|
|
Post by Tom Kwiatkowski Sr. on Sept 1, 2012 14:47:03 GMT -5
APRIL 21, 1918 AMEINS FRONT
When the pilots of JG-1 crawled out of their bunks in the early morning hours of April 21, 1918, they found their aerodrome at Cappy shrouded in thick, gray fog. The blanket of mist clung to the ground, making any flying impossible. Delighted by the break, the pilots gathered near their planes to await the events of the day.
They needed the break. Since March 21st, the men had been in action nearly every day, fighting with a desperation born from the knowledge that this last, great German offensive would determine the course of the war. They knew that their nation had gambled everything – resources, men, equipment, aircraft; and money – on this final effort. At first, it had succeeded. Below the wings of JG-1s Fokkers and Albatros fighters, the infantry had poured through a broken British line. German reinforcements flooded to the breakthroughs pushing the Tommies back nearly 40 miles. In a war that measures success in yards, 40 miles seemed a ringing victory. But JG-1 discovered, it proved to be a hollow success. Now, a month later, the British had turned to fight, stopping the advance cold before any real strategic success could be achieved.
|
|
|
|
Post by Tom Kwiatkowski Sr. on Sept 2, 2012 14:03:34 GMT -5
All that was left to do was fight on with sheer momentum. Already, gossip around the mess tables at night told stories of friendly infantry units breaking and routing; of fighter squadrons running out of gas, rubber, and oil; of discontent in the ranks. In some cases the red specter of Socialism seemed to play a part, boding ill for the future in light of Russia's Revolution the previous fall. Clearly, four years of stagnant, bloody, trench warfare had just plain worn out the German army, and now its men were being asked to do too much.
This was also true of the Air Service, and of JG-1 in particular. For the last month, they'd been flying four or five times a day. The men were exhausted, their lives measured in mere days as the inferno over the trenches claimed pilot after pilot.
For the ground crews, times were nearly as trying. They worked through the days and nights in a never ending battle to keep the planes airborne. With stocks of spare parts low, and replacement aircraft a wishful dream, the geschwader's fighting strength slowly drained away. Just to keep their remaining planes in fighting shape, parties of mechanics would scour the front for wrecks, from which they cannibalized all the rubber parts and brass fittings they could find.
|
|
|
|
Post by Tom Kwiatkowski Sr. on Sept 3, 2012 17:13:16 GMT -5
Two things kept these men going: their love for Germany and their love for their leader, the legendary Manfred von Richthofen.
He was the type of man others instinctively followed. He led by example, by devotion to duty, and by sheer force of will. After four years of combat – first with the cavalry on the Eastern Front, then as a fighter pilot in the West Richthofen was burned out, Nevertheless he carried out his duty with grim determination that inspired all around him. His insistence to stay at the front endeared him to his men almost as much as it frustrated and worried the German high command. Richthofen, General Hindenburg once remarked, was worth at least one full division. He was the soul of the fighter force, the inspiration to all of the Air Service after three years of battling the British from the cockpit of Germany's best fighters. Alive he was a great propaganda asset, a symbolism of everything the German fighting man stood for in this long and dreary war. To the core, he was a combat pilot, a hunter in the sky. And this is why he never let up.
|
|
|
|
Post by Tom Kwiatkowski Sr. on Sept 5, 2012 17:46:29 GMT -5
Not even after he nearly died did he give much thought to taking some desk job far from the front, though his superiors urged him to do just that. Nearly a year before, in July, 1917, he had been in a wild dog fight with Naval 10 Squadron and some FE2s from a local RFC unit, during the fight one of the Fee gunners had shot Richthofen in the head. Nearly out of his mind with pain, and practically blinded by blood gushing over his eyes, Germany's ace of aces spiraled down to the trenches below and crash-landed within friendly lines. Some soldiers pulled him from the wreckage and carried him to a field hospital, where his wounds were dressed. After a spell at home where he was sent to recover, he returned to action once again the fall.
Despite his leave, he never really recovered from his wound. Now, months later, he looked gaunt and hollow. He suffered from terrible headaches that at times threatened to confine him to bed. Yet, he doggedly pressed on, shooting down an increasing number of Allied aircraft, until, by April 21st, his total stood at 80 kills.
|
|
|
|
Post by Tom Kwiatkowski Sr. on Sept 5, 2012 17:48:55 GMT -5
As the sun rose over Cappy that spring morning, Richthofen appeared at the fighter line to check on his pilots. He was in fine spirits by all accounts, since the day before he had claimed his 80th victim. As he toured the scene, he tripped over a stretcher laid out on the ground. When he looked back to see what he'd fallen over, he saw Lieutenant Wenzl, a young tiger who had just transferred into geschwader from Jasta 31 at the end of March. Playfully, the Rittmeister tipped over the stretcher, spilling Wenzl into the mud.
Laughing at their leader's prank, the other pilots plotted revenge. Later that morning, they kidnapped the Rittmeister's dog, Moritz, and tied a wheel chock to his tail. Moritz had already seen much of the war, and, in fact, was missing part of an ear. Some months before, the big Great Dane was chasing Richthofen's Fokker Triplane as it began its takeoff roll the dog got too close and collided with the propeller blades, which chopped off a good portion of his ear.
|
|
|
|
Post by Tom Kwiatkowski Sr. on Sept 6, 2012 12:01:12 GMT -5
So it was on the morning of April 21, Moritz, the half-eared dog came whining to his master, a wheel chock dragging at his hind legs. The Rittmeister took the gag in stride, laughing at the sight as he knelt down to free Moritz from the chock.
Little did anyone know that this would be the last time the Rittmeister's laughter would ring in their ears.
With late morning came a break in the weather. A strong wind scattered the fog, and as blue skies appeared over Cappy, the mood over the aerodrome became serious and businesslike. They'd be going into battle soon, and the men knew the odds, as usual, would be heavily stacked against them.
The call came down shortly after 10:30. A German observation point reported enemy aircraft heading for JG-1's patrol area. The news sent the pilots scurrying for their planes. In minutes, two ketten – flights – were airborne. Richthofen led them off in his blood-red Fokker Dr.I.
|
|
|
|
Post by Tom Kwiatkowski Sr. on Sept 7, 2012 14:58:08 GMT -5
The men left behind at Cappy anxiously awaited the return of the geschwader's aircraft , going about their duty as they strained to hear the warm sounds of engines approaching the airfield.
Finally, in the early afternoon, they straggled in. The ground crew watched the Fokkers swing around the aerodrome, their quirky Oberusel engines coughing and burping as the pilots hit their “blip buttons” to slow their planes down to landing speed.
But one aircraft was missing. The blood-red Fokker belonging to the Rittmeister was nowhere to be seen.
Through the afternoon they waited for news, despair threatening to overcome this once happy band of Germany's elite aviators. As the sun went down that afternoon, dread filled their hearts. He had fallen behind British lines, and now all they could do was hope he had been taken prisoner.
When word did come of the leader's fate, it was not what they all feared. Their Rittmeister, the great Manfred von Richthofen was dead.
Allied guns had destroyed the heart and soul of the German fighter force that April day, and with it, so died Germany's last hopes of winning the air war.
And yet, something else happened that day, something that none of those present at Cappy Aerodrome could ever have imagined. With the death of Manfred von Richthofen, a legend was born – one that would endure long after they were but dust in a soldier's grave – the legend of the Red Baron.
|
|
|
|
Post by Tom Kwiatkowski Sr. on Sept 8, 2012 17:21:39 GMT -5
CHAPTER ONE
Europe In Flames
One wrong turn changed the course of history. On June 28, 1914, Austrian Archduke Franz Ferdinand arrived in the Bosnian city of Sarajevo intent on attending army maneuvers in that recently annexed province of the Austro-Hungarian Empire. The results of that visit set in motion a chain of events that led to the bloodiest war in world history. Long after all the players that day were dead and buried, the effects of their actions resounded for decades, affecting the course of both Europe and the United States for generations to come.
It began at the train station in Sarajevo, where the Archduke, his wife, and his entourage climbed into several open-topped touring cars to begin the short drive to the City Hall, where they would meet Sarajevo's Mayor.
Unknown to them assassins lurked along their planned route. As the Archduke's car trundled down the street, one of the killers jumped forward to throw a bomb. By chance, the bomb missed, bouncing off the car and landing in the street. It exploded next to the car directly behind the Archduke's wounding several of his good friends and staff members. The injured men were rushed to the hospital while Ferdinand, furious about what had just happened, continued to City Hall.
|
|
|
|
Post by Jim Broshot on Sept 9, 2012 9:54:27 GMT -5
|
|
|
|
Post by Tom Kwiatkowski Sr. on Sept 9, 2012 18:01:22 GMT -5
Ok Jim. I have changed British to Allied. That should cover it. I was sorta hesitant about British in the first place. Thanks for the clarification. Guess I gotta go with what I think I know and back it up with more research.
|
|
|
|
Post by Tom Kwiatkowski Sr. on Sept 9, 2012 19:03:39 GMT -5
Once he arrived there, he greeted the Mayor icily. “So you welcome your guests here with bombs?” he asked angrily. The Mayor brushed aside the remark and welcomed his Austrian dignitary to his city, assuring the Archduke that the would-be assassin had been caught. The meeting ended with Ferdinand announcing he wished to visit his two wounded officers in the hospital. The required change in plans with almost, but not quite, saved the Austrian's life.
That day, a number of Pro-Serbian assassins had staked out the Archdukes route through the city. If the first assassin failed,there were backups to him and backups to those backups. The Austrians route through the city had been well known, and it was dotted with gun wielding, bomb toting fanatics. Trained by the Serbian terrorist organization known as the Black Hand, their goal was to secure Bosnian independence from Austria.
Now , though, circumstances foiled their plot. The Archduke would not be traveling on his pre- selected route to the Army maneuvers. Instead he assisted on going to the hospital. He should have missed all the other assassins waiting for him.
Enter Franz Urban, the Archduke's personal chauffeur. Urban had never driven in Sarajevo before and did not know exactly how to get to the hospital. He tried his best, though, working through the maze of narrow streets, trying to follow his maps and directions. In the end, he got lost.
|
|
|
|
Post by Tom Kwiatkowski Sr. on Sept 13, 2012 17:31:53 GMT -5
Somewhere along the way, he made a right turn into a single-lane alley that was so narrow he could not turn around. He went only a dozen yards down the alley before he realized his mistake. He slowed down getting ready to turn it. Then he saw he would have to back up to the main street he had left. He touched the brakes just as a shabbily dressed young man crossed in front of the car a dozen or so feet ahead. Franz watched the man – a boy really – look up a see the car.
The man was a 19-year-old Bosnian Serb student named Gavrilo Princip. Trained by the Black Hand he had been posed on the Archduke's original touring route. When the Austrian had not shown up, Princip got bored and decided to head for home. Running into the Archduke on this confined back alley was a complete accident.
Princip capitalized on this chance meeting. Quickly he pulled his revolver and stepped toward the car. Shots rang out. The Archduke and Archduchess slumped forward, bleeding from their bullet wounds. Horrified, Franz Urban jammed the car in reverse and sped to the hospital. But by the time he arrived there, both Austrians had bled to death.
Princip did not enjoy his victory. Bosnian police arrested him immediately, and he spent the next four years languishing in prison before he died of pneumonia in 1918. He lived long enough to see the war – to see the millions killed or maimed – that had been touched off by his single act of madness.
|
|
|
|
Post by Tom Kwiatkowski Sr. on Sept 18, 2012 17:38:46 GMT -5
And still, none of it have happened if Franz Urban had not made that wrong turn. Urban's moment in history lasted but an instant. When it passed, he disappeared from view and lived out his life as anonymously as any other person. Still his single mistake triggered the events consumed Europe in a four-year war that killed millions and destroyed an entire generation. Entire nations, including Urban's were erased from the map and new ones took their place. In thee end when the shooting finally ceased, no one could remember what they had been fighting for in the first place.
In the wake of the assassination, the battle lines were quickly drawn. Soon all of Europe seemed to be sucked into the crisis. Austria blamed Serbia for the assassination and threatened war. Russia, always the “savior” of the Balkan Slavs, came to Serbia's defense. With Russia now involved, the Germans backed their ally, Austria-Hungary, to the hilt. With Germany now enmeshed in the crisis, France came to Russia's aid. As the diplomats fussed and fumed, the armies began to mobilize. Once this happened, war was inevitable.
|
|
