A Man and a Plane: An Alternate Germany Read online

  The High Command made, it was conceded (by them) or well-known (by everyone else), stupid decisions all the time. They were isolated from the front -- some of them said, isolated from reality. But by chance, it seemed, they hit upon the right thing to do, and kept his injury quiet.

  How would it look -- "Manfred von Richthofen, the Red Battle-Flyer, downed by a dog!" There would be no end of laughing among their enemies. So he went to the hospital very privately, and the entire Jagdgeschwader painted its planes entirely red, making like a gaggle of Richthofens, not just a Red Battle Flyer but a Red Battle Flying Circus. It almost worked, the English shot down "the Red Baron" a dozen times in the next two weeks, and the Jagdgeschwader even actually lost a plane.

  No one visited the wounded eagle save his mother; the squadron mates were too busy covering for his absence. In his more lucid moments, Manfred regretted the burden he now bore of being the paladin of the national cause.

  They were losing. The men at the front knew that. Even, or so Duke Carl had said, the Kronprinz (who had been at the front often himself). Only the General Staff and the Imperial staff thought otherwise, but they made the rules, and indeed they ruled. But, alone and isolated in his shell of pain, he soon dropped such useless thoughts and tried to recover his own health.

  As spring passed into summer, and the great offensives struck mighty but futile blows into the heart of the enemy, Manfred began a more effective recovery. He still had those headaches. But he sat in the sun on good days, walked around with a little help at first, then none, and watched his strength recover.

  In July, they finally decided to tell the story. What provoked it was that terrible shock, when Willi Reinhard crashed testing a new plane. "Reinhard dead?" he said when they told him. "Who is in charge now?" Oberleutnant Göring, they told him, and within a few days Hermann himself came by to obtain the apostolic succession, so to speak, and have the Red Battle-Flyer's official blessing.

  "Only until your health permits, Herr von Richthofen," he said, in his usual boisterous mood. "We are all eager to see you back. The new Fokker planes you helped prove out are winning us many victories."

  There must have been rumors, because after that meeting he had to meet the press. He came out to the garden behind the sanitarium, facing the massed reporters and photographers from Germany, their allies, and the neutral press. Getting out more had put some color in his face and he did not look quite the patient, but he was glad to be able to sit down quickly. He did not trust himself to speak and so one of the doctors read a statement. "Herr Rittmeister von Richthofen was slightly injured in an incident not related to flight, but will resume command of Jagdgeschwader Nr. 1 shortly. Until then, his comrade Oberleutnant Herman Göring will temporarily lead the unit."

  He hoped that this was not another case of "to lie like a bulletin."

  Cameras flashed, scribblers scribbled, and the word went out across the world that Germany's greatest air fighter was gathering his strength to return to the field again.

  Now that the secret was out, other pilots came by. There was a certain unhealthy air about their comments. Göring was not a good flight leader, in the air, he had to control everything, and he spent all his time on the ground being an administrator, and he really wasn't that, either. The Allies were getting more and better planes, though the new Fokker D.VII still outclassed them. The Americans were appearing in more and bigger numbers now. Bodenschatz brought more postcards for him to autograph. (His assistant had been dispatched to the Front after that stunt with the dog.) It seemed that those were better currency than mark notes.

  He fretted at the news and worked at recovering his strength. It was his duty.

  As the summer crept towards fall Manfred began to ride again. It was pleasant to go out on a horse and see the sights. They even let him go home for a visit and it was quite disturbing to not be able to fly there.

  At the end of August they let him fly again. He felt exhilarated. Even though he was only flying in a two-seater, with another man ready to grab the controls if he should black out, he was back in the air, flying again. After that day he insisted on flying every day possible, striving to get his edge back. Soon they trusted him alone again.

  Finally, on the tenth of September, they passed him as fit and let him go. He was still weak, those headaches . . . but sicker and weaker men were dying for the Fatherland every day, it was his responsibility to fight again.

  The unit was based at Ennemain now. The new name was almost an embarrassment: "Jagdgeschwader Nr. I 'Manfred Frhr. v. Richthofen'". How could he ever live that down? Or up to it? Göring had had the news, of course, and though it must have disappointed him no end to have to hand over, he concealed it. The men were drawn up -- my God, what if a raid came over! -- the planes were all fresh-painted and new (including the new red D.VII that was positioned in front of all the rest, just in front of Göring's white one), it was a good day to fly. Provided they all survived Göring's speech.

  "We, the leading edge of the Reich, the Air Arm that delivers the knockout blows to the foe, are the heirs of the Teutonic Knights, the defenders of civilization against its degenerate foes," he was saying. Why "Luftwaffe"? "Luftstreitkräfte" was what it was called, and "air force" was good enough for him.

  Göring droned on in that vein for some time. But all bad things must come to an end, and he finally said, "And as proof of our supremacy, in honor of our efforts, His Imperial Majesty has promoted our Leader to Major! Heil Richthofen! Sieg Heil!"

  That afternoon he went up again. Thanks to their cover story back when he had been injured, the enemy evidently saw nothing different about that particular red Fokker. That day was not successful but the next day he tore into a flight of British planes and sent down three Sopwith Camels in no time flat.

  Meanwhile, there were a couple of matters to sort out. Göring's "innovations" in the geschwader organization all had to be undone. Feldwebel Gabriel was back in the air, for example, after having been grounded by Hermann for having dared to win five victories against his orders.

  But before the end of the week they were moved south. The news was not good; the Americans had indeed arrived with a bang. This was not just a figure of speech; either; one American pilot had blasted ten observation balloons from the sky in just a week. The fire brigade had to be sent to take care of this; the elite Jagdgeschwader and its elite commander would have to put out this conflagration. So they found themselves facing the Americans now.

  He had a good day towards the end of September. The Americans might have numbers but they would have to learn the skills the hard way. He was on patrol and he saw six lumbering Spads that were crossing their lines; within ten minutes six American Spads were blasted from the air. He felt uneasy about that afterwards; his brother Lothar was a butcher, he was a hunter, but taking on such amateurs like that was more butchery than hunting.

  Then, towards the end of the month, the "balloon-buster" struck again. They sortied the next day, flying cover for the balloons near Avocourt. Manfred went up twice that day, but not until the afternoon did things start happening.

  The first balloon went up just after five that afternoon. There was an additional hazard, the flak gunners defending their balloons were a menace to both sides, and Manfred kept an eye out for friendly fire even as his planes came to the rescue. A second explosion lit up the sky as they approached. They dived in, disadvantage or no, and Manfred headed for the man, flying alone and desperate. Now this would be a fight.

  Or would it? The man had all his attention directed on a third balloon, and he scored right in front of Manfred's eyes; it went up in a great gout of flame, blowing his own Fokker several meters higher into the air in the updraft. Manfred pushed over and dived on him, but that ground fire got the man, and almost got him. He pulled up then, and left his sometime target to the infantry while he himself went back to base.

  The American pilot had refused to go quietly, Manfred found out the next day. He had survived the landing but when t
he troops came to take him into captivity he had drawn a handgun and fought it out with them. A pistol against rifles could only have one result.

  Manfred went to the funeral. It was a matter of honor, after all. The men who had killed the pilot had taken his boots and jacket, which he could understand, they were short of everything these days, and also his personal papers, which was inexcusable. At least a picture signed "To Gefreiter Schultze: Manfred v. Richthofen" was sufficient currency to buy this Herr Leutnant Luke's identification back. It wouldn't be his kill, but honor demanded that he be remembered.

  October was a horror. While this American Frank Luke had fallen, other Americans joined the ranks of their foes. Below them the soldiers were falling back, failing, pressed by these more numerous, better equipped, better off enemies. One day he flew over an attack, and saw for the first time these new traveling forts, leading the fight. Strafing them would get him nowhere. They didn't have the forts, the shells, the bullets, or the men to fight back. There was a shortage of everything.

  That sinking feeling he had had ever since last year was getting to him. The war was over, but he had to keep on fighting until they made peace -- or he died. Even finally scoring his hundredth victory, right before the end of the month, did not make up for it. He was so tired.

  Then, that one day at the end of the month, all the D.VIIs were down for repairs or maintenance, and he had had to take to flying a Dreidecker again. It took a couple of days to get the parts for the new planes and he had had to fly the old Fokker Dr. I until then. They would be getting the new Fokker D.VIII soon, they were first on the list but . . . there was a shortage of everything.

  During that time, Manfred came to appreciate the maneuverability of the plane. He had had quite a fight. It had been raining that morning, and in the afternoon they had the melancholy task of covering the retreat. An American in a Spad had jumped him as he flew over the Moselle, near Buzancy. He promptly turned and tried to give the man his own back. He was more maneuverable, the other fellow was faster.

  They stuck to each other like glue, or barnacles. For what seemed like practically forever -- it might have been the rest of his life -- they faced off, never quite able to get into position, never quite caught. Then, as if commanded by one mind, directed by one impetus, they broke off and headed to their respective airfields. What was that insignia on the American airplane -- a hat and something, something . . .

  The next day the new Fokker D.VIII arrived. "Razors" they called them and they cut like razors. He took one up on patrol, waded into a formation of Nieuports and took two down before the guns jammed. Armorers falling down on the job, have to see they put the ammunition through the sizer more carefully, he observed.

  When he landed at Marville there was more news. "It's come through!" Bodenschatz had cried, running across the field, holding the telegram, escorted by everybody who seemed free at the moment. "It's finally come through!"

  "What?" Manfred had said as he was helped out of the cockpit. "What's come through?"

  "The Golden Oak Leaves," Bodenschatz said, awe in his voice. "His Imperial Majesty has awarded you the Golden Oak Leaves to the Pour le Mérite! No officer so junior has ever received them! Herr Major, you are honored above all German soldiers!"

  Had he really won a campaign? That would be what it would normally take to earn the Golden Oak Leaves. Hindenburg had them, so did this General von Lettow-Vorbeck down in Africa who was outwitting the English. The rules were changing these days. It probably counted as that.

  The honor remained only an image, as there was no time available for him to travel to Spa to be invested. The airmen had to move, to fall back, as the armies fell back. Then, two days ago, the bigger news came down; there was a revolution, they were a republic now, the Kaiser had abdicated. His special train had carried him off to the Netherlands now, leaving the rest of them to negotiate the peace. For they were beaten now. It was only a matter of time. Why be the last man shot down in the war?

  Then there came the eleventh day of the eleventh month. The D. VIIs and D.VIIIs were off to Aschaffenburg, as part of the retreat, only this Dr. I was left at Marville. When the word came down that the fighting would end at eleven that day, Manfred decided to go and see. "I am coming back," he said as he went out to the plane. "Don't worry about that. I have no desire to be killed by the last bullet of the war" He looked around carefully as he walked; no one had ever seen the white dog again, but still . . .

  Down below the artillery was quiet. Someone was firing a machine gun, keeping it up to the end. Raw new trenches scored the ground; the troops were not about to give up digging. Some of the American troops still fired on him, and he promptly went up a couple of hundred meters; it would be brutally ironic to be killed by the last bullet fired in the war.

  Then the clock ticked to eleven. The firing stopped. For a moment there was a dreadful stillness below. Then, the reality came to him as it came to them, they would live. Up above, Manfred put his head against the instrument panel for a moment and sighed in relief before looking around again. Down below, it was Christmas 1914 -- God, how much the world had changed since then -- all over again. The landsers put down their guns, capered, danced, ran over to meet the Americans. Field-gray merged with the khaki.

  And up above, Manfred was suddenly glad he had paid attention. There was a Spad approaching. Days ago -- minutes ago! -- he would have gone in to the attack. Now, he just looked. He had the leisure to inspect the insignia on the plane's side; a high hat, painted in the American colors, passing through a circus hoop. Well, they called his men "the Flying Circus".

  He pulled over carefully -- if it would have been ironic to be killed by the last bullet of the war, it would be embarrassing to be killed in the last accident of the war, and the Dreideckers would shed the fabric of their upper wings -- and flew alongside the American for a spell. The man looked him over, carefully, and he returned the favor.

  Fuel running low. There was a shortage of everything. He saluted the American, who respectfully saluted back, and they turned towards their separate bases.

  Afterwards, he was glad he had flown directly to Aschaffenburg. There had been some trouble in Darmstadt, which was held by the Bolsheviks, and Göring had blustered about strafing the town. He had met the Russian Bolsheviks earlier that year, but firing on Germans, even wrong Germans . . . And Bodenschatz had backed Hermann up, he needed to talk to him.

  "No, Herr Göring, I am the kommandeur here, I will address our dismissal parade," he said. Not after that little stunt. Had he organized that little trick where all the Fokkers crashed on landing?

  At least they were welcome in Aschaffenburg. Kommerzrat Schmitt-Prym made them welcome, his paper factory became their barracks, and his home the officers' quarters. Here at least the Red Battle-Flyer was still the hero, and amid this storm of revolution many from the town gathered outside the mansion just to see him.

  Then there came the disbandment parade. They were packed into the Stiftskeller, surrounded by the wine barrels of the monastery: Fifty-three officers, 473 non-commissioned officers and privates, shoulder to shoulder, silent as the tomb. In there center there stood their commanding officer, burdened with the last duty of speaking.

  "My fellow fighters," he said, looking into their faces. Then he paused, unable to say anything further. The silence weighed heavily on him. So many had been lost, and for what? He struggled briefly seeking the strength to go on. When it came back to him he said: "My fellow fighters. Our war is over. We here remain. Fifty-five of us pilots, six of our ground crew, have paid the supreme price. More have suffered wounds, injuries." He paused, and as if evoking that reaction, a throb of headache pounded through his head from the wound above his left ear. He refused to give in to it; he would keep on talking, as he had kept on fighting.

  "We have been victorious six hundred seventy-one times against our foes. No one can say we did not do our utmost for the Fatherland. We have done all that man can do. Not a one of you has let me do
wn; let our Reich down.

  "There is no dishonor in our struggle. We fought to the utmost

  "Now we have survived the war. It is time to lay aside the hatreds and the strife. We have fought chivalrously. Let us remember how the knights of old fought. They made war to the utmost, and when peace came they made peace to the same degree. They respected their enemies. We have lost the war -- let us strive to save our Reich in peace with the same efforts we devoted to saving it in war."

  He sat down then, in pain, in grief.

  A burly figure popped up from among the pilots. "And let us praise our Leader! Heil Richthofen!" Göring's cry was echoed by a few of the men.

  They left after that, leaving their leader sitting alone with his feelings.

  The last airplane left was the utility plane, the two-seater Albatros. Lothar would fly the back seat, and after those headaches he felt more secure having the support of family. "I hope we can get fuel," he said. The few remaining ground crew clustered around to say farewell. Manfred shook hands, patted shoulders, and said, "Keep safe."

  It was probably better to fly. The country was coming apart. There were Bolsheviks and Socialists everywhere, setting up Red regimes in half the country, it seemed. This was not his sort of "red"; the aristocrat von Richthofen would be a prime target for them.

  They did not talk much, even to the extent they could over the engine. Lothar flew for a while as he tried to rest, the throbbing in his head being too much . . . he just could not appreciate the view, the joy of flying.

  There was little enough to welcome them at home. If there were no longer the wildly enthusiastic crowds turned out to greet the great Hero, at least there were no disgruntled soldiers wishing to shoot anything that resembled an officer.

  Manfred retired to his room as an Achilles to his tent. Achilles did not have these damned headaches, never mind the burden of loss.

  The year ran down to Christmas. Manfred kept away from the news, and indeed tried to keep away from people. It helped that Father and Mother and Lothar would turn away visitors. But one day, a more persistent man came.