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

moment,” Boelcke said. Manfred stayed put.
    “You landed after your target crashed,” Boelcke said.
    “Yes, sir.”
    “Why?”
    “I…I needed proof,” Manfred said. He suddenly felt very hot under his flight jacket.
    “You abandoned the fight. Your presence could have been the difference between life and death for me, Wolff, or Voss,” Boelcke said. His tone even and low.
    Manfred’s head bowed in shame for a moment. Boelcke was right. Manfred’s ego overrode his duty. This was something no officer could accept. He straightened up to the position of attention.
    “Sir, you’re right.” Manfred opened his jacket and removed his pilot’s badge from his uniform tunic. He held it out to Boelcke.
    Boelcke laughed and pushed the hand holding Manfred’s badge back into his coat.
    “Did I tell you to stay with the fight? No, and that’s my own fault.” He held out his hand, his finger straight. “What would happen if I jammed my hand into your chest right now?”
    “You’d probably break a finger,” Manfred said.
    Boelcke curled his hand into a fist. “And now?”
    “You’d knock me over.”
    “Precisely. If we fly as individuals, we are weak. Fly as a unit, and we are unstoppable. Understand?” Boelcke said.
    “Yes, sir,” Manfred said, still ashamed.
    “Don’t be so morose, Manfred. You did very well today and I expect more of the same from you every time we fly,” Boelcke slapped a meaty hand against Manfred’s shoulder.
    A staff car pulled up beside the duo. Voss and Wolff in the backseat.
    “Manfred! Come with us, we need proof of our victories too,” Wolff said. The slight man wore a sleeping cap on his head, the tail draped over a shoulder.
    Manfred looked to Boelcke for approval.
    “Go,” Boelcke said with a nod.
    Manfred hurried after Wolff, the tassel of his sleeping cap bouncing in the air as he ran for a waiting car.
    “Kurt, what on earth are you wearing?” Manfred asked.
    “Huh? Oh,” Wolff snatched the cap from his head and shoved it into his tunic. “It’s for luck in the air. What do you take up?”
    “I’m sorry, for luck?” Manfred asked.
    Voss walked over and dangled a pocket watch from a gold chain. “It was my grandfather’s; he had it with him in the war with the Austrians. Four battles and not a scratch.”
    The three officers piled into the car as their driver opened the hood to double-check the engine’s oil.
    “Manfred, do you not have a lucky talisman?” Wolff looked at him like he was already a dead man. “Even Boelcke has that walking stick of his.”
    “My jacket.” Manfred slapped at the leather jacket he’d bought after his first training flight. The fur coat he’d worn hadn’t been proof against the cold air of the skies. “Yes, this jacket.”
    “I flew with one guy who took a stuffed bear up with him,” Voss said.
    “I heard about some Gotha pilot that flew with a dachshund,” Wolff added.
    “Now you’re just making stuff up,” Voss said.
    The driver shut the engine hood and drove them away from the airfield.
     
     
    Manfred followed Wolff as he bounded through a forest.
    “He went down over here. I’m sure of it!” Wolff said.
    “That’s the third time he’s said that,” Voss said. He and Manfred didn’t share Wolff’s enthusiasm for traipsing through undergrowth. They stayed near the edge of the woods while Wolff continued his search.
    “You and Boelcke saw it happen; he’ll get credit for the victory,” Manfred said. The lessening light from the setting sun reflected Manfred’s level of enthusiasm for the search.
    Voss lit a match and brought the flame to a cigarette in his mouth. He inhaled deeply and lifted his head to exhale the smoke away from Manfred’s face.
    “Well I’ll be damned,” Voss said. He pointed to a plane’s tail and rudder suspended in the upper branches of an oak tree. The rest of the plane was hanging from the lower and thicker branches, both wings missing.
    “Finally,” Manfred said.
    He