‘Now about my youth. The old man was in Breslau with the Leibkürasseren 1 when I was born on 2 May 1892. We lived in Kleinburg.’

“This picture shows Manfred von Richthofen as a child, about two or three years old.”

“This picture shows Manfred von Richthofen as a child, around the age of seven. He is wearing a sailor suit, which was very fashionable at the time.”

“When he was eight years old, he climbed the largest apple trees on the estate, which hardly anyone else could reach. But then he didn’t let himself down from the trunk, but from the outside on the branches, grasping them with the greatest dexterity. My parents often watched him do this, but never had the feeling that anything could happen to him, so sure were all his movements. My mother was never at all anxious with us boys. She was of the opinion that children could only be really skilful and able to cope with all dangers if they were given every conceivable physical freedom of movement. Only then would they be able to judge as accurately as possible what they could trust themselves to do. Of course, this has not always been without incident, but nothing more serious has ever happened.”

“Because from the earliest days of his youth, Manfred had already shown samples of unusual energy. As an eight-year-old boy, my parents were expecting him one day from the railway in Wroclaw. He was to return from a long stay in the country with two large suitcases. The boy was sent to the railway station to be picked up and returned alone. Manfred was nowhere to be found. What had happened? There was no telephone back then. The excitement grew. While my parents were still discussing it, the doorbell rang and Manfred was standing safely at the door with both suitcases. ‘You must have taken a taxi?’. ‘No, I didn’t have any money.’ ‘Who carried the suitcases for you?’ ‘I did that myself.’

My parents were speechless and incredulous, because the suitcases were so heavy that Manfred would have had trouble lifting just one. But then they got the answer. ‘I was already able to lift one, I always carried it a bit and looked after the other one in the meantime, then I picked up the second one, and that’s how I gradually got there, unfortunately it took a bit of time.’

And all this with such natural calm and confidence that even then my parents could confidently leave Manfred to look after himself on the whole.”

“An easily terrified mother is a great obstacle to the physical development of children,’ Mrs von Richthofen said. ‘When Manfred was a little boy, I believe many of my friends considered me rather a careless mother because I did not forbid the two boys to engage in some of the feats they liked, but I was then, and am still, convinced children can only become agile if they are allowed such freedom as will enable them to judge what they can safely demand of their bodies.”

The family has to sell Schloss Romberg due to financial troubles.

“I had private lessons until I was nine years old.”

“then a year of school in Schweidnitz”,

‘I later became a cadet in Wahlstatt. But the people of Schweidnitz regard me as a child of Schweidnitz. The cadet corps prepared me for my current profession and I then joined the 1st Uhlan Regiment.’

‘I joined the cadet corps as a young sixth-former. I wasn’t overly keen on being a cadet, but it was my father’s wish and so I wasn’t asked for much. The strict discipline and order was particularly difficult for such a young badger. I wasn’t particularly keen on lessons. I was never a great lumen. I always did as much as I needed to in order to be promoted, but I didn’t think I could do any more and I would have considered it nerdy if I had done better than ‘sufficient’ in class. The natural consequence of this was that my teachers didn’t hold me in high esteem. On the other hand, I liked sports: Gymnastics, playing football, etc., immensely. I don’t think there was a single wave I couldn’t do on the gymnastics bar. I was soon awarded several prizes by my commander. All the breakneck moves impressed me enormously. For example, one fine day I crawled up the famous church tower of Wahlstatt on the lightning conductor with my friend Frankenberg and tied a handkerchief to the top. I still remember exactly how difficult it was to get past the gutters. When I visited my little brother once, about ten years later, I could still see my handkerchief hanging at the top. My friend Frankenberg was the first victim of the war that I ever saw.’

“That’s how Manfred got through his time as a cadet, even though this type of education and youthful treatment didn’t suit him too well. But he gritted his teeth and never complained during all the holidays he spent at his parents’ house. However, he told me, his younger brother, on several occasions: ‘If you can, do without the pleasure, it’s not nice in the pub either, but it’s still better.’ Manfred had decided very early on that he wanted to be an officer, and he had probably always been determined to achieve extraordinary things in the career he had chosen. At that time, however, he was thinking of becoming a great cavalry general. Little did he realise that he would become the first not on terra firma, but in the skies.”

‘Captain Freiherr von Richthofen has not returned.’ So reports the army bulletin, succinctly and bluntly. So it has happened after all! What no one dared to think about has come to pass, what every German felt with quiet trepidation when Richthofen’s aerial victories reached the eerie height of eighty. The greatest flying ace of the World War died undefeated, a glorious death for the Kaiser and the Fatherland. An unspeakable pain pierces the hearts of our people at the loss of this bravest of the brave. As a true soldier, he rests in foreign soil where he fell. We were not granted the privilege of firing three volleys of honour over his grave. When I see the mighty towers of the venerable monastery church of Wahlstatt glimmering in the distance today, old, long-forgotten images come to mind. Richthofen and I wore the king’s uniform at the same time and were cadets at Wahlstatt. I had just joined the corps, a cheeky ten-year-old boy. Manfred Richthofen was several grades above me, and as a puny newbie, as the cadets called the newcomers, I would hardly have come into closer contact with him. But it did happen once – in a rather rough manner, which is now a fond memory for me. My room elder was a close friend of Richthofen’s, and he often sat in our room in the evenings. However, this friendship was clouded for some reason, so that both had pax ex, as we called it. Our room elder now tried to annoy Richthofen at every opportunity. Carnival had arrived, and the parcels from home with the eagerly awaited pancakes had arrived. The senior member of our room had had a huge jumping jack sent to him in the form of a life-size Negro, which aroused our greatest astonishment, for there were no carnival jokes or masquerades. But we soon guessed what was going on. One of us was supposed to secretly hang the Negro on Richthofen’s locker door. My blood was boiling at the time, and I was looking for an opportunity to distinguish myself. The bright red, grinning mouth of the negro, which stretched from ear to ear, was intended to provoke Richthofen – that was the main point! Manfred Richthofen had a full, strong mouth, which our dormitory leader always teased him about. We were sitting down to supper, so I sneaked out of the dining room as quickly as possible. I scurried across the company quarters with the negro I had fetched to the room where Richthofen was lying. Soon the snarling black man was dangling from the cupboard door, Richthofen’s nameplate emblazoned above his woolly head like an explanation. But the consequences were inevitable. Richthofen guessed where the negro had come from and also found out who had brought him. And then in the evening, I can still see it today, the door opened. Richthofen stood in the room, his steel-blue eyes, which meant nothing good for me at the time, searching the room. Now he had spotted me. The next moment he was standing in front of me – there was a crash on the left, a crash on the right – and then, as calmly as he had come, he left the room amid the respectful silence of his comrades. It is a strange memory! – That was the hand that later held the controls so firmly and sent eighty enemies to their deaths!”

“Manfred only caused my parents serious concern once. He had suffered a serious knee injury in the cadet corps. A piece of cartilage in his knee had torn loose during a fall squat without assistance. This piece occasionally became wedged between the kneecap, causing the leg to fold to one side without any willpower. Massages and all kinds of cures didn’t help; years and days went by and the leg wouldn’t get better. When my parents were once again discussing what to do, and my mother in particular was very depressed, Manfred wanted to comfort her and said: ‘If I can no longer walk on my legs, I’ll walk on my hands!’. And like a completely healthy person, he stretched both legs into the air and walked around the room on his hands. In the end, however, the decision was made to operate. Fortunately, this was successful and restored him to full health within a few weeks.”

“Twelve years ago, Manfred had travelled this route and I had visited him many times. I really liked the spirit of the school. The boys had to study hard, but they looked healthy because they did gymnastics diligently (Manfred’s strong side). When he was still a toddler, it was no trouble at all for him to shoot rumps from a standing position, and he never needed his hands to do so, but placed them tightly against the seam of the yard. He had a wonderfully skilful body by nature. Once, when he was eight years old, he had to take apples from an old, hard-to-reach fruit tree. He scrambled up like a little man of the woods and didn’t come down the trunk afterwards, no, that way was too boring for him; instead he let himself down on the outside of the branches, swinging and grabbing from branch to branch with lightning-like speed. These gymnastic skills stood him in good stead at the cadet school. He was honoured several times. There was also a lot of fun for us adults here in Wahlstatt. Once I went along to an imperial birthday party. Beforehand, Manfred had explained the following to me with a serious face: ‘You know, Mum, the cadets like to dance with every lady who still looks a bit young and pretty…only with the old and ugly mothers – the officers dance with them.’ Intimidated by these unsuccessful but life-knowledgeable openings, I asked my cadet son what I should wear to make myself desirable. ‘Well, a really light-coloured dress with a pretty flower on the belt.’ I took this to heart and was curious to see whether the gentlemen cadets would also like me. But – I was lucky, they danced with me first and not the officers. As a thank you, we then let our young cavaliers indulge in pancakes. What were the giant snuffles of these fragrant bales back then? That was something for Manfred – his favourite pastry; he was very reluctant to eat meat, preferring bread and cake instead.”

“Manfred was extremely truthful. Even today, my mother cannot praise the extent to which my parents could always rely on him. He gave precise and clear answers to every question, regardless of what the consequences might be for him. As a twelve-year-old boy, he was once unable to curb his passion for hunting on his grandmother’s estate. When he couldn’t find any wild ducks on the Weistritz, he shot some tame ones, which were then missing from his grandmother’s duck pen. Manfred was put under strict interrogation, but it only lasted half a minute. It didn’t occur to him to deny or even gloss over what he had done. And the good grandmother gladly forgave her grandson, who could not lie. Manfred’s first ‘hunting trophies’, three drake feathers, still hang in his parlour in Schweidnitz today. Visitors will not be able to look at them without emotion. Manfred’s mother summarised these feelings and this conviction of Manfred’s nature in the short words: ‘He stood firm, wherever he was placed.’ This belief in his own ability, coupled with inner nobility and self-evident modesty, enabled my brother, I believe, to be a real leader. His Uhlans, when he was a lieutenant, and later all his subordinates in the Richthofen fighter squadron could trust him implicitly. He did not flatter them, but he protected them and kept his word, and serving under him was made easier by the cheerfulness and cheerfulness, indeed often by the exuberance with which he showed himself equal to even the most difficult tasks. For in one thing he was a perhaps unparalleled example to all who had to follow him in war: in the bravery of his spirit, in the absolute lack of any fear, indeed in the complete impossibility of being able to imagine any process or impending event that could be associated with any feeling of fear for him.”

“He didn’t underestimate the danger, but it didn’t play a role in his life. That was the case from an early age. The girls claimed that the manor house was haunted. A servant had once hanged himself on the floor upstairs and it had been haunted ever since, so they said in the servants’ parlour. Thirteen-year-old Manfred wanted to experience this haunting. He asked to be shown the exact spot on the floor where the accident had happened and had his bed carried to the spot to sleep. My mother knew Manfred’s fearlessness, but she decided to put him to the test. She crept upstairs with my sister and gradually began to roll chestnuts along the floor. At first Manfred slept soundly. But the thumping increased. Then he suddenly woke up, jumped up, grabbed a truncheon and lunged at the troublemakers. My mum had to switch on the light quickly, otherwise she would have had a bad time. But there was no sign of fear in Manfred. And that didn’t change until his last flight, from which he was never to return alive to his squadron and his own.”

‘I liked it a lot better in Lichterfelde. I was no longer so cut off from the world and began to live a little more as a person. My favourite memories from Lichterfelde are the big corso games, where I fought a lot with and against Prince Friedrich Karl. The prince won many a first prize back then. In races, football matches, etc. against me, who had not trained my body to such perfection as he had.’

“It is hereby certified that His Royal Prussian Cadet Manfred Freiherr von Richthofen, in the presence of over 100 witnesses, most of whom are of impeccable character, shot and killed 20 hares and 1 pheasant (male) with his own hands today on the Jordansmühl field. The accuracy of this statement is certified by (many names follow).”

‘Of course, I could hardly wait to join the army. That’s why I went to the front after my midshipman’s examination and joined the Uhlan Regiment No. 1 ‘Kaiser Alexander III’. I had chosen this regiment; it was in my beloved Silesia and I had some friends and relatives there who strongly recommended it to me, and I really enjoyed serving with my regiment. It’s the best thing for a young soldier to be a ‘cavalryman’. I can’t really say much about my time at war school. It reminded me too much of the cadet corps and, as a result, I don’t have very fond memories of it. I did experience one funny thing. One of my war school teachers bought himself a really nice fat mare. The only flaw was that she was a bit old. He bought her for fifteen years. She had slightly thick legs. But otherwise she jumped excellently. I rode her a lot. She went under the name ‘Biffy’.’

‘A memory came back to me. Even when Manfred was attending war college in Gdansk, he had hunted in East Prussia, and something happened at that time that got me excited. In the evening, his gamekeeper had shown him the hunting ground where he was to shoot a buck the next morning. Should he be given a hunter with him? No, thanks, he – Manfred – would find the stalking path on his own. The next morning is pitch dark. Manfred misses the direction in the darkness. He has completely lost his way in the large forest. Finally he arrives at a farmstead that lies alone in the forest. Here he has to ask for directions. The inhabitants are still fast asleep, no smoke curls over the moss-covered roof. Manfred knocks on a window, the dogs bark. Suddenly a gate opens and at the same moment two shots ring out. The coarse shot rattles in his ears. He had been mistaken for a burglar. Fortunately, the mistake was soon cleared up. The strange hunter was kindly shown the way and the buck was there for breakfast.’

‘About a year later at the regiment, my Rittmeister v. Tr., who was very fond of sport, told me that he had bought a very chunky jumper. We were all very excited about the ‘chunky jumper’, who bore the rare name ‘Biffy’. I no longer thought about my war school teacher’s old mare. One fine day the wonder animal arrived, and now imagine the astonishment that good old ‘Biffy’ found herself back in Tr’s stable at the age of eight. She had changed hands several times in the meantime and her price had risen considerably. My war school teacher had bought her for fifteen hundred marks, and v. Tr. had bought her after a year as an eight-year-old for three thousand five hundred marks. She didn’t win any more jumping competitions, but she found a buyer again – and was killed right at the beginning of the war.’

“MvR appointed Leutnant and in the 3rd squadron in Ostrowo”

‘I finally got the epaulettes. It was about the proudest feeling I’ve ever had to be called ‘Mr Lieutenant’ all at once. My father bought me a very beautiful mare called ‘Santuzza’. She was a marvellous animal and indestructible. Walked like a lamb in front of the train. I gradually discovered that she had great jumping ability. I immediately decided to make a show jumper out of this good mare. She jumped marvellously. I jumped a paddock trick of one metre sixty centimetres with her myself. I found a great deal of support and understanding from my mate von Wedel, who had won many a nice prize with his chargen horse ‘Fandango’. So we both trained for a show jumping competition and a cross-country ride in Breslau. ‘Fandango’ did brilliantly, ‘Santuzza’ tried hard and also did well. I had the prospect of doing something with her. The day before she was loaded, I couldn’t resist taking her over all the obstacles in our jumping garden again. We slipped and slid. Santuzza’ bruised her shoulder a little and I banged my collarbone. I also demanded speed from my good fat mare ‘Santuzza’ in training and was very surprised when von Wedel’s thoroughbred beat her. Another time I was lucky enough to ride a very nice chestnut at the Olympics in Wroclaw. The cross-country started and my gelding was still alive and kicking in the second third, so I had a chance of success. Then came the last obstacle. I could see from a distance that this must be something very special, as a huge amount of people had gathered there. I thought to myself: ‘Take courage, things will go wrong!’ and came hurtling up the embankment, on which stood a paddock trick. The crowd kept waving at me to stop riding so fast, but I couldn’t see or hear anything. My chestnut takes the paddock trick at the top of the dam and, to my utter amazement, it goes into the Weistritz on the other side. Before I knew it, the animal jumped down the slope in one giant leap and horse and rider disappeared into the water. Of course we went ‘overhead’. ‘Felix’ came out on this side and Manfred on the other. When they weighed me back at the end of the cross-country ride, they were astonished to see that I hadn’t lost the usual two pounds, but had gained ten pounds. Thank goodness you couldn’t tell that I was soaking wet. I also had a very good Charger and this unfortunate animal had to do everything. Running races, cross-country riding, jumping competitions, walking in front of the train, in short, there was no exercise in which the good animal was not trained. That was my well-behaved ‘Blume’. I had very nice successes on her. My last was in the Kaiserpreis-Ritt in 1913, when I was the only one to complete the cross-country course without making a mistake. One thing happened to me that won’t be repeated so easily. I galloped over a heath and was suddenly upside down. The horse had stepped into a hole in the harness and I had broken my collarbone in the fall. I’d ridden another seventy kilometres, hadn’t made a mistake and had kept time.’

“When Manfred was commissioned as a junior officer in the Ulan Regiment No. 1, Emperor Alexander III, he became even more passionate about equestrian sports than before. After he had received his officer’s licence, our father bought him a very beautiful mare. Manfred often praised this horse to me as a true marvel and indestructible. She walked like a lamb in front of his train and jumped at least one metre sixty.”

“On becoming a Lieutenant in 1912, Manfred’s father gave him a fine mare which he called Santuzza. The life of a young officer in a regiment of Uhlans reqired him to excel on horseback and von Richthofen actively participated in jumps and races, gaining several prizes but collecting a broken collar bone in the Kaiser Prize Race of 1913.”

“Manfred has won many great prizes in show jumping competitions and cross-country rides. Most recently in the Kaiserpreisritt in 1913.”

“His ambition was to ride in big races in Breslau and in the capital of the Reich. For this purpose he had acquired a thoroughbred named Antithesis. But on the same day that the first race was to be run with his horse, he rode it across the Russian border. He would certainly have ridden many a horse to victory in many a race.”

“It was a summer’s day, as beautiful as it could be. The strong sun lay over the water. From the terrace of the beach hotel, over the burning red geraniums, we looked out over the deep blue sea. Our eyes followed the sailors gliding past like white shadows. The wind carried the sounds of the spa band. We had become very silent. I found myself in a strangely oppressive mood, as if on the border between dream and reality. Certainly, there were the slender figures of the two war pupils before me, their boyish, tanned faces under their paler foreheads, in which early masculinity already lay – there was Ilse’s bright, blooming appearance in summery white; but also her hearty, always laughing cheerfulness had fallen silent – there on the chair, which was pulled close to the table, sat Bolko, the youngest, and had the use of the fact that we adults did not eat from the cake and the pie. I took in this picture and looked again at the water, over which the narrow sails swayed, and into the glass of the sky and thought that it could not be that this picture was deceptive and that it would dissolve into nothing before what was now coming, before the Great Unknown, which, no one knew how, announced itself through everyone’s mouth: War…! Gottfried, the nephew, looked straight ahead, cool and matter-of-fact, as if he were at roll call. He said quite unexpectedly: ‘You have to take two pairs of woollen stockings with you’, and he named this and that exactly according to the regulations, which was part of the equipment when a young soldier goes into the field. This childlike soldierly fervour made me smile at all the conflicting feelings. I tried to read my son’s expression, but Lothar turned his narrow face with the very dark brows that had grown together over his nose. He didn’t want to speak now, only his bronze-coloured eyes occasionally flashed with the strong excitement that was working in him. Certainly his whole being, which otherwise seemed to be made for the joy of life, was seized. But he looked away, he didn’t want me to see what he was feeling and thinking. Only Bolko – blond, rosy-cheeked, childhood in a white sailor suit – continued to feast on the delicacies that this hour had given him, in which the Great Unknown stripped us of all the pleasure and carelessness that had gone before…Should we leave? Some bathers had already left Sopot – in an unnecessary hurry, it seemed. We also had to make a decision, I felt. If only someone could guess now! ‘You should ask Manfred.’ Lothar had said it. And he was certainly right. I saw the calm, almost indifferent face of my eldest in front of me. I could feel the certainty that emanated from him. I remembered how much I had felt the need to discuss all matters of importance with him, and how he always knew how to say and advise on the essentials, even in difficult matters, with a rationality that was hardly in keeping with his youth. ‘Why don’t you telegraph him?’ Lothar was right, especially as Manfred was with the detached squadron on the border, in Ostrowo, and was most likely to have wind of what was happening. I wrote a few words on a piece of paper and handed over the telegram for promotion. The two young soldiers exchanged a glance and stood up at the same time. The hour of separation had come. We went out onto the seafront. Many people were there, and their countenances were changed. A feverish, highly tense expectation vibrated in them. Was it the great unknown? A deep humming, such as I had never heard before, went through everyone. The band beamed with patriotic songs. Again and again they were called upon to play them. It was hard to escape the atmosphere. We made it to the hotel with great difficulty. Manfred’s reply arrived: ‘Advise you to leave.’ Now everything was clear, we packed. The phone went off. Lothar’s voice answered from Gdansk. And now this: ‘Farewell…goodbye…dear mum…’ These words resonated with me for a long time. On Friday, 31 July 1914, early in the morning, we travelled from Sopot to Silesia.”

‘There was nothing in all the newspapers but thick novels about the war. But we’d been used to the howls of war for a few months now. We had already packed our service cases so often that people were bored and no longer believed in war. But least of all did we believe in war, as we were the first on the frontier, the ‘eye of the army’, as my commanding officer had called us cavalry patrols at the time. On the eve of the increased readiness for war, we sat with the detached squadron, ten kilometres from the border, in our mess, ate oysters, drank champagne and played a little. We were very amused. As I said, nobody was thinking about war. Wedel’s mother had already made us a little suspicious a few days earlier; she had come from Pomerania to see her son again before the war. As she found us in a very pleasant mood and realised that we weren’t thinking about war, she couldn’t help but invite us to a decent breakfast. We were just enjoying ourselves when suddenly the door opened and Count Kospoth, the District Administrator of Öls, stood on the threshold. The count made an astonished face. We greeted the old acquaintance with a hello and he explained the purpose of his journey, namely that he wanted to see for himself at the border what was true about the rumours of the approaching world war. He quite rightly assumed that those on the border should know best. Now he was quite astonished at the picture of peace. Through him we learnt that all the bridges in Silesia were guarded and that they were already thinking of fortifying individual places. We quickly convinced him that war had been ruled out and continued our celebrations. The next day we moved into the field.’

“Thank God that this journey is behind us. The crowds at the station were life-threatening, the train unimaginably overcrowded. We jumped into the departing train with more desperation than courage – and, of course, illegally – and were so lucky to be taken along. Our triumph was complete when we finally managed to get three seats in the dining car. The train travelled very slowly, almost sluggishly. All the bridges were under military guard, the first vague hint of war. Wroclaw! From here on to Schweidnitz – without a ticket, without luggage. Exhausted, we arrived in front of our house. Outside, under the tall trees in front of the gate, my husband walked up to us with heavy steps. ‘We’re coming back – because there’s a war.’ ‘War?’ No, I didn’t believe in it. Who could take on such responsibility?”

“Ostrowo, 2 August 1914. These are my last lines in great haste. My warmest greetings to you. Should we not meet again, please accept my heartfelt thanks for everything you have done for me. I have no debts, even a few hundred marks more, which I am taking with me. Your grateful and obedient son and brother Manfred embraces each and every one of you.”

“On 2 August, the mobilisation order was followed by the declaration of war. Lothar returned from the war college in Danzig to his regiment, the 4th Dragoons in Lüben. And Manfred? While the garrison here presented a feverishly moving picture in an unexpected abundance of people and thoughts were still buzzing about what would happen, he rode as a young Uhlan lieutenant against the enemy in the east. And under him walked ‘Antithesis’, the English thoroughbred that I had given to him, the well-travelled, passionate rider. On the same day that it was to carry him to victory on the racecourse in Poznan, it carried him across the border – on patrol against Russia.”

‘We border cavalrymen were familiar with the word ‘war’. Everyone knew exactly what to do and what not to do. But no one had any real idea what would happen next. Every active soldier was happy to finally be able to show his personality and skills. We young cavalry lieutenants were probably given the most interesting tasks: reconnaissance, getting into the enemy’s rear, destroying important installations; all tasks that demanded a whole man. With my mission in my pocket, the importance of which I had been convinced of through long study for a year, I rode at twelve o’clock at night at the head of my patrol for the first time against the enemy, the border was a river, and I could expect to receive fire there for the first time. I was quite astonished how I was able to pass the bridge without incident. The next morning, without further incident, we reached the church tower of the village of Kielcze, which I knew well from riding along the border. Everything had passed off without me noticing an enemy, or rather without being noticed myself. How was I supposed to ensure that the villagers didn’t notice much? My first thought was to put the popes under lock and key. So we took the completely surprised and highly perplexed man out of his house. I locked him in the belfry of the church tower, removed the ladder and let him sit at the top. I assured him that if even the slightest hostile behaviour on the part of the population should make itself felt, he would immediately be a child of death. A sentry kept a lookout from the tower and watched the area. I had to send daily reports by patrol riders. My small group of dispatch riders soon dispersed, so that I finally had to take over the last dispatch ride as the messenger myself. Everything remained quiet until the fifth night. On this night, the sentry suddenly came running to me at the church tower – I had stabled my horses near it – and called out to me: ‘Cossacks are here!’. It was pitch dark, a bit rainy, no stars. You couldn’t see your hand in front of your eyes. We led the horses through a breach that had been cut through the churchyard wall as a precaution into the open field. There, because of the darkness, we were completely safe after fifty metres. I myself went with the sentry, carbine in hand, to the designated place where the Cossacks were supposed to be. I crept along the wall of the churchyard and came to the road. That made me feel a bit uneasy, because the whole village was swarming with Cossacks. I looked over the wall behind which the guys had their horses. Most of them had blinding lanterns and were behaving very carelessly and loudly. I estimated there were about twenty to thirty of them. One had done his time and gone to the priest, whom I had released from prison the day before. Treason, of course! it flashed through my brain. So be doubly careful. I couldn’t let it come to a fight, because I didn’t have more than two carbines at my disposal. So I played ‘cops and robbers’. After a few hours’ rest, the visitors rode off again. The next morning, however, I decided to make a small change of quarters. On the seventh day I was back in my garrison and everyone stared at me as if I were a ghost. This was not because of my unshaven face, but rather because rumours had spread that Wedel and I had fallen near Kalisch. People knew the exact time, place and circumstances so well that the rumour had already spread throughout Silesia. Even my mother had already received visits of condolence. The only thing missing was a death notice in the newspaper. A funny story happened at the same time. A horse doctor was ordered to requisition horses from a farmstead with ten Uhlans. It was about three kilometres away. He returned from his mission quite excited and reported the following: ‘I was riding across a stubble field where the dolls were standing, when suddenly I recognised enemy infantry some distance away. Without further ado I draw my sabre and shout to my Uhlans: ‘Lance down, charge, march, march, hurrah! The men are enjoying themselves and a wild rush across the stubble begins. But the enemy infantry turn out to be a pack of deer that I had misjudged in my short-sightedness.’ The capable gentleman suffered from his attack for a long time.’

“On 3 August we learned that the Uhlan Regiment 1 and the Infantry Regiment 155 had occupied Kalisch. The first battle – the first success. And: Manfred was there. A proud feeling, despite all the worries.”

“Manfred wrote from Schelmce, on the other side of the border. The letter was dated 5 August, the day when the church service brought us together on the little parade ground and I was worried about him. While we stood and sang, he probably wrote this greeting to home in some forest clearing south-west of Kalisch, with the distant rumble of the cannons, still tired from the night patrol, which is now his third. Only six men still belong to the small troop of horsemen that has closed in on the enemy. None of them are wounded yet, thank goodness. But things will probably change soon. When I receive this letter, Manfred writes, he may already be on his way to the west. Lothar also wrote a card from Traben about the journey there. We have never been able to say goodbye to either of our sons. That’s a little sad. But how many mothers will feel like that!”

“Today was a day that is still fresh in my mind, but which also moved me deeply. A field service was held for the entire garrison, the soldiers and their families on the small parade ground, which is so pleasantly lined with greenery on two sides, very close to our house. It was a great farewell in the face of the eternal, a togetherness that only fate can create, which must now be borne indissolubly by all. Even before the service began, England’s declaration of war on Germany had become known. There they stood now, our soldiers, who were our pride, like walls they stood on three sides of the square, on the still free flank the men and women in dark clothes, the parents, the sisters of our warriors, who would leave today in grey dress, tomorrow or the day after tomorrow. In the centre stood the field altar, with clergymen speaking, deep seriousness on all faces; one tried to remember this or that image that had become dear to one from happier days. Perhaps you would never see it again. The sky arched blue and cloudless over the solemn, beautiful picture, the light wind carried the humming of the church bells, we all sang ‘We come to pray…’ with great fervour. It was like a pledge, it shone through us all, and everyone felt: for the German people there is only victory – or doom. And now something happened to me that I couldn’t believe. Acquaintances who greeted us did so with such shy cordiality that I was finally taken aback. They asked about Manfred, again and again, with such strange sympathy. Had my son returned from the patrol battles on the other side of the border? ‘Yes, certainly…’ But why was everyone asking so strangely, my God. What had happened? My knees became weak, they pushed me a field chair and I had to sit down. Then I heard that Manfred was dead and that his friend Webel was also missing or killed. Fear tightened my heart, but only for a moment. A certainty, a confidence that was based on nothing but itself, told me: it can’t be, it’s all a mistake, he’s alive. And this trust in the inner voice had the effect that all anxiety fell away from me, that I soon became comforted, even cheerful…”

“Dear Mum!
How are you all doing in these turbulent times? You are certainly safest in Schweidnitz. I am now on my third night on patrol in Russia. There are no German troops ahead of me, so I am the furthest forward. One becomes brutalised in no time at all. I don’t mind that I haven’t taken off my clothes for four days and haven’t washed since the declaration of war. I sleep very little with my six men – under the open sky, of course. The nights are quite warm, but today, in the rain outside, it was less pleasant. There is little to eat; you have to fight to get anything. None of my men have been wounded yet. By the time you receive this letter, I may already be at the French border. The cannons have just thundered again from the direction of Kalisch, we’ll have to see what’s going on. Warm greetings to you all from nearby Russia

Yours, Manfred.”

“Today was Ilse’s birthday. We didn’t celebrate it (who would have the sense for that now!). We used the day to sew the clothes she needs as a Red Cross carer. The formal dresses were packed in suitcases – they have no place at this time. Ilse is determined to help wherever she can, it’s in her active and happy nature. When things get serious and tough, we will need such companionable people. It’s really nice to see how much good will and willingness to act there is in our women. Everyone wants to contribute to the success of the great cause to the best of their ability. Many women and young girls go to all the military trains passing through the railway station to give the soldiers refreshments; rolls, sausages, cigarettes, malt beer and postcards are distributed. The last time I was at the railway station, the soldiers were already so full that they had to be literally forced to eat. There was only a constant demand for cigarettes and beer. One is downright grateful when the field grey expresses a wish that can be fulfilled. They should be aware that their homeland would like to do them all the good it can before they have to suffer the most terrible hardships. The garrison has now been stripped of its active troops. The 10th Grenadiers and the 42nd Artillery Regiment have also left. As they said, to the west. Nevertheless, the town presents an eventful and interesting picture. Instead of the usual taut, soldierly appearance, you can now see other faces, first individuals and then many, many others. The volunteers have appeared on the scene. I was very excited when I watched from the window as they marched through the streets singing; some of them still looked like boys to me, they hadn’t quite grown into their uniforms yet, they hadn’t been weaned from their parents’ house. But there was real enthusiasm in their eyes and in the way they marched singing, somewhat awkwardly but with great grit. – Our little servant Gustav Mohaupt also rushed to the flags and wrote how happy he was to have arrived with the hunters in Hirschberg. We live quietly and listen eagerly for any news from the theatre of war. The capture of Liège aroused great rejoicing. The newspapers caused an undoubted sensation with their reports that mysterious gold cars were on their way from France to Russia. This billion-dollar treasure on wheels slowly became a nuisance. Roads were closed, guards and firemen stopped every car. Here and there there were senseless and unfortunately not entirely bloodless bangs. It took tens of days for the psychosis to disappear. Instead, the bridge guards were increasingly nervous. Shots are heard almost every night. During the day, the most uncontrollable rumours run through the city. Yesterday, a pair of secret lovers, perhaps blinded by the bridge regulations, were the victims of the rules. ‘He’ got a good scare, ‘she’ a slight shot in the arm. Everything went off lightly. I received 700 marks from Manfred. He told me to keep it for him. He hadn’t left any debts behind him – he wrote – but had saved quite a bit. That’s just the way he is. His external and internal circumstances are always in such a state that he can give an account every hour. He is always clear, organised and ready.”

‘To France. We were now loaded in my garrison town. Where to? – No idea whether west, east, south or north. There were a lot of rumours, but most of them were over. But in this case we probably had the right instinct: west. The four of us were allocated a second-class compartment. We had to stock up on provisions for a long train journey. Drinks were not missing, of course. But on the very first day we realised that a second-class compartment like that was pretty cramped for four young warriors, so we decided to spread out a bit more. I set up one half of a pack wagon as my living and sleeping quarters and had definitely done something good. I had air, light etc. I had procured straw from a station and the tent was covered on top of it. I slept as soundly in my sleeping car as if I were lying in my family bed in Ostrowo. The journey went on day and night, first through the whole of Silesia and Saxony, then more and more to the west. We seemed to be heading towards Metz; even the transport driver didn’t know where we were going. At every station, even where we didn’t stop, there was a sea of people who showered us with cheers and flowers. The German people were wildly enthusiastic about the war; you could tell. The Uhlans were particularly marvelled at. The platoon that had hurried through the station earlier must have spread the word that we had already been at the enemy – and we had only been at war for eight days – and my regiment had already been mentioned in the first army report: Uhlan Regiment 1 and Infantry Regiment 155 conquered Kalisch. So we were the celebrated heroes and felt like heroes. Wedel had found a Cossack sword and showed it to the astonished girls. It made a great impression. We claimed, of course, that there was blood on it, and made up a monstrous fairy tale about the peaceful sword of a gendarmerie chief. We were terribly exuberant. Until we were finally unloaded in Busendorf near Diedenhofen. Shortly before the train arrived, we stopped in a long tunnel. I have to say, it’s quite uncomfortable to stop suddenly in a tunnel in peacetime, but especially in wartime. Then an overconfident man took the liberty of joking and fired a shot. It didn’t take long before a wild shooting started in the tunnel. It is a miracle that nobody was injured. What caused it never came out.’

‘We unloaded in Busendorf. It was so hot that our horses threatened to fall over. For the next few days, we marched north towards Luxembourg. In the meantime, I had found out that my brother had ridden the same route with a cavalry division about eight days earlier. I was even able to track him again, but I didn’t see him until a year later. Nobody in Luxembourg knew how this little country behaved towards us. I still remember today how I saw a Luxembourg gendarme from afar, surrounded him with my patrol and wanted to capture him. He assured me that if I didn’t let him go immediately, he would complain to the German Emperor, which I realised and let the hero go. We passed through the city of Luxembourg and Esch and were now approaching the first fortified towns in Belgium. On the march there, our infantry, like our entire division in general, performed pure peacetime manoeuvres. We were terribly excited. But such a manoeuvre outpost picture was quite digestible from time to time. Otherwise we would definitely have gone over the top. Troops from various army corps were marching to the right and left, on every street, in front of and behind us. There was a feeling of chaos. Suddenly the confusion turned into a march that worked like a charm. I had no idea what our airmen were capable of back then. In any case, every airman gave me a tremendous dizziness. I couldn’t tell whether it was a German or an enemy plane, I didn’t even realise that the German planes carried crosses and the enemy planes carried circles. As a result, every aeroplane came under fire. The old pilots still talk today about how embarrassing it was for them to be shot at equally by friend and foe.’

‘We marched and marched, the patrols far ahead, until one fine day we were at Arlon. I had a funny feeling as I crossed the border for the second time. I had already heard dark rumours of franchisers and the like. I had once been ordered to liaise with my cavalry division. I rode no less than one hundred and ten kilometres that day with my entire patrol. Not one horse was broken, a brilliant performance by my animals. In Arlon I climbed the church tower in accordance with the principles of peacetime tactics, but of course I saw nothing, because the evil enemy was still far away. People were still pretty harmless back then. For example, I had left my patrol outside the town and cycled through the town to the church tower all by myself. When I came back down, I was surrounded by a grumbling and muttering crowd of hostile-looking youths. My bike had been stolen, of course, and I now had to walk for half an hour. But I enjoyed it. I would have loved a little scuffle like that. I felt incredibly safe with my gun in my hand. As I learnt later, the inhabitants had behaved very riotously both against our cavalry a few days earlier and later against our military hospitals, and a whole lot of these gentlemen had had to be put up against the wall. I reached my destination in the afternoon and learnt there that my only cousin Richthofen had been killed three days earlier, in the very vicinity of Arlon. I stayed with the cavalry division for the rest of the day, took part in a blind alarm there and arrived at my regiment late at night. You experienced and saw more than the others, you’d been around the enemy before, you’d had to deal with the enemy, you’d seen the traces of war and were envied by everyone with a different weapon. It was too good, probably my best time in the whole war. I would like to take part in the beginning of the war again.’

Unfortunately, I rarely have time to write, and when I do, it is only briefly. Therefore, please do not be concerned if you do not hear from me for eight to fourteen days. I have not yet received a letter from you. I have experienced and seen a great deal. The war has already claimed the lives of many officers in our cavalry unit. The local residents are particularly hostile towards us. Wolfram was killed by them, and Lothar is also here in Belgium.

“Dear Mum, I received your last letter in Ostrowo dated 4 August. The field post doesn’t seem to be working very well. I write to you almost every day and always hope that the connection from me to you is better than the other way round. We Uhlans are unfortunately assigned to the infantry; I say unfortunately because Lothar has certainly already taken part in great cavalry battles, the likes of which we will hardly ever see. I am sent out on patrol a lot and am doing my best to come back with the Iron Cross. I think it will be another eight to fourteen days before we fight a big battle. “Antithesis is doing just great. He’s building out, ironclad, calm, jumping every Koppelrick and really doing everything as if he’s done nothing else so far, not getting leaner but fatter.‘’

‘I had the task of determining how strong the occupation of a large forest near Virton might be. I rode out with fifteen Uhlans and realised that today would be the first clash with the enemy. My mission was not an easy one, for there can be an awful lot in a forest like this without you being able to see it. I came over a height. A few hundred paces in front of me lay a huge forest complex of many thousands of acres. It was a beautiful August morning. The forest was so peaceful and quiet that I could no longer feel any thoughts of war. Now the top was approaching the entrance to the forest. You couldn’t see anything suspicious through the glass, so you had to ride up and wait to see if you could catch fire. The spike disappeared into the forest path. I was next, with one of my most capable Uhlans riding beside me. At the entrance to the forest was a lonely ranger’s hut. We rode past it. All at once a shot was fired from a window of the house. Immediately afterwards [32]another. I recognised at once from the bang that it was not a rifle shot, but that it came from a shotgun. At the same time I saw some disorder in my patrol and immediately suspected an attack by Franktireurs. One thing was to get off the horses and surround the house. In a somewhat dark room I recognised four or five lads with hostile eyes. Of course, there was no shotgun in sight. My anger was great at that moment; but I had never killed a man in my life, so I must say I was extremely uncomfortable at the moment. Actually, I should have shot the Franktireur down like a piece of cattle. He had fired a load of shot into the belly of one of my horses and wounded one of my Uhlans in the hand. I shouted at the gang in my poor French and threatened to shoot them all down if the culprit didn’t come forward immediately. They realised that I was serious and that I would not hesitate to put my words into action. I can’t remember how it actually happened. In any case, the marksmen were suddenly out of the back door and had disappeared from the face of the earth. I shot after them without hitting them. Luckily I had surrounded the house so that they couldn’t actually slip away. [I immediately had the house searched for them, but found no more. If the guards behind the house hadn’t been paying attention, the whole place was empty. We found the shotgun standing by the window and had to take our revenge in another way. In five minutes the whole house was on fire. After this intermezzo, we moved on. I recognised from fresh horse tracks that strong enemy cavalry must have marched directly in front of us. I stopped with my patrol, cheered them on with a few words and had the feeling that I could absolutely rely on every one of my lads. Everyone, I knew, would stand their ground in the next few minutes. Of course, none of them thought of anything other than an attack. It must be in the blood of a Teuton to run over the enemy wherever you meet him, especially enemy cavalry, of course. I could already see an enemy squadron at the head of my pack and was drunk with joyful anticipation. My Uhlans’ eyes flashed. So we continued at a brisk trot along the fresh track. After an hour’s sharp ride through the most beautiful mountain gorge, the forest became a little lighter and we approached the exit. I realised that I would run into the enemy. So [34]be careful! with all the attacking courage that inspired me. To the right of the narrow path was a steep rock face many metres high. To my left was a narrow mountain stream, then a meadow fifty metres wide, bordered by barbed wire. All of a sudden the horse track stopped and disappeared over a bridge into the bushes. I stopped at the top, because the forest exit was blocked by a barricade in front of us. I immediately realised that I had been ambushed. I suddenly recognised movement in the bushes behind the meadow to my left and could make out dismounted enemy cavalry. I estimated their strength at a hundred rifles. There was nothing to be wanted here. Straight ahead the way was blocked by the barricade, to the right were the rock walls, to the left the meadow fenced in with wire prevented me from my plan, the attack. There was no time to dismount and attack the enemy with carbines. So there was nothing left to do but fall back. I could have trusted my good Uhlans to do anything, but not to run away from the enemy. – That was to spoil the fun for many, because a second later the first shot rang out, followed by a furious rapid fire from the forest over there. The distance was about fifty to a hundred metres. The men were [35]instructed that if I raised my hand they were to join me quickly. Now I knew we had to go back, so I raised my arm and waved to my men. They must have misunderstood. My patrol, which I had left behind, thought I was in danger and came rushing up in a wild caracho to chop me out. All this took place on a narrow forest track, so you can imagine the mess that happened. My two lead riders lost their horses because of the raging fire in the narrow ravine, where the sound of each shot was multiplied tenfold, and I only saw them take the barricade in one jump. I never heard from them again. They are certainly in captivity. I myself turned round and gave my good ‘Antithesis’ the spurs, probably for the first time in his life. It was only with great difficulty that I was able to tell my Uhlans, who came rushing towards me, not to come any further. Turn round and away! My lad rode beside me. Suddenly his horse fell, I jumped over it and other horses rolled around me. In short, it was a chaotic mess. All I could see of my lad was how he lay under the horse, apparently not wounded, but tied up by the horse lying on him. The enemy [36]had taken us brilliantly by surprise. He had probably been watching us from the start and, as the French are apt to ambush their enemy, he had tried it again in this case. I was delighted when, two days later, I suddenly saw my boy standing in front of me, albeit half barefoot, as he had left one boot under his horse. He told me how he had escaped: at least two squadrons of French cuirassiers had later come out of the forest to plunder the many fallen horses and brave Uhlans. He had immediately jumped up, climbed the rock face unwounded and collapsed in a bush fifty metres up, completely exhausted. About two hours later, after the enemy had returned to his ambush, he had been able to continue his escape. After a few days he came back to me. He could say little about the whereabouts of the other comrades.’

“The Hirschberg fighters have suffered heavy losses, 300 men are said to be dead or wounded. Manfred reported. In the afternoon news came of a great battle between Metz and the Vosges, in which the troops of the Crown Prince of Bavaria had defeated the French. The fleeing enemy is being pursued relentlessly. There is great joy here. Everything rushed into the town. There was great life at the market, but no details were given. The post office was flying flags.”

“It was on August 21st, in the little Belgian village of Etalle, twenty miles from the frontier, that Richthofen received orders to make a mounted reconnaissance toward the south in the direction of a little town called Meix-devant-Virton. His duty it was to discover the strenght of French cavalry supposed to be occupying a large forest. With the war less than two weeks old, movement marked the efforts of the opposing forces to get into advantageous contact with one another.”

‘The battle of Virton was underway. My comrade Loen and I once again had to patrol to find out where the enemy had gone. We rode after the enemy all day, finally reached him and were able to write a decent report. In the evening, the big question was: should we ride through the night to get back to our troops, or should we conserve our strength and rest up for the next day? That’s the beauty of leaving the cavalry patrol completely free to act. So we decided to stay with the enemy for the night and ride on the next morning. According to our strategic view, the enemy was on the march back, and we pressed on after him. As a result, we were able to spend the night in relative peace. Not far from the enemy was a marvellous monastery with large stables, so that we were able to quarter both Loen and my patrol. However, the enemy was still sitting so close by towards evening, as we were sheltering there, that he could have shot us through the windows with rifle bullets. [The monks were extremely kind. They gave us as much food and drink as we wanted, and we enjoyed it very much. The horses were unsaddled and were quite happy to get their eighty kilos of dead weight off their backs for the first time in three days and three nights. In other words, we settled in as if we were on manoeuvres and having dinner with a dear friend. Incidentally, three days later several of the hosts were hanging from the lamppost, as they had not been able to resist taking part in the war. But that evening they were really very kind. We crawled into our beds in our nightgowns, put up a post and let the good Lord be a good man. At night, someone suddenly opened the door and the guard’s voice rang out: ‘Lieutenant, the French are here.’ I was too sleepy to even answer. Loen felt the same way and only asked the witty question: ‘How many are there?’ The post’s reply, very excited: ‘We’ve already shot two dead; we can’t say how many because it’s pitch dark.’ I hear Loen reply sleepily: ‘So if more come, you’ll wake me up.’ Half a minute later, we continued snoring. [39]The next morning, the sun was already quite high when we woke up from our sound sleep. After a hearty breakfast, we set off again. In fact, the French had marched past our castle during the night, and our guards had made a fire attack on them during this time. But as it was pitch dark, no major battle had resulted. We soon continued along a lively valley. We rode over the old battlefield of our division and were astonished to see only French medics instead of our men. French soldiers could still be seen from time to time. But they made just as stupid faces as we did. Nobody had thought about shooting. We then made ourselves thin as quickly as possible, because we were so slow that instead of going forwards, we had concentrated a little backwards. Luckily the enemy had run off to the other side, otherwise I’d be a prisoner somewhere. We passed through the village of Robelmont, where we had last seen our infantry in position the day before. There we met a local resident and asked him about the whereabouts of our soldiers. He was very happy and assured me that the Germans were ‘partis’. [40]We turned a corner and witnessed the following strange sight. In front of us there was a swarm of red trousers – I estimated about fifty to a hundred – eagerly endeavouring to smash their rifles on a cornerstone. Next to them were six grenadiers who, as it turned out, had captured the brothers. We helped them to remove the Frenchmen and learnt from the six grenadiers that we had started a rearward movement during the night. I reached my regiment late in the afternoon and was quite satisfied with the last twenty-four hours.’

“Dear Mum!
I want to briefly describe to you what I have experienced here in the West. – Before the army’s deployment was complete, it was of course quite boring. We were unloaded northeast of Diedenhofen and marched through Luxembourg, crossing the Belgian border at Arlon.
In Etalle, about twenty kilometres west of Arlon, I was given the order on 13 August to reconnoitre in a southerly direction towards Meix-devant-Virton. In Etalle, about twenty kilometres west of Arlon, I was ordered on 13 August to reconnoitre southwards towards Meix-devant-Virton. As I reached the edge of the forest south of Etalle, I spotted a squadron of French cuirassiers. I only had ten men with me. After about half an hour, the enemy squadron disappeared, and I set off after them to find out where they had gone, ending up in a huge mountainous forest. I was just at the edge of the forest near Meix-devant-Virton.

To my right is a rock face, to my left a stream, behind it a meadow about fifty metres wide – then the edge of the forest. Suddenly, my vanguard stops. I gallop ahead to see what is going on. Just as I raise my telescope to my eyes, a volley of shots rings out from the edge of the forest about fifty metres away and from the front. I found myself facing about two hundred to two hundred and fifty carbines. I couldn’t go left or forward because the enemy was there – to the right was the steep rock face, so I had to go back. Yes, if only it had been that simple. The path was very narrow and led straight past the edge of the forest occupied by the enemy, but what could I do? There was no time to think, so I went back. I was the last one. Despite my previous prohibition, everyone else had gathered together and presented the French with a good target. Perhaps that is the reason why I escaped. I brought back only four men. This baptism of fire was less fun than I had imagined. In the evening, a few more people returned whose horses had died and who had managed to save themselves on foot. It is truly a miracle that nothing happened to me and my horse.

That same night, I was sent to Virton, but did not get there because Virton was occupied by the enemy. During the night, Division Commander von Below decided to attack the enemy at Virton and appeared with his vanguard Ul-R. 1 at the edge of the forest. The fog was so thick that you couldn’t see thirty paces ahead. One regiment after another emerged from the narrow forest paths, as if in a manoeuvre. Prince Oskar stood on a pile of stones and had his regiment, the 7th Grenadiers, march past him, looking each grenadier in the eye. It was a magnificent moment before the battle. Thus came the Battle of Virton, where the 9th Division fought against an enemy six times its size, held out for two days and finally won a brilliant victory. In this battle, Prince Oskar led his regiment at the forefront and remained unharmed. I spoke to him afterwards, just as he was being presented with the Iron Cross.”

“On September 1, 1914, he was transferred as an intelligence officer to the 4th Army, which at that time was stationed in front of Verdun.”

“I received a card from Manfred. He is well and cheerful. I had to think about him a lot, but now I’m reassured and happy again. We had a war service in the church. It struck me how many people were already in mourning – and yet the war has only been going on for a few weeks. A serious and almost oppressive mood would not go away. When we came out of the church as darkness fell, we saw a newspaper with a big victory announcement. We all went to the newspaper, where the extra sheets were being distributed, still damp with pressure. Ten French army corps had been defeated by our crown prince’s army between Reims and Verdun. That was still a nice Sedan joy. We went home happier now. The victory of Colonel-General von Hindenburg in East Prussia also turned out to be a magnificent feat of arms. We read that 100,000 Russians were pushed into the Masurian Lakes, of which 70,000 men and 300 officers surrendered. The entire Russian northern army has been destroyed.”

“Thank you very much for your last two cards dated 21st and 24th. The post arrives very irregularly. I received the card dated 24th eight days before the other one. I also received several parcels of sweets. Thank you very much for those. A cavalry division has been outside Paris for about eight days. I almost believe that Lothar is lucky enough to be there. He will have experienced more than I have, since I am sitting here in front of Verdun. The Crown Prince’s army is closing in on Verdun from the north, and we have to wait until it surrenders. Verdun is not under siege, but only surrounded. The fortifications are too formidable and would therefore require enormous amounts of ammunition and human lives if one wanted to storm them. Possession of Verdun would not bring us any corresponding advantages. It is just a pity that we are tied up here and will probably end the war here. The battle for Verdun is very difficult and claims a number of lives every day. Yesterday, eight officers from the 7th Grenadiers were killed in an attack.”

“We had news of both sons. Lothar is already on his way to Paris with the cavalry division. Manfred is outside Verdun. He’s already been through a lot. He only brought back four men from his baptism of fire – on a reconnaissance ride against the enemy entrenched in the forest. Now he has been entered for the Iron Cross. Lothar also wants to put his ambition into winning this honour. He has only received a single card from home. All our letters, our chocolates and packets of cigarettes have not arrived. How can that be? – But we have no reason to complain. Our sons have got through all the dangers safe and sound, and Lothar has just become a lieutenant. We read about it in the newspaper, which was a pleasant surprise – I received a card from Manfred’s landlady saying that his flat was being rented out elsewhere; I would like to come there soon to dispose of his things…”

“Dear Mum!

I have some good news to share with you. Last night, I received the Iron Cross. How are things in Lemberg? Here’s some advice: if the Russians come, bury everything you want to see again deep in the garden or somewhere else. What you leave behind, you will never see again. You are surprised that I am saving so much money, but after the war I will have to buy everything new. Everything I took with me is gone – lost, burned, torn to pieces by grenades, etc., including my saddle gear. If I should emerge from this war alive, I would be luckier than I am sensible.”

“…The war has taken its toll on our sons. I have to thank God that they are still alive. Lothar was wounded on a patrol ride by Nebermann and Bordermann. His horse was badly wounded. Manfred’s entire equipment was torn to shreds by grenades, including his saddlery. He is now saving up – so he writes – to buy everything new after the war. Despite all my worries, I had to smile when I read it. ‘After the war’ – when will that be? But the remark about saving characterises him. He will never attach so much importance to a danger, however exciting, that he forgets his clear, purposeful actions.”

“…I have time to ponder, my thoughts always drift in the same direction, the mothers are always with their sons in the field in spirit. I can consider myself proud and happy. Both sons made it to this day safe and sound. A grenade burst on the saddle of Manfred’s horse when he happened to be dismounted on patrol. Nothing happened to him, only a splinter cut his cloak and the bottom of a bullet crushed Aunt Friedel’s beautiful gifts of love into a shapeless pulp. Now a new parcel is about to go out to him. By the way – how can you forget! – Manfred has been awarded the Iron Cross. We are all delighted about this honour…”

“Dear Mum!

The post is about to go out, so I wanted to quickly send you a greeting. I’ve had quite an eventful few days. I almost lost my life, but luck was on my side once again. I was on patrol and had just dismounted from my excellent Charger when a grenade landed about five steps away from me and exploded on my horse’s saddle. Three other horses were also killed. My saddle and everything I needed and had in my saddlebags was, of course, torn to pieces. A piece of shrapnel tore my cloak, but otherwise I was unharmed. I was reading a letter from Aunt Friedel; I hadn’t opened the accompanying package yet, but had put it in my saddlebag – it was crushed into a shapeless mass. I also had Antithesis with me; he got a small splinter in his back teeth – nothing serious.”

“MvR almost killed by artillery fire; his horse is killed.”

“Dear Mum!
A car has just arrived here, loaded with the first parcels, including two from you to me. It’s the fur coat and a small parcel containing my gloves. The fur coat is magnificent and will be very useful on cold nights. Thank you very much for it. It was very nice that you were able to see Lothar in Posen again. The twenty-two hours of waiting at the station were less edifying, however. I can sympathise with you, as I spend twenty-four hours every other day waiting in the trenches – but for the French. We, the 1st Uhlans, unfortunately have no prospect of ever doing anything else in this war – unless the plague breaks out in Verdun. Lothar got the more interesting part. I really envy him. It’s now in Russia, exactly in the area where I rode my patrols for the first ten days of this war. I would have loved to earn the E. K. I., but I don’t have the opportunity to do so. I would have to run to Verdun disguised as a Frenchman and blow up a tank turret there.”

“Dear Mum!

We are now lying in shifts like the infantry in the trenches, with the French two thousand metres in front of us. It’s quite boring in the long run, because lying there quietly for twenty-four hours is no fun. Every now and then, the only change is a few grenades coming in, which is all I’ve experienced in the last four weeks. It’s a shame that we’re not involved in the big field battle. The situation in front of Verdun hasn’t changed by fifty metres in weeks. We’re lying in a burnt-out village. Wedel and I are living in a
house where you have to hold your nose. We rarely ride, almost never, because Antithesis is sick and my chestnut horse is dead; we run even less. In other words, we don’t get any exercise at all. We eat less well than we used to. As you know, everything sticks to me – so now I’m as fat as a barrel. If I were to ride races again, I would probably need a few courses of treatment before I could get back to my normal weight.”

“Ilse drove home via Breslau at seven o’clock, I drove to Ostrowo, Manfred’s old garrison, to pick up his things. The journey was supposed to take two and a half hours, but it lasted six. The weather was glorious, in other years it was St Hubert’s Day. It was often freezing then, but today it was warm, sunny and delicious. When I arrived in Ostrowo, the railway station was packed with refugees. I was advised to move on immediately, as Skalmierzce had already been stripped of all its inhabitants and the order to clear the town could come at any moment in Ostrowo. But I didn’t want to abandon Manfred’s things and decided to go to his flat and take everything with me. Despite the terrible crowds at the railway station, Manfred’s landlady, a friendly elderly woman, found me. The flat was close to the station and we packed up together. A lieutenant billeted there joined us and helped with great enthusiasm. There was room for all his uniform items in the large suitcase – a house of suitcases – and in a box. I finished at three o’clock and was back at the railway station. You could hear the cannon thunder of the battle that was to take place near Kalisch…”

“…Since Thursday there has been deep snow, it is freezing cold.Manfred writes very happily that he has received his fur. He has been fighting in trenches for weeks and is unhappy that things are not progressing at all. He is lying with his friend Webel in a half-burnt house. Antithesis is ill and his second horse, a chestnut, is dead. On the rest of the western front, little or nothing has changed for weeks. Gradually it becomes clear that the war will go on for a long time. I wonder if it will be over by Easter…”

“…Manfred is still lying in the west, condemned to be stranded (which is very much against his nature). His thoughts are already on the approaching Christmas…”

“Dear Mum!

I’ve been sitting in front of Verdun for three months now. Nothing changes here. Last night we were playing cards when another shell landed on the roof of the house next door. I’ve never jumped up from the table so quickly. Otherwise, we just lie in the trenches day after day. I’ve calculated that we’ll be relieved on the evening of 24 December, so I’ll be back on my stealth patrol of the enemy trenches on the night of 24 to 25 December. This is the first Christmas Eve I’m not spending at home with my parents. Hopefully it will be the only one I spend in enemy territory.”

“MvR watchs a Taube get shot down by a Nieuport over Verdun.”

‘Dear Mum!

I have already sent you a short message to let you know that I have joined the 18th Inf. I have become an orderly officer. Here one experiences a little more than in Bechamp with our regiment. In mobile warfare it would be the other way round, of course. So I’m quite happy with my post. The last few days have been quite busy up on the Cote. On the night of the 27th to the 28th we, Grenadier Reg. 7, took a trench from the French. In the night of the 29th to the 30th the French tried to take it back, but were brilliantly smeared. Thank God, the losses were relatively low. Every bloke here in the trenches is a hero, and as one poet rightly said: ‘There is not as much iron as you heroes are out there.’ Every single one deserves the iron; everyone who sees our good men fighting must say that. Farewell, best wishes to Papa, Ilse and ‘Germany’s future ’*.

*”His youngest brother Karl Bolko’

‘For such a restless spirit as I am, my work before Verdun could definitely be described as ‘boring’. At first I was in the trenches myself in a place where there was nothing going on; then I became an orderly officer and thought I would experience more. But then I cut my fingers badly. I was demoted from a fighter to a better stage pig. It wasn’t quite a stage yet, but the furthest I was allowed to venture was fifteen hundred metres behind the front line. There I sat underground for weeks in a bomb-proof, heated shelter. From time to time I was taken to the front. That was a huge physical effort. Because you walked uphill, downhill, up and down, through an infinite number of approach trenches and mud holes, until you finally arrived at the front where it was banging. Such a short visit to the fighting men always made me feel very stupid with my healthy bones. They started working underground back then. We didn’t even realise what it actually meant to build a tunnel [42] or to push forward a pillar. We knew the names from the fortification theory at war college, but that was pioneering work that another mortal wouldn’t have wanted to do. But up there on Combres Heights, everyone was busy digging. Everyone had a digging stick and a hoe and was making every effort to get as deep into the ground as possible. It was great fun to have the French only five paces in front of you in some places. You could hear the guy talking, you could see him smoking cigarettes, every now and then he threw a piece of paper over. You talked to them, but they still tried to annoy you in every possible way (hand grenades). Five hundred metres in front and five hundred metres behind the trenches, the dense forest of the Côte Lorraine was mown down by the endless number of rifle bullets and grenades that were constantly whizzing through the air. You wouldn’t believe that anyone could still be alive up ahead. The troops at the front didn’t even think it was as bad as the stage men. After such a walk, most of which took place in the very early hours of the morning, the more boring part of the day began for me again, namely playing telephone orderly. * [43]On my days off, I occupied myself with my favourite craft, hunting. The forest of La Chaussée offered me ample opportunity for this. I had spotted sows on my rides and was now busy tracking them down and stalking them at night. Beautiful full moon nights with snow came to my aid. With the help of my lad, I built raised hides at very specific crossings and climbed them at night. I spent many a night in the trees and was found as an icicle in the morning. But it was worth it. One sow was particularly interesting, she came swimming through the lake every night, broke into a potato field at a certain point and then swam back again. Of course, I was particularly keen to get to know this animal better. So, I set up on the shore of this lake. As arranged, the old aunt appeared at midnight to get her supper. I took a shot while she was still swimming in the lake, and the animal would almost have gone down the drain if I hadn’t been able to grab it at the last moment and hold it on a barrel. Another time I was riding with my chap in a very narrow lane when several wild boars crossed in front of me. I quickly got down, grabbed my chap’s carbine [44] and ran forward a few hundred paces. Sure enough, there came another chap, a mighty boar. I had never seen a boar before and was amazed at how huge this chap looked. Now it hangs here in my room as a trophy; it’s a nice memory.’

“Life in our house has gone quiet. Manfred only briefly announced that he had become an orderly officer in the 18th Infantry Brigade.”

‘Manfred writes under the immediate impression of a battle: ’Dear Mum! I am writing these lines to you during a terrible cannonade. I can see everything from my window. The French are attacking from a very commanding height. The whole mountain is one big cloud of smoke. Those poor blokes lying in the trenches! Yesterday we were called in to help, we had already marched there, but then we were no longer needed and came back at night. The French, the English and whatever else is hanging around on the Western Front are getting very cheeky again. They probably think now is the best time to attack us again because we have everything in the east. They’re right about that. But they always miscalculate by thinking that a German will run out of his position – like them. It’s in our blood: we stay where we’re put and let ourselves be beaten to death before we give way. – But unfortunately the Englishman has the same blood.‘’

“Dear Mum!

Now I finally have enough physical activity. All the days I don’t spend in the trenches, I spend hunting. I’m quite proud of my hunted prey, three wild boars. I’ll tell Dad the story of the hunt. Three days ago, I took part in a proper hunt for wild boars with thirty beaters and five shooters. I was the hunt leader. We flushed out eight in total, but all of them were shot past. We hunted from eight in the morning until seven in the evening with a half-hour break. I want to try again in three days, and in ten days it will be a full moon, so I’m definitely hoping for a boar.”

“…Manfred witnesses the battles between Mass and Moselle. The gunfire rolled from early in the morning until late at night, the windows rattled incessantly; from the window of his house, which revealed the Hillek’s view through the skeleton of the rafters, he looked out over the Combres heights, which were overwhelmed by smoke and fire, an eerily beautiful picture.”

“…Manfred asks about him in every letter, with great brotherly concern. Côtes, 27 March 1915: “Dear Mum! I have had no news of Lothar for a month. His K-D has been captured and has suffered great losses. Hugo Freier fell from the 4th Dragoons. He was a good friend of mine. We had been in the same class in the cadet corps from sexta onwards. It always happens that the nice people die and fall first. But “weeds don’t die”. After this saying you’re probably thinking, well, then Manfred is immortal. – I feel like that too, after everything I’ve experienced. So many decent people fell around me, only I was miraculously spared from the enemy bullets.‘…’

“Dear Mum!

Thank you very much for the lovely Easter eggs. We enjoyed them very much in the shelter amid the thunder of cannon fire. Things have been pretty lively here lately. The French are now trying to attack us, after having pretty much lost their hair in Champagne. The Woevre Plain, Combres Heights, Pont-a-Mousson are all here in our area. People here believe that Russia won’t last much longer. Unfortunately, I can’t visit you yet; war is not the time to go on holiday, the situation is too serious for that. Everyone believes we will win, but no one knows when. That’s why we have to persevere. Who would ever have believed that a war could last so long?”

“So it was that toward the 1st of May, he received instructions to prepare himself for another duty in the service of supply, still farther back from the front lines. Strong as army discipline was in him, he exploded, and the day after that the Commanding General of his Division received one of the shocks of his life when he read the following unmilitary communication from the restless Uhlan: “My Dear Excellency, I have not gone to war in order to collect cheese and eggs, but for another purpose.”

The rest of the letter was an official application for his transfer to the Flying Service. Richthofen’s constructive work in either the infantry, the signal service, or the supply department seems to have been on par with his failure as a cavalryman, and it is not recorded that his departure from the old services was accompanied by any great regret on the part of his superiors. His uncivil letter gained his end and his wish. At the end of May, 1915, he was transferred to the flying service and sent to Cologne for training.”

“On Friday, 21 May, at the crack of dawn, Manfred arrived in Schweidnitz, having telegraphed the day before. The garden gate was still closed. Suddenly he was standing in front of my bed, laughing and laughing. ‘How did you get in, Manfred?’ ‘Over the fence.’ We all got up as quickly as possible and gathered round breakfast. Manfred had grown a little wider, but looked fresh and energetic. The sun was shining, the birds in the wild vines, hedges and bushes were chirping in whole choirs. We went into the garden, sat under the old walnut trees, I never tired of listening to Manfred’s stories; I mentioned the many victories and that it must finally come to an end. Then Manfred said: ‘I don’t think we’re going to win this war.’ There was the sentence, spoken soberly and matter-of-factly, I don’t think I heard it right. And Manfred said again: ‘You have no idea how strong our opponents are.’ ‘But we always win.’ ‘Did you never hear about our retreat on the Marne?’ ‘No, we didn’t know anything about it.’ And Manfred concludes: ‘At best, it will be a draw.’ We talked about this and that, exchanged views and arguments; as always, I was surprised by his mature, sensible views, when Manfred unexpectedly said, stopping in front of me: ‘I’m going to the airmen.’ There was something very beautiful and happy in his voice when he said that, I didn’t understand anything about it, I couldn’t imagine much of it, but I knew that once he said something, it was already a fact in his mind, it was irrevocable. So I didn’t say anything against it – we were used to respecting Manfred despite his youth – but I listened with interest to what he had to say about his new weapon. When we stepped out of the garden and back into the house, I felt with certainty that a new and great task had taken root in him… Four days later Manfred left again…”

‘I’d been holding out like this for a few months, when one fine day there was some movement in our shop. We were planning a small offensive on our front. I was really pleased, because now the orderly had to come to his orderly! But cake! I was given something completely different, and that was the last straw. Now I wrote a request to my commanding general, and evil tongues claim that I said: ‘Dear Excellency, I didn’t go to war to collect cheese and eggs, but for a different purpose.’ At first they actually wanted to snap at me, but in the end they granted my request and I joined the air force at the end of May 1915. My greatest wish was fulfilled.’

‘On 30 May 1915, he began his training as an observer on a course at Flieger-Ersatzabteilung 7 in Cologne.’

“When he joined the air force in May 1915, he literally answered my question as to why he had decided to do so: ‘I don’t want to be just an observer, I want to be an aeroplane pilot and, if I succeed, the best of them all! And his blue eyes shone, bearing witness to the firmness of his resolve.”

‘The first time in the air! I was to fly for the first time at seven o’clock in the morning! I was in a somewhat understandable state of excitement, I couldn’t imagine anything at all. Everyone I asked told me something different. In the evening I went to bed earlier than usual so that I would be fresh for the big moment the next morning. We drove over to the airfield and I sat in an aeroplane for the first time. The propeller wind bothered me immensely. I was unable to communicate with the pilot. Everything flew away from me. If I took out a piece of paper, it disappeared. My crash helmet slipped, my scarf came off, my jacket wasn’t buttoned up tight enough, in short, it was miserable. I wasn’t even ready to take off when the pilot stepped on the gas and the plane started to roll. Faster and faster, faster and faster. I held on tightly. Suddenly the vibration stopped and the plane was in the air. The ground whizzed away beneath me. I had been told where to fly, i.e. where to direct my guide. We first flew straight ahead for a while, then my guide turned round, then round again, [46]to the right, then to the left, and I had lost my bearings over my own airport. I had no idea where I was any more! I gently began to take a look at the area below me. The people were tiny, the houses looked like something out of a children’s construction kit, everything was so cute and delicate. Cologne was in the background. Cologne Cathedral was a toy. It was a sublime feeling to float above everything. Who could do me any harm now? Nobody! I didn’t care that I no longer knew where I was, and I was very sad when my pilot said we had to land now. I would have preferred to fly again straight away. There was no question of me having any discomfort, as I would have had on an air swing, for example. The famous American swings are, by the way, disgusting to me. You feel unsafe in them, but in an aeroplane you have an absolute feeling of security. You sit very still in your seat. There is no chance of getting dizzy. There is no one who has ever felt dizzy in an aeroplane. But it’s a damned thrill to whizz through the air like that, especially afterwards, when it went down again, the aeroplane tilted forwards, the engine stopped running and suddenly a tremendous calmness set in. I held on tightly again and thought [47]of course: ‘Now you’re going to crash.’ But it all happened so naturally and naturally, including landing, touching the ground again, and everything was so easy that there was absolutely no feeling of fear. I was thrilled and could have sat in the plane all day. I counted the hours until the next take-off.’

“Dear Mum!

The days at home were very nice, but unfortunately too short. I was with Dad until eleven o’clock in the evening. He looks more youthful in his uniform than anyone else his age. When I look at his peers, I have to say that Dad looks exceptionally young. It was very nice in P. Unfortunately, I wasn’t there for a whole day, but I shot three bucks, one of which is abnormal; one antler is bent downwards.”

“MvR reports to adjutant Hermann of FEA 7 at Cologne. He is assigned to Barracks 7 with 29 other gunner-observer trainees. CO is Hauptmann Radhoff.”

“Dear Mum!

I have finally arrived here. The 7th Air Force Replacement Unit has a huge apparatus for training us. There are thirty of us, all of whom are to be trained as observers. The best of us will then be selected and kept on. Under these circumstances, it is of course extremely difficult and quite doubtful whether I will be among those selected.”

“The 30-day course was completed by a subsequent 14-day course in Großenhain near Dresden, where the focus was on practice.”

“On June 10, 1915, I arrived in Großenhain to be sent to the front from there. Of course, I wanted to get out as quickly as possible because I was afraid I might be too late for the World War. Becoming a pilot would have taken three months. By then we could have had peace long ago, so it was out of the question.”

“Richthofen worked hard at Cologne and was the first of the thirty to finish. Several did not qualify. On June 10, he was sent to the No. 6 Air Replacement Section at Grossenhain for two more weeks of training. The observation course would alter be expanded to twelve weeks, but in that first year of discovery that aerial observation was an important tool for the army, observers were scarce, and were cranked out as quickly as possible. Besides flying, Richthofen had classroom instruction in map reading, camouflage recognition, troop and artillery spotting, bomb dropping, use of compass and telescope, meteorology, and photography. He had to draw maps in flight of what he saw and have them finished and ready for use before the Albatros landed.”

“MvR takes and passes his flight physical by taking a ride in a 2-seater. Dr. Kahler passes him.”

‘As an observer I might have been quite suitable in my capacity as a cavalryman; for after a fortnight I was sent out, to my great joy, to the only place where we still had a war of movement, namely Russia. Mackensen was just making his triumphal march. He had broken through at Gorlice, and I joined him as we took Rawa Ruska. One day in the army airfield, then I came to the famous Abt. 69, where I felt colossally stupid as a beginner. My guide was a ‘cannon’ – First Lieutenant Zeumer – who was already crooked and lame. Of the others, I’m the only one still alive today. This was actually my best time. It was very similar to the cavalry. Every day, in the mornings and afternoons, I was able to fly my reconnaissance. I brought home many a nice report.’

‘In June, July and August 1915, I stayed with the flying unit that took part in Macken’s entire advance from Gorlice to Brest-Litovsk. I had come there as a very young observer and didn’t know the first thing about bells and whistles. As a cavalryman, my occupation was reconnaissance, so the current service was my speciality, and I really enjoyed the huge reconnaissance flights that we undertook almost every day. For the observer, it is important to find a sensible guide. Then one fine day I was told: ‘Count Holck is on his way to us.’ The thought immediately occurred to me: ‘This is the man you need.’ Holck didn’t turn up in a 60 P.S. Mercedes or a first-class sleeping car, as you might think, but on foot. After days of travelling by train, he had finally arrived in the Jaroslau area. He got off there, because it was another endless journey. He told his lad that he would like to follow with the luggage, he would go ahead. He set off, and after an hour’s walk he looked around, but no train was following him. So he walked and walked without being overtaken by his train until, after fifty kilometres, he finally arrived in Rawa Ruska, his destination, and twenty-four hours later the lad with the luggage appeared. But this was no unusual work for the sportsman. His body was so well trained that he didn’t mind walking fifty kilometres. Count Holck was not only a sportsman on the green grass, he apparently enjoyed flying just as much. He was a leader of rare ability, and above all, and this is the main thing, he was in a class of his own above the enemy. We flew many a beautiful reconnaissance flight, who knows how far, towards Russia. I never had a feeling of insecurity with the pilot, who was still so young, rather he gave me a foothold at critical moments. When I looked round and saw his determined face, I had as much courage as before.’

“…The days were now nice and clear, we took courage again. Manfred successfully completed his course, flying suits him, suits his nature; even after his first flight he was so enthusiastic that he ‘would like to sit in the aeroplane all day’ and counted the hours until the next day. He was one of the first to be selected from the thirty course participants and is now, as I write this, already flying as an observer with the Imperial and Royal Southern Army. Southern Army. A few days ago I received a letter: 50 kilometres south of Cholm, 20th July 1915: “Dear Mum! Hopefully my messages will reach you again now. I am here with the Mackenzen Army, assigned to the Austrian 6th Corps. We are now in the middle of another full-scale war of movement. I fly over the enemy almost every day and bring reports. I also reported the retreat of the Russians three days ago. I really enjoy it, at least more than playing orderly officer. You only live in tents. Almost all the houses are burnt down, and the ones that are still standing are so lousy that nobody wants to go in. I am particularly pleased to be able to take part here, in the most important theatre of war. In all probability, the decision must and will be made here sooner or later. I have been working here for a fortnight. So my training has lasted just under four weeks. I am the first member of my course to join a field aviation unit.‘’

‘My last flight with him almost went wrong. We didn’t actually have a specific mission to fly. But that’s the beauty of feeling completely free and being your own boss when you’re in the air. [51]We had an airport change ahead of us and didn’t know exactly which field was the right one. In order not to jeopardise our crate unnecessarily when we landed, we flew towards Brest-Litovsk. The Russians were in full retreat, everything was burning – – a gruesome and beautiful picture. We wanted to spot enemy columns and came over the burning town of Wiczniace. A huge cloud of smoke, which perhaps reached up to two thousand metres, prevented us from flying any further, as we were only flying at an altitude of fifteen hundred metres in order to see better. Holck thought for a moment. I asked him what he wanted to do and advised him to fly round it, which might have been a five-minute diversions. But Holck didn’t even think about it. On the contrary: the more the danger increased, the more appealing it was to him. So straight through! I also enjoyed being with such a dashing chap. But our carelessness was soon to cost us dearly, because as soon as the tail of the aircraft had disappeared into the cloud, I noticed a swaying in the plane. I could no longer see anything, the smoke was biting into my eyes, the air was much warmer and all I could see below me was a huge sea of fire. Suddenly the aeroplane lost its balance and plunged into the depths, [52]somersaulting. I quickly managed to grab hold of a strut to hold on, otherwise I would have been thrown out. The first thing I did was look at Holck’s face. I had already regained my courage, because his expression was one of iron confidence. The only thought I had was: it’s stupid to die a hero’s death in such an unnecessary way. Later I asked Holck what he had actually been thinking at the time. He said that he had never felt so disgusting. We plunged down to five hundred metres above the burning city. Whether it was my guide’s skill or providence, or perhaps both, we had suddenly dropped out of the cloud of smoke, the good Albatross recovered and flew straight ahead again as if nothing had happened. We had now had enough of our airport change and wanted to return to our lines as quickly as possible. We were still a long way over with the Russians and only five hundred metres above the ground. After about five minutes, Holck’s voice sounded behind me: ‘The engine is slowing down.’ I have to add that Holck didn’t have quite the same idea about an engine as he did about an ‘oat carburettor’, and I myself was completely blinkered. The only thing I knew was that if the engine failed, we would end up with the Russians. So we went from one danger to another. I convinced myself that the Russians were still marching briskly below us, which I could see clearly from a height of five hundred metres. Apart from that, I didn’t need to see anything, because the Russians were firing machine guns as if they were rotten. It sounded as if chestnuts were on fire. The engine soon stopped running altogether, it had taken a hit. We got lower and lower until we hovered just above a forest and finally landed in an abandoned artillery position, which I had reported as an occupied Russian artillery position the night before. I told Holck my suspicions. We jumped out of the box and tried to reach the nearby wood to defend ourselves. I had a pistol and six cartridges, Holck had nothing. When we reached the edge of the wood, we stopped and I could see a soldier running towards our plane through my glass. To my horror I realised that he was wearing a cap and not a spiked helmet. I thought that was a sure sign that it was a Russian. As the man came closer, Holck let out a [54]cry of joy, for it was a Prussian Guards grenadier. Our elite troops had once again stormed the position at dawn and broken through to the enemy battery positions. * I remember that Holck lost his little darling, a puppy, on this occasion. He took the little animal with him on every ascent, it lay quietly in its fur down in the bodywork. We still had it with us in the forest. Shortly afterwards, as we were talking to the guard grenadier, troops passed by. Then came staffs from the guard and Prince Eitel Friedrich with his adjutants and orderly officers. The prince gave us horses, so that we two cavalry pilots were once again sitting on real ‘oat engines’. Unfortunately, we lost the little dog as we rode on. It must have travelled with other troops. Late in the evening we finally returned to our airport in a Panjewagen. The plane was gone.’

“Manfred has been assigned to a giant aeroplane to Ostend. He’s really looking forward to it. The small flying fortress is supposed to be able to carry a huge amount of bombs. The crew consists of five to six men: two pilots, mechanics, a machine gunner and an observer. Manfred hopes to be deployed against England. On the 21st, just after my husband had arrived unexpectedly for a visit from Gnadenfrei, Manfred announced his arrival by telegraph. We picked him up from the railway at midnight; he was accompanied by his friend, the loyal Menzke, whom he had already had in his squadron in peacetime. Manfred was in great form, he was beaming and recounted experiences from the front, each more interesting than the last. We listened breathlessly, enthralled by the free, unfettered flying life in the East, patrolling the skies over many hundreds of kilometres, roaring over forests and wildernesses that had perhaps never heard the roar of an engine overhead. Manfred met marvellous people in the east near Rawa Ruska and made good friends. He learnt a lot from a Lieutenant Zeumer at the beginning, the two – teacher and student – became one heart and one soul, many times they flew endless routes, at night they camped out under blankets, but most often from their interesting flying tasks. In Ostend, Manfred will see his friend Zeumer again, Manfred tells us… It’s getting late, Menzke has made friends in the kitchen, you can hear his deliberate voice, which fits so well with his angular, loyal appearance, from the clatter of plates and glasses. I’m sure he also has grateful listeners. Manfred, the daring and popular man who had gained fame on all the racecourses before he set his heart on flying, tells us about Holk. Fate had brought the two together in the godforsaken East. One day the sinewy equestrian figure of Count Holk had appeared in Rawa Ruska, he had walked 50 kilometres from the last railway station, but it was as if he had just been out for a walk, he laughed and made witty remarks – the wiry sportsman didn’t mind such feats of strength, he really needed them. In this respect, too, he was a perfect match for Manfred, they flew together a lot (the former as ‘Franz’, the latter as ‘Emil’) and often got a bit colourful, it seems to me. Their equestrian blood simply ran wild. There were some dramatic moments. For all my amusement, I felt a little like the ‘Rider over Lake Constance’ when Manfred so lightly recounted how, while flying over a burning village with an unpronounceable name, they got caught in a huge column of smoke and suddenly – probably due to the reduced load-bearing capacity of the air – plunged downwards like a stone until Holk, who had been sitting at the controls with an iron and impassive face, managed to intercept the machine a few hundred metres above the ground and above the furiously firing Russian battalions. It was a narrow emergency landing, fortunately in a German position that had been reported as occupied by the enemy the day before. The wings were nicely punctured by hits, and the engine had also taken a beating. Half the night was spent talking and asking questions; we didn’t get much sleep this time. All kinds of images that Manfred’s story had conjured up went through my dreams. But I had now learnt to understand how flying can take hold of a young, daring person like Manfred and never let go. Manfred left far too quickly. He was in a hurry to get to his big fighter plane. Life here at home goes on as usual.”

“He was to report to an airdrome at Ghistelles, a village near Ostend, Belgium, on August 21, for duty with the Mail Pigeon Detachment.”

”

An airfield was constructed between Snaaskerksestraat and Zomerloosstraat, close to Gistel station. A branch line from the Ostend-Torhout railway provided supplies.

In November 1914, the Brieftauben Abteilung Oostende was established in occupied Ostend, but under this cover name, which was actually Kampfgeschwader 1, the Germans carried out bombings. This happened, among other places, in January 1915 on Belgian positions in Dunkirk. Around the same period, Kagohl I left the airfield for Metz, but soon returned. On 22 July 1916, the I. Marine Feldflieger Abteilung was flown from Ostend/Mariakerke to Gistel. The unit carried out several bombings in March and April. In the summer of 1917, the unit moved to Vlissegem. It is very interesting to note that the very first bombing raid on London was planned from this airfield. This was actually the initiative of Flugmeister Wlather Ilges and Leutnant Paul Brandt, who flew to England that day in their LVG CII and dropped six ten-kilogram bombs over the British capital. They eventually had to make an emergency landing on the beach at Boulange and were taken prisoner. Brieftauben Abteilung B-type aircraft (including LVG CII) period July 1915, early 1916 converted to Kagohl 1 : 6 Staffeln, carried out bombings on Verdun with two-seaters.

The famous ace Manfred von Richthoven flew here as an observer. In 1916, Kagohl I flew with LVG CII and Rumpler CI. A remarkable fact is that on 28 November 1916, the crew of Leutnant Walter Ilges and Uffz Paul Brandt took off in an LVG for the first raid on London. They dropped six ten-kilogram bombs. The damage was minor and was located between Brompton Road and Victoria Station. The crew would pay dearly for their overconfidence. Over northern France, the LVG suffered engine failure and the crew had to make an emergency landing near Boulogne. Both pilots, who had carried out the first aerial bombardment of London, were taken prisoner of war.

Kagohl 3: 6 Staffeln (13 to 18), equipped with Gotha IV from March 1917, moved to Sint-Denijs-Westrem and Melle-Gontrode in April 1917 because they were too close to the front. Jasta 17: coming from St Quintin-le-Petit, 24 June 1917 – Wasquehal, 28 August 1917 Jasta 2: coming from Bissegem, 12 August 1917 – Jabbeke, 26 August 1917

Source: Deneckere Bernard, De luchtoorlog boven West-Vlaanderen (The Air War over West Flanders), Groeninghe, Kortrijk 1997″

‘Rußland-Ostende (From two-seater to large fighter aircraft) After our activities in Russia came to such a gentle halt, I was suddenly transferred to a large fighter aircraft, to the B. A. O. in Ostend (21 August 1915). There I met an old acquaintance, Zeumer, and I was also tempted by the name ‘large fighter aircraft’. I arrived in Ostend on 21 August 1915. My good friend Zeumer had picked me up at the railway station in Brussels. I actually had a very nice time, but there was little warlike about it, but it was indispensable as an apprenticeship to become a fighter pilot. We flew a lot, rarely had air battles and were never successful. On the other hand, life in general was very enjoyable. We had requisitioned a hotel on the beach at Ostend. We bathed every afternoon. Unfortunately, only soldiers were to be seen as spa guests. We sat on the terraces of Ostend, wrapped up in our colourful bathrobes, and drank our afternoon coffee. * Once again, as usual, we were sitting on the beach with our coffee. Suddenly a whistle blew, which meant that an English naval squadron had been reported. [Of course, we didn’t let such alarm messages disturb our cosiness and continued drinking. Then someone shouted: ‘There they are!’ and indeed we could see some smoking chimneys on the horizon, albeit not very clearly, and later also ships. We quickly grabbed our binoculars and started observing. We saw a considerable number of ships. What they were actually doing was unclear to us, but we were soon to be proved wrong. We climbed onto the roof to see more from up there. Suddenly there was a whistle, followed by a huge bang, and a shell hit the beach where we had just been in the water. I’ve never plunged into the Heldenkeller as quickly as I did at that moment. The English squadron fired at us perhaps three or four more times and then mainly targeted the Ostend harbour and railway station. Of course they didn’t hit anything. But they caused the good Belgians a lot of excitement. One shell went right into the centre of the beautiful palace hotel on Ostend beach. That was the only damage. Fortunately, it was English capital that they destroyed themselves. * In the evening we flew again. On one of our flights we had got very far out to sea [57] with our large fighter aeroplane. The thing had two engines, and we were mainly trying out a new control system that would enable us to fly straight ahead even with one engine. As we were quite far out, I saw a ship floating below us, not on the water, but – as it seemed to me – under the water. It’s quite peculiar: you can see down to the bottom of the sea from above when the sea is calm. Not forty kilometres deep, of course, but you can see through a few hundred metres of water. I wasn’t mistaken that the ship wasn’t floating above the water, but under it, and yet I could see it as if it were on top. I drew Zeumer’s attention to this and we went down a little deeper to get a closer look. I’m not enough of a naval man to be able to say straight away what it was, but I did realise that it was a submarine. But of what nationality? That’s another difficult question that I think only a naval man can answer – and not always. The colour is almost impossible to recognise. The flag even less so. Besides, a submarine doesn’t have anything like that. We had two bombs with us and I was very much in doubt: should I throw them or shouldn’t I? [58]The submarine hadn’t seen us because it was half under water. But we were able to fly over the thing quite calmly and we could have waited for the moment when it came up for air to lay our eggs. This is definitely a very critical point for our sister weapon. As we had been messing around with the guys down there for quite a while, I suddenly realised that water was gently coming out of one of our coolers. As ‘Franz’, this didn’t seem quite right to me and I drew my ‘Emil’s’ attention to it. He pulled a long face and made his way home. But we were an estimated twenty kilometres from the coast, and they wanted to have flown back first. The engine slowed down so gently and I was quietly preparing myself for a cold and damp bath. But lo and behold, it worked! The giant barge was easy to steer with one engine and the new rudder, and we reached the coast smoothly and were able to land very nicely in our nearby harbour. Man must be lucky. If we hadn’t tried out the new steering wheel that day, we would have sunk hopelessly.’

‘A drop of blood for the fatherland (Ostend) I was never actually wounded. I always took my head away at the decisive moment and pulled in my stomach. I was often amazed that they didn’t shoot me. Once a shot went through both my fur boots, another time through my scarf, another time on my arm through my fur and leather jacket, but it never touched me. Then one fine day we flew off in our fighter plane to give the British a bit of a treat with bombs, reached the target and the first bomb fell. It is of course very interesting to see how successful this bomb is. You always want to see at least the impact. However, my large fighter aircraft, which was quite suitable for towing bombs, had the stupid characteristic that it was difficult to see the impact of the dropped bomb, because the aircraft moved over the target after the drop and completely covered it with its wings. This always annoyed me because it was so little fun. When there’s a bang below and you can see the lovely grey-white cloud of the explosion [60] and it’s also close to the target, it’s a lot of fun. So I waved my good Zeumer in and actually wanted him to go aside with the carrying deck. I forgot that the infamous thing, my Äppelkahn, had two propellers turning to the right and left of my observer’s seat. I showed him the approximate impact of the bomb – and bang! I got one on the fingers. A little taken aback at first, I then realised that my little finger had been damaged. Zeumer hadn’t noticed anything. I was sick of throwing bombs, I quickly got rid of the last of my things and we made our way home. My love for large fighter planes, which was a bit weak anyway, had suffered badly from this bombing. I had to squat for eight days and was not allowed to fly. Now it’s just a blemish, but at least I can say with pride: ‘I have a war wound too.’’

‘Zeumer and I would have loved to have had a dogfight. Of course we flew our large fighter aircraft. The name of the barge alone gave us such courage that we thought it impossible that an opponent could escape us. We flew five to six hours a day without ever seeing an Englishman. One morning, already discouraged, we went hunting again. All of a sudden I spotted a Farman who was unabashedly flying his reconnaissance. My heart was pounding as Zeumer flew towards him. I was curious to see what was actually going to happen. I had never seen a dogfight and only had very dim ideas, just like you, my dear reader. Before I knew it, the Englishman and I had flown past each other. I had fired no more than four shots, while the Englishman suddenly sat behind us and shot up the whole place. I have to say that I didn’t feel in any danger because I couldn’t imagine what the end result of such a fight would look like. We turned round each other a few more times, until finally, to our great astonishment, the Englishman [62]turned round quite happily and flew on. I was very disappointed, and so was my guide. When we arrived home, we were both in a very bad mood. He reproached me for having shot badly, I reproached him for not getting me to shoot properly – in short, our aeroplane marriage, which was otherwise so flawless, had suddenly cracked. We looked at our box and realised that we actually had quite a decent number of hits in it. That same day we went on a second hunting flight, but it was just as unsuccessful. I was very sad, because I had imagined things to be very different in a fighter squadron. I always believed that if I ever got a shot, my brother would have to fall too. But I soon had to convince myself that an aeroplane like that can take an awful lot. Eventually I became convinced that I could shoot as much as I wanted and still never get one down. We had not lacked courage. Zeumer could fly like few others, and I was a pretty good shot. So we were faced with a conundrum. It wasn’t just me, but many others still feel the same way today. History really needs to be understood.’

“On 12 September, the postman brought a strange card from the field. It was written in clumsy handwriting. I studied it and learnt from it that Manfred’s hand was slightly wounded. As he couldn’t write himself, he instructed his boy Menzke to write a message to me, which the brave man did in a laconic, unadorned manner. – It wasn’t until a later, humorous report that I realised how the little mishap had happened. While dropping a bomb with Lieutenant Zeumer, Manfred was gesticulating too eagerly from his cloud seat – he probably wanted to alert his pilot to the bomb’s impact – when he got hit on the fingers by the propeller. He was very angry about his bad luck and mainly about the fact that he couldn’t take off for eight days.”

‘The good time in Ostend was only very short, because the battle in Champagne soon broke out and we flew to this front to continue our work with the large fighter aircraft. We soon realised that although the Klamotte was a large aircraft, it was never a combat aircraft.’

‘Once I flew with Osteroth, who had a slightly smaller aeroplane than the Äppelkahn (the large fighter plane). We met up with a Farman two-seater about five kilometres behind the front line. He let us approach calmly, and it was the first time I had seen an enemy up close in the air. Osteroth flew very skilfully alongside him so that I was able to take him under fire. The enemy probably hadn’t even noticed us, because I already had my first jam when he started firing again. After I had fired my cartridge box of a hundred rounds, I couldn’t believe my eyes as suddenly the enemy went down in strange spirals. I followed him with my eyes and patted Osteroth on the head. He fell, he fell, and indeed he fell into a large blasting funnel; you could see him standing [64]upside down in it, tail up. I noticed on the map that he was five kilometres behind the current front line. So we had shot him down on the other side. In those days, however, shots beyond the front line were not counted, otherwise I would have one more on my list today. But I was very proud of my success, and by the way, the main thing is when the guy is down, not that he’s counted as a kill.’

‘Zeumer got himself a Fokker monoplane during this time, and I was able to watch as he sailed around the world alone. The Battle of Champagne was raging. The French airmen were making their presence felt. We were to be formed into a combat squadron and followed on 1 October 1915. A young, unassuming lieutenant sat at the next table in the dining car. There was no reason for him to stand out, but one fact was certain: he was the only one of us who had ever shot down an enemy aircraft, and not just one, but four. He was even named in the army report. He impressed me immensely because of his experience. No matter how hard I tried, I still hadn’t managed to bring one down, or at least none had been recognised. I would have loved to know how this Lieutenant Boelcke actually did it. So I asked him the question: ‘Tell me, how do you actually do it?’ He laughed very amusedly, but I was really serious when I asked. Then he replied: ‘Yes, Jesus, it’s very simple. I just fly up to it and aim well, then it just falls down.’ I [66]just shook my head and said that I would do the same, except that it wouldn’t fall with me. The difference was, however, that he flew Fokkers and I flew my large fighter aircraft. I made an effort to get to know this nice, modest man, who impressed me immensely. We often played cards together, went for walks and I asked him questions. I came to the conclusion: ‘You have to learn to fly a Fokker yourself, then maybe things will go better.’ My thoughts and endeavours were now focussed on learning to ‘fly the stick’ myself. After all, I had only ever been an observer. I soon had the opportunity to train on an old clog in Champagne. I did this with great enthusiasm and after twenty-five training flights I was about to fly solo.’

‘There are some moments in life that cause a special thrill, such as the first solo flight. Zeumer, my teacher, said to me one evening: ‘So, now fly off on your own.’ I have to say that I would have liked to reply: ‘I’m too scared.’ But the defender of the fatherland should never use that word. So, for better or worse, I had to swallow my fear and sit down in the machine. He explained every move to me again in theory; I only listened with half an ear, because I was firmly convinced: You forget half of it. I taxied to take-off, stepped on the gas, the plane reached a certain speed and suddenly I couldn’t help but realise that I was actually flying. It wasn’t an anxious feeling after all, but a bold one. I didn’t care about anything now. No matter what happened, I wouldn’t have been frightened by anything. I made a huge left turn with contempt for death, switched off the accelerator at the precisely marked tree and waited for the things that were about to happen. Now came the hardest part, the landing. I remembered the necessary manoeuvres exactly. I copied them mechanically, but the machine reacted quite differently than usual when Zeumer was in it. I was thrown off balance, made a few wrong movements, stood on my head, and once again there was a ‘school machine’. I was very sad to see the damage, which fortunately was soon repaired, and I also had the ridicule on my side. Two days later, I returned to my aeroplane with a frenzied passion, and lo and behold, it worked wonderfully. After a fortnight I was able to take my first test. A Mr v. T. was the judge. I flew the prescribed figure eights and the landings I was ordered to do, after which I got out very proudly and then, to my great astonishment, heard that I had failed. I had no choice but to take my first test again later.’

“Dear Mum!

The new flying gloves have just arrived. You can hardly imagine how happy I was to receive them. Thank you very much indeed. As you know that I am very fond of change and variety, you will certainly not be surprised to hear that I intend to leave beautiful Champagne again in the near future. I have been assigned to a giant aircraft, but unfortunately it is not yet ready. Therefore, my pilot, Mr. v. Osteroth, and I will have to go to Berlin in the near future to familiarise ourselves with the giant craft. It is supposed to be able to carry almost as many bombs as a Zeppelin. Five to six men fly on it: a mechanic, a machine gunner, two pilots, and an observer. I am very excited about the craft. Hopefully we will see each other more often then. You wanted to come to Berlin now, didn’t you?”

‘In order to pass my exams, however, I had to go to Berlin. I took the opportunity to fly a giant aircraft in Berlin as an observer and was ordered to Döberitz (15 November 1915). I was initially very interested in the giant aeroplane. But it’s funny, it was the giant thing that made me realise that only the smallest aircraft could be any good for my purposes as a fighter pilot. A big barge like that is too immobile to fight, and that’s the main thing for my business. The difference between a large fighter and a giant aeroplane is that the giant aeroplane is considerably larger and is used more for bombing and less for fighting. I did my tests in Döberitz, together with a dear person, Lieutenant v. Lyncker. We both got on well together and had the same passions and the same views on our future activities. Our goal was to fly Fokkers and join a fighter squadron in the West. A [70] year later, we managed to work together, albeit only for a short time, because my good friend was fatally shot on his third flight.’

“His interest in flying has probably increased. At the same time, however, his passion for hunting has come to the fore. He has my husband’s marvellous eye and sure hand. Often – when Manfred was still almost a boy – the two of them went hunting in the Nonnebusch. Manfred was always there, the word “hunt” fascinated him; you could wake him up in the middle of the night. Only once, when my husband got him out of bed before dew and day, did he grumble a little: ‘Just wait, when my brats are ready, I’ll throw them out of the hatch so early.’ But then he jumped out of bed with both feet at the same time and the two hunters took off, this shooting skill was a common heritage of both my husband and my family. So I wasn’t surprised when Manfred wrote that he wanted to become a fighter pilot. But he needs a pilot’s licence for that. So he is now spending four to six weeks in Döberitz and is undergoing training. He wants to take his exams at Christmas.”

‘We often had fun times in Döberitz. For example, one of the conditions was: ‘Outlandings. On this occasion, I combined the necessary with the pleasant. I chose a familiar estate called Buchow as my landing site. I had been invited to go boar hunting there, but it didn’t go well with my work, because I wanted to fly on nice evenings and still pursue my passion for hunting. So I arranged my landing site so that I could easily reach my hunting grounds from there. I took a second pilot with me as an observer and sent him back in the evening. At night I landed on sows and was picked up again the next morning by this pilot. If I hadn’t been picked up, I would have been pretty much on dry land, as I would have had to walk about ten kilometres. So I needed a man to pick me up from my high seat in all weathers. It’s not everyone’s cup of tea not to take the weather into consideration, but I managed to find a man with a good mind. [71]One morning, after I had spent the night outside again, a tremendous snowstorm began. You couldn’t see fifty metres. It was eight o’clock, the time the pilot was supposed to pick me up. I silently hoped he would leave it alone this time. But all of a sudden I heard a buzzing – I couldn’t see anything – five minutes later my beautiful bird lay slightly bent in front of me.’

“Fate has been kind to us. Our wishes have come true. We celebrate Christmas together and you could almost feel like you’ve been transported back to earlier, carefree times. Once again, I stood under the tree of lights with my four children. I sat down at the piano and played ‘Silent Night, Holy Night’. Manfred and Ilse sang along splendidly with their beautiful, clear voices. Lothar (completely unmusical and without a voice) kept his lips closed, but his eyes shone all the brighter. All three, including Bolko, were in uniform; Ilse in her nurse’s uniform… …Manfred could also be quite breezy, even exuberant; it was refreshing when he could laugh so boisterously at some funny story. I couldn’t help thinking of a breezy little incident that Menzke, the lad, had told me the last time he was here in the kitchen. Once, in peacetime, Manfred was annoyed that the gawkers stood in clumps at the barracks gate every day and made more or less meaningful comments about his efforts to train the recruits. For the next day he had provided Menzke with a good portion of firecrackers. Menzke had to pretend to be working at the barracks gate and, in a crouched position with his back to the spectators, set off the fireworks. Bangs and hops and screams all around. The frightened walkers tore out like sheepskin, running round each other. Market baskets of apples, cabbage and eggs rolled onto the pavement, the gawkers scattered, some cursing, some laughing. But it was the Uhlans who laughed the most, Manfred slapped his thigh and couldn’t stop laughing – until the squadron leader, who was laughing himself, forbade his inventive lieutenant such effective but all too original lessons once and for all. This boyish exuberance is always evident in Manfred, he is so unspent, but – it does not determine his nature, something else prevails in him: masculine drive, coupled with an iron will and an unswerving sense of purpose. I say purposefulness because I believe that he always had a clearly defined goal in mind that he wanted to and would achieve, regardless of the field. Manfred was by no means a daredevil. His way of life was to ‘weigh first – then dare’. With a clear head, a plan was conceived and recognised as the right one – but then nothing was able to put him off. He never lacked the courage and energy to realise his plans. He could also make a decision at lightning speed, he always knew immediately what he had to do. He never wavered in his opinion. Despite his youth, I also enjoyed discussing many things with him – as one usually does with the head of a family. Manfred saw amazingly clearly. He always gave the right advice with complete calm, which hardly seemed to match his age. It was wonderful to talk things through with him. When you heard his opinion, you could act on it with peace of mind. ‘Manfred is always right’ – that was also Lothar’s irrefutable opinion. No one could make him change his mind. It was Lothar’s gospel, his guidance in life. It was a matter of course for him that Manfred came first. He knew no envy, he rejoiced in it. He felt comfortable under and next to this brother, this was his place, this was where he wanted to be – and with a full, undivided heart. Lothar loved Manfred more than himself, and these are not empty words: if it came down to it, Lothar would have sacrificed his life for his brother’s without hesitation. Such a loyal friend was invaluable to Manfred – in a way, it was a reinforcement of his own ego. Lothar had calmness and contempt for death. He had unrivalled grit. In this respect, he was not one step behind Manfred. And who in the family didn’t love Lothar! He was touchingly patient with his father, who was hard of hearing; how he always knew how to make the little cadet brother happy! How loving he was towards his mother and sister! … This Christmas Eve, which I was able to spend with all my children and my husband under the tree of lights, made me grateful and happy.”

‘I took my third exam on Christmas Day 1915. I combined it with a flight to Schwerin to see the Fokker works. I took my mechanic with me as an observer and later flew with him from Berlin to Breslau, from Breslau to Schweidnitz, from Schweidnitz to Lüben, from Lüben to Berlin, stopping off everywhere, visiting friends and relatives. As an old observer, I didn’t find it difficult to orientate myself in the plane.’

“MvR takes four hour train ride to Fokker plant at Schwerin, north of Berlin.”

“Meets Anthony Fokker and is given a two-day tour of engine works.”

“Dear Mum!

Since I was in Schwerin for New Year’s, I haven’t flown once. Here in Berlin, it rains constantly, which means we can’t get anywhere. And I would love to be outside right now. I think there would be so much to experience…!”

“The Christmas days lingered in me for a long time, and no sooner had I savoured them than a new joy came over us. It came from the air. On 1 February I had a call from Manfred that he was flying to Sweidnitz with Lothar the next day and would land on the small parade ground opposite our house. I quickly passed on the good news to Albrecht in Gnadenfrei; by eight o’clock the next morning my husband was already there. There was great excitement in the house, which reached its climax when Manfred phoned again to say that he would be landing at our house in an hour. We hurried to the small parade ground, which had already been cordoned off for military purposes; numerous acquaintances had gathered. Albrecht could hardly be stopped, he was determined to insist that a sheet be put up as a landing sign; it was only with difficulty that I was able to talk him out of it. This hour on the small parade ground had something special for me, as both brothers, who were so much one heart and one soul, were now to arrive in an aeroplane. We stared at the sky; we felt a slight headache and lost our sense of our surroundings. Then, at half past ten, Ilse called out – she has the same marvellous eyes as Manfred: ‘They’re coming…!’ – ‘Where?’ I saw nothing, the others saw nothing. Absolutely nothing. Finally, we spotted a tiny shimmering dot at an immense height. Joyful excitement seized the spectators, very soon the outline of the aeroplane emerged clearly, it grew visibly. The roar of the engine, which had initially been a faint hum, became a roar. Manfred landed with great safety and elegance. The aeroplane taxied out and came to a halt, everyone surrounded the biplane. Everyone wanted to talk to them, they were photographed and couldn’t resist the countless questions in which we mingled ours. It had taken them less than a quarter of an hour to get from Wroclaw. The few minutes between landings dwindled into just as many seconds, then the biplane taxied against the wind in short, hopping jumps, lifted off the ground and soon disappeared from our sight, just as it had arrived. What remained was a shimmering dot in the sky, nothing more than a spark sucked out by the winter sun. The rest of us went home in great and joyful excitement.”

‘A thunderstorm flight Our activities off Verdun in the summer of 1916 were disrupted by frequent thunderstorms. There is nothing more unpleasant for an aviator than having to fly through a thunderstorm. During the Battle of the Somme, for example, an entire English squadron landed behind our lines because it was caught in a thunderstorm. They were taken prisoner. I had never tried to fly through a thunderstorm before and couldn’t resist the urge to give it a go. There was a real thunderstorm atmosphere in the air all day. I had flown over from my airport in Mont to nearby Metz to do some things there. The following happened on my flight home: I was at the airfield in Metz and wanted to return to my airport. As I pulled my aircraft out of the hangar, the first signs of an approaching thunderstorm made themselves felt. The wind rippled the sand and a pitch-black wall was approaching from the north. Old, experienced pilots strongly advised me not to fly. But I had firmly promised to come, and it would have seemed scary if I had stayed away because of a stupid thunderstorm. So I stepped on the gas and gave it a go! It started raining right at the start. I had to throw away my glasses to be able to see anything at all. The bad thing was that I had to go over the Moselle mountains, through whose valleys the thunderstorm was roaring. I thought to myself: ‘Go ahead, it’ll work out,’ and got closer and closer to the black cloud that reached down to the ground. I flew as low as possible. Sometimes I had to skip over houses and rows of trees. I had long since lost track of where I was. The storm gripped my machine like a piece of paper and drove it ahead of me. My heart sank a little deeper. I could no longer land in the mountains, so I had to hang on. All around me it was black, below me the trees were bending in the storm. Suddenly there was a wooded height in front of me. I had to fly towards it, my good albatross made it and pulled me over it. I could only fly straight ahead; every obstacle that came my way had to be taken. It was a pure jumping competition over trees, villages, especially church towers and chimneys, as I could only fly five metres high at most to see anything at all in the black thundercloud. Lightning flashed all around me. I didn’t know at the time that lightning couldn’t strike the aircraft. I thought I was facing certain death, because the storm was bound to throw me into a village or a forest at the next opportunity. If the engine had stopped, I would have been finished. Suddenly I saw a bright spot on the horizon ahead of me. The storm stopped there; if I reached this point, I was saved. Gathering all the energy a young, reckless person can muster, I headed for it. Suddenly, as if torn away, I was out of the storm cloud, still flying in the pouring rain, but feeling safe. Still in the pouring rain, I landed in my home harbour, where everything was already waiting for me, as the news had already arrived from Metz that I had disappeared in a storm cloud heading there. Never again will I fly through a thunderstorm, unless my homeland demands it of me. Everything is beautiful in memory, so there were also beautiful moments that I would not want to miss in my life as an aviator.’

“The month of March brought release. He was appointed to Fighter Squadron No. 2 as a pilot. This was the second squadron of the Carrier Pigeons; its headquarters were at Metz, but it lived in a special train, complete with sleeping- and dining-cars for the officers and men. The quarters were somewhat narrow, but their inmates had a chance to make themselves comfortable because they were never parted from their belongings. There were, however, a number of dogs, pets of various pilots and observers, which roamed about the train on the chance of being able to nose their way into a sleeping-compartment and gnaw the owner’s boots. On joining Richthofen was warned that he left his footgear about at his own risk.

When he joined this squadron, he found the train more or less permanently anchored on a siding somewhere between Landres and Marville, in the Verdun area, so that he was quite close to his old friends, the Ostende Pigeons. His new messmates had done their best to make themselves at home in a desolate locality. They cleanded up an old, deserted public-house and turned it into a jolly mess, to which they transported the piano they always carried about with them.

But the best thing about this squadron was the fact that it was commanded by Wilhelm, the elder brother of the famous Oswald Boelcke. Oswald himself had returned to the neighbourhood after a spell of fighting at Douai, so that there was every chance of renewing acquaintance with him.

Richthofen felt pleased with life. Although flying a Big Fighter, he regarded himself as one stage farther on the way to his goal – the Fokker on which he had set his heart. He resolved to anticpate the final promotion. He wanted to fight as well as fly, and thought the combination could even be managed by the pilot of a Big Fighter.”

‘In the army report of 26 April 1916 I am mentioned for the first time, if not personally, at least by one of my deeds. I had mounted a gun on top of my machine between the carrying decks in the style of the Nieuport and was very proud of this construction alone. People probably laughed at it a bit, because it looked very primitive. I swore by it, of course, and soon had the opportunity to put it to practical use. I met a Nieuport who was apparently also a [73]beginner, for he behaved terribly foolishly. I flew at him, whereupon he bolted. Apparently he had a jam. I didn’t feel like I was fighting, but rather: ‘What will happen now if you shoot at him?’ I fly over, for the first time at a very, very close range, press the button on the machine gun, a short series of well-aimed shots, my Nieuport rears up and rolls over. At first, my observer and I thought it was one of the many tricks that the French tend to pull on us. But this trick wouldn’t stop, it went lower and lower and lower; then my ‘Franz’ tapped me on the head and called out to me: ‘Congratulations, he’s falling!’ Indeed, it fell into a forest behind Fort Douaumont and disappeared between the trees. ‘You shot him down,’ I realised. But – beyond! I flew home and reported nothing more than: ‘A dogfight, a Nieuport shot down.’ The next day I read about my heroic deed in the army report. I wasn’t too proud of it, but this Nieuport doesn’t count as one of my fifty-two. * Army report of 26 April 1916 Two enemy aircraft were shot down in aerial combat over Fleury, south of Douaumont and west of it.’

“Dear Mum!

Just a quick note to share some good news: take a look at the army report from 26 April 1916! One of the planes my machine gun has on its conscience.”

“As a young pilot, I once flew over Fort Douaumont on a fighter flight, which was under heavy barrage. I saw a German Fokker attacking three Caudrons. Unfortunately for him, there was a very strong westerly wind. In other words, an unfavourable wind. In the course of the battle he was driven out over the town of Verdun. I pointed this out to my observer, who also said that he must be quite a dashing chap. We wondered whether it could be Boelcke and wanted to enquire about it later. But then, to my horror, I saw the attacker turn into a defender. The German was being pushed down more and more by the French, who had now increased their numbers to at least ten aircraft. I couldn’t come to his aid. I was too far away from the fighters and my heavy aeroplane couldn’t cope with the wind. The Fokker fought back desperately. The enemy had already pushed him down to at least six hundred metres. Then he was suddenly attacked again by one of his pursuers. He disappeared in a dive into a cumulus cloud. [75]I breathed a sigh of relief, because I thought that had saved him. When I got home I told him what I had seen and learnt that it was Holck, my old comrade-in-arms from the East, who had recently become a fighter pilot before Verdun. Count Holck had crashed vertically, shot through the head. It was very emotional for me, because he was not only a role model of bravery, he was also a personality like few others.”

“We were shocked to hear that Count Holk was no longer alive. …This air on horseback connected him closely with Manfred, who had already had some success as a racing rider before the war and was predicted to have a future in this field. Then the two of them had met in the East, forged an unattached flying life together, transferring the old bold equestrian spirit into the air. …I held Manfred’s letter in my hand for a long time. It left no doubt: Holk had fallen vertically from 3000 metres with head protection; …”

“Richthofen flew to Sivry for the funeral [of Holck], just one of many such events, both modest and elaborate, that he would attend within the next two years.”

“Dear Mum!

Thank you very much for your birthday wishes. I had a very nice birthday here. In the morning, I had three very thrilling dogfights, and in the evening, I sat with Zeumer, my first pilot, until one o’clock in the morning, drinking May punch under a blossoming apple tree. I feel very comfortable in my new job as a fighter pilot; I don’t think any other position in the war could appeal to me more than this one. I fly a Fokker, which is the aircraft with which Boelcke and Immelmann have had their huge successes. I am very sorry about Holck’s death. I had visited him three days before he fell, and we had such a good time together. He told me about his capture in Montenegro. It is impossible to imagine that this man, who was bursting with health and strength, is now no more. I was an eyewitness to his last air battle. First he shot down a Frenchman in a squadron, then apparently had a jam and wanted to fly back over our line. Then a whole swarm of Frenchmen latched onto him. With a shot to the head, he plummeted from three thousand metres. – A beautiful death. – Holck with an arm or a leg would be unthinkable. Today I am flying to his funeral.”

‘As can be read in a letter dated 3 May 1916, he felt ‘very comfortable in his new occupation as a fighter pilot’ – ‘I believe that no other position in the war could appeal to me more than this one.’

“I am pleased that Manfred and Lothar see each other from time to time and stay in touch by phone. Lothar never forgets to tell me about such moments. Le Chatelet, 8 May 1916: “Manfred visited me for an hour. It was very nice to see each other again here in the field. A few days later he shot down a Frenchman. Unfortunately, I have not yet succeeded in doing so, although I have already had a few aerial battles behind me. Once I rescued one of our aeroplanes from the clutches of two Frenchmen. The observer, a Leutnant v. Schwerin from my squadron, was mortally wounded and could no longer defend himself. Unfortunately, he died afterwards. The guide was only slightly wounded. I see the drumfire at the Dead Man every other day.”

“We utilised the milk in all its forms, but it was up to Manfred to find out the secret of its evaluation. It happened like this: We had been in Trebnig with my brother at Whitsun and had enjoyed the lushly standing seeds and the smooth bent; it was green and blooming like in the deepest peace. When we arrived back in Sweidnitz the next day, we found lovely field-grey quarters: Manfred was there for a short stay. Our Mr Pilot was in a splendid mood and did not grumble a bit that he had had to look after the house with the girls. In the meantime, he had been busy in a pleasant and quietly enjoyable agricultural way. During an inspection of the pantry and cellar he had hit upon the idea of churning the fat milk. Now he weighed a white lump in his hand, which he described as the finest sweet cream goat’s butter. He didn’t let up until we had tasted it. His blue eyes beamed as we labelled the slightly strong-tasting paste ‘simply excellent’. – He left again the next day.”

“His Staffel leader, Victor Carganico, recalled: “At the time he came to my Staffel as a two-seater pilot, he was already urging that I send him for two or three days to the Heldenvater, the head of the Air Park in Montmédy, Keller, for single-seat fighter instruction. After his return, I place my own single-seater at his disposal, as, due to engine failure through no fault of his own, he had had to ‘set down’ near Verdun.””

“A thunderstorm flight Our activities off Verdun in the summer of 1916 were disrupted by frequent thunderstorms. There is nothing more unpleasant for an aviator than having to fly through a thunderstorm. During the Battle of the Somme, for example, an entire English squadron landed behind our lines because it was caught in a thunderstorm. They were taken prisoner. I had never tried to fly through a thunderstorm before and couldn’t resist the urge to give it a go. There was a real thunderstorm atmosphere in the air all day. I had flown over from my airport in Mont to nearby Metz to do some things there. The following happened on my flight home: I was at the airfield in Metz and wanted to return to my airport. As I pulled my aircraft out of the hangar, the first signs of an approaching thunderstorm made themselves felt. The wind rippled the sand and a pitch-black wall was approaching from the north. Old, experienced pilots strongly advised me not to fly. But I had firmly promised to come, and it would have seemed scary if I had stayed away because of a stupid thunderstorm [77]. So I stepped on the gas and gave it a go! It started raining right at the start. I had to throw away my glasses to be able to see anything at all. The bad thing was that I had to go over the Moselle mountains, through whose valleys a thunderstorm was roaring. I thought to myself: ‘Go ahead, it’ll work out,’ and got closer and closer to the black cloud that reached down to the ground. I flew as low as possible. Sometimes I had to skip over houses and rows of trees. I had long since lost track of where I was. The storm gripped my machine like a piece of paper and drove it forward. My heart sank a little deeper. I could no longer land in the mountains, so I had to hang on. All around me it was black, below me the trees were bending in the storm. Suddenly there was a wooded height in front of me. I had to fly towards it, my good albatross made it and pulled me over it. I could only fly straight ahead; every obstacle that came had to be taken. It was a pure jumping competition over trees, villages, especially church towers and chimneys, as I could only fly five metres high at most to see anything at all in the black thundercloud. Lightning flashed all around me. I didn’t know then that lightning couldn’t strike [78]the aeroplane. I thought I was facing certain death, because the storm was bound to throw me into a village or a forest at the next opportunity. If the engine had stopped, I would have been finished. Suddenly I saw a bright spot on the horizon ahead of me. The storm stopped there; if I reached this point, I was saved. Gathering all the energy a young, reckless person can muster, I headed for it. Suddenly, as if torn away, I was out of the storm cloud, still flying in the pouring rain, but feeling safe. Still in the pouring rain, I landed in my home harbour, where everything was already waiting for me, as the news had already arrived from Metz that I had disappeared in a storm cloud heading there. Never again will I fly through a thunderstorm, unless my homeland demands it of me. Everything is beautiful in memory, so there were also beautiful moments that I would not want to miss in my life as an aviator.”

“The first time on a Fokker From the beginning of my career as a pilot, I had only one ambition, and that was to be allowed to fly in a single-seater fighter aircraft. After much agonising with my commander, I managed to get permission to fly a Fokker. The engine turning round on itself was something completely new to me. Sitting alone in a small aeroplane like that was also alien to me. I owned this Fokker together with a friend who has now been dead for a long time. I flew it in the morning and he flew it in the afternoon. Each of us was afraid that the other might smash the aeroplane. On the second day we flew against the enemy. I hadn’t met a Frenchman in the morning, but in the afternoon it was the other one’s turn. He didn’t come back, no news, nothing. Late in the evening the infantry reported a dogfight between a Nieuport and a German Fokker, after which the German seemed to have landed on the other side of the Toten Mann. It could only be Reimann, because everyone else had returned. We were sorry for our bold comrade when suddenly, at night, we received a telephone message that a German aviation officer had suddenly appeared in the foremost [80]sapper head of the infantry position on the Toten Mann. He turned out to be Reimann. His engine had been shot to pieces, forcing him to make an emergency landing. He had been unable to reach our lines and had landed between the enemy and us. He quickly set fire to his aircraft and then hid a few hundred metres away in an explosive funnel. During the night he then appeared in our trenches as a sneak patrol. This was the first time our stock company ended: ‘The Fokker’. * After a few weeks we got a second one. This time I felt obliged to fly the good thing into the afterlife. It was perhaps my third flight on the small, fast aeroplane. The engine cut out on take-off. I had to descend, straight into a field of oats, and looking around, the proud, beautiful machine had become nothing more than an unrecognisable mass. Miraculously, nothing had happened to me.”

“24 June 1916 The last few days here have been very exhausting. I’ve often been in the air for ten hours, dropping bombs, etc. I’ve also been in a few dogfights – but unfortunately without success. We recently lost our very nice squadron leader, a Captain von Detten, in a ‘bomb’ film. Manfred is out flying Fokkers again…”

“Immelmann followed him a few weeks later. Crashed and dead. Incomprehensible. He lived among the people. …Manfred wrote: ‘In the long run, everyone believes it.’ …”

“Manfred often came together with Zeumer; it was a nice thought for me to know that the two old comrades-in-arms from the East, who were also close on a personal level, were together. Unfortunately, poor Z. had bad luck. He was shot down over Fort Vaux, but miraculously only slightly injured. Then it happened that the car crashed during transport and Z. broke his right thigh. Now his flying will probably be over and Manfred will lose one of his best comrades.”

‘I leaf through old letters from Manfred’s free, unattached flying days, when Georg Zeumer, friend and teacher, was still instructing him. I had often wondered what had become of him after he had the double misfortune of being shot down over Fort Vaux and breaking his thigh on the way home. The wounds healed badly, diabetes set in, his leg was shortened by nine centimetres and Georg could only walk with sticks. Nevertheless, he continued to fly with every fibre of his heart. And now – a few days ago – I heard that he had managed to return to the field, to the Boelcke fighter squadron, thanks in particular to Manfred’s mediation. There are not enough honourable words for such an attitude!’

“A few days ago I nose-dived into the ground with my Fokker. Witnesses were more than a little astonished when, after quite some time, I crawled out of the heap of rubble totally unhurt. My good friend Zeumer has already gone one better. First he was shot down by the French and received only light grazing shots, three days later he broke his thigh under quite stupid circumstances. I am entertaining the thought of going to Bölcke and becoming his student. I always need a change. That would be something new again and would not hurt me.”

“Dear Mum!

What did you say about Immelmann’s death? In the long run, everyone believes in it – even Boelcke. The commander of Lothar’s fighter squadron also didn’t return from a bombing mission. The day before, the commander of my old K. G. 1, formerly B. A. O., was also shot down. He was Freiherr von Gerstorff, probably the most capable commander a fighter squadron ever had. I always liked him.”

“Bombing flights in Russia. On the morning of 30 June we were suddenly told to load up. We didn’t know where we were going, but we had the right tip and were therefore not overly surprised when our commander surprised us with the news that we were going to Russia. We travelled all over Germany in our caravan train, consisting of dining and sleeping cars, and finally arrived in Kovel. There we stayed in our railway carriages. Of course, living in trains has a lot of advantages. You’re always ready to continue your journey and you always have the same accommodation. But in the Russian summer heat, a sleeping car is the most horrible thing there can be. That’s why I preferred to move to the nearby forest with two good friends, Gerstenberg and Scheele, where we pitched a tent and lived like gypsies. Those were good times. * In Russia, our fighter squadron dropped a lot of bombs. We kept ourselves busy annoying the Russians and laid our eggs on their most beautiful railway lines. On one of these days our whole squadron went out to bomb a very important railway station. It was called Manjewicze and was about thirty kilometres behind the front line, so not too far. The Russians had planned an attack and for this purpose the railway station was packed with trains. One train stood next to the other, a whole track was occupied by moving trains. You could see this very clearly from above; there was a transport train at every passing point. So it was a really worthwhile target for a bombing run. You can be enthusiastic about anything. That’s how I got enthusiastic about bombing for a while. I had a lot of fun paving over the brothers down there. I often went twice in one day. On this day we had set ourselves the target of Manjewicze. Each squadron headed for Russia as a unit. The planes were at the start, each pilot tried his engine again, because it is an embarrassing thing to make an emergency landing on the wrong party, especially in Russia. The Russians are crazy about aeroplanes. If he gets hold of one, he’s sure to kill him. That’s the only danger in Russia, because there are no enemy planes there, or hardly any at all. If one does come along, it will certainly have bad luck and be shot down. The balloon defence guns in Russia are sometimes quite good, but there are not enough of them. In any case, flying in the East is a recreation compared to the West. * The aircraft taxi heavily to the launch site. They are filled to their last load weight with bombs. I sometimes towed one hundred and fifty kilograms of bombs with a normal C-plane. I also had a heavy observer with me, which didn’t look like it was carrying any meat, and two machine guns ‘just in case’. I never got to try them out in Russia. It is a great pity that there is no Russian in my collection. Its cockade would certainly look very picturesque on the wall. A flight like that with a thick, heavily laden machine, especially in the Russian midday heat, is not to be taken lightly. The barges rock very unpleasantly. Of course they don’t fall down, the one hundred and fifty ‘horses’ make sure of that, but it’s not a pleasant feeling to have so much explosive charge and petrol with you. Finally you are in a calmer layer of air and gradually begin to enjoy the bombing flight. It’s nice to fly straight ahead, to have a specific target and a fixed mission. After dropping a bomb you have the feeling that you’ve achieved something, whereas sometimes on a fighter flight where you haven’t shot anyone down [84] you have to say to yourself: You could have done better. I really enjoyed dropping bombs. My observer had managed to fly over the target exactly vertically and, with the help of a telescopic sight, to catch the right moment to lay his egg. It is a beautiful flight to Manjewicze. I’ve done it several times. We passed over huge forest complexes, where the moose and lynx were certainly roaming. The villages also looked as if the foxes could say good night to each other. The only large village in the whole area was Manjewicze. There were countless tents pitched around the village and countless barracks at the railway station itself. We couldn’t recognise any red crosses. A squadron had been there before us. This could still be seen in individual smoking houses and barracks. They had not thrown badly. One exit of the station was obviously blocked by a hit. The locomotive was still steaming. Surely the drivers were somewhere in a shelter or something like that. On the other side, a locomotive was just pulling out at full speed. Of course, it was tempting to hit the thing. We flew at the thing and set a bomb a few hundred metres in front of it. The desired result was achieved, the locomotive stopped. We turn round and throw bomb after bomb, finely aimed through the telescopic sight, at the station. After all, we have time, nobody will bother us. An enemy airport is close by, but its pilots are nowhere to be seen. Defence guns only bang sporadically and in a completely different direction than we are flying. We save another bomb to use it to our advantage on the flight home. Then we see an enemy plane take off from his harbour. I wonder if he’s thinking of attacking us? I don’t think so. Rather, he is looking for safety in the air, because that is certainly the most convenient way to avoid personal danger to his life during bombing flights at airports. We make a few more detours and look for troop camps, because it’s great fun to worry the gentlemen down there with machine guns. Semi-savage tribes like the Asians are even more frightened than the educated English. It is particularly interesting to shoot at enemy cavalry. It causes tremendous unrest among the people. You suddenly see them dashing off in all directions. I wouldn’t like to be the squadron leader of a Cossack squadron that’s being machine-gunned [86] by airmen. Gradually we could see our lines again. Now it was time to get rid of our last bomb. We decided to bomb a tethered balloon, ‘the’ Russian tethered balloon. We were able to descend quite comfortably to a few hundred metres and throw a bomb at the captive balloon. At first it was pulled in with great haste, but as soon as the bomb had fallen, the pulling in stopped. I explained it to myself, not that I had hit it, but rather that the Russians had abandoned their hetman up there in the basket and had run away. We finally reached our front, our trenches, and when we got home we were a little surprised to find that we had been shot at from below, at least that’s what a hit in the wing showed. * On another occasion we were also in the same area and had been set up for an attack by the Russians, who intended to cross the Stochod. We arrived at the endangered spot, loaded with bombs and a lot of cartridges for the machine gun, and to our great surprise we saw how the Stochod was already being crossed by enemy cavalry. A single bridge served as a supply line. So it was clear: if you hit it, you could do the enemy a lot of damage. What’s more, large masses of troops were rolling across the narrow footbridge. We went down to the lowest possible height and could now clearly see that the enemy cavalry was marching across the crossing at great speed. The first bomb crashed not far from them, followed immediately by the second and third. A chaotic mess was created below. The bridge was not hit, but nevertheless the traffic had stopped completely and everything with legs had fled in all directions. The success was good, because there were only three bombs; the whole squadron followed. And so we were still able to achieve a lot. My observer shot firmly among the brothers with the machine gun and we had a lot of fun with it. Of course, I can’t say what our positive success was. The Russians didn’t tell me either. But I imagined that I had beaten off the Russian attack on my own. The Russian war chronicle will probably tell me after the war whether it’s true.”

“Mercy Le Bas near Sandres, 5 July 1916 As you can see from the newspapers, it’s busy again here in the west. We’ve moved to the airport above, a little closer to Verdun – where Manfred was before. Now he’s in the east with the Bug Army.”

“Dear Mum!

A few days ago, I crashed my Fokker. The spectators were quite astonished when I crawled out of the wreckage completely unharmed after quite a while. My good friend Zeumer is already feeling a little better. First he was shot down by the French and only suffered a few minor grazes, then three days later he broke his thigh in a very silly accident. I am thinking of going to Boelcke and becoming his pupil. I always need a change. It would be something new and no deterioration for me.”

“This photograph shows a daylight bombing raid on La Brayelle by No,23 Squadron F.E.2bs on 13 August 1916. Bomb explosions (casting long shadows) can be seen amongst the landing area and structures in the middle of the photograph. (H. Kilmer) (picture source: Inside the victories of Manfred von richthofen – Volume 1, James F. Miller, Aeronaut Books, 2016)”

“On 25 August, Manfred surprised us with his visit on his way from the east to the west. The combat squadron to which he belonged had made the railway stations and bridges on the Stochod unsafe for several months. He was tanned by the Russian sun, was in high spirits and talked animatedly while we sat in the garden under the large walnut trees. He knew how to describe things so vividly that you thought you were looking at the gripping scenes. ‘I liked throwing bombs,’ said Manfred. ‘You always feel like you’ve done something when you fly home.’ ‘But…?’ Manfred stands at the trunk of the walnut tree. There is something very joyful in his voice: ‘Now it’s off to fighter flying, Mum!’ And now I hear how Boelcke, the ‘great man’ with the Pour Le Mérite, appeared one day on the hot sandy airfield of Kowel and recruited him for the new fighter squadron that he was to put together on the Somme according to his own plan. The next day Albrecht and Manfred went hunting in the Nonnenbusch. They shot 15 chickens… …Something happens in the afternoon that I can’t come to terms with so quickly: a lady in deep mourning robes visits us….The lady has gone. We are alone. Manfred looks at me with wide eyes. ‘Mum,’ he says, ‘for once you won’t put yourself through such anguish for me, promise me that.’ Those were his words and I looked at him in astonishment. But Manfred immediately put his arm around me and laughed. A happy, carefree laugh. It chased away the gloomy thoughts.”

“At last! The August sun was almost unbearable on the sandy airfield in Kowel. We were chatting with our comrades when one of them said: ‘Today the great Boelcke is coming to visit us, or rather his brother, in Kowel.’ In the evening the famous man appeared, greatly admired by us, and told us many interesting things about his journey to Turkey, from which he was just on his way back to report to the Grand Headquarters. He said that he was going to the Somme to continue his work there, and that he was also to raise a whole hunting squadron. For this purpose he could choose people from the air force who seemed suitable to him. I didn’t dare ask him to take me with him. Not because I was bored with our squadron – on the contrary, we made great and interesting flights and destroyed many a railway station with our bombs – but the thought of fighting on the Western Front again appealed to me. There’s nothing better for a young cavalry officer than to go hunting. Boelcke was due to leave again the next morning. Early in the morning there was a sudden knock at [89]my door, and the tall man with the Pour le mérite was standing in front of me. I didn’t quite know what he wanted from me. I knew him, as I have already mentioned, but it never occurred to me that he had come to me to ask me to become his pupil. I almost threw my arms around his neck when he asked me if I wanted to go to the Somme with him.”

“One afternoon, Oswald Bölcke appeared. He was on his way back to Germany from a tour of air groups in Turkey. The trip had been arranged by the high command with the double purpose of giving Bölcke a rest after his nineteenth kill and showing the German and Turkish forces fighting the Arabs and the British on the Arabian Peninsula that they had not been forgotten because of the Fatherland’s two other fronts. Bölcke had shot down more airplanes than any other German, and was being touted by Berlin as the world’s greatest combat pilot. He told the awe-struck bomber pilots at dinner that night that he had just dropped in for a few hours to visit with his brother, Wilhelm, who happened to be the commander of Richthofen’s squadron. It was not quite true. The younger Bölcke had been ordered to start an elite mobile scout squadron to grapple with increasingly better and more determined British squadrons on the western front. He was looking for talent. Richthofen was one of the pilots sitting around the dining table who smiled at Bölcke whenever their eyes met. He remained in the group that followed the Bölcke brothers to a lounge after the meal, and listened attentively while Oswald described conditions in France and some of the outstanding Allied pilots the Germans were encountering there. When it was late, the officers of the 2nd Fighting Squadron left in ones and twos, taking respectful leave, as if they sensed they were at an audition, until the brothers were finally alone in a room full of cigarette smoke and empty glasses. Oswald explained to Wilhelm why he had come and added that, judging by what he had seen and heard that evening and previously, Richthofen wanted to become a scout pilot. He knew something of the Prussian’s background, of his wealthy family, and of his renowned passion for hunting and apparent indifference to women and alcohol. What about his temperament? Would he fit into a hunting squadron? Would he have the patience to stalk in the air the way he did on the ground, the obedience to follow instructions as quickly as was necessary in air-to-air fighting? Did he have the eyes and reflexes to be successfully aggressive? Wilhelm told Oswald that Richthofen had had a difficult start in flying, and although he still tended to be ham-fisted, he was working hard to become better. He knew almost nothing about how airplanes worked, or about their machine guns, and showed little inclination to learn. That trait would have to be watched, Wilhelm said, because it was the sure sign of a glory-seeker who did not feel he should be bothered with details. Details won battles, Wilhelm added, which Richthofen should have learned in school. But he was eager, and being hungry for fame – even too hungry – was not a bad thing if the fundamentals could be beaten into his thick skull before he got killed. If he lived through his first patrols, the older Bölcke advised the younger, he would probably make a good scout pilot. And there was one more, named Erwin Böhme, who was an old man of thirty-seven and an exceptionally skilled and courageous pilot. Why not take him, too, asked Wilhelm, and have an old tiger among the cubs. Early the next morning, Bölcke packed his bag and then went to Richthofen’s and Böhme’s quarters. He invited them to join a new group called ‘Jagdstaffel 2’ and if they accepted, to be at Lagnicourt, France, on or about September 1. Jagd is German for ‘hunting’. They accepted.”

“”Are you no longer interested, my young friend, in being a fighter pilot?”, Bölcke asked the incredulous Baron. “Yes, of course, sir” Manfred blurted out. Quickly recovering his usual poise, he waved the Saxon flier to a chair. “Please be seated, Herr Leutnant”.

In a few staccato sentences, Bölcke explained the reason for his visit. The Baron was well aware of the reason but listened politely and with the greatest interest. “Affairs are going badly for our airmen on the Somme Front. The enemy has seized control of the air. You know what that means. Their aircraft are directing artillery fire without interference. Their fighters are incessantly strafing our infantry. The effect on the morale of our men is abysmal. Our flying service is being derided. The front-line troops are saying: ‘May God punish England, our artillery, and our air force.’ And the infantry is asking: ‘Has anybody seen a German airman?’ I have been ordered to recruit a group of select fliers and form a crack squadron and drive the enemy from the air. How about you, Baron, would you like to join me on the Somme and see some real fighting?””

“… In addition to myself, Bölcke has recruited from here a young Uhlan Leutnant von Richthofen, a splendid fellow, who has already proven himself at Verdun and here as a daring and reliable airman.”

“Three days later, I was on the train and travelling across Germany directly to the field of my new job. At last, my most fervent wish had been fulfilled, and now the best time of my life began. At the time, I didn’t dare hope that it would be so successful. As I was leaving, a good friend called out to me: ‘Don’t come back without the Pour le mérite!’

“Combat Report: Vickers No. 7018, Motor No. 701, Machine guns Nos 17314n 10372, near Villers Plouich, 1100 hrs.

When patrol flying I detected shrapnel clouds in direction of Cambrai. I hurried forth and met a squad which I attacked shortly after 1100. I singled out the last machine and fired several times at closest range (ten metres). Suddenly the enemy propellor stood stock still. The machine went down gliding and I followed until I had killed the observer who had not stopped shooting until the last moment. Now my opponent went downwards in sharp curves. At approximately 1.200 metres a second German machine came along and attacked my victim right down to the ground and then landed next to the English plane. Weather: bright morning with clouds in the afternoon.

Witnesses: Capt. Boelcke from above and Capt. Gaede, Lieut. Pelser and other officers from below.

Pilot: N.C.O. Rees [sic], wounded, hospital at Cambrai.

Observer: Killed, buried by Jagdstaffel 4.”

“We all stood on the firing range, and one by one we fired our machine guns in the way that seemed most favourable to us. The day before we had received our new machines, and the next morning Boelcke wanted to fly with us. We were all beginners, none of us had had any success so far. So what Boelcke told us was gospel to us. In the last few days he had, as he put it, shot down at least one, sometimes two Englishmen for breakfast. The next morning, 17 September, was a wonderful day. We could expect a lot of flying from the English. Before we took off, Boelcke gave us some precise instructions, and for the first time we flew in a squadron under the leadership of the famous man in whom we blindly placed our trust. We had just arrived at the front when we recognised an enemy squadron flying in the direction of Cambrai above our lines at the blast points of our balloon defence cannons. Boelcke was of course the first to see it, because he could see more than other people. We soon grasped the situation and everyone endeavoured to stay close behind Boelcke. We all realised that we had to pass our first test under the eyes of our revered leader. We approached the squadron slowly, but it could no longer escape us. We were between the front and the enemy. If he wanted to go back, he had to pass us. We counted the enemy aircraft and realised that there were seven of them. We only had five. All the English were flying large, two-seater bombers. It was only a matter of seconds before we had to start. Boelcke was already damned close to the first one, but he wasn’t firing yet. I was the second, with my comrades close beside me. The Englishman flying closest to me was a large, dark-coloured barge. I didn’t think twice and took aim at him. He shot, I shot, and I missed, so did he. A fight began in which it was important for me to get behind the chap, as I could only shoot in my direction of flight. He didn’t need to, because his manoeuvrable machine gun reached in all directions. But he didn’t seem to be a beginner, because he knew exactly that his last hour had come the moment I managed to get behind him. At that time I didn’t have the conviction that ‘he must fall’, as I have now, but I was rather curious as to whether he would fall, and that is an essential difference. Once the first or even the second or third one lies, then a light goes on: ‘That’s how you have to do it.’ So my Englishman turned and turned, often crossing my sheaf. I didn’t think about the fact that there were other Englishmen in the squadron who could come to the aid of their beleaguered comrade. Just one thought: ‘He must fall, come what may!’ Finally, a favourable moment. The enemy seems to have lost me and flies straight ahead. In a fraction of a second I’m breathing down his neck with my good machine. A short burst from my machine gun. I was so close that I was afraid of ramming him. Then suddenly, I almost let out a whoop of joy, because my opponent’s propeller stopped turning. Hooray! Hit! The engine was shot to pieces and the enemy had to land with us, as it was impossible to reach his lines. I also realised from the swaying movements of the aircraft that something was not quite right with the pilot. The observer could no longer be seen either, his machine gun was sticking up in the air without any controls. So I had hit him and he must have been lying on the floor of his body. The Englishman landed somewhere right next to the airport of a squadron I knew. I was so excited that I couldn’t stop myself from landing and touched down at the unfamiliar airport, where I almost turned my plane upside down in my eagerness. The two aeroplanes, the Englishman’s and mine, were not very far apart. I ran straight there and saw a lot of soldiers streaming towards the enemy. Once there, I found that my assumption was correct. The engine was shot up and both occupants seriously injured. The observer died immediately, the leader on the transport to the nearby military hospital. I placed a stone on his beautiful grave in memory of my enemy who had fallen in honour. When I got home, Boelcke was already sitting at breakfast with the other comrades and was very surprised at what had taken me so long. I proudly reported for the first time: ‘Shot down an Englishman.’ Everyone immediately cheered, because I wasn’t the only one; apart from Boelcke, who, as usual, had his breakfast victory, every one of us beginners had been victorious in aerial combat for the first time. I would like to point out that since then no English squadron has dared to go as far as Cambrai as long as there was a Boelcke fighter squadron there.”

“…Manfred hasn’t let us hear from him for a long time. Whenever the postman comes, you’re already at the window. There is fierce fighting on the Somme. In the air too; Boelcke’s star outshines everything. What a wonderful man he must be, and – Lanfred is at his side! 22 September 1916 A detailed letter from Manfred. Jagdstaffel II, 18 September 1916 “Dear Mum! You must have wondered why I haven’t written to you yet. But this is the first time I’ve sat at my desk and picked up a pen. Up to now I’ve been busy all the time. Lately I’ve been flying a temporary machine, which I couldn’t do much with and usually lost out in aerial combat. Yesterday, at last, the box intended for me arrived and, just think, as it flies in I see an English squadron on our side. – Fly there – and shoot one down. The occupants were an English officer and a non-commissioned officer. I was very proud of my flying in. Of course I was credited with the one I shot down. Boelcke is a mystery to everyone, he shoots one down almost every time he flies. I was in the air myself on his twenty-fourth, twenty-fifth, twenty-sixth and twenty-seventh and took part in the battle. The battle on the Somme is not what it seems to you at home. The enemy has been attacking with enormous superiority, especially in artillery, every day for four weeks. Always with fresh troops. Our people are doing brilliantly. In the next few days we will probably be allowed to move our airport a little further back. The whole thing has the look of a war of movement. You probably know that my friend Schweinichen has fallen. I was just going to visit him, as he was very close to me. He was killed the same day.” Hans von Schweinichen had been Manfred’s best friend from the cadet corps. They had gone through the classes in Wahlstatt and Lichterfelde side by side. At the blessing, they knelt together in front of the altar, and we parents also sat together at this ceremony. Manfred was given the beautiful saying: ‘It is God who works in you both to will and to do according to his good pleasure.’ Even in Lichterfelde, the two remained inseparable. Their Sunday holidays in Berlin were usually spent together. They stroll through the museums, lunchtime has long since passed, when Schweinichen says: ‘We want to eat now, I’m terribly hungry.’ – Manfred disagrees: ‘I have to see everything first.’ Hans grumbles a little and trots along again. After another hour he says again: ‘You, now I can’t stand it any longer, my stomach is growling terribly.’ Manfred replies: ‘Well, go and eat – but I want to stay here.’ They part amicably and only meet again at the ticket counter for the train to Lichterfelde. Then the two of them travel back to the asylum, very happy and content. There is no discord in this friendship, it would last forever…”

“Bölcke was not only the commander of Jasta 2, but also its mentor, so the battle was analyzed the next day, when the weather was too bad for patrols. He had stayed above the battle long enough to catch glimpses of what his men were doing, yet he had also found time to make his own kill, which, raked by bullets, crashed into an observation balloon while making a forced landing, and burst into flames. He explained to each of his cubs what they had done wrong and gave solutions. Richthofen described his fight to Bölcke, who listened silently and did not take his large contemplative eyes off the cub. An interrogation started. Did Richthofen carefully deliberate the circumstances before he went after the two-seater? Did he not, in fact, make a series of wild charges, instead of a controlled attack? Had he checked from time to time to see whether anyone was on his tail? Why had he made wide sweeps around his victim, thereby inviting an enemy to approach him unnoticed? Why, for that matter, had he stayed in the combat area so long, and, above all, why had he landed and wasted time and almost an airplane? Bölcke did not want to embarrass Richthofen in front of his fellows, so he praised the final attack, which, he said, seemed well judged. He decided to have a talk with Richthofen in private.”

“Combat report: 1100hrs. One-seater Martinsyde, GW No. 174. 1100 air fight above Bapaume. Adversary dashed, after 300 shots, mortally wounded, near Beugny (street Bapaume – Cambrai) to the ground. Two machine guns recovered, will be delivered. Dead occupant buried by 7th Infantry division. Weather: bright and clear all day; ground mist in early morning.”

“On the 25th, Lother arrived, quite unexpectedly… …We lose ourselves in old times and everything is friendly and bright again. Once, Manfred shot five ducks dead in a blind hunt – they were swimming on the Weistritz. But they were only tame ones. But there was no punishment because he told the truth straight away. And another time, when we were wandering through the forest, Manfred suddenly stood on a footbridge over black water. He says to Lothar, as if it were a matter of course: ‘Watch out, you, I’m going to fall into the water.’ Immediately afterwards, he disappeared into the truly pitch-black flood. ‘That was a good scare, remember?’ Lothar remembers, he laughs so hard that the glow of his cigarette starts to dance; it’s already dim in the room. ‘Of course,’ he says, ‘we went to the mill because he didn’t smell good.’ ‘Yes, yes, he had to be bathed, with lots of soap.’ “And then, the journey home. An hour’s journey back – and Manfred had nothing on his body but the shirt the miller’s wife had borrowed and the cadet’s coat over it, and he was barefoot.” ‘It didn’t even give him a cold.’ I always want to sit and talk to Lothar like this, but tomorrow he has to leave again. But this day still belongs to us, and sometimes we’ve chatted into the night. “Once we really wanted to put you boys to the test of courage, Ilse and me. There was a rumour that I once hanged someone on the floor of our house and now it was haunted, remember, Lother?” “It was so nice and scary for us boys. At night, there was shuffling and rumbling on the floor upstairs and you could hear groaning – the housekeepers said so…” ‘Manfred was really keen to experience this haunting, so we had your bed, Lothar, and Manfred’s carried to the spot…’ ‘We had taken a big stick to bed with us; Manfred said he wanted to light the ghost home.’ ‘The ghost – that was us, Ilse and I, we had quietly crept upstairs and rolled chestnuts across the floorboard.’ “I heard it first, I was wide-eyed with excitement. ‘Manfred’ I shouted, ‘Manfred! He was fast asleep. Eventually he woke up and I heard him sit up in bed.” “I can tell the rest better, because it was about our skin. He got out of bed in one jump and ran at us with a swinging bat. I had to switch on the light quickly, otherwise we would have been beaten.” ‘Manfred was fourteen at the time.’ ‘No, thirteen.’ Lothar laughs heartily. The next day I took him back to the railway…”

“In all my life I have never known a more beautiful hunting ground than in the days of the Battle of the Somme. When you got up in the morning, the first Englishmen were already arriving, and the last ones disappeared long after the sun had set. ‘A paradise for fighter pilots,’ Boelcke once said. It was the time when Boelcke’s kills had risen from twenty to forty in two months. We beginners didn’t have the experience of our master at that time and were quite content if we didn’t get our own sails. But it was nice! No take-off without a dogfight. Often big air battles of forty to sixty Englishmen against unfortunately not always so many Germans. For them it’s quantity and for us it’s quality. But the Englishman is a dashing chap, I’ll give him that. From time to time he came at very low altitude and visited Boelcke on his pitch with bombs. He literally challenged us to a fight and always accepted. I hardly ever met an Englishman who refused to fight, whereas the Frenchman preferred to scrupulously avoid any contact with the enemy in the air. Those were good times in our fighter squadron. The spirit of the leader was passed on to his pupils. We could blindly entrust ourselves to his leadership. There was no chance of anyone being let down. The thought never crossed our minds. And so we briskly and cheerfully cleared up among our enemies. On the day Boelcke fell, the squadron already had forty. Now it has well over a hundred. Boelcke’s spirit lives on among his capable successors.”

“Combat Report: 1150 hrs, near Lagnicourt About 1150 I attacked, accompanied by four planes of our Staffel above our aerodrome at Lagnicourt and at 3.000 metres altitude, a Vickers Squadron. I singled out a machine and after some 200 shots, the enemy plane started gliding down towards Cambrai. Finally it began to make circles. The shooting had stopped and I saw that the machine was flying uncontrolled. As we were already rather far away from our front lines, I left the crippled plane and selected a new adversary. Later on I could observe the aforementioned machine, pursued by a German Albatros machine, crash burning to the ground near Fremicourt. The machine burnt to ashes. Weather: bright and fine all day, with occasional clouds in the afternoon.”

“I’m sitting in the large garden room, organising the letters Manfred wrote. So much has happened in these weeks. Manfred shot his second Englishman on 23 September and the third on 30 September. His letter, dated 5 October, makes the following omission: ‘Your heart beats a little faster when the enemy, whose face you have just seen, plummets burning from 4000 metres into the depths.’”

“Dear Mum!

On 30 September, I shot down my third Englishman. He crashed down in flames. Your heart beats a little faster when the enemy, whose face you have just seen, plunges down in flames from four thousand metres. When he hit the ground, of course, there was nothing left, neither of the man nor of the aircraft. I kept a small piece of the wreckage as a souvenir. From my second one, I kept the machine gun as a souvenir. It has one of my bullets in the lock and is unusable. Unfortunately, my Frenchman from Verdun doesn’t count; I forgot to report him at the time. In the past, you used to get the Pour le Mérite after the eighth, but not anymore, even though it’s getting harder and harder to shoot one down. In the last four weeks since the Boelcke fighter squadron was formed, we have already lost five of the ten aircraft.”

“Combat Report: Machine Type: New and not seen up till now. Plane No. 6618: A two-deck plane (biplane) with 12 cyl. Daimler Motor No. 25 226. 0910 hrs, near Equancourt. About 0900 I attacked at 3.000 metres altitude and accompanied by two other machines, an English plane near Rancourt. After 400 shots enemy plane dashed downwards, the pilot having been mortally wounded. Occupant: Lieutenant Fenwick, killed by shot in the head. Weather: low clouds and strong winds – stormy all day.”

“Air combat successes: On 7 October, Lieutenant von Richthofen shot down an English single-seat biplane near Equancourt. The occupant, Lieutenant Fenwick, was killed. The aircraft was a new type of B.E.

From the enemy: The single-seat biplane shot down by Lt. Frhr. v. Richthofen near Equancourt on 7 October (Lt. Fenwick) belonged to the 21st Squadron and, according to the papers, to a B.E. Flight. The aircraft appears to be a newer design.”

Combat report: 1800 hrs, Roeux, near Arras.

About 1800 I attacked squad of Vickers at 3.500 metres altitude six kilometers to the east of Arras above Roeux. After having singled out a Vickers at whom I fired 300 shots, the enemy plane began to smoke and then started gliding steeper and steeper. I followed always shooting. The enemy propeller was only going very slowly, and clouds of black smoke were coming from the motor. The observer did not shoot anymore at my machine. In this moment I was attacked from the rear.

As was ascertained later on, the plane crashed to the ground and the occupant was killed.

“Combat Report: 0500 hrs, near Ytres. BE one-seater No. 6580. Daimler Motor, No. 25188. Occupant: Lieutenant Capper. Together with four planes I singled out above Bertincourt an enemy squadron at 2.800 metres altitude. After 350 shots I brought down an enemy plane. Plane crashed to the ground, smashed. Motor can probably be secured. Weather: fine with occasional clouds.”

“In my entire life, I have never known a more beautiful hunting ground than during the days of the Battle of the Somme. In the morning, when you got up, the first Englishmen were already arriving, and the last ones disappeared long after the sun had set. ‘A paradise for fighter pilots,’ Boelcke once said. That was the time when Boelcke’s kills rose from twenty to forty in two months. We beginners did not yet have the experience of our master and were quite satisfied if we did not get burned ourselves. But it was wonderful! No take-off without aerial combat. Often there were large air battles involving forty to sixty Englishmen against, unfortunately, not always as many Germans. For them it was quantity that counted, for us it was quality.

But the Englishman is a dashing fellow, you have to give him that. Every now and then he would come in at very low altitude and visit Boelcke in his seat with bombs. He formally challenged him to a fight and always accepted it. I hardly ever met an Englishman who refused to fight, whereas the French prefer to avoid any contact with the enemy in the air at all costs.

Those were good times in our fighter squadron. The spirit of the Führer was passed on to his students. We could blindly trust his leadership. There was no possibility of anyone being abandoned. The thought never even crossed our minds. And so we swiftly and cheerfully wiped out our enemies.

On the day Boelcke fell, the squadron already had forty. Now it has well over a hundred. Boelcke’s spirit lives on among his capable successors.”

“Dear Mum!

We’ve had bad weather here constantly, but I still shot down my fifth Englishman yesterday.”

“Combat Report: 0935 hrs, near Bapaume. BE two-seater. About 0900

I attacked enemy plane above trenches near Lesboefs. Unbroken cover of cloud at 2.000 metres altitude. Plane came from the German side and after some 200 shots he went down in large right hand curves and was forced back by the strong wind to the south end of Bapaume. Finally the machine crashed. It was plane No. 6629. Motor dashed into the earth, therefore number not legible. Occupant, a Lieutenant, seriously wounded by a shot in the bowels. Plane itself cannot be brought back, as under heavy fire. As I first saw the enemy plane there was no other German machine in the vicinity, and also during the fight no machine approached the scene of action. As the enemy plane started to go down, I saw a German Rumpler machine and several Hallberstadter planes. One of these machines came down to the ground. It was Vizefeldwebel Müller of Jagdstaffel 5. He claims to have discharged first at 300 metres and then at 1.000 metres distance, some 500 shots at enemy plane. Afterwards his gun jammed and the sight of his gun flew away. Quite apart from these curious circumstances, a child knows that one cannot hit a plane from such a ridiculous distance. Then a second plane, a Rumpler, came down, also claiming his share of the loot. But all other planes were perfectly sure that he had not taken part in the fight.

Weather: fine with occasional clouds.”

“Boelcke † (28 October 1916) One day we once again flew against the enemy under the leadership of the great man. You always had such a safe feeling when he was there. There was only one Boelcke. Very stormy weather. Lots of clouds. Other planes didn’t fly at all that day, only the fighter pilot. From a distance we saw two cheeky Englishmen at the front who seemed to be enjoying the bad weather. There were six of us and two on the other side. If there had been twenty of them, Boelcke’s signal to attack would not have surprised us. The usual battle began. Boelcke had one ahead and I had the other. I have to let go because I’m interrupted by one of my own. I look round and see Boelcke processing his victim about two hundred metres next to me. The thirtieth! The thirtieth! The fortieth! The fortieth! It was the usual picture again. Boelcke shoots one and I can watch. A good friend of his is flying right next to Boelcke. It was an interesting fight. Both were firing, the Englishman was bound to fall at any moment. Suddenly [97]there was an unnatural movement in the two German aeroplanes. It flashed through my mind: collision. I had never seen a collision in the air before and had imagined something much different. It wasn’t a collision either, but more of a contact. But in the high speed of an aeroplane like this, every soft touch is a violent impact. Boelcke immediately lets go of his victim and descends to earth in a wide turn and glide. I still didn’t have the feeling of a crash, but as he glided below me I realised that part of his wing had broken off. I couldn’t see what happened next, but in the clouds he lost one wing completely. Then the aeroplane was rudderless and he crashed, always accompanied by his faithful friend. When we arrived home, the news was already there: ‘Our Boelcke is dead!’ We couldn’t believe it. Of course, the person who had to suffer the misfortune felt the most pain. It is strange that every person who got to know Boelcke imagined that he was his only true friend. I have met about forty of these only true friends of Boelcke’s, and everyone imagined that he was the only one. People whose names Boelcke [98]never knew believed that they were particularly close to him. It is a peculiar phenomenon that I have only observed with him. He never had a personal enemy. He was equally kind to everyone, to no one more, to no one less. The only person who was perhaps a little closer to him had the misfortune I have just described. Nothing happens without God’s providence. That’s a consolation that you have to tell yourself so often in this war.”

“Boelcke and I had an Englishman right between us,when another opponent pursued by friend Richthofen cut in front of us. During the simultaneous lightning-quick evasive manoeuvre, Boelcke and I, obstructed by our wings, did not see each other for an instant and that is when it happened.
How can I describe for ypu my feelings at that instant when Boelcke suddenly appeared a few metres to my right, dived down, while I pulled up, and yet we grazed each other and had to return to the ground! It was only a gentle touch, but at such a furious speed it was also a collision.”

‘Jagdstaffel Boelcke, 3 November 1916: ’Dear Mum! Unfortunately I missed the train after Boelcke’s funeral, to which I was ordered as a representative of his hunting squadron. Now I can only come to you in the middle of the month. – Boelcke’s death came as follows: Boelcke, some other gentlemen of the fighter squadron and I were involved in a dogfight with the English. Suddenly I see Boelcke, attacking an Englishman, being rammed in the air by one of our gentlemen. Nothing else happened to the poor other gentleman. Boelcke went down normally at first. I followed him immediately. Later, one wing broke off and he plummeted. His skull was crushed by the impact, so he was killed instantly. We were incredibly upset – it was like having your favourite brother taken away from you. I wore the medal cushion at the funeral service. The ceremony was like that of a reigning prince. In six weeks we’ve had six dead and one wounded; two of them are nervous wrecks… I shot my seventh yesterday, having killed the sixth shortly before. My nerves have not yet suffered from all the bad luck of the others…‘’

“Combat Report: 1410 hrs, north-east of Grevillers Wood. Vickers two-seater No. 7010.

Accompanied by two machines of the Staffel, I attacked a low flying plane at 1.800 metres altitude. After 400 shots, adversary dashed to the ground. The plane was smashed to pieces, inmates killed. As the place where the plan fell is under heavy fire, no details can be ascertained as yet.

Weather: very strong winds all day, low clouds in the morning; clearing in the afternoon.”

“Kofl 1st Army Weekly Activity Report:

Further reported shoot-downs: decision still pending. 3 November 1916 Lieutenant Frhr.v. Richthofen reports 2.10 p.m. northeast of Gréviller Forest on this side of the line the shooting down of a Vickers two-seater. Two English occupants dead.

Air combat successes: Lieutenant Frhr.v. Richthofen’s report, Fighter Squadron 2, on a Vickers two-seater shot down on 3.11.16 is submitted to Kogen. Luft. for recognition.”

“Combat Report: 1030 hrs, BE two-seater, No. 2506. Motor: Daimler No. 22082. Occupants: Seriously wounded, pilot very seriously; observer, shoulder.

Above Beugny. About 1030 I attacked, with several other planes, enemy bombing squadron above Mory at 2.500 metres altitude. After preceding curve fight, my victim crashed to the ground near Beugny.

Weather: bright and clear nearly all day.”

“In Boelcke’s day, the eighth eight was a pretty decent number. Anyone who hears about the colossal numbers of kills today must come to the conclusion that shooting has become easier. I can only assure him that it is becoming more difficult from month to month, indeed from week to week. Of course, there are now more opportunities to shoot them down, but unfortunately the possibility of being shot down is also increasing. The enemy’s armament was getting better and better, his numbers ever greater. When Imelmann shot down his first one, he was even lucky enough to find an opponent who had no machine gun with him at all. Such bunnies can now only be found over Johannisthal. On 9 November 1916, I flew against the enemy with my little comrade-in-arms, the eighteen-year-old Imelmann. We were in the Boelcke fighter squadron together, had known each other before and had always got on very well. Comradeship is the main thing. We set off. I already had seven, Imelmann five. Quite a lot for those days. We were at the front for a very short time when we saw a bomb squadron. It came flying very [100]cheekily. Of course they arrive again in enormous numbers, as they always did during the Battle of the Somme. I think there were about forty to fifty in the squadron, I can’t tell you the exact number. They had chosen a target for their bombs not far from our airport. Shortly before the target, I reached the last of the enemy. My first shots probably incapacitated the machine-gunner in the enemy aircraft and may have tickled the pilot a little, but he decided to land with his bombs. I burnt a few more on his bast, which increased the speed at which he tried to reach the ground, because he crashed and fell very close to our Lagnicourt airport. At the same time, Imelmann was also involved in a fight with an Englishman and had also brought down an opponent, also in the same area. We quickly flew home to have a look at our downed aircraft. We travelled by car to the vicinity of my opponent and then had to walk for a very long time through deep fields. It was very hot, so I unbuttoned everything, even my shirt and collar. I took off my jacket and left my hat in the car, but I took a big knotted stick with me and my boots [101] were full of dirt up to my knees. So I looked a mess. That’s how I get close to my victim. Of course, a huge crowd has already gathered around it. A group of officers is standing a little way off. I approach them, greet them and ask the first officer if he could tell me what the air battle looked like, because it’s always very interesting afterwards to hear what the air battle looked like from the others who were watching from below. Then I learn that the English had dropped bombs and that this aeroplane still had its bombs with it. The gentleman in question takes me by the arm, approaches the group of other officers, quickly asks my name and introduces me to them. It wasn’t pleasant for me because, as I said, my toilet was a bit disorganised. And the gentlemen I was now dealing with all looked very smartly dressed. I was introduced to a person I didn’t really like. General’s trousers, a medal around his neck, but a relatively youthful face, indefinable armpits – in short, I sensed something extraordinary, buttoned my trousers and collar in the course of the conversation and took on a slightly more military form. I didn’t know who it was. I say goodbye [102]again and drive home. In the evening the telephone rang and I learnt that it was His Royal Highness the Grand Duke of Saxe-Koburg-Gotha. I am ordered to see him. It was known that the British intended to drop bombs on his staff. So I would have helped to keep the assassins at bay. I was awarded the Saxe-Coburg-Gotha Medal of Valour for this. I enjoy it every time I see it.”

“Kofl 1st Army Weekly Activity Report:

Air combat successes: B.E. two-seater shot down on 9 November 1916 at 10:30 a.m. near Beugny by Lieutenant Frhr. von Richthofen, Fighter Squadron 2”.

“One of them appeared to be someone of particular consequence. He wore peculiar epaulettes and the distinctive trousers of a general. His face was young, and the star of a high order dangled from the throat of his tightly hooked, stiff military collar. Richthofen, covered with grease, oil, sweat, and mud, felt ill at ease in the presence whose identity he did not learn until that evening, when an aide telephoned him that His Royal Highness the Grand Duke of Saxe-Coburg-Gotha had enjoyed meeting him and ordered his presence at the Vraucourt headquarters. For accounting for at least one load of bombs which were not aimed at his Royal Highness, Richthofen that night received the bravery medal of the Grand Duke’s duchy.”

“Manfred telegraphed that he had been awarded the Hohenzollern Order. He shot down his seventh and eighth opponents. When Boelcke shot down the eighth, he was awarded the “Pour le mérite”. We were very happy and proud of our boy.”

“(left to right) Sandel, Müller, MvR, Günther, Kirmaier, Imelmann, König, Höhne, Wortmann, Collin.”

“A great, unexpected joy! Manfred arrived at the crack of dawn. He looked slim and robust. And what he had experienced! He had to talk all day. – Boelcke’s death was very close to his heart. He once again praised the man’s inner clarity and complete self-control, the friendly equanimity of his nature, which did not even remotely give rise to the thought of favouritism. (From everything I thought I sensed that Boelcke and Manfred had a lot in common by nature). Manfred said: ‘Everyone thought he was his best friend.’ And yet his inclination didn’t show the slightest inclination this way or that; he was just the axis, the centre. The only person who could have been assumed to be a little closer to Boelcke than the others was the man who had the misfortune to collide with him in mid-air. It had only been a light touching of the wings; there could be no question of fault. Manfred spoke with great warmth of this Lieutenant Böhme as a mature, valuable personality. He might be about a dozen years older than his comrades (whose age was a little over twenty); he had something behind him before he came to flying. He had already been a pioneer for Germany, building bold aerial tramways from the high mountains to the plains in East Africa long before the war. When Boelcke knocked on Manfred’s door in Rowel, he also recruited Lieutenant Böhme for the new combat unit on the Somme. Böhme was very devoted to his master; his mature and quiet manliness was highly regarded in the small circle. Now he was suffering greatly from this cruel fate, his friends feared the worst and tried to show him their comradely solidarity in every unobtrusive way. But it was Boelcke’s father, who had come to Cambrai for the transfer, who was reserved the last and deepest consolation. He visited Erwin Böhme at the airfield and spoke to him in kindness. A deep bond would be forged between the two families. Almost abruptly, Manfred then gives accounts of his own battles. It is always a duel between you and me. Manfred sees it differently; for him it is the last remnant of an old chivalry in these fights man against man. He doesn’t think much of aerobatic feats in the air. ‘It’s just something for the eye,’ he judges. He usually flies close at an altitude of 5,000 metres and only shoots at 30 metres. But you don’t need to be a marksman, he says. (He himself, however, is an excellent marksman.) He refers to Boelcke; they were out chicken hunting together a few times, Boeclke never hit anything. – And yet he always hits in the air! The heart makes the fighter pilot – I think they both agreed on that. Manfred shot the eighth one out of a squadron of 40 or 50 bombers. His own wings were often riddled with enemy hits. In the early days, these places were scrutinised closely, but now nobody pays attention to them any more. Many miracles happen in the skies. ‘The greatest is that you stood before us alive and well?’ ‘Yes, that’s it,’ he replied simply. The next day we all travelled to Trebnig, where one of my brother’s daughters was getting married. It was nice to see such blossoming happiness in such a hard time. Life goes on, it is always the stronger force. We were all happy. Manfred was very celebrated. He left again on the evening of the wedding.”

“Combat Report: Jagdstaffel Boelcke. 0940 hrs, south of Grandcourt. Vickers two-seater. Together with several machines of our Staffel we attacked, on the enemy side above Grandcourt at 1.800 metres altitude, several low flying artillery planes. After having harassed a BE two-seater for a time, the plane disappeared in the clouds and then crashed to the ground, between the trenches south of Grandcourt. The machine was taken immediately under artilleray fire and destroyed. Weather: low clouds, strong winds and showers.”

“Kofl 1st Army Weekly Activity Report:

Air combat successes: on 20 November 1916 at 9:40 a.m. south of Grandcourt by Lt. Frhr. v. Richthofen, Fighter Squadron 2.”

“Evidence suggests Jasta 2 Staffelführer Stefan Kirmaier may have been the actual victor over 2767. He and Richthofen were each credited with a victory on this day but RFC records indicate only one machine was lost over the lines in the manner of 2767. Richthofen and Kirmaier’s victories were claimed within ten minutes and two miles of each other – i.e. nearly simultaneously and collocated – and nine years after the war Clarke stated that he and Cunningham had been attacked by five German airplanes. It is unknown if Richthofen lost 2767 in the clouds and then presumed its crash, or if Kirmaier attacked 2767 after Richthofen and each had not seen or discounted the other’s attack in the fog of war. In any event, it seems both men received credit for downing the same airplane.”

“Combat Report: 1615 hrs, above Grandcourt. Vickers two-seater, fallen near Grandcourt, No. 4000 Motor No. 36574. Plane cannot be secured as under fire. Occupants: One killed : Lieutenant George Doughty. Lieutenant Gilbert Stall, seriously wounded, prisoner. Together with four planes, I attacked a Vickers two-seater type above the clouds at 2.500 metres altitude. After 300 shots adversary broke through the clouds, pursued by me. Near Grandcourt I shot him down. Weather: low clouds, strong winds and showers.”

“Kofl 1st Army Weekly Activity Report:

Air combat successes: on 20 November 1916, at 4:15 p.m. near Gueudecourt (sic) by Lt. Frhr. v. Richthofen, Fighter Squadron 2.”

“Combat Report: 1500 hrs, south of Bapaume. Vickers one-seater, plane lying near Bapaume. Occupant: Major Hawker, dead. I attacked, together with two other planes, a Vickers one-seater at 3.000 metres altitude. After a long curve fight of three to five minutes, I had forced down my adversary to 500 metres. He now tried to escape, flying to the Front. I pursued and brought him down after 900 shots. Witnesses: Leutnant Wortmann, Leutnant Collin, etc. Weather: fine all day.”

“Major Hawker I was proudest of all when I heard one fine day that the Englishman I had shot down on 23 November 1916 was the British Immelmann. Judging by the aerial combat, I could have guessed that it was a hell of a guy I was up against. One fine day, I was flying around hunting again and watched three Englishmen who seemed to have nothing else to do but hunt. I noticed how they were flirting with me and as I was in the mood for a fight, I went along with it. I was lower than the Englishman, so I had to wait until the brother pushed down on me. It didn’t take long before he came sailing up and tried to grab me from behind. After the first five shots, the customer had to stop again because I was already in a sharp left turn. The Englishman tried to get behind me, while I tried to get behind the Englishman. So we both spun around like madmen with the engine running at full throttle at an altitude of three thousand five hundred metres. First twenty times round to the left, then thirty times round to the right, each anxious to get above and [104]behind the other. I soon realised that I wasn’t dealing with a beginner, because he wouldn’t dream of breaking off the fight. He had a very manoeuvrable box, but mine climbed better, and so I managed to get above and behind the Englishman. After we had descended two thousand metres without having achieved a result, my opponent must have realised that it was high time for him to back off, for the wind, which was favourable to me, drove us closer and closer to our positions until I had finally arrived almost over Bapaume, about a kilometre behind our front. The cheeky chap now had the cheek to wave to me, when we were already a thousand metres above the ground, as if to say: ‘Well, well, how do you do?’ The circles we made around each other were so tight that I estimated they were no further than eighty to a hundred metres. I had time to look at my opponent. I peered vertically into his body and could observe every movement of his head. If he hadn’t had his cap on, I would have been able to tell what kind of face he was making. Gradually, even the good sportsman got a little too colourful, and he finally had to decide whether he wanted to land with us [105] or fly back to his lines. Of course he tried the latter, after he had tried in vain to evade me with a few loops and such jokes. My first blue beans flew around his ears, because so far no one had been able to get a shot off. At an altitude of a hundred metres, he tried to escape to the front by zigzagging, during which it is notoriously difficult for the observer to shoot. Now was the moment for me. I followed him at a height of fifty to thirty metres, firing incessantly. So the Englishman had to fall. A jam in the gun almost robbed me of my success. The enemy crashed with a head shot, about fifty metres behind our line. His machine gun ran into the ground and now adorns the entrance above my front door.”

“…Before I went to bed, I read my sons’ letters again. The eleventh Englishman Manfred shot down was a Major Hawker, 26 years old. Prisoners said that he was the ‘English Immelmann’. He fought back desperately; Manfred writes verbatim: ‘I had the hardest fight with him that I have ever had.’ The fight raced through 3500 metres, in ever-tightening eddies. Unfortunately, Manfred’s fighter squadron also lost two aircraft again, including their leader; eight aircraft in eight weeks. I hope that what Manfred wished me in his letter comes true: that this is my last war birthday!”

“The pilot of the bullet-nosed Albatros that now followed Hawker around a tight circle at 3,000 feet near Bapaume, two miles inside German lines, did not know who his opponent was, but he knew the Lord’s airplane intimately. He had been one of several German pilots who test flew the first D.H.2 to arrive in France after it crashed almost intact behind German lines a year and a half later. He had tested its maneuverability and absolute speed limits at all altitudes in climbs, dives, and turns, the reliability, range, and accuracy of its machine gun, and the number of minutes its thirsty engine allowed it to stay in the air. Then, while another German pilot flew it and took defensive action, he made simulated attacks against it to find its most vulnerable side. The German therefore knew that his opponent could not defend himself from the rear. There was no chance of being shot at if he stayed behind and slightly above the Englishman. That was requisite number one, and, having achieved it, he could think about the kill. He knew that his Albatros was about twenty miles an hour faster than the D.H.2 at their present altitude, that it could climb more quickly, and that it carried two machine guns to the Englishman’s one. It could not, however, turn tighter circles than the D.H.2, which might staying on its tail difficult. But the German knew that if he could stay in the circle with his opponent, they would slowly lose altitude while the wind blew them farther and farther behind German lines, until the Englishman ran out of gas. If that happened, the Lord would have to either land and be taken prisoner or be shot out of the sky.  No pilot would get into such a predicament. He would therefore try to escape. So the German knew that all he had to do was wait for the Englishman to break the circle and run for home. Then he would have him. Then he would kill him. Hawker realized immediately that he was not up against what his pilots called a ‘nervous type’. The Hun was doing all the right things. He had not yet let his hunger for a victory force him into a mistake. Not yet. But there was still time. Ten minutes before, Hawker had turned off his engine to prevent it from choking, and started a long dive at 11,000 feet to catch the pair of two-seaters that had been speeding eastward. He had no sooner turned off the engine than he heard machinegun fire coming from above, and, at almost the same instant, bullets passed close by. To hell with those two-seaters. He put his scout into a roll and then into a leaflike spiral. At the same time, he pushed his fuel valve to ‘full speed’ to get the engine going and pulled out of the spiral with a little less than full power at 10,000 feet. That was when he had run into this smart Hun, who had been below all the time, probably waiting for him. Hawker got off a few ineffective shots at the German while each tried to get into firing position, but neither would allow such an advantage, so they settled on opposite sides of a 300-foot-wide circle. They went around about twenty times to the left. Then Hawker made a figure eight, leading the German into about thirty more circles to the right and, by that time, dropping to 6,000 feet. They continued that way, round and round, like two dogs snapping at one another’s tails, as the minutes passed and they neared 3,000 feet. The German was now slightly higher on his side of the circle, and had a clear view of the Englishman hunched in his cockpit. He looked down and closely observed the man he was waiting to kill. He noted every movement of the Englishman’s head and tried hard to penetrate through the goggles that masked the eyes looking up at his. But because of the goggles and the tan leather cap, he could not see the expression on Hawker’s face and he regretted it. An arm came out of the Englishman’s cockpit and coolly waved up at him. The German smiled, but did not wave back. ‘No beginner’, he thought. When Hawker’s altimeter showed 1,500 feet, he began to get desperate. Half an hour had passed, the gas was critically low, and he figured he had drifted well over two miles behind the lines. He would be in the arms of the German infantry in ten minutes if he stayed in this mad circle. Where was Saundby? Where, for that matter, were Long and Pashley? He could now see trees, houses, and roads spinning by where, an eternity before, there had been limitless, free sky. He continued to look up at the German, but the dark blur he caught in the corner of his eye – the earth – now seemed like a giant mouth that wanted to swallow him. The circle had  to be broken. With his eyes still on the German, Hawker jerked back on the stick, putting his D.H.2 into a couple of high, twisting loops. When he came out of the last of them, he rolled to one side, the to the other, and, with his altimeter showing 300 feet, began the dash for home. ‘Now’. The German snapped his Albatros into a tight bank and went straight for the Englishman’s tail. Both airplanes sped 150 feet above flat, pock-marked fields. They skimmed over groups of gray-uniformed German soldiers who held flattened hands over their eyes to block out the sun as they watched the terrier go after the rat. Most of them had seen it before, but it was always interesting, so they stopped piling sandbags and opening crates and watched the airplanes for as long as they could. It was a good excuse for a cigarette. Some of the soldiers wanted to fire their rifles or machine guns at the Englishman, but he was too close in front of their man, so they just watched. Hawker, trying to throw off the German’s aim, kicked his rudder bar back and forth, putting his scout into a series of zigzags. Two blue-gray eyes followed him, first to one side, then back across the black Spandaus to the other. Then back again. The eyes sent the picture to the brain for analysis. It was a trade-off, thought the German. The Englishman was zigzagging to present a more difficult target. But he lost speed every time he did it. Whether he succeeded in dodging bullets long enough depended on how close they were to the lines. The German was certain the Englishman would not make it. Every time the swerving airplane passed in front of his Spandaus, the German squeezed the triggers and watched a short line of bullets go out toward the growing target.He liked the sound of the guns, the sudden smell of gunpowder, and, most of all, the feeling that his bullets were ripping into canvas, smashing wooden braces, cutting control cables, and perhaps imbedding themselves into flesh. But the Englishman still would not fall, and the front lines were now 1,000 yards ahead. The German was now within sixty feet of the Englishman and firing almost continuously. If the D.H.2 made it to the British lines, its pilot would immediately drop to a safe landing, and the German would be robbed of his hard-earned prize. With 900 of his 1,000 rounds gone, and the first row of British trenches in sight, the German’s guns jammed. He cursed and frantically tried to clear them. They were clear again. He carefully lined up the small gunsight between his Spandaus with the Englishman’s engine. The gloved hand wrapped around the Albatros’s stick, and the boots resting delicately on its rudder pedals moved fractions of an inch in exact duplication of the hand and boots in the airplane ahead. The German again squeezed his trigger. More bullets came out of the twin Spandaus. Another quick taste of powder. Then the German saw the English scout suddenly straighten, hang limply in the air for a second, and fall. It smashed nose-first into the ground, burying its machine gun in the mud, splitting and crunching wood, and tearing fabric. It stayed in that position for a moment, tail pointed upward, and then came crashing down in a tangle of cables and a thin cloud of dust. The wreckage bounced once and came to rest in a waterlogged shell hole 500 yards inside the German forward lines. Its pilot lay somewhere in the debris with a bullet in his head. The young German put his Albatros into a tight, climbing turn until it pointed east. He looked around for other airplanes, and seeing none, let himself look down at his victim. He tried hard to be calm as he studied what he had done. But his heart pounded from excitement. There was no other feeling like it. He felt potency surging through his body and waiting in his fingers to be used again. Two of them had fought for the sky. One was the victor. He was the victor, and therefore he owned the sky for as far as he could see and as far as his guns could reach. He pulled gently back on the stick and aimed his Albatros toward a higher altitude, where it would catch the wonderful wind that always carried him home. He thought the wind could carry him to heaven. It was the eleventh time Baron Manfred von Richthofen had felt that way.”

“Kofl 1st Army Weekly Activity Report:

Air combat successes: on 23 November at 3 p.m. near Bapaume by Lt. Frhr. v. Richthofen, Fighter Squadron 2.”

“Dear Mum!

I send you my warmest birthday wishes and hope that this will be your last birthday during the war. My eleventh Englishman is Major Hawker, twenty-six years old and commander of an English squadron. Prisoners have testified that he was the English Boelcke. I had the hardest fight I’ve ever had with him. Until I finally shot him down. Unfortunately, we lost our leader three days ago and an aircraft from our squadron eight days ago.”

“We all went to the cinema together to see the film of Boelcke’s funeral. Manfred was wearing the medal cushion, he was clearly recognisable… … After dinner, my sister went to the cinema with the relatives, where the film of Boelcke’s funeral was still showing. They watched the film very slowly, were very interested and in this way celebrated a strange reunion with Manfred…”

“Combat Report: 1155 hrs, above Mercatel, near Arras. Vickers one-seater, No. 5986. Rotary Motor 30372. Occupant: made prisoner, wounded, Lieutenant Hund. About 1145 I attacked with Leutnant Wortmann, at 2.800 metres altitude, and south of Arras, enemy one-seater Vickers squadron of eight machines. I singled out one machine and after a short curve fight I ruined the adversory’s motor and forced him to land behind our lines near Mercatel. Occupant not seriously wounded. Weather: fine morning with some mist; rain later.”

“Kofl 1st Army Weekly Activity Report:

Air combat successes: One Vickers single-seater on 11 December 1916 at 11:55 a.m. near Mercatel, Arras. Winner: Lt. Frhr. v. Richthofen, Fighter Squadron 2.”

“In the middle of the month I saw Manfred for a few hours as he was travelling through Breslau. He had been in Katowice to see the field flight chief about new machines, he was in a great hurry, you could tell that he was in a hurry to continue his journey.”

“Combat Report: 1130 hrs, above Menchy. Vickers one-seater No. 7929. Motor: Gnôme 30413. Occupant: Arthur Gerald Knight, Lieutenant RFC killed. Valuables enclosed; one machine gun taken. About 1130 I attacked, together with four planes and at 3.000 metres altitude, enemy one-seater squadron above Menchy. After some curve fighting I managed to press adversary down to 1.500 metres, where I attacked him at closest range (plane length). I saw immediately that I had hit enemy; first he went down in curves, then he dashed to the ground. I pursued him until 100 metres above the ground. This plane had been only attacked by me. Weather: fine all day.”

“Combat Report: 1345 hrs, above Moreuil. Vickers two-seater: A5446. Motor: Beardmore No. 791. Occupants: Pilot Lieut. D’Arcy, observer, unknown, had no identification disc. Occupants dead, plane smashed, one machine gun taken, valuables please find enclosed.

About 1345 I attacked, with four planes of our Staffel, at 3.000 metres altitude, enemy squadron above Moreuil. The English squadron had thus far not been attacked by Germans and was flying somewhat apart. I had , therefore, the opportunity to attack the last machine. I was foremost of our own people and other German planes were not te be seen. Already after the first attack, the enemy motor began to smoke; the observer had been wounded. The plane went down in large curves, I followed and fired at closest range. I had also killed, as was ascertained later on, the pilot. Finally the plane crashed on the ground. The plane is lying between Queant and Lagnicourt. Weather: fine all day.”

“Manfred spends Christmas 1916 with his brother Lothar and their father in the Boelcke fighter squadron. The picture shows them surrounded by his comrades: Karl Bodenschatz is on the right, in front of Wortmann on the left and Erwin Böhme on the far left.”

“It’s very “Christmassy” again now; there’s a secret hustle and bustle throughout the house. It won’t be as nice as last year this time – neither Manfred nor Lothar nor my husband can come. But I can hope that all three of them will be together in the field, that’s something…”

“Combat Report: 1625 hrs, above Ficheux, south of Arras. FE two-seater was smashed, number etc. not recognisable.

At 1615, five planes of our Staffel attacked enemy squadron south of Arras. The enemy approached our lines, but was thrown back. After some fighting I managed to attack a very courageously flown Vickers two-seater. After 300 shots, enemy plane began dropping, uncontrolled. I pursued the plan up to 1.000 metres above the ground. Enemy plane crashed to ground on enemy side, one kilometre behind trenches near Ficheux. (possibly) Capt. JB Quested (WIA); Lt. HJH Dicksee (unhurt) (Some sources claim that this was Sgt. James McCudden of No.29 Squadron, in a DH.2.) Quested/Dicksee were downed at 11.20 hours, 12 km east of Ficheux (probably versus Jasta 1)- inside Allied lines. Richthofen claimed his kill at 16.25 hours [2] McCudden, who returned to base, fits the time period. Weather: mist in the morning, clearing later.”

On the Somme, 28 December 1916 “Dear Mum! Dad and Lothar were both with me for Christmas Eve. – It was a memorable celebration. A Christmas like that in the field is more fun than you might think at home. Our celebration consisted only of a Christmas tree and a very good meal. Lothar made his first solo flight the following day. The first launch is a similar event. Yesterday I shot down my fifteenth Englishman after making a double two days before Christmas, No. 13 and 14. Your obedient son Manfred.”

“Testimony of Herman Lohmeyer (mechanic of Oblt. Wolff, Jasta 11): At the beginning of 1917 I joined Jagdstaffel 11 in the Douai-Arras area, at the time Manfred von Richthofen was our Staffelführer. From there it went to Flanders, to Harelbeke and then to the Markebeke near Kortrijk.”

“Combat Report: 1615 hrs, near Metz-en-Coûture. Sopwith one-seater (lying south of this place), No. LTR5193. Motor: 80 hp Le Rhône No. 5187. A new type plane, never seen before, but as wings broken, barely discernable. Occupant: Lieutenant Todd, killed, paper and valuables enclosed.

About 1615, just starting out, we saw above us at 4.000 metres altitude four plaes, unmolested by our artillery. As the archies were not shooting, we took them for our own. Only when they were approaching we noticed they were English. One of the English planes attacked us and we saw immediately that the enemy plane was superior to ours. Only because we were three against one did we detect the enemy’s weak points. I managed to get behind him and shot him down. The plane broke apart whilst falling. Weather: low clouds and rain in the morning; bright in the afternoon.”

“The sixteenth has fallen. I was therefore at the head of all the fighter pilots. That was the goal I wanted to achieve. I jokingly said that to my friend Lynker a year ago when we were training together and he asked me: ‘What is your goal – what do you want to achieve as an aviator?’ I jokingly said: ‘Well, flying at the top of the fighter pilots must be quite nice!’ Neither I nor anyone else believed that this would become a reality. Only Boelcke is said to have said once – not to me personally, of course, but I was told afterwards – when he was asked: ‘Who has the prospect of becoming a good fighter pilot?’ He is said to have pointed his finger at me and said: ‘That’s the man!’ Boelcke and Immelmann had been awarded the Pour le mérite with the Eighth. I had the double. What was going to happen now? I was very excited. Rumour had it that I would get a hunting squadron.”

‘Then one day a telegram arrived: ’Lieutenant v. R. appointed leader of Jagdstaffel 11.” I have to say, I was annoyed. I had worked so well with my comrades in Jagdstaffel Boelcke. Now starting all over again, settling in, etc. was boring. Besides, I would have preferred the Pour le mérite.”

“For some reason, one fine day I had the idea of painting my bird bright red. The result was that my red bird was an absolute eye-catcher. Even my opponents seemed to be aware of this. During one battle, which took place on a different front from the others, I managed to shoot a two-seater Vickers that was peacefully photographing our artillery position. The enemy didn’t get a chance to defend himself and had to hurry to get to the ground, because he was already beginning to make suspicious signs of burning. We call that ‘he stinks.’ As it turned out, it was indeed time, because the device began to burn in bright flames just above the ground. I felt a human sympathy for my opponent and decided not to bring him down, but only to force him to land, especially as I had the feeling that the enemy was already wounded, because he couldn’t get a shot off. At an altitude of about five hundred metres, a defect in my machine forced me to land in normal gliding flight without being able to make a turn. Now something very strange happened. My enemy landed smoothly with his burning aircraft, while I, as the winner, rolled over in the wire obstacles of the trenches of one of our reserve positions right next to it. This was followed by a sporting greeting from the two Englishmen with me, who were not a little surprised at my break, since, as already mentioned, they had not fired a shot at me and could not even imagine the reason for my emergency landing. These were the first Englishmen I had brought down alive. That’s why I particularly enjoyed chatting to them. Among other things, I asked them if they had ever seen my aircraft in the air. ‘Oh yes,’ said one of them, “I know it very well. We call it “le petit rouge”.” Now comes a real English – in my eyes – vulgarity. He asked me why I had behaved so carelessly before landing. The reason was that I couldn’t help it. Then the rogue said he had tried to shoot at me in the last three hundred metres, but had jammed. I gave him the benefit of the doubt – he accepted it and then repaid me with a sneaky ambush. Since then, I haven’t been able to speak to any of my opponents again, for one obvious reason.”

“After two days – we were sitting comfortably at the Boelcke fighter squadron and celebrating my farewell – a telegram arrived from headquarters to say that Your Majesty had had the good grace to award me the Pour le mérite. Of course I was delighted. It was a plaster on the previous one. * I hadn’t imagined it would be as nice to lead a hunting squadron as it turned out to be in reality. I never dreamed that there would one day be a Richthofen fighter squadron.”

“A big day for us. I was woken up at seven o’clock in the morning by a telegram. I opened it with hesitation and not without the oppressive feeling that telegrams now instil in us during war. I read, while my hands trembled: “H.M. the Emperor has awarded Lieutenant von Richthofen the Order Pour le Mérite. Jagstaffel Boelcke.” That was marvellous! That was marvellous! I still don’t have the details. I only know that he defeated 16 Englishmen in aerial combat and that this number puts him at the top of Germany’s fighter pilots. What a comrade once jokingly called out to him on his departure from Russia came true: ‘Don’t come back without the Pour le Mérite!’ My great joy drove me to telephone all my relatives about the event. Ilse gave a punchbowl in her military hospital for her fosterlings and the six sisters. She read out the telegram and gave a Kaiserhoch. – One of the soldiers immediately stood up and raised a toast to Manfred and, of course, to Sister Ilse. The following days brought many lovely letters, congratulations and telegrams. The neighbourhood, the whole of Sweidnitz rejoices with us, everyone talks about him; we don’t go into any shop without being congratulated. All eyes are on him, and how many prayers accompany him!”

“Kofl 6th Army Weekly Activity Report:

Organisational changes: On 20 January 1917, Lt. Frhr. v. Richthofen (Jagdstaffel Boelcke) took over command of Jagdstaffel 11. The previous commander of Jagdstaffel 11, Oberlt. Lang, took over command of Fighter Squadron 28 with the 4th Army on the same day.

Special note: Lt. Frh. v. Richthofen, Fighter Squadron 11, was awarded the Pour le Mérite medal on 21 January 1917 for successfully shooting down 16 enemy aircraft.”

“Combat Report: 1610 hrs, above trenches south-west of Lens. No details, plane fell on the enemy’s side.

About 1610 I attacked, together with seven of my planes, enemy squadron, west of Lens. The plane I had singled out caught fire after 150 shots, fired from a distance of 50 metres. The plane fell, burning. Occupant fell out of plane at 500 metres height. Immediately after the plane had crashed on the ground, I could see a heavy black smoke cloud rising. The plane burnt for quite a while with frequent flares of flame. Weather: fine all day.”

“Just to show them how it was done, he led them over the English lines for the first time on January 23d and ‘knocked down’ the first victim to be registered on the unit’s victory book. For Richthofen it was his seventeenth ‘kill’. At dinner time, when his twelve officers gathered around the mess table ,he explained the technique of his first demonstration, called attention to some flying blunders his pupils had made, and answered their questions. At the close of the meal and the lecture the Flying Uhlan and his disciples retired to their quarters with the knowledge that they were ‘going over’ again in the morning.”

“Kofl 6th Army Weekly Activity Report:

Air combat successes: On 23 January, 1 English aircraft shot down by Lt. Frh. von Richthofen, J. St. 11, over Lens and crashed beyond the line. (17th Air Force)”

“Victory 18 and emergency landing after loss of upper wing

Combat Report: 1215 hrs, west of Vimy. Fixed motor: Plane No. 6937; Motor No. 748. Occupants: Pilot – Captain Craig. (Obs) Lieutenant McLennan.

Accompanied by Feldwebel (Hans) Howe, I attacked, at about 1215, the commanding plane of an enemy formation. After a long fight I forced my adversary to land near Vimy. The occupants burnt their plane after landing. I myself had to land, as one wing had cracked at 300 metres. I was flying an Albatros DIII. According to the English crew, my red painted plane is not unknown to them, as when being asked who had brought them down, they answered: “Le petit rouge”. Two machine guns have been seized by my Staffel. The plane was not worth removing as it was completely burned. Weather: fine all day.”

“Kofl 6th Army Weekly Activity Report:

On 23 January, 1 English F.e. DD. 160 hp. Forced to land by Lt. Frh. von Richthofen, J. St. 11, near Vimy. (18 aircraft) Crew of 2 English officers captured, aircraft burned.”

‘…After my return I found a letter in which Manfred informed me that he was leaving his ’dear Jagdstaffel Boelcke” to take over as leader of Jagdstaffel 11 in Douai. The number of his kills has risen to 18. When he downed the last opponent, he almost became a victim himself. At an altitude of 300 metres, one of his wings broke off; miraculously, he reached the ground. ‘Unfortunately, I am not allowed to go on holiday,’ he wrote at the end, ‘I would have loved to show you the Pour le mérite.’ He was still able to rejoice from the bottom of his heart, he was not yet jaded, still completely unspoilt. He was 24 years old!”

“Dear Mum!

You are surely wondering why I haven’t written. So much has happened in the meantime that I don’t know what to write first. I have become commander of Fighter Squadron 11 in Douai. I was reluctant to leave my fighter squadron Boelcke. All my resistance was to no avail.
Squadron 11 has been in existence for as long as my old one, but it has not shot down anyone yet, and I am not enjoying the work very much at the moment. The officer corps under my command consists of twelve men. I was lucky. On the first day, I shot down No. 17, and on the second, No. 18. When I shot down my eighteenth, my wing broke during the dogfight. Miraculously, I made it back to earth without crashing. On the same day, three aircraft from Boelcke’s fighter squadron were shot down, including the nice little Immelmann – what a shame! It is not impossible that the same thing happened to them as happened to me. Unfortunately, I am not allowed to come on leave, I would have liked to show you the Pour le Mérite.”

“Combat Report: 1600 hrs. BE two-seater No. 6742. Over trenches, one kilometer south-west of Thelus. Occupants: Lieutenant Murray – Lieut McBar, both wounded and died 2 Feb.

About 1600 I spotted, flying with Leutnant Allmenröder, at 1.800 metres altitude, an artillery flyer. I managed to approach him within 50 yards apparently unnoticed, with my Halberstadt machine. From this distance, up to only the length of a plane, I fired 150 shots. The enemy plane then went down in large, uncontrolled right-hand curves, pursued by Allmenröder and myself. The plane crashed into the barbed wire of our front lines. The occupants were both wounded and were made prisoners by the infantry. It is impossible to remove the plane. Weather: overcast morning, but fine for the remainder of the day.”

“English and French flying (February 1917) At the moment I am endeavouring to compete with the Boelcke fighter squadron. In the evenings we show each other the route. But they are devilish fellows over there. You can never beat them. At the very most, you can match the squadron. They’re already a hundred ahead. I have to give them that lead. It depends a lot on which opponent you’re facing, whether you’re up against the lurid French or the dashing fellows, the English. I prefer the English. The French pinch, the English rarely do. You can often even speak of stupidity here; they probably call it bravado. The beauty of the fighter pilot is that he doesn’t depend on any tricks, but only on personal courage. Someone can be a marvellous dive and loop pilot. That doesn’t mean he has to shoot anyone down. In my opinion, it’s all about going for it, and that’s what we Germans are good at. That’s why we will always reign supreme in the air. It suits the French to ambush and ambush another. [111]That is difficult to do in the air. Only a beginner can be taken by surprise. You can’t ambush someone because you can’t hide, and the invisible aeroplane hasn’t been invented yet. Every now and then, the Gallic blood in him will flare up. Then he goes on the attack; but it’s probably like a fizzy lemonade. For a moment, he has an awful lot of courage, which disappears just as quickly. He lacks the tenacity to hold out. The Englishman, on the other hand, still shows some of his Germanic blood from time to time. The sportsman is also very fond of flying, but they lose themselves too much in the sporting aspect. They have enough fun doing loops, dives, flying upside down and similar jokes for our people in the trenches. This probably makes an impression at the Johannisthal Sports Week, but the trench is not as grateful as this audience. It demands more. It should always rain English pilot blood.”

“Twenty minutes after the pilot and his observer, both mortally wounded, were dragged from their airplane, a Canadian artillery battery blew it to splinters to deny it to the Germans. Its crew died the next day.”

“Kofl 6th Army Weekly Activity Report:

On 1 February 1917, an English B.E. two-seater was shot down 1 km south-west of Thelus by Lt. Frh. v. Richthofen, leader of J. St. 11 (as 19th). Crew: Pilot Captain Murray, observer Lt. McBar dead. Affiliation cannot be determined.”

“It’s still early, the house is still asleep, the bitter cold makes you feel good in bed. I think I heard a ringing. I switch on the light, the clock points to seven o’clock in the morning. The door opens quickly and Manfred is standing in front of my net, fresh and happy, not a trace of tiredness after the long night’s journey. The blue star glitters on his neck – the Pour le mérite. I take his hand and say, as if praising the boy: ‘Bravo, you’ve done well, Manfred.’ And ask: “How did you get in? Was the garden gate already open?” No, it wasn’t, but that didn’t matter. The Knight of the Order pour le mérite had climbed over the fence. Let’s get to breakfast as quickly as possible, for morning coffee. No war brew, please! We scrape together a handful of coffee beans. They had been saved for a particularly festive occasion. That hour has now arrived. An inexhaustible flow of questions and stories begins. You can’t tell Manfred is tired! He looks fresher than ever. I watch him with pride. His face, it seems to me, has become even more closed. A willful face. But the amiable, well-cut mouth still has its charm. ‘Where have you been, Manfred?’ – An awkward, unpleasant thing. Recently, there had been a lot of cases of wings breaking off German planes in the air. He wanted to draw the attention of the responsible authorities in Berlin to this design fault. (Or was it perhaps a weakness in the material?) Manfred told us and we listened intently. His enemies called his aircraft ‘Le petit rouge’ because he had painted it bright red. I thought that was reckless, but he said: ‘You can’t make yourself invisible in the air, so at least they’ll recognise me.’ A beautiful image came to me at that moment. Didn’t Dietrich von Bern once also wear a fiery red shield? And didn’t people associate it with courage and strength? When evening came, it became even cosier. The thermometer outside showed a chilly 23 degrees. The rooms in the house were only moderately warm, but the large wood-burning stove in the outer room provided cosy warmth. So we sat down in a circle around it and listened to our air hero with undivided attention, even though the clock hand was slowly approaching midnight. What Manfred told us in his simple, straightforward manner was like the hymn of the fighter pilot. Solitary pride and chivalry – even among the British opponents; just as that Major Hawker, the British Immelmann, waved and smiled at Manfred in the frenzy of battle before the machine gun sheaf tore him out of the air. That was an attitude worthy of the old England and testified to the fine spirit of the Royal Flying Corps. I was less pleased with the behaviour of the eighteenth opponent that Manfred defeated before one of his wings broke. He hit the English aircraft hard, but gave the two occupants a break and was content to force them to make an emergency landing. He then had bad luck with his aircraft and only just managed to come down in a slow glide. When he spoke to the two prisoners after landing, they said that they would have shot at him when he landed if they hadn’t jammed… The good stove really means well. It holds us close with its warmth. The wind blows round the house. We have another cup of tea; a bowl of rum is on the table. Manfred has taken out a Berlin newspaper with yesterday’s date and hands it to us. It says that he shot down his nineteenth opponent. A late surprise, just before midnight. I can’t resist asking a question that perhaps wasn’t well thought out. “Why do you risk your life like this every day? Why are you doing this, Manfred?” He looks at me, seriousness written all over his face. ‘For the man in the trenches,’ he says simply. ‘I want to ease his hard lot, keep enemy planes away from him.’ And he is now talking about the simple soldier in the front of the trench, about the great, heroic passion of the stranger with his renunciate fighting and dying. His words are compelling, they make us see. The grey brother in the earth rises to the light. The many that no army report mentions by name. We look into their earth-coloured faces, which are as full of runes as there are days in war. The smoke of the material battle passes over them, the rumble of the guns is as if ingrown in their ears…For a moment, however, a sound is stronger than the roar of the artillery, it swells and roars like an organ and jerks their heads upwards – a German fighter plane, which has just been circling in the Elder Blue and sent an enemy to earth in the smoke of fire, shoots over the foremost positions. His fuselage is blood red. It sweeps low over the German trench – a roaring salute to you down there! – before it throws itself again, a shining arrow, against the blue disc of the sky and disappears. But those below, on their firing benches, behind their sandbags and breastplates, follow the red airman with their eyes as long as they can, the cry of enthusiasm still on their half-open lips… That night I understood what the essence of the fighter pilot is and what enabled these young people, who had barely outgrown their youth, to perform feats that made death a shadow.”

“The army might be on the defensive, and the Air Service, too, but not Richthofen. He spent the first two weeks of February going over tactics with his squadron and meeting with its members one at the time to discuss their mistakes. He was developing Bölcke’s ability to see almost everything around him during a fight, even when he was engaged, and he remembered what he saw. There was no excuse for not continuously looking behind, he warned Jasta 11, and any pilot returning with holes in his tail had to have a good explanation. There was no truth, however, to stories circulated later that even a single hole in a scout’s tale was reason for Richthofen to have its pilot transferred. He was nonetheless taken at his word. Returning from one fight, a Jasta 11 pilot with a generous scattering of bullet holes faked engine trouble and landed at another squadron’s field, where the holes were patched before he continue home. Pilots did not generally adore Richthofen the way they had Bölcke, and he knew it. But he also knew that they respected him, and his schooling told him that that was enough. He made it a rule never to ask pilots to do something that he would not do, and he took satisfaction in knowing that they knew that, too.”

“Combat Report: 1200 hrs. BE two-seater. Lens-Hulloch road, west of Loos. Occupants: one killed, the other severely wounded. Name of pilot: Lieutenant Bonnet (died). No details concerning plane, as wreckage landed in the fire zone.

After flying back from a conference with Jasta Boelcke, I spotted an enemy artillery flyer at a height of 2.000 metres, west of Loos. I attacked the enemy and approached him unnoticed to some 50 metres. After several hundred shots, the plane dashed down, falling into our trenches. The pilot was killed in the air, observer seriously injured when landing. Weather: fine.”

“(probably) Capt. George Cyril Bailey DSO (WIA); 2/Lt. George William Betts Hampton (unhurt).aircraft actually returned to base safely.

Combat Report: 1645 hrs, BE two-seater. Station, 1.500 metres south-west of Mazingarbe. No details, as plane landed on enemy’s side.

About 1645 I attacked with my Staffel of five planes, artillery flyers, at low altitude near Lens. Whilst my gentlemen attacked a second BE, I attacked the one flying nearest to me. After the first 100 shots the observer stopped shooting. The plane began to smoke and twisted in uncontrolled curves to the right. As this result was not satisfactory to me, especially over the enemy’s line, I shot at the falling plane until the left part of the wings came off. As the wind was blowing at a velocity of 20 yards a second, I had been drifting far over to the enemy’s side. Therefore, I could observe that the enemy plane touched the ground south-west of Mazingarbe. I could see a heavy cloud of smoke in the snow arising from where the plane was lying. As it was foggy and already rather dark, I have no witnesses either from the air or from the ground. Weather: fine, misty later.”

“Again Richthofen was flying a Halberstadt, and, as stated, had been visiting his old Jasta 2 (Boelcke) at Lagnicourt and was on his way back to Brayelles, via the front.”

“He said in his report that the pilot had been killed in the air and the observer seriously wounded when the B.E.2 crashed into German trenches. The opposite was true. Second Lieutenant H. A. Croft, the observer, was probably killed instantly. But the pilot, Lieutenant C. D. Bennett, fractured the base of his skull in the crash, erasing all memory of his encounter with Richthofen. He eventually became a London businessman, but forever lost the events of February 14, 1917.”

“Kofl 6th Army Weekly Activity Report:

1 o’clock N. an English DD two-seater, east of Loos within our lines by Lt. Frhr.v.Richthofen (20th).”

“Kofl 6th Army Weekly Activity Report:

In addition, at 5 o’clock N., another English aircraft in Loosbagen, beyond the lines (as 21), was shot down by Lt. Frhr. von Richthofen.”

“To the Commander of the Sixth Army air forces:

The adversary often slips downward over one wing or lets himself fall like a dead leaf in order to shake off an attack. In order to stick to one adversary, one must on no account follow his tactics, as one has no control over the machine when falling like a dead leaf.

Should the adversary, however, attempt to evade attack by such tricks, one must dash down (sturzflug) without losing sight of the enemy plane.

When falling like a dead leaf, or intentionally falling wing over wing, the best pilot loses control of his machine for a second or two, therefore, it is a manoeuvre to be avoided.

Looping the loop is worse than worthless in air fighting. Each loop is a great mistake. If one has approached an adversary too close, a loop only offers a big advantage to the adversary. Change of speed should be relied on to maintain the position desired, and this is best effected by giving more or less gas.

The best method of flying against the enemy is as follows: The officer commanding the group, no matter how large, should fly lowest, and should keep all machines under observation by turning and curving.

No machine should be allowed either to advance or to keep back. More or less, the whole squadron should advance curving. Flying straight on above the front is dangerous, as even machines of the same type of plane develop different speeds. Surprises can be avoided only when flying in close order. The commanding officer is responsible that neither he nor any of his pilots are surprised by the enemy. If he cannot see to that, he is no good as a leader.”

“As he told an officer from the General Staff: “I have never had anything to do with ‘Kanonen’, that is, with combat-proven, experienced airmen. Only with beginners. I do not always receive … I request; it is not the way it is generally imagined. My gentlemen always come fresh out of flying school. I clearly emphasize that, first, they must be under my leadership, here in my Staffel…The most important elements of flying, in my view, are skill in taking off and landing, and the personal courage with which a man goes after the enemy. To me, it is a thousand times better to have a daring fellow who might have difficulty making a left turn, but who goes hell bent for leather after the enemy than the most elegant Johannisthal airshow airman whom I cannot bring over the Front. We need daredevils, not aerial acrobats.”

Citing the lessons of his own experience, Richthofen continued: “I once flew with a gentleman who tore through dashing turns and made an absolutely marvellous impression. But in aerial combat, it seemed to me that he did not go after the enemy so smartly. And once when I was working with him, paying special attention to him – he was gone. I was in a damned tight spot and shot down an enemy, but got away by a hair. When I returned home, he reported to me that the moment the fight began he became so ill that he had to break off immediately. You could tell that when you looked at him. Aerial combat requires a special kind of nerve. ‘The I ask that you disappear immediately. I cannot use people who leave their comrades in the lurch. And when you feel sick, then you damned well better tell us at once.” There are , of course, always people who try to delay things and think: no one will take any notice of it.”

“…It turned out to be a cosy few hours after all. Lothar feels so comfortable at home; he’s a ‘family man’. The next day I invited him for coffee with some juices. We talked a lot about Manfred. He is his role model, his mentor. He didn’t talk much about his own plans. But I know him: when there was talk of aerial combat, something often flashed in his strange eyes, like on the eve of the declaration of war when we were sitting in Sopot. He probably already saw himself in a fighter plane, eye to eye with the enemy. I thought of what Manfred wrote: ‘Lothar has developed brilliantly as an aeroplane pilot…’ And I know his grit, it is in no way inferior to Manfred’s; perhaps he is more impulsive, more sudden…”

“Lothar von Richthofen recalled his brother’s early combat missions with Karl Allmenröder and Kurt Wolff:

“At the time both had no experience at all and in aerial combat beginners have more fear than love of the Fatherland. In the first days, my brother flew out with them, attacked numerous British, and his machine received an enormous number of hits, without successes to make up for it, and both of them did not help. Of course my brother came back somewhat annoyed, but did not reproach them; on the contrary, he did not say a word about it. As Wolff and Allmenröder…told me, that influenced them more than the harshest dressing-down.”

In preparing his pilots for battle, Richthofen set an example of personal conduct that also contributed to their future success as fighters and leaders in their own right. He had a good sense of awareness of his role as Staffelführer; he did not attempt to be ‘one of the boys’, indulging in much singing and carousing in off-duty hours, but he enjoyed a good joke and some moderate drinking. He smoked an occasional cigarette, but otherwise looked after his personal health. As there were no night-fighter operations at that time, Manfred von Richthofen went to bed early – usually before 2200 – to ensure that he was rested and in top form the following morning. He was cordial to officers and enlisted men alike; indeed, he urged his pilots to remain on good terms with the mechanics who maintained their aircraft.”

“From time to time, Jasta leaders would be summoned to conferences to discuss the changing circumstances at the front. This particular gathering was at the Jastaschule at Famars. Richthofen is sixth from the left in his fur coat. A number of well-known faces can be picked out and in particular the officer at the back in the light-coloured cap, 7th from the right. This is Karl Bolle, commanding Jasta 2 Boelcke. Josef Mai of Jasta 5 stands in the doorway, left hand side.”

“The English single-seater pilots always fly in squad formation when on pursuit work. Reconnoitering and artillery fire is also now carried on by squads of two-seater machines, sometimes containing as many as twenty machines. Many English airmen try to win advantages by flying tricks while engaged in fighting, but, as a rule, it is just these reckless and useless stunts that lead them to their deaths.

When flying in large squads, the English planes keep close together in order to be able to come one another’s assistance at any given moment. When attacked, they maintain even closer formation. If an English plane which has fallen behind is attacked, the first planes of the enemy formation make left and right turns and hurry to its assistance. After the rest of the formation has passed them, they close up the rear as the last planes.”

“aircraft actually returned to base safely.

Combat Report: 1250 hrs, one kilometre north of Loos. BE two-seater. Details unknown, plane fell on enemy’s side.

I had started all by myself and was just looking for my Staffel when I spotted a single BE. My first attack was apparently a failure as my adversary tried to escape by curves and dives. After having forced my adversary downwards from 2.800 to 1.200 metres, he imagined himself safe and flew straight on once more. I took advantage of this, put myself behind him and fired some 500 shots at him. My adversary dived, but in such a steep way that I could not follow. According to our infantry observations, the plane crashed to the ground in front of our trenches. Weather: fine.”

“Kofl 6th Army Weekly Activity Report:

12.50 Afternoon. 1st Fdl. B.E. DD north of Loos by Lt.Frh.v.Richthofen, Leader J.St. 11.”

“Combat Report: 1620 hrs, Acheville. Sopwith two-seater. Occupants: Lieutenant W Reid and Lieutenant H Green, both killed, buried by local command at Bois Bernard.

Accompanied by five of my planes, I attacked an enemy squadron above Acheville. The Sopwith I had singled out flew for quite a while in my fire. After the 400th shot, plane lost a wing whilst making a curve. Machine hurtled downwards. It is not worth while to have plane taken back, as parts are all over Acheville and surroundings. Two machine guns were seized by my Staffel. (One Lewis gun No. 20024 and one Maxim (Vickers) gun L7500) Weather:fine.”

“Kofl 6. Armee Weekly Activity Report:

4.20 Nach. 1 fdl. Sopwith bei Acheville durch Lt. Frh.v.Richthofen (als23)”

“Combat Report: 1700 hrs, BE two-seater. Souchez. Details unknown, as plane landed on enemy’s side.

Together with Leutnant Allmenröder, I attacked two enemy artillery flyers at a low altitude over the other side (of the lines). The wings of the plane I attacked came off; it dashed down and smashed on the ground. Weather: fine.”

‘Shot down myself (mid-March 1917) Shot down is actually the wrong term for what happened to me today. I generally only call someone who falls down shot down, but today I recovered and came down in one piece. I’m in the squadron and see an enemy who is also flying in the squadron. He’s over our artillery position in the Lens area. I still have a long way to fly before I reach the area. It’s the most thrilling moment, the approach to the enemy, when you can already see the enemy and still have a few minutes before the fight starts. I think I always go a bit pale in the face then, but unfortunately I’ve never had a mirror with me. I like that moment because it’s really exciting and I love that kind of thing. You watch the enemy from afar, recognise the squadron as hostile, count the enemy aircraft, weigh up the unfavourable and favourable moments. For example, it plays a huge role whether the wind pushes me away from my front or towards my front in battle. I once shot down an [113]Englishman whom I had shot dead on the other side of the enemy lines, and he fell by our tethered balloons, that’s how far the storm had pushed him over. There were five of us, the enemy was three times as strong. The English flew around like a huge swarm of gnats. It’s not easy to break up a swarm that flies so well together, it’s impossible for a single person and extremely difficult for several, especially when the differences in numbers are as unfavourable as in our case. But you feel so superior to your opponent that you don’t doubt your certain success for a moment. The attacking spirit, i.e. the offensive, is the main thing, as everywhere, so also in the air. But the opponent thought the same. I was to realise that straight away. As soon as he saw us, he immediately turned round and attacked us. That meant for us five men: Watch out! If one of us hangs around, he could get dirty. We also closed ranks and let the men come a little closer. I watched out to make sure that one of the brothers didn’t stand out from the others. There – one of them is so stupid. I can reach him. ‘You’re a lost child.’ At him with a roar. Now I’ve reached him, or I have to reach him. He’s already starting to shoot, so he’s a bit nervous. I thought to myself: ‘Just shoot, you won’t hit him after all!’ He shot with a tracer round, which visibly flew past me. I felt like I was in the cone of a watering can. Not pleasant, but the English almost always shoot with this nasty stuff, so you have to get used to it. Man is a creature of habit, because at that moment I think I was laughing. But I was soon to be proved wrong. Now I’m almost all the way there, about a hundred metres, the rifle’s safety is off, I aim once more, take a few test shots, the rifles are fine. It can’t be long now. In my mind’s eye, I can already see my opponent plummeting. The excitement from earlier is over. I think calmly and objectively, weighing up the chances of him and me hitting the target. The fight itself is the least exciting thing in most cases, and anyone who gets excited is making a mistake. He will never shoot one. It’s also probably a matter of habit. In any case, I didn’t make a mistake in this case. Now I’m within fifty metres, a few good shots and I’m bound to succeed. That’s what I thought. But all of a sudden there’s a big bang, I’ve barely got ten shots out before there’s another bang in my machine. I realise I’ve been hit. At least my machine, not me personally. At the same moment there’s a terrible smell of petrol and the engine dies down. The Englishman realises it, because now he fires all the more. I have to let off immediately. It goes straight down. Involuntarily I switched off the engine. It was high time. When the petrol tank is full of holes and the stuff is spraying around your legs like that, the danger of burning is great. You’re looking at an explosive engine with over one hundred and fifty horses, so it’s red-hot. One drop of petrol and the whole machine is on fire. I leave a white streak in the air. I know it exactly from my opponent. These are the signs of the explosion. I’m still three thousand metres up, so I still have a long way to go before I reach the ground. Thank God the engine stops running. I can’t calculate the speed the aeroplane will reach. In any case, it’s so high that I can’t stick my head out without being pushed backwards by the wind. I soon get rid of the enemy and now have time to see what my four other masters are doing before I come down to earth. They are still fighting. You can hear the enemy’s machine-gun fire and that of your own. Suddenly a rocket. Is it the enemy’s flare? But no. It’s too big for that. [116]It’s getting bigger and bigger. Someone is on fire. But what kind? The machine looks exactly like ours. Thank God, it’s an enemy. Who could have shot it down? Immediately afterwards, a second aircraft drops out of the squadron, similar to me, vertically downwards, even rolls over, still rolling over – there – now it has caught itself. Flying straight towards me. Another albatross. It must have had the same fate as me. I’m probably still a few hundred metres up and have to look around carefully to see where I want to land. Because a landing like this usually involves a break. And such a break is not always favourable, so – watch out. I find a meadow, not very big, but it’s just enough if you’re careful. It’s also in a favourable location, right on the main road near Hénin-Liétard. That’s where I want to land. Everything goes smoothly. My first thought is: where is the other one? He lands a few kilometres away from me. I now have time to inspect the damage. There are a few hits in it, but the hit that made me call off the fight is one through both petrol tanks. I haven’t got a drop of petrol left in it, the engine is shot as well. Pity about him, he was still running so well. I let my legs dangle out of the engine and must have made a pretty foolish [117] face. A large crowd of soldiers immediately gathered around me. Here comes an officer. He’s completely out of breath. Very excited! Something terrible must have happened to him. He rushes towards me, gasps for air and asks: ‘I hope nothing’s happened to you? I’ve been watching the whole thing and I’m so excited! Jesus, that looked terrible!’ I assured him that nothing was wrong with me, jumped down and introduced myself. Of course he didn’t understand a word of my name. But he asked me to drive his car to nearby Hénin-Liétard, where his quarters were.  It was a pioneer officer. We’re already in the car and are just pulling up. My host still hasn’t calmed down. Suddenly he is startled and asks: ‘Jesus, where’s your driver?’ At first I didn’t really know what he meant and looked at him a bit confused. Then I realised that he thought I was the observer of a two-seater plane and was asking for my driver. I quickly composed myself and said dryly: ‘I’m travelling alone.’ The word ‘drive’ is frowned upon in the air force. You don’t drive, you ‘fly’. In the good gentleman’s eyes, the fact that I was ‘driving’ alone had made me visibly sink. The conversation became somewhat brittle. [We arrived at his quarters. I am still wearing my dirty oilskin jacket and a thick scarf. On the way, of course, he bombarded me with endless questions. The whole gentleman was much more excited than I was. He forced me to lie down on a sofa, or wanted to do so on the grounds that I must still be quite upset from my fight. I assured him that I had sometimes fought in the air, but he didn’t want to think about it. I certainly didn’t look very warlike. After some conversation, of course, he comes up with the famous question: ‘Have you ever shot one down?’ As I said, he hadn’t heard my name. ‘Oh yes,’ I said, ’from time to time.’ ‘So – so you’ve shot down two?’ ‘No, but twenty-four.’ He smiled, repeated his question and said that by ‘shot down’ he meant one that had fallen down and stayed down. I assured him that was my understanding of it too. Now I was all down in the dumps, because now he thought I was a mighty braggart. He left me sitting there and told me that dinner would be served in an hour, and if it was all right with me, I could eat with him. So I took him up on his offer and slept soundly for an hour. Then we went over to the [119]casino. Here I undressed and fortunately had my Pour le mérite on. Unfortunately, there was no uniform jacket underneath, just a waistcoat. I apologise for not being better dressed, and suddenly my good chief discovers the Pour le mérite on me. He is speechless with astonishment and assures me that he doesn’t know my name. I told him my name again. Now it seemed to dawn on him that he had probably heard of me before. I was now given oysters and champagne to drink and was actually living quite well until Schäfer finally came and picked me up in my car. He told me that Lübbert had once again honoured his nickname. He was known among us as ‘Bullet Catcher’, because his aeroplane was badly battered in every dogfight. Once it had sixty-four hits without him being wounded. This time he had been grazed in the chest and was already in hospital. I flew his plane straight to the harbour. Unfortunately, this outstanding officer, who had the potential to become a Boelcke, died a hero’s death for his country a few weeks later. In the evening I can tell my host from Hénin-Liétard that I have completed a quarter of a hundred today.’

06-Mar-17: Lt E L Benbow in FE8 A4871, an Albatros scout in flames. RFC Communique No 24 states: Lt E L Benbow, 40 Squadron, drove down a hostile machine which also fell in flames near Givenchy.

“While Manfred von Richthofen achieved his 24th victory on the afternoon of 6 March, her very nearly did not survive the morning. As he recorded in both his book and in a letter home, he was shot down at this time. The date has never been clear, some historians opting for 9 March, but it seems more feasible for the date to haven been 6 March. Both days and both actions involved the FE8s of 40 Squadron, but Richthofen mentions Lens as the area. 40 Squadron had a fight with enemy aircraft east of Loos on the ninth at 0930 hrs (1030 German time). However, their fight on the sixth (at 1050, 1150 German time) was above Givenchy-en-Gohelle on the other side of Lens, a more viable location. On 6 March, Sopwiths of 43 Squadron were attacked by Jasta 11 and 40 Squadron came to their aid. Von Richthofen was in the thick of it and closed in on one opponent, but in doing so he momentarily failed to look behind. He suddenly heard a tremendous bang just after he had commenced firing. He knew at once his machine had been hit and thne came a terrefic stench of petrol – his tank had been shot through. He dived away rapidly and shut off his engine, petrol squirting about his legs and feet. Looking back he saw he was leaving a white trail as the petrol vaporised. As he went down, the fight continued above and he then saw a British aircraft falling in flames, one of 43 Squadron going down (A978 shot down by Schäfer). Then he saw a German fighter spin down but the pilot righted his craft and made for a landing. Richthofen landed near Henin Liétard and took time to inspect the damage. Both fuel tanks had been drained of fuel and his engine had been damaged. He had been lucky the Halberstadt had not caught fire. The other Halberstadt he’d seen coming down was flown by Leutnant Eduard Lübbert, who’d been slighly wounded by a glancing shot to the chest but he got down safely. He would be killed on the 30th. Who had shot down von Richthofen? Two 40 Squadron pilots put in combat reports, the same Lieutenant E L Benbow (A4871) who’d been in the fight of 23 January when John Hay had been killed, and Captain Robert Gregory (6384). Benbow had fired a burst at 50 to 20 yards into a machine painted mostly green. He had then zoomed and on looking back saw a machine go down in flames. However, he does not say it was his victim, and may have been the Strutter going down. Captain Bob Gregory, meanwhile, had attacked a Halberstadt and seen his bullets going into the enemy fighter which then dived vertically – and fast. Obviously one of these had attacked von Richthofen. Benbow was credited with one hostile aircraft in flames, Gregory with an ‘out of control’ victory. If Benbow thought the Halberstadt trailing white smoke was a ‘flamer’ then that might haven been von Richthofen, while Gregory had wounded Lübber. There were no other Jasta 11 losses. Previous suggestions that it had been 9 March, a day 40 Squadron had lost three FE8s and had another pilot wounded, were wrong; it was not this action (fought at around 1020 German time) although it had been Jasta 11 who had got them: Schäfer two, Allmenröder and Wolff one each. It has also been said that von Richthofen had been brought down in this latter action, then rushed back to base, flown another aeroplane and shot down Pearson of 29 Squadron; these events do not conform to the fact that Richthofen clearly recorded that after he’d been brought down he had a sleep, then had lunch with the front line troops before going back to base. As Pearson was shot down at 1020 German time, this would not fit with von Richthofen’s known movements.”

“Kofl 6. Armee Weekly Activity Report:

5.0 Nach. 1 fdl. F.E. Zweisitzer bei souchez durch Lt.Frhr.v.Richthofen (als24)”

“…Manfred’s victory curve is rising steeply. I am experiencing all of this, but – how could it be otherwise! – there is also enough anxiety and worry in my thoughts. I know only too well how often the death of the fighter pilot is the last pilot. Nevertheless, my heart beats faster every time another of Manfred’s victories appears on the roll of honour. On 8 March it was the twenty-fifth, and I couldn’t sleep for excitement as I only received the telegram at half past ten in the evening.”

“Combat Report: 1155 hrs, Vickers one-seater. No. on tail AMC 3425a. Between Roclincourt and Bailleul, this side of the line, 500 metres behind trenches. Occupant: Not recognisable, as completely burnt.

With three of my planes I attacked several enemy planes. The machine I had singled out soon caught fire and dashed downwards after firing 100 shots. The plan is lying on our side, but cannot be salvaged as it is nearly completely burned and too near the front. Weather: low clouds and snowstorms all day.”

“Kofl 6. Armee Weekly Activity Report:

12.00 Mitt. 1 fdl. Vickers-Einsitzer bei Roclincourt durch Lt.Freiherr von Richthofen, Führer von J.ST. 11 (als25.)”

“Combat Report: 1200 hrs, BE two-seater, south of La Folie Wood, near Vimy. Occupants: Lieutenant Byrne and Lieutenant Smythe, 40 Squadron. Both killed. Plane No. 6232, details of motor not at hand, as motor dashed into earth; cannot be dug up as locality under heaviest artillery fire. I had lost my squad, and was flying alone, and had been observing for some time an enemy artillery flyer. In a favourable moment I attacked the BE machine, and after 200 shots the body of the machine broke in half. The plane fell smoking into our lines. The plane is lying near the forest of La Folie west of Vimy, only a few paces behind the trenches. Weather: fine in morning; cloudy in afternoon.”

“Kofl 6. Armee Weekly Activity Report:

12.00 Mitt. 1 B.E. Zweisitzer bei Vimy diesseits unsere Linie durch Lt.Freherr von Richthofen (als26.).”

“Combat Report: 1130 hrs, Oppy, Vickers two-seater No. A3439. Motor No. 854. Machine guns: 19633 and 19901.

About 1130 I attacked with nine of my machines, an enemy squadron of 15 aircraft. During the fight I managed to force a Vickers two-seater aside, which I then, after 800 shots, brought down. In my machine gun fire the plane lost its open-work fuselage. The occupants were killed and were taken for burial by the local commander at Oppy. Weather: fine all day; ground mist early morning.”

“Combat Report: 1700 hrs, above trenches west of Vimy. BE two-seater. No details, as plane landed between the lines. I had spotted an enemy infantry flyer. Several attacks directed from above produced no results, especially as my adversary did not accept a fight and was protected from above by other machines. Therefore, I went down to 700 metres and attacked my adversary, who was flying at 900 metres, from below. After a short fight my opponent’s plane lost both wings and fell. The machine crashed into no-man’s land and was fired at by our infantry. Weather: fine all day; ground mist early morning.”

“Kofl 6. Armee Weekly Activity Report:

5.00 Nach. bei Souchez (jenseits) durch Lt. Frhr v. Richthofen (als 28.)”

“On 19 March, the army report showed the twenty-seventh and twenty-eighth, and the Silesian Provincial Diet sent a congratulatory telegram to the field: ‘We commemorate the heroic warrior, a son of our Silesian homeland, with pride and joy. 56th Provincial Diet. Duke of Ratibor.‘’

“Richthofen rarely saw his victims’ bodies. Orderlies were sent to the crash sites to get information necessary for reports and to collect souvenirs. Several days after his double victory of the 17th, however, he received a photo postcard showing the contorted body of the F.E.2 pilot, Lieutenant A. E. Boultbee, lying in the debris of his airplane. The inscription on the other side read: ‘Sir, I witnessed on March 17, 1917, your air fight, and took this photograph, which I send to you with hearty congratulations, because you seldom have the occasion to see your prey. Vivat sequens! (here’s to the next!) With fraternal greetings, Baron von Riezenstein, Colonel and Commander of the 87th Reserve Infantry Regiment’.”

“Combat Report: 1730 hrs, BE two-seater. Hill 123, north of Neuville. Plane details unknown, as plane came down on enemy’s territory. Message came through that enemy planes had been seen at 1.000 metres altitude in spite of bad weather and strong east wind. I went up by myself intending to bring down an infantry or artillery flyer. After one hour I spotted at 800 metres a large number of enemy artillery flyers beyond the lines. They sometimes approached our front, but never passed it. After several vain attempts I managed, half hidden by clouds, to take one of these BEs by surprise and to attack him at 600 metres, one kilometre beyond our lines. The adversary made the mistake of flying in a straight line when he tried to evade me, and thus he was just a wink too long in my fire (500 shots). Suddenly he made two uncontrolled curves and dashed, smoking, to the ground. The plane was completely ruined; it fell in section F.3. Weather: low clouds and rain during morning; clearing in places in the afternoon.”

“Kofl 6. Armee Weekly Activity Report:

5.25 nach bei Neuville (jenseits) durch Lt. Frhr.v.Richthofen (als 29.).”

‘A little flying story (end of March 1917) The name Siegfried position is probably known to every youngster in the German Empire. During the days in which we retreated against these positions, there was naturally also a lot of activity in the air. Although the enemy had already occupied our abandoned territory on the ground, we did not leave the air to the English so soon, thanks to Jagdstaffel Boelcke. The British were only very cautious in venturing out of their previous positional war in the air. This was the time when our dear Prince Friedrich Karl sacrificed his life for his fatherland. During a fighter flight of the Boelcke fighter squadron, Lieutenant Voss had defeated an Englishman in aerial combat. He was pushed to the ground by his conqueror and landed in what can probably be described as neutral territory. We had already left it, but the enemy had not yet occupied it. Only patrols, both English and German, were in this unoccupied zone. The English aeroplane was between the lines. The good Englishman had probably believed that this area was already occupied by his own, as he was entitled to do. But Voss was of a different opinion. Without further ado, he landed next to his victim. With great speed he removed the enemy machine guns and other useful parts from the machine and stowed them in his own, took a match, and in a few moments the machine was ablaze. A minute later, he waved friendly to the Englishmen streaming in from all sides from his victorious airborne steed.’

3947 Flt Sgt E P Critchley (Wia) & 12708 1/AM F Russell (Kia), 23 Sqn, FE2b A5485 – force landed Achiet-le-Grand after combat with HA during escort to photo reconnaissance; Ltn d R Werner Voss, Ja2, 21st victory [Vaulx – Morchies at 15:10]