Free Aces by T. E. Cruise Page A

discussed what I am…”
    Richthofen frowned. “I’m very sorry, Herr Sergeant.”
    “Yes, Sir,” Goldstein deadpanned. “Thank you, Sir.”
    Richthofen looked uncomfortable. “Well, then, if we understand each other,” he shrugged. “I suppose that you’re dismissed.”
    Goldstein came to attention and saluted. He turned on his heel and went to the door.
    “Herr Sergeant,” Richthofen called softly.
    “Sir?” Goldstein turned.
    Richthofen stood up. His smile was almost shy. “Hermann, thank you for saving my Circus.”
    Goldstein felt the anger and hostility drain out. He grinned. “My pleasure, Sir.”

Chapter 3
----
    (One)
    Jadgeschwader 1
    Cappy
    21 April 1918
    Goldstein was in the hangar tent, overhauling his Fokker’s machine gun synchronizer mechanism, when he heard that Richthofen
     had been shot down over enemy lines.
    Goldstein’s initial reaction was an illogical one: that the tragedy was his fault. If only his armament hadn’t malfunctioned,
     if only he could have gone along with his Jasta on its patrol, then the Herr Rittmeister wouldn’t have gone down.
    J.G. 1 waited, along with the rest of the military and the German people back home, for word from the British concerning Richthofen.
     There was no question that the nation’s hero had fallen, but perhaps he was a prisoner, alive and well.
    On the evening of the twenty-second a British airplane buzzed Cappy Field to drop a tersely worded note of condolence from
     the R.A.F.—along with a photograph purported to be of Richthofen’s grave. On April 23 the British officially announced that
     the Red Battle Flier Richthofen had been buried with full military honors in the cemetery at Bertangles.
    That evening, as the pilots of J.G. 1 somberly drank memorial toasts, Adjutant Bodenschatz announced that Lieutenant Willhelm
     Reinhard would be the new Geschwaderkommandeur. Goldstein couldn’t shake the feeling that all of this was an awful dream,
     and that tomorrow he would wake up to find the Herr Rittmeister alive and well and ready to lead his cubs into battle in the
     heavens.
    A few days later the order came down to change the Circus’s official standard, from Richthofen’s red to Reinhard’s favored
     royal blue. It was only when Goldstein watched the painter’s brush eradicating his Fokker’s proud scarlet that his heart finally
     acknowledged that Richthofen was gone.
    J.G. 1 spent the rest of April and the month of May traveling along the front lines, trying its best to shore up the exhausted
     German Army. General Ludendorff’s second offensive at Lys, and his third, across the Aisne and Vesle Rivers, had stalled.
     Now the Allies, bolstered by the influx of fresh American troops, were on the offensive.
    Goldstein spent his days flying double patrols, and his nights trying to grab a few fitful hours of sleep in tents or in the
     backs of jolting lorries traveling ruined roads. Each day J.G. 1 took its share of kills—Goldstein’s count reached twenty—but
     each day there seemed to be more Allied planes to confront. There were swarms of them, and while most of their pilots were
     green, the Allies’ sheer numbers bought them victory.
    Goldstein knew that Germany had lost this war. He discussed it in private with Corporal Froehlig, who agreed with him. Now
     Goldstein only wondered if he would live to witness his country’s surrender.
    In June the Jadgeschwader received its allotment of Fokker D VIIs. Goldstein did not object when the armorer equipped his
     machine with twin Spandau guns. He didn’t dare; the mood of the Circus was far too grimly vengeful. He still took his time
     and chose his shots. Goldstein was fighting hard now; fighting not only to avenge Richthofen’s death, but to survive, and
     still he was determined to remain true to himself. To maintain the quality of mercy in a world gone rabid with cruelty.
    But Richthofen had been right that night in Goldstein’s hut: this was no game. It had taken the Herr