The Proud Shall Stumble

by Gerald N. Lund

  The various sources do not all agree on some details, such as times, order of events, who was present, and the numbers involved, so this account may differ in some details from other accounts.

  November 9, 1923, 10:57 a.m.—Bürgerbräukeller, Munich

  As Hans burst out of the bathroom, still stuffing his shirt into the trousers that were about two sizes too big, Max von Scheubner-Richter came hurrying down the corridor toward the main entrance. He pulled up short, stared at Hans for a second, and then burst out laughing.

  “Oh, shut up,” Hans snapped, pulling on the jacket. “If you think I look strange, go in and take a look at that guy who’s trying to fit into my clothes. He looks like an oversized pickle in an undersized jar.”

  Max hooted and clapped Hans on the shoulder as he fell in beside him. “But he won’t be marching in the front row like you are. But das ist gut. Maybe the army will be laughing so hard at you, we can march right past them.”

  “How would you like someone to fatten your lip?” Hans growled.

  Max sobered. “The Führer wants me next to him on his right side, and he said to tell you that you are to be next to me.” Then the twinkle in his eye was back. “Which is also good. So I can help you hold up your pants if you’d like.” He danced away as Hans swung at him. “I’ll see if anyone has a camera so I can take a picture and send it to your wife.”

  As they reached the doors and pushed out into the hazy sunlight, all levity was instantly dashed. There was a spacious plaza in front of the beer hall, and it was full of men in uniform milling around. Adolf and Ludendorff were off to one side, conferring earnestly together. Everyone else stayed clear of Max and Hans as they rushed to get into place. Hans did a quick count of their group and then turned to Max. “Where’s Streicher?”

  The Estonian émigré shrugged. “Who knows? He left before breakfast, saying he had an appointment this morning.”

  Frowning, Hans shook his head. “Doesn’t that strike you as a little strange? He hears about the revolution up in Nuremberg, jumps on a train, and races down to join us. Then he goes off to some appointment?”

  Max shrugged. “I’m guessing it’s something to do with that newspaper he publishes.”

  That still made no sense, but Hans promptly put Julius Streicher out of his mind. As he and Scheubner-Richter walked out and joined the group, he looked around. Rosenheimerstrasse, which was a major east-west thoroughfare through the Haidhausen District, was now closed to traffic and filled with rank after rank of soldiers. The first two groups wore the light brown uniforms of the stormtroopers. Red armbands with black swastika were worn by all. All carried carbines, some with fixed bayonets. Many also had pistols on their hips, as did Hans.

  Emil Maurice was standing near the first rank conferring with three or four of his officers. Two flag-bearers stood nearby. One carried the brilliant red flag of the Nazi Party. With its white circle and black swastika, it made the other flag look drab in comparison.

  Farther down the street, other formations could be seen. These were company-sized units and all in uniform. It was an impressive—and comforting—sight, and Hans was glad Adolf had wanted him in uniform too.

  He peered more closely. Behind the first company, there was a truck loaded with men and several machine guns. He looked at Max. “That’s good,” he murmured, pointing.

  “Yeah. Wish we had about a dozen more.”

  They looked up as Hermann Goering came toward them. He slowed as he looked Hans up and down.

  “Don’t say it!” Hans exclaimed. “I’ve already heard it from Max. Are we ready?”

  That wiped Goering’s mind clean of any comments he was going to make about Hans. The flying ace swore. “Maurice claims we have about thirty-five hundred troops. I’m guessing it’s somewhere closer to two thousand. Maybe three if he really pushes it.”

  “Not many when we’ve got twenty thousand or more men from the Bavarian Reichswehr ringing the city,” Hans said glumly.

  Goering snorted in derision. “To say nothing about the hundreds, if not thousands, of national police out there too.” He swore again. “Roehm has about a thousand men with him at the War Ministry, but they’re completely surrounded.”

  “But,” Max added, “we do have the rest of our troops waiting on the outskirts of the city. And the Kampfbund forces have another four or five thousand. We’re hardly a toothless tiger.”

  “Yeah, but if it comes to that, it’s going to be a bloodbath, and then nobody wins.” Hermann turned his head. “Well, it looks like the Führer is ready. Come. He wants me to put our troops under an oath of allegiance to Ludendorff.” He shook his head. “Stroke the general’s ego yet again. As if he needs it.”

  11:05 a.m.

  Adolf leaned forward and looked up and down the first row of assembled men. He nodded and then turned around and surveyed what was behind them. He turned back to Ludendorff. “We are ready, Excellency.”

  The older man grunted softly, raised his hand high in the air for several seconds, and let it drop. As he did so, he started forward with long and deliberate strides. Drawing his pistol and holding it up, Adolf bellowed over his shoulder, “Forward! March!” And the columns of men behind them began to march in place, waiting for the first ranks to get out ahead of them. There was no celebrating. No jubilation. In fact, as Hans turned his head and saw the ranks marching behind him, the mood reminded him of the funeral procession his family and the village had participated in yesterday.

  Could it be just yesterday? It seemed like months ago.

  There were some townspeople out and about and they stopped to watch, but their mood was just as somber and they spoke only in low whispers to each other.

  Suddenly, without warning, the two standard-bearers came to an abrupt halt. Hans instantly saw why. Blocking the bridge they were approaching was a cordon of helmeted, grim-faced, green-­uniformed state police. And right in the center of the line was a ­machine gun manned by two men. Every policeman had a rifle in his hands and had it pointed at the approaching column. A lieutenant in a billed cap and carrying a riding crop took one step forward, raising a pistol. “Anhalten! Stop where you are!”

  The command was superfluous. The whole front row had already ground to a halt. Hans felt that familiar chill run up and down his back—a natural response when you saw several loaded weapons pointed at your face.

  “Stand down!” Hitler shouted. “Our quarrel is not with you. We wish only to confer with your leaders, including your own Colonel von Seisser. Let us pass.”

  “Nein! If you come closer we will open fire.”

  Hans counted quickly. There were thirty, maybe forty, men in all. But they had chosen a perfect choke point. And because of the slight curve in the street, the companies of men behind them weren’t visible to the police. They were probably wondering why they had stopped. It was an impasse, and a dangerous one at that.

  “What do you want to do, General?” Adolf asked softly.

  But before Ludendorff could answer, Goering stepped forward. “I’ll be right back.”

  “What are you doing?” Ludendorff and Hitler exclaimed at the same moment.

  Goering gave them a tight-lipped smile. “Why do you think we brought those hostages along? I think it’s time the mayor of Munich helped us out here.” And not waiting for permission, he strode forward, holding his hands away from the Luger on his belt. The policemen stiffened, and every muzzle along the line moved just enough to aim at his chest. One of the men at the machine gun pulled back a lever and cocked it. Goering kept on moving, though more slowly. “Lieutenant!” he called. “I am Captain Hermann Goering. I would speak with you.”

  The officer cocked his pistol and waved it at him. “I know who you are. Stay back or I’ll shoot.”

  “Now, Lieutenant, you’re not going to want to do that, and I’ll tell you why. You see that truck full of machine guns? We
ll, just behind it, there’s another truck, and it is filled with people who might interest you.” Goering swung around, cupped his hands to his mouth, and shouted, “Bring up the truck with the hostages so we can see them.”

  At the word “hostages,” the lieutenant fell back a step. At the same moment, the sound of a truck motor was clearly heard. A second later it appeared just behind the truck with the machine guns. It was an army truck, but the canvas had been pulled back and it was open to the sky. It was filled with men wearing business suits and Homburg hats and looking very frightened at the moment.

  As Goering turned back around, his tone became more conversational. “You may recognize some of our ‘guests’ there, Lieutenant. His honor, the mayor of Munich, is right near the front. We also have eight or nine city council members and several other city dignitaries.” His voice hardened. “And my men have orders to shoot them all if you fire a single shot at us. Is that clear enough for you?”

  The officer swallowed, gaping past Goering to the truck. He hesitated only a few seconds and then turned and waved his pistol at his own men. “Fall back!” he barked. “Let them pass. Hold your fire. Stand down.”

  11:43 a.m.—Near Marianplatz, Old Town, Munich

  They crossed the Isar River without incident, except for the stony glares and a few profane insults they got from the policemen that passed through their ranks. But as they crossed onto the street that ran straight all the way to Marianplatz, their spirits were lifted greatly as people began coming onto the street to cheer and applaud them. There were a few hisses and catcalls, but for the most part the crowds were supportive. Soon they had both sides of the street lined with people cheering and waving scarves and handkerchiefs and telling them to go throw the government cowards out on their behinds.

  But once again, as they neared the plaza, the parade of men ground to a halt when Ludendorff raised his hand and called for the standard-bearers to stop. Immediately, he and Adolf put their heads together and started talking in low, urgent tones. Hans heard them mention some of the nearby streets and surmised that they were deciding where to go from here. Without being asked, he moved over to join them.

  “A few of these streets run all the way through the plaza,” Hans spoke up, “but we do need to get onto Residenzstrasse to reach the War Ministry.”

  “I told you so,” Adolf snapped at the general.

  Hans said nothing. His mind had jumped back to a day on a nearby street four years before. And he did not like the idea of going back up a street like that again.

  Adolf picked up on that immediately. “What? What is it, Hans?”

  He took a quick breath. “It was in Dienerstrasse that my company was ambushed by snipers hiding in the high-rise apartment buildings. It’s a narrow street with high buildings on both sides.” He rushed on as both of them scowled at him. “And Residenzstrasse is even narrower than that. It’s like being in the bottom of a canyon. It’s not wide enough to hold our columns as they are now formed up. We’ll have to string them out to squeeze them through it.”

  “What are you suggesting?” Adolf growled, giving Hans a warning look.

  “Um . . . I’m just saying that if anyone wanted to stop us, they could block Residenzstrasse.”

  Hitler’s eyes flashed angrily. “The army is currently surrounding the War Ministry, Hans. They’re not down here waiting to ambush us.”

  Ludendorff, now in agreement with Hitler, shook his head vigorously. “Nein, that is not my concern.”

  Hans swallowed quickly. “Jawohl, mein Führer. I just thought you should know.”

  “Concern noted.”

  Ludendorff straightened to his full height. “Pass the word,” he barked at his adjutant, who had come over to listen. “We shall move out precisely at noon. That’s less than ten minutes from now.”

  “Jawohl, General.” The adjutant saluted sharply.

  Hans moved back and rejoined Max, who had listened to it all. As Adolf started talking to Goering, Max leaned in. “Are you worried?” he asked softly.

  The question took Hans aback. “Uh . . . nein. Why do you ask that?”

  “You look worried. Or maybe troubled is a better word.”

  So Hans quickly told him about that day in May of 1919. “I lost twelve of my men in that ambush. And we should have known better. But that was then, and this is now.”

  Max nodded thoughtfully but said nothing more. After a moment he went over to Adolf, and the two of them locked arms and waited for Ludendorff to give the signal to start.

  November 9, 1923, 12:18 p.m.—

  Odeonplatz and Residenzstrasse, Munich

  The Feldherrnhalle was an impressive four- or five-story monument to some of Bavaria’s famous military leaders of the nineteenth century. Built in the style of an Italian loggia, the front was open to the street with five massive arches that supported the roof. Inside were two larger-than-life stone lions and statues of a couple of Germany’s most famous field marshals.

  As the flag-bearers slowed and the first row of men did the same, Hans was surprised at how intense his sense of relief was. The back of his neck had prickled all the way up from Marianplatz. Finally they were out of the canyon.

  “Stop!”

  Pulling up, Hans looked around to see who had shouted. Then Hermann Goering stepped forward, moving just ahead of General Ludendorff. He turned to face the men behind them and raised both hands high. “Stop!” he bellowed again.

  As the leading row of men came to a halt in a ragged line, Goering spun back around, looking across the plaza. Hans took a step forward to see past Max, who had instinctively positioned himself in front of Adolf.

  The overcast had burned off now, leaving a bright blue sky overhead. Hans had to squint to see, and at first he couldn’t tell what was going on. There was no one in the plaza or around the monument. Then he gave a low cry.

  Directly ahead of them, thirty or forty yards away, a line of men was strung out along the northern edge of Odeonplatz. Hans hoped it was more of the populace come out to welcome them. But his stomach lurched as his eyes focused more closely. There were at least a hundred men standing shoulder to shoulder, blocking any access to Ludwigstrasse. Each man was dressed in the dark green uniform of the Bavarian State Police and wore their distinctive metal helmets. And every one of them had a rifle up to his shoulder. A man with the gleam of officer’s bars on his shoulders stepped forward, holding a megaphone.

  Hans heard Adolf start to swear. Behind them, the entire column was grinding to a halt. Hans’s combat experience kicked in and his mind instantly started assessing their tactical situation. It was not good. Whoever this officer was, he had chosen his ground well. Adolf and Ludendorff had a dozen machine guns and around three thousand men at their backs. But even if it were ten thousand, it made little difference here. The men were bottled up behind them in Residenzstrasse, strung out for several blocks. Hans had to give the officer his due. It was a brilliant place to stop them.

  Heart hammering in his chest, throat like a rasp, Hans reached for his own pistol, cursing himself for not bringing his rifle too.

  “You will halt where you are!” a voice boomed out from the megaphone. “Advance no farther, or we will open fire on you.”

  Hans glanced to his left at the massive Feldherrnhalle, seeing if they might take up a defensive position under the arches. Suddenly someone brushed past him, half shoving Hans out of his way. To Hans’s astonishment, Ulrich Graf strode forward, both hands high in the air. He walked past the two flag-bearers, who were edging off to one side, realizing they would be the most likely targets if the shooting began. Ulrich ignored them as they scuttled away.

  “Don’t shoot! Don’t shoot!” he screamed. He half turned and gestured with an arm. “Can you not see that His Excellency, Field Marshal Erich Ludendorff, is with us? Look! He is right there. He is our leader. Join us.”

  Hans a
nd most of the other men, including Goering, were gaping at the barrel-chested brawler as he moved forward. Oddly, Hans’s first thought was one of wonder. How did Graf, a working-­class thug if there ever were one, know the proper title for a gentleman of Ludendorff’s stature? And, incredibly, using it seemed to have an influence on the police captain. He actually fell back a step, but then he quickly straightened and raised the megaphone again.

  “The name of Ludendorff has no magic for us!” he shouted. “We are not the army. We are the state police and owe our allegiance only to Colonel von Seisser. And Colonel von Seisser has given us direct orders that no one is to pass this point. I tell you, stop or we shall shoot.”

  Adolf, who still had his right arm locked with Max’s left arm, started waving his pistol in the air. “Surrender!” he shouted. “Sur­render now, I say. And join us in this march for freedom.”

  Max half turned, his eyes wide with panic. With his free arm he tried to grab Adolf’s arm and pull it down. “Don’t shoot! Don’t shoot!” he hissed.

  Goering leaped forward as well. “Nein, mein Führer,” he cried. “Hold your fire. Let me bring up the hostages again.”

  Adolf swore and kicked free of him, still glaring forward. “Lay down your arms and join us!” he shrieked. “Do it now or we shall send you all to hell!” And then he pulled the trigger.

  12:18 p.m.—Innem Ministerium, Near the Corner of Odeonplatz and Ludwigstrasse, Munich

  Wolfgram Grohl—Wolfie to all who knew him—had started as a minor civil servant in Munich’s Department of Public Works. Over the years, his abilities and his work ethic had helped him rise steadily in the ranks. When the Communists and Bolsheviks tried to overthrow the Bavarian government in February 1919, many employees threw their lot in with them as they tried to seize control. Wolfie stood firmly with the government and fought back. In retaliation, the rebels had come after him and his wife and family. With Hans’s help, they had escaped—barely. But their home was totally trashed.