before it left his lips. Voss finished first with a smack of his lips.
“We took Champagne away from the French. Don’t spill a drop and spite those bastards in Paris,” Boelcke said.
Manfred finished and held the cup over his head. A burp escaped his lips. Wolff finished a moment later and almost fell over backward before a helpful orderly pushed him upright.
Pilots banged their fists to the table as Boelcke lowered his glass and the rest followed suit.
“Well done, men. Well done,” he said.
Manfred sank back into his chair, his head already pounding from too much alcohol.
A knife tapped against a schnapps glass again. My God, what’s left? Manfred thought.
Boelcke sat back in his chair, the bottom buttons of his tunic undone, the piece of paper left by Bodenschatz in hand.
“Gentlemen, I have news. The British ace, Major Lanoe Hawker, is dead.” Silence fell across the table. Hawker had nearly as many kills as Boelcke and was the deadliest British pilot of the war. “He went down two days ago just north of our airfield.” Boelcke looked at Manfred, who was too drunk to make the connection. “The pilot who shot him down is none other than our Lieutenant von Richthofen.”
Manfred’s world shrunk as the news sank in. He focused on the battling eagles on his Ehrenbecher as hands shook his shoulders and slapped his back in congratulations. The pilot of the D.H.2, the last owner of the Lewis machine gun hanging over his doorway, was the best pilot the English had to offer, and Manfred killed him.
Manfred and Voss sat outside the barracks. Manfred had his Ehrenbecher still in hand. Voss had a cigarette. Scattered raindrops flitted through the lamplight, heralds to the approaching storm.
“I know his name,” Manfred said.
Voss exhaled smoke from his nostrils and squinted at Manfred.
“What are you talking about?” Voss asked.
“Hawker, I know who he is. The rest have all just…been there,” he said.
“So? You think he gave a damn who you were when he was shooting at you?”
“No, but what if I’d known it was Hawker? The best of the best and me in the air. Maybe knowing that, things would have gone differently,” Manfred said.
“What do you want? Us and them to exchange names and back off twenty paces before we start killing each other? We’re going to shoot anyone flying a plane that’s a different color than ours. Don’t make things more complicated than they need to be.”
Manfred held his cup in the air. Raindrops spattered against the silver. An idea, stronger than the haze of alcohol, burst into his mind.
“I’ll make a cup for each victory! Details of each one etched on the side. A proper way to remember Hawker and the rest of them…and a larger cup for each tenth victory…” Manfred’s voice trailed off.
“I think you’ve had too much to drink,” Voss said.
“No, Werner, we should honor them,” Manfred said. Hawker’s dead eyes stared at him from memory. “We should honor them.”
“Where is the balloon? The balloon is still in the sky!” Manfred slammed the field telephone and stomped out of the headquarters toward the line of Albatroses waiting for the action bell.
He passed Boelcke, who was posing for yet another series of Sanke postcards, and climbed into his plane. A camera flash popped as he ran his fingers through the hemp ammo belt, checking for rips and tears that might jam his weapon. He cocked the gun and peered into the chamber, muttering under his breath.
“Something wrong, Manfred?” Boelcke asked from aside his plane.
Manfred sat back and crossed his arms. “Fourteen, sir. Fourteen victories for the Fatherland, and Hawker, but no Blue Max,” Manfred looked at the award on Boelcke’s neck. “High command wants to know why I haven’t shot down a balloon,” Manfred shook his head in disbelief. “There’s no sport in shooting down a balloon!”
Boelcke chuckled and unclasped the Blue Max from his neck. He held it out to
“We took Champagne away from the French. Don’t spill a drop and spite those bastards in Paris,” Boelcke said.
Manfred finished and held the cup over his head. A burp escaped his lips. Wolff finished a moment later and almost fell over backward before a helpful orderly pushed him upright.
Pilots banged their fists to the table as Boelcke lowered his glass and the rest followed suit.
“Well done, men. Well done,” he said.
Manfred sank back into his chair, his head already pounding from too much alcohol.
A knife tapped against a schnapps glass again. My God, what’s left? Manfred thought.
Boelcke sat back in his chair, the bottom buttons of his tunic undone, the piece of paper left by Bodenschatz in hand.
“Gentlemen, I have news. The British ace, Major Lanoe Hawker, is dead.” Silence fell across the table. Hawker had nearly as many kills as Boelcke and was the deadliest British pilot of the war. “He went down two days ago just north of our airfield.” Boelcke looked at Manfred, who was too drunk to make the connection. “The pilot who shot him down is none other than our Lieutenant von Richthofen.”
Manfred’s world shrunk as the news sank in. He focused on the battling eagles on his Ehrenbecher as hands shook his shoulders and slapped his back in congratulations. The pilot of the D.H.2, the last owner of the Lewis machine gun hanging over his doorway, was the best pilot the English had to offer, and Manfred killed him.
Manfred and Voss sat outside the barracks. Manfred had his Ehrenbecher still in hand. Voss had a cigarette. Scattered raindrops flitted through the lamplight, heralds to the approaching storm.
“I know his name,” Manfred said.
Voss exhaled smoke from his nostrils and squinted at Manfred.
“What are you talking about?” Voss asked.
“Hawker, I know who he is. The rest have all just…been there,” he said.
“So? You think he gave a damn who you were when he was shooting at you?”
“No, but what if I’d known it was Hawker? The best of the best and me in the air. Maybe knowing that, things would have gone differently,” Manfred said.
“What do you want? Us and them to exchange names and back off twenty paces before we start killing each other? We’re going to shoot anyone flying a plane that’s a different color than ours. Don’t make things more complicated than they need to be.”
Manfred held his cup in the air. Raindrops spattered against the silver. An idea, stronger than the haze of alcohol, burst into his mind.
“I’ll make a cup for each victory! Details of each one etched on the side. A proper way to remember Hawker and the rest of them…and a larger cup for each tenth victory…” Manfred’s voice trailed off.
“I think you’ve had too much to drink,” Voss said.
“No, Werner, we should honor them,” Manfred said. Hawker’s dead eyes stared at him from memory. “We should honor them.”
“Where is the balloon? The balloon is still in the sky!” Manfred slammed the field telephone and stomped out of the headquarters toward the line of Albatroses waiting for the action bell.
He passed Boelcke, who was posing for yet another series of Sanke postcards, and climbed into his plane. A camera flash popped as he ran his fingers through the hemp ammo belt, checking for rips and tears that might jam his weapon. He cocked the gun and peered into the chamber, muttering under his breath.
“Something wrong, Manfred?” Boelcke asked from aside his plane.
Manfred sat back and crossed his arms. “Fourteen, sir. Fourteen victories for the Fatherland, and Hawker, but no Blue Max,” Manfred looked at the award on Boelcke’s neck. “High command wants to know why I haven’t shot down a balloon,” Manfred shook his head in disbelief. “There’s no sport in shooting down a balloon!”
Boelcke chuckled and unclasped the Blue Max from his neck. He held it out to
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