One hundred years ago today the most legendary flying career in history came to an end.

Enemy Ace: The Eagle Has Fallen

In the spring of 1918 the German Army on the Western Front, reinforced by transfers from the East in the wake of the Russian collapse, launched a series of powerful offensives. “Operation Michael” and subsequent operations represented a desperate gamble—a final attempt to win the war before economic and political collapse at home, and the arrival of American forces in strength at the front, ended all hope of victory.

Baron Manfred Freiherr von Richthofen and Jagdgeschwader 1—the famous “Flying Circus”—were very much in the thick of the fighting. In this excerpt from The Hammer of Hell Hans von Hammer describes his view of the events leading up to Richthofen’s death in April.

The period from the beginning of “Michael” through the end of March saw the most sustained action of my career as a combat flyer. The emotions associated with action—the excitement of battle and the exhilaration of victory, the corresponding fear and unease at the loss of human life—ran equally high. Along with these I, like many Germans, had the heady experience of watching our armies advance at a rate not seen on the West-Front since the early battles of 1914. We had broken clean through the trenches and into the open country beyond; we had had occupied hundreds of square kilometers of territory; we had brought Paris under bombardment by means of the famous “Paris Gun;” we had placed the great rail and supply center of Amiens almost within our grasp. For my part, I had added six victories to my previous total of thirty.

At the end of March I observed things which did much to shake my renewed confidence in Germany’s ultimate success. I had gone into the field seeking confirmation of my thirty-sixth victory. This was an S.E.5 hunter-aircraft which I had brought down in a sharp action. The pilot had shown great drive, but little skill. He had no doubt not been at the Front for long.

In previous excursions behind the rapidly advancing front lines I had witnessed long columns of both prisoners and wounded heading toward the rear. On this day I saw far more wounded than prisoners. Our own wounded seemed clearly more numerous. It was evident that we were paying a fearful price for our recent victories. The German Army was rapidly bleeding its remaining manpower. I reflected that we were in the position of a hard-pressed prizefighter trying to bring down his opponent before he himself could continue no longer. After three and a half years of unprecedented bloodshed, we were surely moving into the final rounds of the contest.

Long columns of wounded had long since lost the power to shock. What did shock was a scene I witnessed on the outskirts of Montdidier. A party of some fifty or sixty German soldiers had begun looting some well-stocked shop or watering hole. They were carrying out great quantities of loaves, sausages, cheeses, and, of course, bottles. Many were already partaking. I had never witnessed such a spectacle of mass indiscipline.

I noticed a Lieutenant standing to one side, watching the spectacle. “Hadn’t you best do something about getting those men under control, Lieutenant?” I called.

“Easier said than done!” he called back. “I’ve already all but shouted myself hoarse, and fired a shot into the air. All I can do more is fire into them. They’ve suffered enough of that from the enemy, and anyway in the state they’re in they’d be as apt to fire back as to stop what they’re doing. No, there’s nothing I can do but let it run its course until I can get some more officers and military police as reinforcements.”

I stood beside the man and watched for a moment. The men had begun falling upon the provisions like the proverbial ravening wolves. For just a moment I felt a twinge of envy. The viands were of a better quality than most Germans had seen in quite some time.

“But this is disgraceful!” I protested.

“Certainly,” the Lieutenant said. “And yet nobody who has spent much time in the front lines”—this was no doubt a dig prompted by my Flying Corps uniform—“can blame them too much. They’ve been thrown into action again and again…asked to fight on a diet of substitute bread and stewed horse…knowing that if they’re wounded they’ll have only bandages made of paper rather than cloth. The only thing that has kept them moving forward at all is the hope that this offensive will finally end this filthy war. If they were well-fed and fresh we’d be in Amiens already.”

I felt more than a little unsettled at hearing a fellow officer openly voicing such sentiments. This did not seem like a conversation in which I ought to participate. That natural curiosity which had nearly got me killed at Cambrai some months earlier prompted me to continue. “How do you rate our chances of success, then?” I asked.

He made a sound of derision. “You’ve asked a question far above my pay grade!” he said. “We front-line fighters all have the same worm’s-eye view. If we can get this rabble moving in the right direction again…and if we can keep them going until the enemy finally lose their nerve altogether…and if our U-boats can sink enough ships to keep the Americans on their proper side of the Atlantic…we may yet make it. I know that I’d like to still be alive long enough to see.”

“As would we all,” I said, and I took my leave of the Lieutenant and went on about my business.

I soon after located the remains of my S.E.5. It had been so burnt to a crisp that I could scarcely identify it. This surprised me, as I had not observed it to go down in flames. In the cockpit I saw the equally burnt remains of the game but inexperienced pilot. Had he perished in the crash, or been trapped in the flames? I did not allow myself to nurse this speculation.

I could not, however, prevent myself returning to my unit in one of those thoughtful moods that I had found such a liability in wartime. Did Germany yet have a true hope of winning the war? Would I or any man I knew live to see the war’s end?

With hindsight I believe that I may date my own decline as a combat flyer from that day’s experiences. Though our unit continued to see much action in the weeks that followed, I was able to manage only three additional victories in as many weeks. The latest of these occurred on the twenty-first of April. It was a Sopwith, flown by yet another of those inexperienced replacement pilots. I ought to have almost no trouble handling an adversary who showed such limited skill, and yet he managed to evade me for some time before I could bring the combat to a close.

At the time it did not occur to me to wonder at my own decline in skill. I was still able to feel some of that elation at once again emerging from battle as the victor. This proved short-lived. That evening, at the mess, I heard the dreadful news. We had lost the Commander.

I cannot claim to have known Richthofen well. I had been with Hunter-Wing One for less than four months, and had in any case joined only after learning that one did well not to grow too close to others in wartime. Still—this was Richthofen, our leader, the longest-lived and most experienced of us, the one great constant in our unit. It was a manifest blow to us all. I could not help reflecting—and I am sure that I was not alone in this—that if Fate had proven too much for even Richthofen to master, then what hope had any of us?

We were informed shortly afterward that the Australians had buried Richthofen with full military honors. That they were prepared to demonstrate such respect for the man they called “the Bloody Red Baron” reflects well on them. For our part, we continued, as we knew we must, without Richthofen. Reinhard of Hunt-Squad 6 assumed command of the wing. In little more than a month we had moved to support the Aisne offensive.

Richthofen’s loss occasioned a notorious controversy regarding who deserved the credit for shooting him down—the Canadian pilot, Brown, or any of the several Australian machine gunners who fired upon him as her pursued the novice Canadian pilot May along the Front. I personally am inclined to suspect the latter. That Richthofen, who knew better, should fly at a low level along the Front, exposing himself to so much anti-aircraft fire, speaks volumes. Richthofen was a flyer and hunter of notable precision. He was not a man to turn in so sloppy a performance as that witnessed in his final fight.

But no man can endure the endless severe stresses of combat forever. Richthofen had begun to slip. The symptoms of a man whose nerves are worn out were there for all to see. We, his squadron-mates could not, or would not, see them, I think, because we were all manifesting them to a greater or lesser extent.

Certainly I was slipping as well. I had been slipping for weeks. I believe that my deterioration accelerated after Richthofen’s loss. I had not a great many weeks more to await my own comeuppance in battle.