The 180 men of Third Company got to their feet grumbling. They were griping about how cold it was, how badly they had slept, the food, the weather, the stupidity of the government, the overall injustice of life, and cheap cigarettes. Hans paid them no mind. This had been the way of the foot soldier from time immemorial.
As Hans made his way through his men, several of them called out to him or waved. Yesterday’s little exercise with the Deserters’ Brigade had been good for morale. All four platoons had erupted in cheering when the Spartacans turned tail and ran. That was good. One of the worst things for morale was the feeling that the men in charge of your life had no idea what they were doing. It was a good feeling, and right now, for Hans, any kind of good feelings were welcome.
7:30 a.m.—Battalion Headquarters Tent, near Brandenburg Gate
“Okay, listen up.” Colonel von Schiller clapped his hands once to cut off the noise.
“Let’s start with the bad news. In spite of the our clash with the Spartacans yesterday, the ministers still refuse to make it illegal to hold a march or a demonstration in opposition to the government.”
That was met by a chorus of boos and groans. “Even though the Bolsheviks have used force to seize those newspaper buildings?” asked Captain Blenheim, the commander of A Company.
“That’s right,” von Schiller grumbled. “You don’t like it. I don’t like it. But those are our orders. The good news is that it should be a quiet day today. C Company taught those Bolshie traitors a little respect for us yesterday. They got their tails whipped pretty good.”
The men reacted to that with calls of “Yeah!” “Amen!” “They sure did.”
Sergeant Diehls, who was standing next to Hans, punched him softly on the shoulder.
“So, same deployment as yesterday. A Company takes the north side of Pariser Plaza again. B Company takes the south, C Company stays in the plaza, and D Company stays back with battalion HQ and the aid station. Your orders are to intercept and stop anyone who is a real threat. But be wise. The government’s not bending on this one yet.”
A hand in the back came up. “Sir, permission to have my platoon guard the aid station?”
Laughter erupted. It was Lieutenant Sisam, commander of Second Platoon, D Company.
“Nice try, Sisam,” von Schiller said dryly, “but the answer is no. And, while I’m at it, no more reports of men trying to get on the sick leave roster because they have ingrown toenails. I don’t care how cute those nurses are, I’ll put the whole platoon on latrine duty. You got that?”
Everyone roared as the lieutenant blushed all the way down to his socks. This was good, too, Hans thought. Von Schiller was proving to be an effective commander. He could be tough as nails, but the men liked him. The fact that a young lieutenant felt comfortable enough to joke with him was another sign that the battalion was in high spirits.
“Anything else?” the colonel asked.
“Yes, sir,” a voice from behind them called out. They turned to see Corporal Jürgens wheeling out a motorbike from behind the radio truck.
“Ah, yes,” von Schiller said with a smile. “Bring it forward, Corporal.”
He did so, putting down the kickstand and parking the bike. The others gathered in around it.
“As you know,” von Schiller said with a straight face, “we have a real whiner in our midst. Not to mention any names, but there’s this master sergeant who keeps complaining about how sore his ribs are, and that his face hurts, and that his lips are chapped and that he has a bunion. . . .”
That got him a big laugh. Every man there was either staring or pointing at Hans.
“Well, I’m tired of his bellyaching. So, Sergeant Major Eckhardt, here is some transportation for you. And I don’t want to hear any complaints.”
The men applauded as a red-faced Hans said, “Sir, I’m fine. I’m getting better every day.”
The colonel sobered. “I know that, and my hope is that you won’t need it. But if something does start to unravel today, I can’t have you hobbling across the square to deal with it. Have you driven a motorbike before?”
“Yes, sir. In France.”
“Good. Then that bike stays close to you from now on. Got it?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And one other thing, Sergeant Major.”
“Sir?”
“If I see you giving any young ladies, especially any of our nurses, a ride on that machine, you’ll be joining Lieutenant Sisam on the special duty roster.”
Trying hard not to smile, Hans snapped off a salute. “Yes, sir, Colonel, sir.”
“All right. Start deploying your men as soon as they’re ready. Good luck, gentlemen.”
12:21 p.m.—Pariser Plaza
The morning fog had burned off by ten, and now the sky overhead was a clear blue and the temperature was moving into the mid-thirties, which felt wonderful. C Company was stationed about dead center in the square. Fifty yards away, a large number of citizens—eight, maybe ten thousand—were gathered around the Spartacan site, listening to various speakers shouting at them. Hans wondered if Liebknecht and Luxemburg were there, but he doubted it. These speakers were putting the crowd to sleep, not stirring them up to revolution.
Though Hans had his men deployed in a semicircle facing the crowd, they were pretty relaxed. Most were sprawled out on the ground. Many had taken off their overcoats and were seated in small groups talking or smoking. Some were stretched out, catching a few winks. One or two were writing letters to their families or their girlfriends. Hans, who was seated on the pavement beside his motorbike, was kicking himself for not having thought to bring paper of his own. He could have written a long letter to Emilee by this point. On the other hand, what would he say?
Sergeant Diehls was seated on the motorbike studying the crowd through the binoculars again. So far there had been nothing to get him alarmed. All of a sudden, the radio crackled. Hans got to his feet and went over to the radio cart. The radioman saw him, covered the microphone, and said, “It’s Captain Ruger of B Company. He wants to talk to you, Sergeant Major.”
Hans moved over and picked up the microphone. “This is Eckhardt.”
“Eckhardt, this is Ruger. We’ve got some movement to the south of us. Down by Leipziger Strasse.”
“What kind of movement?”
“Two or three dozen men, most in uniform. It’s a couple of blocks away, so we can’t see them really well. But they’re definitely armed. They seem to be heading for the War Ministry.”
“But the War Ministry’s closed.”
“Yeah, I know that. Not sure what they’re up to. We’re going down to check it out. I’m going to leave one platoon here. Can you send one of your platoons over to back them up?”
“Will do. They’re on their way. You want some help?”
“Not yet. We’ll let you know.”
“Yes, sir.”
He handed the microphone back and turned. All around him men were getting up, having heard some of what had just happened. “All right,” he called. “Listen up. Third Platoon, you’re going down to give B Company some backup.” Hans pointed to the south. “They’re just off the plaza in whatever street that is that heads south to Potsdamer Plaza.”
“It’s called Königgrätzer Strasse,” Diehls volunteered. He was a native Berliner.
“Okay. It’s probably nothing, but settle in with the B Company and stay alert.”
Hans turned to the others. “That goes for the rest of you, too. On your feet. Check your weapons. Stay sharp.” He moved over to the motorbike and straddled it. “Diehls, keep an eye on those guys over there. And stay close to the radio. I’m going to take a look.”
“Got it, Sarge.”
Just as he raised his foot to kick the engine into life, Hans froze. The crackle of distant and sporadic gunfire echoed off the surrounding buildings. Every head turned in that direction. Making sure his rifle was secure on his shoulder, Hans gave the starter a hard kick, and the motorbike exploded into l
ife. He popped it into gear and roared away.
As he left Pariser Plaza he saw that the platoon Ruger had left behind was deployed along Königgrätzer Strasse rather than in the square itself. Which was good. Here they had more cover—low walls, hedges, a couple of motorcars parked at the curbs. They waved him through. “Call us if you need us,” someone yelled. He waved back and shot past them.
About three blocks down he caught up with the other three platoons that were jogging south down the street. “Where’s Captain Ruger?” he shouted.
“Here.” In the front line of men, Ruger turned and started back toward him.
Hans dismounted and moved to join him. “What have you got?” he asked.
“Not sure yet. Got a squad on recon now.”
Gunshots rang out again, still ahead of them but this time much closer, and everyone dropped down to one knee. “There they are,” someone cried.
Hans turned to see several of their men running hard toward them. They were in a crouch and zigzagging as they came. More shots rang out, but the shooting didn’t seem to be aimed at their men. He walked over with Ruger as the squad reached them.
“What have we got?” Ruger asked.
“About half a company of Spartacans. Don’t know why, but they attacked a group of unarmed government supporters down by the War Ministry. One man is dead; at least two more are wounded. One of them badly. We need to get a medic over there on the double.”
Ruger snapped his fingers, and a man with a red cross on his helmet trotted forward. He turned to the squad leader. “Send your squad back to provide cover for him, but you stay here. Tell me what’s going on. Where are the Spartacans?”
The corporal in charge of the squad shook his head slowly. “That’s what is weird, sir. They didn’t engage us at all. They were running pell-mell in the opposite direction. Then, just past the War Ministry, they turned down some side street. That’s where we found the injured and stopped. But it looks like they may be circling back the way they came.”
“Wait,” Hans exclaimed. “That doesn’t make sense.”
Someone behind them shouted. “Is there a Sergeant Eckhardt here?”
“Here.” Hans walked swiftly over to him. It was the radioman.
“A Sergeant Diehls for you.”
“Yeah, Diehls,” he said. “What’s up?”
“We’ve got movement here, Sarge. All of a sudden, we’ve got Spartacans coming out of the woodwork.” Suddenly the air exploded with the rattle of gunfire behind them. Hans could hear it coming through the radio, too, nearly drowning out Diehls.
“Under fire! Under fire!” Diehls shouted. “Everybody down!”
“Diehls!” Hans yelled.
“Gotta go, Sarge. We’ve got what looks two companies coming straight at us. Looks like another one is attacking A Company’s position. We’re taking heavy fire.”
“Fall back to the gate,” Hans cried. “Use the pillars as cover. I’m on my way.”
“Got it.”
Hans turned as Ruger joined him, nodding to let Hans know he’d heard the broadcast. “This is it,” he yelled. “No bluffing this time.” He grabbed at Hans’s arm. “That’s why our group is doubling back on us.”
“You think they’re gonna try to ambush us?”
“No.” He reached in his jacket pocket and yanked out a folded map. It was a smaller version of the one the colonel had used in the briefing. Each company commander had one. He quickly unfolded it and spread it out on the pavement. Hans dropped down to one knee beside him.
Ruger stabbed the spot near the center of the map that was labeled Brandenburger Tor and Pariser Platz. “This isn’t some spontaneous eruption, Eckhardt.” His finger drew two quick lines on the map. “It looks like it’s a coordinated attack, a pincer movement to pin us down. One is going straight up the middle against your company. One is going after Captain Blenheim’s company here on the north.” He moved his finger down and tapped a spot just below where they were now. “These Spartacans aren’t after us. They drew us away from the plaza on purpose, I think.” He traced a line into the huge green area on the map labeled Der Tiergarten. “If they double back through on the street they’re on now, it will take them back into the park. Then”—his finger moved some more—“if they turn north, you tell me. What’s the objective?”
Hans gasped. “They’re headed for battalion HQ and the aid station.” He leaped up, shouting now over the deafening thunder of gunfire. “I’ve gotta go!”
Ruger shouted back. “We’ll cut through the park and see if we can cut them off.”
“Agreed,” Hans said. He jumped to his feet and turned to the radio operator. “Can you get battalion HQ?”
“No, Sarge. We’ve been trying, but we’ve got nothing so far.”
“Then get me Sergeant Diehls back. Now!”
A moment later the man handed him the microphone. The sound of gunfire coming through the speakers was almost deafening. “Diehls,” Hans shouted. “We think they’re going after battalion HQ and the aid station. Coming in from behind. Once you get a defensive line set up at the gate, take a platoon and warn the colonel.”
There was the sharp whine of a ricocheting bullet and Hans heard someone scream. “Did you copy that, Diehls?”
“Yeah. Got it. We’re already falling back in that direction. I’ve got five men down. But we’re slowing them down. We’ll see what we can do.”
Ruger took the microphone from Hans. “Diehls, this is Ruger. We’re going through the Tiergarten, where we’ll link up with you at the Brandenburg Gate. Watch for us.”
“Yes, sir! Gotta go.”
Hans started for his motorbike. “One more second, Eckhardt,” Ruger said. He turned to his radioman. “See if you can get Third Battalion. Tell them what’s happening. See if they can send two companies down to our battalion HQ on the double. Tell them we’re heading there now, coming up from the southeast. We’ll try to link up with them at the monument.”
As the radio operator began transmitting, Hans climbed on his motorbike. Ruger turned to him. “You take my platoon with you. Tell them you’re their commander for now.”
“Right.”
As Hans kicked the motorbike into life, Ruger touched his arm. “Keep your head down.”
12:47 p.m.—Königgrätzer Strasse and Der Tiergarten
As Hans raced northward, hunched low over the motorbike, he wondered if Captain Ruger would use the forest of the Tiergarten as cover to get to First Battalion’s headquarters site without being seen. If the Spartacans were using the streets that ran through the park as their route, the trees might give Ruger enough of an advantage to get out in front of them.
A rifle cracked sharply. At the same instant, a bullet hit just to Hans’s left and about ten feet ahead of his bike. It left a gouge in the pavement and whined away. He instinctively jerked the bike to his right, almost sending it into a spin. He corrected quickly.
Crack! Crack! Two more shots rang out. The roar of the motorbike was pretty loud, but not enough to drown out gunfire. One shot hit the street just beside Hans’s right foot. He thought he felt the other one snap past his ear.
His mind went into high gear as he crouched even lower and started zig-zagging wildly, using the width of the street to full advantage. Snipers. At least two. From the trees? No. The angle was too high. From the upper floors of the buildings on his right. Hans looked ahead.
Crack! Crack! Crack! The motor bike jerked hard to one side and nearly took him down. Without thinking, he released the throttle, and the bike immediately started to slow.
The smell of petrol was suddenly burning his nose. Glancing down, he saw liquid gushing out of a hole in the tank next to his right knee. Several thoughts came to him in one instantaneous flash of clarity. He was lucky the snipers didn’t have tracer bullets, or he would be a flaming torch right now. If any of that petrol sprayed onto the spark plugs of the engine, he would be torched anyway. If he laid the bike down in a long slide, as they had been taught
to do, the metal on pavement would send out a stream of sparks and BOOM! He was still toast.
That left Hans one choice. He winced, thinking about what rolling off a moving motorbike was going to do to his ribs. But he didn’t hesitate.
Straight ahead the street ended and opened into Pariser Plaza. Men in uniforms were jumping up and swarming toward him. He could see the flashes of their rifles and hear the thunder of their shots. Hans felt a rush of relief. They were returning fire at the snipers, hoping to drive them back into cover.
He glanced at the speedometer and saw that he had slowed to about twenty-five miles per hour. Still too fast. He let off the accelerator completely and squeezed the brake lever. The bike started to skid to a stop, but now the petrol was no longer blowing backward in the rush of air from the bike. It was spraying directly onto the engine. Hans’s time was up.
Without thinking, he cast aside his rifle. Then, in one smooth movement, he scooted back to the edge of the seat and rolled to his right.
He was probably down to under ten miles per hour as he fell, but Hans still shrieked with pain as his body smashed rump first into the pavement and he started sliding with his feet forward, using his elbows as skids.
There was a roar of sound and a flash of brilliant yellow. A blast of heat seared Hans’s face. Almost to a stop now, he rolled onto his stomach and covered his face, yelling out as the pain shot through his ribs.
Dazed and half blinded, he sensed men running past him. They were firing their rifles. Then others reached him. Someone grabbed Hans by the collar and dragged him away from the flames. Suddenly a face appeared just in front of his. It was Sergeant Houtz, the platoon sergeant of his own Fourth Platoon. He was grinning like a kid.
“Whoo-ee, Sarge,” he hollered. “Colonel von Schiller ain’t gonna be happy when he sees what you done to his motorbike!”
2:15 p.m.—Pariser Plaza
The Spartacans had planned well, but they had made one serious mistake. When the Spartacans saw Ruger leaving, they thought all of his troops had gone with him. So they pressed hard against Diehls and C Company. They were trying to close the trap on the battalion HQ, which would have been a real coup for them.
Fire and Steel, Volume 2 Page 35
