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

arrival’s bulk in his chest and shoulders, at the entryway. The impact sent Huber to the ground, sputtering in surprise and indignation. The man lost control of a pouch he was carrying, spilling half-oval pieces of metal across the floor. Two pieces slid under Manfred’s desk.
    Huber clambered back to his feet and straightened his uniform. “Why don’t you watch where you’re going, you oaf?”
    The other man was on his knees, collecting the fallen metal pieces, gave no heed to Huber.
    “Who’s your commander? This headquarters runs on good order and discipline.”
    The man sprang back to his feet. His stern face, seemingly dyed brown from trench mud, matched the ferocity of the trench knife at his hip, the brass handguard adorned with spikes. He took a step toward Huber and cocked his head.
    “You’re right. How can I present myself now that I reek of a base hog?” he said.
    Huber, suddenly less inclined for a confrontation, stepped around the soldier and bolted through the exit.
    Manfred knelt down and picked up the two half ovals at his feet. Both had the name, religion, blood type and unit of a soldier stamped onto them. One had a dried smudge, the deep red of old blood.
    He stood and handed the dog tags to the man, a lieutenant by his rank shoulder boards, whose hands were dirty and rough, like a farmer fresh from the field.
    “Sorry about Huber. He’s territorial guard,” Manfred said. Even when mobilized for war, the regular army considered the territorial guard a repository for retirees and those who never really wanted to serve; it always made for a good joke.
    The lieutenant grunted and placed the two dog tags back in the pouch.
    “What was it you called him? A ‘base hog’? I haven’t heard that one before.”
    “Are you new to the staff?” the lieutenant asked.
    “A bit,” Manfred said, not wanting to admit the months of boredom he’d spent in and around the headquarters.
    “A base hog is someone who enjoys all of this,” the lieutenant gestured to the hot stove, steaming coffee pot, and the trays of half-eaten meals waiting to be cleared away by orderlies. “While my men and I sleep in the mud. You should come see the trenches, see the real war.”
    The lieutenant pushed past Manfred and walked toward the adjutant’s section.
    Manfred watched the lieutenant go and felt ashamed. Ashamed of his clean uniform, his easy life answering a phone that never rang. Ashamed that his failure as a leader would ensure that all the glory he’d ever win at this war would be an offhand compliment from a senior officer on the quality of his staff work.
    Huber returned with his arms full of firewood. An idea lit up Manfred’s mind. Huber might prove useful after all.
    “Huber, take the rest of my shift. I’ll make it up to you later,” Manfred said as he scooped up his cap from the desk. He didn’t wait for an answer; Huber had a morning shift, and those didn’t agree with his hangovers. Manfred rushed off to find his supervisor, Captain Adler. He’d need permission for what he had planned.
     
     
    Manfred ran from the command tent and spotted the lieutenant walking past an artillery piece limbered to a carriage. He caught up to the man moments later.
    “Is your offer to see the trenches still good?” he asked.
    The lieutenant looked Manfred over, but didn’t stop walking. “Don’t you have to set the table for dinner?”
    “No, I’m only a lieutenant, a captain handles the china.” His joke fell flat. “Look, Lieutenant…”
    “Eisen”
    “Lieutenant Eisen, I had to beg, literally beg, my captain to—”
    “All right, shut up,” Eisen said. “You been in combat?”
    “Some,” Manfred said. Was one losing battle enough to impress him? “I was in the cavalry, but horses don’t do well against machine guns.”
    “Men don’t do too well either.” Eisen sighed heavily and shook his head. “Fine, you do what I say and stay out of the way. Got it?”
    “Yes!” Manfred said, a