[Illustration: KAPITÄNLEUTNANT GUNTHER PLÜSCHOW]
MY ESCAPE FROM DONINGTON HALL
MY ESCAPE FROM
DONINGTON HALL
PRECEDED BY AN ACCOUNT OF THE
SIEGE OF KIAO-CHOW IN 1915
BY KAPITÄNLEUTNANT GUNTHER
PLÜSCHOW, OF THE GERMAN AIR
SERVICE. TRANSLATED BY PAULINE
DE CHARY
JOHN LANE THE BODLEY HEAD LTD.
LONDON MCMXXII
PRINTED IN GREAT BRITAIN BY MORRISON AND GIBB LTD., EDINBURGH
CONTENTS
CHAP. PAGE
I. THE JOYS AND SORROWS OF A FLYING-MAN 1
II. BEAUTIFUL DAYS IN KIAO-CHOW 20
III. THREAT OF WAR—MY TAUBE 30
IV. SOME JAPANESE JOKES 56
V. MY WAR RUSE 63
VI. HURRAH! 72
VII. THE LAST DAY 79
VIII. IN THE SLIME OF THE CHINESE RICE-FIELD 91
IX. MR. MACGARVIN’S PTOMAINE POISONING 100
X. CAUGHT! 128
XI. BEHIND WALLS AND BARBED WIRE 142
XII. THE ESCAPE 184
XIII. BLACK NIGHTS ON THE THAMES 193
XIV. STILL AT LARGE 208
XV. THE STOWAWAY 233
XVI. THE WAY TO FREEDOM 236
XVII. BACK IN THE FATHERLAND! 240
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
KAPITÄNLEUTNANT GUNTHER PLÜSCHOW _Frontispiece_
FACING PAGE
FACSIMILE OF NOTICE IN THE _DAILY CHRONICLE_ AFTER
THE ESCAPE 204
FACSIMILE OF NOTICE CIRCULATED IN THE PRESS A WEEK
AFTER THE ESCAPE 208
GUNTHER PLÜSCHOW IN THE DISGUISE OF A DOCK-LABOURER, IN
WHICH HE ESCAPED 230
MY ESCAPE FROM DONINGTON HALL
MY ESCAPE FROM DONINGTON HALL
CHAPTER I
THE JOYS AND SORROWS OF A FLYING-MAN
IT was in the month of August of the year 1913 when I arrived in my
native town, Schwerin. I had stayed several weeks in England, where
I had devoted days to the visit of museums and the beautiful art
collections, as well as to excursions in the vicinity of the capital.
At that time I did not foresee how useful the latter would prove to me
two years hence.
During the whole journey I was labouring under an inner excitement and
disquiet which I could not throw off, and when I arrived in Schwerin
one question only burned on my lips, and yet I did not dare put it to
my uncle who fetched me from the station. For the new Naval List of
autumn promotions and appointments might be issued any day, and I was
on the tiptoe of expectation as to whether the wish I had cherished for
years was at last to be gratified.
My uncle’s question: “Do you know where they’ve put you?” gave me an
electric shock.
“No.”
“Well, then, hearty congratulations—Naval Flying Corps!”
I was so overjoyed that I would like to have turned a somersault in
the middle of the street, but I refrained from fear of upsetting my
fellow-citizens.
So I had got my wish after all!
The last days of my leave passed in a flash, and I gaily returned
to the Naval College in order to complete my course of a year and a
half as Inspecting Officer; but I never packed my trunks with greater
pleasure than when bound for my new destination.
Just a few days before my departure one of my brother officers called
out to me: “I say, have you heard the latest news where you’re off to?”
“Yes; Flying Corps.”
“Good Lord, man! You don’t know your own luck—why, you’re off to
Kiao-Chow.”
I was speechless, and probably looked as stupid as I felt.
“Yes; Kiao-Chow! And in the Flying Corps! You lucky devil—to be the
First Naval Flying Officer at Kiao-Chow!”
It is hardly surprising that I refused to believe this until I received
the official confirmation. But it was true. I had tremendous luck!
I had to wait three months longer at Kiel; but at last, on the 1st of
January 1914, I found myself in my beloved Berlin. But there was no
holding me; I was at Johannisthal on the 2nd of January already, and
thought I could start flying on the spot. My experience, however, was
that of the majority of flying-pupils. I learnt for the first time the
time-honoured principle of flight: “Keep cool; who wants to fly must
above all things learn to wait.”
Wait, wait, and once more wait. Eighty per cent of the science of
flying consists in waiting and holding oneself in readiness.
Winter had come and covered the aerodrome with a deep, white carpet,
making flying impossible. For weeks every morning I had the hope that
the snow would melt at last, and every afternoon I returned home
disappointed.
In February at last the weather changed. On the 1st of February I sat
happily in my Taube, and for the first time rose into the glorious
clear winter air. It was beautiful now; and every day our schooling
progressed.
Flying suited me, and I grasped it quickly. And I was very proud that
on the third day I was allowed to fly alone. Two days later, on a
beautiful Saturday afternoon, my untiring instructor, Werner Wieting,
asked me whether I would not care to create a nice little record by
passing my examination as pilot. I enthusiastically agreed.
Ten minutes later I sat in my machine, circling gaily in the prescribed
curves. It was a real joy to keep going in the lovely winter air. And
when I achieved a perfect landing, which concluded my examination, and
my teacher proudly shook me by the hand and congratulated me, I felt
extremely happy and filled with a sensation of inner satisfaction.
At last I was a pilot. The school-stage was over, and from now onwards
I could fly daily on one of the big 100 h.p. machines.
One particular undertaking was to be the source of much pleasure to me.
Rumpler had just completed a monoplane which was specially designed
for climbing. It now became our aim to achieve a high-altitude flight
record. The famous pilot, Linnekogel, was to fly the machine, and he
asked me to accompany him as observer. It was only natural that I
accepted with delight.
On one of the last days in February we started on our first trial trip.
Warmly wrapped up against the severe cold, we sat in our machine, and
many eyes followed us with envy as our bird rose in the air with the
lightness of a dragon-fly. Watch in hand, I noted the altitude, and
after fifteen minutes we had already reached 2000 metres, which at that
time was considered an extraordinarily good performance. But after that
we only progressed slowly. The atmosphere became bumpy, and we were
flung about like feathers by violent eddies or bumps. After an hour we
had at last reached 4000 metres, when with a popping and spluttering
noise the motor began to run irregularly, and stopped altogether after
a few seconds. We now descended in spirals towards the earth, and some
minutes later the machine stood unharmed on the flying-ground.
The cold had been too great, and the motor was simply frozen—a
circumstance which nobody had foreseen. New improvements were promptly
added. After a few days we started again on the same adventure, but
this time better luck seemed in store for us. We climbed steadily and
securely 4000 metres, 4200, 4500 metres. Thank God, our last record was
broken! The cold was well-nigh unbearable, and I am convinced that the
thickest hide would have been no protection against it.
4800, 4900 metres! 400 more and our object was attained. But the
machine seemed bewitched, and refused to climb another metre! All our
attempts to induce an extra effort failed. We were running short of
petrol, and the engine gave out completely this time.
An altitude of 4900 metres! We landed, without a single drop of petrol,
nearly frozen to ice. We had not achieved _all_ we had set out to do;
however, it was a good result. We had won, and won brilliantly, the
German high-altitude record.
But success made us ambitious. At the beginning of March weather
conditions again improved sufficiently to allow us to try our luck
once more. More warmly clad than last time, and fitted out with
thermometers, though without an oxygen apparatus, we started on our
third attempt.
We reached the first altitude with ease. The sky was covered with huge
clouds, the air icy. When we rose through the bank of clouds into the
glorious sunshine we had a beautiful experience. We suddenly saw a
radiantly shining Zeppelin, which was likewise attempting a flight at
high altitude.
What a marvellous meeting—3000 metres up in the air! Far away
from toiling humanity, high up above daily strife and pain, the
two birds of the air—striking evidence of Germany’s strength and
enterprise—saluted each other.
We flew several times round our big brother, and waved our hand to him
in friendly greeting.
But after that we had to apply ourselves seriously to our task and work
strenuously in order to attain our objective. After an hour we had
gained an altitude of 4800 metres, after that 4900, my barograph soon
showed 5000, and the propeller hummed its monotonous melody. Linnekogel
veered quietly and methodically. The thermometer rose to 37 degrees
Celsius; but we paid no attention to the cold. Only the air became
rarefied. A slight sensation of drowsiness came over me, and my lungs
only functioned in quick, short gasps. Every movement became irksome.
Even to turn round towards the pilot who sat behind me seemed a huge
effort.
The sky had cleared and looked glorious. The cloud-banks had vanished,
and we could distinguish our capital lying far below us in the blue
distance like a black spot, on which, however, we could still note the
straight line of the Charlottenburger Chaussee, culminating in the
thoroughfare Unter den Linden.
I was so carried away by this view that for some time I paid no
attention to either watch or barograph. But I suddenly realized my
omission with a start. Twenty minutes had passed since I had registered
my barograph at 5000 metres, and by now we should have beaten our
record. But I was terribly disappointed to see that the needle still
indicated 5000. At the same time, Linnekogel began signalling to me to
look for the aerodrome, pointing downwards with his hand. That was too
bad. I turned away disgustedly, and, when Linnekogel failed to notice
it, I kicked his shin with none too much gentleness. I likewise spread
out my five fingers and pointed upwards. This meant: Higher, higher! We
have only got to 5000 metres!
Linnekogel only laughed. He gripped my hand, shook it hard, and opened
and shut the five fingers of his right hand twice. I really thought
he had gone dotty. And what confirmed me in my opinion was that
Linnekogel throttled the engine. We were just above Potsdam, and glided
towards the aerodrome of Johannisthal. It was now my job to find the
landing-place. And sixteen minutes later we stood safe and sound before
the Rumpler-hangars, joyfully acclaimed by crowds of spectators.
We had done it! The world’s record was broken with 5500 metres.
The flight had only lasted an hour and three-quarters in all. We stood
proudly amongst our less fortunate fellow-mortals who had remained on
terra firma. Linnekogel was right. My barograph had frozen, whilst
his—better protected—resisted the high temperature.
The days passed, and the time came when I had to leave my country.
My Taube, which had been specially constructed for Kiao-Chow, neared
its completion, and with a curious feeling I took it out on its trial
flight, after it had fulfilled the requisite conditions for acceptance.
I was conscious that it was the most beautiful flying-machine in the
world.
But my ambition was not yet realized. It seemed imperative that before
I left for the Far East I should carry out an important overland flight
in Germany.
I was lucky. My request met with ready response from Herr Rumpler,
and he kindly allowed me the use of one of his aeroplanes for a
several days’ flight over Germany. I quickly passed my examination as
field-pilot, and at the end of March, one fine morning at 7 a.m., I
sat in my well-equipped Taube, and in the seat in front of me, tall
and slim, my good friend Oberleutnant Strehle of the War Academy as
observer.
It was the first time he had ever been in an aeroplane. But I think he
will never forget his first flight as long as he lives.
We started brilliantly. And proudly I took off, until having reached
an altitude of 500 metres I proceeded in a northerly direction.
Everything went well. We passed over the Havel lakes, sighted Nauen;
but suddenly the atmosphere became thick and murky and our bad luck
set in. We were wrapped in a thick fog and could see nothing of the
ground. For the first overland flight of my young life it was a tall
order. But, with the fine confidence of the novice, I consoled myself
with the thought that courage was everything—even if things couldn’t
help getting worse! And I flew calmly into the thick fog, directing
myself by my compass towards the north, as our objective was Hamburg.
After two hours we could make out the ground again at a distance of 300
metres below us, and who can describe our joy on espying a beautiful,
large, ploughed field! I glided down gently, just as though it were an
aerodrome, and landed safe and sound in the middle of the field. People
came running from all sides, and my joy was great when I learned that
we were on good Mecklenburg soil, and exactly where, according to my
own and my observer’s calculations, we had expected to find ourselves.
It was a holiday, and we afforded the villagers a free entertainment.
As soon as it cleared up, we decided to depart. But the soft soil
held the wheels fast, and it was impossible to rise. With shrieks of
merriment, and many a rough jest which we had to accept, the willing
spectators trundled the giant bird over the field.
After we had cut down a few trees, we had to negotiate a ditch and
another field. Though we now intended to depart, we were only allowed
to do so after partaking of most excellent coffee and pound-cake.
After a mighty hand-shaking all round, and shouting themselves hoarse
with endless “Hurrahs,” with much waving of handkerchiefs, we started
off on a northerly course.
But our joy was short-lived, for fifteen minutes later we were again
in the midst of grey fog-banks. After two hours I found the situation
getting unpleasant, for the confounded motor began to choke and spit,
and was either 500 revolutions short or registered 200 too many.
I examined my landing-gear and valves, and noticed to my horror that my
provision of petrol was diminishing with hideous rapidity. I kept my
machine balanced as well as possible, and glided down to a height of
300 metres.
But, oh, Lord! The mist lifted a little and I could see where I
was—exactly over the river Alster at only 300 metres’ altitude, and
this with a motor that was running dry, and with no idea where to look
for the aerodrome of Fuhlsbüttel. There was only one thing to do—and
that was to keep calm and cool! Above all, to get away from the town
and thus avoid imperilling human lives. I pencilled these words on a
scrap of paper and passed them to my observer: “We must land within
five minutes or we shall take a cold bath, as we have no more petrol.”
He peered about him and suddenly pointed joyfully to a cemetery which
lay right under us. Good old chap! He had no idea of our predicament
and could not guess what unconscious irony lay behind his gesture.
We had already dropped 200 metres. The engine was working by fits and
starts; the level of the petrol showed 10 litres. But I was pleased.
For we had now left the town behind us, and though a smooth landing was
impossible, amongst all these suburban gardens, at least I hoped to
avoid killing anyone. At such times every second seems an eternity, and
my thoughts chased each other across my brain. But more than ever I had
to show iron determination and self-control.
My observer suddenly started waving his hand and pointing forwards.
And even now I can see his sparkling eyes shining at me through his
goggles.
The sheds of the Fuhlsbüttel aerodrome, shimmering in the rays of the
setting sun faintly encircled by the mist, lay before us.
Hurrah! We were saved.
Who can describe my joy? With my last litre of petrol I described a
loop round the aerodrome and, gliding down in a steep spiral, landed.
I nearly fell on my observer’s neck, so happy did I feel. The dear old
chap had no inkling of the danger in which we had been, and was very
surprised when I told him about it. Even now, when I know what flying
means, I go cold when I think of this first flight. I soon found out
what had happened. The lower part of the carburettor was damaged, and
the petrol leaked through the fracture with each throb of the engine.
This also explained the rapid sinking of the petrol and the irregular
working of the engine. To this day I cannot understand why there was no
fire.
After spending three days with dear friends in Bremen the new
carburettor arrived in Hamburg. Now, we wanted to move on to our next
destination—Schwerin in Mecklenburg.
On a rainy, stormy afternoon we settled ourselves in our fully equipped
aeroplane. I started the engine and took on full throttle.
To-day I would only fly in such weather if I absolutely could not
help it. But at that time I was still imbued with all the _naïveté_
and enthusiasm of a young pilot. But we had not long to wait for new
developments. The machine, which was too heavily freighted, could not
rise—gusts of wind threw it from side to side like a ball—and I would
have turned back with pleasure. But at that height it was impossible.
And now came the first houses of Hamburg—it was impossible to rise
above them. I was flying at 60 metres when I saw a small field.
Throttling my engine, I got ready to land, but at the same moment I
was caught in a squall and felt the aeroplane slide away under me. The
thought went through my mind, “Careful, you are falling!” and I opened
up my engine momentarily in order to weaken the shock. But at the same
moment I felt a sharp jerk, and the machine stood on its head as if
some one were tilting it downwards.
What followed only took seconds. I pulled at my lever, shut off the
petrol, and at the same time received a sharp, heavy blow. I clutched
convulsively at my steering-wheel, and flew into the air, hitting my
head against some part of the machine.
A deathly silence reigned around me.
Deep darkness; from which I was only roused by feeling a stream of
pungent liquid pouring over my face.
I lay motionless, my head pressed forward, my body huddled together,
feet sticking out. But suddenly I realized my position with a start,
and, obsessed by the fear of the machine catching fire at any moment,
I tried to free myself from my cramped position, until I succeeded
in switching off the ignition. At last I gradually regained complete
consciousness of my surroundings, and my first thought was for my
poor observer. I felt sure that as he sat in front he must have borne
the brunt of the first shock and was probably crushed to a pulp, as
the fuselage had splintered under the impact. As no sound broke the
silence, I gasped at last—for I was so squeezed in that I could hardly
breathe:
“Strehlchen, are you alive?”
A dreadful pause; no answer.
On repeating my question, I heard at last: “I say, what has happened?
It is quite dark here—something _must_ have happened!”
Ah, how glad I was! I shouted with the rest of my strength:
“Strehlchen, man, you are still alive—that’s all that matters! What
about your bones? Are they whole?” But the poor chap was lying so
huddled up that he was only able to gasp: “I don’t know. We’ll see
later on.”
Again silence supervened. The petrol flowed in a rich stream from the
tank, which held its full capacity of 170 litres; but after a time,
which seemed an eternity, somebody knocked outside, and a far-away
voice floated to where we lay:
“Well, anybody still alive?”
“Rather,” I called out, “but hurry up, or we shall suffocate in here.”
We heard the machine being lifted, then the grating of spades, and at
last a current of fresh air blew in on us.
“Hold hard!” shouted Strehle. “Try the other way round or you’ll break
my arm.”
Our helpers followed my instructions, and at last I was lifted clear
from my seat, and I lay softly and at ease on an odorous manure heap.
Long-legged Strehle promptly clambered out of the debris, and I have
rarely shaken hands with more pleasure than with my faithful observer.
Dash it all! Things did look bad. The machine had completely toppled
over, and was deeply embedded in the soft manure. The fuselage was
broken in three places; the planes had turned into a tangled mass of
wood, fabric and wire.
But we two were safely out of it. Strehle had sprained his back
slightly, and I had only broken two ribs. That was all. Never again
have I despised a manure heap. May that one and its like flourish for
ever. Sadly and limpingly we covered the rest of the return journey by
train. After that, however, we enjoyed many days of sunshine and light,
full of happy doings and happier memories, which we collected like
flowers of rare beauty and bloom.
And then duty called, and the real voyage began.