Manfred, glinting in the morning sun.
“Take it,” he said.
“No, sir, that’s yours,” Manfred said.
“If it will make you fly any better or shoot any straighter, then take it.”
Manfred shook his head and Boelcke pulled the award back.
“Is this why you fly? For baubles?”
“No, sir.”
“Then why do you fly?”
Manfred looked over the flight line, at Voss, Wolff, and Bohme and the rest of the pilots enjoying a last smoke and joking among themselves. The thump of distant artillery in the air.
“For you and for them. For the soldiers in the trenches who need us,” Manfred said.
“That’s what I thought.” He clasped the award around his neck. “The medals come if you want them or not; focus on what you can control.”
“Then why do you wear it all the time?”
“I have it on in all my pictures. How else will anyone recognize me?” Boelcke said, a wide smile on his face.
The action bell clanged from the headquarters. An orderly ran to Boelcke’s plane, holding a sheet of paper bearing their orders in hand. Boelcke gave Manfred a flippant salute and went to his plane. Boelcke patted at his flight suit, searching for something. He knelt next to the plane and looked at the high grass underneath before climbing into the cockpit.
The pilots watched as Boelcke looked over the paper from the orderly. The commander held his hand in the air, and pointed it forward as his plane was the first out of the chocks.
Where is his lucky walking stick? Manfred thought.
The Albatros dipped its wheels into cloud tops like a stone skipped across a lake. Manfred looked over the side into the abyss below him, the white of Venetian lace deepened to melancholy grays as the cloud deepened.
Manfred spied Bohme and Boelcke above him, Boelcke’s white scarf flapping behind him like a pennant. He lost them in the sunlight and blinked hard as he looked back to the cloud just beneath his plane.
He held out his hand, as if to catch a whiff of cloud. For him, flying was a beautiful thing. Shame that this war is what brought him to it.
Part of the deep darkness moved, a leviathan’s tentacle reaching out for him. Manfred scrambled to load his machine gun as a D.H.2 burst through the cloud layer. Manfred’s plane reared up, missing the rising English plane by a few yards.
The D.H.2 pilot glanced over his shoulder, then did a double take when he saw Manfred. Manfred was close enough to see the shock on the pilot’s face. The D.H.2 banked into a turn and Manfred followed suit.
Manfred fired, failing to connect, as their turn took them back toward the clouds. The D.H.2 pulled up and skirted the cloud tops as if they were as solid as the ground below. Manfred fired another burst and gray smoke burst from his target. He closed in for the kill as the D.H.2 lost airspeed.
Bullets zipped past Manfred, a guy line between his wings snapped with the twang of a broken cello string. There was another D.H.2 firing on him from behind, and three more rising from the clouds with it.
Manfred did exactly what training forbade—he dove straight into the clouds. Water drops coalesced on his goggles and rain slicked over his plane. There was nothing but gray around him and in his panicked dive he’d lost track of which way was up. He said a quick prayer and changed direction against the most resistance from his control stick, hoping that would lead him skyward and not into an uncontrolled dive to the ground.
The purgatory gray vanished as Manfred found blue skies. A swirling dogfight just ahead, Manfred opened the throttle and raced to the battle.
Boelcke, two English on his tail, dived into a spiral, and nearly collided with Bohme who was climbing to reach the conflict. Bohme waited until Boelcke crossed out of his line of fire, then lit in to the two pursuers, who hadn’t seen Bohme until they’d dived to follow Germany’s greatest ace.
One of the D.H.2s banked right to avoid the attack, the other banked left. The
“Take it,” he said.
“No, sir, that’s yours,” Manfred said.
“If it will make you fly any better or shoot any straighter, then take it.”
Manfred shook his head and Boelcke pulled the award back.
“Is this why you fly? For baubles?”
“No, sir.”
“Then why do you fly?”
Manfred looked over the flight line, at Voss, Wolff, and Bohme and the rest of the pilots enjoying a last smoke and joking among themselves. The thump of distant artillery in the air.
“For you and for them. For the soldiers in the trenches who need us,” Manfred said.
“That’s what I thought.” He clasped the award around his neck. “The medals come if you want them or not; focus on what you can control.”
“Then why do you wear it all the time?”
“I have it on in all my pictures. How else will anyone recognize me?” Boelcke said, a wide smile on his face.
The action bell clanged from the headquarters. An orderly ran to Boelcke’s plane, holding a sheet of paper bearing their orders in hand. Boelcke gave Manfred a flippant salute and went to his plane. Boelcke patted at his flight suit, searching for something. He knelt next to the plane and looked at the high grass underneath before climbing into the cockpit.
The pilots watched as Boelcke looked over the paper from the orderly. The commander held his hand in the air, and pointed it forward as his plane was the first out of the chocks.
Where is his lucky walking stick? Manfred thought.
The Albatros dipped its wheels into cloud tops like a stone skipped across a lake. Manfred looked over the side into the abyss below him, the white of Venetian lace deepened to melancholy grays as the cloud deepened.
Manfred spied Bohme and Boelcke above him, Boelcke’s white scarf flapping behind him like a pennant. He lost them in the sunlight and blinked hard as he looked back to the cloud just beneath his plane.
He held out his hand, as if to catch a whiff of cloud. For him, flying was a beautiful thing. Shame that this war is what brought him to it.
Part of the deep darkness moved, a leviathan’s tentacle reaching out for him. Manfred scrambled to load his machine gun as a D.H.2 burst through the cloud layer. Manfred’s plane reared up, missing the rising English plane by a few yards.
The D.H.2 pilot glanced over his shoulder, then did a double take when he saw Manfred. Manfred was close enough to see the shock on the pilot’s face. The D.H.2 banked into a turn and Manfred followed suit.
Manfred fired, failing to connect, as their turn took them back toward the clouds. The D.H.2 pulled up and skirted the cloud tops as if they were as solid as the ground below. Manfred fired another burst and gray smoke burst from his target. He closed in for the kill as the D.H.2 lost airspeed.
Bullets zipped past Manfred, a guy line between his wings snapped with the twang of a broken cello string. There was another D.H.2 firing on him from behind, and three more rising from the clouds with it.
Manfred did exactly what training forbade—he dove straight into the clouds. Water drops coalesced on his goggles and rain slicked over his plane. There was nothing but gray around him and in his panicked dive he’d lost track of which way was up. He said a quick prayer and changed direction against the most resistance from his control stick, hoping that would lead him skyward and not into an uncontrolled dive to the ground.
The purgatory gray vanished as Manfred found blue skies. A swirling dogfight just ahead, Manfred opened the throttle and raced to the battle.
Boelcke, two English on his tail, dived into a spiral, and nearly collided with Bohme who was climbing to reach the conflict. Bohme waited until Boelcke crossed out of his line of fire, then lit in to the two pursuers, who hadn’t seen Bohme until they’d dived to follow Germany’s greatest ace.
One of the D.H.2s banked right to avoid the attack, the other banked left. The
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