Free Aces by T. E. Cruise Page B

Rittmeister’s death for
     Goldstein to realize that.
    (Two)
    J.G. 1
    Coincy Field, near Château-Thierry, France
    3 July 1918
    The day started out badly. Coincy was a mud-bog. Goldstein had spent the night in a sodden tent that stank of mildew. He’d
     been plagued by gnats so small that they moved freely through the mesh of the mosquito nets. He would never get used to tents:
     the insects, the filth, and the dark, dank atmosphere. It was like living in a cave.
    At breakfast he was greeted with news that the Germans, still reeling from their defeat at Belleau Wood, had just been chased
     out of the strategically located village of Vaux by American Marines.
    Later, while flying morning patrol with Jasta 11, Goldstein and the others encountered American pilots over Château-Thierry.
     The Yanks were flying superb Spad 13s. There were eight of them, jauntily daubed with the red, white, and blue of the American
     flag.
    It was the first time that Goldstein had run into Yanks. Others of J.G. 1 had encountered them, and they’d had discouraging
     stories to tell about the Americans’ prowess and bravado. Lieutenant Reinhard had said not to worry about the Americans: that
     they would be inexperienced, and would fall before J.G. 1’s guns.
    Reinhard was wrong.
    The Yanks Goldstein encountered that morning were not inexperienced, or, if they were, they were incredibly swift learners.
     The dogfight started out even, eight against eight. When the tangle broke apart, the Yanks remained unscathed, but three of
     Jasta 11, including Lieutenant Dorn, had spun earthward in flames. Goldstein had spiraled down like an anxious mother bird
     around Dorn’s burning Fokker, but there was nothing he could do for the lieutenant. Nobody could have survived Dorn’s fiery
     crash.
    Flying as low as he could, Goldstein ran for home, following what remained of his once proud squadron. High above, the Yanks
     were flying victory loops, rejoicing in the wide expanse of blue that had become their domain.
    That afternoon Goldstein was in the umbrella tent that served as the pilots’ mess. He was sitting apart from the other fliers,
     and, as usual, his nose was in a book. He’d borrowed the shop manual on the D VII’s Mercedes engine from Corporal Froehlig
     and was studying it, doing his best not to think about the early evening patrol he was scheduled to fly.
    “Gentlemen—”
    Goldstein glanced up. It was the adjutant.
    “Gentlemen, your attention,” Bodenschatz repeated. “It is my sad duty to inform you that Herr Lieutenant Reinhard has been
     killed.”
    Goldstein put aside his book out of respect, and pretended to listen as Bodenschatz recounted the details of Reinhard’s death.
     The truth was that while Goldstein felt sorry for Reinhard, who’d been a good man and an able leader, he couldn’t find it
     within himself to mourn. So many acquaintances were dying that Goldstein had become numb to further loss.
    It’s the odds
, Goldstein remembered Richthofen had said.
Sooner or later, the odds get everyone
.
    Through luck, or destiny, Goldstein had managed to become one of the senior members of J.G. 1. This made him a figure of awe
     to the green pilots newly assigned to the ragtag caravan of lorries and airplanes roaming the faltering front lines.
    That these boisterous and enthusiastic inexperienced fliers looked up to him the way that he had looked up to Richthofen appalled
     Goldstein. He went out of his way to discourage the friendship of these new pilots. He didn’t want to get to know them. What
     was the point? Tomorrow they would be dead, and strange new faces would appear to take their place. The fact that these new
     fliers were blithely oblivious to the fact that they had a mayfly’s life expectancy enraged many of the veteran pilots. One
     day there appeared a gruesome addition to the ridgepole of the tent that housed the new recruits. It was a carved wooden buzzard,
     winking as it contemplated the new pilots. The