rk
05-30-2006, 02:21 AM
A few weeks ago an individual posted a story of one his family members' wartime exploits. It seemed to be well received, so I'm continuing the tradition by posting an excerpt from my great grandfather's First World War memoirs.
If you like it, or are generally interested in the history of that era, track down a copy of "Fritz: The World War I Memoir of a German Lieutenant." The book is no longer in print, but Amazon lists a handful of used copies for sale. It is one of a very few accounts of the Great War originally written in English by a German soldier.
Please forgive any typos, they are my own
_____________________________________
March 26 was a typical March day -- cold and foggy. We broke camp before sunup and arrived in front of Albert about 6 a.m. According to my dictionary, the town of Albert had some 7,500 inhabitants and looked similar to other French country towns.
My orders here were to concentrate on low-flying British battle fliers who already had inflicted serious losses on our advancing troops. The Richtofen fighter group was operating over Albert and we could see his men doing there best all day, but it looked as if nobody had the upper hand. Air fights never ceased. The sky over Albert was the stage for the most determined air battles I ever saw. Nobody gave an inch. Only lack of sufficient machine-gun bullets could induce a fighter to break away. Both sides were willing to fight it out right then and there, win or lose. I could not tell how many planes were lost on both sides. It did not make much difference anyway as fresh fighter planes would take the places of ones lost. This battle came to an end only because the sun went down for the day.
While these fights went on at high altitudes, low-flying planes on each side worked the opposing infantry and artillery without being distracted from above. These battle planes few so low I often thought they would crash, when suddenly they reappeared skimming the treetops. I knew they were lightly armored underneath, but I still could not understand how so many managed to survive. Those fights were really wild.
Shortly after entering Albert, we sensed that something was wrong and we became apprehensive. If the town already had been taken, where were the soldiers? The streets were empty and houses were closed. They showed very little damage. It looked as if we were the only ones in town. I expected to find the streets filled with marching troops and vehicles of all descriptions. Perhaps we were in No Man's Land. Or, perhaps the British had withdrawn without fighting, laying a huge trap for our troops to come in, only to be encircled for the final kill.
***
Turning a corner we saw soldiers in position lying on the pavement across the street some 50 yards or so in front of us. We stopped and I went toward them to gather information, but as I approached, I saw they were dead. We had to move then to a sidewalk before we could proceed. Now I was sure we had not yet reached our line. A little further down the street we encountered a wounded German Marine propped against a house. He was shot through the foot and told us the British were "just around the corner." When I looked I could not see the enemy and decided to go on. The noise of our motor was most annoying and I wished I could hear something. A few minutes later, a German solder came out of one of the houses lining the street and frantically waved us back. He seemed most anxious for us to understand that we were in grave danger unless we moved back immediately. It all seemed very queer so, leaving or gun behind, I walked toward him. He motioned to walk close to the houses and not in the middle of the sidewalk. He also shouted, explaining that British soldiers still were holding houses at the end of the street. I thought this situation was very dangerous, but I could not understand why nobody was fighting.
Across this narrow street seemed to be a headquarters. An officer appeared waving for me to come over, which I did, running fast and keeping my head low. I still did not quite understand the overall situation and was glad to meet somebody who could explain it.
The captain introduced himself as the commander of the 3rd Battalion of the 1st Marine Infantry Regiment. Its men were known in the army as top-notch soldiers. What astonished me so was the enthusiasm with which this captain received me. He pumped my hand and thanked me profusely for coming to his aid. This introduction took place while both of us were crouching on the floor of the little house. The windows were broken and he urged me not to stick my head above the window sills because the British were still in the garden. This man was a professional, very polite and soft-spoken, and I knew he would not exaggerate. He offered me some wine and then began explaining.
They had been in this battle since the 21st and hoped to be relieved soon because they had reached the end of their strength. Albert had been taken the day before without too much trouble, but now, at this edge of town, they had encountered fierce resistance which had to be overcome before the battalion could break out into the open fields as ordered. The 4th Battalion had attacked the day before, March 26, without success and suffered terrible losses. Many of the companies were not commanded by non-comms. Most of its casualties were caused by a machine-gun nest installed in a factory building about 500 yards in front of our line.
That this captain and the men milling around in his headquarters were utterly exhausted could be seen easily. But they had orders to attack again at 8 a.m. This captain could see only complete failure and very bloody losses ahead of him as long as that machine-gun nest dominated the sector. The windows of the nest were well protected by sandbags ad machine-guns had been placed in all six windows, easily visible through binoculars. Artillery was needed to knock them out, but supporting artillery was nowhere in sight. Now, quite unexpectedly, we had arrived on the scene with a field artillery gun. When I asked the captain why enemy artillery was not in action, he explained they did not dare shoot as long as the lines were so close together.
The captain asked one of his aides to take me to the roof of the house so I could see the layout clearly. While going up I wanted to say something, but my guide put his finger to his lips, asking me to be very quiet. The steep roof had a small window flush with it, which had to be raised by pushing it up. This we did slowly, trying to make no noise. When I looked out I was flabbergasted to see the flat tins hats of British infantry below us in the garden only 50 yards away. The enemy seemed to be everywhere -- some in foxholes, some in short trenches, some hidden behind trees, hedges and so on. What I saw was not a fixed line. We could not tell exactly where their line began or where it stopped, but we were certain an attack would be a desperate undertaking
Coming down from the roof I tried to explain our limitations. We were an anti-aircraft gun operating under orders of the Air Service, I told the captain, and ill-equipped for ground fighting. We did not have a protective shield like the field artillery. I realized that I could not ignore the wishes of this battalion, quite apart from the fact the captain could order me to do anything he wanted. This was a desperate combat situation and I would have to obey. Something had to be done before 8 a.m. when the new attack would have to start.
***
According to the book, the best way to knock out the nest was by indirect fire, shooting from some place not visible to the enemy. That was impossible. To so so, the gun would have to be pulled back, perhaps to the marketplace in the middle of the town, hidden under some trees if possible. Then I would have to go forward to where I could see the target and direct the firing by telephone. But we had no telephone or telephone wire with us . The skies were full of enemy fliers and this was not the time for a leisurely turkey shoot. After the first few shots we would get plenty of bombs from above and the final result would have been much in doubt. This approach also would take too long, even if we could find a field telephone somewhere. That house could be eliminated only by direct fire and when I explained this to the captain, he wanted me to do it right away. The sooner those machine-guns were out of the way, the better, he said. I became embarrassed because I had to explain again that we could not possibly succeed that way. Our Nr. 1 gunner had to see the target clearly and he could see it only if we left the protection of the house we were hiding behind. The minute our gun barrel was visible to the riflemen -- some only 50 yards away -- they would fill us full of lead before we could fire our first shot. I was greatly relieved when he agreed with me. I told him the best way to help would be for us to roll forward with his attack, shooting as we went, hoping to hit the nest before it could do too much damage. The captain did not like this plan bery much, fearing we would be too big and slow a target. In his opinion, we would be exposed to very heavy rifle fire, especially if we failed to knock down the house with the machine-guns quickly. I knew very little about this sort of fighting and I was anxious to benefit from this man's experience.
***
If speed was a life-saving factor, then we would manage well because speed was our forte. I thought it best not to explain the plan in detail to the whole crew. The driver, however, had to play a major role. From the roof I let him see the road we had to travel. The house we wanted to demolish could be seen clearly, some 400 yards away and about 20 yards to the left of the road. Half way was a country crossroad. We had to advance to there, but not farther, because we needed the crossroad to turn around. Arriving at the crossroad, we would have to fire point blank and hit the house quickly. We could not survive a drawn-out fight with several machine-guns and all those riflemen. We had to operate fast, I emphasized. The driver understood perfectly and assured me he would get us in and out without fail. Of course, we both understood that we would advance at full speed as soon as the Marines started their attack, and at the rate of 25 miles per hour, we would be way in the rear of the Australians [ed. In an omitted segment of text Fritz recounts that fresh Australian troops replaced the British the previous night] within minutes. According to the captain, the enemy would be too rattled to turn around and attack us. His men would take care of that, he assured me.
It was now about half an hour before zero hour. The crew knew we would join in the coming attack and would try to knock out machine-guns. They were ordered to set 12 shells at point-blank range. Each man of the loading crew was to have one shell under his arm ready to load with the utmost speed. The Nr. 1 gunner was the one operating the sights. Or Nr. 1 was a quiet, dependable boy who never talked much. He did his duty like an expert. I often thought that his speed in getting a target into the sights was astonishing. It was his duty to get the house squarely into his sights before he shouted "Ready," and he understood the importance of it. He knew we could not afford to miss at a range of 200 yards. I now believed our surprise attack would succeed, but I could not figure how we would manage to get back. After raising hell on that battlefield with the only gun on our side, we would be a target as big as a barn door.
***
On the hour, the Marines started the attack and that was our cue. I had forgotten to ask the captain about enemy mines and that bothered me. But off we went. Out of the corner of my eye I could see Marines coming out of houses, foxholes and trenches in great numbers. I vaguely wondered where they all came from.
The crossroad was reached very quickly and the gun was loaded. Shortly before the takeoff I had told the Nr. 2 gunner, who pulled the trigger, to be careful and not shoot before the chauffeur and I had jumped off the front seats. I had tried to make a little joke about what would happen if he shot our heads off, but I guess I was not funny. Nobody felt like laughing.
My feet barely had touched the ground when our first shell came screaming out of the barrel. The flash and crack almost flattened me. The crew reloaded, fired, reloaded, fired, reloaded and fired again with amazing speed. Nobody had time to watch the target except me. Glancing back, I saw the Nr. 1 gunner had been hit and fall from his seat, bleeding. But the gun sights were set and new shells were jammed into the barrel before the recoils ended. By this time I already had seen that the very fist shell had slammed right into the next, as did every one of the following shots. Men could be seen jumping out of the windows. The house seemed to explode and started to burn. The target existed no more. It had been quite easy.
The loss of these machine-guns must have been a blow to the Australians. Perhaps they did not know what to make of us, or they did not realize we had a field gun aboard, but they knew now. The first shot of ours had made me almost deaf. As the small arms fire reached a crescendo, I could not make out whether they were shooting at us, except that a rifle bullet had knocked off one of our gunners. Waiving my arm to follow me, the crew jumped into a ditch, half carrying the wounded man with them. He still could move a little under his own power.
My only thought was to get out of there. To do it quickly was imperative. I could not see how the fight was going. Did our men catch up with us or were we still behind the Australian front lines? If so, one hand grenade would have finished us off. One man had dressed the gunner's wound and it did not appear that he was badly hurt, although I could not be sure. I was anxious to get him to a dressing station.
What bothered us the most now as the fact the gun was pointed in the wrong direction. It had to be turned around. To go back and reach the safety of the first house 200 yards away in reverse gear would not be possible because the truck was too slow. We would never make it and stay alive. I was convinced our luck could not last much longer. We were in a tight spot. Tiny bits of flying earth and rock told us the rifle fire was still heavy, making it risky to try returning on foot. I had no clear idea where the enemy was and I did not know what to do next.
At that instant, Rupp the chauffeur shouted something into my ear which I could not understand. The next moment he cranked up the motor, jumped on and turned the truck around while the rest of us held our breath. As he came alongside our ditch, we jumped on, too. I never have understood why nobody got hurt on that wild ride. One machine-gun burst could have killed the driver who had to sit upright on his seat. The roar of battle made it quite impossible for us to hear whether bullets were zooming around us or not.
When we reached the safety of the first house we stopped and tried to relax. Our gunner's wound did not seem too bad. It looked as if the bullet had gone through his upper leg. Everybody seemed to be in high humor to have escaped alive. I thanked the chauffeur for what I thought was a magnificent performance. He received the Iron Cross First Class, the highest decoration a soldier below the rank of lieutenant could obtain. I never had met such a character. He was about 35 years old, much older than the rest of the crew. Whenever quick and resolute action was required he was there to do it, and his loud laugh could be heard at all times. Besides being a former racing driver he was a top-notch mechanic and did all the repair work on the gun and motor. His conversation was exclusively about racing, motors, women and more women. While regaling those 20-year-old boys with his wild tales, they wondered if so much could be true. But they admired him all the same. I was lucky to have had him on my crew. Of the many people I met during fours years of war, he was one of the few I can remember well....When I asked him what had made him jump on the truck under those very dangerous circumstances -- probably saving our lives -- his answer was, "The motor is in fine shape and I am not letting those S.O.B.s shoot it up...."
_____________________________________________
Perhaps one day I'll scan and upload Fritz's wartime photo album. if, in the meantime, you're curious as to what his gun truck looked like I googled up this image of a 77mm K-Flak http://www.earlyaviator.com/archive/images9/7.7cm.KFlak.Kp.Daimler.jm.jpg
If you like it, or are generally interested in the history of that era, track down a copy of "Fritz: The World War I Memoir of a German Lieutenant." The book is no longer in print, but Amazon lists a handful of used copies for sale. It is one of a very few accounts of the Great War originally written in English by a German soldier.
Please forgive any typos, they are my own
_____________________________________
March 26 was a typical March day -- cold and foggy. We broke camp before sunup and arrived in front of Albert about 6 a.m. According to my dictionary, the town of Albert had some 7,500 inhabitants and looked similar to other French country towns.
My orders here were to concentrate on low-flying British battle fliers who already had inflicted serious losses on our advancing troops. The Richtofen fighter group was operating over Albert and we could see his men doing there best all day, but it looked as if nobody had the upper hand. Air fights never ceased. The sky over Albert was the stage for the most determined air battles I ever saw. Nobody gave an inch. Only lack of sufficient machine-gun bullets could induce a fighter to break away. Both sides were willing to fight it out right then and there, win or lose. I could not tell how many planes were lost on both sides. It did not make much difference anyway as fresh fighter planes would take the places of ones lost. This battle came to an end only because the sun went down for the day.
While these fights went on at high altitudes, low-flying planes on each side worked the opposing infantry and artillery without being distracted from above. These battle planes few so low I often thought they would crash, when suddenly they reappeared skimming the treetops. I knew they were lightly armored underneath, but I still could not understand how so many managed to survive. Those fights were really wild.
Shortly after entering Albert, we sensed that something was wrong and we became apprehensive. If the town already had been taken, where were the soldiers? The streets were empty and houses were closed. They showed very little damage. It looked as if we were the only ones in town. I expected to find the streets filled with marching troops and vehicles of all descriptions. Perhaps we were in No Man's Land. Or, perhaps the British had withdrawn without fighting, laying a huge trap for our troops to come in, only to be encircled for the final kill.
***
Turning a corner we saw soldiers in position lying on the pavement across the street some 50 yards or so in front of us. We stopped and I went toward them to gather information, but as I approached, I saw they were dead. We had to move then to a sidewalk before we could proceed. Now I was sure we had not yet reached our line. A little further down the street we encountered a wounded German Marine propped against a house. He was shot through the foot and told us the British were "just around the corner." When I looked I could not see the enemy and decided to go on. The noise of our motor was most annoying and I wished I could hear something. A few minutes later, a German solder came out of one of the houses lining the street and frantically waved us back. He seemed most anxious for us to understand that we were in grave danger unless we moved back immediately. It all seemed very queer so, leaving or gun behind, I walked toward him. He motioned to walk close to the houses and not in the middle of the sidewalk. He also shouted, explaining that British soldiers still were holding houses at the end of the street. I thought this situation was very dangerous, but I could not understand why nobody was fighting.
Across this narrow street seemed to be a headquarters. An officer appeared waving for me to come over, which I did, running fast and keeping my head low. I still did not quite understand the overall situation and was glad to meet somebody who could explain it.
The captain introduced himself as the commander of the 3rd Battalion of the 1st Marine Infantry Regiment. Its men were known in the army as top-notch soldiers. What astonished me so was the enthusiasm with which this captain received me. He pumped my hand and thanked me profusely for coming to his aid. This introduction took place while both of us were crouching on the floor of the little house. The windows were broken and he urged me not to stick my head above the window sills because the British were still in the garden. This man was a professional, very polite and soft-spoken, and I knew he would not exaggerate. He offered me some wine and then began explaining.
They had been in this battle since the 21st and hoped to be relieved soon because they had reached the end of their strength. Albert had been taken the day before without too much trouble, but now, at this edge of town, they had encountered fierce resistance which had to be overcome before the battalion could break out into the open fields as ordered. The 4th Battalion had attacked the day before, March 26, without success and suffered terrible losses. Many of the companies were not commanded by non-comms. Most of its casualties were caused by a machine-gun nest installed in a factory building about 500 yards in front of our line.
That this captain and the men milling around in his headquarters were utterly exhausted could be seen easily. But they had orders to attack again at 8 a.m. This captain could see only complete failure and very bloody losses ahead of him as long as that machine-gun nest dominated the sector. The windows of the nest were well protected by sandbags ad machine-guns had been placed in all six windows, easily visible through binoculars. Artillery was needed to knock them out, but supporting artillery was nowhere in sight. Now, quite unexpectedly, we had arrived on the scene with a field artillery gun. When I asked the captain why enemy artillery was not in action, he explained they did not dare shoot as long as the lines were so close together.
The captain asked one of his aides to take me to the roof of the house so I could see the layout clearly. While going up I wanted to say something, but my guide put his finger to his lips, asking me to be very quiet. The steep roof had a small window flush with it, which had to be raised by pushing it up. This we did slowly, trying to make no noise. When I looked out I was flabbergasted to see the flat tins hats of British infantry below us in the garden only 50 yards away. The enemy seemed to be everywhere -- some in foxholes, some in short trenches, some hidden behind trees, hedges and so on. What I saw was not a fixed line. We could not tell exactly where their line began or where it stopped, but we were certain an attack would be a desperate undertaking
Coming down from the roof I tried to explain our limitations. We were an anti-aircraft gun operating under orders of the Air Service, I told the captain, and ill-equipped for ground fighting. We did not have a protective shield like the field artillery. I realized that I could not ignore the wishes of this battalion, quite apart from the fact the captain could order me to do anything he wanted. This was a desperate combat situation and I would have to obey. Something had to be done before 8 a.m. when the new attack would have to start.
***
According to the book, the best way to knock out the nest was by indirect fire, shooting from some place not visible to the enemy. That was impossible. To so so, the gun would have to be pulled back, perhaps to the marketplace in the middle of the town, hidden under some trees if possible. Then I would have to go forward to where I could see the target and direct the firing by telephone. But we had no telephone or telephone wire with us . The skies were full of enemy fliers and this was not the time for a leisurely turkey shoot. After the first few shots we would get plenty of bombs from above and the final result would have been much in doubt. This approach also would take too long, even if we could find a field telephone somewhere. That house could be eliminated only by direct fire and when I explained this to the captain, he wanted me to do it right away. The sooner those machine-guns were out of the way, the better, he said. I became embarrassed because I had to explain again that we could not possibly succeed that way. Our Nr. 1 gunner had to see the target clearly and he could see it only if we left the protection of the house we were hiding behind. The minute our gun barrel was visible to the riflemen -- some only 50 yards away -- they would fill us full of lead before we could fire our first shot. I was greatly relieved when he agreed with me. I told him the best way to help would be for us to roll forward with his attack, shooting as we went, hoping to hit the nest before it could do too much damage. The captain did not like this plan bery much, fearing we would be too big and slow a target. In his opinion, we would be exposed to very heavy rifle fire, especially if we failed to knock down the house with the machine-guns quickly. I knew very little about this sort of fighting and I was anxious to benefit from this man's experience.
***
If speed was a life-saving factor, then we would manage well because speed was our forte. I thought it best not to explain the plan in detail to the whole crew. The driver, however, had to play a major role. From the roof I let him see the road we had to travel. The house we wanted to demolish could be seen clearly, some 400 yards away and about 20 yards to the left of the road. Half way was a country crossroad. We had to advance to there, but not farther, because we needed the crossroad to turn around. Arriving at the crossroad, we would have to fire point blank and hit the house quickly. We could not survive a drawn-out fight with several machine-guns and all those riflemen. We had to operate fast, I emphasized. The driver understood perfectly and assured me he would get us in and out without fail. Of course, we both understood that we would advance at full speed as soon as the Marines started their attack, and at the rate of 25 miles per hour, we would be way in the rear of the Australians [ed. In an omitted segment of text Fritz recounts that fresh Australian troops replaced the British the previous night] within minutes. According to the captain, the enemy would be too rattled to turn around and attack us. His men would take care of that, he assured me.
It was now about half an hour before zero hour. The crew knew we would join in the coming attack and would try to knock out machine-guns. They were ordered to set 12 shells at point-blank range. Each man of the loading crew was to have one shell under his arm ready to load with the utmost speed. The Nr. 1 gunner was the one operating the sights. Or Nr. 1 was a quiet, dependable boy who never talked much. He did his duty like an expert. I often thought that his speed in getting a target into the sights was astonishing. It was his duty to get the house squarely into his sights before he shouted "Ready," and he understood the importance of it. He knew we could not afford to miss at a range of 200 yards. I now believed our surprise attack would succeed, but I could not figure how we would manage to get back. After raising hell on that battlefield with the only gun on our side, we would be a target as big as a barn door.
***
On the hour, the Marines started the attack and that was our cue. I had forgotten to ask the captain about enemy mines and that bothered me. But off we went. Out of the corner of my eye I could see Marines coming out of houses, foxholes and trenches in great numbers. I vaguely wondered where they all came from.
The crossroad was reached very quickly and the gun was loaded. Shortly before the takeoff I had told the Nr. 2 gunner, who pulled the trigger, to be careful and not shoot before the chauffeur and I had jumped off the front seats. I had tried to make a little joke about what would happen if he shot our heads off, but I guess I was not funny. Nobody felt like laughing.
My feet barely had touched the ground when our first shell came screaming out of the barrel. The flash and crack almost flattened me. The crew reloaded, fired, reloaded, fired, reloaded and fired again with amazing speed. Nobody had time to watch the target except me. Glancing back, I saw the Nr. 1 gunner had been hit and fall from his seat, bleeding. But the gun sights were set and new shells were jammed into the barrel before the recoils ended. By this time I already had seen that the very fist shell had slammed right into the next, as did every one of the following shots. Men could be seen jumping out of the windows. The house seemed to explode and started to burn. The target existed no more. It had been quite easy.
The loss of these machine-guns must have been a blow to the Australians. Perhaps they did not know what to make of us, or they did not realize we had a field gun aboard, but they knew now. The first shot of ours had made me almost deaf. As the small arms fire reached a crescendo, I could not make out whether they were shooting at us, except that a rifle bullet had knocked off one of our gunners. Waiving my arm to follow me, the crew jumped into a ditch, half carrying the wounded man with them. He still could move a little under his own power.
My only thought was to get out of there. To do it quickly was imperative. I could not see how the fight was going. Did our men catch up with us or were we still behind the Australian front lines? If so, one hand grenade would have finished us off. One man had dressed the gunner's wound and it did not appear that he was badly hurt, although I could not be sure. I was anxious to get him to a dressing station.
What bothered us the most now as the fact the gun was pointed in the wrong direction. It had to be turned around. To go back and reach the safety of the first house 200 yards away in reverse gear would not be possible because the truck was too slow. We would never make it and stay alive. I was convinced our luck could not last much longer. We were in a tight spot. Tiny bits of flying earth and rock told us the rifle fire was still heavy, making it risky to try returning on foot. I had no clear idea where the enemy was and I did not know what to do next.
At that instant, Rupp the chauffeur shouted something into my ear which I could not understand. The next moment he cranked up the motor, jumped on and turned the truck around while the rest of us held our breath. As he came alongside our ditch, we jumped on, too. I never have understood why nobody got hurt on that wild ride. One machine-gun burst could have killed the driver who had to sit upright on his seat. The roar of battle made it quite impossible for us to hear whether bullets were zooming around us or not.
When we reached the safety of the first house we stopped and tried to relax. Our gunner's wound did not seem too bad. It looked as if the bullet had gone through his upper leg. Everybody seemed to be in high humor to have escaped alive. I thanked the chauffeur for what I thought was a magnificent performance. He received the Iron Cross First Class, the highest decoration a soldier below the rank of lieutenant could obtain. I never had met such a character. He was about 35 years old, much older than the rest of the crew. Whenever quick and resolute action was required he was there to do it, and his loud laugh could be heard at all times. Besides being a former racing driver he was a top-notch mechanic and did all the repair work on the gun and motor. His conversation was exclusively about racing, motors, women and more women. While regaling those 20-year-old boys with his wild tales, they wondered if so much could be true. But they admired him all the same. I was lucky to have had him on my crew. Of the many people I met during fours years of war, he was one of the few I can remember well....When I asked him what had made him jump on the truck under those very dangerous circumstances -- probably saving our lives -- his answer was, "The motor is in fine shape and I am not letting those S.O.B.s shoot it up...."
_____________________________________________
Perhaps one day I'll scan and upload Fritz's wartime photo album. if, in the meantime, you're curious as to what his gun truck looked like I googled up this image of a 77mm K-Flak http://www.earlyaviator.com/archive/images9/7.7cm.KFlak.Kp.Daimler.jm.jpg