KAPITÄNLEUTNANT GUNTHER PLÜSCHOW

MY ESCAPE FROM DONINGTON HALL

MY ESCAPE FROM DONINGTON HALL

PRECEDED BY AN ACCOUNT OF THE SIEGE OF KIAO-CHOW IN 1915

By Kapitänleutnant GUNTHER PLÜSCHOW, OF THE GERMAN AIR SERVICE. TRANSLATED BY PAULINE DE CHARY

JOHN LANE THE BODLEY HEAD LTD. LONDON——————MCMXXII

PRINTED IN GREAT BRITAIN BY MORRISON AND GIBB LTD., EDINBURGH

CONTENTS

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

MY ESCAPE FROM DONINGTON HALL

MY ESCAPE FROM DONINGTON HALL

CHAPTER I

THE JOYS AND SORROWS OF A FLYING-MAN

IT was in the month of August of the year 1913 when I arrived in my native town, Schwerin. I had stayed several weeks in England, where I had devoted days to the visit of museums and the beautiful art collections, as well as to excursions in the vicinity of the capital. At that time I did not foresee how useful the latter would prove to me two years hence.

During the whole journey I was labouring under an inner excitement and disquiet which I could not throw off, and when I arrived in Schwerin one question only burned on my lips, and yet I did not dare put it to my uncle who fetched me from the station. For the new Naval List of autumn promotions and appointments might be issued any day, and I was on the tiptoe of expectation as to whether the wish I had cherished for years was at last to be gratified.

My uncle’s question: “Do you know where they’ve put you?” gave me an electric shock.

“No.”

“Well, then, hearty congratulations—Naval Flying Corps!”

I was so overjoyed that I would like to have turned a somersault in the middle of the street, but I refrained from fear of upsetting my fellow-citizens.

So I had got my wish after all!

The last days of my leave passed in a flash, and I gaily returned to the Naval College in order to complete my course of a year and a half as Inspecting Officer; but I never packed my trunks with greater pleasure than when bound for my new destination.

Just a few days before my departure one of my brother officers called out to me: “I say, have you heard the latest news where you’re off to?”

“Yes; Flying Corps.”

“Good Lord, man! You don’t know your own luck—why, you’re off to Kiao-Chow.”

I was speechless, and probably looked as stupid as I felt.

“Yes; Kiao-Chow! And in the Flying Corps! You lucky devil—to be the First Naval Flying Officer at Kiao-Chow!”

It is hardly surprising that I refused to believe this until I received the official confirmation. But it was true. I had tremendous luck!

I had to wait three months longer at Kiel; but at last, on the 1st of January 1914, I found myself in my beloved Berlin. But there was no holding me; I was at Johannisthal on the 2nd of January already, and thought I could start flying on the spot. My experience, however, was that of the majority of flying-pupils. I learnt for the first time the time-honoured principle of flight: “Keep cool; who wants to fly must above all things learn to wait.”

Wait, wait, and once more wait. Eighty per cent of the science of flying consists in waiting and holding oneself in readiness.

Winter had come and covered the aerodrome with a deep, white carpet, making flying impossible. For weeks every morning I had the hope that the snow would melt at last, and every afternoon I returned home disappointed.

In February at last the weather changed. On the 1st of February I sat happily in my Taube, and for the first time rose into the glorious clear winter air. It was beautiful now; and every day our schooling progressed.

Flying suited me, and I grasped it quickly. And I was very proud that on the third day I was allowed to fly alone. Two days later, on a beautiful Saturday afternoon, my untiring instructor, Werner Wieting, asked me whether I would not care to create a nice little record by passing my examination as pilot. I enthusiastically agreed.

Ten minutes later I sat in my machine, circling gaily in the prescribed curves. It was a real joy to keep going in the lovely winter air. And when I achieved a perfect landing, which concluded my examination, and my teacher proudly shook me by the hand and congratulated me, I felt extremely happy and filled with a sensation of inner satisfaction.

At last I was a pilot. The school-stage was over, and from now onwards I could fly daily on one of the big 100 h.p. machines.

One particular undertaking was to be the source of much pleasure to me. Rumpler had just completed a monoplane which was specially designed for climbing. It now became our aim to achieve a high-altitude flight record. The famous pilot, Linnekogel, was to fly the machine, and he asked me to accompany him as observer. It was only natural that I accepted with delight.

On one of the last days in February we started on our first trial trip. Warmly wrapped up against the severe cold, we sat in our machine, and many eyes followed us with envy as our bird rose in the air with the lightness of a dragon-fly. Watch in hand, I noted the altitude, and after fifteen minutes we had already reached 2000 metres, which at that time was considered an extraordinarily good performance. But after that we only progressed slowly. The atmosphere became bumpy, and we were flung about like feathers by violent eddies or bumps. After an hour we had at last reached 4000 metres, when with a popping and spluttering noise the motor began to run irregularly, and stopped altogether after a few seconds. We now descended in spirals towards the earth, and some minutes later the machine stood unharmed on the flying-ground.

The cold had been too great, and the motor was simply frozen—a circumstance which nobody had foreseen. New improvements were promptly added. After a few days we started again on the same adventure, but this time better luck seemed in store for us. We climbed steadily and securely 4000 metres, 4200, 4500 metres. Thank God, our last record was broken! The cold was well-nigh unbearable, and I am convinced that the thickest hide would have been no protection against it.

4800, 4900 metres! 400 more and our object was attained. But the machine seemed bewitched, and refused to climb another metre! All our attempts to induce an extra effort failed. We were running short of petrol, and the engine gave out completely this time.

An altitude of 4900 metres! We landed, without a single drop of petrol, nearly frozen to ice. We had not achieved all we had set out to do; however, it was a good result. We had won, and won brilliantly, the German high-altitude record.

But success made us ambitious. At the beginning of March weather conditions again improved sufficiently to allow us to try our luck once more. More warmly clad than last time, and fitted out with thermometers, though without an oxygen apparatus, we started on our third attempt.

We reached the first altitude with ease. The sky was covered with huge clouds, the air icy. When we rose through the bank of clouds into the glorious sunshine we had a beautiful experience. We suddenly saw a radiantly shining Zeppelin, which was likewise attempting a flight at high altitude.

What a marvellous meeting—3000 metres up in the air! Far away from toiling humanity, high up above daily strife and pain, the two birds of the air—striking evidence of Germany’s strength and enterprise—saluted each other.

We flew several times round our big brother, and waved our hand to him in friendly greeting.

But after that we had to apply ourselves seriously to our task and work strenuously in order to attain our objective. After an hour we had gained an altitude of 4800 metres, after that 4900, my barograph soon showed 5000, and the propeller hummed its monotonous melody. Linnekogel veered quietly and methodically. The thermometer rose to 37 degrees Celsius; but we paid no attention to the cold. Only the air became rarefied. A slight sensation of drowsiness came over me, and my lungs only functioned in quick, short gasps. Every movement became irksome. Even to turn round towards the pilot who sat behind me seemed a huge effort.

The sky had cleared and looked glorious. The cloud-banks had vanished, and we could distinguish our capital lying far below us in the blue distance like a black spot, on which, however, we could still note the straight line of the Charlottenburger Chaussee, culminating in the thoroughfare Unter den Linden.

I was so carried away by this view that for some time I paid no attention to either watch or barograph. But I suddenly realized my omission with a start. Twenty minutes had passed since I had registered my barograph at 5000 metres, and by now we should have beaten our record. But I was terribly disappointed to see that the needle still indicated 5000. At the same time, Linnekogel began signalling to me to look for the aerodrome, pointing downwards with his hand. That was too bad. I turned away disgustedly, and, when Linnekogel failed to notice it, I kicked his shin with none too much gentleness. I likewise spread out my five fingers and pointed upwards. This meant: Higher, higher! We have only got to 5000 metres!

Linnekogel only laughed. He gripped my hand, shook it hard, and opened and shut the five fingers of his right hand twice. I really thought he had gone dotty. And what confirmed me in my opinion was that Linnekogel throttled the engine. We were just above Potsdam, and glided towards the aerodrome of Johannisthal. It was now my job to find the landing-place. And sixteen minutes later we stood safe and sound before the Rumpler-hangars, joyfully acclaimed by crowds of spectators.

We had done it! The world’s record was broken with 5500 metres.

The flight had only lasted an hour and three-quarters in all. We stood proudly amongst our less fortunate fellow-mortals who had remained on terra firma. Linnekogel was right. My barograph had frozen, whilst his—better protected—resisted the high temperature.

The days passed, and the time came when I had to leave my country.

My Taube, which had been specially constructed for Kiao-Chow, neared its completion, and with a curious feeling I took it out on its trial flight, after it had fulfilled the requisite conditions for acceptance. I was conscious that it was the most beautiful flying-machine in the world.

But my ambition was not yet realized. It seemed imperative that before I left for the Far East I should carry out an important overland flight in Germany.

I was lucky. My request met with ready response from Herr Rumpler, and he kindly allowed me the use of one of his aeroplanes for a several days’ flight over Germany. I quickly passed my examination as field-pilot, and at the end of March, one fine morning at 7 a.m., I sat in my well-equipped Taube, and in the seat in front of me, tall and slim, my good friend Oberleutnant Strehle of the War Academy as observer.

It was the first time he had ever been in an aeroplane. But I think he will never forget his first flight as long as he lives.

We started brilliantly. And proudly I took off, until having reached an altitude of 500 metres I proceeded in a northerly direction. Everything went well. We passed over the Havel lakes, sighted Nauen; but suddenly the atmosphere became thick and murky and our bad luck set in. We were wrapped in a thick fog and could see nothing of the ground. For the first overland flight of my young life it was a tall order. But, with the fine confidence of the novice, I consoled myself with the thought that courage was everything—even if things couldn’t help getting worse! And I flew calmly into the thick fog, directing myself by my compass towards the north, as our objective was Hamburg. After two hours we could make out the ground again at a distance of 300 metres below us, and who can describe our joy on espying a beautiful, large, ploughed field! I glided down gently, just as though it were an aerodrome, and landed safe and sound in the middle of the field. People came running from all sides, and my joy was great when I learned that we were on good Mecklenburg soil, and exactly where, according to my own and my observer’s calculations, we had expected to find ourselves. It was a holiday, and we afforded the villagers a free entertainment.

As soon as it cleared up, we decided to depart. But the soft soil held the wheels fast, and it was impossible to rise. With shrieks of merriment, and many a rough jest which we had to accept, the willing spectators trundled the giant bird over the field.

After we had cut down a few trees, we had to negotiate a ditch and another field. Though we now intended to depart, we were only allowed to do so after partaking of most excellent coffee and pound-cake.

After a mighty hand-shaking all round, and shouting themselves hoarse with endless “Hurrahs,” with much waving of handkerchiefs, we started off on a northerly course.

But our joy was short-lived, for fifteen minutes later we were again in the midst of grey fog-banks. After two hours I found the situation getting unpleasant, for the confounded motor began to choke and spit, and was either 500 revolutions short or registered 200 too many.

I examined my landing-gear and valves, and noticed to my horror that my provision of petrol was diminishing with hideous rapidity. I kept my machine balanced as well as possible, and glided down to a height of 300 metres.

But, oh, Lord! The mist lifted a little and I could see where I was—exactly over the river Alster at only 300 metres’ altitude, and this with a motor that was running dry, and with no idea where to look for the aerodrome of Fuhlsbüttel. There was only one thing to do—and that was to keep calm and cool! Above all, to get away from the town and thus avoid imperilling human lives. I pencilled these words on a scrap of paper and passed them to my observer: “We must land within five minutes or we shall take a cold bath, as we have no more petrol.” He peered about him and suddenly pointed joyfully to a cemetery which lay right under us. Good old chap! He had no idea of our predicament and could not guess what unconscious irony lay behind his gesture.

We had already dropped 200 metres. The engine was working by fits and starts; the level of the petrol showed 10 litres. But I was pleased. For we had now left the town behind us, and though a smooth landing was impossible, amongst all these suburban gardens, at least I hoped to avoid killing anyone. At such times every second seems an eternity, and my thoughts chased each other across my brain. But more than ever I had to show iron determination and self-control.

My observer suddenly started waving his hand and pointing forwards. And even now I can see his sparkling eyes shining at me through his goggles.

The sheds of the Fuhlsbüttel aerodrome, shimmering in the rays of the setting sun faintly encircled by the mist, lay before us.

Hurrah! We were saved.

Who can describe my joy? With my last litre of petrol I described a loop round the aerodrome and, gliding down in a steep spiral, landed.

I nearly fell on my observer’s neck, so happy did I feel. The dear old chap had no inkling of the danger in which we had been, and was very surprised when I told him about it. Even now, when I know what flying means, I go cold when I think of this first flight. I soon found out what had happened. The lower part of the carburettor was damaged, and the petrol leaked through the fracture with each throb of the engine. This also explained the rapid sinking of the petrol and the irregular working of the engine. To this day I cannot understand why there was no fire.

After spending three days with dear friends in Bremen the new carburettor arrived in Hamburg. Now, we wanted to move on to our next destination—Schwerin in Mecklenburg.

On a rainy, stormy afternoon we settled ourselves in our fully equipped aeroplane. I started the engine and took on full throttle.

To-day I would only fly in such weather if I absolutely could not help it. But at that time I was still imbued with all the naïveté and enthusiasm of a young pilot. But we had not long to wait for new developments. The machine, which was too heavily freighted, could not rise—gusts of wind threw it from side to side like a ball—and I would have turned back with pleasure. But at that height it was impossible.

And now came the first houses of Hamburg—it was impossible to rise above them. I was flying at 60 metres when I saw a small field. Throttling my engine, I got ready to land, but at the same moment I was caught in a squall and felt the aeroplane slide away under me. The thought went through my mind, “Careful, you are falling!” and I opened up my engine momentarily in order to weaken the shock. But at the same moment I felt a sharp jerk, and the machine stood on its head as if some one were tilting it downwards.

What followed only took seconds. I pulled at my lever, shut off the petrol, and at the same time received a sharp, heavy blow. I clutched convulsively at my steering-wheel, and flew into the air, hitting my head against some part of the machine.

A deathly silence reigned around me.

Deep darkness; from which I was only roused by feeling a stream of pungent liquid pouring over my face.

I lay motionless, my head pressed forward, my body huddled together, feet sticking out. But suddenly I realized my position with a start, and, obsessed by the fear of the machine catching fire at any moment, I tried to free myself from my cramped position, until I succeeded in switching off the ignition. At last I gradually regained complete consciousness of my surroundings, and my first thought was for my poor observer. I felt sure that as he sat in front he must have borne the brunt of the first shock and was probably crushed to a pulp, as the fuselage had splintered under the impact. As no sound broke the silence, I gasped at last—for I was so squeezed in that I could hardly breathe:

“Strehlchen, are you alive?”

A dreadful pause; no answer.

On repeating my question, I heard at last: “I say, what has happened? It is quite dark here—something must have happened!”

Ah, how glad I was! I shouted with the rest of my strength: “Strehlchen, man, you are still alive—that’s all that matters! What about your bones? Are they whole?” But the poor chap was lying so huddled up that he was only able to gasp: “I don’t know. We’ll see later on.”

Again silence supervened. The petrol flowed in a rich stream from the tank, which held its full capacity of 170 litres; but after a time, which seemed an eternity, somebody knocked outside, and a far-away voice floated to where we lay:

“Well, anybody still alive?”

“Rather,” I called out, “but hurry up, or we shall suffocate in here.”

We heard the machine being lifted, then the grating of spades, and at last a current of fresh air blew in on us.

“Hold hard!” shouted Strehle. “Try the other way round or you’ll break my arm.”

Our helpers followed my instructions, and at last I was lifted clear from my seat, and I lay softly and at ease on an odorous manure heap. Long-legged Strehle promptly clambered out of the debris, and I have rarely shaken hands with more pleasure than with my faithful observer.

Dash it all! Things did look bad. The machine had completely toppled over, and was deeply embedded in the soft manure. The fuselage was broken in three places; the planes had turned into a tangled mass of wood, fabric and wire.

But we two were safely out of it. Strehle had sprained his back slightly, and I had only broken two ribs. That was all. Never again have I despised a manure heap. May that one and its like flourish for ever. Sadly and limpingly we covered the rest of the return journey by train. After that, however, we enjoyed many days of sunshine and light, full of happy doings and happier memories, which we collected like flowers of rare beauty and bloom.

And then duty called, and the real voyage began.

CHAPTER II

BEAUTIFUL DAYS IN KIAO-CHOW

FOR days the train took me farther and farther through the steppes and desert spaces of Russia towards my destination—the Far East.

Mukden at last! We soon passed Peking. Then—Osinanfou! The first German sounds again smote upon my ear. And then for ten hours we passed through a beautifully cultivated country full of gardens, fields and flowers; and at last the train slowly steamed into the station of Kiao-Chow.

I thus saw it again after six years! Once more I stood on German soil, in a German city of the Far East!

My brother officers met me. The Mongolian ponies pranced off and carried me to my new home.

At first we went to Iltis Place, which was our race-course, and was at the same time destined to become my aerodrome. It was festively decorated, for all Kiao-Chow had foregathered to watch a big football match between German sailors and their English comrades from the English flagship Good Hope.

The latter was on a visit at Kiao-Chow, and the game was brilliant and ended in a draw—one all.

Who could have foreseen this? A short six months hence these same adversaries opposed each other in a terrible game, which admitted but of two issues—victory or death. At the battle of Coronel the German bluejackets sent the English flagship Good Hope to her doom at the bottom of the Pacific in twenty-seven minutes.

But on that day none knew of the events to come and, united by bonds of sincere friendship, the German sailors invited their English guests to their cantonments. Two days later the English Squadron left our port followed by our Cruiser Squadron under Admiral Count von Spee.

The flags fluttered gaily in the wind, conveying the signals of the two admirals in command: “Farewell—until we meet again!”

Who could foresee that it would be at Coronel?

Immediately after my arrival, and after I had reported myself officially, I looked round for my aeroplane, in hopes of being able to show the amazed citizens of Kiao-Chow my beautiful giant bird. But——! I had to curb my eagerness, for my machine was sailing jauntily round India and the steamer only due in July. “What can’t be cured must be endured,” I said to myself, and now had plenty of time to look round Kiao-Chow and to choose a house. A delightful little villa, quite close to the flying-ground, stood vacant, and I promptly took possession of it with my new comrade, Patzig. I had everything now to make me happy: my excellent billet at Kiao-Chow—this paradise on earth—work after my own heart, and, to cap it all, this charming residence, perched high on an eminence, with a lovely view on to Iltis Place and the distant, dark blue sea. Apart from this, I belonged to the Cavalry Detachment, and three happy years lay before me. Who could be more contented than I? I now set about arranging my house. I had a great number of plates on interior decoration, and with these I visited a Chinese cabinet-maker and ordered the furniture. It is marvellous with how much skill the Chinese are able to imitate our models, in what a short time, and how cheaply. When, four weeks later, everything was shipshape, the different pieces standing in their proper places, and the whole house shining with cleanliness, the masters of the house proudly took possession of their new abode. Nothing was lacking. Even servants were provided. If a European wishes to stand well with the Chinese, he must surround himself with a considerable number of Chinese servants; and one may affirm it is practically the moral duty of every European to do so.

Maurice, the cook, in his lovely blue silken Ishang; Fritz, the Mafu (groom), a perpetual grin on his face, but very concerned about the welfare of his horses; Max, the gardener, as lazy as a slug; and August, the pert little “boy,” composed our staff.

To this must be added “Herr” Dorsch and “Herr” Simon.

These two gentlemen were our batmen, who took the fullest advantage of the custom of the Far East, that a European must do no manual labour in the presence of a Chinese.

Our house was surrounded by a big garden, which also contained the stables, the coach-house, the garage and the huts of the Chinese. To me the most important was my hen-coop. As soon as I arrived I bought myself a sitting-hen, gave her a dozen eggs to hatch, and when we entered our house we already had seven chickens.

Poultry is cheap in China. The hen cost fourpence, a duck or a goose a shilling, and in a short time I had a poultry-yard of fifty birds.

And, as I had also become a cavalryman, I had, of course, acquired a horse. One of my friends had a ripping little roan. We soon clinched our bargain, and “Fips” was transferred to my stables. “Fips” was a delightful animal, a good service-horse, yet excellent for hunting and polo, which did not prevent him from leaving me in the lurch at the beginning of the Kiao-Chow siege. I had ridden out into the territory the day before we were shut up in the fortress, and he took fright at some shrapnel which burst close to us, and so ran over to the enemy.

Life in the East was very monotonous for the Europeans. Very little socially, no music, no theatre—things one misses. One’s only consolation is that one lives better than at home, and sport makes up for a great deal. I took up polo with enthusiasm, and as soon as I had accustomed myself to the unusual pitching and tossing to which my horse subjected me I was very successful.

In mid-July my longing was stilled by the arrival of the steamer which brought the aeroplanes. As soon as the huge crates stood in the quay, my men were already engaged in freeing from their dark prisons my poor birds born for sunshine and air. As they were too heavy, the unpacking had to be done on the spot. The Chinese crowd stood around us and gaped. When we had got everything out of the crates, a triumphal procession was formed, bearing the two aeroplanes, then three vehicles with the planes and another two with the component parts. The horses started, and we proudly passed through the streets of Kiao-Chow, and entered in triumph the aerodrome of the Iltis Place.

Now there was an end to peace. Day and night we worked at the erection of the machine, and two days later, in the early dawn, with no one awake, my aeroplane stood ready on the aerodrome, and, opening up the engine full, I shot into the clear sea-air.

I shall never forget my first flight at Kiao-Chow. The aerodrome was extraordinarily small, only 600 metres long and 200 metres wide, full of obstacles surrounded by hills and rocks. I was only to learn later how very difficult starting and landing were made hereby. My friend Clobuczar, an Austrian ex-aviator—who now served on the Kaiserin Elisabeth—once said to me: “Do you call this an aerodrome? It is at best a children’s playground. I have never seen anyone who could fly in such a confined place.” I felt the same way about it. And in Germany I should have only used it for an emergency landing.

But nothing could be done. It was the one place in the whole Protectorate; all the rest was composed of wild mountains cleft by deep ravines. But on that glorious, sunny morning I only thought of my flight, and frightened the placid inhabitants of Kiao-Chow out of their beauty-sleep with the humming of my propeller. But, when it came to landing, I certainly felt a little queer, for the field was decidedly small, and I slowly circled round, getting gradually lower—thus putting off the critical moment. However, I could not stay up in the air for ever, so I pulled myself together, shut off the engine, and stood on the field a moment later after a secure landing. Now I knew where I was. And the rest of the morning was spent in my aeroplane.

After that more work was in store for me. The second machine, also a Rumpler-Taube, which was to be flown by my colleague, Leutnant Müllerskowski, of the battalion of Marines, had to be erected and got into working order. After two days, on the 31st of July 1914, it was ready in the afternoon. Müllerskowski entered his aeroplane and, after receiving my parting instructions based on my previous experience of the flying-field, he took off.

But fortune did not smile on him.

His machine was only a few seconds in the air, and had just reached an altitude of 50 metres—the critical spot where the aerodrome and solid earth end in a steep cliff with a sheer drop into the sea—when it suddenly turned over on the wing, and we could watch it nosing down with appalling rapidity towards the rocks.

We hastened as fast as we could to the spot. Matters looked bad. The machine was completely wrecked, and between the fragments we found Müllerskowski. We brought him, seriously injured, to the hospital, where he had to lie until shortly before the end of the siege. Of the aeroplane nothing remained.

In the meanwhile July had come, and brought with it the loveliest weather, most radiant sunshine, and the bluest of skies. It was Kiao-Chow’s best month.

The bathing season was at its height. There were many charming ladies, mostly from the European and American settlements in China and Japan, visiting the “Ostend of the Far East” and enjoying the beauty of Kiao-Chow.

Amusement was the order of the day. Motor drives, riding-parties, polo and tennis filled the free hours, and in the evenings dancing held undisputed sway. There were many Englishwomen amongst the women, and our relations were most pleasant and cordial.

For the beginning of August we had challenged the English Polo Club at Shanghai to a match when, on the 30th of July—like a bolt from the blue—came the order warning us of “Danger of war!”

CHAPTER III

THREAT OF WAR—MY TAUBE

I REMEMBER it as if it were yesterday. In the early hours of the morning an orderly arrived at our villa and brought Patzig and myself the order to report at once to the Divisional Commander, as “Protection” had been ordered. We naturally imagined this only to be a manœuvre, and grumblingly repaired to our rendezvous. But there we received confirmation of the hardly credible news. And, with doubt still in our hearts, we hastened to our batteries and began the necessary preparations.

The order, “Threatening danger of war,” which arrived next day, brought us certainty at last. It was followed on the 1st of August by the mobilization, on the 2nd by the declaration of war against Russia, and on the 3rd by that against France.

It is impossible to describe those days. And for this reason: here we were, a German Colony, a German fortress, the greater proportion of the Kiao-Chow population consisting of officers and soldiers. Moreover, to judge by externals, Kiao-Chow had become international. Russians, French and English lived with us as our guests. It was a cross-current of opinions and feelings, such as could hardly have been found elsewhere.

The main question—I should like to say the question—which occupied all our minds was: Will there be war with England? Only those who have lived in the East can judge what this question meant to us.

On the 2nd of August we were informed of our offer to England. I rode out that day with an English lady, and it was natural that this subject should form the chief topic of conversation. My companion’s opinion, as that of all her friends, was that a war between England and Germany was unthinkable, as it would sound the death-knell of the prestige of the white race, and give the yellow Jap the opportunity of gathering the fruits of our dissension.

Our minds, of course, were filled with this contingency. The tension was even worse than during the first days of mobilization. And when, on the 4th of August, we got the news that war had been declared against England, it came as a deliverance—the die was cast in Europe!

It is impossible to pretend that we felt particularly happy: quite the contrary. Again and again we remembered that we were far away in Kiao-Chow, whilst at home those lucky devils, our brothers and comrades, were rejoicing to the full in the glorious days of mobilization. They were going to war against a world of enemies, they were to be allowed to defend our holy and beloved Fatherland, their wives and children, whilst we sat here, powerless to help! The thought alone was enough to drive us mad. For we knew that neither English, Russian nor French, by whom we were so greatly outnumbered, would find the courage to attack us here. However, the hope persisted: “Perhaps they will!” Oh, what a warm reception we would have given them!

Of course no one for a moment thought of Japan!

In the midst of all the work which the days of mobilization brought in their wake, we did not forget our guests. Nearly all of them were enemies, but they remained our guests.

Their excitement was comprehensible. The more so, as news of the absolutely brutal treatment of the Germans by the English in the British Colonies was already reaching us.

It was natural that we should break off our relations with the foreigners, but it was also a matter of course—and I should particularly like to point this out to the English—that all foreign subjects were treated with a consideration to be expected from “Huns” alone.

The foreigners were informed that they could stay on or depart from Kiao-Chow without any let or hindrance, and that the Governor would give them due warning at what time they would be expected to leave the Colony. It was only requested that no one should move beyond the confines of the city, go near the fortifications, or carry on espionage. Let who will compare this with the behaviour of our dear cousins at Hong-Kong and so many other places in the world. All who went through these experiences could write volumes about them. One consolation remained to us: the Daily Wireless from home!

It is difficult to depict the delight with which we received this news. Usually the telegrams arrived in the evening, when we sat in our little casino, our only conversation, the war. When the glorious news of victory reached us, our jubilation knew no bounds. But in spite of this we felt an immense sadness—for we were not with our home armies!

The 15th of August arrived, and with it a communication of such enormity that we doubted the truth of what we read.

It ran as follows:

Extra Edition

“We consider it most important and necessary, with the object of maintaining a secure and lasting peace in the Far East, in accordance with the Anglo-Japanese Alliance Treaty, to take at the present moment every necessary measure to eliminate all causes likely to endanger peace.

“First, to withdraw the German warships at once from Japanese and Chinese waters, also armed ships of any description, and to dismantle those which cannot be withdrawn.

“Secondly, to surrender the whole Protectorate of Kiao-Chow forthwith—not later than by the 13th of September—to the Imperial Japanese Authorities without conditions or claims of indemnity, with the prospect of eventually returning the same to China.

“The Imperial Japanese Government announces at the same time that should it receive any but an unconditional acceptance from the Imperial German Government up to the 23rd of August 1914, to all the above-mentioned conditions, it will consider itself obliged to take such measures as the situation necessitates.”

Our Governor had written below:

“It is a matter of course that we can never consent to surrender Kiao-Chow to Japan without drawing the sword. The frivolity of the Japanese demand admits but of one reply. But it implies that we must reckon on the opening of hostilities at the expiration of the date fixed. It will be a fight to the finish.

“Having regard to the gravity of the situation, we must proceed without further delay with the evacuation of women and children. Our Government will therefore place at their disposal a steamer prepared for the reception of 600 passengers, in order to convey them to Tientsin this day, Friday morning. It is urged that all who do not wish to stay here should take advantage of this opportunity, as well as of the trains, which are still running on the Shantung line.

“Kiao-Chow clears for action!”

We now knew exactly where we were. We had no illusions either as to the bitterness or the outcome of the coming fight. But never was work done in a higher or more indefatigable spirit. A titanic task was completed in these weeks. And, from the oldest officer to the youngest fifteen-year-old volunteer motorist, one and all combined in placing their knowledge, their ability, and endeavour at the service of their love for their country, in order to put Kiao-Chow in a state of defence.

I had experienced particularly bad luck. Three days after Müllerskowski’s fall I rose in wonderful sunshine to my first important reconnaissance, and returned in a happy frame of mind to Kiao-Chow, after having explored the whole Protectorate for hundreds of miles.

I was at an altitude of 1500 metres, and in consequence of the atmospheric conditions the landing was a particularly difficult one. When I was about 100 metres over the place, and putting on full engine, with the object of flying round once more and landing to back, the engine started knocking and then stopped altogether. I only took a second to examine my altimeter, but it was sufficient to ascertain that the machine was no longer capable of landing on the aerodrome.

But I could veer neither to the right nor to the left. On the right hand there was the Polo Club and a deep ditch, on the left the hotel and villas.

I knew there was nothing more to be done, but I thought only of one thing: to keep the engine from harm.

In front of me lay a small wood, and I hoped to be able to negotiate it. I pulled at the altitude lever, but in the hot, thin air of the tropics the machine sagged heavily. I just managed to keep my head clear of the telegraph poles, then drew up my knees, pressed my feet unconsciously forward, and suddenly I felt a mighty shock, heard cracking and splintering noises, and collided heavily with the tank, after which all was silent. But when I looked around me, having miraculously escaped unhurt, I perceived my Taube with its nose in the ditch, its little tail high up in the air, and its wings and under-carriage forming a confused mass of broken wood, wires and canvas.

Oh, my poor little Taube! Would it had not happened exactly on the third day of the mobilization! I felt quite hopeless. Yet, without entirely losing courage, I carried the debris to the hangar. Luckily I had received some reserve propellers and planes from home.

My only hope was that the motor had escaped! I did not possess any spares, and it would have been impossible to procure them. I made my way towards the boxes in which the spares were kept, and first opened those which contained the planes. But, oh, horrors! A foul smell of decay was wafted into our faces, and, fearing the worst, we prised open the inner zinc lining.

The sight which met our eyes was perfectly horrible. The box was full of mouldy lumber. The covering of the planes had rotted. The wing ribs and the different wooden parts, which had been carefully packed, lay in a disorderly heap and were covered with a coat of mildew. It was a sad spectacle. We now opened the case in which were the propellers, where we found the same conditions. The five propellers had simply ceased to exist, and had shrunk to such an extent that they could no longer be of any use. It was a hard nut to crack!

But, without losing courage, my splendid rigger, Stüben, the chief mechanic, tackled the job, and the same afternoon I sat with Stüben, my two stokers, Frinks and Scholl, and eight Chinese from the dockyards, hard at work on the wings.

Thereafter I took the least damaged propeller to the wharf, and was helped out of my quandary, thanks to the excellent patternmaker K. who, with the Chinese, constructed a new propeller. This was a real masterpiece, for it was hewn out of seven thick oak planks which had been glued together with ordinary carpenter’s glue. The Chinese used their axes, and fashioned a perfect propeller, copying a model which K. had set up for them. Though done by hand, their work showed the utmost care and precision.

It is this propeller I used for all my flights during the siege of Kiao-Chow.

But we had not remained idle in our sheds. We worked day and night with the utmost energy, and already, on the ninth day after my accident, my little Taube stood ready to run out on the aviation field at sunrise. It is not difficult, though, to understand that my expectations of a successful flight were not very high. My planes had been reconstructed from a mass of musty material, and we had to rig them the best we could, as we had no flat spaces. I have described the erection of the propeller, which, by the way, made about a hundred revolutions less than it should have. Besides this, the conditions for flying on this particular aerodrome were so unfavourable that the choice lay between a clean start and an irremediable fall.

But I had no business to think of that. We were in the midst of war. I was the only aviator and had to carry on. And I had luck!

In order to lighten my machine I had scrapped every bit which I could do without. Therefore in the beginning my bird rose unwillingly to do my bidding, but soon I had regained full control over it. Hereafter I flew proudly, and dropped a message in front of the Governor’s house: “Aircraft again in perfect order!”

I then began my long reconnoitring flights. I traversed the whole Protectorate, and flew hundreds of kilometres beyond it over the distant country, watching the ways of approach, and spying out the wild rocks of the coast, in order to see whether the enemy was near—or landing. These were the most beautiful expeditions of my life.

The air was so clear and transparent, the sky of such a pure azure, and the sun shone divinely and lovingly on the beautiful earth, on the cliffs and mountains, and the deep sea which hemmed the coast. My soul was athirst for beauty, and revelled in the marvellous sights of Nature for hours on end.

But I was not wholly without care. Already on my second flight I was able to ascertain that the glued grooves had split, and that by a miracle alone the propeller had not been torn asunder. It had, therefore, to be disconnected and freshly sized. This little performance had to be repeated after every flight. As soon as I returned, the propeller was taken off, I drove with my car to the wharves, there it got a fresh coat of mastic, was screwed under a press, and in the evening I fetched it, fixed it on the machine, and started afresh the next day.

But, as the propeller insisted on splitting regularly, I pasted the whole leading edge with canvas-covering and sticking-plaster, which helped a little towards holding it together.

At Kiao-Chow, over and above my regular duties, I was also in charge of the captive-balloon section, which I jokingly called my “swelled-headed competitors!”

Before I left Berlin I had passed through a training course for dirigibles, learning to pilot airships, in addition to some practice with an observation balloon, and different practical exercises like mending balloon-covers, etc.

The section, which was brand-new, consisted of two huge balloons of 2000 cubic metres each, a balloon-bag and all the necessary accessories for producing gas and for the service of the airships.

A petty officer, who had also had some experience with airships, was the only person, besides myself, who knew anything about it. After we had unpacked all the cases, we went very carefully about filling the balloons. And we were extremely proud when the first fat yellow sausage lay stoutly lashed to the ground. I, personally, fastened every line with my petty officer, and soon after this the yellow monster was swaying lightly under the blue canopy of the sky. We hauled it down, and I clambered alone into the gondola for the first ascent. On this occasion I very nearly started on my complicated voyage to Germany, for, when the order “Let go!” was given, the rope, which had been measured out too generously, suddenly stiffened and got mixed up with the cable, whilst the balloon shot out perpendicularly 50 metres into the air. The thought that it was going to break away flashed through my mind. A violent jerk nearly threw me out of the gondola. But as the steel cable was also quite new it luckily held. So I was none the worse, except for having gained some fresh experience.

I then started drilling and instructing my crew, and soon the show was being run with the efficiency of old hands.

Our Governor expected great things of the observation balloon. It was hoped that it would be of great service in reconnoitring the approach of the enemy and the disposition of his artillery. These hopes were doomed to disappointment, and my fears that the erection of the balloons would serve no useful purpose proved only too justified.

Though I was able to send up the kite balloon to 1200 metres from the ground, we did not succeed in visualizing the range of hills which lay behind our fortified positions, thus observing the enemy’s movements and, above all, the emplacement of his heavy siege artillery. And this would have been of capital importance to the defenders of Kiao-Chow.

The Protectorate of Kiao-Chow lies on a narrow strip of promontory which stretches out into the sea, with the town of Kiao-Chow framed on three sides by the sea and partitioned off from the mainland by a chain of mountains which has the form of a semicircle. They are the Moltke, Bismarck and Iltis Mountains. Our chief position nestled among their crannies, and at their foot lay the five infantry works with the barbed-wire entanglements. Next came a wide valley, which was bisected by the river Haipo, and next a new range of hills, which also stretched from sea to sea and were doomed to bring disaster upon us. Behind them there was another broad valley surmounted by the wild rocky tips of the Lau-Hou-Schan, the Yung-Liu-Chui and the Lauchau.

It was most important for us to ascertain what was happening in the open country, as since the 27th of September we had been completely shut off behind our barbed wire. We were, above all, anxious to find out where the enemy kept his siege artillery and, as we had been disappointed in the reliability of our observation balloon, nothing remained but an occasional smart reconnaissance and—my aeroplane!

The days of August sped by in ceaseless labour. Kiao-Chow and its approaches became unrecognizable, and defensive positions for artillery were opened. To our sorrow the delightful little wood, which had been planted with so much care, the pride of Kiao-Chow, was felled by our axes to clear the zone of fire. How sad to destroy at one blow the loving work of “Kultur”!

The 23rd of August, the day on which the Japanese ultimatum expired, broke at last, and it is comprehensible that no answer was vouchsafed to the yellow Jap. The password was: “Go for them!” And this was our dearest wish.

I remember that, on the following morning, as I looked out from my balcony over the wide blue sea I noticed at a distance of some nautical miles several black shadows which slowly moved to and fro. I was even able to distinguish torpedo-boat destroyers through my telescope. Patzig, who came at a run to join my observations, also convinced himself of this. Of course—was it not the 24th? So the gang was blockading us! And the Japanese had actually dared to attack the German Empire!

The fight of a yellow race, abetted by a handful of Englishmen, against one German regiment on a war footing had begun.

Immediately on the expiration of the ultimatum a troop of one thousand men moved into the extreme outposts of the territory, in order to protect it as well as the roads of approach. This little detachment admirably fulfilled its task. It had to defend a tract of land which was 30 kilometres wide, and then another one of 10 kilometres, with quite insufficient artillery. A thousand men had to replace two army corps! They fought stubbornly and courageously, sometimes only able to oppose flying patrols to enemy battalions, retreating step by step before the fearful odds. Only on the 28th of September were they pushed back behind the principal retrenchments, which now definitely closed upon us until the end of the combat.

During the early days of the siege I must say that aeroplanes as well as aircraft generally were held in small esteem by the responsible authorities of the Kiao-Chow garrison. This, one must admit, was only natural, considering our luckless exhibitions. However, a swift change soon took place. One day I again flew over the south coast of the Shantung peninsula, on the look out for enemy ships or landing troops. The coast appeared deserted, and there was nothing to be seen. Much relieved that we were safe from that side at least, I flew home. Quite accidentally I went to Government House in the evening to see a comrade there. There I encountered by chance the head of the General Staff, who was in a tearing hurry as he had left an important conference at the Governor’s in order to fetch a book.

He called out to me as he was passing: “Well, Plüschow, did you fly again?”

“Yes, sir,” I said. “I have just returned. I searched the coast for enemy landing troops for several hours, but there is no sign of them.”

I can still see the astounded expression on our Chief’s face.

“What do you mean? Searched the coast? And only tell us now? Here we have been deliberating for the last two hours how we can ward off the large convoys which have been sighted by our scouts in the Dsin-Dsia-Kou Bay. And you have just come from there, and can produce such unimpeachable evidence? In you go to the Governor and report at once!”

The whole conference was now settled in a few words. The scouts’ reports were, of course, inventions. But I was happy, for I had saved the reputation and the honour of aviation!

And now began my most difficult, but also most beautiful, flights.

I was soon to receive my baptism of fire. It was during the first days of September, on a Sunday, at an altitude of 1500 metres, far out over the territory, basking in the sunshine. I suddenly caught sight below of a fairly important detachment of Japanese, which greeted me with volleys of infantry and machine-gun fire. I returned home, exhibiting ten bullet holes in my planes. But, in future, I did not descend below 2000 metres, thus avoiding unnecessary risks to my engine and my propeller.

But the baptism of fire on land promptly followed.

Shortly afterwards, I motored to Shatsy-Kou, where we had advanced outposts. I stopped before the house without thought of danger. I was astonished to notice that all the officers and men were lying flat on the ground, along a stockade which was erected seawards. They waved their arms, which I naturally regarded as a greeting, answering them promptly in the same fashion.

I still sat in my car, when I heard a sibilant whistle sounding close to my head, followed by an ear-splitting crash not 10 feet away. A shell had exploded in the masonry of the house, and before I could recover from my surprise other projectiles followed the first.

I threw myself out of the car and took cover with the others. My brother officers were splitting with laughter, for, however serious the situation, I must have looked a funny sight.

We then learned what had happened.

A Japanese destroyer-flotilla lay in front and was trying to destroy Shatsy-Kou by her fire. We spent the next two hours under shell-fire, in our cramped and exposed position, without being able either to see or to move. At midday the Japs made a pause, probably in order to enjoy their dinner. While we examined the damage done to the house, the Chinese boys were already eagerly collecting shell-splinters. And, as we sat down for a moment to a cup of coffee, three small Chinks arrived with radiant faces, and planked three unexploded shells down in front of us. It would have made a fine mess if they had gone off then!

We started soon after on our return journey; but as we entered the first valley new shells exploded behind us—the bombardment was resumed.

A little later Shatsy-Kou had to be evacuated with the whole Protectorate, and on the 28th of September we retreated behind the principal retrenchments, and at the same time the first bombardment on a large scale was started from the sea.

“Some” noise!

In the early morning of that day I sat in my bath in the best of spirits, refreshing myself before a long flight, when I heard the most appalling noise. As our artillery had been active day and night, I did not pay much attention to this additional racket, but attributed it to the firing of our 28-centimetre howitzer of the Bismarck battery, which lay at the foot of my villa, and had so far kept silent to economize our ammunition.

I sent out my batman to see that my aeroplane was kept in readiness. But after a very few minutes he returned breathless and a little pale, and reported: “Sir, we must leave the villa at once; we are being bombarded by four big ships. One of the heavy shells has just landed near the sheds, but, thank God, the aeroplane is not damaged, and no one is hurt. But I burnt my fingers. I saw such a beautiful large splinter, and wanted to carry it away as a souvenir; it was so hot, but I got it, all the same!” And he beamingly showed me his singed pocket-handkerchief, which held the huge splinter of a 30-centimetre shell! But I was already out of my bath, and in two minutes had reached the aerodrome where, with combined efforts, we pushed my aeroplane into a more sheltered corner of the field. After that I ran to look at the bombardment from the Shore-commander’s guard-house.

The latter lay on a hill, from which one had an ideal view of Kiao-Chow. One could follow the flight of every shell, and from now onwards, whenever I was not flying, I sat up here during the next weeks, watching the fight.

The first bombardment of Kiao-Chow took place on the 28th of September, and was particularly impressive.

The crashing and bursting of the shells, with their accompanying roar, was accentuated by the echo from the surrounding mountains. Crash followed upon crash, and we had the impression that the whole of Kiao-Chow was being turned into a heap of ruins. It was a weird feeling, but we soon got used to it. One is completely helpless in the face of exploding shells, and can but wait until all is over, whilst hoping that one may be mercifully far away from the spot on which they fall.

How despicable the English must have felt during this bombardment and those that followed!

The enemy ships stood so far out that our guns could not reach them. Therefore, they were quite safe. In the van steamed three Japanese battleships, and under Japanese command, at the rear, the English battleship Triumph.

I wonder whether the English felt proud of their rôle as executioners?

Thank God, the damage caused by the bombardment was not of much consequence, and from then on we awaited their cannonading with the greatest calm.

In the evening I witnessed a particularly sad performance. Our gunboats, Cormoran, Iltis and Luchs, were sunk by us after they had been dismantled.

It was a tragic sight. The three ships were fastened together and towed by a steamer into deep water and there blown up and burnt. It seemed as if the three ships knew that they were being dragged to their doom. They looked infinitely sad and helpless, with their bare masts sticking up heavenwards, and their frames writhed in the fire, as if they were unwilling to turn into ashes, until the waves swept over them and put an end to their torment. Our sailors’ hearts were wrung with pity. These three were followed by Lauting and Taku, and, shortly before our surrender, by the little Jaguar and the Austrian cruiser, Kaiserin Elisabeth, after these two ships had rendered us invaluable service. Their work fills one of the most glorious pages in the history of the fight and death of Kiao-Chow.

CHAPTER IV

SOME JAPANESE JOKES

WE were greatly puzzled by the activity of the Japanese besieging army. After the first bombardment we all thought that the Japanese would try to carry the fortress by assault, as they could not fail to know how weak we were, and that but a single wire entanglement stood between them and us.

The wildest rumours were circulated in our midst: “The Japanese dare not attack us, as things are going so well for us in Europe!” or “The Americans are sending their fleet to our assistance, and will force the Japs to retire!” And then again, “The Japs only want to starve us out; they want Kiao-Chow to fall into their hands with as little damage as possible!”

But we never got beyond mere conjectures. Quietly and systematically, and without our being able to prevent them, the Japanese landed their troops, constructed roads and railways, brought up heavy artillery and ammunition, entrenched themselves before our entanglements and slowly worked towards our defence-line.

I now started on my principal job—to reconnoitre the position of the enemy’s heavy batteries.

Every day, whenever the weather permitted—and the propeller!—in the early dawn, as soon as it was light, I started on my travels into the unknown. And when the sun rose I hung like a silver speck high up in the ether, circling for hours round the enemy’s positions, and overlooking the whole of our beloved Protectorate invaded by an impudent enemy, who meant to corner and destroy us.

My work was hard, but I enjoyed it, and it was crowned with success, and the enemy’s unceasing efforts to shoot me down convinced me that I was successful.

As I mentioned before, I was now the only aviator at Kiao-Chow—“the Master-Bird of Kiao-Chow,” as the Chinese called me. Also I had but a single Taube at my disposal. I had to be careful and take no unnecessary risks, otherwise there would have been an end to my job.

This was the way I carried out my reconnoitring.

As soon as I was flying right over the enemy I throttled my engine in such a fashion that it kept the altitude of its own accord. I then hung my map on the stick, took a pencil and a notebook, and observed what was happening below through the space between the planes and the tail. I let go the stick, and steered solely with my feet.

I then circled round a position until I had thoroughly mastered its details, made a sketch of them, and entered them in my notebook. I soon acquired such proficiency that I was able to write and draw uninterruptedly for an hour or two. When I felt the back of my neck getting stiff, I turned round and looked down on the other side. I did this until I was satisfied with my notes, and sometimes I was so carried away by my work that I had to be warned by a glance at my petrol-recorder that it was high time I went home.

I always returned the same way. I flew round the wharves and the town in proud circles, and when I reached my aerodrome I shut off the engine and shot down to earth in a steep, gliding flight, which landed me safe and sound in four minutes. For it was necessary to be quick. Infantry and machine-gun fire were continuously directed at my aeroplane while it flew over the enemy’s positions; when this proved of no avail, the enemy used shrapnel, and this was most objectionable.

The Japanese always had new surprises in store for me. One day, for instance—a day of blue sky and glorious sunshine—as I was returning from a reconnaissance and about to land, I saw a great number of fleecy white clouds, which looked perfectly delightful seen from above, hovering over my aerodrome at an altitude of about 300 metres.

But I soon noticed that the Japanese were trying on one of their little jokes, for these pretty cloudlets were caused by the firing of 10½-centimetre shrapnels!

There was nothing to be done but to grind one’s teeth and fight one’s way through. Four minutes later my machine dropped from an altitude of 2000 metres, and I pushed it as quickly as I could under a shed, whose roof was protected by earth.

I had now to resort to ruse.

Sometimes, when still hovering over the enemy camp, I suddenly shut off my engine and swooped down perpendicularly on to a corner of my aerodrome, so that the Japs were convinced that they had winged me. By the time they recovered from their surprise I was already pushing my machine into safety, their shrapnel bursting much too late.

But, as I tirelessly returned, the Japanese retaliated by posting two of their 10½-centimetre batteries so far behind and so much on the side that their shrapnel easily reached me whilst I was circling over their heads. It was very unpleasant, and my fate would often have been sealed but for my nimbleness in taking a sharp turn and thus evading a hit.

The shrapnels then burst so near that in spite of the noise of the engine I could hear the ugly bark of the explosion and feel the violent air-pressure that sent my aeroplane rolling like an old barge at sea, which made observation extremely difficult.

I must say that each time I landed safely I felt an overwhelming pride and satisfaction in my achievement, and halloed joyously with the full power of my lungs.

After hours of the greatest exertion and danger, I again felt solid earth under my feet, and in spite of guns and shrapnel.

As soon as I touched ground my four helpers came on the run, fearless of danger from the hail of shrapnel, and helped me to stow away my machine. My faithful dog, Husdent, jumped around them, barking joyously.

And whilst the four were busy getting my aeroplane ready for the next flight, I already sat at the steering-wheel of my car, all my maps and reports in my pocket, with Husdent at my side, and again raced along the road under shrapnel fire to Government House, where my reports were being eagerly awaited.

I believe anybody will sympathize with my joy and pride when I was allowed to present my drawings and observations. For on some days I had been able to discover as many as five or six enemy batteries, and often my observations filled four pages of the report forms.

The warm handshake with which the Governor and the Head of the Staff thanked me for my work was reward enough.

And whilst I drove homewards, in order to lunch and take a much-needed rest, I already heard the thundering of our guns as they hurtled their iron hailstones into the positions of the enemy just discovered by me.

CHAPTER V

MY WAR RUSE

HOW sad and desolate it now looked in my little house!

Immediately at the beginning of the siege, my good Patzig was obliged to leave me and to rejoin his 21-centimetre Battery-commander. He had only luxuriated for four weeks in the possession of our beautiful little home, and now he sat in his redoubt and fulfilled his duty until he had fired his last shell and the Japanese, with their heavy howitzers, had levelled to the ground the whole of his battery.

As soon as the first shot was fired, my Chinese cook, Moritz, faithlessly left me in the lurch, and one evening I found that also Fritz, Max and August had vanished without trace.

After a few days a new Chinese cook—Wilhelm—appeared on the scene, and recounted with emphatic gestures:

“Kind Master, me plenty good cook; me no lun away like bad fellow Molitz; me havee no fear; me makee plenty good chau-chau.”

I believed him, promised to give him five dollars and more. Things went fairly well, until one day the first enemy shells burst close to my house, and Herr Wilhelm as promptly disappeared as his predecessors.

I now sat alone in my deserted home with my faithful batman, Dorsch. We were the only inhabitants of the whole villa quarter of Iltis Bay.

Not exactly a safe or pleasant spot, for the villas were built on the hill which carried our chief batteries, and the enemy shells which whizzed past them landed straight in our midst. But we were very cautious. That is to say, we left our top floor and settled down comfortably and safely on the ground floor. As a further precaution we placed our beds in a corner, in such a way that they were far from a window, and thus we secured sufficient immunity. It was, however, lucky that no heavy shell challenged this position.

But I did not remain for long in sole control of the air.

On the forenoon of the 5th of September, under an overcast sky, with low-hanging clouds, we suddenly heard the purring of a motor, and I ran home to see what had happened. I was hardly there when an immense biplane shot into sight close over our heads. I was speechless, and peered dazedly at the apparition. Soon, however, the first explosions rent the air, and I now perceived the round red balls under the planes.

It was a Jap!

I must say that I felt rather queer on beholding my huge enemy colleague floating so near us in the sky. A bright outlook for the future!

Kiao-Chow regarded the advent of the enemy airman as a most disagreeable surprise, for no one had expected that the Japs would be equipped with aircraft.

On the whole, they eventually produced eight aeroplanes, amongst them four gigantic seaplanes, for whose possession I heartily envied the Japs. How often in the ensuing weeks did I gaze longingly at them, as they circled round the town, and wish for one!

The Japs flew well and with extraordinary pluck. It is lucky, however, that their bomb-dropping was not on a par with it, otherwise it would have been a bad look out for us. The Japanese bombs were heavy, of recent construction, and most destructive.

The enemy seaplanes also had a tremendous advantage over us. They were able to take off at a great distance, without consideration of the wind, with as much space for turning out as they could wish for; and when they had ascended with the greatest security to the altitude of 3000 metres they swooped down upon us, and simply jeered at our shrapnels and machine-guns.

One of the chief aims of the enemy was to destroy my hangar. Soon matters became so unpleasant for my aerodrome that one fine day I decided that it was time to stop my enemy colleagues’ little game.

My real shed lay at the northern end of the ground; it made a splendid target, and the Japanese knew its location by heart. I now built unobtrusively a new shed on the opposite side, close to a mountain slope, covering it with clods of earth and grass, so that nothing of it could be noticed from above. We then proceeded with deep cunning and malice to the erection of a bogus aeroplane, with the help of planks, sailing canvas and tin. From above it looked exactly like my Taube. And after that, the moment an enemy aviator was in sight, we played a little comedy.

On some days the doors of my old shed were wide open, and my imitation Taube sprawled in front of it on the beautiful green grass. On others the shed was closed and nothing to be seen. Another day my sham machine sat in a different place, where it could be spotted at once. Now the enemy aviators arrived and dropped bombs and bombs in their endeavours to hit the innocent bird. Whilst this was going on we sat in the real aeroplane, well protected by our roof, holding our sides with laughter as we saw the bombs seeking their bogus victim.

Once when we had been specially deluged with them, I picked out a fine splinter from a Japanese aviation bomb, affixed my visiting card to it and wrote:

“Kindest greetings to the enemy colleagues! Why do you shy at us with such hard objects? If you aren’t careful you will end by hurting us! It isn’t done.”

I took this letter on my next flight and dropped it in front of the Japanese seaplane station.

But this was only to announce my visit.

In the meantime one of our men had been preparing bombs for me. Simply marvellous specimens! Huge tin boxes of 4 lb. each, on which could be read in big letters: “Sietas, Plambeck & Co., best Java coffee.” They were filled with dynamite, horseshoe nails and scrap iron, a lead spar fixed to the bottom and a fuse at the top. It was exploded by a sharp iron point which hit the percussion-cap of a cartridge. All these things seemed pretty uncanny to me, and I handled them with the greatest caution—always happy when I had done with them. But they never caused much damage. Once I hit a torpedo boat, and even then it did not explode; on several occasions I just missed a convoy. And once I learned through Japanese reports that I had dropped a bomb into the midst of a Japanese marching column and sent thirty yellow ones to the nether regions!

I soon got over the first pleasant emotion of bombing. My time was fully occupied apart from it, and the results did not justify the time I lost.

I often met my enemy colleagues in the air. I did not hanker for these meetings, for I could do little with my slow, laboriously climbing Taube against the huge biplanes which carried a crew of three men. Above all, I dared not forget that my chief object was reconnoitring, and after that to bring back my machine to Kiao-Chow in good condition.

Once I was busily engaged on my observations, when my aeroplane began to pitch and toss. I thought this was due to bumps in the air, caused by the many steep and rugged mountains of this country which made flying extraordinarily difficult. Without even looking up, I went on taking observations, only grasping the control-lever with one hand in order to keep the aeroplane steady.

After my return I was informed, to my great surprise, that an enemy plane had flown so closely on top of me that they thought I should be shot down.