I finally managed to come up with another Enemy Ace story for the World War I centennial.

Enemy Ace: Lost Over the Western Front

Not quite two weeks before Christmas I had another of my close calls. This one had nothing to do with fighting. After the end of Passchendaele in November and the close of the Cambrai campaign in early December the West-Front had settled into the relative calm of winter. Patrols had to continue, of course.

Several of us in the squadron had been feeling indisposed. We put it down to something we’d eaten, as we all messed together and the timing of our ailment was suggestive. I was still at less than a hundred percent that afternoon when Froenlich ordered me to prepare for an evening patrol.

I did not like the looks of the situation. Flying conditions were poorer and declining. When I suggested that this was not a good time for an evening patrol, Froenlich responded by casting aspersions upon my courage. Really, considering the conditions, and my own condition, I ought to have saved face for both of us by staying on the sick list for another day or two. But I could not ignore such a challenge to my courage, honor, and capability, and so, much against my better judgment, I geared up and undertook the patrol.

My patrol took me to the north, above the front opposite Arras. The sight of the devastated zone of the now months-old battlefield beneath a gloomy sky did nothing to improve my spirits. When one flies in wartime one must put all of one’s mind and attention into it. I found my thoughts wandering a bit to the many thousands of Germans, and English, and Canadians who now lay on that battlefield, men who only that spring had been as alive as I.

My melancholy reverie did not—could not—last long. As I surveyed the sky and the field I observed a dense bank of clouds and fog rolling in. I had never seen conditions deteriorate so quickly so far from the coast. Within minutes my visibility was down to zero. I cursed Froenlich for ordering me into such a situation. My already declining opinion of his leadership of our squadron reached new depths.

I am at a loss to explain quite what happened next. With no visibility and no compass I very quickly became disoriented. As the fog closed I attempted to turn toward the south-east, back toward the aerodrome, hoping to get just enough beyond the oncoming weather front to find sufficiently clear conditions for a landing. It was not to be. From that time on I caught no glimpse whatsoever of either sky or ground. I was hopelessly lost—in an aircraft with a supply of petrol that shrank moment by moment!

I flew on and on. As I did so I forced myself to remain calm. One must remain calm in the air, regardless of one’s situation. I continued straining to see anything at all below. Still I saw nothing. Each minute brought me closer to the necessity of attempting a blind dead-stick landing.

After what seemed days of intense concentration and uncertainty I at last spotted a break. Through the break I saw below me a stretch of darkening countryside. I could just make out the wood-rows that bounded the fields. I lined up on the longest field and prepared to go in.

As I began my landing run the Mercedes began to cough as it burnt through the final fumes of petrol in the tank. I would have to get this right the first time! I glided in, just above the wood-row at the near end of the field, and set the machine down hard. It bounced on the winter-hard ground, and then was down to stay. I came to a stop some yards before the far end of the field. Neither I nor my Albatros had suffered harm. I climbed down from the cockpit, weak-kneed with relief now that I could allow myself to grasp just how close I had come to disaster.

The break in the weather which had enabled me to land vanished as quickly as it had come. I found myself alone on a frozen field, in the dark, scarcely able to see the hand before my face. Some distance away I saw what I took to be the lights of a village. But where was this village—most pertinently, on which side of the West-Front did I now stand? I had undoubtedly flown a great many kilometers, likely not in a straight line. I could be anywhere.

Wherever I was, I did not care to spend the winter night out in the open. I began groping and stumbling toward the nearest of the lights. At length I found myself at the door of a substantial cottage or farm house. Perhaps I would find soldiers billeted here. Would they be German? I contemplated drawing and cocking my sidearm. I then thought better of it. I was in no condition for a fight.

I told myself that I was at any rate most likely on the proper side of the line. Most likely I would find on the other side of the door nothing more than a household of frightened French civilians. I searched my mind and prepared a few appropriate phrases in French to introduce myself and allay any fears. Finally I got up my nerve and knocked.

A woman answered the door, a candle in her hand. By its light I saw a face that seemed both youngish and care-worn. Her eyes were understandably apprehensive. It does her credit to say that she was not in a panic.

I made my introduction in French. She seemed not to comprehend. I repeated myself.

The woman then surprised me by replying in halting German. She welcomed me inside as if I had been an ordinary traveler in need of directions. Both the language and the essentially friendly welcome startled me.

Inside the light of the candle and of the kitchen hearth—for I had come in through the kitchen door—revealed the forms of four children. The eldest, a girl, appeared to be perhaps twelve. There was also an older woman present. I soon learned that she was an elderly maiden aunt. All wore expressions of fear.

It was evident from what I could see of the furnishings, and from the china on the shelves, that this had been a prosperous peasant household. It was equally evident from the worn clothing, the thin faces, and the tiny fire on the hearth that they enjoyed prosperity no longer. When I saw the children shiver I recognized that it was not only in fear of my presence.

The woman who had answered the door both spoke and understood German well enough that we were able to converse. I soon learnt why the lady of the house had failed to understand my French. She was not French, but rather Flemish. I had come down in Belgium!

I established that I was in a village a little outside Iseghem, some miles east of Ypres. Instead of flying to the southeast, toward my aerodrome, I had somehow blindly made my way some sixty kilometers to the northwest. I had, as the Americans might have put it twenty years later, “done a Corrigan.”

There was a substantial German military hospital in Iseghem. The family had for a time had convalescent soldiers billeted upon them. The housewife had picked up her German during this time. Then the head of the household had been conscripted for German labor service. The family had not seen him since early that spring. His loss, coming as it did on the heels of many other demands made by the occupying authorities, had reduced the household to their present state. Fortunately the billeting officers had taken pity on them and had at least relieved them of that burden.

I did not care for the thought of making my way across several miles of frozen countryside to Iseghem. I was, after all, not entirely well, and now much in need of rest. For all I knew I might get lost or run afoul of a jittery sentry in the dark.

The lady of the house relieved my anxiety by inviting me to stay the night and have dinner with her family. She did not find it difficult to persuade me. When my hostess explained to the others in Flemish what she proposed, the proposal elicited from the old aunt a startling reaction. Hitherto she had appeared frightened by my presence. Now her face clouded with anger. She directed quite a stream of harsh words toward the younger woman. The other responded in a milder, yet firm, tone of voice. Her words seemed to pacify Auntie, though she continued to glower throughout the meal.

The repast proved a poor one. We had each of us a bowl of some watery soup and a modest portion of bread without butter or jam. It occurred to me that the presence of another mouth to feed could not have been welcome. I should like to report that I gallantly declined to make inroads into the limited supply. But no, I had not eaten well for the previous couple of days and was too famished to exercise that sort of self-control.

Afterward my hostess sent the children to bed and showed me to a place in the house’s small, freezing-cold parlor where I might spend the night. She provided bedding as well. Along with my flying gear, I would be at least adequately warm that night. I hope that the others had more bedding to compensate for their lack of my warm furs.

Auntie watched all of this, still glaring sullenly. I asked my hostess about the hard words that had earlier passed between the two of them. I have never forgotten her reply. She explained that Auntie had objected to her proposal to share the family’s limited provisions with a German interloper. “I reminded Auntie,” she said, “that to feed the hungry is the will of our Lord Jesus. We are to do this even if the hungry man is our enemy. I told her that we should not violate that command, and so near to His birthday too!”

After that she bid me good night. The women retired to their own quarters and left me to myself. Though exhausted, I had experienced so much during the day that it took me some time to doze off. It sometimes happens that after trying events one has difficulty calming one’s racing mind.

I had particular cause to reflect upon the significance of the hospitality I had received. Three years of war—of English blockade of our coasts, of the limitless demands of Mars, of, it must be said, the frequent inability of Germany’s officials to manage the most efficient and equitable distribution of such resources as were available, had reduced the German people to a sad state. Our people subsisted largely upon a diet of the turnips that we had previously fed our livestock. This use of fodder to feed the people had so reduced our flocks and herds that butter and cheese were all but unobtainable. Meat, if one could get it, was likely the remains of some poor horse that had reached the end of its useful service. We Germans had to make due with substitute bread, substitute tobacco, substitute coffee, substitute soap, and a whole world of other substitutes.

My own position, as a flying officer and as the member of a family of some privilege, had shielded me and mine from the worst. I was nonetheless at least somewhat aware of the increasingly dire state of the German people. That night, as I lay in that freezing Flemish parlor, a thought occurred most forcefully to me. If we, the conquerors, were in such want, how must it be for those in Belgium, in France, in Poland and elsewhere, whom we had conquered? Indeed, I learned after the war from a Belgian gentleman of my acquaintance that during our occupation of Belgium only large infusions of aid from the Americans, organized by the American Herbert Hoover, prevented the outright starvation of many of Belgium’s city dwellers.

The next morning I took my leave of my hostess, with much thanks for her kindness. I then made my way to Iseghem and found means of contacting and returning to my unit. My mates were glad to see me alive and well. The reunion between myself and my commander was a good deal less congenial. Froenlich and I each blamed the other for my misadventure. This mutual recrimination completed the breech between us that had been brewing for some time. Small wonder that when, in the new year, Richtofen approached me about joining the aces of his First Hunter-Wing I leapt at the opportunity.

In the meantime I managed to borrow a staff car, petrol, and an enlisted detail to return to Iseghem and see about retrieving my undamaged Albatros. We were able to bring it successfully home a few days before Christmas. Before departing, I managed to procure from the squadron mess some sausages, a loaf or two of good bread, and a few sweets and other sundries. These I made into a parcel which I delivered to my erstwhile hostess while preparing to direct the salvage of my aircraft. I told her that I hoped that this token of my gratitude would give her family a bit of Christmas cheer. She received it with tears and many blessings upon me.

I did this as discreetly as possible, as I was mindful of what the village gossips might do to the lady’s reputation if they saw a German officer showing her any sort of favor. I could not prevent the men of my salvage detail from witnessing my gift. Of course word made its way back to my squadron mess. I had to bear a certain amount of ribald commentary—and further aspersions upon my character from Froenlich—over this.

I have since thought often of that Flemish farmer’s wife, whose kindness was so great that she would share even the little she had with one in need, and that an enemy soldier. I hope that her husband was restored safely to her at the war’s end, that the family enjoyed a renewal of prosperity, and that they came safely through the second Great War as well. In that second war, so much more terrible even than the first, there were times when the memory of that kindness was one of the few things standing between me and total despair. It is a terrible world in which we live, and yet I have seen that a little leaven of kindness leavens the whole lump.