Aces by T. E. Cruise Page A

hovel.
    Outside everything was noise, smoke, and confusion. Panicked pilots and ground crews were dashing about, shouting conflicting
     orders at each other. Overhead, three bright orange Spads, wearing the coiled serpent insignia of the French Squadron 30,
     had command of the sky. Goldstein heard the distinctive chatter of the Spads’ Vickers machine guns as they strafed the field
     and the answering racket put out by the sleigh-mounted, water-cooled Maxim machine guns manned by the ground air-defense crews
     assigned to Cappy.
    As Goldstein approached the hangar tents he saw one of the Spads dive toward the nearby rows of parked fuel-tank lorries.
     A half-dozen sandbag emplacements of Maxim guns bordering the lorries put up crisscrossing lines of defensive fire. The fast-diving
     Spad shot back, tearing up a Maxim gun and its three-man crew. As the Spad roared past, it came out of its dive to release
     a bomb which whistled down toward the lorries.
    Goldstein, like everyone else, threw himself to the ground and waited for the bomb to detonate—and then the huge fireball
     as the fuel-laden lorries ignited. The image of the Spad and the number painted on its tail was emblazoned in his mind:
The airplane that’s killed me is number 17
.
    Nothing happened. The Spad’s bomb was evidently a dud.
    Goldstein got to his feet, dripping mud. He saw Corporal Froehlig standing at the entranceway to one of the hangar tents and
     ran toward him. Froehlig was screaming orders to mechanics and ground crew to get the closest Fokkers fueled and rolled out
     to the ready line.
    As Goldstein reached Froehlig he saw the adjutant, Herr Oberleutnant Bodenschatz, approaching. The adjutant was riding as
     the passenger in a motorcycle sidecar on which was mounted a shoulder-stock, drum-fed, Parabellum light machine gun. Bodenschatz
     was hopping out of the car almost before the cycle driver had skidded to a halt, spraying mud.
    “What’s going on?” Goldstein yelled over the noise of the Spads, shouting men, and ground defense machine gun fire.
    Froehlig looked furious. “The Herr Oberleutnant Goering neglected to issue orders for a squad to be prepared for air-defense
     of the field.”
    “An understandable oversight,” Bodenschatz cut in, loyally attempting to defend a fellow officer. “With the weather so poor
     the Herr Oberleutnant didn’t believe Allied fighters would attempt the venture.”
    “As the Herr Adjutant wishes,” Froehlig murmured. “But now it’ll be at least ten minutes before we can get anything in the
     air.”
    “But my Fokker’s still on the ready line—” Goldstein exclaimed. He stared at his airplane. “My God, the propeller’s turning!
     Who started the engine?”
    “I did,” Corporal Froehlig said. “I ordered the crew to start her up as soon as the siren sounded.”
    “Then why isn’t she in the air?” Goldstein asked, exasperated.
    Corporal Froehlig looked away. “The Herr Adjutant will explain.”
    “Explain what?” Goldstein demanded impatiently.
    “No one will fly your machine,” Bodenschatz said, looking embarrassed.
    “Because it has only one gun?” Goldstein asked in disbelief.
    Bodenschatz shook his head. “Because the others consider it unlucky… and unclean.” His voice trailed off. “—because you’re
     a Jew.”
    Goldstein shuddered, disgusted.
These fools can no longer humiliate me
, he thought.
They can only humiliate themselves
. “Then I’ll fly it,” he said, turning away.
    Bodenschatz stopped him. “You’ve been grounded.”
    Goldstein saw that Spad No. 17 was coming around for another try at the fuel lorries, while the other two flew top cover to
     protect their companion against an ambush from a returning German patrol. “Begging the Herr Adjutant’s pardon,” Goldstein
     replied. “But we’ll all be
dead
if we don’t get a plane in the air to at least
distract
the enemy.”
    “But those Spads will be on you as soon as they see you rolling,”