made us lose more days. But finally the sun was shining again, and so we could take off. It went well over the plateau of inner Asia Minor. But as soon as we approached the huge mountain ranges in the east, the mountains lay hidden in mighty clouds. There was nowhere to slip through, after long attempts nothing remained, we had no choice but to fly back to Ankara. It wasn't until three days later that we were able to roar again, and this time things went smoothly, at least until Diarbekir. The flight, of course, through the upper Euphrates we will all never forget. It was tightly wound like a gorge, at its bottom the river foamed in a terribly stony valley, nowhere was a settlement, a road, even the trace of a mule track to be seen. But the mountains to the right and left rise wildly craggy, bare, well over four thousand metres high. Our machine wound its way carefully through the narrows between the mountain massifs, it could not climb more than 2,500 metres, it was so heavily loaded. Our concern was only whether a side valley could be found to the east that would allow us to slip through to the plain of Diarbekir. We were lucky. We found one and slipped across. Shortly thereafter came the landing in Diarbekir, and there we were, sitting in the dirt. Two distinguished aviators piloted the machine. They prepared for a smooth landing, but after barely sixty metres the plane stopped instead of coasting normally. It had gone well again, but one of the two immediately called into the cabin: "We can't get out of here!" Unfortunately he was right. The plane's wheels had dug deep into the soft ground of the field, whole companies of Turkish soldiers were later harnessed to pull the machine to the hangars with ropes. Now good advice was expensive. You couldn't even think of taking off with a loaded plane from this soft airfield, especially since it was very small and was close to the city's huge ancient Roman stone walls. Even the friendly reception we received from the Turkish officers, who had to monitor the rebellious Kurds with their small warplanes from a location just behind the front, could not dispel our depression. We were in a hurry and didn't see any way to get ahead for the time being. We searched the area. We found nothing. But in the evening the pilots, who had not given up investigating, returned to their quarters. North of the city they had discovered a dead-straight, albeit very narrow, highway. They explained that they wanted to start from there, especially since there was the possibility of setting down the completely unloaded machine in a field nearby. It was daring. We got everything out of the plane that could be removed at all, all luggage, of course, but also all the tools, all sorts of material, the seats of the cabin, even the petrol down to a few litres. This was how the machine should take off and then land again in the north. And only one pilot should be on board. Today I must confess that the thought of this venture was so dreadful to me that I stayed in the city at the time of the transfer, especially as I was unable to help. Rarely have I felt such joy as when I heard the hum of the three engines over the city. The take-off was successful, there was no need to worry about the landing. I drove out in great haste and was delighted to see that the machine was already being pulled onto the road. We reloaded, we refuelled, and in the evening everything was ready for the onward flight. All that remained was to start from the road, which was only a few metres wider than the chassis and was bordered on the left and right by shallow moats. We searched them with lynx eyes several hundred meters in front of us for the last small stone. The smallest could cause a total breakage on departure. Early the next morning, the engines roared, the efficiency and boldness of the two pilots was rewarded, the machine soon came off the road perfectly. From there it was no trouble to Tehran, we got there well before the French and had a flying time to be proud of. But today I still have nightmares about that start in Diarbekir, when you didn't even blink your eyes at the time. I had to do that flight again, at least partially, two years later. On a hot July day in Tehran I received orders to come to Berlin for meetings as quickly as possible. It was particularly hot that summer, and I myself had been in very bad health for a long time, so I wired back and asked for permission to fly to Constantinople or at least to Ankara in a special plane. This would have shortened the travel time by ten days, but also avoided the dreadful journey to Baghdad and through the great desert. My company's approval arrived without delay, and during the necessary
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