Authors: Paul Dowswell
There was a
crack
and a shattering sound in the square behind him, like someone hitting bricks and mortar with a large lump hammer. Axel expected a crushing explosion, but there was nothing more. He glanced behind, but it was too dark to see.
The parachute flares still lit up the sky, and as they grew closer to the Front, Axel began to imagine their distant glow was reflecting on his jacket buttons. One old soldier had told him to rub mud on them, but he hadn’t dared besmirch his uniform like that.
The intermittent rattle of machine guns was growing louder.
As the column marched out of the town, resentful eyes observed their departure from an attic room of Café Remy, on the edge of the town. Georges de Winne, the owner of the establishment, peered down the barrel of his stolen Mauser rifle and drew a bead on the last head in the column. It was too dark to see properly but it made no difference. He pulled the trigger and the firing pin clicked in an empty chamber. He didn’t really know why he did it, but it made him feel better.
De Winne scratched his great black moustache and sat down with a sigh. One of these days, he told himself, he would have the courage to kill some of these Boche. Right now, he had no ammunition for his gun, and he was too frightened to ask for some from the few people he knew in Saint-Libert who formed part of the town’s shady resistance. He hoped they had forgotten he had offered to keep the gun for them. Its presence in his house, tucked out of sight in a pile of old newspapers and carpets in the attic, caused him constant anxiety. When the Boche had arrived, midway through their triumphant march through Belgium in the far-off summer of 1914, they had been ruthless with any Belgian civilians caught with firearms. There had been summary executions. Sometimes women and children were shot too. The executions provoked a great deal of impotent rage, but they had ensured minimum resistance and even a measure of surly cooperation.
When de Winne thought about all the things he had had to do for the Germans, who had made frequent use of his bar, resentment simmered in his gut like sour wine. This was the fifth autumn the Boche had been there in Saint-Libert, but, he had to admit to himself, he had done quite well out of the occupation. Georges de Winne knew people. He could be relied on by the Germans to find a duck or a suckling pig for a regimental commander planning a celebratory feast, and in return the Germans had ensured the de Winne family had more than their fair share of provisions. It was a difficult state of affairs. While the other townspeople grew increasingly wan from their near-starvation rations, he and his wife and children were obviously well fed still. Of course people began to talk, and de Winne couldn’t help but notice the stares. He felt guilty about that too. So he started to hoard his extra provisions – the attic was full of tins of beans and cans of stewed beef. His family didn’t starve, but at least they didn’t look as plump as they used to.
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.
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.
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 with 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.