That brought another skeptical look from the adjutant, which Hans ignored. “I talked with them. These are not radicals. These are not soldiers. They’re workmen. And what shocked me the most? When you get closer, you’ll see that more than a third of the crowd is made up of women—ranging in age from grandmothers to teenage girls.”
That brought a lot of heads up sharply.
“That’s right. Their union bosses told them that if they didn’t all come, they’d be out of a job. One man I learned about had a gun put to his head and was told to come or he would be shot.”
Someone swore under his breath. “I ain’t gonna be shooting no women and children.”
Hans raised his voice. “This is what the Spartacans want. They want us to open fire on innocent people so they can put their pictures in the newspapers, show their blood washing down the cobblestones. They want people so outraged at the government that they will join the revolution en masse.”
That sobered even Major Ott. “So what do you suggest, Sergeant?” he asked in a low voice.
“We have to protect ourselves, we know that,” Hans answered, speaking to everyone. “If the people actually join in with the soldiers and the radicals, we may have no choice but to fire on them. But we have rifles. We have to take aim at someone before we can shoot him. So let’s do what Herr Noske suggested last night. Don’t shoot anyone unless you’re sure he’s a threat to us. The miserable excuses for soldiers down there may use the people as shields, but see if you can draw the Freikorps men away from the crowds before you open fire. If you can’t, see if you can give warning to the other people to get out of the way.”
Hans looked around at the men, pleased to see deep concern on many of their faces. “I say again, most of these people are not here to fight us. They are here because they have no choice. Please, please, do not give them a reason to hate us.”
To his surprise, Colonel von Schiller stepped up beside him. “This is good counsel, men. These people are going to be terrified if shooting starts. They’re not going to be running toward us. They’re going to be running as fast as they can away from us. So don’t be shooting anyone in the back.”
As Hans watched the faces of the other officers and sergeants, he was relieved to see that they not only accepted that order, they seemed to welcome it.
“All right,” von Schiller said. “A couple more things and then we’ll move out. First of all, remember that we are not alone out here. There are three other Freikorps battalions, each with the same overall objective.” He turned to a large map pinned to a board propped up against the side of the truck. Retrieving a long, wooden pointer, he tapped the map near the very center of it. “This is our sector right here.” He pointed to a black square. “This is the Brandenburg Gate and Pariser Plaza. For those of you not familiar with Berlin, the gate is the western terminus of Unter den Linden boulevard. At the opposite end of the boulevard is the royal palace. Third Battalion is stationed there and has orders to stay in place and protect the palace. We already lost control of the palace once to the People’s Marine Division. We don’t want that happening again.
“Second and Fourth Battalions are assigned to protect the Reichstag and other key government buildings.” Von Schiller pointed to the north. “That is just a block or two from where we are. Their headquarters is here on the west side of the Königsplatz, directly west of the Parliament building.”
The colonel went on when there were no questions. “Our battalion’s assignment is the area where we are. As most of you know, the Brandenburg Gate is where most of the major demonstrations and marches start. So our task is to keep them under control, immediately cut off any violent actions on their part, and arrest key leaders if possible. Liebknecht, Luxemburg, and Eichhorn are to be captured unharmed so they can stand trial for treason.”
Von Schiller turned and looked at his adjutant. “What else, Major?”
“The medical aid stations.”
“Ah, yes. In addition to having access to the city’s hospitals, the army is bringing in three aid stations, one for each battalion. They will be staffed around the clock until this is over. Please note this, because it is important. Second Battalion will have a small but fully functioning field hospital at its location. Any soldiers or civilians who are severely or critically wounded should be transferred there as quickly as possible.”
“And where is that, sir?” another of the captains asked.
“Right there in Republic Plaza, behind Second Battalion headquarters.”
One of the captains raised a hand. Von Schiller nodded at him. “Sir, what about those newspaper plants that were seized last night? Is anyone going after them?”
“One thing at a time, Captain. We’ve got to secure our positions first, and then we’ll start moving against the places the Spartacans have taken, including police headquarters.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Today our job is to see that this march and demonstration does not get out of hand. So, here’s how we’ll deploy. Captain Blenheim’s Company A will secure the north end of Pariser Plaza so that the crowds can’t move north toward the Reichstag. You will hold that position unless one of the other companies gets in trouble.”
The captain snapped off a salute. “Yes, sir.”
“B Company will do the same on the south side of the plaza. Two blocks south of us is Potsdamer Plaza and the War Ministry. Even though that building is closed now, it’s still a prime target for the rebels. So, Captain Ruger, you are charged not only with making sure our marchers don’t break out and go south, but also with ensuring no rebels come in from the south. As you heard Noske say, Potsdamer Plaza was a hotspot last night.”
“Got it, sir.”
The Colonel turned to Hans. “Eckhardt, C Company’s task is to do shepherd duty around the monument itself. Twenty thousand people are a lot of sheep to worry about. If they do start moving, the only way we want them going is east on Unter den Linden, where they’ll run smack into Third Battalion. But don’t crowd them. You’re to stay back unless something starts to unravel. Then move in fast and hard.”
“Understood, sir.”
Von Schiller turned to the lieutenant that was in charge of D Company, a guy by the name of Sisam, who looked even younger than Hans. “Lieutenant, D Company will hang back here in reserve. You’ll also be guarding the aid station and battalion HQ.”
Corporal Jürgens, the colonel’s aide, had been hovering around all morning. Now he appeared from inside the radio truck waving a small slip of paper. “Wireless message from Minister Noske, Major.” He handed it to the adjutant, who passed it over to von Schiller. The colonel glanced at it quickly and then swore and jerked forward to read it more closely.
When he finished, he started swearing softly and steadily. Everyone stared at him, not sure what this meant. “They’ve done it again,” he finally muttered, speaking to Major Ott.
“Done what, Colonel?” the adjutant asked.
The colonel swore yet again and then lifted the paper and spoke. “This is from the office of the Minister of the Military. Quote: ‘Urgent. Government ministers insist that Freikorps units not fire on the Genossen partisans.’”
There were audible groans from all around.
“The Brotherhood is to be honored and respected while peace negotiations continue at the cabinet level. Units are authorized to respond appropriately if fired upon first, but otherwise, they are to allow peaceful demonstrations and marches to proceed without interference. Signed Friedrich Ebert; Philipp Scheidemann; Gustav Noske.”
Von Schiller wadded up the note in his hand and flung it away. “You have your orders,” he snapped, looking around. “But our hands are tied yet again.”
11:55 a.m.
Hans was searching the faces of the crowd on the off chance that he might spot Jakob, Anna, and Nattie, but even with binoculars, it was impossible to discern many faces in the mass of people. The “parade,” if it could be called that, was barely moving. It varied in size f
rom as few as ten or fifteen marchers in a row to as many as fifty or more abreast. He handed the binoculars back to the sergeant, and then leaned on his rifle to ease the pain in his side.
“See anything?” Sergeant Norbert “Bert” Diehls asked. He led the Second Platoon, which Hans had chosen to stay right around him. All of his platoon sergeants were competent, but of the four, Diehls was the best. Hans wanted him close by in case anything broke loose.
“A lot of paid goons trying to whip the people into a frenzy, and a lot more people who are trying to ignore them,” he answered.
“Why don’t the people just turn on them goons?” one of the men asked.
Hans shot him an incredulous look. Had he not heard anything Hans had told them?
“Well, why not? They outnumber them probably a hundred to one.”
“Would you go up against armed soldiers if you were unarmed, had no training, and had everything to lose if you failed?”
The man turned away, irritated at being contradicted. A moment later, Diehls spoke again. “Have you been paying attention to that bunch of deserters over by those trucks?”
Turning to look, Hans shook his head. “Not particularly. What’s going on?”
“Not sure. For a while I thought they were just bored and messing around with each other, but now I’m almost thinking they’re forming up.” He handed Hans his binoculars.
Forgetting about his ribs, Hans peered through the glasses. The four army trucks and the smaller farm truck were all moving along very slowly a few yards away from the line of people marching. There were several men walking alongside of them, rifles slung over their shoulders, looking thoroughly bored. “Looks pretty normal to me,” he said.
“Look between the third and fourth trucks,” Diehls said. “And keep watching.”
A moment later, Hans stiffened. The distance between the two trucks widened a bit, and through the gap, Hans saw a dark mass of men. He adjusted the focus a little and swore. It was a row of men, shoulder to shoulder, marching in a loose cadence.
“Look under the last truck. All you can see are the feet, but . . .” Diehls let it hang.
Hans swore again and handed the glasses back. “Looks like half a company. Maybe more.”
“Yeah, and we can’t see behind the first two vehicles. The angle’s not right, but . . .” Again he didn’t finish his sentence. “There could be more.”
“Alert the men,” Hans said. “Keep it quiet. I don’t want them gawking over there. But gradually move the other platoons in closer. Not in any kind of formation. Just real easy. And have the radio man bring the radio over here as well.”
“Right, Sarge.”
“And Diehls?”
“Yes, Sarge?”
“Good eye.”
Hans saw the small pushcart that held their portable radio and angled over to get it. Rumors were that electrical engineers were working on field radios small enough that they could be carried by one man, but even if that were true, they didn’t have them yet. This was a behemoth, and it took two men to lift it on and off its cart. As he passed a couple of his men who were moving closer as ordered, he called out softly to them. “Hey, keep yourselves between me and those trucks while I use the radio. Okay?”
They waved and slowed their pace.
“Get me Colonel von Schiller,” Hans commanded before he even reached the two radio men. Thirty seconds later, the colonel was on the line. “Yes, Eckhardt?”
“Sir, we have at least one Freikorps unit forming up behind the trucks.”
12:07 p.m.
“Eckhardt? What are they up to now?”
Hans now had his four platoon sergeants at his side. “It’s a full rifle company. In formation. They’re cutting through the route of the march, headed right for us. Still maybe fifty yards away.”
“Steady, then.”
“Sir? They’ve been yelling at us. They’re trying to provoke a fight, I think.”
The colonel scoffed. “You can handle a few insults, Eckhardt. Just stay loose.”
“Sir, don’t you want to know what they’re yelling at us? In addition to the usual insults?”
There was a long pause, then, “What?”
“They are chanting that we can’t fire on them because Ebert and Scheidemann won’t let us. That we’re their comrades. Brothers-in-arms. That we don’t dare shoot back or we’ll be court-martialed.”
There was no answer for a moment. “Are they still coming toward you?”
“Yes, sir. At about half speed.”
Another long silence.
“Sir? I know what the orders are, but if we wait until they’re right on us, we could be in a bad situation. And there’s something else. It’s like the people know what’s going on. They’re almost in a panic, trying to put distance between them and the soldiers. I don’t like it, sir.”
“Do you have a recommendation?”
“I do, sir. Near the end of the war, as my company was retreating, we had to pass through a small town in France. Suddenly a sniper started shooting at us from the bell tower of the church. Every time one of us moved, he’d fire again. We shot back, of course, but we could never hit him. It was a real dilemma. The Allies were coming behind us and we had to keep moving, but he had us pinned down. We didn’t have the time to send a squad after him, and there was no artillery to call on. And we certainly didn’t want to backtrack and go around the town.”
“So what did you do?”
“We rang his bell, sir.”
“Say again?”
“We discovered that when we shot back at him, we often hit the large bell that was right over his head. The noise was so loud that he had to drop down and put his hands over his ears. So we assigned a man to keep shooting at the bell until we were all through the village.”
“I see,” von Schiller said. “So what are you saying, Eckhardt?”
“I’d like permission to ring their bells, sir.”
“You can’t shoot anyone unless they shoot first.”
“You have my word, Colonel.” And he clicked off before von Schiller could answer.
He turned to his sergeants. “All men are to fix bayonets. First and second platoons, line up your men on both sides of me, platoons in firing formation. First row down on one knee, second row behind them shooting over their heads. Third platoon muster around me, rifles at ready but not up to their shoulders yet. Fourth platoon, you hang back in case we get in trouble.”
As they sprang into action, Hans called to them. “Who’s the best shot in the company?”
For a moment no one spoke, but then Diehls grinned. “I guess that would be me, Sarge.” The others were nodding.
“Good. Then you stay here.”
Seeing twenty-four men lined up with fixed bayonets and their rifles pointed directly at them slowed the oncoming soldiers down, but it didn’t stop them. Their leaders were still screaming the same drivel at them “It’s a bluff. Comrades don’t shoot comrades. They’re not going to fire.”
Crouching down beside Hans and hidden behind two other men, Diehls looked up. “What’s my target, Sarge?”
“See that guy in the front holding the banner?”
“The one that says ‘Government troops are trash’?”
“That’s the one. You good enough to hit the board it’s nailed to?”
“No problem.”
“Tell me when you’re ready.”
“I’m ready.”
Hans reached out and pushed the two soldiers in front of Diehls apart. The crack of the rifle followed an instant later.
Three things happened instantaneously. The sign went flying. The man who had been holding it yelled and dove for the ground, as did his fellow soldiers. And on the parade line, men and women screamed and scattered like a flock of chickens with a fox in the yard.
“How about the black and yellow sign?” Hans asked.
BLAM! a second sign spun away.
The Deserters’ Brigade went to pieces. Men rolled away, shou
ting and clawing for their weapons.
“All rifles up!” Hans shouted at the top of his lungs. “Prepare to fire!”
Every rifle in every platoon—just under fifty of them—was up and trained on the men now only about thirty yards away. Screaming wildly at his men to follow, the Freikorps commander turned and ran. Moments later, the only targets Hans’s men had were the backs of the deserters’ uniforms.
Hans extended a hand to Diehls and pulled him up. “Well done,” he said.
Diehls had a grin a mile wide on his face. “Ringing their bell. I like it.”
Chapter Notes
The Spartacans did boast that 150,000 of the working classes had joined the general strike and come to Berlin to demonstrate against the government. But an author who was there during those events estimated it was no more than 20,000. He described the marchers thus: “The great mass of the paraders were ragged, underfed, miserable men and women, [who bore] mute testimony to the sufferings of the war-years” (German Revolution, 226).
Though it didn’t happen on the same day as the great march in Pariser Plaza, the Freikorps unit made up of deserters and other riffraff, marched on government troops chanting that they wouldn’t dare fire on them. They fully expected that the government forces would fall back. The government troops stood fast and fired over their heads. The “Deserters, Stragglers, and Furloughed Soldiers” unit turned and fled (German Revolution, 206).
January 17, 1919, 7:20 a.m.—Brandenburg Gate, Berlin
Sergeant Diehls took one last bite and then threw the can in the garbage. He pulled a face. “You forget how bad these are,” he grumbled. “They taste like dog food.”
Smiling, Hans threw his army ration can away. “I can tell you from firsthand experience, dogs do better than this.” He lifted his canteen and drunk deeply from the water. Having been out all night, the water was cold and sweet. Reattaching the canteen to his belt, Hans looked around. “All right, let’s get these bedrolls put away and police up the area. Platoon sergeants, get your men started and then report for briefing in ten minutes. We move out at oh-eight-hundred.”