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.