Fire and Steel, Volume 2
Page 38
“The building is secure, sir,” Ruger said. “We have completed a second sweep of all floors, and we’ve posted guards at all entrances, including the one on the roof.”
“Excellent. Good work, men.”
“Anything else you need at the moment?”
“No. Go get yourselves a hot meal.”
Ruger and Hans exchanged looks. “There really is a mess tent outside?” Ruger asked.
Ott grinned. “There is. It’s right behind battalion HQ. Go enjoy.” The major started to turn away.
“Sir?” Hans asked. “Did they get Eichhorn?”
The major’s brow furrowed, and anger flashed across his face. “No. He slipped away. Whether that was before or after we got here, we haven’t determined, but he’s gone.”
Hans and Ruger left, stepping through one of the windows out to the sidewalk. Hans looked up. The first snowflakes were drifting down from a leaden sky. Somehow, that seemed fitting on this day.
Outside, the scene was almost as chaotic. Dozens of soldiers were standing around smoking and talking, relaxed even though they were on guard duty. As the two men headed across Alexander Plaza, Hans looked over his shoulder. “What a shame,” he muttered.
Ruger turned and looked too, but he said nothing and walked on. Hans didn’t follow.
No one would have called the headquarters building beautiful. It was huge and squat, even though it was five stories high. The outside of it was blackened with smoke and soot from years of pollution, like almost every other government building in the world. Now, it was pockmarked with hundreds of smaller holes from the machine gun bullets. Here and there were larger, gaping wounds where the artillery shells had made a direct hit.
On the mezzanine floor, one group of three large windows caught Hans’s eye. The center one was blown completely away, with only shards of glass and splintered wood left. Yet the windows on both sides of it were untouched, their elegant draperies still perfectly in place.
“Pretty amazing what some light cannon can do to soften things up, eh?” Ruger said. He had stopped to see what Hans was looking at.
Unaccountably depressed by the site of the scarred building and the rubble in the streets, Hans grunted something unintelligible and started walking again.
12:35 p.m.—Mess tent, Alexander Plaza
An hour later, Hans, Captain Ruger, Sergeant Diehls, and Corporal Jürgens were still seated in the mess tent, sipping coffee and munching on sugared biscuits. When Jürgens had returned with lieutenant’s bars for Hans, Ruger and Diehls had turned it into a minor celebration. After Ruger pinned the silver bars on Hans’s shoulders, everyone in the mess tent raised his canteen and sang the first verse of a bawdy song about the stupidity of new second lieutenants. As they finished, Ruger and Diehls snapped off a pantomime of drunken salutes. Then Ruger popped Hans one on the back. “Welcome to the joy of command,” he grinned.
Hans grinned back. “Well, at least I don’t have to work for a living anymore.”
12:47 p.m.
Ten minutes later they were still at the table, with the exception of Jürgens, who had gone off on some other errand. Hans told Sergeant Diehls that he was going to recommend him as Sergeant Major for C Company. Ruger agreed, saying he would write the letter of recommendation.
At that moment, Diehls’s hand came up. “Hold it,” he said, cocking his head to one side. “Do you hear that?”
They both stopped to listen. Other men in the tent were shushing each other too. From somewhere distant, they heard the sound of singing—men singing!
“What the—?” Ruger exclaimed. Now the sound was mixed with the rumble of drums and many other voices shouting and cheering.
Suddenly the flap on the mess tent was pulled open, and a man stuck his head in. “The army’s coming! The army’s coming!”
The tent quickly emptied. As the men ran out into the square, Hans looked around the plaza and saw nothing. Every other soldier in the square was craning his neck to see where the sound was coming from. Then Major Ott came striding out of the building, with the other senior officers behind him.
Ruger turned. “They say it’s the army coming, sir.”
“Yes,” Ott replied. “Noske told us that they would be here later today.” He grabbed Hans and Ruger by the arms. “Three thousand of them. You know what that means? This is over. The rebellion is finished. So let’s go welcome those boys.”
Even as they hurried across the plaza toward the place where Alexanderstrasse fed into Alexander Plaza, they saw the townspeople streaming toward them, most at a swift walk, others actually running. At first there were dozens, and then hundreds. Men, women, and children. Mothers pushing babies in carriages. Grandfathers with white beards and lined faces. Businessmen, shopkeepers, street sweepers, a man in a railway uniform, a woman with a flour-covered apron. Another woman, heavy with child, held her stomach as she walked along as swiftly as she could. All were exuberant, joyous, running, and cheering and waving hats, handkerchiefs, and scarves.
Hans laughed to himself. So much for the idea that the people were ready for the dictatorship of the proletariat. Here was the real voice of the people, the law-abiding citizens who only wanted an end to the warfare in their streets and peace and stability reestablished.
With a train station, several government buildings, and many shops, Alexander Plaza was one Berlin’s busiest areas. Or had been, up until a few days ago as rioting and street battles around the police headquarters made it a dangerous place to be. Now, it was as if the dike had broken, and people were flooding in to welcome the promise of order and stability once again.
Ott, Ruger, Diehls, and Hans stopped about midway across the plaza as the crowds reached them. Due to the press of the people, they still couldn’t see very far into Alexanderstrasse, but now the roll of drums and the sound of thousands of marching feet were like a low rumble of summer thunder.
And then, there they were. The first group was only two ranks deep, and Hans saw that it was the fife and drum corps. They were led by a drum major with gold braid on both shoulders and a huge brass baton. It flashed up and down as they came, setting the tempo for the drummers.
Just behind them, the first full company of men appeared, coming around the bend of Alexanderstrasse into view. Ah, what a sight that was. The crowd thought so too. A mighty roar went up, echoing off the buildings and rattling what windows had not been smashed. Hans felt like his chest was going to burst with pride. Here was the real army. Here was the pride of Germany. They came as troops ought to march, every uniform clean and pressed, eyes locked to the front, their ranks and columns in perfect alignment, rifles with fixed bayonets rigid on their right shoulders.
Their commanding officer, walking just to their right, was calling out the cadence in a loud voice, matching the timing of the drumbeat. “Left. Left. Your left, right, left. Left. Left. Your left, right, left.” As they always did in formal parades, the soldiers were keeping their knees stiff in what was called a goose step. It was impressive. Every boot hit the pavement at exactly the same instant.
The piercing sound of a whistle rose above the frenzy of sound in the square. The drum major spun on his heel so that he now faced his men. He raised his baton high. The second rank of fifers brought their tiny instruments up to their mouths. Three slow, measured blasts of the whistle, and the baton came down sharply. The shrill sound of ten fifes split the air. The crowd applauded and cheered even more loudly. Who didn’t love martial music at a time like this?
And then the company behind the fife and drum corps began to sing. Hans instantly stiffened as he recognized what song it was. No! He had expected something like “Eyes Straight to the Front” or “Tomorrow We Are Marching,” two of the most popular of the army’s marching songs. Maybe even “Deutschland über alles,” the national anthem. But not this. Please! Not this. Not “Mein guter Kamerad.” That’s not a marching song.
But as the pain pierced him like a lance, he understood perfectly. Which only made him w
ant to weep all the more. This was the soldiers’ ultimate tribute to their brothers-in-arms. And at this moment, they had chosen to honor those who had fallen and were no longer marching with them.
I had a comrade, a better one you won’t find.
The battle drums were beating, he was by my side,
In even step and stride, in even step and stride.
Hans spun away, mumbling to those pressed in around him. “Bitte. Excuse me. Please excuse me.”
Suddenly Diehls was at his side, clutching Hans’s arm. “You all right, Sarge?”
“I . . . Yeah. I . . . I’ve got a splitting headache. I’m going to get something for it at the aid station.”
His friend gave him a searching look, but Hans pulled free and plunged into the crowd—a crowd that was now suddenly quiet and subdued as they too realized what the men were singing.
A bullet came a-flying, was it meant for me, or you?
It struck down my comrade, he lay at my feet,
Like a part of me. Like a part of me.
“Oh, Franck,” Hans gasped in a hoarse whisper. He was dimly aware of the strange looks he was getting as he shoved his way through the mass of people, crying, “Bitte. Excuse me. Let me through, please.” As he broke out into the open at last, he began to run. But it was as if the chorus had him surrounded now, as if every man were looking only at him as they sang the last verse in full voice.
His hand still reaches out to me while I reload my rifle.
I cannot give you my hand, rest on in life eternal,
Mein guter Kamerad, My good comrade, Mein guter Kamerad.
2:55 p.m.—Police headquarters building
Hans got slowly to his feet as he saw Major Ott coming across the lobby toward him. From the look on his face, he guessed what was on his mind.
“You all right, Eckhardt?”
“Yeah, I’m fine.”
Ott peered at him, clearly not believing him. “Want to tell me what was going on back there?”
Hans didn’t, but he felt compelled to explain his bizarre behavior. “It was at Verdun. We were on a recon patrol. I was the platoon sergeant. We sat down to rest for a minute, and . . .” His voice was flat and expressionless. “A sniper opened up. He hit the guy right next to me.”
Ott was nodding. “I wondered. Were you close friends?”
Hans nodded his head. “He was a good man.”
“I understand.” He touched him briefly on the shoulder. “We’ve been relieved. The trucks should be here for us in about ten minutes. Round up your men. They’ll be coming in from Alexanderstrasse, so meet them there.”
Hans saluted. “Yes, sir.”
He waited until the major had gone out again and then got up and moved across the lobby. It was nearly empty now. The prisoners had been taken away in horse-drawn jail wagons. The wounded had been taken off in ambulances. The civilians were all gone. Outside, a team of carpenters were unloading sheets of plywood, preparing to board up the windows. Turning so as to avoid them, Hans stepped through one of the shattered windows and went out into the square.
Evidently, word of their relief was already spreading, because Diehls was already rounding up his platoon. Hans called to him. “Alexanderstrasse,” he called. “Ten minutes.”
Diehls called something and waved back. Hans angled away from him, not anxious for conversation right now. His head was down as he moved slowly along, stepping around the rubble that littered the sidewalks. As he looked up to watch where he was going, he saw a large truck parked about thirty yards ahead of him. Several men were moving around it, two of them carrying something long and heavy between them. They heaved it up into the back of the truck.
Hans stiffened. It was a human body. Instantly he knew what he was looking at. This was a graves registration detail, the unit that took care of the dead on both sides.
Hans couldn’t have turned away if his life depended on it. His eyes were riveted on the men and the rows of dark shapes on the sidewalk behind them—most in uniform, some not. Breathing in quick, shallow breaths, as if he were standing over the bodies and smelling the stench of decomposing flesh itself, Hans finally forced himself to move away. He jerked to his left and started toward the rendezvous point. But he couldn’t stop himself from taking one last look. This time they were lifting a uniformed body into the truck. Gratefully, it wasn’t one of his. In this skirmish, Hans had had three of his men wounded slightly, but none killed.
But as the men hoisted the body up, Hans gave a strangled cry. “Stop!” He broke into a run. “Hold it!” he screamed at them.
The men turned, puzzled when they saw a lieutenant running toward them frantically waving his arms. They set the body down again and turned to wait. Hans stopped about ten feet away, breathing hard. His hands were trembling as he took a step closer.
The body was turned half on its side, so he could not see the face. But he didn’t have to. The splash of red hair was clearly visible, as were the blue canvas, rubber-soled shoes on the boy’s feet.
“Never mind,” he mumbled, swallowing hard, waving for them to continue. And then Hans turned and stumbled blindly away, heading for one of the alcoves along the street. He ducked inside the welcoming shadows, dropped to his knees, and became violently sick.
Chapter Notes
Emil Eichhorn, self-appointed president of the Berlin metropolitan police, managed to slip away without detection when the government forces took back the headquarters building. Eichhorn went into hiding in the German state of Brunswick, but when things eventually quieted down, he came out of hiding and got back into politics. He was elected as a deputy to the Weimar Constituent Assembly later in 1919 and was elected to the Reichstag several more times before he died in Berlin in 1925.
“Mein guter Kamerad” was a song popular in the German Army during both World War I and II.
January 19, 1919, 8:15 a.m.—Field hospital, Königsplatz, near the Reichstag building
Colonel von Schiller was sitting up in bed with a breakfast tray on his lap. He was picking at some scrambled eggs and ersatz bacon in between sips of steaming coffee. When he saw Hans coming up the aisle of the hospital tent, he set the coffee cup down and transferred his tray to a small table beside his bed. “Ah, Eckhardt,” he cried. “Thank you for coming.”
Hans saluted. “Good morning, sir.” Hans peered more closely at him. “If I may say so, sir, you are looking much improved today.”
“I am feeling much improved, actually.”
“I’m glad. I’ll tell the men. They’re all asking about you.”
The colonel gave him a sharp look. “All? I doubt that.” He motioned to the chair beside the bed. “Sit down, Eckhardt. Tell me how it went yesterday.”
Hans did so, talking for about five minutes.
Von Schiller laid back. “Ah, I wish I could have been there to see the regular army march in.”
“Yes, sir. It was a glorious sight. And to watch the people’s reaction—that was wonderful.”
The colonel cocked his head to one side. “Major Ott told me you were sick.”
Hans jerked up a little. Had Ott seen his encounter with the graves registration people? He didn’t think so. “I had a severe headache come on all of a sudden. Probably just a reaction to the tension of taking the headquarters building.”
“Probably,” von Schiller agreed. “So, Major Ott also said that you asked for permission to see me this morning. Is this about the offer I made you?”
“Yes, sir. It is.”
“Ott said that you’re seriously considering it, Lieutenant. And by the way, the bars look good on you.”
“Thank you. And thank you for your trust in me, sir. I am honored.”
“But?” von Schiller asked, frowning now.
“But, even though I am sorely tempted, sir, I’m not sure I’m cut out for a career as a soldier.”
The colonel cut in. “Don’t say no yet. I want you to think about it some more.”
“Sir, I. . . .”
That took Hans aback. “Sir?”
“Dr. Schnebling asked to see you this morning as soon as we’re through.”
“But . . . Did he say what for?”
“I told him about my offer last night. He seems to think he can help you make up your mind.”
Hans sighed. Of course he does. A career in the army gets Hans Eckhardt very neatly out of the way. He sighed again. “If it’s all the same to you, sir, I don’t think there’s much point in—”
“It’s not all the same to me, Lieutenant,” he snapped. “That was an order. Schnebling is in his office. Go out the door on your left, and then go to the second tent on the right. Any questions?”
“No, sir.” Hans got up and left without saluting.
Artur Schnebling was waiting for him outside the tent, smoking a cigarette with another doctor. When he saw Hans, he dropped it and ground it into the mud. The other doctor murmured something and moved away. “Ah, Sergeant—or, I see that it’s Lieutenant Eckhardt now. Congratulations.”
“Thank you. You wanted to see me, sir?”
“Yes.” He stepped forward and pulled the flap on his tent back. But as Hans started forward, he gave him a strange look. “Can I ask you a question?”
Hans nodded, wary.
“Are you related to Colonel von Schiller?” Schnebling asked.
Hans’s jaw dropped. “Me? Heavens no. What made you think that?”
He shrugged. “Never mind.” He pulled the flap back further. “Go in, I’ll be right there.”
Schnebling dropped the flap and walked away. Still puzzled by the question, Hans straightened. The entrance to the tent was actually a double entrance, with a small dead space of air between openings. It was designed to keep the inside of the tent a little warmer. Hans opened the interior flap and then froze in place. There was a nurse inside. Her back was to him. For a moment, he wondered if he was in the wrong tent and started to back out again. Then she turned around. He fell back a step. “Emilee?” he gasped.