To the Last Man: A Novel of the First World War

by Jeff Shaara

Now he was terrified. As he stepped out into the open air and sunshine he realized he was one small piece of a vast world controlled from behind those very walls. He felt ridiculous thinking he was ever in command of anything. Even his new assignment, the name that still meant nothing to him, JG-1, was simply a speck on a map, a minuscule part of a vast show of power. And for a brief few minutes, he had been in the presence of the man who controlled it all. He had dared to believe that he was indeed a hero, and despite his grumbling to the others at the aerodrome, he had growing accustomed to the photographers. It was a foolish exercise in self-indulgence, and he scolded himself for it now. You are merely a tool, a weapon, an extension of the machine guns on your plane. Your red plane. A good commander knows how to make the best use of his resources. So they have made the best use of you. You are not merely a pilot who kills the enemy, you are a weapon to inspire the people as well. Your memoirs will be a candle in the darkness, distracting the people from what is really happening in this war. He could not avoid his father’s words, a victorious army does not retreat, thought now of Ludendorff’s elaborate description of the withdrawal, strategic retrenchment. Is Ludendorff right, is victory within our grasp? Or