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

deflection corrections sent to the distant battalion of German artillery. Manfred reached for the cocking lever on the Spandau; he could do something for the German soldiers in their trenches if the observer failed in his mission.
    Seconds later, dozens of shells landed among the British attack. Manfred watched as a dozen British simply ceased to be as a shell exploded on top of them, their whole existence replaced by a patch of no-man’s-land. Thousands of British soldiers floundered as the shelling continued. Dirt and smoke from the shelling churned up a fog that clouded Manfred’s view.
    British soldiers retreated to their lines, a trickle that gave way to a flood as the line receded. The German barrage shifted, walking back toward the British trench line. Manfred watched as a single British soldier, running for all his worth away from the carnage, went sprawling from a near miss. The man got back up and made it to a shell hole, where he didn’t move again.
    Is he dead, or hoping to wait out the battle? Manfred thought. The shelling subsided as the British limped back to their lines. Smoking craters and broken bodies littered no-man’s-land. Hundreds must have died, and for what? No territory gained and no damage to the German war effort other than a need to resupply the artillery battalion. Manfred shook his head at the futility of it all.
    The Aviatik wagged its wings and turned east, its mission complete. Manfred was impressed by the power of one aircraft in the right place, at the right time. Glorified babysitting missions weren’t why he’d earned his pilot’s badge, but doing something to protect the German soldiers in their trenches was satisfying in its own way.
    Manfred looked to Boelcke’s Albatros; he had the latest model D.III Albatros, complete with stronger engine and shorter, lower wings, while the rest of the pilots flew D.IIs. Boelcke’s Albatros didn’t turn east to follow the observer, but turned north. Manfred and the rest followed suit, gaining altitude as they went.
    They continued over German lines. The railhead at Villers lay ahead of them. Manfred’s gaze crept from Boelcke, waiting for his signal, to their rear to scan for threats, and toward the sun, where the most devastating attack would originate. His silk scarf wasn’t for looks, as Lothar would accuse; it kept his neck from rubbing raw as he kept his head on a swivel.
    Boelcke’s Albatros undulated, and then wagged its wings. Once he had the rest of the pilots’ attention, Boelcke pointed ahead and below his aircraft.
    Manfred saw them immediately, half a dozen F.E.2b bombers, the propeller mounted on the back of the cockpit to push the plane through the air, flying in a diagonal formation toward the railhead. Boelcke pointed at Manfred with his walking stick, then toward the rearmost Fee.
    Manfred wagged his wings in acknowledgment and pitched forward into a dive. His heart quickened as air rushed over the wings, the engine straining as he opened the throttle. The Fee grew closer—no reaction from the pilot or the gunner/observer sitting in front of him. He cocked his guns and forced himself to wait. The closer he was, the more likely he’d hit his target. Two hundred yards…one hundred fifty…at a hundred yards, the pilot and observer burst to life. The rear gunner swung his machine gun toward Manfred.
    Manfred pressed both triggers, firing as he dove past the Fee. He pulled up from the dive and found his target. With no smoke or other signs of distress, his shots must have missed. Voss and Wolff had made their attacks. One of the Fees belched gray smoke as it spiraled toward the earth.
    His Fee was above him and had rolled to the side, giving the gunner a shot at Manfred. Flashes burst from the Fee; bullets zipped past each other as Manfred’s Albatros came level with the Fee.
    Manfred had two choices, dive again and try for another attack from below the Fee’s defilade, or stay level and trade shots with the gunner.