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There was something humiliating about learning, an odd sort of shame hidden behind the foolish questions and carried out by the empirical answers that followed, that Richthofen had always been so keenly aware of. From his early childhood, he hated being taught. He liked to know, but learning was a herculean task he was too proud to face. He didn't know why, but the thought of admitting he didn't know seemed worse than the prospect of never learning. It was enough for him to just barely scrape by, with no laurels to his name, happy to bear the weight of his ignorance as long as it kept itself unheard and unseen. He was a terrible student to his very soul, and yet, deep within, he craved mastery. What was the saying, again? Knowledge is power? Manfred felt it ring true whenever his mind strayed from the present and wandered into the far off future. To know was to master, but to learn was to submit, and Manfred had never learned to bend the knee. So he was trapped between two desires, unable to pick, and in his indecisiveness the choice was made for him: he lost knowledge to keep his pride.
Time marched on, and soon he was out of school, loose into the world. Now there was a war going on, and he was off to battle. Or, at least, so he thought. The little he'd been taught fell flat as technology brought history to its knees. How ironic, the one thing Manfred allowed himself to be taught was now effectively useless, as he had to get off his high horse and into the trenches. The worst part about it was the wait. The long, intolerable wait between the shy bursts of action, where he was relegated to picking up the phone and fetching documents. Another thing they never taught him in school was that war could be quite boring. Too boring. They didn't expect him to be content with the post of mail boy, now, did they?
It was then that he saw it for the first time, the soaring metal birds, the winged steeds of tomorrow, gliding through the heavens like bullets across No Man's Land. Airplanes. Richthofen saw them and thought, there goes action. And where action went, he followed. He had grown tired of fetching cheese and eggs for higher standing officers.
Eventually, his wishes were granted, and he set off with his eyes on the sky. Of course, things aren't ever as easy as one would like them to be, and although he had no complaints about action in the air, he found himself craving for something… More. Maybe it was the huntsman in him, demanding fresh young blood. That was around the time when things finally got interesting. No one can say he didn't try, oh, how he did; he went up with pistols, he mounted his rifle atop of the fuselage, he aimed as well as he always had, and he knew that, but still he had no victories in his bag. Well, to be fair, he was pretty sure he shot down a Frenchman once, but he didn't have a witness on his side, so it was as good as nothing.
Manfred was an obstinate man, however, and failure only fueled his drive for success, so he kept on flying and he kept on shooting. At that time, he was merely an armed passenger on the plane, the observer, with a map, a camera and a gun. At that time, he didn't even think about piloting, and he kept up with his history and refused to learn. The piloting course was far too lengthy; by the time he was done with it, he thought, the war would be over already. So he opted for the observer role, and he did quite well. Not well enough, however, as he still hadn't shot down a single enemy.
His ticket to change appeared in the train to Rethel. It was in time for dinner, the rumble of the train like the quiet breath of a dormant beast, and Manfred took notice of the man sitting beside him. He appeared rather insignificant, at first, but the more Richthofen looked, the more the crown of golden hair seemed to glow under the warm lights, the blue eyes gleaming too bright to be true. There was Oswald Boelcke, in flesh and glory, sitting just a few meters to his side. Boelcke, who had shot down four Englishmen already, who had his name printed in papers and his likeness known to any well informed airman. He was sitting there, his presence filling the entire car, larger than life itself. Manfred knew he would've been drawn in even if he wasn't interested in the man's tally. He focused his energy into the man's field of view.
Boelcke was magnetic, a genuine pleasure to be around. Richthofen wasted no time in asking how had he achieved his successes. There was laughter. Clear, hearty laughter, with no bite to it. Boelcke was just genuinely amused by the question. Why, he said, I fly close, aim well, and, of course, my enemy falls. His voice was pleasing to listen to, but his explanation wasn't as satisfactory. Manfred took it upon himself to get the real answer out of Boelcke. It was no burden to spend some more time with the man, Manfred soon realized, it was a nice intersection between honing his craft and getting to know a genuinely interesting fellow. They would go on long walks and Manfred would inquire about every little thing he could, face burning in shame to ask such a plethora of silly questions, but so relieved to hear the satin voice drape itself over his shoulders that he just wouldn't care anymore. They would also play cards, and go hunting, and sometimes Manfred would forget his initial point in approaching Boelcke, lost in the warm presence.
It became quite clear that it wasn't because of his superior aim that Boelcke achieved success in the air—he could rarely get a boar when they went hunting together—so Manfred decided it must be the machines they were given. Boelcke flew a single seater, sleek and nimble, as opposed to Richthofen's heavy barge. Maybe if he got his hands on a single seater as well he'd have more luck, but first he needed to learn how to pilot, and going through the entirety of the piloting course was out of the question.
The solution lied with his good friend Georg Zeumer, the pilot Manfred flew with. It took some nagging to get his approval, but Zeumer eventually got around to teaching him how to fly. Initially, he was an absolute failure at the thing. His first solo flight ended disastrously, and he had to endure countless jokes about it. Still, he kept his head on his shoulders, and submitted to the process of learning it again.
There was absolutely no other desire in his mind. He could feel the call of the winged steeds in his bones, when he started the engine and the machine rumbled quietly, buzzing around him like the steady breath of a sleeping beast. It was then that he found purpose, as if he had been born to fly. In such moments he couldn't help but let his mind run astray and wonder if Boelcke had ever felt the same. Richthofen could bet that he did, after all, Boelcke was a fiery man, passionately driven by his deeply held beliefs.
It seemed that the more time they spent together, the more Manfred craved his presence. Everything Boelcke did had its reason, and Manfred couldn't help but feel comforted by that thought. Whatever happened, he knew he could trust Boelcke to make the right decision. And, as such, when Boelcke's decision was to select him for Jasta 2, Richthofen could barely contain himself. His heart threatened to burst through the bones that caged it and explode in Boelcke's hand. The hardest part was not jumping onto Oswald's chest when he figured by Richthofen's door, calling him out with the promise of glory.
His mouth watered with the prospect of fighting by the great man's side, aching to prove his skill and his worth in any way he could. The entire train ride to the airfield felt like a fever dream, the arrival both a rude awakening and a pleasant good morning kiss. Boelcke was already hard at work, indulging in the role of a mentor. It was the second time Manfred found himself desperate to learn, and Boelcke was a great teacher.
He felt, again, as if he were a young boy and back at school, small and foolish. This time, however, he felt no shame in admitting his ignorance and submitting to his elder's expertise.
For months, then, Manfred followed in Boelcke's footsteps, regarding his every word as gospel truth, fighting under his command and so damn proud to serve. Boelcke was everything he could ever wish for, and nothing gave him greater pleasure than being picked apart as his mentor's favorite. Of course, not officially—Boelcke would never be so unprofessional—but Manfred wasn't stupid. He could tell Boelcke gave him more attention, and he reveled in it. The warmth of his hands on his shoulders, the proud smile that graced him so often, and those eyes… He felt important, seen and needed, though he also felt naked under the ever watchful gaze of Oswald Boelcke.
Naked, and yet, when Herr Boelcke's hands set on his waist, he felt as if it wasn't enough. His clothes carefully removed, his skin pressed against the Master's, Manfred wouldn't let himself breathe, afraid it might dispel the comfortable haze around their heads. Steel and ice met in between shy whispers, as Herr Boelcke's hand stroked Manfred's leg, fingers burrowing into the warmth between his thighs, as they reveled in the sweet noises they made together. Warm hands sought out each other, warm lips adoring the naked skin, coating strong shoulders with sighs and kisses. Herr Boelcke was, once again, masterful, as if he knew which path to take down Manfred's neck to earn a gasp. It happened almost by accident, at first. The only thing Manfred knew was that he wanted it so bad he could cry. The other times weren't as accidental. Manfred spent a good portion of his time trying to figure out a good time to get on his knees.
He had just figured out that the aftermath of a fight was as good as any time when Böhme flew too close to Manfred's sun. The ripping of a bird's wings surely is an awful thing to hear, even when that bird is made of metal. That it wasn't Böhme's fault was the accepted, unspoken thought. Manfred told himself that, between gritted teeth and a clenched fist, and he tried really fucking hard to believe it.
The reaper had taken that which Manfred adored. His heart was a burning church, tongues of fire whipping the air above his throat. He bid Herr Boelcke farewell at the train station, having no mind to follow the grim procession all the way through. He got back to flying, and turned to Boelcke's beloved Jasta 2. It was as much comfort he could get, Manfred figured.
Maybe, he thought, he could take the reins and get the command of Jasta 2. His heart swelled with joy at the mere thought — Boelcke would be proud, he was sure. Then he got the bloody telegram. What the bloody hell was Jasta 11?
Manfred could have torn down Belgium again. The more he learned about the wing, the more he cursed whichever powers put him in this position. A handful of the most useless, unskilled pilots Germany had the gall to produce, and he was expected to make them into pilots. From the sturdy Schäfer to the willowy boy they nicknamed little flower. Kurt Wolff. Such an unfitting name. They were a loathsome bunch, the whole lot of them — joking around as if they weren't all going to be dead in a month.
But still, he had a job to do, and the sooner he was done with it, the sooner he could request to be transferred back to Jasta 2. So, Manfred rolled up his sleeves and began with the basics. He was surprised to find that they weren't all complete morons. Most of them were pretty good at learning whatever Manfred threw at them, and they followed his words like gospel. If they were so excited about Manfred, it might have been a good thing that they never met Boelcke.
And as it turned out, they weren't completely unskilled either. Wolff's dainty hands could be pretty deadly, if they had Manfred's to steady them. The boy was growing on him, really. He always had a stupid joke locked and loaded, ready to fry Manfred's patience into crusty pieces, but damn it, he laughed so hard that people couldn't help but join in as well.
Manfred could have sworn his eyes weren't as blue when they first met. The boy was a pretty good pilot, and a decent enough shot, but he could get better, so Manfred made sure to bring him on a hunting trip.
Wolff was endearingly bad at it.