THE LAST DAY

THE siege progressed according to plan. The Japanese dug themselves in ever closer; they brought up more and more heavy guns, and on several occasions large bodies of Japanese infantry made night attacks on our infantry positions—to be, however, repulsed each time. After this they subjected the latter and the wire entanglements in front of them to continuous fire, which ceased neither by night nor by day. Our guns, too, were never silent, but unfortunately we had to go slow on account of our remaining ammunition. The extraordinary length of the siege, the never-ceasing artillery fire, and the terrible tension under which we lived, began to tell on us. My own nerves were getting out of hand.

I could no longer force myself to eat, and sleep had become impossible. When I shut my eyes at night I immediately saw my map, and below me the Protectorate with its enemy trenches and positions. My head swam, and my ears ached from the whirl of the propeller, and I could hear, over and over again, the words of the Chief of Staff:

“Never forget, PlÜschow, that you are now of more value to Kiao-Chow than our daily bread. Don’t fail to return and keep the machine going! And don’t forget that our shells are few, and that we use them according to your indications. Remember your responsibilities!”

God knows I was in no danger of forgetting them. I had no other thought but the enemy positions in my mind, visualizing time and again the fortifications over which I had flown, trying to remember whether I had actually seen what I had reported, and figuring out whether the few shells which we still possessed had not been squandered at my instigation.

When I had racked my brain fruitlessly for hours I sometimes fell asleep about three in the morning, tired out in body and soul. But no sooner had I dropped off than duty called, and my mechanic stood at my bedside to report that my machine was ready for another flight. This meant prompt action, and I was soon standing next to my Taube, testing all her parts.

Sometimes I felt queer and rather jumpy; but as soon as I was settled in my pilot’s seat and held the throttle in my hand, after nodding to my helpers, I had only one thought, and that was to carry out my task with iron determination and calmness. And when I had got over the start, and safely reached an altitude of a few hundred metres, I felt quite at ease again.

One circumstance depressed me particularly—the absolute loneliness, the eternal solitude of my flights. If I had only had a comrade with whom I might have exchanged occasional signs, it would have helped me enormously. And another cause for despondency was the impossibility of any flights for several days on end, owing to the rain or to my faulty propeller. And when I started again I found so many changes in the enemy’s positions that I very nearly gave way to despair. What could I do in the face of this tangle of trenches, zigzags and new positions? Often the map dropped from my nerveless fingers. But this was not a lasting phase.

I pulled myself together, picked up my pencil and gazed downwards. And soon I had no eyes for anything happening round me—my entire attention was focused on the enemy and my notes.

The 27th of October was a fÊte day for us. The following telegram was received from His Majesty the Kaiser:

“Both I and the whole German nation look with pride on the heroes of Kiao-Chow, who carry out their duty faithful to the word of their Governor. Rest assured of My gratitude.”

There was hardly anyone in Kiao-Chow whose heart did not beat the faster for this praise. Our supreme War Lord, who had so much heavy work on hand at home, did not forget his faithful little band in the Far East. Each of us swore to do his duty to the end, in order to please his Kaiser.

Soon the 31st of October—the Mikado’s birthday—was upon us. We had ascertained, through our scouts, that the Japanese had fixed on that day for the capture of Kiao-Chow. It is impossible to describe it.

The Japs had planted all their land-batteries in readiness for the night, and at 6 a.m., on the 31st of October 1914, the bombardment started from land and sea.

Their first hits exploded the petrol tanks, and a thick, huge column of smoke reared skywards like an ominous signal of revenge. The Japanese were shooting from the land with heavy 20-centimetre shells, and the ships had trained their heaviest guns on to us. The whizzing of the descending howitzer shells, the whistling and the exploding of the grenades and their detonations on bursting, the barking of shrapnel, and the roar of our own guns resulted in a din as though hell itself had been let loose.

The outworks and the whole surrounding country were also heavily damaged; hill-tops were levelled, deep craters opened in the ground.

By the evening we experienced a slackening of the enemy’s fire. He was convinced, and so were we, that all our defences had been razed, for they looked like a mass of ruins. But when our gallant lads in blue hurried to their guns, to dig them out of the mass of earth and stone, they found nearly all the batteries comparatively undamaged.

Suddenly in the dead of night, when we were able to note the formation of the storming columns, from every cannon’s mouth issued a stream of fire, which must have caused endless casualties to the Japanese.

There was no attack, as had been planned, and the next day the enemy artillery directed a half-hearted bombardment on us. At the same time it was vigorous enough to register fifty successful hits on our small fort of Hu-Chuin-Huk.

The Japanese profited by the experience of that night. Eight terrible days and nights followed, for their artillery thundered without a break.

It might well have been assumed that not one of us could have escaped this ghastly, thunderous fire; but, as if by a miracle, we had very few casualties. The Japanese artillery shot with great precision, which is not surprising, as many of their artillery officers had been trained at our gunnery school at Juteborg. But their ammunition was rotten. And that proved our salvation.

They never once succeeded in penetrating any of our redoubts or bomb-proof localities. To this, as well as to their blank shooting, we owe our insignificant losses.

I would like to point out to the cavillers in Germany, who grumbled that our fight for Kiao-Chow could not have been serious if we suffered comparatively so little, that we held but one single line of defence, composed of five infantry works, a parapet and a miserable wire entanglement. This line was 6000 metres long and held by 3000 men. We had neither a second line nor a second position, and, above all, no men to spare for their defence, for our whole garrison comprised but 4000 men.

When after a week of heavy continuous artillery fire our wire entanglements and parapet had been shot to pieces, it was an easy job for the 30,000 Japanese—whom we had held at bay for weeks—to rush through and force the surrender of Kiao-Chow.

In the early days of November we prepared for the end. On the 1st, our loyal ally, the Austrian cruiser Kaiserin Elisabeth, was blown up by her gallant crew after she had fired her last shot. A few days later she was followed by our last ship, the brave little gunboat Jaguar.

Our deck and crane followed, and then came the turn of our wharves.

We no longer had much help from our guns. A few were out of action, others had been destroyed by enemy artillery, the greater number we blew up ourselves.

On the 5th of November 1914 I myself was forced to undertake the destruction of my biplane. I had succeeded, assisted by an Austrian ex-aviator, Leutnant Clobuczar, in the construction of a wonderful, large two-seater hydroplane. It lay in readiness, and it had been my intention to reconnoitre with it, as it was no longer possible to use our aviation field, which was only 4000 to 5000 metres distant, but held under the steady fire of the enemy.

Nothing was to come of my biplane, and all our labour was in vain, for that afternoon our Chief summoned me and said:

“We are expecting the Japanese main attack at any hour now. See that you leave the fortress by aeroplane, though I fear the Japs will give you no time to do so. And now, God speed you, and may you come through safely. I thank you for the work you did for Kiao-Chow!”

He gave me his hand. I said, standing at attention:

“I report myself obediently as leaving the fortress!” And with this I was dismissed.

I took leave of my superior officers and of my comrades, and was entrusted with a large bundle of private correspondence. Then I went back to my villa for the last time, and said good-bye to my rooms and to the many objects to which I had become attached. I opened my stable door, freed my little horse and my chickens, and went down to my aeroplane to prepare it for its last flight. After that I sat poring over my map, learning it by heart, and making my calculations.

At night I went up to the hill-top, where my friend, Oberleutnant Aye, had been holding out for weeks, with his small battery, under most severe shell-fire. From there one had a magnificent view of Kiao-Chow and its surroundings. I sat for some time on the highest peak, fascinated by the panorama at my feet. Below us a sea of fire, with flashes of lightning from the guns thundering across space, and like a golden thread stretched from sea to sea the yellow rifle and machine-gun fire. Right over my head screamed, swished and whistled thousands of shells, sweeping closely over the hill-top, bent on reaching their targets. Behind me our heavy howitzers roared their last message, and in the distance from the farthest southern point of Kiao-Chow the 29-centimetre guns of Fort Hstanniwa poured out their swan song.

Harrowed to the depths of my soul, I returned to Aye, and after taking a hearty leave of him, carrying with me all his good wishes for my venture, I left him, after shaking him warmly by the hand.

I was the last officer in Kiao-Chau to do so, for he fell a few hours later in the heroic but unequal fight against the Japanese, he and his gallant little band preferring death to surrender. A truly shining example of noble heroism.

I spent the remaining hours with my four brave helpers, waiting in readiness near my machine so as to be able to carry out my orders at a moment’s notice should the Japanese break through.

On the 6th of November 1914, in the early dawn, with the moon still shining, my aeroplane stood clear for the start, and my propeller gaily hummed its morning hymn.

There was no more time to lose. The aviation field had become extremely uncomfortable through the continuous shell and shrapnel fire.

Once more I examined my machine, shook hands with my men, stroked the head of my faithful dog, then I opened the throttle and my Taube shot like an arrow into the night.

Suddenly, as I was just about 30 metres above the centre of the aerodrome, my machine received a fearful jar, and I was only able to prevent her crashing downwards by putting forth all my strength. An enemy grenade had just burst, and the air-pressure caused by the detonation nearly sent me to the ground. But, thank goodness, a big hole in my left plane caused by a shell-splinter was the only damage.

The usual hail of shrapnel followed—my last farewells from the Japs and their English Allies.

When I was high enough I turned round once more to look at our dear little Kiao-Chow, which had suffered and was still to suffer so much. Our beloved second country—Paradise on earth.

Two lines of fire, facing each other, were clearly distinguishable, and the faint roar of guns could be heard—sure forerunners of renewed attack and desperate defence.

Would we be able to ward it off for the third time? I waved my hand towards Kiao-Chow! Farewell, my faithful comrades, fighting down there!

This leave-taking was infinitely bitter, and I struggled for composure. I flung my machine round with a swift wrench, and steered it towards Cape Taschke.

When the sun rose in all its glory, I was already floating in the blue ether, high over the wild southern mountain peaks.

I had run the blockade in true modern fashion.