The Red Baron: A World War I Novel by Richard Fox Page A

the air for threats to his commander as he closed. Crossing over the lines wasn’t something Boelcke was fond of; part of his mantra to his pilots was to always have a line of retreat ready. In the weeks that Manfred had flown with the squadron, they’d crossed over only twice, each time with detailed planning and with the wind blowing to the east.
    The blast from a near miss kicked Manfred’s Albatros up and over, like a plate flipped from a table. His body strained against the belts that kept him from ejecting into the air. His plane still responded to the controls, quelling the panic that he might be on a one-way trip to the ground in a dead plane. Manfred rode out the blast and waited for gravity to pull the heavy metal engine earthward. He pulled out of the unforced dive before the airspeed could rip the wings off.
    At some point the gunners would run out of shells, he hoped.
    Boelcke was a few dozen yards from the Nieuport. A tracer round careened off the propeller and into the sky. The Nieuport made a desperate dive and landed hard on a dirt road running parallel to a line of telegraph poles.
    The pilot unstrapped, jumped from the smoking plane, and ran a dozen yards down the road. The pilot found Boelcke in the air and thrust his arms over his head toward Boelcke, brandishing that particular British gesture of holding two fingers up in a V. Boelcke didn’t pull back from his attack dive as Manfred watched on.
    The pilot froze for a second, and then took off running down the road.
    Boelcke fired; a line of bullets stitched the dirt road and overtook the pilot, who tumbled to the ground in a cloud of dirt. He laid still, arms and legs contorted.
    Manfred looked on in shock. Boelcke killed that pilot after he was out of the fight, helpless. This wasn’t what he thought Boelcke, knight of the air and hero of Germany, would do.
    Boelcke pulled into a loop and twisted into an Immelmann turn. He pointed to the east and toward safety as he passed Manfred. Manfred came about and followed. He took another glance at the pilot, who lay in the road.
     
     
    Manfred remained silent during the after-action review, answering Boelcke’s direct questions and providing nothing else of the morning’s flight. Lieutenant Bohme, his black hair slicked against his Neanderthal-like skull from sweat, detailed his successful duel with another Nieuport, the equally unfortunate wingman of Boelcke’s victim.
    “The air is thick with Englishmen today, boys. Have your planes refueled and rearmed immediately and stay suited up,” Boelcke said. The knot of pilots unraveled at Boelcke’s command.
    “Sir,” Manfred said, “a moment, if you please.”
    Boelcke motioned to Manfred and walked to a water cistern aside the headquarters. Boelcke lifted a tin ladle to his mouth to drink, he cocked up an eyebrow to the waiting Manfred.
    “Sir, that pilot—he was out of the fight. His plane a wreck and—”
    Boelcke slammed the ladle into the cistern with a bang. He took a step toward Manfred, hands balled in fists and his mouth twisted in a snarl.
    “And what? Let him live? Hope his aristocratic sense of fair play made sure I got the same treatment if our situation were reversed?” Manfred didn’t answer. The airfield bustled around them as the standoff continued.
    Boelcke took a deep breath and ran a trembling hand through his hair.
    “How many do you have now, Manfred?”
    “Six victories, sir,” he said. Fair weather and Boelcke’s instruction made the last month productive.
    “Yes, that’s right,” Boelcke said. “That was my thirty-seventh. This isn’t a game, Manfred. It is life and death every single time,” Boelcke nodded his head slowly as if he’d found the answer to some old question. “We can’t afford to be innocent about these things.”
    Boelcke’s eyes flashed with happiness. “I expect great things from you,” he said before disappearing into the headquarters.
    Manfred relaxed, Boelcke’s words running