by Sean Wallace
“I must confess,” he said, “I don’t know entirely what this is about.”
“There is a medical researcher, Dr Hermann Steinfeld, who has been working on a mechanical heart to keep people alive when their own stops working. The Kaiser agreed to provide funding, believing that such a machine could be invaluable to the military. He thinks Steinfeld might eventually be able to create a device that would allow a previously killed soldier to return to combat. But for now, all we can hope for is to prevent someone from dying. We need physically healthy candidates to test the machines with, to rule out any complications due to weakness of the body, and since we can hardly ask for someone who is not dying to volunteer . . .”
“You pick from the fallen, who would otherwise die.”
“Healthy in all ways aside from the bullet that would kill them.”
“So what is to become of me?” And in his voice, Karl heard a challenge.
“I don’t know,” said Karl. “To my knowledge, you are the first success we’ve had. Truthfully, I did not expect to save you at all. I suppose the next step is to see how long you last.”
He would probably be reprimanded if word of his bedside manner left the room, but his orderly said nothing, well acquainted with Karl’s disposition, and der Rote Kampfflieger simply nodded. “I suppose you are right. I shall have to ask though, is it possible that I will eventually be disconnected from this machine?”
Karl inhaled and said, “We expect that based on our observations of you and others we will eventually be able to improve on the design, but we could not repair your heart, nor do we expect that it will regain its function on its own. The machine beats for you, and I’m afraid you will remain connected to one for as long as you live.”
Disappointment flashed across Richthofen’s face, but only for a moment and then it was gone again. Karl knew from his autobiography that he had been an active man: an avid horseman, a gymnast as a boy, and possessed a love of hunting. He would do none of that now, not with a machine that had to be wheeled on a cart, and charged and cranked every day.
Karl felt a twinge of sympathy, but then he remembered this was a man who had hunted men with the same precision and thrill as hunting game.
“What day is it?” Richthofen asked.
“May second, your twenty-sixth birthday.”
Richthofen sighed. “I don’t suppose I’ll eventually recover enough to fly again, will I?”
“I don’t see how that would be possible,” said Karl.
But for the second time, Karl was wrong.
Over the coming weeks, members of Jagdgeschwader 1, Richthofen’s fighting wing, came to visit him. The news given to the general public was simply that der Rote Kampfflieger had been shot down, but was recuperating. It was not unheard of, or even unusual, for pilots to emerge alive from downed aircraft, so there was no reason for anyone to think there were facts hidden beyond any official statement.
Richthofen’s wing was another matter entirely. They had dearly wanted to visit their commander as they had the last time he had been shot down, and it was only out of concern that pilots on leave would share conjectures with friends and family that the military bureaucrats finally allowed a few of the officers to visit.
But they had restrictions, and Karl had been the one to relay them to Richthofen.
Do not tell them that the heart-box cannot be removed. Do not tell them you will never fly again. Do not let them worry. They must know you are recovering for the sake of the Fatherland.
“I am tired of lying,” he said to Karl, “so I decided to do something about it.”
Richthofen had lost weight since his resuscitation, though once he had been able to get out of bed he had begun daily calisthenics, as best he could manage on such a short leash. And when he was not exercising, he was writing. Writing letters home, orders to his men – Karl did not know, but Richthofen had kept both Ostermann and Mueller running to the dispatch carriers every other day. He was a stubbornly busy patient for a man who could not leave his own room without assistance.
“I am alive and grateful,” said Richthofen, “so do not misjudge me. For now, you even let me out of bed, but I cannot go more than two meters before the cords go no further. I should like to tear them out, but we both know where that would take us.”
“You will not have to face a military investigation if you die,” said Karl.
“Is that a jest?”
Karl shrugged. “Maybe. I tend to find myself in a black sense of humor. I know many people will be unhappy with me if you die. I may end up unhappiest of all.”
“And yet your manner does not indicate that you place a priority on my well-being.” There was a thin smile on Richthofen’s lips. The man was not stupid. Whatever injury the earlier bullet had done to his skull, it certainly hadn’t dulled his perception.
“You will have to forgive me if I am less than excited that one soldier should be given special treatment over another, especially since we do not expect you to fly again.”
“They will want to give me an administration job for certain.” Richthofen grimaced. “I turned one down, you know. They did not want to lose me on the battlefield. I am worth more as an ideal than as a pilot, no matter how many planes I shoot. I could be the greatest pilot in history, and still they would put me behind a desk, only to wheel me out when they want to show off a war hero.”
Karl said nothing, but he did not believe Richthofen would ever have such a job. The machine, his heart-box, would have to be carried everywhere he went. The public would not want to see Richthofen as a cripple. There would be no tours of the countryside, no waving to the people who believed in him. He might still be useful for propaganda, but not as a man to stand before the masses.
Germany still had a few aces though. Wilhelm Reinhard, who was leading JG 1 in Richthofen’s absence, was no laggard, having recently bagged three planes in a single day. Even Richthofen’s younger brother, Lothar, was quite the pilot himself. The only thing that made der Rote Kampfflieger unique was that over time he had downed more aircraft before dying than other pilots.
“I thought of something else I can no longer do,” said Richthofen, reclining on his bed. He stuffed a pillow under his back, so he could lay a little more comfortably, but true comfort would never be possible with the tubes behind him. “I was trying to think of a way to exercise in here and I remembered my old gymnastics classes at the academy. I can still stretch, and if I’m careful I can even cartwheel,” – Karl cringed, trying not to picture what a tangle of tubes Richthofen could have made – ”but the thing I miss the most, is the horizontal bar.”
“I remember reading about that in your autobiography.”
Richthofen rolled his eyes and shook his head. “I wrote that under orders and they edited me terribly. I am not that person anymore. I wish I could fix it. Maybe now I will have the time.”
The door opened and Mueller stepped inside. He nodded respectfully to Richthofen and then handed a telegram to Karl. Karl opened it and frowned.
“Bad news?” said Richthofen.
Karl shook his head. “No, but it looks like you will not have to worry about being carted all over Germany to wave at civilians anymore.”
Richthofen’s face crumpled, and he looked to the large box by his bed, still churning for all it was worth. Karl pitied him, just a little, knowing that he must be coming to a terrible conclusion about his future, but he could not in good conscience allow the mood to remain.
He sighed and said, “You are a real devil, if you have not been told already. Now I know what all those messages were for. You know what they want and still you push . . .”
“Then it can be done?” said Richthofen. He lifted his head, his bearing returning. “You told me the heart-box was a test, to see if you could revive soldiers and send them back into combat.”
Karl nodded and handed him the telegram. “High Command has consented, with Dr Steinfeld’s encouragement. He agrees that the box would be a real bother to
wheel everywhere you go, but there’s no reason it could not be installed into one of the biplanes. High Command has set aside one of the new Fokker D.VIIs, and they are customizing it just for you.”
Much to Karl’s dismay, as Richthofen’s attending doctor he and two of his orderlies were assigned to accompany him, which meant they had to be ready to pack up and move every few days so that Jagdgeschwader 1 could focus on where the fighting was heaviest.
The modified version of the Fokker D.VII arrived in late June, specially rebalanced to allow the heart-box to be stowed in a space behind the pilot’s chair. The life-giving tubes would run through slots in the backboard of the seat, which was inserted between pilot and machine after Richthofen was seated. It did not allow for an easy entrance or egress for the pilot; indeed, he could not manage without a team of three men to aid him, but Richthofen was flying again.
A part of Karl did not like to see a man who was clearly still a patient flying alone in the air, but the men of JG 1 were clearly pleased to have him back. They barely gave a thought to the box behind him and Richthofen downplayed the danger. Whether he had a heart-box or no, the risk of being fired upon was the same as always.
After a day’s dogfight, Richthofen would retire to his quarters in whatever facilities Karl and his team had available to them. On this particular day, it was an abandoned farmhouse, and Karl had set Richthofen up in the master bedroom.
Ostermann wheeled the heart-box beside the bed and a weary Richthofen lay down, careful not to damage the tubes that sprang from his back.
“You know,” he said to Karl, “it is so much different flying than it is here on the ground.”
“I suppose it has always been that way.”
“No. I do not mean different as in anything an ordinary man would feel. Do you know how they connect the heart-box to the biplane?”
“I saw the schematics and read Dr Steinfeld’s notes.”
Karl had only had been present for Richthofen’s initial “installation” into his plane, to ensure the life of his patient was not in danger, but beyond that he saw attending as a pointless exercise. He could not be there every time Richthofen flew, and it was best that his ground crew be the ones familiar with the procedure since in the event of an emergency they would be the first ones available to extract him.
“The Fokker itself powers the heart-box when I am in the air,” said Richthofen. “It’s more powerful than the box alone. I can feel the blood rushing through me, I can feel excited again. This box . . . it only beats at the pace it likes, and it’s not enough for a fighting man in the sky, but together with the Fokker I can feel the wind in my lungs again.”
“I am glad it is working out for you.”
“Is there a way we can get a Fokker’s engine to permanently power the heart-box?”
“Only if you never want to move again outside of an airplane.”
Richthofen frowned, but his voice was wistful. “I barely move outside of one already. I don’t know . . . How do you deal with it?”
“Deal with what?”
“Mueller told me that you used to be a gymnast as well. A good one.”
“Used to be. I broke my ankle and it didn’t heal well.” Karl tapped his cane against the floor. “I can manage walking just fine, standing long enough for surgeries most days, but no tricks anymore. I’m not lucky enough to break the same bone twice and still be pronounced fit for combat duty.”
Richthofen laughed, a soft sound. “I broke my collarbone and you your ankle. One of them still allows a man some maneuverability, the other does not. Still, you have my sympathies.”
Karl did not see what for. He hadn’t cared about gymnastics in years. With two children and an anxious wife far away in Bonn, all he wanted was to survive this job and see himself home again. It wasn’t as though he had ruined his only means of living. His ankle was nothing compared to what so many soldiers had lost.
“Our supply lines are struggling,” said Richthofen. “I don’t like to talk about it in front of the men, but you, my skeptic friend, must have noticed. We’re not going to hold the land we gained this past spring.”
“It was bound to happen,” said Karl. “This whole war has been a mess, what it has done to our country, to our people, to soldiers like you.”
“I have downed ninety planes now. Clearly Germany could not be better off. Shall I shoot a hundred? Then perhaps the Allies will turn tail and run home.”
“I doubt that will happen.”
“And then we will lose the war. Can you tell me something, good doctor? I know you will not mince words. Right now my life is bearable because I am among good company and I can stretch my wings in my Fokker and feel like an eagle again, but what will happen to me when the war is over? Will I ever fly again?”
Karl did not know.
It was late September, 1918, and Karl could feel the war was ending. The Allies were making their push, forcing the Germans back to the Siegfried Line. Men talked about an armistice in hushed tones, as though too fearful to believe. Germany could no longer hold on, and yet the men of the Imperial German Air Force still flew sorties. So long as Allied bombers threatened the men on the ground, JG 1 would fly.
Karl entered Richthofen’s room to find the man performing push-ups. It was difficult for the already lean pilot to keep muscle on his body. They had constructed a rudimentary treadwheel for him outside, a little something they could haul around in trucks along with their tents as they moved from battle to battle, but he could only go in good weather and if Mueller or Ostermann were free. One time one of the cart wheels had fallen into a rabbit hole and nearly dislodged the heart-box from its cradle. Richthofen had turned a pasty white, but he did not stop his requests to go, and reluctantly Karl had allowed him to continue.
If Richthofen was not fit he could not fly, and if he could not fly, then what purpose did he have as anything other than a test subject for Steinfeld’s machine?
“Here is the checklist from the mechanics,” said Karl, handing him a few sheets of paper.
Since Richthofen could not reasonably inspect his plane himself, he had to rely on his ground team to perform to his satisfaction. Part of that involved filling out the list he had created to make sure nothing was overlooked. It was supposedly for his peace of mind, but Karl did not think that it actually helped. Richthofen took the checklist, glanced at all the marks made, and set it aside on the stand by his bed.
“The plane looks fine,” said Karl.
“It looks fine, but it never flies fine,” said Richthofen. “The balance is different with the heart-box inside. Fokker did an admirable job trying to adjust the plane for me, but I can tell the difference.”
“You haven’t been downed a third time.”
“I was never the kind of pilot who becomes one with his machine, just a man who knows how to use a tool he’s been given. I can compensate for some things.”
He sat down and sighed.
“It feels very odd to say this, but I am not looking forward to the end of the war.”
“The end will be a good thing.”
“It will be, for most people, and I am not selfish enough to wish to prolong it when there are so many good things that will come from its end, but I am still saddened by the thought.” Richthofen looked at the heart-box beside him. “This device works so well. Sometimes I wonder that it does not jam like our guns. It is not natural. We should have you doctors building our weapons instead of the engineers that we have.”
“The heart-box is not without its flaws,” said Karl. “We have fitted other patients with them since.You have been lucky, but others have not, and we’ve been able to address issues in yours before they have become a problem. Even though it has never stopped, we have still replaced parts, turning off one pump while the other remains active, so it is not as though it has never worn down.”
“I try to picture myself going home, seeing my mother, with this blasted contraption behind me, and the image never works. I do not know
whether she would be sad or grateful. Do you have family you will be returning to when this is over?”
“Yes. In Bonn. My children are still young, the eldest ten and the youngest six. My wife has been very good, looking after them while I am gone.”
“Girls I had never met would write me proposals for marriage,” said Richthofen, with a sad smile. “Though I am still young and still a war hero, do you think they will when I come home?”
Karl refused to answer such a question. “Self-pity doesn’t become you. Crippled or no, you are still the highest scoring ace this entire war.”
“That is high praise, coming from you.”
“It is not praise, just a fact. With the heart-box you are doing more for the Fatherland than most soldiers could ever hope. You are not just a name for propaganda purposes. You are still der Rote Kampfflieger.”
Richthofen looked out the window and said, “I suppose so, but I cannot win this war single-handedly. What are a hundred planes to the battles in which thousands die in a single day? The best I can do is fly my red Fokker at the head of my hunting wing and bring some relief to the men below, so that at least for one day they can fight without worry of bombs dropping on their heads.”
Outside, Karl could see a Great Dane bounding around the airfield. Moritz. He was Richthofen’s dog, but the pilot could only approach him with caution after the rascal had nearly severed his tubes from the heart-box without understanding better. Moritz was a pleasant dog, normally well mannered, whose only vice was the common want of something to chew.
“A part of me still cannot believe that Loewenhardt is gone,” said Richthofen. They had lost the Jasta 10 squadron leader earlier this month. Parachutes were more common now, but his had not opened when he jumped. “Everyone is gone. Wolff, Voss, and Schaefer last year. Now Udet’s mind is so broken we’ve had to send him away and Lothar is in the hospital due to his injuries – again. Wenzel isn’t much better. Reinhard is dead, not from our enemies, but from a simple accident. We’ve lost every single one of JG 1’s squadron commanders this month, and yet there is still me, and I would have died last April.”