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

through his mind. After all the killing, what innocence remained?
    “Manfred,” Bohme said from behind. The big man motioned for Manfred to follow him behind the hangar.
    Manfred found Bohme next to a crate of ammo, a crowbar in hand. A breeze ruffled through the fields of wheat surrounding the airfield, silent and peaceful compared to the men readying for battle on the other side of the wooden barn.
    “What happened?” Bohme said. He’d been with Boelcke since the squadron formed; he was several victories ahead of the blue and the House Order of Hohenzollern medal at his breast, an award on par with the Pour Le Merite—depending on what part of Germany one hailed from—a testament to his skill. Manfred told Bohme everything but the details of what Boelcke said at the cistern. Bohme said nothing as he slammed the crowbar into the crate and pried the top open.
    “You never met Schlechter. He was with us until a few days before you arrived. The day before he died, he shot up a Brit but didn’t bring him down. Plane had a golden lion painted on the side, and Schlechter escorted it back to their lines.” Bohme pulled a case of ammo from the crate and handed it to Manfred.
    “Next day, a plane with that same golden lion sends Schlechter down in flames. I was there when Boelcke pulled him out of the wreck.” Bohme’s nose wrinkled at the memory. “He hasn’t been the same since.”
    “Do you know why the English call us ‘Huns’? Because they think we act without honor,” Manfred said.
    “There’s no honor in this war, friend. No honor in the trench and no honor in the air. Just us trying to survive.” Bohme pulled two belt magazines from the crate, each seemed pitifully small in his hands.
    “I won’t be like that. Never,” Manfred said.
    “Then I hope your sense of honor doesn’t get you killed, or me, or Boelcke.” Bohme tossed another drum of bullets to Manfred.
    The clanging of a wrench against a brass bell sounded action for the squadron. The enemy had been spotted.
    Manfred tightened his hands around the drum and ran for his plane.
     
     
    After a fruitless hour in the air, Manfred thought the “action” bell was a misnomer. He checked his fuel gauge, which was closer to empty than he would have liked and gave it a tap with his finger.
    He scanned a line of clouds in the distance, hoping the white background would provide a silhouette for the English squadron that was, supposedly, in the area. Nothing. He rapped his fingers on the control pane and regretted not taking the chance to relieve himself between sorties.
    A yellow light shone from deep inside a cloud, a hint of the sun that was in a very different part of the sky. The light grew brighter until it fell through the bottom of the cloud. A German Gotha, one of the large bombers, hurtled to the earth aflame.
    Manfred wagged his wings and waved to Bohme and Voss flying in formation with him. Voss was looking at Manfred, and pointing frantically toward the air above Manfred. Manfred shook his head—how could Voss miss the Gotha? Manfred pointed to the dying plane. Voss kept pointing, his shouts lost to the wind.
    Manfred frowned, and then he looked to the sky. A shadow flickered in the sun. Manfred threw the Albatros on its side and banked so fast he heard the wooden wings groan from the stress. Bullets filled the air he’d just occupied and a D.H.2 roared past him. The D.H.2, resembled a Fee with its rear-mounted propeller, but it was built to win air-to-air combat. Its appearance on the Western Front ended the Germans’ technological superiority that came with the Fokker Eindecker, and was more than a match for Manfred’s Albatros.
    Manfred craned his head to follow his foe and turned to meet the attack. The two planes crossed paths too quickly for Manfred to fire; he kept the plane in a turn and his eye on the D.H.2.
    The D.H.2 stayed in its turn, equal in its maneuverability to Manfred’s Albatros. Neither plane could turn faster