When I had racked my brain fruitlessly for hours I sometimes fell asleep about three in the morning, tired out in body and soul. But no sooner had I dropped off than duty called, and my mechanic stood at my bedside to report that my machine was ready for another flight. This meant prompt action, and I was soon standing next to my Taube, testing all her parts.
Sometimes I felt queer and rather jumpy; but as soon as I was settled in my pilot’s seat and held the throttle in my hand, after nodding to my helpers, I had only one thought, and that was to carry out my task with iron determination and calmness. And when I had got over the start, and safely reached an altitude of a few hundred metres, I felt quite at ease again.
One circumstance depressed me particularly—the absolute loneliness, the eternal solitude of my flights. If I had only had a comrade with whom I might have exchanged occasional signs, it would have helped me enormously. And another cause for despondency was the impossibility of any flights for several days on end, owing to the rain or to my faulty propeller. And when I started again I found so many changes in the enemy’s positions that I very nearly gave way to despair. What could I do in the face of this tangle of trenches, zigzags and new positions? Often the map dropped from my nerveless fingers. But this was not a lasting phase.
I pulled myself together, picked up my pencil and gazed downwards. And soon I had no eyes for anything happening round me—my entire attention was focused on the enemy and my notes.
The 27th of October was a fête day for us. The following telegram was received from His Majesty the Kaiser:
“Both I and the whole German nation look with pride on the heroes of Kiao-Chow, who carry out their duty faithful to the word of their Governor. Rest assured of My gratitude.”
There was hardly anyone in Kiao-Chow whose heart did not beat the faster for this praise. Our supreme War Lord, who had so much heavy work on hand at home, did not forget his faithful little band in the Far East. Each of us swore to do his duty to the end, in order to please his Kaiser.
Soon the 31st of October—the Mikado’s birthday—was upon us. We had ascertained, through our scouts, that the Japanese had fixed on that day for the capture of Kiao-Chow. It is impossible to describe it.
The Japs had planted all their land-batteries in readiness for the night, and at 6 a.m., on the 31st of October 1914, the bombardment started from land and sea.
Their first hits exploded the petrol tanks, and a thick, huge column of smoke reared skywards like an ominous signal of revenge. The Japanese were shooting from the land with heavy 20-centimetre shells, and the ships had trained their heaviest guns on to us. The whizzing of the descending howitzer shells, the whistling and the exploding of the grenades and their detonations on bursting, the barking of shrapnel, and the roar of our own guns resulted in a din as though hell itself had been let loose.