I took leave of my superior officers and of my comrades, and was entrusted with a large bundle of private correspondence. Then I went back to my villa for the last time, and said good-bye to my rooms and to the many objects to which I had become attached. I opened my stable door, freed my little horse and my chickens, and went down to my aeroplane to prepare it for its last flight. After that I sat poring over my map, learning it by heart, and making my calculations.
At night I went up to the hill-top, where my friend, Oberleutnant Aye, had been holding out for weeks, with his small battery, under most severe shell-fire. From there one had a magnificent view of Kiao-Chow and its surroundings. I sat for some time on the highest peak, fascinated by the panorama at my feet. Below us a sea of fire, with flashes of lightning from the guns thundering across space, and like a golden thread stretched from sea to sea the yellow rifle and machine-gun fire. Right over my head screamed, swished and whistled thousands of shells, sweeping closely over the hill-top, bent on reaching their targets. Behind me our heavy howitzers roared their last message, and in the distance from the farthest southern point of Kiao-Chow the 29-centimetre guns of Fort Hstanniwa poured out their swan song.
Harrowed to the depths of my soul, I returned to Aye, and after taking a hearty leave of him, carrying with me all his good wishes for my venture, I left him, after shaking him warmly by the hand.
I was the last officer in Kiao-Chau to do so, for he fell a few hours later in the heroic but unequal fight against the Japanese, he and his gallant little band preferring death to surrender. A truly shining example of noble heroism.
I spent the remaining hours with my four brave helpers, waiting in readiness near my machine so as to be able to carry out my orders at a moment’s notice should the Japanese break through.
On the 6th of November 1914, in the early dawn, with the moon still shining, my aeroplane stood clear for the start, and my propeller gaily hummed its morning hymn.
There was no more time to lose. The aviation field had become extremely uncomfortable through the continuous shell and shrapnel fire.
Once more I examined my machine, shook hands with my men, stroked the head of my faithful dog, then I opened the throttle and my Taube shot like an arrow into the night.
Suddenly, as I was just about 30 metres above the centre of the aerodrome, my machine received a fearful jar, and I was only able to prevent her crashing downwards by putting forth all my strength. An enemy grenade had just burst, and the air-pressure caused by the detonation nearly sent me to the ground. But, thank goodness, a big hole in my left plane caused by a shell-splinter was the only damage.
The usual hail of shrapnel followed—my last farewells from the Japs and their English Allies.