MvR wounded in the back of the head
Event ID: 414
Categories:
06 July 1917
Source ID: 58
‘The morning of 6 July is dawning, it will be an almost cloudless, beautiful summer’s day. And, as is the case every day, we are already ready for take-off at the crack of dawn.
In earlier times, for example, the green table gave the order: Squadron so-and-so flies from 8-9 o’clock. The commander hates the green table like the plague, he deploys his squadrons when necessary. But then at a hell of a pace. The machines are lined up, the pilots are fully dressed and the mechanics are ready to start the propeller at any second. When the take-off order is given, the squadron can take off within a minute.
And the order comes: there is lively activity by enemy artillerymen off Ypres. Short commands, the mechanics throw themselves into the propellers, the storm song of the engines thunders along the line, then the aeroplanes bob over the field, lifting themselves gently off the ground. Fighter squadron 4 has taken off. Fighter squadron 4 will be back soon. The artillery planes have left as quickly as possible.
At around 10.30 a.m., however, a report comes in from the air defence officer: Infantry planes! This time it’s the red aircraft at the take-off site. Fighter squadron 11 with the commander flies to the front.
Before dealing with the infantry planes, the Rittmeister first discovers a squadron of Vickers aeroplanes. These are bombers with a crew of two or three. And these are the Wasps that Richthofen loves, they suit him just fine. He swerves wide with the squadron to let them pass first. He doesn’t do anything to them yet, they should go quietly into the hinterland, he doesn’t bother them. And the Englishmen hum comfortably and neatly into the German hinterland. Until they suddenly discover a bright red glow between them and their way home. Their way back is cut off. And the dance begins, a nasty dance at an altitude of three thousand metres.
The cavalry captain approaches the rearmost aircraft and sits down on the invisible tracks on which it is gliding. He has time to think about how to do it this time, because he is still over 300 metres away. He doesn’t even need to take the safety off his machine guns. He sees that the Englishman turns away and the observer starts shooting. But that doesn’t make much of an impression on him, because he can’t shoot at that distance… and at that moment he is hit on the head with a hammer. Within a second, as if he had received an electric shock, his whole body becomes motionless and insensible. He no longer feels himself, he feels no arms, no legs, nothing, he floats in a terrible, incomprehensible void and at the same time it becomes dark around him, a terrible, incomprehensible darkness. He can no longer see anything, he has gone blind. The shot has disturbed his walking nerve.
And that must be the end of it. Rittmeister von Richthofen no longer needs to do anything in this world. But he does do something. With all the strength of mind he has at his disposal, he first of all overcomes the catastrophic impression that the unexpected shot, the paralysis and the sudden blindness have triggered in him. He overcomes the shock with clenched energy. And after an eternity he feels his fingers again, his hands, feels around him, switches off the gas and takes out the ignition, pulls his glasses from his eyes, tears open his eyelids as far as he can. But he can’t see anything, not even the sun.
On the other hand, he feels the machine crashing, catching itself again, crashing again, nothing can be done. He forces himself to consider how far he may have already fallen and estimates that he has come down to two thousand metres. He can’t see that Squadron 11 is watching the commander’s strange capers in amazement and then gets a little worried, and that two of the squadron’s aircraft, Lieutenants Niederhoff and Brauneck, are going down with him and staying close to him.
The mean thing is this blindness…there is simply nothing to see…but suddenly black and white dots start to dance in front of his eyes and he raises his eyelids again, it gets better. He can already see the sun. Straight into the sun. He sees the twinkling star as if through black glasses. That is enough for him. He forces his eyes to look more closely. In a terrible effort, he forces them to obey him, they must see, see, see! They obey. He can now read the altimeter. Eight hundred metres to go. He can catch the machine. He glides downwards. His eyes are well enough for him to survey the terrain. It is a cratered landscape of shell holes. Landing is out of the question. His head is so dog-tired that it would be a relief for him to simply fall asleep now. He stares at the area, recognising from the shape of a patch of woodland that he is inside the German front line. And then he ponders for a few seconds why the Englishman who shot him doesn’t come up behind him; it would have been a simple matter to shoot down the wounded German. The Rittmeister couldn’t have known that Niederhoff and Brauneck’s two machines were in his neighbourhood, they were protecting and covering him. And now they could land. He goes down to 50 metres. It’s not possible, funnel next to funnel. And the half-paralysed and half-blind man accelerates once more and flies further east, very low, and that goes well for quite a while until he realises that the darkness is creeping over his forehead again and a weakness is running through his limbs that he can no longer overcome.
It is high time.
A few metres above the ground, he knocks over some telephone lines and poles and then this wonderful pilot places his machine on the ground as gently and lightly as a butterfly.
It’s done. He stands up and wants to get out, but he falls out of the seat, he wants to stand up again, but he prefers to stay down. The two other planes have landed next to him, the two lieutenants jump out, rush over and the quiet curses they emit are, so to speak, curses of thanks, if there is such a thing. The commander only has a good graze on his head, sacrament of heaven, thank God, damn it.
A bandage, telephoned for the ambulance… At the airfield in Marckebeeke, at the time when the squadron is due to return from its flight, a few men are standing at the scissor telescope. ‘There they are,’ says the adjutant, “one, two, three, four…six…” then he stops counting and falls silent. ‘Wiseo six…’ mumbles another. Yes, why six? Nine have flown away. Where are the other three? ‘The commander with them?’ asks one.
He gets no answer. And no one else asks, but when the first plane touches down, they chase after it. It is Lieutenant Wolff, who has been watching the whole process from above. He reports quickly. They stare at his mouth.
‘Niederhoff and Brauneck are with him,’ he concludes. First Lieutenant Bodenschatz hurries to the telephone. No sooner has he arrived than Niederhoff calls and reports that the cavalry captain has been taken away, but he doesn’t know where. At 12 noon the field hospital 76 St Nicholas calls from Kortryk. The cavalry captain had been admitted there.’
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