Riding through Katrina with the Red Baron's Ghost

by J. Malcolm Garcia

  “How do you know it wasn’t the storm that did all that?” I asked.

  Pham didn’t answer. He balled his hands into fists and wiped his eyes.

  “Whatever they needed, they could have taken,” he said.

  Pham led me into his store. We stepped into ankle-deep packages of crackers, spoiled meat and fruit.

  “They did not have to do this.”

  Maybe Pham needed to believe that vandals had ransacked his store because he couldn’t comprehend the destructive power of the storm. He could picture vandals. Vandals were people, a tangible image. They could be arrested and charged. How was he to hold a storm accountable? Or, I wondered, had he lost his mind?

  “I’m sorry,” I said.

  He ignored me, muttering to himself as he walked away to grab another trash bag.

  OK, now this was like a war. The insensible talk of the shell-shocked. In Kabul, one old man told me that when the Russians came to his village, Mendrowr, in Laghman Province, they lined up thirty-two young men they thought were guerrilla fighters and shot them. Then the Russians detained men they thought might have been the boys’ fathers and asked them about their sons.

  Where are their friends? the Russians demanded.

  The men wouldn’t answer, and the Russians executed them too. Women took care of the dead. There weren’t enough men left to bury them. The old man kept repeating “Not enough men left to bury them, not enough men left to bury them,” as if he worried that by not doing so, I would not appreciate the horror of what he described, that I would forget. All these years later, I remember. “Not enough men left to bury them,” like a song I can’t get out of my head.

  I got back into my SUV, drove past a Civil War statue of a Confederate soldier, and merged onto St. Charles Avenue. Nineteenth-century mansions with white columns and wraparound porches rose up on both sides of the street. Threats warning looters covered plywood sheets: You will be shot. You’re no better than carpetbaggers. You must die.

  I pulled to the side of the road to use a Porta-Potty. When I came out, I saw a jeep parked by my car. A member of the National Guard stepped out and asked for my identification. I showed him my press badge.

  “Thank you, sir.”

  I watched him leave. The humid air layered my shoulders with its weight. Wind without sound brushed against me. I didn’t even hear the scratch of blown leaves against the pavement. No one around. I rested my arms on the roof of the SUV and wondered what to do next. I needed to hunt up a story for my editor. Maybe Pham. He’d be a good feature. Go back to him or keep driving? I wondered if he’d still be there. And I wondered where you were, Mr. Titler.

  * * *

  Alfred Franklyn had answered my letter. Within three weeks of writing to him, I received a blue envelope from England. Aerogramme / Par Avion, it read. I opened it along its edges until it unfolded into one long sheet. At the top it read, Re Baron von Richthofen. A note followed.

  April 11, 1971

  Dear Malcolm,

  Alfred Franklyn here. Thanks for your letter received. In reply I am sending you a copy of my first report I made after I read that a Canadian pilot had brought the Baron down which was impossible.

  Franklyn then copied the report he had filed with his commanding officer on April 21, 1918, the day Richthofen died. After he had seen the German’s red Fokker triplane behind Allied lines Franklyn immediately went to my Lewis gun which I had on a mount and fired at him at close range about 27 rounds. I then saw him crash to the ground about 200 yards from my position. There were also two Australian sergeants standing beside me and one remarked, ‘You have got him digger,’ and I said, ‘Yes, he is down alright.’

  Franklyn did not know why the Germans were called “Jerries,” just that they always were, and the French, he said, were called “froggies.”

  Rheumatism in his hands, he continued, made writing difficult, and he apologized for the short note. I held the flimsy paper in my hand and imagined him folding it on his desk in his Birmingham home. I looked up Birmingham in our encyclopedia. Then I taped Franklyn’s letter to the draft copy of my note to him and put both in a shoebox with my correspondence from Titler.

  April 26, 1971

  Dear Mr. Titler,

  Mr. Franklyn answered me. Now I shall quote a sentence out of the letter that you will like; ‘Kindest regards to you and Dale Titler should you write him or see him.’ If you could would you please tell me where I could get in touch with H. E. Hart and retired Major-General Leslie Beavis who both saw the Red Baron shot down?

  Titler agreed to help. With his guidance, I wrote to Hart, Beavis, and other World War I veterans who had seen Richthofen killed. He showed me how to find them by writing to postmasters in the towns where they lived. For retired officers, he advised me to use British and Australian Army veterans’ associations.

  There is a certain protocol for high-ranking officers, like Major-General Beavis, Malcolm, and your letter would be better received if it is followed.

  Most of the veterans answered. I received mail from around the world and showed my friends the exotic stamps from Australia, Germany, England, and Rhodesia, now Zimbabwe. These old soldiers sent photographs of themselves in their army uniforms, drew maps of Richthofen’s crash site, and wrote lengthy letters describing what they saw. They in turn suggested other veterans for me to contact. I sent copies of all their notes to Titler.

  July 21, 1971

  Dear Malcolm,

  I’m glad to hear you’re having such success with your correspondence on the Richthofen matter and getting such favorable responses. I wonder if you could let me see these items when next you write. I’ll return them promptly. Your commitment to research is certainly very gratifying. Warmest regards, Dale M. Titler

  I feel humbled now when I consider how these men more than halfway around the world took the time to respond to a boy’s curiosity. They were elderly, and some, like Franklyn, in poor health. Yet they put aside whatever they were doing and made time for me, a stranger. My eager questions showed an interest in their lives. I did not understand all that they told me. Their thoughts on the tragedy of battlefield deaths weren’t feelings that I could appreciate. War, I thought, was a heroic enterprise. Years later I’d realize how wrong I was.

  But I did gain one significant insight: When I asked a question, they answered with a story.

  August 7, 1971

  Dear Young Friend,

  I am sorry that I have not been able to reply to your letter sooner. The fact is I had a heart attack that curtailed my activities for some weeks. It is only now I am beginning to function again with some confidence.

  I cannot imagine an Australian boy of thirteen being interested in a German airman, particularly in these times. You must be interested in aeronautics. When I was thirteen, planes were unknown. Indeed, Richthofen’s biplane was a crude affair compared to the fighters of today. Children of today have everything. When I was a boy there was no radio. No television and where I lived, no trains. Yet we enjoyed life and the fun we made for ourselves.

  I remember how sad I felt when I saw the body of Richthofen. A splendid young man looking handsome and peaceful in death before his time although all those years ago must make him seem old to you. I was twenty-seven then. I am eighty now and know now how young a man he was. Yours, H. E. Hart

  The following year, I reached H. D. Billings, a wireless operator mechanic and signalman in Number 3 Squadron, Australian Imperial Force.

  February 5, 1972

  Dear Malcolm,

  I would have to look back fifty-four years to 1918 and not confuse the Red Baron’s death with many other incidents that remained fixed in my mind.

  His military service had begun in Gallipoli on April 25, 1915, almost three years to the day before the Red Baron died. His letter detailed his service in the Australian Light Horse and the Australian Flying Corps. At the end of his letter, he turned to the Red Baron.

  And so we come to the Baron. We picked up [his] remain
s but our squadron was not otherwise involved (although we buried him) and I am afraid I was not particularly excited, although certainly interested, in the Baron. By that time, I had been on active duty for 2 or 3 years and another crashed plane and a dead pilot did not arouse any of us much.

  Hoping that the above may be of interest. Yours truly, H. D. Billings

  Billings’s letter was followed by one from Jack Nugent, Australian 10th Field Ambulance, 3rd Division.

  March 15, 1972

  Dear Malcolm,

  The War Office sent on your letter to me. I was surprised receiving mail from the USA. However, I am glad to hear from you and know you are interested in the Red Baron.

  Yes, Mal, like many others I saw him shot down when our boy broke with the Baron after him putting bursts of machine gun fire at him all the way down. When very low our boy skipped over a ridge and the Baron must have found he was low and behind our lines. He turned right, banked over his right side and suddenly crashed after being shot at. I saw only the two planes and our boy was lucky to get away.

  Well, Mal, I hope you can understand this scrawl. It has taken me back over 50 years. Met many of your boys. I was in an American hospital in Bologne, France for two weeks in 1918. Also, my father migrated from Ireland to America and was a naturalized American before coming to Australia.

  I guess you see by the map I’ve enclosed where Melbourne, my place of residence, is (down south as they say). Australia, a young country, is developing fast. America and England are pouring money in by the millions and taking over many of our industries which is causing some concern in places. However, it’s nice to have a few dollars splashed around.

  Your letter stamped Chicago took me back some years. The firm I worked for were clock makers. Some 30 years or so ago a chronograph (time clock) was made for a race course in Chicago. It would be outdated now as electronic timing has taken over. I was in art metal work such as church work, etc. With best wishes, Regards & Cheerio, Jack Nugent

  As I read and reread these letters, I noticed that no two accounts of Richthofen’s death were the same. How could that be? I asked Titler. I faced a dilemma common to all researchers using eyewitness testimony, he told me. He urged me to keep asking question until I found the common threads that stitched the stories together. Notice the details the veterans tell about themselves, he advised, the details that make them individual and distinct from one another.

  I followed his suggestion and reached out to more of these old soldiers. D. G. Lewis, the British pilot of the eightieth and last plane Richthofen shot down, wrote to me from Salisbury, Rhodesia (Zimbabwe).

  May 5, 1972

  My dear Malcolm,

  I came across your letter of the 19th of July last year but am uncertain whether or not I replied to it so in case I did not I am writing again.

  After being shot down by von Richthofen I had the long journey to the prison camp in Graudenz on the banks of the Vistula River which ran below my prison window. You can find the river in an Atlas but I think the name of Graudenz has been changed.

  I spent 9 months there and apart from too little food was treated quite well. I was just over 18 years on my capture and since you are 13 years old you will know how hungry I was all the time but had no pantry to raid as you have.

  I used to dream of lovely food at night, roast beef and potatoes, lovely bacon and eggs, chocolate puddings and the rest with the result that my pillow used to be wet with the flow of saliva induced by my imaginary meal. That’s all for now. Sincerely, D. G. Lewis

  To further help me along, Titler directed me to an administrator at the Australian War Memorial. The administrator suggested I write to the Canberra War Office for the names of all World War I veterans who served in the area where Richthofen died. The War Office led me to Major-General Beavis, H. E. Hart’s commanding officer. Beavis viewed Richthofen’s body shortly after he died.

  July 7, 1972

  Dear Malcolm Garcia,

  Richthofen’s body was brought to the outside of my dugout on my stretcher. The only examination I made was to open the front of his flying jacket. In the center of his left breast was a jagged hole about three quarters inches by one and one half inches. I did not see any other wounds. I might add that when looking at Richthofen’s body I could not but feel very sorry and upset that such a fine looking young man had been killed. Sincerely, L. E. Beavis, retired Major-General.

  Rupert Radecki, a soldier in the Fifth Division of the Australian Imperial Force, complained that it had taken the War Office five months to forward my letter to him.

  July 14, 1972

  Dear Malcolm,

  It has taken them all this time for the records office you sent your letter to find me. Not very bright of them you no doubt will agree as they would only have to consult the telephone directory to get a lead.

  Well, my young friend, I really saw Baron von Richthofen brought down. He was hit by one bullet which hit him in the lower part of his body and travelled upwards and came out of his chest. This story of the bullet I got from an Australian Air Force grounds man name McCarty who prepared the Red Baron for burial.

  Richthofen met his death from a bullet fired by an Australian gunner you can rest assured of that. Had the gunners shooting at Richthofen been more accurate, more than one bullet would have found its mark. To give you some idea how fast the guns fired, I saw a German machine gunner get eleven bullets in his forehead before he toppled over. This was on Passchendaele Ridge in Belgium.

  I felt Radecki’s confidence that antiaircraft fire killed Richthofen. His vivid description of the German soldier on Passchendaele Ridge made an impression. Eleven bullets to the head. I imagined the soldier’s face exploding like a tomato. I was glad Richthofen had not died that way. A gruesome death did not meld with my idealized notions of war. I remind myself now that I was just a boy resisting a basic truth about war. It doesn’t matter where a bullet strikes or how ghastly the death. Dead is dead.

  In addition to my questions about Richthofen, I asked Radecki why the Allies called Germans “Jerries,” a mystery that continued to perplex me, but he didn’t know any more than Franklyn had.

  I have no idea why the Germans were called Jerries. Quite often English soldiers had said to me “Jerrys Coomin (coming) over.” They were referring to the German night bombers who made it a habit of visiting us after sundown.

  In January last, I was on a South Sea Island cruise and met a lad on the ship, who like you, was interested in the Red Baron. It is refreshing to know that there are some boys in the world interested in past history.

  I don’t recall, but I think Titler must have suggested I enclose postage money as a courtesy because I sent Radecki ten cents for stamps.

  I appreciate you sending the dime for a stamp. As I cannot spend it I will put it with my collection of coins & stamps. I am now 80 but not of the tottering type. I still carry on my occupation of company accountant. Best wishes, Rupert Radecki

  On October 21, 1972, I received a letter from Max Sheidig, the only German veteran I’d hear from. He had been a mechanic during the war.

  Dear Mr. Garcia,

  Today I received your letter about Captain Manfred Baron von Richthofen. It is, of course, many years since he gave his life but I remember him very well because I saw him daily since his squadron was on the same field as ours, his was #11, mine #4. The other two, #6 and #10 were on the other side of the railroad embankment. He was born in 1892 and was killed in action in 1918 however I forgot the exact date but it was in the last part of spring and the first part of summer. I myself never had the time to worry about him because he never talked to me only to the officers and then he came across the field only whenever he had something to say to them. I was only a corporal and the boss of the machine gun crew and our job was to inspect the planes when they came back from the front and repair the guns when they needed to. That was hardly a place for Richthofen to spend his time after returning from the front. I sure wish I could give you more in
formation about him, but I only saw him that was all. All I know about Richthofen is that he led a fine decent life and lost it in a free for all fight when his squadron was attacked by a bigger force than his own. Respectfully, Max K. Scheidig

  Frank Wormald, who had served with H. E. Hart, answered my letter of January 21, 1973, with a curt note that said more about his resentment toward the Germans than it did about Richthofen.

  Dear Malcolm,

  I got your address off Horrie Hart an old war mate of mine. I can’t understand the interest you chaps have in the Baron. He is forgotten in Australia. I think that he was just another bloody German warmonger and it was a pity that his father never cut his throat at birth. He just went for the weak flyers. Regards, Frank Wormald

  Decades later, as an embedded reporter with the 82nd Airborne Division in Kandahar in 2003, I listened to many American soldiers speak of Afghans as Wormald had spoken of Germans: They hated them. They hated their languages and customs they didn’t understand. Hated the difficulty of distinguishing friend from foe. Hated the random guy in the hills taking potshots. Hated IEDs. Boom, and someone’s gone. Tried to remember how they looked alive so they wouldn’t dwell on how they looked dead. Fucking kill hajis, the soldiers said. Fucking towel heads. At times, I absorbed their hatred like a virus until I hated too. Hated being scared. Hated being on edge. Hated standing out, an obvious target. Hated being hated. Even later, when we returned to the States, we hated because only our hate made sense.