On the Western Front

“When the young hero Boelcke fell, a deep mourning swept through the German people, accompanied by the feeling: ‘We will never see his like again.
‘ But the oath that the air force took at Boelcke’s grave to keep his spirit alive and to emulate him at all times with all their mental and physical strength, this oath they have faithfully kept.
From among his large number of students, new successful fighters have emerged, foremost among them the one whom the people have seen rise in recent months with an equally sudden flight to the heights of glory, who, like Boelcke, has formed a circle of brilliant comrades around him, imbued with the same spirit and spurred on by him to the most successful emulation.
I need not mention his name; everyone in the nation today cheers Baron von Richthofen, whom the Emperor recently made a cavalry captain. And today’s army report honourably highlights his entire fighter squadron, which yesterday shot down 14 of the 24 enemy aircraft shot down across the entire Western Front.
A happy coincidence led me to visit Richthofen’s fighter squadron as a guest on the evening of that very day.
It was already getting dark, so that evening I only saw the attractive officers’ mess, which a member of the squadron with an appreciation for art had carefully and tastefully decorated with wall coverings, carpets and pictures to make it cosy and comfortable.
The officers’ individual living rooms were similarly comfortably furnished.
Richthofen’s comrade showed me his apartment with particular pride. It was decorated with the trophies of his career, the coloured national insignia of the aircraft he had shot down and other parts of them. Hanging from the ceiling, cleverly converted into a multi-armed chandelier, was an enemy Gnome engine, and above the door was the machine gun of his most dangerous opponent, the English Major Hawker, who is said to have been one of the most successful English fighter pilots.
The cosiness of the home – which, incidentally, they have to defend against the constant danger of enemy bombing – is of no small importance. For only the most absolute control over one’s nerves, guaranteed by physical and mental well-being, makes it possible to meet the extraordinary demands of aerial combat.
It is a pleasure for the historian to see the same names of old families repeatedly appearing with distinction in the history of our people. To name but a few, the Bülow, Goeben, Alvensleben and other families are closely linked to Prussia’s wars and also to its life and character in other ways; anyone familiar with Fontane knows this.
The Richthofens have also meant a great deal to our people. Especially for the narrower Silesian landscape, where they have many branches. Until now, they have been less prominent in military matters than in other fields. Now, thanks to this young officer in front of me, that had also happened.
I looked at him with secret joy during dinner. Like Boelcke, he was of medium height and strongly built, his head with its arched forehead and Germanic light blue eyes – whose expression was strikingly reminiscent of Boelcke’s – amazed me with their almost rosy freshness of colour. There was no sign of the tremendous nervous tension associated with the daily life-and-death battles.
His whole demeanour was surprisingly calm, reserved, almost gentle, extremely pleasant and quite simple, without a shadow of boastfulness, even though the joyful pride in his young brilliance was evident in his soul – and his calmness would have been necessary if that had not been the case. Only his strongly defined chin perhaps betrayed the effect he had on those around him, who clearly looked up to their leader with a very peculiar mixture of cheerful camaraderie, enthusiastic admiration and absolute obedience…
When I asked him whether he attributed his successes to a special technique in aerial combat, he replied with a decisive no. He did not have anything like that. Of course, one had to master one’s machine, but he did not attach any importance to special aerobatics, surprise dives, loops and the like, nor did he encourage them in his squadron. ‘Go for it’ was all that mattered.
In aviation circles, I had previously heard that the physical basis for the successes of Boelcke and Immelmann was a peculiar ability of these two to survive sudden dives through large differences in altitude and thus air pressure, which would cause others to experience seconds of dizziness, without any disturbance of consciousness. They should therefore have been able to attack their opponents unexpectedly from above and shoot them down before they had time to assess their situation.

Richthofen smiled at this. He did not believe that Boelcke had a purely physical advantage over others due to a special physical resistance to atmospheric influences; Boelcke had in fact been asthmatic.
He himself was completely unfamiliar with the whole idea of clouding of consciousness due to rapid pressure differences; even during the greatest and fastest descents, he did not feel the slightest physical impairment.
During the conversation, I asked him whether he felt unusually excited or experienced a vibration of the entire nervous system after such aerial combat. ‘No,’ he said, ‘I can’t say that at all. At the end of a day when I’ve flown several times, I’m just dog-tired and long for my bed.’
He does indeed always go to bed very early. Even today, he did so before ten o’clock. Afterwards, his comrades, who were attached to their leader with a very peculiar and wonderful mixture of friendship, admiration and pride, told me a few things that they saw as the secret of his superiority.
Above all, he has a fabulous eye, which is nothing short of phenomenal. He always sees twice and three times as much and as sharply as the others. When no one else can yet see enemy aircraft in the distant sky, he spots them, their number and type, and his eye does not let them out of its sight in the shimmering air. This hunter’s eye also helps him with flying and shooting.
A second factor is his unbridled determination and tenacity. He always goes straight for the enemy he has set his sights on and does not let up until he has finished him off; the thought that he too could be hit does not seem to occur to him.
As with Boelcke, Richthofen’s effectiveness and value to us is not limited to his personal combat achievements, but he has also created a group of students and assistants in his squadron, whom he inspires to the highest achievements, imbued with the spirit of Boelcke.
In addition to the Boelcke fighter squadron, which was formed in August last year and has since carried on his name and done him honour, and which today – that is, on the day I am talking about – is far ahead of our fighter squadrons with 130 enemies shot down, the Richthofen fighter squadron has already risen to 70 since January.
Nine flying officers from the somewhat larger squadron were present today. All of them were very young, none apparently older than the leader, most of them appearing to be around 22 to 23 years old.
Among them, the one closest to the leader in flying glory was Lieutenant Schäfer, a tall and slender man who had defeated 16 enemies. Then there was the young, agile and humorous Lieutenant Wolff with 9. Recently, the leader had also accepted his younger brother, Lieutenant Freiherr Lothar von Richthofen, into his squadron and enjoyed flying with him.
Even those who had not yet achieved the same feats were unmistakably proud to belong to this squadron. It was actually a very strange impression, especially for me as a university lecturer who was used to seeing young men of this age as students, to observe this circle of young men here, who in their youthful appearance, in the fresh and harmless cheerfulness of their nature, in their jokes and their warmth, presented themselves as simple, cheerful, good boys, and who undoubtedly are just that – and yet at the same time they were admired heroes, each of whom had defeated more than one person in dangerous one-on-one combat high above the ground.
I realised one thing: it is precisely the great youth, who are in full possession of their nervous elasticity and only live and act, who can achieve what we see our fighter pilots achieve…
The characteristics they attributed to their French and English opponents were very different.
They seemed to hold the French pilots in lower esteem than the English ones. The French flew skilfully, but they were extremely cautious, and it was important to engage them in aerial combat or to surprise them.

Quite the opposite of the Englishman, who always and unconditionally accepts every challenge offered to him; in whose mind the thought that it could be otherwise seems impossible, often even when it would be downright foolish not to avoid it. English pilots are, across the board, extremely daring, often reckless, so that one must assume that they are subject to extremely strict discipline, or that they do not think much at all and simply go ahead when an order is given…
In the early morning of the 13th, frosty air and a cloudless sky stretched over the airfield and the wide plain. Flying weather! The cannon fire of the Battle of Arras had subsided in recent days; during the night there had only been occasional rumblings, even though we were only a few kilometres from the front, and this morning there was nothing to be heard in the clear, sun-drenched air. But the pilots squinted up at the shimmering blue sky, as if sensing something instinctively, and looked at their leader.
‘It’s going to rain today,’ they said and laughed. As we walked to the launch site, the low sheds and huts of the airfield glistened in the thawing frost as if freshly washed. At the edge of the open airfield, five biplanes stood in a row ready for take-off; a sixth, that of Baron von Richthofen, stood slightly forward to the side. They were all of the same type, short and squat and smaller than I had seen before.
And, what stood out even more from earlier times, they were all painted differently. From a distance, they looked like colourful, iridescent giant insects, like a swarm of glowing butterflies basking in the sun with their wings spread out on the ground. The principle of making oneself as air-coloured as possible had been completely abandoned here.
‘Invisibility,’ I was told, ‘cannot be achieved, but there is a risk of confusing enemy and friendly aircraft. These different markings on the fuselages are clearly visible in the air, allowing you to recognise each other during combat and provide support.’ That is why each of the pilots had given his personal aircraft, which he always flew and with which he had grown together as if it were a living being, a special marking that allowed his comrades to keep an eye on him during air combat and always know who was piloting the aircraft. One aircraft had a white or red or otherwise coloured stripe, another had it across or lengthwise, and so on. Richthofen’s eyes sparkled with something like the pride of a knight who knows and fears his opponent’s shield and crest. ‘This way, my squadron can always see where I am.’
Indeed, we already feel very strongly how much old chivalry has been revived in modern aerial combat; here the personal identification of the armour by means of brightly shining signs further enhanced the impression. These young warriors really did look just like the medieval lords, about whom the 14th-century chronicler Froissart tells such colourful tales, with their shimmering ribbons, coats of arms and standards that made them and their pride recognisable even when their visors were closed.
One after another, those who were scheduled to take off threw on their flying suits, which looked like a cross between a diver’s and a Dutch fisherman’s outfit, and strolled around, hands in their wide trouser pockets, laughing and joking between the aircraft kept ready for take-off by the aircraft mechanics, or gathered around the large telescope with which the sky was being carefully observed.
Richthofen had also already put on his uniform and was carefully scanning the sky with the naked eye. Suddenly – I myself could not see the slightest thing in the shimmering blue above – he quickly turned to a suspended bell and rang the alarm. In an instant, all the mechanics jumped to their machines; each pilot rushed to his own, climbed into the seat, the propellers roared to life, and one after the other, the small, fast aircraft raced across the ground, took off and then quickly rose into the blue sky. Finally, Richthofen’s machine.

The remaining pilots, the aircraft mechanics, the orderlies and the guards all watched the events in the sky with great excitement. Now I too could see, first through the glass, then without it, a squadron of English aircraft; at least six, perhaps more. I had to keep a close eye on them, otherwise I would lose sight of them again in the shimmering light.
The pilots saw things differently. They recognised and named the individual types and cried out indignantly: ‘What insolence! They’re coming in at an altitude of barely more than 2,000 metres! What do they think they’re doing?’
The English now seemed to pause and recognise the danger approaching them; they circled restlessly. It took only a few minutes for our men to reach the same or even greater altitude. The sharp rattling of machine guns rang out from the air; the enemy had accepted the challenge. All the aircraft formed a wide swarm of bright, jumbled dots.
My neighbours accompanied every phase of the battle with lively conversation and gestures. ‘There’s Richthofen! Can’t you see him? Up there!’ ‘There’s Schäfer! Damn, he’s right behind that guy! He’s not letting up!’ ‘That must be Wolff! Yes, it is!’
Cries like these flew back and forth. Suddenly, a collective cry of triumph rang out – high in the sky, a brightly burning dot appeared. ‘An Englishman is on fire!’
By God, what a fantastic, terrible spectacle! The point of fire grew rapidly. What a blaze it must have been, outshining the dazzling light of the sky and glowing white in the sky. Then the glowing spot slid downward, stretching into a long line of flame that streaked across the sky like a giant orange meteor—across the daytime sky.
It was undeniably beautiful, more beautiful than anything I had ever seen. And yet it was so terrifying at the same time that it took my breath away. A few seconds later, a deep black streak of smoke separated from the upper end of the line of flame, so that the whole thing blazed like an eerie torch in the sky. At the lower end, however, the shape of an aircraft detached itself from the flame, which then remained in the sky and went out, and sank downwards, tumbling and circling.
At times it seemed to right itself again, trying to glide to safety. But it was in vain. Slowly it approached the ground. Then, from a height of several hundred metres, it plunged vertically and disappeared behind a fold in the ground – too far away for us to rush to its aid.
‘There’s a second one falling!’ came the confused cries again. Rocking and swaying, another enemy aircraft could be seen sinking to the ground in a similar desperate struggle to regain altitude, circled by one of our own, which did not let go. Without burning, it finally crashed as well and disappeared behind the ground elevation several kilometres away. Immediately afterwards, however, a large black cloud rising behind the fold in the ground marked the spot where the enemy aircraft had crashed and exploded.
Now a biplane glided down from the skies and landed on our airfield. A German, but not from our squadron. A loud voice from the fuselage – or seat – called out: ‘Wounded!’ Immediately, the command rang out: ‘Medics, come here!’
A group of medics hurried over. Two people were sitting in the aircraft, which belonged to a neighbouring squadron and had joined the battle. One of them, a non-commissioned officer pilot, was bleeding heavily and seemed to be in great pain. He was carefully lifted out of his seat and taken to the dressing room. A quick examination revealed that he had been shot through the thigh, which was painful but not life-threatening.
Meanwhile, the fierce battle continued above in the skies, with circling aircraft and machine-gun fire. ‘Look, another one’s on fire!’ Once again, the terrible spectacle of the flashing point of fire, the orange-glowing meteor stretching out as it descended, and the black smoke trail growing out of it repeated itself. Once again, the tumbling aircraft clearly detached itself from the last remaining and extinguishing flame. Through the large telescope, a man could be seen who had fled from the pilot’s seat to one of the wings and was clinging to it. But then he was no longer visible.

Suddenly, numerous coloured dots began to jump around the sinking aircraft and slowly burn up in the air. ‘Those are his flares, they’re on fire!’ This enemy also crashed hopelessly to the ground within a short time. ‘Lieutenant Schäfer is coming back!’ The aircraft approached in a slanted glide and came to a halt. We hurried over. Lieutenant Schäfer’s tall figure rose from his seat and removed his cap from his sweat-covered face. ‘Well, how’s it going?’ he asked.
But a flood of angry exclamations poured from the newcomer’s lips: ‘For God’s sake, what a mess! I had him, I had him for sure, I was a few dozen metres away from him and I wasn’t letting him go – and then the damn machine gun jammed – of all things!’ He was beside himself with rage. ‘And the best part is, they shot away my –’ he named a part of the aircraft – ‘I probably won’t be able to fly my plane for three days. It’s enough to make you…’ He stormed off angrily to get changed…
And two more enemy planes, again without catching fire, crashed from the sky before my eyes; too far away for us to attempt to rescue them ourselves from here; we had to leave that to the troops in the vicinity of the crash site, as is usually the case in air battles.
The last Englishman – there seemed to be only one left – fled towards Arras, and the battle was over. A few minutes later, like large birds coming from different directions to a feeding ground, one of our returning aircraft appeared here and there from the blue sky above our airfield, gliding silently in a rapid descent and coming to a halt on the grass in front of the hangars.
Barely half an hour had passed when they were all back. The fighters climbed out of their seats and stood laughing, proud, happy, talking animatedly among their congratulating comrades and the crews gathered enthusiastically around their officers. No one was injured. The whole thing could have seemed like a joyful sports game.
But I could see from Richthofen’s aircraft how little it was. An enemy machine gun shot had hit the lower left wing and slashed its fabric covering about a metre and a half long, like the cut of a large knife. And close to the pilot’s seat, a second scratch ran along the outer wooden panelling, showing that another bullet had narrowly missed his life.
It turned out that of the five enemies shot down in combat, one was shot down by Manfred von Richthofen. This was his forty-first enemy. Boelcke was shot down after defeating his fortieth enemy. Only death prevented him from flying more often.
Richthofen’s younger brother Lothar, still a novice, had even had the good fortune to shoot down two of the enemies. The fourth had been shot down by Lieutenant Wollf, his tenth opponent, and the fifth by the capable Sergeant Festner, who had also distinguished himself several times recently.
While the aircraft mechanics immediately set to work on the planes to repair the damage, the leader sought to ascertain the course of the air battle as accurately as possible by questioning those involved and to determine the location of the crashes with the aid of a map. He sent Sergeant Festner, who was able to provide the most accurate information, there by motorbike. Then he went to the telephone to make his report.

It wasn’t yet 10:00 a.m. when I had to say goodbye to the Richthofen Fighter Squadron to continue my journey.
The day was still long and the sky bright. I left with the feeling that “there was more in the air.” And truly, that’s what happened. What I had witnessed was only the beginning of an even greater day, arguably the most brilliant in the history of any of our fighter squadrons.
For the reader knows for himself – the next day, the official German army report for April 13 contained the following words: “The enemy lost 24 aircraft in aerial combat, 13 of which came down on this side of our lines. The fighter squadron commanded by Rittmeister Freiherr von Richthofen destroyed 14 aircraft alone; Freiherr von Richthofen himself shot down his 41st, 42nd, and 43rd opponents. Lieutenant Wollf shot down 4 enemy aircraft, thus increasing his tally to 14. Lieutenant Schäfer defeated 3 (so he did), Lieutenant Freiherr von Richthofen, Lieutenant Klein, and Vice-Sergeant Festner each defeated 2.”
May the fortune that smiled on them that day continue to be kind to the young heroes, so that one day, in peace, they may rejoice in their glory and the gratitude their fatherland bestows upon them!
(This article was kindly provided by Prof. Dr. Wegener from his book “The Wall of Iron and Fire” (Brockhaus, Leipzig). He covered the Western Front as a war correspondent for the “Kölnische Zeitung.” This is one of the most insightful essays published on the Richthofen Squadron during the war.)”