I'm going to the flyers.

On Friday, 21 May, at the crack of dawn, Manfred arrived in Schweidnitz, having telegraphed the day before. The garden gate was still closed. Suddenly he was standing in front of my bed, laughing and laughing. ‘How did you get in, Manfred?’ ‘Over the fence.’ We all got up as quickly as possible and gathered round breakfast. Manfred had grown a little wider, but looked fresh and energetic. The sun was shining, the birds in the wild vines, hedges and bushes were chirping in whole choirs. We went into the garden, sat under the old walnut trees, I never tired of listening to Manfred's stories; I mentioned the many victories and that it must finally come to an end. Then Manfred said: ‘I don't think we're going to win this war.’ There was the sentence, spoken soberly and matter-of-factly, I don't think I heard it right. And Manfred said again: ‘You have no idea how strong our opponents are.’ ‘But we always win.’ ‘Did you never hear about our retreat on the Marne?’ ‘No, we didn't know anything about it.’ And Manfred concludes: ‘At best, it will be a draw.’ We talked about this and that, exchanged views and arguments; as always, I was surprised by his mature, sensible views, when Manfred unexpectedly said, stopping in front of me: ‘I'm going to the flyers.’ There was something very beautiful and happy in his voice when he said that, I didn't understand anything about it, I couldn't imagine much of it, but I knew that once he said something, it was already a fact in his mind, it was irrevocable. So I didn't say anything against it - we were used to respecting Manfred despite his youth - but I listened with interest to what he had to say about his new weapon. When we stepped out of the garden and back into the house, I felt with certainty that a new and great task had taken root in him... Four days later Manfred left again...