The Red Baron: A World War I Novel Read Online Free PDF

Manfred looking at his belt. “My hate belt—been adding to it since the first few days of the war.” He pointed to a worn button with a bugle emblazoned on it. “Got that one in Alsace off a French lieutenant wearing white gloves—strange thing to wear into battle.” He pointed to another button, “Got this off an English soldier that rode a bicycle to the battle…where was it?”
    “You took those from the dead?” Manfred asked.
    “Yes, sir, but only from the ones I killed myself. The man that had this,” he raised the lower lip of his hate belt, and he ran his thumb over a French rank pin, “gave me this.” He turned his face so Manfred could see the stitches closing up what would turn into a lifelong scar. “I came out ahead in that deal.” He barked a laugh.
    The bunker shook as a French shell landed nearly on top of them. Someone cried out in fear from the other end of the bunker. Haas and Manfred turned and saw a young soldier sitting in a corner, his knees pulled against his chest.
    A pair of soldiers knelt next to the young man. One put a reassuring hand on the frightened man’s shoulder as the other spoke. Another explosion sent tremors up Manfred’s body.
    “Dieter and Gregor, they do what they can for the fresh soldiers,” Haas said.
    “How long has that man been here?”
    “About two hours longer than you,” Haas said.
    The rest of the soldiers in the dugout took the bombardment with practiced unease, by Manfred’s estimation. Men cleaned weapons, played cards, and took the time to sleep. How anyone could sleep with tons of metal screaming down on their heads was a miracle to Manfred.
    Eisen approached, carrying a spiked helmet. He handed it to Manfred.
    “Here, wear this when we leave,” he said.
    “I’m an officer, not an enlisted man,” Manfred said.
    “Pretend you’re a Frenchman. Who would you shoot first, an officer or just another soldier?”
    “Then how can the men recognize us?” Manfred put the helmet on his head and adjusted the chin strap. The felt and cloth of the helmet provided little assurance against the threat of bullets and shrapnel.
    Eisen pulled a whistle from a cord under his uniform and slapped the pistol at his hip. “Easy, I’m always out front.”
     
     
    The bombardment lasted another two hours. Manfred sat next to the sleeping Eisen, who’d given him strict instructions to wake him up if more than thirty seconds passed without an artillery strike.
    Manfred passed the time watching the soldiers. They joked among themselves and kept up raucous stories of French girls at the rest camps, and they grumbled over the food that made its way to the trenches. They weren’t, Manfred noted with sadness, that different from the cavalrymen he led into battle.
    The new arrival, Private Otto, had kept to himself in a corner, his arms wrapped around his knees, trembling with the shell impact tremors.
    After the first hour and a half, Dieter took a violin from a case and played songs from Wagner’s opera, Siegfried . Gregor sang the role of Mime, Siegfried’s adoptive father, and changed many of the lyrics to poke fun at the German army’s supply system. The two had worked for the Berlin opera houses before volunteering for the war, according to Haas.
    Gregor was good enough that Manfred didn’t notice when the bombardment stopped. Soldiers looked toward the ceiling, as if the packed earth would give answers.
    Manfred nudged Eisen with his foot. Eisen came awake with a snort. The lull in the shelling held.
    Eisen put the whistle to his lips, but he didn’t blow it.
    “Let me out!” Otto squealed. The soldier burst from his spot in the corner and ran for the door. Eisen placed himself between the door and the would-be escapee and stopped him with a stiff arm to the chest.
    Dieter and Gregor scrambled to their feet and wrestled Otto to the ground, as he squirmed against their grasp.
    A dozen shells fell within a few seconds of each other, rattling the entire