Hope Takes Flight (11 page)

On that first flight, Gavin found himself sitting with half his body projecting above the fuselage giving no protection against the full blast of the propeller stream. The whirling stick was only a couple of feet in front of his nose.

He took off, rising about ten or twenty feet, then blipped the motor on and off, bringing the ship down almost flat, hardly peaking at all. Again and again he repeated the procedure, his landings improving gradually.

But by the end of the day's training, partially wrecked Blériots lay all over the field. Bad landings that even the tough little Blériot wouldn't take, motor failures in very embarrassing spots, and the general uncertainty of the new pilots themselves spread the little ships all over the surrounding landscape.

“You know,” Gavin once said to Thaw, “it's a wonder we don't have more broken backs after all these crack-ups.”

Thaw glanced around the field and nodded. “I've thought about that myself. Look there, those planes themselves dissolved in splinters—simply disintegrated—but most of us just get out of the wreckage and walk away. We're tougher than that airplane, I guess.”

For two weeks, the Americans were drilled daily in the techniques of flying at the front. And in their off hours, the older pilots spent much time discussing an important problem—the choice of an official insignia to designate their squadron. Dozens of different ideas were proposed. They finally settled on the painting of the head of an American Indian wearing a war bonnet of red, white, and blue feathers.

Almost as soon as that decision was made, Captain Thenault announced that the squadron would make its first patrol over the German lines on May 14. Takeoff was scheduled for six o'clock in the morning.

At dawn, Gavin climbed into his own sleek new plane, a speedy little Nieuport single-seater pursuit ship, powered by a ninety-horsepower LeRhone rotary motor and equipped with a single forty-seven-shot Lewis machine gun mounted on the top wing. The synchronized gun that fired through the propeller had not made its appearance on the Allied side to any great extent. But the Nieuports were the last word in speed and maneuverability, with a ground speed in excess of one hundred miles per hour.

Gavin's hands were trembling when he took off from the airfield as dawn flooded the runway, and he stayed carefully on Bill Thaw's left wing. Thaw had said just before takeoff, “We won't do any shooting today. Just watch.”

They cleared the ground easily, nosed up before leveling off, and soon were heading over the moon-like surface of no-man's-land. It did look like the moon—still, blasted craters—but Gavin had no time for sightseeing. He was attempting to stay as close as possible to Bill Thaw—right on his tail. They flew a long circle, slightly over the German lines, but saw no German planes in the sky.

The mission lasted two hours and, when they came back and landed, Gavin got out of his Nieuport, feeling deflated.

Thaw drifted over to where the young man stood, pulled off his helmet, and grinned at him. “Wanted to shoot down a Jerry, did you?”

“Well, I thought we might at least
see
some,” Gavin said.

Thaw squinted upward at the sky. “Don't worry. You're going to see plenty, if what I hear is true. The Germans have got themselves a new airplane called the Fokker and a whole stable of hotshot pilots under their ace, Boelcke. We got some information that they're going to be coming at us with everything they've got. So, in the meantime, we're going to drill the socks off of you pups!”

And so it was for the next three weeks. Gavin went up every day. They drilled, they trained, they simulated dogfights, but they kept far back of the German lines. Then one day Thaw came by, saying to his young friend, “You know what I've been telling you about these new airplanes made by this man called Fokker? Well, the word down the line is they've hit. They're shooting our men down like they were sparrows.” The lieutenant's face was grim and his mouth a thin line. “I wish we had some of those new Camels they're building in the factories here. But we won't get 'em for a while. Meanwhile, just stay under Daddy's wing.”

Gavin dreamed that night of a blue sky filled with airplanes—some, with the red, white, and blue target on the side denoting America; others, with the Iron Cross of Germany. He could almost hear the staccato sound of machine guns and the whistling of air through the wires of his ship. He woke up just as his craft seemed ready to burst into flame.

He wiped the cold sweat off his face, his hands shaking.
Got to do better than this
, he thought.
Can't let the other fellows down
.

Germany had been fighting a two-front war for more than a year. Since it was winning on the Eastern Front, but was in a stalemate in the West, the German High Command had decided to pull out more of the men who were chasing the Russians and send them to France.

Manfred von Richthofen boarded a train heading for a large airfield. Halfway to his destination, he walked to the dining car. Seeing an empty seat, he asked the lieutenant sitting on the other side of the table if he might join him. The man's face looked familiar—squarish, with neatly parted blond hair, wide nose, thick lips, large boyish eyes. It was a shy face. Von Richthofen thought he had seen it in the newspapers.

“Lieutenant von Richthofen,” he introduced himself.

“Lieutenant Boelcke,” came the equally formal reply.

Von Richthofen blinked, for he was staring at his country's most famous ace. Oswalt Boelcke had already been awarded the Iron Cross, and had shot down fifteen French fighters. But Boelcke was more than a fighter; he was a student of planes and a teacher of flyers. Manfred had read everything he could about the man, which was not a great deal, and now he carefully approached the famous pilot and, during that train ride, got to know him fairly well. Von Richthofen, before he left the table, resolved to cultivate Boelcke's friendship.

During the following weeks, Manfred von Richthofen continued to learn his trade, but all the time he had but one thought—to become the best fighter pilot in Europe.

One afternoon, on his way back to Germany from a tour of air groups in Turkey, Oswalt Boelcke appeared at his air station. The trip had been arranged by the High Command with the double purpose of giving Boelcke a rest after his nineteenth kill and showing the German and Turkish forces how to fight. Boelcke had shot down more enemy airplanes than any other German and was now being touted by Berlin as the world's greatest combat pilot.

Now, Boelcke was looking for talent. Von Richthofen was one of the pilots sitting around the dining table that afternoon and he smiled at Boelcke whenever their eyes met. After the meal, he followed Boelcke to a lounge and listened attentively while the pilot described conditions in France and some of the outstanding Allied pilots the Germans were encountering there. Finally the officers began to leave, and Boelcke explained to von Richthofen why he had come.

“I must have the best fighter pilots in the world,” he said, “and you have come to mind as a likely candidate.”

“I?” von Richthofen asked in astonishment.

“Oh, yes.” Boelcke knew all about von Richthofen's background—his wealthy family, his renowned passion for hunting, his apparent indifference to women and alcohol. As he sat there, Boelcke asked himself,
But what about his temperament? Would he fit into a hunting squadron? Can he stalk in the air, with patience, as he does on the ground? Does he have the eyes and reflexes to be a successful pilot?

Boelcke had talked to his brother, who had told him that von Richthofen had had a difficult start and tended to be ham-fisted, but he was working to improve. He told him also that the young pilot knew almost nothing about how an airplane works or about machine guns, and showed little inclination to learn.

“Ah,” Boelcke said to his brother, “that is a trait that will have to be watched. It is the sure sign of a glory-seeker, one who does not wish to be bothered with details.” Then he added with a shrug, “But if the man is eager, hungry for fame—even
too
hungry—that may not be a bad thing.” He grinned at his brother's surprise. “If fundamentals can be beaten into his thick skull before he gets himself killed, he may make a good record. I must try him.”

Later in the day Boelcke asked von Richthofen, “Would you care to come with me to the Somme?”

The young man snapped back, “Indeed I will!”

On the train carrying him to the battlefield, von Richthofen glowed with pride and hope. The Somme! This colorful battle was talked about as one long journey to hell. The stubborn, mutton-headed British generals were threatening to destroy the youth of England in headlong attacks launched directly into the German machine guns. Thousands had died within a few yards of some broken section of trench. Back and forth swayed the two weary armies. Nothing was gained, yet the staggering casualty list mounted. On the train, moving west of the Somme's slaughter, Manfred von Richthofen was thinking,
Now begin the finest hours of my life
.

Early on the afternoon of November 9, Major Lanoe Hawker, the leader of Number 24 Squadron, walked slowly to his airplane. He was concerned about the wind, the mud, and the frail and inadequate biplane he was about to fly into combat. Hawker was a slender man who sported a neatly clipped brown mustache…and the Victoria Cross. He was the product of an unbroken line of Army and Navy officers who went back to the reign of Elizabeth I, and, like others of his caste, carried himself with a dignity and the firm gentility that did credit to his school.

Hawker was the Allies' premier fighter pilot. He had graduated from the Royal Engineers, but was posted to France with a Scout Squadron. Within a year, having shot down more airplanes than any other Englishman, he had become the first Royal Air Corps pilot to win the Victoria Cross. The twenty-five-year-old officer now looked like a good prospect for general.

He stood in front of his airplane and felt the Channel wind blowing gently against his face, knowing it would not be gentle high in the sky. Their mission would demand that they face a stiff headwind to make it back home. The wind was no friend, often giving the German scouts enough time to plunge into and maul their lumbering formations.

It was one o'clock, and the rain had stopped several hours before, but the sun was just breaking through the dark towering clouds that slid eastward on a fast breeze. Hawker hesitated, then climbed into the DH2 that squatted obstinately in front of him. A year and a half earlier, the sleek new German Albatros had made this plane a dangerous antique. The pilots called it a “spinning incinerator.” Constructed of wood and canvas, the craft was basically a ten-foot-long, coffin-shaped box, rounded on top. It could do a bare ninety-three miles an hour and was delicate, like a huge kite.

Now, behind his machine gun, Hawker huddled in his woolen underwear, uniform, fur-lined flying coat and fly boots, and flipped the switch that sent the electricity to the engine behind him. When the current and the gas in the engine cylinders touched, there was a loud sneeze that sent a shudder through the wooden box along the intricate network of crisscrossing cables and out over the large cloth-covered wings. The little engine caught and settled into what was more or less an even roar. Blue smoke came out of the cylinders in thin streams and was drawn back into the propeller, where it was chewed up and sent tumbling into the mud and the wet grass behind the airplane.

Hawker released the brake, and the plane jumped forward and began to roll through the mud, gaining speed. After a short roll into the wind, the plane rose from the tarmac and climbed steeply into the dark clouds. Banking, Hawker turned northeastward and was soon joined by three other scouts. They formed a squat diamond and proceeded to their destination.

Twenty minutes later, a couple of two-seaters were seen flying low, slightly to the west. Hawker hesitated, considering, then decided to take them. He waved the group forward into the attack, but suddenly he knew the truth. The two-seaters were bait for a trap.
Get out of there
, he thought. He kicked the rudder bar, moved his stick to the right, and brought his scout into a wide right turn.

The others, seeing their leader attempting to leave for home, moved to follow him. But one of the planes was shot to pieces before he could get away. Hawker looked up to see a bullet-nosed Albatros, following him around a tight circle at 3,000 feet near Bapaume. Hawker realized immediately that he was not up against a nervous type. This German pilot was doing all the right things. He was not going to let his hunger for a victory force him into a mistake.

The German and the Englishman flew across the sky, sometimes like fluttering moths, sometimes with winds screaming at full speed over a hundred miles an hour. Then the German came within sixty yards of the Englishman, firing almost continuously. Suddenly the English plane straightened, hung limply in the air for a second, and then began to fall. Around and around it went until it smashed, nose first, into the ground, burying its machine gun in the mud, spinning and crunching wood and tearing fabric. The wreckage bounced once, then came to rest in a waterlogged shell hole five hundred yards inside the German forward lines. Its pilot lay somewhere in the debris with a bullet in his head.