The dramatic true story of the Red Baron Archives - Meet The Red Baron

Advanced Training

heinpoblome — Sun, 20 Mar 2022 09:19:41 +0000

“Richthofen worked hard at Cologne and was the first of the thirty to finish. Several did not qualify. On June 10, he was sent to the No. 6 Air Replacement Section at Grossenhain for two more weeks of training. The observation course would alter be expanded to twelve weeks, but in that first year of discovery that aerial observation was an important tool for the army, observers were scarce, and were cranked out as quickly as possible. Besides flying, Richthofen had classroom instruction in map reading, camouflage recognition, troop and artillery spotting, bomb dropping, use of compass and telescope, meteorology, and photography. He had to draw maps in flight of what he saw and have them finished and ready for use before the Albatros landed.”

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Mail Pigeon Detachment

heinpoblome — Sun, 20 Mar 2022 09:46:03 +0000

“He was to report to an airdrome at Ghistelles, a village near Ostend, Belgium, on August 21, for duty with the Mail Pigeon Detachment.”

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Bölcke asks MvR to join Jasta 2 – Burrows’ version

heinpoblome — Fri, 15 Apr 2022 06:47:53 +0000

“One afternoon, Oswald Bölcke appeared. He was on his way back to Germany from a tour of air groups in Turkey. The trip had been arranged by the high command with the double purpose of giving Bölcke a rest after his nineteenth kill and showing the German and Turkish forces fighting the Arabs and the British on the Arabian Peninsula that they had not been forgotten because of the Fatherland’s two other fronts. Bölcke had shot down more airplanes than any other German, and was being touted by Berlin as the world’s greatest combat pilot. He told the awe-struck bomber pilots at dinner that night that he had just dropped in for a few hours to visit with his brother, Wilhelm, who happened to be the commander of Richthofen’s squadron. It was not quite true. The younger Bölcke had been ordered to start an elite mobile scout squadron to grapple with increasingly better and more determined British squadrons on the western front. He was looking for talent. Richthofen was one of the pilots sitting around the dining table who smiled at Bölcke whenever their eyes met. He remained in the group that followed the Bölcke brothers to a lounge after the meal, and listened attentively while Oswald described conditions in France and some of the outstanding Allied pilots the Germans were encountering there. When it was late, the officers of the 2nd Fighting Squadron left in ones and twos, taking respectful leave, as if they sensed they were at an audition, until the brothers were finally alone in a room full of cigarette smoke and empty glasses. Oswald explained to Wilhelm why he had come and added that, judging by what he had seen and heard that evening and previously, Richthofen wanted to become a scout pilot. He knew something of the Prussian’s background, of his wealthy family, and of his renowned passion for hunting and apparent indifference to women and alcohol. What about his temperament? Would he fit into a hunting squadron? Would he have the patience to stalk in the air the way he did on the ground, the obedience to follow instructions as quickly as was necessary in air-to-air fighting? Did he have the eyes and reflexes to be successfully aggressive? Wilhelm told Oswald that Richthofen had had a difficult start in flying, and although he still tended to be ham-fisted, he was working hard to become better. He knew almost nothing about how airplanes worked, or about their machine guns, and showed little inclination to learn. That trait would have to be watched, Wilhelm said, because it was the sure sign of a glory-seeker who did not feel he should be bothered with details. Details won battles, Wilhelm added, which Richthofen should have learned in school. But he was eager, and being hungry for fame – even too hungry – was not a bad thing if the fundamentals could be beaten into his thick skull before he got killed. If he lived through his first patrols, the older Bölcke advised the younger, he would probably make a good scout pilot. And there was one more, named Erwin Böhme, who was an old man of thirty-seven and an exceptionally skilled and courageous pilot. Why not take him, too, asked Wilhelm, and have an old tiger among the cubs. Early the next morning, Bölcke packed his bag and then went to Richthofen’s and Böhme’s quarters. He invited them to join a new group called ‘Jagdstaffel 2’ and if they accepted, to be at Lagnicourt, France, on or about September 1. Jagd is German for ‘hunting’. They accepted.”

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Bölcke’s analysis of MvR’s first victory

heinpoblome — Fri, 15 Apr 2022 08:29:08 +0000

“Bölcke was not only the commander of Jasta 2, but also its mentor, so the battle was analyzed the next day, when the weather was too bad for patrols. He had stayed above the battle long enough to catch glimpses of what his men were doing, yet he had also found time to make his own kill, which, raked by bullets, crashed into an observation balloon while making a forced landing, and burst into flames. He explained to each of his cubs what they had done wrong and gave solutions. Richthofen described his fight to Bölcke, who listened silently and did not take his large contemplative eyes off the cub. An interrogation started. Did Richthofen carefully deliberate the circumstances before he went after the two-seater? Did he not, in fact, make a series of wild charges, instead of a controlled attack? Had he checked from time to time to see whether anyone was on his tail? Why had he made wide sweeps around his victim, thereby inviting an enemy to approach him unnoticed? Why, for that matter, had he stayed in the combat area so long, and, above all, why had he landed and wasted time and almost an airplane? Bölcke did not want to embarrass Richthofen in front of his fellows, so he praised the final attack, which, he said, seemed well judged. He decided to have a talk with Richthofen in private.”

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Victory 11 – Burrows’ version

heinpoblome — Fri, 18 Mar 2022 14:16:35 +0000

“The pilot of the bullet-nosed Albatros that now followed Hawker around a tight circle at 3,000 feet near Bapaume, two miles inside German lines, did not know who his opponent was, but he knew the Lord’s airplane intimately. He had been one of several German pilots who test flew the first D.H.2 to arrive in France after it crashed almost intact behind German lines a year and a half later. He had tested its maneuverability and absolute speed limits at all altitudes in climbs, dives, and turns, the reliability, range, and accuracy of its machine gun, and the number of minutes its thirsty engine allowed it to stay in the air. Then, while another German pilot flew it and took defensive action, he made simulated attacks against it to find its most vulnerable side. The German therefore knew that his opponent could not defend himself from the rear. There was no chance of being shot at if he stayed behind and slightly above the Englishman. That was requisite number one, and, having achieved it, he could think about the kill. He knew that his Albatros was about twenty miles an hour faster than the D.H.2 at their present altitude, that it could climb more quickly, and that it carried two machine guns to the Englishman’s one. It could not, however, turn tighter circles than the D.H.2, which might staying on its tail difficult. But the German knew that if he could stay in the circle with his opponent, they would slowly lose altitude while the wind blew them farther and farther behind German lines, until the Englishman ran out of gas. If that happened, the Lord would have to either land and be taken prisoner or be shot out of the sky. No pilot would get into such a predicament. He would therefore try to escape. So the German knew that all he had to do was wait for the Englishman to break the circle and run for home. Then he would have him. Then he would kill him. Hawker realized immediately that he was not up against what his pilots called a ‘nervous type’. The Hun was doing all the right things. He had not yet let his hunger for a victory force him into a mistake. Not yet. But there was still time. Ten minutes before, Hawker had turned off his engine to prevent it from choking, and started a long dive at 11,000 feet to catch the pair of two-seaters that had been speeding eastward. He had no sooner turned off the engine than he heard machinegun fire coming from above, and, at almost the same instant, bullets passed close by. To hell with those two-seaters. He put his scout into a roll and then into a leaflike spiral. At the same time, he pushed his fuel valve to ‘full speed’ to get the engine going and pulled out of the spiral with a little less than full power at 10,000 feet. That was when he had run into this smart Hun, who had been below all the time, probably waiting for him. Hawker got off a few ineffective shots at the German while each tried to get into firing position, but neither would allow such an advantage, so they settled on opposite sides of a 300-foot-wide circle. They went around about twenty times to the left. Then Hawker made a figure eight, leading the German into about thirty more circles to the right and, by that time, dropping to 6,000 feet. They continued that way, round and round, like two dogs snapping at one another’s tails, as the minutes passed and they neared 3,000 feet. The German was now slightly higher on his side of the circle, and had a clear view of the Englishman hunched in his cockpit. He looked down and closely observed the man he was waiting to kill. He noted every movement of the Englishman’s head and tried hard to penetrate through the goggles that masked the eyes looking up at his. But because of the goggles and the tan leather cap, he could not see the expression on Hawker’s face and he regretted it. An arm came out of the Englishman’s cockpit and coolly waved up at him. The German smiled, but did not wave back. ‘No beginner’, he thought. When Hawker’s altimeter showed 1,500 feet, he began to get desperate. Half an hour had passed, the gas was critically low, and he figured he had drifted well over two miles behind the lines. He would be in the arms of the German infantry in ten minutes if he stayed in this mad circle. Where was Saundby? Where, for that matter, were Long and Pashley? He could now see trees, houses, and roads spinning by where, an eternity before, there had been limitless, free sky. He continued to look up at the German, but the dark blur he caught in the corner of his eye – the earth – now seemed like a giant mouth that wanted to swallow him. The circle had to be broken. With his eyes still on the German, Hawker jerked back on the stick, putting his D.H.2 into a couple of high, twisting loops. When he came out of the last of them, he rolled to one side, the to the other, and, with his altimeter showing 300 feet, began the dash for home. ‘Now’. The German snapped his Albatros into a tight bank and went straight for the Englishman’s tail. Both airplanes sped 150 feet above flat, pock-marked fields. They skimmed over groups of gray-uniformed German soldiers who held flattened hands over their eyes to block out the sun as they watched the terrier go after the rat. Most of them had seen it before, but it was always interesting, so they stopped piling sandbags and opening crates and watched the airplanes for as long as they could. It was a good excuse for a cigarette. Some of the soldiers wanted to fire their rifles or machine guns at the Englishman, but he was too close in front of their man, so they just watched. Hawker, trying to throw off the German’s aim, kicked his rudder bar back and forth, putting his scout into a series of zigzags. Two blue-gray eyes followed him, first to one side, then back across the black Spandaus to the other. Then back again. The eyes sent the picture to the brain for analysis. It was a trade-off, thought the German. The Englishman was zigzagging to present a more difficult target. But he lost speed every time he did it. Whether he succeeded in dodging bullets long enough depended on how close they were to the lines. The German was certain the Englishman would not make it. Every time the swerving airplane passed in front of his Spandaus, the German squeezed the triggers and watched a short line of bullets go out toward the growing target.He liked the sound of the guns, the sudden smell of gunpowder, and, most of all, the feeling that his bullets were ripping into canvas, smashing wooden braces, cutting control cables, and perhaps imbedding themselves into flesh. But the Englishman still would not fall, and the front lines were now 1,000 yards ahead. The German was now within sixty feet of the Englishman and firing almost continuously. If the D.H.2 made it to the British lines, its pilot would immediately drop to a safe landing, and the German would be robbed of his hard-earned prize. With 900 of his 1,000 rounds gone, and the first row of British trenches in sight, the German’s guns jammed. He cursed and frantically tried to clear them. They were clear again. He carefully lined up the small gunsight between his Spandaus with the Englishman’s engine. The gloved hand wrapped around the Albatros’s stick, and the boots resting delicately on its rudder pedals moved fractions of an inch in exact duplication of the hand and boots in the airplane ahead. The German again squeezed his trigger. More bullets came out of the twin Spandaus. Another quick taste of powder. Then the German saw the English scout suddenly straighten, hang limply in the air for a second, and fall. It smashed nose-first into the ground, burying its machine gun in the mud, splitting and crunching wood, and tearing fabric. It stayed in that position for a moment, tail pointed upward, and then came crashing down in a tangle of cables and a thin cloud of dust. The wreckage bounced once and came to rest in a waterlogged shell hole 500 yards inside the German forward lines. Its pilot lay somewhere in the debris with a bullet in his head. The young German put his Albatros into a tight, climbing turn until it pointed east. He looked around for other airplanes, and seeing none, let himself look down at his victim. He tried hard to be calm as he studied what he had done. But his heart pounded from excitement. There was no other feeling like it. He felt potency surging through his body and waiting in his fingers to be used again. Two of them had fought for the sky. One was the victor. He was the victor, and therefore he owned the sky for as far as he could see and as far as his guns could reach. He pulled gently back on the stick and aimed his Albatros toward a higher altitude, where it would catch the wonderful wind that always carried him home. He thought the wind could carry him to heaven. It was the eleventh time Baron Manfred von Richthofen had felt that way.”

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On victory 19

heinpoblome — Mon, 18 Apr 2022 08:05:42 +0000

“Twenty minutes after the pilot and his observer, both mortally wounded, were dragged from their airplane, a Canadian artillery battery blew it to splinters to deny it to the Germans. Its crew died the next day.”

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Going over tactics

heinpoblome — Mon, 18 Apr 2022 10:24:02 +0000

“The army might be on the defensive, and the Air Service, too, but not Richthofen. He spent the first two weeks of February going over tactics with his squadron and meeting with its members one at the time to discuss their mistakes. He was developing Bölcke’s ability to see almost everything around him during a fight, even when he was engaged, and he remembered what he saw. There was no excuse for not continuously looking behind, he warned Jasta 11, and any pilot returning with holes in his tail had to have a good explanation. There was no truth, however, to stories circulated later that even a single hole in a scout’s tale was reason for Richthofen to have its pilot transferred. He was nonetheless taken at his word. Returning from one fight, a Jasta 11 pilot with a generous scattering of bullet holes faked engine trouble and landed at another squadron’s field, where the holes were patched before he continue home. Pilots did not generally adore Richthofen the way they had Bölcke, and he knew it. But he also knew that they respected him, and his schooling told him that that was enough. He made it a rule never to ask pilots to do something that he would not do, and he took satisfaction in knowing that they knew that, too.”

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On victory 20

heinpoblome — Mon, 18 Apr 2022 10:38:34 +0000

“He said in his report that the pilot had been killed in the air and the observer seriously wounded when the B.E.2 crashed into German trenches. The opposite was true. Second Lieutenant H. A. Croft, the observer, was probably killed instantly. But the pilot, Lieutenant C. D. Bennett, fractured the base of his skull in the crash, erasing all memory of his encounter with Richthofen. He eventually became a London businessman, but forever lost the events of February 14, 1917.”

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A postcard from Baron von Riezenstein

heinpoblome — Mon, 18 Apr 2022 11:04:37 +0000

“Richthofen rarely saw his victims’ bodies. Orderlies were sent to the crash sites to get information necessary for reports and to collect souvenirs. Several days after his double victory of the 17th, however, he received a photo postcard showing the contorted body of the F.E.2 pilot, Lieutenant A. E. Boultbee, lying in the debris of his airplane. The inscription on the other side read: ‘Sir, I witnessed on March 17, 1917, your air fight, and took this photograph, which I send to you with hearty congratulations, because you seldom have the occasion to see your prey. Vivat sequens! (here’s to the next!) With fraternal greetings, Baron von Riezenstein, Colonel and Commander of the 87th Reserve Infantry Regiment’.”

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MvR is asked to write his memoirs

heinpoblome — Mon, 18 Apr 2022 11:45:35 +0000

“After the meeting with Hoeppner, Richthofen toured almost every department in the building, including ‘Airplanes’, which recorded air victories, kept track of personnel, systematized the structure of all units, handled supply requirements, and dealt with technical problems, such as the Albatros’s weak wing. One way or another, Richthofen touched on the interests and responsibilities of almost everyone in the building, and all of the ‘ink-spillers’, as he called them, were anxious to meet or at least see him. The small staff of Department B of the Adjutant General’s branch was particularly interested in meeting him, because they were responsible for intelligence and press, and they had a project for him. He was going to write his memoirs. A publisher had made the suggestion, and the Air Service thought it was a fine idea. Richthofen, by his own admission, had never been a good student, much less a man of letters. But he was assured that he would not have to produce a masterpiece, that his fellow countrymen simply wanted to know more about him, and that he could complete the small book at Schweidnitz before his six-weeks’ leave was over. He would, in addition, be given a stenographer to speed along the manuscript. It would be sent to Department B in small sections for editing and censoring, and would then be published in magazine installments. Finally, it would all be put together in book form, a small paperback, to be sure, but it would nonetheless be his book – the memoirs of the world’s greatest air fighter. Richthofen liked the idea because, among other reasons, proceeds would go to his family in case he was killed. If the war turned out badly, they would need that money.”

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