Welcome to The League of WWI Aviation Historians

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One day in mid-August a strange thing happened as we were returning from a long-range high-altitude reconnaissance in a Rumpler C.VII. We had flown almost to the Channel coast near Boulogne, where the Americans were pushing forward with all their technical resources on an immense railway supply line. On the way back, we broke through a heavy cloud cover while I on the other side of the lines. As the mist cleared, we found ourselves at 5,000 meters (16,000 feet) and moving with a flight 12 British DeHavilland D.H.9 bombers, evidently on the way German targets. Peter Johannes was the first to discover that the aircraft moving just ahead of us were not our own, as I was busy with my reports, sketches and notes. He had a horror-stricken look on his face.

"Stay calm!" I yelled to him. "Aircraft at the same altitude stay together, so throttle down and drop back and they won't recognize us at all. When we get over our own airfield, make a steep dive away from them!" I yelled to him.

I switched off the safety of my machine gun and stood ready in case we had to fight our way out of this situation. Then, over Pont-?-Marque, Peter suddenly pushed the crate right over on its nose and whizzed at 240 kilometers per hour (150 mph) toward the ground. I must assume that the startled Englishmen made faces as bewildered as that of the ground observer, who, seeing an aircraft drop out of the British formation, surely said in jubilation: "A D.H.9 has been shot down!"

At our airfield much excitement followed. But even greater was astonishment of seeing the "crashing" aircraft turn out to be one of our own Rumplers. We made a quick thundering circuit around the airfield, wingtips close to the ground, with Peter and I waving in obvious high spirits to the crowd gathered before hangars.

I had just peeled off my fur-lined flight suit and wiped the sweat and oil streaks off my face when Monteur (mechanic) Noll reported: "Over there behind the dense poplars is a man in a peculiar uniform with cords laced across the breast and a thick fur hat on his head. He photographs every airplane that lands. Can he be a spy?" "No, my boy. He is a Hussar (light cavalry) officer in uniform he usually wears back in the rear areas. Let's have a look at this fancy bird," I said, fixing my monocle into my eye.

The gentleman turned out to be a Rittmeister (calvary captain) originally assigned to a Hussar regiment and entitled to wear the traditional uniform. By way of introduction I asked: "Would Herr Rittmeister perhaps like to make a flight?" He shuddered in response: "With that wired-together crate there? Never! It would be sheer suicide! Have you really just come back in that airplane? From a flight over the lines?"

"Certainly. Two hours ago I was over Boulogne on the Channel coast," I replied.

With that we introduced ourselves to each other. He was Rittmeister Freiherr (Baron) von Buchwaldt. He was obviously of some distinction, as he wore the decoration of a knight of the Johanniter-Orden (Order of St. John), the Protestant counterpart of the Knights of Malta. As he made a favorable impression me, I invited him to have a cognac in our Kasino (officers' mess)

We traveled the short distance to the Kasino in a fancy dog cart pulled by a well-groomed horse. During the short trip I learned that he was the local chief of agriculture, responsible for obtaining provisions from farms in the region. I was then embarassed to have him visit our Kasino with its meager food supply. But he very shortly invited me to visit his "chateau" and I returned our old Daimler car loaded with all manner of foodstuffs for our aircrews. We then invited him to visit us every week for an Kasino-Abend (mess evening). We fetched him with our car, loaded him up with strong drink and sent him home that night the next morning stiff as a poker.

This somewhat self-serving and forced friendship was built on deception, namely our success in providing him with aviation gasoline from our supplies for him to use in his car. The extra allowance of provisions we received from him increased accordingly and enriched our scanty Prussian rations with butter, milk, tomatoes, artichokes, cucumbers, cheese, all sorts of vegetables, and the robust pleasures of meat, chicken, freshly shot rabbits, partridge and fish from his ponds and streams.

As I took greater pains and became more attentive when he came by, we became personally closer. But it surprised even me he seriously suggested I become a regular Army office, after which he would use his far-reaching connections to high places so that I would immediately be promoted to Oberleutnant (First Lieutenant), with the prospect of a successful career. He made this offer to me repeatedly, but I always declined with a smile and presented him with a large cognac as a consolation.

The craziest part of his whole extravagant plan was as the last son in his branch of the family to bear the name and title Freiherr von Buchwaldt, he wanted me to adopt his baronial name, which of course would be possible not without certain financial obligations on my part, as he very properly pointed out. To that I could only take a deep breath, but leave open the possibility, as there was still much to be considered before a decision had be made. As this offer was made shortly before my furlough, we did not see each other again to resolve it. After my return, Flieger Abteilung (A) 253 was at another airfield and Freiherr von Buchwaldt and his duty station had disappeared, as the steadily retreating frontline had make an end to the agricultural undertaking.

Many years later the name of Freiherr von Buchwaldt surfaced again when my friend Erich Maria Remarque adopted it after the sudden surprise of his literary succes. For a while he called himself "Erich Maria Freiherr von Buchwaldt, gennant (known as) Remarque." There still exist authentic examples of calling cards of that time bearing the baronial crest and this use of the name. Likewise, the municipal register Wilmersdorf section of Berlin supports this fact. But Remarque soon let loose of this pardonable form of mild fraud, established during the intoxicating success of his celebrated novel 'Im Westen nichts Neues' (All Quiet on the Western Front)

Later, I could fiind not a trace of the Royal Prussian Hussar Rittmeister Freiherr von Buchwaldt. But he was just one of many fleeting images that, for us, played a pleasantly lucrative roll in the colorfully whirling center ring of our aviation circus in Pont-á-Marque. To be sure, what he drank--and he could put it away as boundlessly as any student--all went on our bill. For that reason, I plundered his provisions cabinets without hesitation for our Kasino table.

All that was, of course, for our after hours amusement. A letter from 18 August 1918, to my parents describes the more serious part of life at the Front:

It is Sunday and there was 'fliers' weather.' 30 kilometer (18 m.p.h.) winds, storm and rain. I laboriously gather my thoughts after this strenuous day, during which I had much flying to do: long-range reconnaissance at 6,500 meters (21,400 feet) altitude, artillery spotting for a 38-centimeter cannon, some wild air battles with British Fliegerkanonen (flying aces), whose attacks, often made with elegant loops, came at us until we were almost at ground level. Finally, because I had no more ammunition, I had to wait until they came with their two-fixed machine guns to within 20 meters (65 feet). Then I fired my flare pistol or threw hand grenades at them. Despite all that, it turned out alright. I received praise and recognition from high-ranking staff people for my aerial reconnaissance work. But what does all of this nonsense mean! Dear Mother, I wanted to and I could bring you the beautiful roses that are now on my table... and then there must be peace... Lord knows, this filthy war must finally come to an end.

Just prior to one of our many Saufabende (booze nights), the duration of which could not be predicted, I had volunteered to undertake on of those required strenuous long-range reconnaissances. In preparation for the next morning, at midnight I chased my pilot, Peter Johannes, off to bed so that at least one of us would be clear-headed if there should be complications during the flight.

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