The Germans kept a tight grip on news in Saint-Libert but even the dullest plough hand could tell that the balance of power was shifting. The soldiers that passed through the town on the way to fight the Allies looked increasingly old or young. The ones coming back east came through in greater numbers, and many of them were wounded. For the last couple of weeks, when the wind was in the right direction, it was possible to hear the sound of shell fire. Over the last few days de Winne had even heard the rattle of machine guns, and one or two shells had fallen on the town. He worried about his house, of course, they all did, but the days of fear and kowtowing and endless petty restrictions stipulated by notices put up around town Auf Befehl des Stadtkommandanten – by order of the commander – were drawing to a close.
CHAPTER 6
Private train of Marshal Foch Compiègne forest, north of Paris, 4.00 a.m.
One hundred kilometres behind the front line, Captain George Atherley surveyed the scene before him and fought back a deep desire to yawn. The pall of tobacco smoke that hung over the railway carriage was making his eyes water and he was desperate for a cigarette himself. He needed something to keep him awake. He knew this was history in the making, and he was lucky to be here taking notes and witnessing it.
The German delegation had been escorted across the duckboards on to Marshal Foch’s private train at two o’clock; now it was four o’clock and they were still talking. It was cold in the carriage, and although the paraffin heaters were taking the chill off, they added to the drowsy atmosphere.
The Germans had been pushing for talks since early October, but negotiations had only been going on in earnest for three days. Every hour, every minute, brought more needless deaths. The German delegation had been arguing every point, but the British and French were giving nothing away. Why should they, thought Atherley. Germany was on the point of collapse. Berlin, Munich, perhaps half the country, was about to fall into anarchy. Just like the Russians with their Bolsheviks the year before.
Atherley was there to take the minutes on behalf of the British government, represented here by the First Sea Lord. Sir Rosslyn Wemyss was as forbidding and stuffy as his name and rank suggested, but he wasn’t as cold-hearted as Foch. Foch was merciless. The Boche had asked for it though, thought Atherley. They had started the war.
But, just tonight, he had actually begun to feel sorry for the Germans. Matthias Erzberger, the man they had sent to represent the shaky coalition that held power in Berlin now the Kaiser had abdicated, was a nobody, raised to prominence, and no doubt future infamy, for this catastrophic peace treaty they were about to sign. Him and Count Alfred von Obersdorff sitting next to him – a somebody from the Foreign Ministry. They would be blamed for this. The army had sent a major general, sitting there in his ridiculous Pickelhaube helmet and overcoat, looking like a cartoon Hun. Nobody above a division commander was willing to represent the army. There were no generals, no field marshals. The Imperial German Navy had only sent a humble captain. A fellow called Vanselow.
The victors, on the other hand, were there in all their glory. The French had Marshal Foch, Supreme Commander of the Allied Armies, looking unforgiving with his great walrus moustache and the killer eyes of a cat with a bird in its mouth. The British had their First Sea Lord. Atherley was in the army, but he was happy to admit it was only proper that the Senior Service represent the Empire at this hour. The Yanks weren’t there. Atherley didn’t really understand why that was.
Now they were arguing about terms again. The French were demanding the Germans hand over 2,000 aircraft. How could they, pleaded Erzberger, after hurried consultation with his military colleagues, when they had only 1,700 left?
They hammered it out. The figures were astounding. The Allies were asking for 5,000 artillery pieces, 30,000 machine guns, 5,000 locomotives – Atherley scribbled it all down – 150,000 railway carriages; he had to interrupt to ask for that figure again. Wemyss looked daggers at him . . . and the entire submarine fleet.
The Germans held out for more concessions. There were women and children starving at home. Would the blockade be lifted immediately? Every day civilians were dying for want of nourishment. The longer they went on arguing, the more would die.
Yes, and more of our soldiers and yours, thought Atherley. He wasn’t really concerned about the German civilians, although a little part of him had to concede he could hardly blame the women and children for starting the war.
All right, agreed Foch and Wemyss. The Allies ‘would contemplate the provisioning of Germany during the Armistice as shall be found necessary’.
Contemplate. As he wrote it down, Atherley gave a little smirk at the mealy-mouthed wording of that particular concession.
Then that was it. They had finished. Papers were to be signed. Atherley looked at his watch. It was 5.10. The war was over. History had been made. The mincing machine would grind to a halt. They all agreed to say they had signed at 5.00, and then the required six hours to bring the Armistice into effect would end the war at eleven o’clock, Paris time. That had a nice ring to it, they thought. The eleventh hour of the eleventh day of the eleventh month.
Atherley felt a little indignant. Surely they could bring it to a halt quicker than that? He had a younger brother out near Mons, and he’d lost two already. Both of them on the Somme in 1916. He hoped Lieutenant Peter Atherley, of the Surrey Rifles, would have the good sense to keep his head down. Some would have to die in the last morning of the war – probably a hell of a lot of men, especially with the American divisions. Their staff officers had reputations to seal, and if they were anything like the British staff officers he’d served with, they wouldn’t be too fussy about the cost.
Erzberger was speaking again. He seemed like a man at the end of his tether. ‘The German people will preserve their liberty and unity, despite every kind of violence. A nation of seventy million people suffers but it does not die.’
Foch looked at him with plain disinterest. ‘Très bien,’ he said.
The Germans left with a reminder that the Armistice would hold for thirty days, to be renewed once a month thereafter. Hostilities would begin within forty-eight hours if any of the terms were breached. There were no handshakes.
The war had six hours left to run.
CHAPTER 7
4.00 a.m.
Axel’s combat group marched away from the town. As far as he could tell by the flares, and occasional rattle of gunfire, they were going parallel to the Front, heading south or maybe south-west. Axel hated not knowing where he was or the names of the places they were passing through. It made him feel as if he had no control over what was happening. No control over his life. Maybe it was the damp night air, but now, as they approached the front line, Axel sensed a distinct lack of fighting spirit among his fellow recruits.
The Feldwebel called a halt and counted off half the men to join a unit already dug in at the side of the road they were marching along. He grabbed them by the arm and pushed them away from the remaining soldiers. There was certainly no encouraging pat on the back for anyone. For the soldier who had been flung to the ground and threatened with execution, there was a sharp cuff on the back of the head. ‘Watch this one,’ said the Feldwebel to one of the position commanders. ‘He doesn’t deserve a second chance.’
The rest of them marched on, the Feldwebel leading the way. Axel cursed himself for positioning himself at the back. He was desperate to take off his heavy pack and collapse on the ground. And his boots were a poor fit. He could feel a raw blister developing on one heel. They leaked too. One foot was sodden, the other merely clammy. He wished he had a change of socks. Having wet feet made you feel wet all over.
But he tried to cheer up – he didn’t want to appear weak in front of Erich. It was good the new soldiers were being split up. They could fight with experienced men rather than as a bunch of frightened first-timers.
They arrived in a small village. From what Axel could see in the dark it was little more than a medieval church wi
th a tower, and a few farm buildings and humble cottages, set around a manor house that had seen better days. Shutters hung loose at the windows, and tiles were missing from the roof.
The Feldwebel ordered the men to break ranks. ‘There’s the barn. Sleep in the straw. You must be ready to hold this village when it gets light.’
Axel was dead on his feet. As the men took their packs from their backs, a distant whistle caught their attention. It was rapidly growing closer. ‘Take cover!’ shouted the Feldwebel as shells screamed down around them.
Great fountains of earth exploded from the ground, then came the stench of cordite, which Axel could taste at the back of his throat.
‘Did they see us in those parachute flares?’ said Erich. His voice seemed far away and he was staring straight ahead – detached, almost on the edge of panic.
‘Quiet,’ said Axel brusquely. ‘There may be more to come.’
Erich snapped out of his stupor and looked at him angrily. ‘So what are we going to do? Listen for the shells coming in and dodge out of the way?’
Axel put a hand on his friend’s shoulder. ‘I’m sorry.’
A few of the squad staggered uneasily to their feet. ‘Keep down,’ snapped the Feldwebel.
They waited, with the smell of wet earth all around them, barely daring to breathe. At any moment any of them could be ripped to pieces, or horribly wounded and having to face a lingering death. That was what Axel feared the most. A shot through the head, you wouldn’t know what had hit you. But something that ripped your bowels out or left you missing both legs . . . that was what had kept him awake at night. He had seen plenty of casualties back at home over the last four years.
There was Werner, a few years ahead of him in school, who had lost an arm and a leg to shell fire early in the war. Now his mother pushed him around in a wheelchair. They had taken him to watch a school football match, but had left early when he became agitated. Werner had been a keen footballer.
Later, in 1916, the Meyers heard that Axel’s older brother, Otto, had been killed at Verdun. Axel had been shocked by the brutal utility of the Kriegsministerium postcard that arrived to notify the family of their loss. A simple stamp on plain white paper ‘Gefallen für’s Vaterland’ – Fallen for the Fatherland – and a scribbled name.
Axel had gone to church that Sunday with his family and Otto’s fiancée, Rosa, and special prayers had been said for his brother. They walked back home in silence to find an army motorbike messenger waiting for them. There had been a mistake. Otto was still alive. Rosa and the Meyers were so delighted they did not fully take in the rest of the courier’s message.
Otto was in the maxillofacial unit at Berlin’s Charité Hospital. Herr Meyer and Rosa went to visit and returned in a state of blank despair. Otto had been caught in the face by shrapnel. His top lip was missing along with most of his upper teeth and there was severe scarring on both cheeks. Although talking was possible, if you listened very carefully, Otto was not of lucid mind. Temporary mental derangement, the doctor had written on his record.
‘Two hours’ rest,’ said the Feldwebel, when he was sure the bombardment had ceased. ‘Then we dig in.’
The barn was full of soldiers but Axel and Erich managed to find a hay bale to lean against and fell asleep in seconds, resting against each other’s shoulders. Barely an instant later, it seemed, there was shouting and whistle-blowing, as the Feldwebel roused his men. The sky was much lighter. It was almost dawn. They must have been asleep longer than they realised.
The Feldwebel called for silence. ‘This morning we are expecting an American attack in the area. They are thousands of miles from home. They are wondering why they are here. They are soft. They have not been hardened by war. They will be easily discouraged. You are fighting for your Fatherland. I am sure you will defend your positions bravely.’
Then he turned to the two boys. Axel flinched, expecting to be hit for something he didn’t know he’d done. ‘You two, you have keen eyesight, don’t you? Up the tower. Break the door down if you have to. Shout down if you see anything coming towards us.’
As they hurried to the church, Axel read the words on a wooden noticeboard by the main door. Paint was peeling off rotten wood, but he could still see Church of St Nicholas, Aulnois in Gothic script. So Aulnois was the name of this village. If he was to die, he at least knew where he was.
The church interior was almost as dank as the outside. There were holes in the roof and a few restless pigeons fluttered around the nave. The wooden pews had long gone. There was only a stone altar beneath a large stained-glass window, which was miraculously still intact. They tried a couple of doors before they discovered the one that led to the top of the tower.
Axel’s legs ached from his night’s marching as he climbed. Flat farmland stretched out before them, with a dense wood a kilometre to the north. The field in front of them was untouched by the war, aside from one large shell hole just to the right of their position. Off to the west were small villages and woods almost certainly occupied by the Tommies or the Yanks. As the day grew lighter, a thin mist began to rise. The boys peered through. ‘Perfect cover, isn’t it,’ said Erich, then, suddenly anxious, he asked, ‘Or is it gas?’ They had all seen the gas casualties back home. Men with horrible blister scars on their faces or arms, and wheezing terribly, every breath bubbling in corrupted lungs.
Axel felt a kind of dizzy fear as he stared across open land into enemy territory. There in the middle and far distance, further than the eye could see, were fields and towns and towers and factories full of men and women who wanted him dead. Closer, perhaps just beyond a hedgerow, were men with bayonets and hand grenades.
‘Have you been in combat before?’ asked Erich.
Axel wondered whether to lie to him, to try to seem tougher than he was. But he realised there was no point. As soon as they started fighting together, he would be found out.
‘No. Have you?’
Erich shook his head. Then he said, ‘I had three brothers. But all of them are gone. I am the last. The last of the Beckers.’
Axel felt a stab of pity for his new friend. ‘I’ll look out for you,’ he said, trying to sound braver than he felt.
‘Do you miss home?’ said Erich.
Axel paused to think. ‘I miss my bed and three hot meals a day. I miss Falken – our Schäferhund – and I miss my brother and sister, I suppose. I don’t know if I miss Wansdorf though. Do you miss Kreuzberg?’
‘Yes, of course. We live in a little apartment there. My mother and father are both teachers. What about your parents?’
‘My mother died,’ said Axel plainly. He had learned that was the best response when he didn’t want to talk about it. ‘My father works on the estate – Schloss Wansdorf. He is an estate manager for the baron.’
‘And you?’ asked Erich. ‘What did you do before this?’
‘Still at school,’ said Axel sheepishly. ‘Like you, I imagine.’
Axel’s great ambition was to be a musician – but it seemed so preposterous that he never told anyone. He wondered whether to share it with Erich now. Only his younger sister, Gretl, knew. She often listened to Axel as he played the piano. He could read music well enough, but he could also play by ear – something that Gretl seemed to think was an almost magic art.
The two boys settled into a companionable silence. Then Axel began to feel bored. He turned to Erich to ask him more about his parents, but he had gone to sleep. That was OK. The Feldwebel couldn’t see them up here, and Axel was sure they would hear him if he came up the stairs to check on them. Besides, he could keep watch perfectly well on his own.
He tried to remember what Wansdorf was like before the war. The great celebrations every year at Christmas, Easter and the harvest festival . . . when they all feasted on delicious food. That came to an abrupt end when the war began. It was meat he missed the most. Roast pork, a succulent lamb chop, beef stew. In his last meal at home, before he left for basic training, they had eaten boiled r
ice pressed into a chop shape. It had a stick of wood at the side to imitate a bone, and had been fried in mutton tallow. Axel knew how difficult it was to obtain even meat substitutes like this, so he told his father it was just like eating the real thing. When the war was over, he told himself, he was going to eat lamb chops every day for a month.
He had been twelve when they heard the momentous news about the Austrian archduke – gunned down in Sarajevo by a Serbian anarchist. Barely a month later the whole of Europe was at war. Germany and Austria-Hungary against France and Russia. Even the British and their Empire had waded in against them.
There was a service in the village church before the men in the army reserve left to join the battle. The reservists stood at the front of the congregation, each wearing a special bouquet. Otto was there in the front row. Axel found it difficult singing the Bach chorale the choirmaster had chosen to see them off. A great lump had risen in his throat. He wondered if Otto would be one of the ones who wouldn’t come back.
Back then, everyone seemed so excited, so Axel kept his thoughts to himself. This was a war of national survival, he was told, forced upon them by powers jealous of their superior culture. Germany had a chance to prove herself. What had the Kaiser told them? They would win a ‘place under the sun’ – colonies like the ones the British and French were so proud of. And it would all be over by the time the leaves fell from the trees. It wasn’t of course, although the first few months had gone well, with great victories against the Russians in the East.
Back then, Axel was still young enough to play with the war toys his father brought home. The model Zeppelin, the submarine, the fighter plane, the machine gun – marvels of modern technology to guarantee a German victory. He’d long grown out of playing with those toys.
Then the ration cards had arrived, the constant feeling of hunger, the cold in winter when there was no coal for the fire. Then came the news of the terrible casualties from Verdun, Ypres, the Somme, that touched every family they knew. They had given so much – even the clothes on their back – to ensure victory. At home now some people wore tatty garments made with fabric fashioned from paper and nettles and reeds. And that victory had almost arrived. Hadn’t they defeated the Russians? Hadn’t they won tremendous battles in Italy and Greece and Serbia? Axel couldn’t understand why they were still fighting for their lives.
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