... ‘The Divisional General Staff Officer is on the telephone, sir.’
I knew then that I had to pull myself together, for I had to give detailed answers to questions concerning the situation. Will-power won and conquered my physical weakness. But those who know what sea-sickness means—and balloon-sickness is far worse than that experienced on the roughest sea—can realise with what I had to contend. The balloon observer who succumbs to this sickness is unsuited for his work. There are not many, however, who are always able to control themselves.
As a matter of fact, I continued my observations. The hostile artillery was now completely silenced, and consequently batteries on the section of our neighbouring northern division opened enfilading fire on the river Dvorczak, As there was no communication between the balloon and this division, the artillery commander forwarded them the results of my observation, I then received the following message from the ground: ‘The balloon will be advanced as far as our old front the trenches.' The gale was now blowing with increased violence, causing the balloon to sway and rock more and more violently. I was thrown from one side of the basket to the other, and the icy cold penetrated to my bones. Suddenly, complete silence! The wind whistled no longer; the basket swung up against the balloonets, while the nose of the balloon reared until it was almost vertical; no answer came through the telephone: clouds enveloped me. The balloon had broken loose!
At first I experienced a comfortable feeling at being relieved from the eternal rolling; but prompt action was necessary, since in six or seven minutes' time I should have drifted over the enemy's lines. Maps and aerial photographs fluttered down in small fragments from the basket; hastily I examined the tackle of my parachute, to see that it was clear, and then untied the cable of the ripping gear. On no account dared I allow the balloon to fall into the hands of the Russians, I tugged fiercely at the cable; nothing happened! A cold perspiration broke out all over me, I clenched my teeth, and felt all my muscles grow tense. Again I tugged. ‘Hurrah!’ I shouted out loud. The fabric gave; the balloon was ripped, and I heard the gas escape whistling into the upper air. Two more vigorous tugs at the cable; a glance at the altimeter, which showed a height of 6000 feet; then over the side of the basket, and a plunge into the bottomless abyss.

OVER LONDON IN A ZEPPELIN

The weather chart on April 25, 1916, showed favourable conditions, and we had every reason to hope that the prospective raid on England would actually take place. Instructions had been given that our ship, the L.Z. 97, was to be ready to leave the ground by 6,30 in the evening. We had only landed at dawn after a longish cross-country flight, and forthwith refreshed ourselves for the new venture by a short sleep.
All that afternoon we were busy making the necessary preparations for our expedition. The men in charge of the filling operations hurried about their jobs, and the gas streamed hissing into the compartments of the envelope, while mechanics tested the revolutions given by the engines. Clouds of dust whirled high in the blast of air from the propellers. When the Commander made his appearance through the hangar doors the officer on duty reported that all was ready. At a signal given by a blast on a whistle, the landing party, which had been standing to for some time, seized the hand-rails of the gondolas, A command—a sharp tug forward—and the ship moved slowly out of its hangar. ...