Hans fell back a step. “I . . . uh . . . Sir, there’s been a terrible mistake here and I—”
Suddenly fingers were pinching deep into both of Hans’s upper arms. He screamed in pain as the sergeant lifted him a foot off the ground and shook him like a rag doll. “Don’t call me sir,” he roared. Little drops of spittle sprayed onto Hans’s cheeks. “I am not an officer. I am a noncommissioned officer. Which means that I work for my pay.” He slammed Hans back down so hard that he almost lost his footing and went down.
The other forty-seven men stared in openmouthed horror.
“Do you understand me, soldier?”
“Yes, sir . . . I mean, yes, sergeant. But I have a problem and was wondering if—”
Jessel leaned in again, his face turning purple. “Do I look like your mother, soldier?” He jabbed Hans in the chest with both hands, sending him sprawling. Instantly the sergeant was towering over him. “You don’t want to start your service like this, boy!” he growled. “You don’t ever want to get on my bad side”—he glanced down at his name tag—“Private Eckhardt.” Then he let loose a stream of profanity that shocked Hans almost as much as the physical manhandling had. Breathing hard, the sergeant finally stopped. “So you’d best keep your mouth shut, your eyes open, and your ears tuned to my every word. Is that clear, Schweinkopf?”
Afraid to move, afraid to do anything more to incur his wrath, Hans nodded quickly. “Yes, Sergeant Jessel.” His face was burning. The sergeant had just called him a pig head.
“Pick up your bags, Schweinkopf!” he bellowed at the top of his lungs. “Fall into two columns and follow me. Double time.”
Hans scrambled to his feet and grabbed his bag. As they started out at a trot, calling cadence, Hans found one tiny glimmer of hope. The sergeant had called all of them pig heads. So it wasn’t just him. It wasn’t much, but after the humiliating pummeling he had just taken, it was something.
They stopped outside a long, low hut with a Red Cross sign on it. “Leave your bags here, maggots,” Sergeant Jessel cried. “The army wants to inoculate you against measles and smallpox and who knows what else. The doctors will also examine you to make sure you’re healthy enough to die for the Fatherland.” He smirked at his little joke. “Finally, you will go to the barbershop, where you will be given regulation haircuts. Any questions?” He glared at them, daring them to so much as open their mouths. No one moved. No heads turned to look at him.
“Good. All right, you sorry excuses for soldiers,” he barked. “Line up at that door there. When you’re finished, come back here and stand in formation until I return.” He started to turn away but then swung back. A wicked grin was playing at the corner of his mouth. “By the way, those shots may make some of you nauseous. You may even feel faint. But you will not break formation to sit down. Is that clear?”
“Yes, Sergeant Jessel!” they shouted in chorus.
The smile broadened. “If you do faint, then you have my permission to lie down. Otherwise, you will stand at ease until I return.”
“Yes, Sergeant Jessel!”
Hans had thought he had a pretty good idea of what army life would be like. He knew it wasn’t going to be all roses and sunshine, but he was excited for what was ahead for him: learning how to shoot a rifle, hand-to-hand combat, bayonet training—maybe even being trained to fire a machine gun or throw a hand grenade. But more than all of that, he looked forward to the manly association with his fellow soldiers. His grandfather had talked about that—“the brotherhood of arms,” he called it. Even after all the years, he had still treasured his military experience.
Hans’s first encounter with Sergeant Jessel had seriously dented that perception. But in the next hour, he discovered that any illusion he’d had about the warm nature of army life was the greatest delusion of all.
As they went through the front door of the building they entered an alcove large enough to accommodate about five men. A sign on the door said WAIT HERE UNTIL CALLED. Hans was in the front half of the line, so he entered about five minutes after they started. Each time the door opened, an attractive young nurse with a shapely figure invited the next man to come in. “Not bad,” he thought. “I can handle a shot from someone like that.”
But when his turn came to step through the door, two things caught his attention. The lovely girl was not giving shots. She was simply the escort. Two older nurses with faces that somewhat resembled the sergeant’s were standing on either side of him. Both had needles in each hand. “Face forward,” one growled. As he did so, Hans was stunned to find himself staring at a life-sized black-and-white photograph tacked to the wall directly in front of him. It was of a scantily clad woman seated on a blanket, smiling seductively at him. It was so totally unexpected, so out of context in this sterile place, that he just gaped at it. And that’s when the two nurses hit him. POP! POP! POP! POP! Four needles, four inoculations—two in each arm—in under three seconds. “Next!” the larger one barked.
The examination room was a long, narrow room with two stations where two doctors sat behind small tables filled with jars of tongue depressors, cotton, and other medical supplies. The doctors didn’t look up as all forty-eight men filed in. As the door closed behind them, the older doctor looked up. “Everyone strip,” he called. “There are hooks on the wall behind you. Hang your clothes there, and then get in two lines. Everything comes off, including your socks.” Hans stared at him for a moment; then, as he turned toward the benches against the wall and began to unbutton his shirt, he leaned in close to the man next to him. He was a dark-haired boy who looked about his own age. “This is going to take forever,” Hans whispered. “And it’s cold in here. Why don’t they let us keep our clothes on until it’s our turn?”
His companion laughed. “You have to stop assuming that the army is a logical, rational system. You think that and it’s going to drive you mad. Just remember: nothing makes sense in the army. Nothing. Trust me on that.”
It took almost an hour to examine all four dozen men, and they wouldn’t let anyone get dressed until the last man was done. Hans guessed there might be a reason for that: total humiliation. And if that was their goal, they had achieved it.
• • •
The barbershop was at the far end of the building. The men were told it was too small for all to get inside, so they were to wait out in the hallway until their time came. Hans was near the door and so was one of the first four to go in. There were four barbers. They wore white aprons and stood ankle-deep in hair of every color. Under their aprons, they were all in their fatigues and combat boots, the everyday uniform of the soldier.
As Hans sat down in the third chair, the barber gave him a pleasant smile and put a cape around his shoulders. “How would you like it cut, soldier?”
Pleased to be asked, Hans settled back. He had his father’s hair, thick, wavy, and very light brown. He was very particular about how he wore it because he had learned that it was one of his most favorable features—with girls especially. “It’s getting a little long,” he said, turning to the barber. “Take a little off the top, but not too close around the ears.”
“Right,” the man said, grinning. He picked up a set of barber shears from the table. Hans started to suggest that scissors might be better, but he didn’t have a chance. The barber came around to the front of him, straddled Hans’s legs, and leaned in and touched the shears to his forehead right in the center. With great dexterity, he started working the shears back and forth and plowed into Hans’s hairline.
“Ow!” Hans yelped. “That hurts.” Then, horrified at the large tufts floating downward past his eyes, he jerked his head away. “What are you doing?”
“Sit still, soldier,” the man snarled, “or I’ll take your ears off with it.”
Wincing as the shears cut into his scalp again and again, Hans clamped his mouth shut and dug his fingers into the handles of the chair to stop from jerking his head.
No more than sixty seconds later, the barber stepped ba
ck. He reached around to his little table and lifted up a hand mirror. When he saw himself, Hans had to bite his lip to stop from crying. He barely recognized the man staring back at him. He was all but bald, and there were several places where the cutters had nicked the skin and he was bleeding.
“What have you done?” he whispered.
The barber laughed as he put away the mirror. Then he plucked at the shoulder of Hans’s shirt. “Why do you think they call these uniforms, soldier?”
“What?” Hans was still half in shock at his denuding.
“They call them uniforms because they’re all the same. It’s the same with your hair. You’re not a person anymore. There is no individual in this man’s army. You are a soldier now, and we’re all the same. Haircut and all.”
The final humiliation of the day came as they stood in formation waiting for the rest of the men to come out of the barbershop. The afternoon sun was hot. Hans could feel the cuts on his head scabbing up, and the itch from the hair on the back of his neck was driving him crazy. But Sergeant Jessel had returned. He sat in the shade of the building smoking a cigarette, watching them with those hawklike eyes.
At first, Hans thought his light-headedness was from heat, but as his vision began to shimmer in front of him and the nausea started rolling in waves, he realized that something was wrong.
“It’s the shots.” His companion from the examination room was right beside him. “Take deep breaths,” he whispered. “Don’t lock your knees. That cuts off the blood to your head.”
“Need to sit down,” he mumbled.
“No!” came the urgent whisper. “You’re already on Jessel’s list, and he’s watching.”
“Right. Thanks.” He slightly bent his knees and took three deep breaths. As he let the third one out, his eyes rolled up in his head and he collapsed to the ground. The last thing he remembered was, “If you faint, it’s all right to lie down.”
September 24, 1914
The company commander stuck his head out from the door to his room, which was on the far end of the barracks. “Eckhardt?”
Hans was lying on his bed studying the manual on assembling and disassembling their rifles. He jumped down immediately. “Here, sir.”
The officer jerked his head toward his own room and then stepped back inside.
Franck Zolger, who bunked directly below Hans, grinned up at him as he straightened his uniform. “What did you do now, Hans?”
He shrugged, looking worried. “I don’t know, Franck.”
“Well,” he said, smiling even more broadly, “be polite. That always helps.”
“You’re the career soldier boy,” Hans growled. “Not me.”
Hans saluted Lieutenant Moeller as he stepped inside. “Private Eckhardt reporting as requested, sir!”
“At ease, Eckhardt,” the lieutenant said. He was seated behind his desk and flipped him a casual salute in return.
Hans spread his feet apart and clasped his hands behind his back in the traditional at-ease stance. The lieutenant had a folder spread out before him. He examined it for another minute and then looked up. “Sergeant Jessel tells me that you have a grievance.”
“Not against him, sir, but yes.”
“Good. The sergeant is a good man. A good soldier.”
Hans agreed with the second comment. He wasn’t sure about the first, but, of course, he said nothing. “Sir, I recently graduated from the Von Kruger Academy in Munich. I suppose you’ve not heard of that school, sir.”
“That’s right. I’m from Hanover. That’s a long ways from Munich.”
“Well, sir, it’s a premier private school. I graduated with an emphasis in science and engineering. In fact, I graduated summa cum laude.” The officer was reading the file again—his file, Hans assumed—so Hans paused. The lieutenant waved his hand.
“Go on, Eckhardt.”
“I was accepted at the University of Berlin in engineering for this fall, sir.”
Maybe the lieutenant didn’t know about the academy but he certainly recognized that name. Hans was pleased to see a glint of respect in his eyes. “Go on,” he said again, listening now.
“When war was declared, I immediately enlisted, sir. I wanted to fight for the Fatherland.”
“Gut, gut.”
“When I got my letter of induction it said that after basic training, I am to report to a truck driver’s school in Stuttgart.”
Moeller tapped the letter in the file. “Ja, I see that here.”
“But, sir. The sergeant at the recruiting station told me that if I volunteered instead of waiting to be conscripted, I could choose whatever army job I wanted. I told him I wanted to be in an engineering battalion because of my training, and he said that was an excellent idea and enrolled me.”
The lieutenant stared incredulously at Hans’s face for a long moment and then burst out laughing. “And you believed him?”
October 20, 1914—Graswang Village, Bavaria, Germany
Inga Eckhardt watched anxiously as her husband grew more and more agitated. Whatever it was that Fritzie Heinkel, their postman, was telling him, it was not good news. When they finally parted, Hans whirled around and stormed toward the house. Inga met him as he came in. “What is it, Hans? What’s wrong?”
“It’s Hans Otto.”
One hand flew to her mouth. “Has something happened to him?”
“Nein.” He was already moving for the stairs.
She rushed to him and grabbed his arm. “Then what is it?”
He turned, his face flushed and his mouth pinched. “He’s in Oberammergau.”
“What? But—”
“He’s actually hiding in the men’s toilet at the train station. He sent a note to Fritzie and asked him to bring it to us. He wants to see us.”
“Hiding? I don’t understand. Why would he be hiding?”
“I can only think of one reason,” Hans said grimly.
Inga shook her head, not understanding. “What?”
“He’s AWOL from the army.”
“AWOL? What does that mean?”
“Away without leave. He’s run away.”
“No, Hans. No. That can’t be.”
“Well, I’m going to go and find out.”
“Get my coat too. I’m going with you.”
“No, Inga. You will stay here.”
Her eyes flashed in anger. “I will either go with you or I will walk there myself. He is my son, too.”
For a moment, she thought he was going to turn his anger on her, but then he nodded. “All right. But I am leaving in two minutes.”
• • •
Hans Otto whirled around in disbelief. “You thought I had deserted? Thank you so much,” he said bitterly. “Thank you for trusting in me. I have a three-day pass.” He reached in the pocket of his uniform and withdrew a folded piece of paper and waved it at them. “I am not that big of a dummkopf.”
“Then why were you hiding in the toilet?” Inga asked. They were no longer in the train station but in a grove of trees about a block away. Hans Otto had made them wait until the train station was empty, and then they had come here—or rather, sneaked here.
He threw up his hands. “Because I didn’t want anyone to know I’m here. The last thing I want is a bunch of stupid questions.”
“Because you’re thinking about not going back,” his father shot right back. It wasn’t a question.
For a moment, Hans Otto looked like a trapped animal, and then he looked away. That was when Inga saw the bruise on his neck. She went over to him. He shrank back a little when she raised one hand and pulled down his collar. “What happened to you?”
“It doesn’t matter.” He turned away from her.
“Hans Otto Eckhardt,” she snapped. “I asked you a question and I expect an answer.”
“All right then,” he burst out. “I’ll show you what happened.” He took off his coat, wincing sharply as he pulled it off his shoulders and laid it across a nearby bush. He quickly unbuttone
d his shirt and removed that as well.
Inga gave a low cry. Hans Senior jerked forward, staring. His son’s whole upper body was covered in bruises. They ranged in size from as large as a melon to several fist-sized ones. There was also a three-inch abrasion on his shoulder. The largest bruise, centered on his right rib cage, was a sickly yellow-brown. Hans Otto slowly turned to reveal a similar sight across his back.
“What happened to you?” Inga cried, her voice filled with horror.
He picked up his shirt and gingerly slipped it back on. “We had this big inspection of our barracks. The battalion commander was there, as well as our platoon sergeant and our company commander. Sergeant Jessel had screamed at us for a week that there couldn’t be one thing out of order or we would all end up cleaning every toilet on the base. So we really went after it. We even stayed up all night to make sure everything was perfect.”
His father was nodding. “My papa used to tell me about those inspections.”
“So we were all lined up, standing at attention when they came in. The lieutenant and the sergeant just followed behind while the colonel went through our barracks. I couldn’t believe it. He had a pair of white gloves with him. He would climb up on a chair and actually wipe his gloves along the top of the window frames. He checked the floors, the toilets, the sinks, the showers. He even made us pick up the rifle racks—” he looked at his mother. “Each rack holds twenty rifles, so they weigh two hundred pounds or more. He made us lift them off the ground while he swiped the floor underneath with his gloves. But we had been told to expect all of that, and so he found nothing.”
He stopped as he retrieved his jacket and put that on as well. “After that, he inspected our rifles.” He closed his eyes for a moment as the memory came back. “I don’t know how it happened, but my rifle was not completely clean.”
Again he looked at his mother, hoping to win her to his side. “I had cleaned my rifle. Or at least what I thought was my rifle. I don’t know if someone switched it on me, or what, but—”
“Hans Otto?” his father said, giving him an accusing look. “Don’t lie to us.”