Free Aces by T. E. Cruise

getting dark out. I don’t want to spend the night worrying
     about what’s going to happen.” He paused, to smile at Froehlig. “And whatever happens, I want to thank you, Heiner. When you
     grabbed me, and stopped me from attacking Goering a second time, you probably saved me from having to face a firing squad.”
    Froehlig, scowling, waved away his pipe smoke, along with Goldstein’s thanks. “The way I see it, you saved my life, and the
     lives of everyone else, thanks to your defense of the aerodrome. You deserve a medal for what you did today, not a court-martial.”
    “I feel like I’m in a dream,” Goldstein muttered. “A few days ago I thought I
was
in line for honors: a promotion and the Blue Max. Now my neck seems to be on the chopping block for insubordination, and
     assaulting an officer…”
    There was a knock at the door. “Come!” Goldstein called.
    Two infantry privates carrying Mauser rifles stood in the doorway. “Herr Sergeant,” one of them began. “The Herr Rittmeister
     will see you now.” The private eyed Froehlig. “Our orders are that you come alone.”
    Goldstein, feeling sick, stood up. He smoothed his rumpled uniform and took his cap from its wall hook. “Heiner, if I don’t
     get the chance to see you again—”
    “You’ll see me again,” Froehlig cut him off gruffly. “One way or the other, you will. Friends stick together.”
    The soldiers silently escorted Goldstein to the Herr Rittmeister’s office, located in the administrative section and attached
     to the pilots’ mess. One of the privates knocked once on Richthofen’s door and opened it for Goldstein. He stepped inside
     and heard the door click shut behind him.
    The office was lit by a narrow, golden funnel of light cast by a polished brass lantern hanging from the ceiling. The walls
     were covered with canvas serial numbers cut from the fuselages of the Herr Rittmeister’s kills. Off to one side, bracketed
     by file cabinets, was a mahogany and glass case which housed Richthofen’s legendary collection of almost eighty diminutive
     silver cups, each one engraved with the particulars of a confirmed kill. Leaning in a corner were several propellers taken
     from fallen enemy airplanes, and on a sideboard was a collection of pistols taken from vanquished Allied pilots.
    Richthofen was seated behind his desk. “Herr Sergeant Goldstein.” He looked at Goldstein with interest, gesturing for him
     to stand beneath the lantern.
    Goldstein took his place beneath the light and came to attention.
    “Tell me, Herr Sergeant. The enemy has never managed to cause you to lose your temper and resort to violence to the extent
     reported to me today. How did the Herr Oberleutnant manage it?”
    Goldstein told his story. When he was done, the Herr Rittmeister nodded.
    “Your version of the events matches the Herr Adjutant’s,” Richthofen said, and then smiled. “Tell me, did Herr Oberleutnant
     Bodenschatz really shoot down that Spad?”
    “Yes, Sir.”
    “My God, I would have liked to have seen that,” Richthofen sighed. “But let’s return to the matter at hand. Herr Oberleutnant
     Goering is at this moment on his way back to his own squadron. I have persuaded him not to press charges against you.”
    “Thank you, Sir!” Goldstein said, hugely relieved.
    Richthofen nodded. “You may stand at ease, Herr Sergeant. I’d like to get a few things straight between us. We both know that
     what the Herr Oberleutnant did was inexcusable,” Richthofen continued. “As a matter of fact, you would technically be within
     your rights to file charges against him. I assume you understand that you cannot do so, that you would hurt only yourself?”
    “Yes, Sir,” Goldstein said evenly. “I understand perfectly, Sir. What happened isn’t important. The reality is that the Herr
     Oberleutnant wears the Blue Max; he is an officer and a gentleman. And I am—” Goldstein smiled thinly. “Well, Sir, we’ve already