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so many difficult situations.
    Like the trap he’d fallen for today, for instance. Richthofen was confident even his rookie pilots would have been able to recognize it for what it was and would have had the intelligence to avoid engaging the “injured” aircraft. Freeman had gotten what he’d deserved, in Richthofen’s view.
    Unfortunately, the damned Yank had also managed to cripple the Baron’s aircraft in the process, which was why Richthofen was doing everything he could to get the dying Fokker back to the ground in one piece.
    He nursed the plane through the last quarter mile and was making his final approach toward the grassy field that served as the takeoff and landing area when a loud WHUMP came from the engine. Tongues of fire joined the billowing column of smoke. The air rushing over the cowling fanned them into flames three feet high, which quickly began to make their way back along the fuselage toward him!
    Richthofen was close enough that he could see the crews on the ground pushing some of the other aircraft out of the way, clearing as much of the landing area as possible in case he should lose control as he brought his damaged plane in for a landing. A flash of anger at their lack of faith bloomed deep inside, but he squashed it before it could spread. The situation must look much worse from their point of view, he realized, with the way the aircraft was wobbling all over the sky due to the wing damage it had sustained, never mind the visible flames now completely engulfing the engine.
    By the time he felt the wheels strike the ground beneath him, those same flames were enveloping the Spandau guns mounted a foot in front of the cockpit in their heated embrace. Richthofen taxied away from the other aircraft as far as he dared and then, as the fire began to cook off the 7.92 mm ammunition in the twin-mounted machine guns before him, he scrambled over the side of the cockpit and retreated to a safe distance.
    From there, he watched in fascination as the flames swept over the aircraft, consuming it like a hungry beast. The sight of the fire caused a wave of fear to well up inside his chest, for fire was one of the few things that could permanently damage his resurrected body and end the strange new unlife he’d been granted, but it took several minutes of effort before he could look away, so drawn was he to the spectacle. The effort left him trembling slightly.
    Disgusted by the loss of another aircraft, Richthofen stalked across the airfield toward the tent that served as both his living quarters and work area, leaving the ground crew to deal with the flaming wreckage. As he approached his quarters, his adjutant, Leutnant Adler, stepped out and snapped off a parade-ground salute.
    “A good patrol, Herr Richthofen?” he asked.
    Richthofen’s eyes narrowed as he scrutinized the expression on Adler’s face, but he couldn’t find any hint of insolence and so he did what he could to quell his irritation at the question.
    Adler had once been a prime example of excellent Prussian breeding—tall, strong, fair skinned and fair haired—but little of his natural good looks remained after undergoing Dr. Eisenberg’s special procedure. His skin had gone sallow, and his veins stood out in thick black lines. Most of his hair had fallen out; the rest hung limp and lifeless, despite his efforts to comb it over with what little vanity that remained. His lips had thinned, his teeth had elongated, and his nails had thickened into what might almost pass as weapons, if necessity demanded it.
    The procedure was not an easy one. It took a strong man, both physically and mentally, to withstand the crippling agony and mental confusion that came along with it. Those who were too weak or those who lost their sense of who and what they were came through the procedure broken in more ways than one.
    Adler was a “graduate” of the supersoldier program Eisenberg ran out of the secret facility in Verdun. It had been Richthofen’s