Fire and Steel, Volume 2

by Gerald N. Lund

  “But at the same time there were other voices clamoring to be heard, voices that accused the new government of being too weak and morally bankrupt. The Socialist and Communist parties—which held only small minorities in the Reichstag at that point—rushed in to fill the political vacuum. In a matter of days—literally days!—local, city, and state governments all across Germany were overthrown, and the leftists were raising the red flag of revolution over the Fatherland. And the Spartacans were the worst.”

  “Who?”

  “The Spartacans. They take their name from Spartacus of ancient Rome. He was the slave and gladiator who led the slaves in a revolt against the emperor. Get it? The slaves rising up against their masters? It’s actually a brilliant name, if you’re part of the enslaved working classes. But these Spartacans are really radical. They believe in revolution for revolution’s sake. Tear down the old order so the proletariat—the working classes—may rise up and take their rightful place. That’s why they call themselves Red Communists. In their eyes, the reordering of society requires bloodshed.”

  “But we’ve always had these groups in our midst. Why all of a sudden are they in power?”

  “Because events have come together in ways we have not seen before. The monarchies are collapsing of their own corruption and decadence. The poor, who have been exploited for centuries, are now told they can become part of a new dictatorship, the so-called ‘dictatorship of the proletariat.’ In other words, the new ruling class will be the working poor. Imagine how exciting that must sound to them. Centuries of smoldering resentment has exploded into a consuming fire.”

  The colonel stopped, peering down at Hans. “Is it any wonder that the people are so utterly exhausted, so desperate for some escape from this terrible tragedy, that they are willing to listen to any wild-eyed demagogue who comes along and promises them something better? Think about it: states like Bavaria, Saxony, and Brunswick; great cities like Hamburg and Hannover and dozens of others are now flying red flags.”

  “And now Berlin?” Hans asked slowly, shocked deeply. “Is that what this strike is about? Are they trying to overthrow the government here as well?”

  “Trying?” von Schiller exploded. “They’re succeeding, Sergeant. This city is in a crisis. For example, right after the Armistice, there was a large demonstration by the leftist groups at the main police station here in Berlin. They were demanding that the president of the police step aside and one of their own number be put in charge. Then this man called Emil Eichhorn, a swine of the lowest order, pushed his way through the crowd, walked into the station, and announced that he had been appointed by the people to be the police president. He told the current president that he and his officers would be given safe escort through the mob if they surrendered without a struggle. And they did! They walked out and turned one of the most pivotal centers of power over to the radicals without a single man resisting them.”

  “And the government didn’t respond to that?”

  He snorted in disgust. “Of course they did. In the same way they did to everything else. They wrung their hands. Thumped the pulpits. Made impassioned speeches and then authorized Eichhorn to be paid and given full control of the police.”

  Von Schiller was raging now as he paced back and forth. “And do you want to know what this ‘people’s grand leader’ has done for the poor since coming to power? Well, he now pays himself a monthly salary of eighteen hundred marks. His wife is now a highly paid clerk in his office, though she has no clerical skills. His young daughter receives a salary for greeting visitors who come to headquarters. He opened the jails and freed over fifty hard-core criminals. He’s also using the police budget to finance new Freikorps units, made up mostly of deserters and other lowlifes. In other words, he’s engaging in open treason. He’s even handing out weapons to teenage hooligans and women if they promise to support ‘the cause.’ And what does the government do? Like Chicken Little, they run about crying, ‘The sky is falling, the sky is falling. Whatever shall we do?’”

  As the colonel paused for breath, Hans nodded at him. “Yes,” he said evenly.

  Von Schiller pulled back a little. “Yes what?”

  “Yes, I am willing to defend the very government I so bitterly despise.’”

  The colonel’s eyes narrowed as he studied Hans’s face. “And why is that, Sergeant Eckhardt?”

  “Because,” Hans said, “it is better to be governed by the weak than to be ruled by the mad.”

  Von Schiller’s eyes were dancing with pleasure. “I knew it. I knew you were the kind of man I’ve been looking for.”

  “What do you want me to do?”

  “Well, here’s the deal. I am happy to say that the government has finally recognized that we are on the brink of civil war. About a month ago, as you may have heard, nine regular army divisions returned from the Western Front. They are loyal to the government and ready to fight for our freedoms. But it’s going to take some time to get them ready and mobilized. So in the meantime, our ministers have authorized us to form Freikorps units of our own from the numerous men like yourself who have been discharged from the army but have no employment. The pay is generous, and the government will provide arms from government armories.”

  “How generous?” Hans asked, trying not to sound too eager.

  “Fifty marks a week, with a hundred-mark bonus payable on enlistment.”

  Hans whistled softly. Fifty marks? His pay as a platoon sergeant had been only ten marks a week.

  Von Schiller went on, “My commanding officer is authorized to organize several Freikorps battalions loyal to the government to stand against the revolutionists until the regular army can join us. I have been given command of one of those battalions.”

  “But those men are scattered all over the country. It will take weeks to assemble them.”

  “Actually, no. There are thousands of them here in Berlin. Due to the generous pay incentives authorized by the government, we have been able to organize three battalions thus far. All of them are rapidly approaching full strength, and all of them are mostly armed.

  “Three battalions?” Hans was stunned. At full strength, a battalion was over a thousand men.

  “Now do you see why I am interested in you?”

  “Yes, I. . . .” Hans shook his head. This was all so astonishing.

  “So, I am looking for men who meet the following four conditions: One, they are totally loyal to me. Two, they are combat veterans. Three, they will not hesitate to do battle with the Communists or anyone else opposing the government, even if they are fellow German citizens. And four, they are able to start service immediately.”

  “Define immediately.”

  “Tonight,” came the answer. “It looks like we are going to march on central Berlin tomorrow morning. So?”

  “I’m definitely interested, sir. But I have two or three questions.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “I had my identity card, railway pass, and ration book stolen when I was attacked.”

  “Yes, I noticed that when I searched you. When I found no papers, I took you for a deserter. We have an estimated sixty thousand deserters in Berlin, and they’re scum. They have violated their oath of allegiance to the Empire and turned their backs on their own brothers-in-arms. They are contemptible. I really was considering shooting you and saying you tried to get away. But when my wife told me that you had come back and returned her money, that . . .” He shrugged.

  “But anyway, in answer to your question, Corporal Jürgens is already on working on getting you new papers. He thinks he can have them by tonight.”

  More astonishment. “Including a railway pass?”

  “Yes, good for your time of service with the Freikorps, if you accept our offer.”

  “That’s a huge relief for me, Colonel. Second, I need to go to my hotel and get the rest of my things. It should only take a minute, but as you can see, I’m not up to walking very—”

  “I’ve also asked Jürgens to
arrange a driver for you as soon as we’re done here.”

  “Thank you. Third, as you have seen, with my cracked ribs, I’m pretty beat up, sir. That’s going to limit what I can do physically for a few days. If you’re picturing me charging down the street in hot pursuit of these Spartacans, then I’m not your man.”

  “I understand. What else?”

  “Would I keep the same rank I have now?”

  “No. I’m very short on officers. Haven’t found one to lead Third Company yet. So I’ve asked my commanding officer if I can make you a master sergeant and give you command of the company. That would make you senior in rank to the other platoon sergeants and, for all intents and purposes, would put you in command of Third Company. You’ll be a lieutenant in every way but name, pay, and grade.”

  Hans’s head was swirling. Was this some incredibly wonderful dream? It was unbelievable. All he could think of to say was, “That’s typical for a master sergeant, sir.”

  Von Schiller laughed. “True, master sergeants keep the army moving. Oh, and that gives you ten marks more per week and an additional hundred marks in your signing bonus. Is that satisfactory to you?”

  Hans smiled lazily. “Considering I came within a hair’s breadth of being shot this morning, yes, sir! That is quite satisfactory.”

  “Anything else?”

  Hans thought for a moment and started to shake his head, but then he had another thought that he couldn’t resist. “Does your wife know you are making me this offer, sir?”

  The colonel slapped his leg and roared. “Not on your life. I would rather face a hundred Communists than her wrath if she finds out. I think I will tell her that I took you out and had you shot. I’m not positive, but that might possibly satisfy her.”

  “Then count me in, sir.”

  Chapter Notes

  The idea that outlying military hospitals were put on standby to help deal with massive casualties during the January uprising is a device of the author and not based on any known historical records.

  Though Colonel Stefan von Schiller is a fictional character, his representation of events is accurate, including the weakness of the government, the seizing of police headquarters, and the forming and calling up of Freikorps units to help the regular army put down the uprising.

  January 15, 1919, 5:48 p.m.—Hotel Lindenberg, Prenzlauer Berg District, Berlin

  “Private,” Hans said, leaning forward. “If you see a postbox, pull over. I need to mail a letter.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Don’t call me sir,” he snapped, fighting back a smile as he remembered Sergeant Jessel, his old drill sergeant from basic training. “I am not a commissioned officer. I work for my pay.”

  The private laughed. “Yes, Sergeant.”

  Hans reached in his tunic pocket and withdrew the envelope. He took out the letter, written on plain army stationery, and opened it and read slowly.

  Dearest Mama and Papa,

  I am sorry that you have not heard from me before this. Can’t explain now, but three days ago, things kind of fell apart for me. Pretty badly, actually. Wasn’t sure I would pull out. But things are good now. In fact, very good. I would have called, but Berlin is in turmoil and telephone exchanges are not working. Will call or write as soon as possible, but rushing off now to accept a new full-time job.

  Mama, thank you for your prayers. Something in me finds it very difficult to believe in God anymore, but I know that you believe in Him, and perhaps that is enough for the both of us. You know I don’t believe in miracles, but today miraculous things happened that are far too remarkable to be mere coincidence. I credit that to your prayers and Emilee’s. No other explanation seems sufficient. So don’t stop.

  It may be several more days yet until I can call. I wasn’t able to contact Emilee, and there’s no time to write her now. If she calls, please tell her I am okay and not to give up on me.

  All my love, Hans

  “There’s a mailbox up ahead, Sergeant Major.”

  “I see it.” Hans folded the letter and put it back in the envelope and then quickly sealed the flap. He checked to make sure the stamp was firmly attached and handed it to the driver.

  Once the driver was back in the car, Hans leaned forward again. “The hotel is about a block off of Unter den Linden, about three blocks ahead on the right. I’ll show you where to turn.”

  “Yes, Sergeant Major.”

  Hans grinned. He had his own driver who said ‘Yes, Sergeant Major’ or ‘No, Sergeant Major’ about every ten seconds. He could get used to this.

  But as the driver pulled up in front of the hotel, Hans had another idea. “On second thought, Private, let’s go around the block. There’s an alley behind the hotel.”

  The driver gave him a puzzled look but shrugged and accelerated again.

  “The owner of the place is a sour old man who’s always claiming I owe him more money, even though I’m paid up through the end of the month. There’s a back stairway.”

  “Yes, Sergeant Major. Whatever you say.”

  Five minutes later, Hans walked slowly to the car, opened the door, and tossed his rucksack into the backseat. He turned and looked up at the back of the hotel for a long moment, and then mumbling something under his breath, he climbed in. The driver turned around. “Where to now, Sergeant Major?”

  “Back to the barracks.”

  As the car started forward, Hans opened the white envelope, took out the letter, and read it through again slowly. Finished, he stared out the window, feeling the anger starting to rise. He understood her bitterness. Emilee had no way of knowing why he had disappeared, why he hadn’t called or written. But surely she knew about the turmoil in Berlin. Was she serious about calling off the engagement? Without even talking to him?

  Hans read her words again, his eyes stopping on one line in particular. Right now, I have enough people in my life who require me to care for them. I am too weary in spirit to take on another.

  He hadn’t asked her to help him. Even though the thought had come to him, he had rejected it. Even in the desperate situation he was in, he hadn’t asked her for anything. So what was she talking about? Hans blew out a long breath. Then go! I don’t need you to care for me.

  He folded the letter again and returned it to its envelope and then stared at the window. Hey, Mama! Forget what I said about your prayers. I think I’m getting about all the miracles I can handle right now. He laughed softly and bitterly. The pattern was back. The Divine Trickster was at it again. Exhilaration, despair. Jubilation, misery. Hope, hopelessness.

  He took the letter in both hands, prepared to rip it in half and chuck it out the window. It was then that his use of the word pattern hit him. It was the same word Emilee had used that night she told him about her father. That was the word her mother had used to describe her father’s fall into alcoholism.

  It was my job to go to the pubs or into the beer halls or into some flophouse hotel. And I’d kick aside the empty bottles and breathe through my mouth so that I didn’t have to smell the stale beer and the vomit and his pants where he had wet himself, and I’d drag my father home.

  Hans put the envelope back in his pocket and then lay back and closed his eyes, sick at heart as he realized just how utterly, colossally stupid he had been.

  6:55 p.m.

  Emilee instructed the taxi driver to park across the street from the hotel. Then she settled down to wait, peering through the open window at the front entrance. Five minutes later, her patience was rewarded. The hotel owner, now dressed in a suit and overcoat and wearing a Homburg hat, came out of the hotel accompanied by a woman of approximately the same age. They turned right and disappeared down the street.

  Emilee leaned over the seat and touched the driver on the shoulder. “Wait here. I shouldn’t be long.”

  “Yes, Fräulein.”

  She was immensely relieved to see that it was a boy of about sixteen or seventeen behind the front desk. She pushed the door open and strode across the lo
bby. As soon as he saw her, he flashed her a warm smile. “Good evening, Fräulein.”

  “Guten Abend. I’m Fräulein Fromme. I—”

  “Yes, my father said you might be coming. My name is Georg.”

  “Has Sergeant Eckhardt returned yet, Georg?”

  He frowned. “Nein, Fräulein. To be honest, I am worried about him.”

  “There is one thing I needed to do for him,” she said. “Could I get his room key, please?”

  Before handing it to her, he hesitated. “The room is pretty bad, Fräulein.”

  “I know. It’s all right.”

  He handed the key to her. Emilee took the stairs two at a time, praying that Georg was right, that Hans hadn’t been there. It was fully dark now, and she had to grope for the light switch. When it came on she saw two things simultaneously. His rucksack was gone, and the clothes and other personal items previously scattered around the floor were gone with it. Then her stomach lurched when she saw the bed. The letter was gone, but the personal toilet items she had bought for Hans were still where she had left them.

  Barely mindful of the smell, she searched the room quickly, desperately. Nothing.

  Cursing herself for being so quick to react, she felt her eyes start to burn, and this time it wasn’t from the smell.

  “Is there anything I can do to help you, Fräulein?” Georg asked anxiously as Emilee stumbled past him, half blinded by tears.

  She turned back. “Can you tell me anything more?”

  There was a slow shake of his head. “Ja. He said he was famished. But . . . I’m not sure what he was going to do; he didn’t have any money.”