planes collided, the sound of the crash lost to the wind and roar of engines. The planes disintegrated and fell into the clouds, like a street lamp smashed by a rock.
Manfred found his first target. The smoke had gone black but this wasn’t enough to send the pilot racing for the safety of his own lines. Manfred strafed the top of the English as he crossed over, and the smoke gave way to flames. Manfred admired the man’s courage as the D.H.2 stalled and fell to the earth.
Bohme was on the last D.H.2’s tail. Boelcke followed the pair from a lower elevation. The last D.H.2 pulled straight up, and lost all its airspeed in seconds. It hung in the air for a moment, and then the heavy engine pulled the nose to the ground. The maneuver threw Bohme off its tail, and Bohme’s Albatros jerked about as Bohme tried to reacquire his target.
The D.H.2 recovered from its dive and made for the clouds, Boelcke hot on his heels.
Bohme swooped toward the D.H.2, his course leading him dangerously close to Boelcke.
Manfred screamed a useless warning as Bohme came down and his landing gear collided with Boelcke’s upper wings.
Boelcke’s Albatros continued on for several pregnant seconds, then the spar between his left and right wings collapsed. The wings pulled back, and the Albatros fell like a dove shot in midflight. The wings ripped from the fuselage and fluttered in the air as Boelcke vanished into the clouds.
Squadron 2’s pilots sat in silence around the dinner table, Boelcke’s chair at the head of the table forever empty. Manfred’s gaze crept from his untouched meal, to the empty chair, and to Bohme over and over again.
As second-in-command, Bohme was now the de facto leader of the squadron following Boelcke’s death. High command had demanded to know the circumstances of Boelcke’s accident, and Bohme’s mea culpa of culpability was so forthright that Manfred’s statement to the investigation felt unnecessary.
Bohme had barely spoken a word since the accident, other than to give orders to keep the squadron ready to fly. The man sat at the end of the table, catty-corner to Boelcke’s empty seat. He had his chin to his chest, arms crossed over his stomach.
Low murmurs from the pilots gave the meal the feeling of a wake.
Manfred pushed his potato pancake around the applesauce on his plate, like a child who refuses to eat. The door creaked open and Bodenschatz, the orderly, handed him a folded telegram.
“Your Blue Max?” Voss asked quietly.
Manfred rubbed the telegram between his fingers, as if trying to tease out the message.
“Probably orders to attend a hearing.” He looked to Bohme and opened the paper.
Manfred sat stone still as he read, too shocked to even breathe.
“Your Blue Max,” Voss said with certainty, and he gave Manfred a quick pat on the back.
“No, not that. I’m to take command of Squadron 11 at Douai, effective immediately,” Manfred said.
“I’m to report to Squadron 11, effective immediately,” Wolff said from across the table. He waved his telegram by its corner. “Sir,” Wolff added.
Voss grabbed his wineglass and started to raise his arm in a toast. Manfred’s hand snapped out and held Voss’s arm to the table.
“No, not yet,” Manfred said.
Bohme was looking at them, his eyes red. Bohme mouthed some apologies to the men sitting around him before pushing himself away from the table and leaving the room.
Wolff pursed his lips in thought, “Suppose we should pack?” he asked Manfred.
They followed Bohme out and made for their rooms. They reached the base of the stairs leading to their rooms and were met by Bohme, who barreled past them without a word. Bohme shoved open a door that led to the airfield. Manfred watched him go, and saw a pistol in Bohme’s hand just before he left the chateau.
“Damn it,” Manfred said as he ran after Bohme, Wolff right behind him.
Manfred found Bohme on the drainage ditch bordering the airfield. His hand squeezing
Manfred found his first target. The smoke had gone black but this wasn’t enough to send the pilot racing for the safety of his own lines. Manfred strafed the top of the English as he crossed over, and the smoke gave way to flames. Manfred admired the man’s courage as the D.H.2 stalled and fell to the earth.
Bohme was on the last D.H.2’s tail. Boelcke followed the pair from a lower elevation. The last D.H.2 pulled straight up, and lost all its airspeed in seconds. It hung in the air for a moment, and then the heavy engine pulled the nose to the ground. The maneuver threw Bohme off its tail, and Bohme’s Albatros jerked about as Bohme tried to reacquire his target.
The D.H.2 recovered from its dive and made for the clouds, Boelcke hot on his heels.
Bohme swooped toward the D.H.2, his course leading him dangerously close to Boelcke.
Manfred screamed a useless warning as Bohme came down and his landing gear collided with Boelcke’s upper wings.
Boelcke’s Albatros continued on for several pregnant seconds, then the spar between his left and right wings collapsed. The wings pulled back, and the Albatros fell like a dove shot in midflight. The wings ripped from the fuselage and fluttered in the air as Boelcke vanished into the clouds.
Squadron 2’s pilots sat in silence around the dinner table, Boelcke’s chair at the head of the table forever empty. Manfred’s gaze crept from his untouched meal, to the empty chair, and to Bohme over and over again.
As second-in-command, Bohme was now the de facto leader of the squadron following Boelcke’s death. High command had demanded to know the circumstances of Boelcke’s accident, and Bohme’s mea culpa of culpability was so forthright that Manfred’s statement to the investigation felt unnecessary.
Bohme had barely spoken a word since the accident, other than to give orders to keep the squadron ready to fly. The man sat at the end of the table, catty-corner to Boelcke’s empty seat. He had his chin to his chest, arms crossed over his stomach.
Low murmurs from the pilots gave the meal the feeling of a wake.
Manfred pushed his potato pancake around the applesauce on his plate, like a child who refuses to eat. The door creaked open and Bodenschatz, the orderly, handed him a folded telegram.
“Your Blue Max?” Voss asked quietly.
Manfred rubbed the telegram between his fingers, as if trying to tease out the message.
“Probably orders to attend a hearing.” He looked to Bohme and opened the paper.
Manfred sat stone still as he read, too shocked to even breathe.
“Your Blue Max,” Voss said with certainty, and he gave Manfred a quick pat on the back.
“No, not that. I’m to take command of Squadron 11 at Douai, effective immediately,” Manfred said.
“I’m to report to Squadron 11, effective immediately,” Wolff said from across the table. He waved his telegram by its corner. “Sir,” Wolff added.
Voss grabbed his wineglass and started to raise his arm in a toast. Manfred’s hand snapped out and held Voss’s arm to the table.
“No, not yet,” Manfred said.
Bohme was looking at them, his eyes red. Bohme mouthed some apologies to the men sitting around him before pushing himself away from the table and leaving the room.
Wolff pursed his lips in thought, “Suppose we should pack?” he asked Manfred.
They followed Bohme out and made for their rooms. They reached the base of the stairs leading to their rooms and were met by Bohme, who barreled past them without a word. Bohme shoved open a door that led to the airfield. Manfred watched him go, and saw a pistol in Bohme’s hand just before he left the chateau.
“Damn it,” Manfred said as he ran after Bohme, Wolff right behind him.
Manfred found Bohme on the drainage ditch bordering the airfield. His hand squeezing
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