by Ken Follett
The firing intensified. Grigori's fear turned to anger. The enemy's bullets produced a feeling of outrage. In the back of his mind he knew it was irrational, but he could not help it. Suddenly he wanted to kill those bastards. A couple of hundred yards ahead, across a clearing, he saw gray uniforms and spiked helmets. He dropped to one knee behind a tree, peeped around the trunk, raised his rifle, sighted on a German, and for the first time pulled the trigger.
Nothing happened, and he remembered the safety catch.
It was not possible to release the catch on a Mosin-Nagant while it was shouldered. He lowered the gun, sat on the ground behind the tree, and cradled the stock in the crook of his elbow, then turned the large knurled knob that unlocked the bolt.
He looked about him. His comrades had stopped running and taken cover as he had. Some were firing, some reloading, some writhing in the agony of wounds, some lying in the stillness of death.
Grigori peered around the trunk, shouldered his weapon, and squinted along the barrel. He saw a rifle poking out of a bush and a spiked helmet above it. His heart was filled with hatred, and he pulled the trigger five times fast. The rifle he was aiming at was hastily withdrawn, but did not fall, and Grigori guessed he had missed. He felt disappointed and frustrated.
The Mosin-Nagant held only five rounds. He opened his ammunition pack and reloaded. Now he wanted to kill Germans as fast as he could.
Looking around the tree again, he spotted a German running across a gap in the woods. He emptied his magazine, but the man kept running and disappeared behind a clump of saplings.
It was no good just shooting, Grigori decided. Hitting the enemy was difficult--much more difficult in a real fight than in the small amount of target practise he had had in training. He would have to try harder.
As he was reloading again, he heard a machine gun open up, and the vegetation around him was sprayed. He pressed his back against the tree and drew in his legs, making himself a smaller target. His hearing told him the gun must be a couple of hundred yards to his left.
When it paused he heard Gavrik shout: "Target that machine gun, you dumb pricks! Shoot them while they're reloading!" Grigori poked his head out and looked for the nest. He spotted the tripod standing between two large trees. He aimed his rifle, then paused. No good just shooting, he reminded himself. He breathed evenly, steadied the heavy barrel, and got a pointed helmet in his sight. He lowered the barrel slightly so that he could see the man's chest. The uniform tunic was open at the neck: the man was hot from his exertions.
Grigori pulled the trigger.
He missed. The German appeared not to have noticed the shot. Grigori had no idea where the bullet might have gone.
He fired again, emptying the magazine to no effect. It was maddening. Those pigs were trying to kill him and he was incapable of hitting even one of them. Perhaps he was too far away. Or perhaps he was just a lousy shot.
The machine gun opened up again, and everyone froze.
Major Bobrov appeared, crawling on hands and knees across the forest floor. "You men!" he yelled. "On my command, rush that machine gun!"
You must be mad, Grigori thought. Well, I'm not.
Sergeant Gavrik repeated the order. "Prepare to rush the machine-gun nest! Wait for the command!"
Bobrov stood upright and ran, crouching, along the line. Grigori heard him shout the same order a bit farther away. You're wasting your breath, Grigori thought. Do you imagine we're all suicidal?
The machine gun's chatter stopped, and the major stood up, exposing himself recklessly. He had lost his hat, and his silver hair made a highly visible target. "Go!" he screamed.
Gavrik repeated the order. "Go, go, go!"
Bobrov and Gavrik both led by example, running through the trees toward the machine-gun nest. Suddenly Grigori found himself doing the same, crashing through bushes and jumping over deadfalls, running in a half crouch, trying not to drop his unwieldy rifle. The machine gun remained silent but the Germans fired with everything else they had, and the effect of dozens of rifles shooting at the same time seemed almost as bad, but Grigori ran on as if it were the only thing he could do. He could see the machine-gun team desperately reloading, their hands fumbling the magazine, their faces white with fear. Some of the Russians were firing, but Grigori did not have that much presence of mind--he just ran. He was still some distance from the machine gun when he saw three Germans hiding behind a bush. They looked terribly young, and stared at him with frightened faces. He charged them with his bayoneted rifle held in front of him like a medieval lance. He heard someone screaming and realized it was himself. The three young soldiers ran away.
He went after them, but he was weak from hunger, and they easily outran him. After a hundred yards he stopped, exhausted. All around him the Germans were fleeing and the Russians giving chase. The machine-gun crew had abandoned their weapon. Grigori supposed he should be shooting, but for the moment he did not have the energy to raise his rifle.
Major Bobrov reappeared, running along the Russian line. "Forward!" he shouted. "Don't let them get away--kill them all, or they'll come back to shoot you another day! Go!"
Wearily, Grigori started to run. Then the picture changed. There was a commotion to his left: firing, shouting, cursing. Suddenly Russian soldiers appeared from that direction, running for their lives. Bobrov, standing next to Grigori, said: "What the hell?"
Grigori realized they were being attacked from the side.
Bobrov shouted: "Stand firm! Take cover and shoot!"
No one was listening. The newcomers poured through the woods in a panic, and Grigori's comrades began to join the stampede, turning right and running northward.
"Hold position, you men!" Bobrov yelled. He drew his pistol. "Hold position, I say!" He aimed at the crowd of Russian troops streaming past him. "I warn you, I will shoot deserters!" There was a crack, and blood stained his hair. He fell down. Grigori did not know whether he had been felled by a stray German bullet or one from his own side.
Grigori turned and ran with the rest.
There was firing on all sides now. Grigori did not know who was shooting whom. The Russians spread out through the woods, and gradually he seemed to be leaving the noise of battle behind. He kept running as long as he could, then at last collapsed on a carpet of leaves, unable to move. He lay there for a long time, feeling paralyzed. He still had his rifle, which surprised him: he did not know why he had not dropped it.
Eventually he rose sluggishly to his feet. For some time his right ear had been painful. He touched it, and cried out in pain. His fingers came away sticky with blood. Gingerly, he felt his ear again. To his horror he found that most of it had gone. He had been wounded without knowing it. At some point a bullet had taken away the top half of his ear.
He checked his rifle. The magazine was empty. He reloaded, though he was not sure why: he seemed incapable of hitting anyone. He set the safety knob.
The Russians had been caught in an ambush, he guessed. They had been lured forward until they were surrounded, then the Germans had closed the trap.
What should he do? There was no one in sight, so he could not ask an officer for orders. But he could not stay where he was. The corps was in retreat, that was certain, so he supposed he should head back. If there was any of the Russian force left, it was presumably to the east.
He turned so that the setting sun was at his back, and began to walk. He moved as quietly as he could through the forest, not knowing where the Germans might be. He wondered if the entire Second Army had been defeated and fled. He could starve to death in the forest.
After an hour he stopped to drink from a stream. He considered bathing his wound, and decided it might be best to leave it alone. When he had drunk his fill he rested, squatting on the ground, eyes closed. Soon it would be dark. Fortunately the weather was dry, and he could sleep on the ground.
He was in a half doze when he heard a noise. Looking up, he was shocked to see a German officer on horseback moving slow
ly through the trees ten yards away. The man had passed without noticing Grigori crouching by the stream.
Stealthily, Grigori picked up his rifle and turned the safety knob. Kneeling, he shouldered it and took careful aim at the middle of the German's back. The man was now fifteen yards away, point-blank range for a rifle.
At the last moment the German was alerted by a sixth sense, and he turned in the saddle.
Grigori squeezed the trigger.
The bang was deafening in the quiet of the forest. The horse leaped forward. The officer fell sideways and hit the ground, but one foot remained caught in a stirrup. The horse dragged him through the undergrowth for a hundred yards, then slowed down and stopped.
Grigori listened carefully in case the sound of the shot had attracted anyone else. He heard nothing but a mild evening breeze riffling the leaves.
He walked toward the horse. As he got closer he shouldered his rifle and pointed it at the officer, but his caution was unnecessary. The man lay still, face upward, his eyes wide open, his pointed helmet lying beside him. He had cropped blond hair and rather beautiful green eyes. It might have been the man Grigori had seen earlier: he could not be sure. Lev would have known--he would have remembered the horse.
Grigori opened the saddlebags. One contained maps and a telescope. The other held a sausage and a hunk of black bread. Grigori was starving. He bit off a piece of the sausage. It was strongly flavored with pepper, herbs, and garlic. The pepper made his cheeks hot and sweaty. He chewed rapidly, swallowed, then stuffed some of the bread into his mouth. The food was so good he could have wept. He stood there, leaning against the side of the big horse, eating as fast as he could, while the man he had killed stared up at him with dead green eyes.
{ VI }
Walter said to Ludendorff: "We estimate thirty thousand Russian dead, General." He was trying not to show his elation too obviously, but the German victory was overwhelming, and he could not get the smile off his face.
Ludendorff was coolly controlled. "Prisoners?"
"At the latest count about ninety-two thousand, sir."
It was an amazing statistic, but Ludendorff took it in his stride. "Any generals?"
"General Samsonov shot himself. We have his body. Martos, commander of the Russian 15 Corps, has been taken prisoner. We have captured five hundred artillery guns."
"In summary," said Ludendorff, at last looking up from his field desk, "the Russian Second Army has been wiped out. It no longer exists."
Walter could not help grinning. "Yes, sir."
Ludendorff did not return the smile. He waved the sheet of paper he had been studying. "Which makes this news all the more ironic."
"Sir?"
"They're sending us reinforcements."
Walter was astounded. "What? I beg your pardon, General--reinforcements?"
"I am as surprised as you. Three corps and a cavalry division."
"From where?"
"From France--where we need every last man if the Schlieffen Plan is to work."
Walter recalled that Ludendorff had worked on the details of the Schlieffen Plan, with his customary energy and meticulousness, and he knew what was needed in France, down to the last man, horse, and bullet. "But what has brought this about?" Walter said.
"I don't know, but I can guess." Ludendorff's tone became bitter. "It's political. Princesses and countesses in Berlin have been crying and sobbing to the kaiserin about their family estates being overrun by the Russians. The high command has bowed under the pressure."
Walter felt himself blush. His own mother was one of those who had pestered the kaiserin. For women to become worried and beg for protection was understandable, but for the army to give in to their pleas, and risk derailing the entire war strategy, was unforgivable. "Isn't this exactly what the Allies want?" he said indignantly. "The French persuaded the Russians to invade with a half-ready army, in the hope that we would panic and rush reinforcements to the eastern front, thereby weakening our army in France!"
"Exactly. The French are on the run--outnumbered, outgunned, defeated. Their only hope was that we might be distracted. And their wish has been granted."
"So," said Walter despairingly, "despite our great victory in the east, the Russians have achieved the strategic advantage their allies needed in the west!"
"Yes," said Ludendorff. "Exactly."
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
September to December 1914
The sound of a woman crying woke Fitz.
At first he thought it was Bea. Then he remembered that his wife was in London and he was in Paris. The woman in bed beside him was not a twenty-three-year-old pregnant princess, but a nineteen-year-old French bar girl with the face of an angel.
He raised himself on his elbow and looked at her. She had blond eyelashes that lay on her cheeks like butterflies on petals. Now they were wet with tears. "J'ai peur," she sobbed. "I'm frightened."
He stroked her hair. "Calme-toi," he said. "Relax." He had learned more French from women such as Gini than he ever had at school. Gini was short for Ginette, but even that sounded like a made-up name. She had probably been christened something prosaic such as Francoise.
It was a fine morning, and a warm breeze came through the open window of Gini's room. Fitz heard no gunfire, no stamp of marching boots on the cobblestones. "Paris has not yet fallen," he murmured in a reassuring tone.
It was the wrong thing to say, for it brought forth fresh sobs.
Fitz looked at his wristwatch. It was half past eight. He had to be back at his hotel by ten o'clock without fail.
Gini said: "If the Germans come, will you take care of me?"
"Of course, cherie," he said, suppressing a guilty pang. He would if he could, but she would not be his top priority.
"Will they come?" she asked in a small voice.
Fitz wished he knew. The German army was twice as numerous as predicted by French intelligence. It had stormed across northeast France, winning every battle. Now the avalanche had reached a line north of Paris--exactly how far north, Fitz would find out in the next couple of hours.
"Some say the city will not be defended," Gini sobbed. "Is it true?"
Fitz did not know that either. If Paris resisted, it would be mauled by German artillery. Its splendid buildings would be wrecked, its broad boulevards cratered, its bistros and boutiques turned to rubble. It was tempting to think the city should surrender, and escape all that. "It might be better for you," he said to Gini with false heartiness. "You will make love to a fat Prussian general who will call you his Liebling."
"I don't want a Prussian." Her voice sank to a whisper. "I love you."
Perhaps she did, he thought; or perhaps she just saw him as a ticket out of here. Everyone who could was leaving town, but it was not easy. Most private cars had been commandeered. Railway trains were liable to be requisitioned at any moment, their civilian passengers thrown out and stranded in the middle of nowhere. A taxi to Bordeaux cost fifteen hundred francs, the price of a small house.
"It may not happen," he told her. "The Germans must be exhausted by now. They've been marching and fighting for a month. They can't keep it up forever."
He half believed this. The French had fought hard in retreat. The soldiers were worn out, starving and demoralized, but few had been taken prisoner and they had lost only a handful of guns. The unflappable commander in chief, General Joffre, had held the Allied forces together and withdrawn to a line southeast of Paris, where he was regrouping. He had also ruthlessly sacked senior French officers who did not come up to scratch: two army commanders, seven corps commanders, and dozens of others had been mercilessly dismissed.
The Germans did not know this. Fitz had seen decrypted German messages that suggested overconfidence. The German high command had actually removed troops from France and sent them as reinforcements to East Prussia. Fitz thought that might be a mistake. The French were not finished yet.
He was not so sure about the British.
The Bri
tish Expeditionary Force was small--five and a half divisions, by contrast with the seventy French divisions in the field. They had fought bravely at Mons, making Fitz proud; but in five days they had lost fifteen thousand of their one hundred thousand men, and had gone into retreat.
The Welsh Rifles were part of the British force, but Fitz was not with them. At first he had been disappointed to be posted to Paris as a liaison officer: he yearned to be fighting with his regiment. He felt sure the generals were treating him as an amateur who had to be sent someplace where he could not do much harm. But he knew Paris and spoke French, so he could hardly deny that he was well-qualified.
As it turned out, the job was more important than he had thought. Relations between the French commanders and their British opposite numbers were dangerously bad. The British Expeditionary Force was commanded by a touchy fusspot whose name, slightly confusingly, was Sir John French. He had taken offense, early on, by what he saw as a lack of consultation by General Joffre, and had gone into a sulk. Fitz struggled to maintain a flow of information and intelligence between the two Allied commanders despite the atmosphere of hostility.
All this was embarrassing and a bit shameful, and Fitz as a representative of the British was mortified by the ill-disguised scorn of French officers. But it had got dramatically worse a week ago. Sir John had told Joffre that his troops required two days' rest. The next day he had changed his requirement to ten days. The French had been horrified, and Fitz had felt deeply ashamed of his own country.
He had remonstrated with Colonel Hervey, a sycophantic aide to Sir John, but his complaint had met with indignation and denial. In the end Fitz had spoken by phone to Lord Remarc, a junior minister in the War Office. They had been schoolboys at Eton together, and Remarc was one of Maud's gossipy friends. Fitz had not felt good about going behind the backs of his superior officers this way, but the struggle for Paris was so finely balanced that he felt he had to act. Patriotism was not so simple, he had learned.
The effect of his complaint had been explosive. Prime Minister Asquith had sent the new minister of war, Lord Kitchener, hotfoot to Paris, and Sir John had been carpeted by his boss the day before yesterday. Fitz had high hopes that he would shortly be replaced. Failing that, at least he might be jerked out of his lethargy.
