Celebrations erupted in the streets of national capitals. In cities, towns, villages, and hamlets across Europe, millions of non-combatants dropped to their knees and wept. Germans, Russians, Hungarians, Poles, French, Belgians, Dutch, and English—all were united in this moment of joy.
France and Germany had sent about eighty percent of their male populations between the ages of fifteen and forty-nine into battle. The Great War took the life of some nine million soldiers. Twenty-one million more were wounded. Civilian casualties numbered close to ten million. Loss and destruction of property was on so vast a scale as to be incalculable.
Precisely at eleven o’clock that morning, bells that had been silent since the summer of 1914 began to ring. In minutes, bells all across Europe were tolling out the good news. The war to end all wars had come to a close.
Pasewalk Military Hospital—Berlin
In the dining hall there was total silence for several seconds. Then the deep, sonorous sound of the massive bells of the great Berlin Cathedral pierced the silence. No one moved. No one spoke. These men in the room were the detritus of war, the rubbish left in the wake of it. They could think of nothing to do or say that would rise to this occasion. So they sat there and quietly wept.
Emilee Fromme also wept. She let her eyes move around the room to the men she had cared for and nursed back to health. Here are the ones who made it possible for the bells to ring this day, she thought. The corporal there in the corner with one leg missing. The sergeant who was paralyzed from the waist down. The lieutenant blinded by mustard gas and his captain, whose lungs were seared so badly in that same gas attack that he would not likely live to see Christmas. The fifteen-year-old boy in the corner who stared blankly at nothing, not knowing and not caring about what was going on around him.
And here, right beside her, was Hans. So strong and so handsome, with his light brown hair and dancing blue eyes and his teasing manner. He would carry several scars to his death, including some that couldn’t be seen. She reached out and took his hand, not caring who was watching.
He didn’t turn. As the sound of the bells swelled and spread across the city, he suddenly hunched over, burying his face in his hands. Great, racking sobs shook his body. Emilee turned and threw her arms around him, pulling him close. “It’s all right, Hans,” she cried. “It’s over. It’s over.”
He clung to her in desperation and cried until Emilee thought that her heart would break.
_______________
Chapter Notes
The Berliner Morgenpost (Berlin Morning Mail) was a popular daily newspaper at this time. However, the headlines and the news story Emilee read from the newspaper were not taken from the actual newspaper. They are typical of headlines and articles written on that day.
We now call November 11th Veterans Day. Originally it was known as Armistice Day or Remembrance Day. It celebrated the end of World War I, though the war did not officially end until the Treaty of Versailles was signed on June 28, 1919, in the Palace of Versailles south of Paris. That day was chosen because that was the fifth anniversary of the assassination of Archduke Ferdinand and his wife.
On May 13, 1938, Congress declared Armistice Day to be an official federal holiday. But in 1954, after millions of other soldiers had died in World War II, Congress changed the name to Veterans Day to honor all who fought for the freedom of our country.
It is still traditional in many places in Europe for people to stop what they are doing at 11:00 a.m. on November 11th for a moment of silence. Often at the end of that silence, church bells toll as an additional remembrance of that moment.
In addition to the horrific war statistics given in this chapter, it is also worth noting that many credit World War I as being the initial cause of what came to be known as the Spanish flu pandemic of 1918, which killed about 100 million people worldwide.
Victors of war are rarely either generous or humble. America, through President Woodrow Wilson, tried to convince the Allies not to impose terms on Germany that were so harsh that they would not allow wounds to heal. But Germany and France had been bitter enemies for centuries, and the French, jubilant with victory, were not about to lose their opportunity to stick it to their longtime rivals.
Immediately after the war, the French government started work on a grand memorial at the site of the treaty’s signing. It came to be known as the Glade of Compiègne. A statue of Marshal Foch was erected. A bronze sculpture of a huge sword striking down the Imperial Eagle of the German Empire was made into a monument. In the clearing, on a large, stone slab, the following was inscribed in French:
Here, 11 November 1918,
succumbed the criminal pride of
the German Empire. Vanquished
by the free people it sought to enslave.
Just over twenty years later, on June 22, 1940, that decision would come back to haunt them. A new document would be signed at the Glade of Compiègne. Another delegation would gather at the site. Only this time it would be the German generals setting the terms, and those terms were the creation of “occupation zones” in northern and western France.
Three days after the signing, which erased the humiliation of the German people, the Fuehrer ordered the memorial site to be totally destroyed and any signs of its existence completely erased. The statue of the German eagle impaled by a sword was demolished. The plaque was broken up, and pieces of it were put on display in a museum in Berlin. The one thing left intact was the statue of Marshal Foch. Hitler ordered that it be left so that everyone could see that all the French general looked out upon was an empty wasteland.
After World War II, the French restored the memorial site as it had been at first, using German prisoners of war to do the labor (see http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Second_Armistice_at_Compi%C3%A8gne#Destruction_of_the_Armistice_site_in_Compi.C3.A8gne).
November 12, 1918—Pasewalk Military Hospital
Berlin, Germany
Hans heard the footsteps as soon as they entered the ward. He didn’t look up from the book that he was reading. He could tell the footsteps didn’t belong to Emilee, and Emilee wouldn’t be coming in until sometime after eleven tonight anyway.
To his surprise, the sound kept coming and stopped alongside his bed. “Sergeant Eckhardt?”
He looked up.”
“I’m Nurse Weisemann. I will by your nurse for today.”
He nodded and then went back to reading. She was pleasant-looking and had a nice smile, but she wasn’t Emilee and he wasn’t interested.
“Sergeant?”
“Yes?”
“Have you had your breakfast?”
“I’m not hungry.”
“You need to eat.”
He ignored her, turning back to his book.
Taken aback, she started away but then had another idea. “Did you hear about the pastor who’s coming to speak to our men today?”
“I’m not looking for God, thank you.”
He saw her flinch, and hurt filled her eyes. He felt a twinge of guilt but not enough to try to undo his gruffness.
She started away again and then whirled back around. “I don’t think he’s going to be talking about God,” she said curtly. “They say he’s going to talk about the November criminals.”
That broke through. He laid the book aside. “What November criminals?”
“Chancellor Ebert. Matthias Erzberger. The others who sold us out at Compiègne.”
“And he’s a pastor?”
“Yes. I don’t know him personally, but I’ve read about him. He’s very political. Very outspoken about his beliefs. He thinks the Jews and the Communists are the ones behind this . . . this . . .” She couldn’t find a strong enough word.
“Betrayal? Treason?”
“Yes!” she cried.
He threw back the covers and started to get up. She hurried back to him. “No, Sergeant. He’s not coming until ten. You still have half an hour.”
“Can you find my clothes?”
“I .
. .”
“I know what it says on my orders. But I’m fine. Yesterday I was a little dizzy, but there’s no problem. If this preacher is what you say he is, I would very much like to hear him.”
She hesitated for another moment and then nodded. “I will ask the doctor and see what he thinks.”
“No!” he blurted. Then his voice softened. “You know how doctors are, Nurse . . . uh . . .”
“Weisemann.” Then she smiled. “Yes, I do.”
Hans decided it was time for a little charm. “What if I sit in the back where the doctor can’t see me? You could sit beside me, and if he does say anything, I’ll tell him that I asked you to help me.”
That did it. “I’ll find your clothes and be back at about 9:45. In fact, perhaps I’ll get you another pain pill now so it will be working by then.”
“You are an angel,” he said. “Thank you.”
• • •
Pastor Luther Wunderlich was not what Hans had expected. He had expected a lean, maybe almost haggard-looking young man in his mid-twenties with fiery eyes, tousled hair, and a voice that crackled with passion. Instead, he was closer to fifty. He was short, no more than five foot six or seven, and probably weighed close to two hundred pounds. He had a few strands of wispy hair, which he brushed forward in an unsuccessful attempt to cover some liver spots on his head. His eyes were dark blue and seemed kindly, almost grandfatherly. And his name was Luther—Pastor Luther of the Lutheran Church. Hans wondered if his parents had named him that with the intent of steering him toward a career as a cleric or if it was just a happy coincidence.
As the hospital chaplain introduced him, Hans was tempted to slip out and go back to bed. This was going to be a disappointment. Nurse Weisemann’s pain pill hadn’t yet knocked back the throbbing in his head. But she had blocked him in, no doubt trying to keep him out of sight of the doctor, and so he sat back.
There was a smattering of applause as the chaplain sat down and the pastor stood up and came to the little pulpit that someone had placed on one of the dining tables. He stood there for a moment, his eyes sweeping slowly across his audience. Hans felt the first glimmer of hope. There wasn’t much grandfatherly kindness in his eyes now. What he saw was a seething anger.
“My brethren,” he began, ignoring the fact that there were eight or ten female nurses in the room, “I am humbled to be in your presence. I know who you are, and what you are, and what you have done.”
Hans sat up a little. The man’s voice was deep and resonant—a preacher’s voice. But something in the way he was looking at them caught Hans’s attention and held it.
“As I look into your faces, I think I see you more clearly than you see yourselves. I can see the anguish and horror of war written on your faces. I can see the wounds in your flesh, and I sense the scars on your souls. I know that your nostrils are still filled with the stench of the dead and that your eyes have seen things no human being should ever be forced to see.”
His voice lowered in sorrow. “I see the loss of brothers in arms written in the lines of your faces. I see how you mourn for the loss of your innocence. And I weep for you and with you.”
Suddenly he slammed his fist down against the pulpit with a crash that caused most of them to jump. He was suddenly breathing hard, his nostrils flaring in and out. “But it is not only sorrow that I feel this day,” he thundered. “It is not only anguish for you who fought so bravely for the Fatherland.” His fist came down again, and Hans thought for a moment he had broken the pulpit. “No, my brethren,” he shouted, shaking his fist at the sky. “What I feel today is rage. I burn with indignation. I am consumed with anger.” He waved an arm in a sweeping gesture toward the windows. “Why? Because out there, people are saying that it was you who lost the war. That it was you who were not brave enough, not strong enough, not powerful enough to vanquish our enemy.”
A wave of anger started to rise in his audience. It started to well up in Hans as well.
“How dare they!” the pastor thundered. “How dare our leaders sit there in their jeweled robes and on their cushioned thrones and point the finger of shame at you? How dare they impugn the names of those thousands who still lie unburied in the muck and mud of France? You did not lose this war, my brothers. They lost this war!”
Several men leaped to their feet, shouting and pounding their hands together. Without realizing it, Hans was one of them. “Bravo!” he shouted. “You speak the truth!” someone else yelled.
Hans turned and saw that Nurse Weisemann had tears streaming down her face and that she too was applauding wildly.
Pastor Wunderlich stood there, his shoulders rising and falling, meeting their gaze and accepting their praise. He let it roll for almost thirty seconds and then raised his hands. Slowly the tumult died and the men returned to their seats.
“What happened yesterday was not inevitable,” he began, his voice calmer now. “The chancellor and his fawning lackeys say that we had no choice but to surrender—that it was our noble generals who begged for the armistice.” His voice shot up in pitch and volume. “But I say, shame on them! Shame on them for blackening the names of our courageous military leaders. Shame on them for placing the blame on others when it is their own yellow cowardice that has wrought the work of surrender.”
Again, the passion on him was like a fire. “And I say,” he roared, “let us call our leaders what they really are. They are criminals who have stolen our honor, who have stabbed our generals in the back, and who have brought all of Germany to its knees and asked us to lick the boots of our enemies. These are the November criminals, and I say that we must bring them to justice or the shame becomes ours as well.”
Now everyone in the room was shouting and clapping and stomping their feet. Suddenly, a man two rows ahead of Hans leaped up. He swung back and forth, his eyes wide and wild as they scanned the faces around him. “No!” he roared. “I can stand this no longer. Everything is going black before my eyes.” He groped for the back of his chair, tottering as though he was going to faint.
Every eye in the room was on him. He was a slender man with dark hair and haunted eyes that looked almost black. He was about the same height as the pastor, maybe five eight or nine. Then, as he weaved back and forth, Hans saw that around his eyes the skin was red and puffy and his eyelids were swollen nearly shut. He knew instantly what this soldier was here for. He had been exposed to mustard gas. Was he blind? Hans couldn’t tell for sure.
The man’s head dropped and his eyes closed. The pain in his voice tore at Hans like a knife.
“So this has all been in vain?” he sobbed. “In vain, all our sacrifices and privations? In vain, the hours in which, with mortal fear clutching at our hearts, we endured hundreds upon hundreds of shells raining down on us from the sky while the earth shook all around us? Was it in vain that we did our duty? Was it in vain that two million of our brothers in arms have perished? Did they die for this? So that a gang of wretched criminals could lay their hands on our beloved Fatherland and wrest it from us?”
With that, he kicked his chair away and began groping his way through the crowd, sobbing uncontrollably. Instantly a nurse was on her feet and coming to him. She tried to take his hand to guide him, but he jerked away, shouting something at her. She followed quickly, moving up beside him to prevent him from crashing into anything.
Hans turned to Nurse Weisemann. “Who was that?” he asked, still shocked by what had just happened.
She shook her head, as dazed by it all as he was. “I don’t know. He’s on the ward next to ours, the one that treats burn victims.”
“I saw that he has been gassed. Do you think he’s blind?”
She considered that. “I’m not sure. It looked to me like he had some sight, but . . . Either way, his pain must be horrible.”
• • •
Hans waited until nearly nine o’clock that night, when the ward was mostly quiet. Some of the men were still awake, writing letters or reading, but most were asleep or
close to it. He slipped out of bed, slid his feet into his slippers, and then got up and started toward the main hallway. The air was a little chilly and he considered getting his robe for a moment, but then he brushed it aside.
Nurse Weisemann had said that the man who had been so racked with passion and grief was in the ward next to theirs, but Hans wasn’t sure whether that was to the north or the south. He stopped at a bed near the door for a moment. The soldier there was awake, just finishing a letter. “Excuse me, but do you know which way it is to the burn ward?”
The soldier looked up in surprise but then nodded and pointed to the left.
“Danke.”
“Bitte.”
Hans moved away, hoping that he wouldn’t run into any of the nurses. As he entered the next ward, to his surprise, quite a few of the beds were empty. On his ward nearly every bed was full. There were fewer lights on here, but there were enough that he could see. He moved along slowly, searching faces, occasionally having to stop if a man was lying down with his face turned away. Then, about halfway down the ward, he saw a man sitting up in bed, his head turned in Hans’s direction. It was him.
Hans moved forward and then stopped at the foot of the man’s bed. His head had turned to follow Hans’s movements. Hans noticed that his eyes were bandaged. “Guten Abend.”
“Good evening,” he replied, not seeming at all surprised that he should have a visitor.
“My name is Hans Otto Eckhardt. I wonder if I might have a word with you.”
The man sat up straighter, his bandaged eyes looking directly at Hans. “Is this about what happened today in the dining hall?”
“Ja.”
“Are you a doctor or a patient?”
Fire and Steel, Volume 1 Page 25
