“The first time on a Fokker From the beginning of my career as a pilot, I had only one ambition, and that was to be allowed to fly in a single-seater fighter aircraft. After much agonising with my commander, I managed to get permission to fly a Fokker. The engine turning round on itself was something completely new to me. Sitting alone in a small aeroplane like that was also alien to me. I owned this Fokker together with a friend who has now been dead for a long time. I flew it in the morning and he flew it in the afternoon. Each of us was afraid that the other might smash the aeroplane. On the second day we flew against the enemy. I hadn’t met a Frenchman in the morning, but in the afternoon it was the other one’s turn. He didn’t come back, no news, nothing. Late in the evening the infantry reported a dogfight between a Nieuport and a German Fokker, after which the German seemed to have landed on the other side of the Toten Mann. It could only be Reimann, because everyone else had returned. We were sorry for our bold comrade when suddenly, at night, we received a telephone message that a German aviation officer had suddenly appeared in the foremost [80]sapper head of the infantry position on the Toten Mann. He turned out to be Reimann. His engine had been shot to pieces, forcing him to make an emergency landing. He had been unable to reach our lines and had landed between the enemy and us. He quickly set fire to his aircraft and then hid a few hundred metres away in an explosive funnel. During the night he then appeared in our trenches as a sneak patrol. This was the first time our stock company ended: ‘The Fokker’. * After a few weeks we got a second one. This time I felt obliged to fly the good thing into the afterlife. It was perhaps my third flight on the small, fast aeroplane. The engine cut out on take-off. I had to descend, straight into a field of oats, and looking around, the proud, beautiful machine had become nothing more than an unrecognisable mass. Miraculously, nothing had happened to me.”

‘My brother I hadn’t been on holiday for eight days when I received the telegraphic message: ’Lothar wounded, not life-threatening.” Nothing more. Further enquiries revealed that he had once again been quite reckless. He flew together with Allmenröder against the enemy. Low down, quite far over there, he saw an Englishman crawling around alone. These are the kind of enemy infantry planes that are a particular nuisance to our troops. In any case, they are very worrying. Whether they really achieve anything with their low crawling around is very much the question. My brother was about two thousand metres up, the Englishman a thousand. He brushes up against it, starts to dive and is with him in a few seconds. The Englishman preferred to avoid the fight and also disappeared into the depths in a dive. My brother, not lazy, followed. It doesn’t matter whether it’s over there or with us. Just one thought: he has to get down. That’s the right thing to do, of course. I do it now and again. But if my brother hasn’t done it at least once on every flight, the whole endeavour is no fun for him. It’s only when he’s very close to the ground that he gets a really good shot at him and can [164]shoot the place up. The Englishman crashes vertically into the ground. There’s not much left. After a fight like that, especially at low altitude, when you’ve turned and twisted so often, sometimes flying round to the right and sometimes round to the left, the ordinary mortal has no idea where he is. It was still a little hazy that day, so the weather was particularly unfavourable. He quickly got his bearings and only now realised that he was quite a way behind the front line. He was behind the Vimy Heights. The Vimy Heights are about a hundred metres higher than the other area. My brother had disappeared behind these Vimy Heights – at least that’s what the observers from the ground claim. Flying home until you reach your own position is not one of the most pleasant feelings imaginable. There’s nothing you can do to prevent the enemy from firing at you. They rarely hit you. My brother approached the line. At such a low altitude you can hear every shot, it sounds like chestnuts bursting in the fire when the lone infantryman shoots. Then – all at once he felt a blow, hit. He realised that. He is one of those people who cannot see their own blood. With another [165]it makes no impression on him; at least less. But his own blood disturbs him. He feels it running warmly down his right leg, and at the same time a pain in his hip. There is still banging below. So he’s still over there. Finally it stops so gently and he is over our front. But now he has to hurry, because his strength is visibly failing. Then he sees a forest, next to it a meadow. So he heads for the meadow. He quickly takes out the ignition, the engine stops, and at the same moment his strength is gone and he has lost his senses. He was now sitting all alone in his aeroplane, so a second person could not help him. How he came down to earth is actually a miracle. Because no aeroplane takes off and lands on its own. This is only said of an old pigeon in Cologne, which is prepared for take-off by a mechanic and flies off on its own just as the pilot is about to sit down, makes a turn on its own and lands again after five minutes. Many men claim to have seen this. I haven’t seen it – but I’m firmly convinced that it’s true. In any case, my brother didn’t have a pigeon that landed on its own, but he didn’t hurt himself when he touched the ground. It was only in the [166]military hospital that he regained his senses. He was transported to Douai. It is a very strange feeling for a brother to see the other involved in a fight with an Englishman. For example, I once saw Lothar hanging behind the squadron and being attacked by an Englishman. It would have been easy for him to refuse to fight. All he has to do is disappear into the depths. But no, he doesn’t! The thought doesn’t seem to occur to him. He doesn’t know how to escape. Fortunately, I had observed this and was paying attention. Then I saw how the Englishman, who was above him, kept pushing down on him and shooting. My brother tried to reach his height, regardless of whether he was being shot at or not. Then, all of a sudden, the plane flips over and the red-painted aircraft plummets vertically, turning on itself. Not a deliberate movement, but an outright crash. This is not the best of feelings for the brother watching. But I had to get used to it so gently, because my brother used it as a trick. As he had realised that the Englishman was over him, he marked being shot at. The Englishman followed, my brother caught himself and flew over him while looking round. The enemy aeroplane could not get up again so quickly [167]and come to its senses, my brother was breathing down its neck, and a few moments later the flames burst out. Then there’s nothing left to save, the plane crashes and burns. I once stood on the ground next to a petrol tank where a hundred litres exploded and burned at once. I couldn’t stand ten paces away from it, I was so hot. And now you have to imagine that a tank of many fifty litres explodes just a few centimetres in front of you and the propeller wind blows all the embers into your face. I think you’re knocked senseless at first, and it’s the quickest way. But signs and wonders do happen from time to time. For example, I once saw an English aeroplane crash in flames. The flames only burst out at an altitude of five hundred metres. The aircraft was in flames. As we were flying home, we learned that one of the occupants had jumped out from a height of fifty metres. It was the observer. Fifty metres up! You have to think about the height. The tallest church tower in Berlin is just within reach. Just jump down from the top of that tower! I wonder how you would get to the bottom! Most people would break their necks if they jumped from the mezzanine [168]. Anyway, this good ‘Franz’ jumped out of his burning aeroplane from a height of fifty metres, which had already been burning for at least a minute, and did nothing more than break his lower leg. He even made statements immediately after all this happened to him, so his mental state hadn’t even suffered. Another time I shot down an Englishman. The pilot was fatally shot in the head and the plane crashed into the ground, rudderless, vertically, without catching, from a height of three thousand metres. It was quite a while later that I came gliding after it and saw nothing below but a desolate heap. To my astonishment, I learnt that the observer only had a fractured skull and that his condition was not life-threatening. A person has to be lucky. Once again Boelcke shot down a Nieuport. I saw it myself. The plane crashed like a stone. We went there and found the plane half buried in the clay. The occupant, a fighter pilot, was knocked unconscious by a shot to the stomach and had only dislocated an arm when he hit the ground. He did not die. On the other hand, I had another experience where a good friend of mine landed [169]with a wheel in a carnelian hole. The plane had no speed at all and very slowly turned upside down, thought about which side it should tip over to, fell on its back – and the poor chap had his neck broken. * My brother Lothar is a lieutenant in the Fourth Dragoons, was at war school before the war, became an officer right at the beginning and, like me, started the war as a cavalryman. I don’t know what heroic deeds he did there, as he never talks about himself. I was only told the following story: It was the winter of 1914, his regiment was on the Warta, the Russians on the other side. Nobody knew whether they were moving or staying. The banks were partly frozen, so it was difficult to ride across. Of course there were no bridges, the Russians had torn them down. So my brother swam through, realised where the Russians were and swam back. All this in the harsh Russian winter at so many degrees below zero. His clothes froze up after a few minutes and underneath, he claimed, it was really warm. He rode like this all day until he reached his quarters in the evening. He did not catch a cold. [170]In the winter of 1915, at my insistence, he took up flying and, like me, became an observer. Only a year later he became an aeroplane pilot. The school as an observer is certainly not bad, especially for a fighter pilot. He took his third exam in March 1917 and immediately joined my fighter squadron. He was still a very, very young and unsuspecting aeroplane pilot who didn’t yet think about looping and similar jokes, but was satisfied if he could land and take off properly. After a fortnight, I took him up against the enemy for the first time and asked him to fly close behind me to have a closer look. After the third flight with him, I suddenly saw him break away from me and also swoop down on an Englishman and kill him. My heart leapt for joy when I saw this. It was proof to me once again how little shooting is an art. It’s just the personality or, to put it another way, the grit of the person concerned that does the trick. So I’m not a Pégoud, nor do I want to be, I’m just a soldier doing my duty. Four weeks later, my brother had already shot down twenty Englishmen. This is probably unique in all aviation, that an aeroplane pilot has shot down the first enemy a fortnight after his [171]third examination, and twenty enemies four weeks after the first. His twenty-second opponent was the famous Captain Ball, by far the best English aviator. I had already taken on Major Hawker, who was just as famous at the time, a few months ago. I was particularly pleased that it was now my brother who took on England’s second champion. Captain Ball flew a triplane and met my brother one by one at the front. Each tried to catch the other. No-one gave himself any quarter. It remained a brief encounter. Always flying towards each other. One never managed to get behind the other. Then suddenly, in the brief moment of flying towards each other, they both decided to fire a few well-aimed shots. Both fly towards each other. Both shoot. Each has a motor in front of them. The chances of hitting each other are very low, the speed twice as high as normal. It is actually unlikely that either of them will hit. My brother, who was a little lower, had overpowered his machine and rolled over, lost his balance and his machine became rudderless for a few moments. He soon caught it again, but found that his opponent had shot up both petrol tanks [172]. So land! Quickly switch off the ignition, otherwise the plane would burn. But the next thought was: Where is my opponent? At the moment he rolled over, he had seen his opponent also rearing up and rolling over. So he couldn’t be too far away from him. The thought dominates: Is he above me or below me? He was no longer above him, but he could see the triplane below him constantly rolling over and plunging even lower. He tumbled and tumbled, without catching himself, all the way to the ground. There it crashed. It was on our territory. Both opponents had hit each other with their fixed machine guns in the brief moment of the encounter. My brother’s two petrol tanks were shot to pieces, and at the same moment Captain Ball was shot in the head. He was carrying some photographs and newspaper cuttings of his home provinces, in which he was much celebrated. He seemed to have been on holiday a short time before. In Boelcke’s time Captain Ball had destroyed thirty-six German machines. He too had found a master. Or was it a coincidence that a great man like him also had to die the normal hero’s death? Captain Ball was certainly the leader of the anti-Richthofen squadron, and I think the Englishman will now prefer to give up trying to catch [173]me. We would be sorry for that, for it would deprive us of many a fine opportunity to get a good rap on the English. If my brother had not been wounded on the 5th of May, I believe he would have been sent on leave with fifty-two after my return from leave.”

Richthofen memorial ceremony of the Air Fleet Association in the auditorium of the high school.

“Memorial speech by Dr Bülow at the funeral service at the grammar school in Schweidnitz
Honourable attendees!
We are now living in an enormously significant, perhaps the most significant, but also one of the most difficult periods in the history of our people, a time in which the sword of which Jesus of Nazareth spoke to Mary, his mother, has pierced the hearts of thousands upon thousands of German mothers, and in which a sea of tears has flowed from the eyes of the wives, brides, sisters, fathers, brothers and friends of our fallen heroes. In this most solemn time, we have gathered here today in the auditorium of our venerable grammar school for a dignified, solemn memorial service that touches us all deeply in our hearts. And our solemn and melancholy mood is heightened by the thought that the person to whom today’s memorial service is dedicated is our fallen flying hero and king of the skies, Cavalry Captain von Richthofen, who often spent time in this hall seventeen years ago as a small, cheerful sixth-grader. And even though he was only a member of this school for a year before he went to Wahlstatt to attend the officer training academy, from which he then joined the army, our renowned school will always remember him; it proudly and wistfully engraves his name in its annals as one of its best sons, alongside the many names of capable and important men who emerged from it. The poet who wrote the verses just recited, Dr. Glaser, is also one of these former students. And even though he was not born here in Schweidnitz, our old balcony town still considers Manfred von Richthofen one of its children, as he himself states in his famous book ‘Der rote Kampfflieger’ (The Red Fighter Pilot). And in his expression of condolences to the hero’s mother, the local magistrate expressly mentions Schweidnitz twice as the great aviator’s hometown, which reserves a special honour in memory of the dear departed.
And indeed, he was actually at home here; his father’s house stands here, where he repeatedly and gladly stayed as a guest. What tributes and honours were bestowed upon him by our citizens when he flew here last year in his world-famous red aeroplane! How our young people in particular cheered him, looking up to him with glowing enthusiasm and admiration. And when our dear pupils hear the legend of Achilles, the glorious favourite hero of the ancient Greeks, who preferred a short, glorious life to a long, idle existence, or when they listen to the song of Siegfried, the radiant Germanic hero, who fell to the murderous sword in the prime of his youth and beauty, then a third shining figure rises before their minds: our native flying hero, Manfred von Richthofen! He resembles both Achilles and Siegfried in his short but brilliant heroic career. Fourteen days ago today, on Jubilate Sunday, he met a treacherous, merciless death in battle, and three days ago, on 2 May, he would have completed the cycle of twenty-six years of life. At the end of May, it will be three years since the then Uhlan lieutenant joined the air force. And in this short span of two years and eleven months, he has achieved one success after another and risen to become Germany’s first and most popular flying hero, indeed the world’s first pilot, whose chest was adorned with the highest decorations. The commander of the air force, General von Hoeppner, calls him ‘the best, the leader of the fighter pilots’ in his telegram of condolence. Hindenburg said of him: ‘As the master of the German air force, as a role model for every German man, he will live on in the memory of the German people,’ and Ludendorff called him ‘the embodiment of the German spirit of attack.’ With admiration, but also with trepidation, the whole of Germany, and especially we here in Schweidnitz, followed his eventful and successful heroic career.

The feelings that inspired us all were best expressed by our Empress in her telegram of condolence to the parents, when she said: ‘So often, with every news of a victory by your son, I trembled for his life, which he had dedicated to the King and the Fatherland.’ He was victorious eighty times in aerial combat, on this most difficult and dangerous battlefield, and thus far outshone the two greatest and most famous German fighter pilots before him, Boelcke and Immelmann! Having surpassed both of them and standing undisputedly at the top of the German fighter pilots, he could well have been more cautious and spared himself.
No one would have blamed him for doing so; indeed, many, perhaps all of us here, hoped and wished for it, especially since our ignoble enemies had repeatedly put a high price on his head. But his restless drive and unyielding heroism would not allow this. It was not vain thirst for glory that drove him, but that unchanging, simple, self-evident sense of duty that lived and worked in the hearts of all the great men of Prussia, and to which Prussia and Germany owe their current greatness. Thus, his young life followed in the footsteps and spirit of the great Frederick, Bismarck, Moltke, Wilhelm I and our current emperor, men whose lives were guided by the magnificent Roman motto: ‘Patriae inserviendo consumor’ – ‘I consume myself in the service of my fatherland.’
The significance and main merit of Richthofen’s eighty aerial victories lies not only in the high number of defeated opponents and destroyed enemy aircraft, however painful and painful their loss may be for our enemies, but above all in the example and role model he set for his comrades in the Air Corps, and through which he irresistibly inspired them to emulate him. If our army now maintains air superiority in the war, this is in no small part due to Richthofen’s merit. And we all know how important, indeed
crucial, air superiority is in modern warfare. Our Richthofen therefore deserves a full share of the laurels that adorn the foreheads of our battle commanders and victors. But just as great, perhaps even greater, more important and more lasting than our hero’s military victories and glorious deeds is the tremendous boost he gave to aviation as a whole. Through his actions, he proved how safely and relatively dangerlessly an aeroplane can be handled even under the most difficult conditions, and how unerringly the man-guided ‘glider of the skies’ follows its course. This is the greatness and immortality of Richthofen’s short but successful flying career. In this sense, the newspaper ‘Die Ostschweiz’ calls him a pioneer in the field of aviation, this new and powerful area of human culture, and places him alongside Zeppelin. The beneficial consequences of both men’s work for air transport will only become apparent in times of peace. It should not go unmentioned that shortly before his death, as if he had foreseen it, our hero wrote a short compendium on aerial combat. In it, he systematically presented his rich experience in aerial warfare and left his comrades, students and successors a precious wealth of teachings as an invaluable legacy.
What makes Manfred von Richthofen’s personality particularly appealing are the two virtues of simplicity and modesty that adorned this glorious, formidable fighter pilot. These qualities were praised by all who came into personal contact with him; they are also evident in his book ‘Der rote Kampfflieger’ (The Red Fighter Pilot), which also demonstrates a distinct talent for technical, vivid description. Our Empress also sent a telegram about Manfred to his parents: ‘I can still see your son before my eyes in his modesty and with his simple descriptions when I had the pleasure of greeting him in May last year.’ The youthful, magnificent hero and human being is no more. He, the noble, chivalrous warrior, died undefeated. This fact seems certain, although otherwise a mysterious darkness shrouds his death, a darkness that we will probably never be able to completely illuminate, nor do we want to. His Siegfried-like figure now sleeps the eternal sleep in enemy soil. The grief here, as throughout Germany, was great and genuine when the news of his heroic death arrived. Heartfelt, honourable and uplifting expressions of condolence poured in from all sides, from the highest and most important personalities of our people, to his parents.

Perhaps this shared grief of the entire German people will serve to alleviate their deep and justified sorrow somewhat. Comfort can also be found in the simple, pious wisdom that Manfred himself expressed in his book with the words: ‘Nothing happens without God’s providence. That is a comfort that one must repeat to oneself so often in this war.’ Furthermore, his relatives and all of us must take comfort in the thought that his deeds and achievements are immortal and will remain unforgotten. As long as the memory of this great and most terrible of all wars lives on in our people, we will also gratefully remember Germany’s greatest flying ace, our Manfred von Richthofen! His deeds and his example will continue to have an impact, especially on German youth. And as long as his heroic spirit, his spirit of bold daring, faithful duty and self-sacrifice inspires and captivates the hearts of our youth, Germany will not perish!
So we have every reason to mourn our Manfred von Richthofen, but we do not want to lament him, who left us in the prime of his life and at the height of his glory. Those whom God loves, he lets die in youth and happiness! Let us think and feel as Alfred Wlotzka expresses in his poem ‘Ikaros-Richthofen’ with the following words: Hero Richthofen dead! – He who blazed most gloriously, The star rose to the starry sky from whence he came! His death a loss? – Too early for him? Oh, no! Whose glow heralds such glorious deeds, He begets gigantic heroes in his wake! Hail Richthofen! Hail to your fatherland!” And so, in conclusion, I call out to his spirit: Farewell, brave and great hero, you good and noble man! We will not forget you! The memory of the
righteous remains forever! Amen.”