Raine -Unfortunately no, I don't speak German! And I admit, 3 narratives may have been a bit ambitious
The Story of Bertram von Haas
Part 4: der Metzger.
The cold rain washed over Bertram's face, which was currently pointed to the sky as the airman lay back in his cockpit. A thin smile appeared on his lips, as he slowly tilted his head down and regarded the altimeter in front of him. An American bullet had smashed through it's centre, shattering the glass and rendering the instrument useless. Luckily, he had no use for it. With some effort, Bertram pulled himself up so that he was standing on the seat of his Fokker. He clumsily stepped over the side of the cockpit and fell, landing in the wheat and mud below with a cry of pain. Lethargically, he climbed to his feet, his right arm clasped tightly around the bullet hole in his left. He begun to laugh, as a man possessed or sick, scanning the skies hungrily for any remaining trace of the six American Spads he had just attacked. His eyes came to rest on the thin trail of smoke rising several miles to the North. His laughter grew upon this sight and, wiping the joy from his eyes, he turned to look over his machine, just in time to see the final drops of petrol escaping the holed tank. Ah, what a fight that had been - six against him alone! He knew that Buchner would have his head for this, but he didn't care.
His smile faded as the loss of blood begun to take his toll, and he dizzily staggered towards the lights of a nearby cottage on the edge of the field he had crash-landed in. A young boy watched him from the entryway, a confused mix of both terror and excitement on his face. Look! An Aviateur! But, a German! it said. Bertram took a few more steps towards the light, before slowly keeling over and falling to the side.
He awoke in the late evening, his arm bandaged and in a sling. A rugged old man sat across from the bed he had been laid down in - a look of hatred on his face. Bertram regarded this man with a curious look, and decided him to be pure soul. Filled with hatred for what had been done to his country, but not inhumane enough to let a wounded man bleed to death on his doorstep. Standing up, Bertram muttered a thank-you to the man and lit a cigarette, offering one up. The old farmer turned his head to the side. "Get out", he quietly mumbled, a hint of deep sadness failing to hide itself within the venom.
When Bertram arrived at his airfield a day later, the men all crowded round in shock, asking him a barrage of questions. "What happened?" "We thought you were dead - where did you get to?" on and on it went. He irritably brushed these questions aside as he made for the mess - right now, all he wanted was something hot to eat, a bottle of Schnapps, and a new machine. In the mess he met Niethammer, who broke into a broad grin when he walked in. "Ah, and here he is! You know, I knew you weren't dead, despite what the men told me. Although - flying off alone like that? You won't last very long, von Haas!"
Bertram's eyes lit up, as he returned the smile. "Ah, but aren't we here to die in the Kaiser's name?" he responded, and Niethammer burst out into hearty laughter. "Indeed we are, although you seem far more interested in killing for him! Tell me, von Haas, what is it that compels you to go off and attack entire squadrons of enemy machines alone? Is it the glory? The thrill?". Bertram's face suddenly turned pensive, contemplative. He slowly ran a thumb across his lip, deep in thought.
"Well, you see, it's quite simple. I could tell you that it's for vengeance - the long years in the trenches having to cower like a rat in amongst the French and British hellfire, but that's not quite it". His eyes lit up, and flashed upwards to meet Niethammer's. "No, the simple truth is that, after these long years, I've developed something of an appetite for murder". Niethammer's smile faded slightly, as Bertram calmly stood up, still smiling, and turned for the door. Niethammer felt a twisting sensation in his mind as, just before the door swung shut, he caught the first hummed notes of "Argonnerwald" .
Six days back on the Adjutant's desk was the price Bertram paid for his recklessness. On the second day he came across the reports from the Jasta's fight on the 21st. No report from Viktor Landvogt. Well, of course not, Bertram thought back fondly on the sight of the French Spad turning with Landvogt and Mueller, masterfully flicking his machine through the sky before shooting down both Germans. Beneath the fight, the burning wreckage of Landvogt's machine had barely missed Bertram. Ah, here was his own report! He grinned as he read over his three claims for the day. Amongst them was the Spad pilot that had killed his two comrades - one of three claims. Oh, what was this? Two had been confirmed!
No wonder he'd heard mutterings from his fellow Staffel pilots behind his back, hushed whispers of the name they had picked for him. "der Metzger", they called him, 'The Butcher'. How fitting.
