Bloody Red Baron defiant in the face of justice,’ and that’s not even from the tabloids.”
Richthofen skipped over the front page and opened a paper. He flipped through several pages then tossed it back onto the desk.
“I can speak English much better than I read it,” Richtofen said, his tone unflappable. “What of Germany? Any news?” he asked.
“What does Germany have to do with your trial? Here, in London?”
“Is there anything about protests, the armistice negotiations at Versailles?”
Wells slapped a palm to his face, then looked at Metzger standing nearby with a tea tray. “Do you speak English at all? Can you explain to me what’s wrong with your officer?” Wells asked.
Metzger’s bushy mustache twitched, then he raised the tea tray a bit higher.
Wells held up two fingers and sat down at the desk. He mumbled thanks to Metzger when he slid a cup and saucer with two sugar cubes to him.
“I need to know what’s happening in Germany,” Richthofen said.
“There were wire reports of massive protests. Not the usual goings on with the Communists or Socialists, the whole body politic. Seems your trial has touched something of a nerve back home,” Wells said. “Your brother, Lothar, was arrested at a zeppelin hangar with a few other pilots and well-armed men in civilian clothes. The press thinks he was going to come here and break you out. Hence the doubled guard outside your door and around the walls.”
“Lothar, always thinking with his heart and not his head. What of Versailles?”
“The German delegation has walked away from the table.” Wells took a sip of tea. “The French are demanding we and the Americans march with them into the Rhineland. I daresay your trial was timed very poorly.”
“Do you think your country wants the war to resume?”
“God no. Millions dead. Poor lads without arms and legs across the Empire, and for what? Belgium? Your Kaiser’s gone and fled the country. Most of the German army’s in the streets fighting each other with sticks and bottles. Think they could organize a defense before Cologne was full of our former colonists?”
“Tell me, Mr. Wells, did you know of me during the war?”
“I spent much of the fighting laid up in a hospital after taking shrapnel in Palestine. Didn’t have the chance to read much German propaganda, sorry,” Wells replied, his tone cold. “When you were captured was a different business. I’m sure everyone in the English-speaking world saw the photo of you standing next to your wrecked plane, surrounded by smiling Australians.”
“I did not seek fame during the war, but the Ministry of Intelligence and Propaganda found a use for me beyond my role as a fighter wing leader,” Richtofen explained. “The eighty planes I shot down were nothing compared to the carnage along the front, but what I was made to represent; the knight reborn, a modern-day Siegfried, was more valuable to the war effort. Could you imagine if your King Arthur were arrested for stealing the sword from the stone?”
“Preposterous. There’d be riots in the streets…” Wells set his teacup down. He frowned, then narrowed his eyes at Richthofen.
“Germany is now angry. Angry enough to do something foolish. But she is also hungry, and your navy’s blockade continues while negotiations are stalled,” Richthofen said, “and Germans continue to starve. If your leaders thought they could humiliate Germany into a treaty by putting me on trial, that was a mistake.”
“Richthofen, I understand you were something of a big deal back home, but you’re in England. You’re on trial in England.”
The German looked at him, a haughty smile on his face.
“None of your clout matters to the judges, and if we don’t mount a better defense, I don’t think this well end well for you.”
“How well do you know your von Clausewitz? It is time for the schwerpunkt, to strike at the heart of the matter,” the German said. “This is what you will do the next time we are in court…”
* * *
Richthofen sat on the witness stand, feet chained to the floor, his hand cuffs locked to an iron ring embedded in the wood at waist level. He kept an almost regal air, like he was a baited bear with no fear of dogs.
“And then what occurred?” Wells asked.
“Tracers went up the side of my cockpit. I felt more than one round hit my aircraft’s frame. Then I looped around and saw the machine gun on the downed Sopwith still firing on me.”
“You’re sure it was from the ground? Not another plane?”
“I’ve charged machine guns before. I know who was shooting at me. So, I fired off another fifty rounds that put a stop to the attack. Once I saw the pilot drag the observer from the plane, I returned to my home base.”
“Why not fly off once you came under attack? Why engage?”
“I had come to know the English by that point. Spoken with men I’d shot down, even dined with them on occasion. They were gentlemen,” Richtofen said. “All the others who survived their landings knew well enough than to keep fighting. If I’d left that one alive, I feared he would fire on the German soldiers that would come to collect them or fire on my fellow pilots when we passed by.”
“Just to be clear—” Wells nodded to the t
ribunal, “—Sergeant Dunn had the means to resist when you fired upon him.”
“Shooting at another person with an automatic machine gun is a bit more than ‘to resist.’” Richthofen sneered. “He decided to keep fighting, and he got what he wanted.”
An angry rumble came from the crowd.
“No further questions.” Wells went back to his desk.
Mort snapped to his feet, his face red with anger.
“Baron Richthofen, would you say you enjoyed killing Sergeant Dunn?”
“I took no joy in it. I was not in the habit of killing other men before the war, but such is the nature of combat.”
“But afterwards you went to the crash site and took a trophy? Wasn’t that your ‘habit’? Also commemorating your kills with a silver cup for each plane you shot down?”
Richthofen shifted in his seat. There was a clink of chains as he fiddled with his cuffs.
“I did remove the aircraft number from the tail. It was the only part that wasn’t burnt. Hunters keep trophies. This is the German way.”
“So that’s all Dunn was? Just another deer in the forest?”
“Hardly. Deer don’t shoot back.”
Someone dared chuckle from the audience and earned a nasty look from Mort.
Mort reached into a briefcase and pulled out a thin paperback book. He flipped it open to a piece of paper with typed words almost two thirds of the way through.
“We must address the inconsistencies in your statements, Baron. You’re familiar with this book? ‘Der Rote Kampflieger,’ which translates roughly to ‘The Red Battle-Flyer,’ your autobiography?”
“Yes, I am well aware of my own autobiography.”
“Something of a best seller in Germany, yes?”
“Would you like me to sign it for you?”
Wells thought Mort was in danger of suffering an aneurysm in the face of Richthofen’s arrogance. The prosecutor visibly composed himself.
“No, Baron, I want you to explain why in chapter ten you said—this translation is certified by the Ministry of Intelligence—and I quote, ‘When he had come to the ground, I flew over him at an altitude of about thirty feet in order to ascertain whether I had killed him or not. What did the rascal do? He took his machine-gun and shot holes into my machine. Afterwards Voss told me if that had happened to him, he would have shot the airman on the ground. As a matter of fact, I ought to have done so, for he had not surrendered. He was one of the few fortunate fellows who escaped with their lives. I felt very merry, flew home, and celebrated my thirty-third aeroplane.’
“This doesn’t match with the testimony you just gave. Why did you lie in your own autobiography? Guilt over killing a helpless man on the ground? Think you could just brush the crime away with a public statement that you knew would never be challenged?”
“There were—” Richthofen paused for a moment, “—some considerations made for that book. Shooting a man on the ground just because he still wanted to fight wasn’t considered…sporting by the publisher.”
“Since when is murder a ‘sporting’ event? You couldn’t have the truth—that you fired on two soldiers with no means to fight back—before your adoring public so you lied about it in this book. Tell me, if you’d known Lieutenant Warren would have testified against you, would you have double backed to kill him too?” Mort asked.
“I never fired on someone who was helpless. That Warren of yours was smart enough to know when he was beaten; that’s why he’s still alive.”
“You do not deny killing Sergeant Dunn?”
“I do not.”
“But you allege that he was shooting at you, a soldier who knows he’s behind enemy lines, who knows he’s about to be captured with little to no chance of escape. What kind of a fool would do such a thing?”
“A dead one,” Richthofen said.
“Murderer!” came from the crowd. A young man in civilian clothes tried to climb over the wooden railing behind Wells but a pair of guards dragged him away.
A judge rapped his gavel several times until things calmed down.
“Lieutenant Warren’s testimony is corroborated; you’ve publically contradicted yourself,” Mort said. “I would advise you to throw yourself at the mercy of this court. No further questions.”
“Counsel, do you have any questions for the accused?” the judge asked.
“One, your honor,” Wells said. “Baron Richthofen, if you had the situation to do over again, would you still have fired on Sergeant Dunn’s plane?”
“Of course. I treated defeated enemies with honor, with respect. If Dunn had not kept fighting, he would be alive today.”
“Nothing further.”
“Bailiff, return the accused to his holding cell,” the judge said.
“Your honor?” Wells raised a hand slightly. “The accused wishes to change his plea…to guilty.”
There was a moment of silence in the court, then whispers from the audience. The three judges traded confused glances.
“Counsel, you just offered your defense, and now the defendant is pleading…guilty?” the judge asked.
“Baron Richthofen is well aware of the implications,” Wells said.
Rusty hinges creaked as the metal bar door closed on Richthofen in his cage.
“The court will adjourn briefly.” The judge smacked his gavel against a wooden block and the three left the room.
“As your lawyer, I told you this was a very poor tactic,” Wells said to the German.
“I must show contempt, show that I am above this English ruse. I was a tool of the propagandists for many years, and I learned how to play the game.”
“When you’re walking up the stairs to the gallows, or about to get the hood before your firing squad, I want you to remember these words, ‘I told you so.’”
“There goes our friend in the blue suit.” Richthofen looked over Wells shoulder. The lawyer got a fleeting glimpse of the man as he slipped into the judge’s chambers. “No doubt carrying instructions for the judges.”
“This isn’t a show trial, Baron; how many times do I have to tell you that? Our judicial system has the highest standards in the world.” Wells shook his head. “I don’t even know why I bother anymore.”
“Yours is a country that starves women and children to gain an advantage at the negotiating table. Do not lecture me on standards. Behind you is a man with a round pin of the Swiss flag on his lapel, recognize him?”
Wells glanced to the side.
“That’s Schmidt, from the Red Cross,” the lawyer said.
“He has a message for me. Go shake his hand and come back.”
“Espionage…in front of peers of the realm, in open court. Are you daft?”
“Go on. I will pretend to be angry with you.” Richthofen leaned back and crossed his arms.
Wells went to his desk, pretended to read from a folder, then traded pleasantries with Schmidt as to the status of his winter vegetable garden. The Swiss man slipped a folded piece of paper into Wells’ palm when they shook hands. Wells fished out his copy of Richthofen’s autobiography and let the paper fall between the pages as he brought the book and a pen to the German.
“Sign it, if you like,” Wells said. “I dare say it will become much more valuable if they execute you.”
“You have a German sense of fatalism. I like that.” Richthofen opened the note, smiled, then signed the book with a flourish. “The German Red Cross received my request to stop all the food packages…and the German delegation will officially return to negotiations at Versailles.”
“Officially? You mean they’ve been talking the whole time?”
“There are pragmatists in every government, Mr. Wells. What is done for the public and what is done in private can be very different things.” Richthofen passed the book back with a smile.
“You’re acting like this is good news.”
“Not all good news; now I have to eat English food.”
“All rise!”
Wells adjust
ed his wig and stood behind his desk as the three judges returned. The man in the blue suit closed the door behind them.
“Clear the courtroom,” the judge said. “Everyone out.”
A team of bailiffs armed with clubs opened the rear doors and ushered everyone out, to a great deal of vocal protests and foul language Wells didn’t anticipate in this most formal of locations. Once the room was empty of all but the defendant, judges, and legal counsel…and the man in the blue suit, the judge rapped his gavel.
“The defendant will rise,” the judge said. “In light of the evidence presented and Baron Richthofen’s plea, a verdict of guilty is rendered in this case.”
Wells fought the urge to bury his face in his hands.
Richthofen gave the judges a contemptuous smile.
“We hereby sentence the defendant to be incarcerated for twenty years. However, given the nature of combat…the sentence is commuted.” The judge stopped and adjusted his reading glasses as he read from something out of Wells’ view.
“The commuted sentence stands on the following conditions; that a clause be added to the final treaty being negotiated at Versailles forbidding Manfred von Richthofen from ever holding military rank in the German military. That he never flies an aircraft again and that he have no involvement with the aircraft industry. The prisoner will be held until such time as the treaty is ratified by all belligerent parties.
“Further, the finer details of this sentence are classified by the Official Secrets Act. Is that last part clear to everyone?”
Mort nodded his head, while Wells stared forward, his jaw slack.
“Wells?” the judge asked.
“Yes, crystal, Your Honor,” Wells said.
“Any violation of this sentence and the full period of incarceration will be enforced. Do you understand that, Baron?”
“I believe I understand everything just fine,” Richthofen said to the man in the blue suit.
“Court adjourned.” The judge used his gavel a final time.
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