Around this time in April I feel a bit odd ever since I started having memory recall of my life as Manfred. And for those of you who don’t know who Manfred was – I was a Prussian, aka German, pilot during the First World War. I was essentially shot down on this day of April in 1918. The difficult parts about this death is that the history books do not record it correctly, I did not complete my mission, and I missed out on having a happy life with most most recently wed to bride. History also does not record that either. Although I do know that I was married in Bavaria and know the marriage number. They won’t release a copy of the certificate.
So the history books show or speculate that I was shot down and died, but the truth of the matter was that the plane got hit as well as my right elbow and I was forced to land. I was injured but I survived only to be shot in the back by three men dressed in what I believe were French uniforms. This is curious because supposedly there was not supposed to be French troops in the area at the time where I crash landed the plane near a row of large bushes. I was waiting for enemy troops to arrive, so I was looking in the direction I was expecting them, which was opposite of where these guys came from. Yes, I was nervous and a bit scared since ground troops had a bad reputation for treating pilots on both sides poorly. As aviators, who understood the dangers of aerial combat – we often tried to get to our “prey” before the ground troops did. These assholes who came out of the bushes basically shot at an unarmed man who was waiting to surrender. I dived down to the ground hence the strange placement of the wounds in my body – the experts never consider this option – and I proceeded to lie on the ground while my attackers came over and kicked at me. I think they kicked me in the face as well as other places. Curiously, the last person I saw while alive was the kindly face of a dark haired man who I believe was Scottish.
Then there is the mission, which I have no proof of what so ever. Kaiser Wilhelm wanted to end the war and he needed someone to take a message to the other side. My memories of the conversation with him are still somewhat repressed probably because they don’t match what we have been taught during this lifetime, but he wanted the war to end. For some reason he felt that he could not trust someone within his own advisory group. I don’t think he knew who it was. It was like someone or a group of people were working against him. He wanted the war to end as a stalemate. He wanted the Americans to help – not to win the war – but make it end. I was given documents and money, which the historians have mentioned in books, but the documents from the Kaiser have not surfaced except a friend came across some special items in one of the universities in England. She did not know what she had come across and then suddenly these documents were hidden away from access.
Part of the arrangements to get me safely behind enemy lines was coordinated with an old military group that had gone underground several hundred years ago and did not have any allegiances to any government or religious group. Their role in the war was to save the lives of the innocent and try to get the war to end. Their members were amongst the nationalities that were involved in the war. Unknown to me several of my pilots were members of this group and they may have been considering me as a possible ally or new member. At least I would have hoped they would have had me on the list to consider for membership. I believe that Roy Brown and the pilot that I pretended to chase after were either members or sympathetic to their mission. They were to act as an escort. Unfortunately the ground troops got involved in our little show and my plane was damaged along with my right elbow.
Lastly, my marriage to Werner Voss’s younger sister Margret was not to be enjoyed this lifetime. It is something that I regret. I finally found someone who was right for me. This is also a point of contention with the historians. I even had one say to me that he did not care if what I wrote to him about was the truth – he was going to publish and write what he wanted to say regardless of what really happened. This hits me to the very core of my being in that I think that professionals should uphold a higher standard. They should do what is right. Historians are supposed to be preservers of the past, of what really truthfully happened, and not what someone wants to say what happened. We learn nothing from those kind of lies.
Yes, I am idealist. And everyday I look in the mirror and wonder why I should remain one.