The Mammoth Book of Fighter Pilots (22 page)

When I landed, the Major said that our Archie gunners had reported Huns falling out of the sky in pieces everywhere. The O.C. was very pleased, and so was I, for I had accounted for three two-seaters in thirty minutes.

That afternoon the O.C. and I went out to see the remains of the Rumpler who went down in flames at Flers, and when we arrived we saw nothing but a charred mass of wreckage. It was a nasty sight, and it brought home to me more than ever the sterner aspect of aerial fighting.

The next day I took my flight over the lines at Bantouzelle, and at once saw three enemy two-seaters coming towards me from Vaucelles Wood. I signalled to attack, and we lessened our altitude. I got behind the L.V.G. and fired a burst, and the Hun started to go down, with me after him. I headed him over our trenches, and as he went down low, as if to land in our lines, I followed closely, and saw him flatten out to land, but he put his engine on to miss a trench, and that must have given him an idea of making a further bid for Hunland. Thereupon he flew north, towards Havrincourt, at about 10 feet, and the pilot seeming to want to get back, while the observer was just standing in his cockpit looking at me, but not firing at all.

At Havrincourt the pilot turned east, still at about 10 feet high, and I saw that he would soon cross the trenches, so I fired another burst into him at close range. He immediately spun and crashed in our lines, not a hundred yards from the L.V.G. which the salvage party burnt after I had driven it down intact at Havrincourt village.

As I circled round I saw our Tommies assisting the occupants out of the wreck. I afterwards learned that the pilot was mortally wounded but that the observer was unscratched. How he escaped my fire I do not know, for when I fired my last burst I was directly behind the machine and the gunner was directly between my nose and the Hun pilot. I expect a bullet or two passed between his legs.

After climbing again, I found some of my patrol, and then we attacked some V-strutters over Vaucelles Wood. We drove them down, and, that accomplished, we flew home to our aerodrome.

At midday I went up alone, as the visibility was good, but I remained at 18,000 feet for nearly two hours before I saw an L.V.G. crossing our lines near Bantouzelle. I went down on him, but he saw me at once and turned for the lines. I was much faster and soon caught him, and as soon as I got into position he commenced circling. “Hallo!” I thought; “this artist has seen me at work before,” and I let him circle, for there was an easterly wind and I knew that he would go straight before long, so as to get back to his lines.

I did not wait for long, for he suddenly dived away straight towards his lines, and I then got my sight on him and fired until he first of all fell to pieces and then burst into flames. As I watched the wreckage go down floating in our lines, I felt that my two hours’ vigil at 18,000 feet, when the glass on the ground was reading 20° of frost, had not been wasted. I flew home, and had a generous dinner, after which we listened to the gramophone for half an hour, and life again seemed full of cheer.

That afternoon the Major and I walked to the neighbouring village of Heilly to see some infantry officers whom we knew there. It was a typical winter afternoon, snow under foot, frosty and a blue sky above. We returned about 5 p.m., and having walked eight miles in thick snow sat down and consumed immense quantities of toast and jam (not Tickler’s!).

That evening was brightened by our own orchestra at dinner. They played all sorts of music, from “Poète et Paysan” to “Dixieland,” and after the dinner we adjourned to our ante-room to dance and listen to the music, for the orchestra was really wonderful. It is extraordinary what a different feeling a good hour’s music gives to a squadron, and I think that every squadron in France ought to have its own orchestra, for I think that good pleasant music certainly tones up a squadron’s
morale
to no little extent. I am digressing, for which I most humbly ask forgiveness.

DEATH FLIES FASTER

ERNST UDET

Udet was the leading surviving ace of the Imperial German Military Service in World War I, scoring 62 victories (against the fallen Richthofen’s 80). Originally flying as an NCO, he painted the taunting message on his Fokker DVII’s tailplane “Definitely not you!” – but someone did, and Udet only survived the downing by baling out with his parachute. (A luxury not permitted Allied flyers, incidentally, who forwent the benefits of silk). Flying a new, and message-less, aircraft Udet was commissioned and became commander of
Jasta 37
(Fighter Squadron 37). By the end of the war, the 22-year-old Udet commanded a fighter squadron in von Richthofen’s
Jagdgeschwader I
(Fighter Group I) and had been awarded the
Pour le Mérite.
In peacetime Udet became a stunt pilot in the movies, before appointment as general in the Luftwaffe in World War II. However, disagreements with his old cohort from
Jagdgeschwader I,
Herman Goering, forced Udet’s suicide in 1941.

In the extracts from his memoirs below, taken from the years 1917 and 1918, Udet describes his memorable fight with the French ace Georges Guynemer, his transfer to Richthofen’s
Jagdgeschwader I,
and a subsequent convalescent leave in Munich.

Jasta 15, which grew out of the old Single-Seater Combat Command Habsheim, has now only four aircraft, three sergeants, and myself as their leader. Almost always we fly alone. Only in this way can we fulfill our assigned duties.

Much is happening on the front. It is said the other side is preparing an offensive. The balloons are up every day, hanging in long rows in the summer sky, like a garland of fat-bellied clouds. It would be good if one of them were to burst. It would be a good warning to the others in addition, on just plain general principles.

I start early in the morning, so that I can have the sun at my back to stab down at the balloon. I fly higher than ever before. The altimeter shows five thousand meters. The air is thin and icy. The world below me looks like a gigantic aquarium. Above Lierval, where Reinhold fell, an enemy pusher type is cruising around. Like a tiny water flea, he shovels his way through the air.

From the west, a small dot approaches fast. At first, small and black, it grows quickly as it approaches. A Spad, an enemy fighter. A loner like me, up here, looking for prey. I settle myself into my seat. There’s going to be a fight.

At the same height, we go for each other, passing at a hair’s breadth. We bank into a left turn. The other’s aircraft shines light brown in the sun. Then begins the circling. From below, it might appear as though two large birds of prey were courting one another. But up here it’s a game of death. He who gets the enemy at his back first is lost, because the single-seater with his fixed machine guns can only shoot straight ahead. His back is defenseless.

Sometimes we pass so closely I can clearly recognize a narrow, pale face under the leather helmet. On the fuselage, between the wings, there is a word in black letters. As he passes me for the fifth time, so close that his propwash shakes me back and forth, I can make it out: “
Vieux
” it says there –
vieux –
the old one. That’s Guynemer’s sign.
⁹

Yes, only one man flies like this on our front. Guynemer, who has brought down thirty Germans. Guynemer, who always hunts alone, like all dangerous predators, who swoops out of the sun, downs his opponents in seconds, and disappears. Thus he got Puz away from me. I know it will be a fight where life and death hang in the balance.

I do a half loop in order to come down on him from above. He understands at once and also starts a loop. I try a turn, and Guynemer follows me. Once out of the turn, he can get me into his sights for a moment. Metallic hail rattles through my right wing plane and rings out as it strikes the struts.

I try anything I can, tightest banks, turns, side slips, but with lightning speed he anticipates all my moves and reacts at once. Slowly I realize his superiority. His aircraft is better, he can do more than I, but I continue to fight. Another curve. For a moment he comes into my sights. I push the button on the stick . . . the machine gun remains silent . . . stoppage!

With my left hand clutched around the stick, my right attempts to pull a round through. No use – the stoppage can’t be cleared. For a moment I think of diving away. But with such an opponent this would be useless. He would be on my neck at once and shoot me up.

We continue to twist and turn. Beautiful flying if the stakes weren’t so high. I never had such a tactically agile opponent. For seconds, I forget that the man across from me is Guynemer, my enemy. It seems as though I were sparring with an older comrade over our own airfield. But this illusion lasts only for seconds.

For eight minutes we circle around each other. The longest eight minutes of my life. Now, lying on his back, he races over me. For a moment I have let go of the stick and hammer the receiver with both fists. A primitive expedient, but it helps sometimes.

Guynemer has observed this from above, he must have seen it, and now he knows what gives with me. He knows I’m helpless prey.

Again he skims over me, almost on his back. Then it happens: He sticks out his hand and waves to me, waves lightly, and dives to the west in the direction of his lines.

I fly home. I’m numb.

There are people who claim Guynemer had a stoppage himself then. Others claim he feared I might ram him in desperation. But I don’t believe any of them. I still believe to this day that a bit of chivalry from the past has continued to survive. For this reason I lay this belated wreath on Guynemer’s unknown grave.

For the past six weeks I am the C.O. of Jasta 37. We are based in Wynghene, a small town in the middle of the Flanders marshes. The terrain is difficult, broken up by ground folds and water ditches. Here, every emergency landing means a crack-up. When one climbs high enough, one can see across to Ostende and the sea. Gray-green and endless, it stretches to the horizon.

Many were surprised at Grashoff leaving me in command when he was transferred to Macedonia. There are men here senior both in years and rank. But, back in the fall, when I brought down the three Englishmen over Lens, he had promised it to me. It was a surprise success in Guynemer’s style. I came down out of the sun and attacked the last one on the outside left, finishing him with five rounds. Then the next one and, finally, the leader. The other two were so surprised, they didn’t get a shot off. The whole thing didn’t last more than twenty seconds, just as it was with Guynemer back then. In war, one must learn the trade of fighter piloting or get knocked off. There is no alternative.

When I landed, Grashoff knew all about it. “When I leave here some day, Knaegges, you will inherit the
staffel
,” he said. Thus I became the C.O. of Jasta 37.

Across from us are the English. Young, sharp boys, they take on anybody and usually hold out until the final decision. But we are their equals. The depressing feeling of inferiority, giving us all the doldrums at Boncourt, has disappeared. The
staffel
has a long string of victories behind it, and I myself have, up to now, nineteen confirmed.

As the winter deepens, air traffic slows down. There is much rain and snow. Even on dry days the heavy clouds drift so low that no takeoffs are ordered. We sit around in our rooms. I am quartered in the country house of a lace manufacturer. Sometimes, when I sit at the window, I see the home workers bringing up their wares. They are bent, ragged shapes, stamping through the snow.

The son of the house has entered the Royal Flying Corps on the other side. But the people don’t make me ill at ease over it. “He does his duty, I do mine,” is their point of view, reasonable and clear.

In the spring of 1918 a restlessness runs along the German front, from Flanders up into the Vosges. This is certainly not the spring alone. Everywhere, among the officers and men, they are speaking of the great offensive, which is supposed to be imminent. But no one knows anything for certain. On March 15, the
staffel
is ordered to load up its personnel and aircraft at once. Destination unknown. We all know this is the beginning of the offensive.

Along the highway to Le Cateau we set up our aircraft tents. The rain comes down in a fine spray, which slowly turns everything – trees, houses, and people – into the same gray mush. I have put on my leather jacket and help the mechanics drive the tent pegs into the ground.

A car comes rattling along the road. Many cars pass this way, so we have ceased paying any attention to them. We continue to work in grim silence. Someone pats me on the back, and I jump around.

Richthofen. The rain is seeping down from his cap, running into his face.

“Hello, Udet,” says the captain, and he tips his cap. “Nice rotten weather today.”

I salute in silence and look at him. A quiet, self-controlled face, large, cold eyes, half covered by heavy lids. This is the man who has already brought down sixty-seven, the best of us all. His car stands on the highway below. He has clambered up the slope through the rain. I am waiting.

“How many have you brought down, Udet?”

“Nineteen confirmed, one pending,” I answer.

His cane pokes around in the wet leaves.

“Hm, twenty then,” he repeats. He looks up and gives me a searching glance.

“Then you would actually seem ripe for us. Would you like to?”

Would I like to? I most certainly would! If I had my way, I would pack up right now and go along with him. There are many good squadrons in the Army, and Jasta 37 is far from the worst. But there is only one Richthofen group.

“Yes,
Herr Rittmeister
,” I reply, and we shake hands.

I look after him as his spare and slender shape clambers down the slope, climbs into the car, and disappears around the next bend behind a curtain of rain.

“Well, you could say we have made it now,” says Behrend as I bend down beside him to continue driving the tent pegs into the ground.