Fall of Giants

by Follett, Ken

  Fitz was able to check the cry of shock that came to his lips. This was a test, of course. He recalled that C had a wooden leg as a result of a car crash. He smiled. “A good trick,” he said. “I almost fell for it.”

  C put down the dividers and looked hard at Fitz through his monocle. “There is a Cossack leader in Siberia who has overthrown the local Bolshevik regime,” he said. “I need to know if it’s worth our while to support him.”

  Fitz was startled. “Openly?”

  “Of course not. But I have secret funds. If we can sustain a kernel of counterrevolutionary government in the east, it will merit the expenditure of, say, ten thousand pounds a month.”

  “Name?”

  “Captain Semenov, twenty-eight years old. He’s based in Manchuli, which lies astride the Chinese Eastern Railway near its junction with the Trans-Siberian Express.”

  “So this Captain Semenov controls one railway line and could control another.”

  “Exactly. And he hates the Bolsheviks.”

  “So we need to find out more about him.”

  “Which is where you come in.”

  Fitz was delighted at the chance of helping to overthrow Lenin. He thought of many questions: How was he to find Semenov? The man was a Cossack, and they were notorious for shooting first and asking questions later: would he talk to Fitz, or kill him? Of course Semenov would claim he could defeat the Bolsheviks, but would Fitz be able to assess the reality? Was there any way to ensure he would be spending British money to good effect?

  The question he asked was: “Am I the right choice? Forgive me, but I’m a conspicuous figure, hardly anonymous even in Russia . . . ”

  “Frankly, we don’t have a wide choice. We need someone fairly high-level in case you get to the stage of negotiating with Semenov. And there aren’t many thoroughly trustworthy men who speak Russian. Believe me, you’re the best available.”

  “I see.”

  “It will be dangerous, of course.”

  Fitz recalled the crowd of peasants battering Andrei to death. That could be him. He repressed a fearful shudder. “I understand the danger,” he said in a level voice.

  “So tell me: will you go to Vladivostok?”

  “Of course,” said Fitz.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  May to September 1918

  Gus Dewar did not take easily to soldiering. He was a gangling, awkward figure, and he had trouble marching and saluting and stamping his feet the army way. As for exercise, he had not done physical jerks since his school days. His friends, who knew of his liking for flowers on the dining table and linen sheets on his bed, had felt the army would come as a terrible shock. Chuck Dixon, who went through officer training with him, said: “Gus, at home you don’t even run your own bath.”

  But Gus survived. At the age of eleven he had been sent to boarding school, so it was nothing new to him to be persecuted by bullies and ordered about by stupid superiors. He suffered a certain amount of mockery because of his wealthy background and careful good manners, but he bore it patiently.

  In vigorous action, Chuck commented with surprise, Gus revealed a certain lanky grace, previously seen only on the tennis court. “You look like a goddamn giraffe,” Chuck said, “but you run like one too.” Gus also did well at boxing, because of his long reach, although his sergeant instructor told him, regretfully, that he lacked the killer instinct.

  Unfortunately, he turned out to be a terrible shot.

  He wanted to do well in the army, partly because he knew people thought he could not hack it. He needed to prove to them, and perhaps to himself, that he was no wimp. But he had another reason. He believed in what he was fighting for.

  President Wilson had made a speech, to Congress and the Senate, that had rung like a clarion around the world. He had called for nothing less than a new world order. “A general association of nations must be formed under specific covenants for the purpose of affording mutual guarantees of political independence and territorial integrity to great and small states alike.”

  A league of nations was a dream for Wilson, for Gus, and for many others—including, rather surprisingly, Sir Edward Grey, who had originated the idea while he was British foreign secretary.

  Wilson had set out his program in fourteen points. He had spoken of reductions in armaments; the right of colonial people to a say in their own future; and freedom for the Balkan states, Poland, and the subject peoples of the Ottoman Empire. The speech had become known as Wilson’s Fourteen Points. Gus envied the men who had helped the president write it. In the old days he would have had a hand in it himself.

  “An evident principle runs through the whole program,” Wilson had said. “It is the principle of justice to all peoples and nationalities, and their right to live on equal terms of liberty and safety with one another, whether they be strong or weak.” Tears had come to Gus’s eyes when he had read these words. “The people of the United States could act upon no other principle,” Wilson had said.

  Was it really possible that the nations could settle their arguments without war? Paradoxically, that was something worth fighting for.

  Gus and Chuck and their machine-gun battalion traveled from Hoboken, New Jersey, on the Corinna, once a luxury liner, now converted to troop transport. The trip took two weeks. As second lieutenants, they shared a cabin on an upper deck. Although they had once been rivals for the affection of Olga Vyalov, they had become friends.

  The ship was part of a convoy, with a navy escort, and the voyage was uneventful, except that several men died of Spanish flu, a new illness that was sweeping the world. The food was poor: the men said the Germans had given up submarine warfare and now aimed to win by poisoning them.

  The Corinna waited a day and a half off Brest, on the northwest tip of France. They disembarked onto a dock crowded with men, vehicles, and stores, noisy with shouted orders and revving engines, busy with impatient officers and sweating stevedores. Gus made the mistake of asking a sergeant on the dock what was the reason for the delay. “Delay, sir?” he said, managing to make the word “sir” sound like an insult. “Yesterday we disembarked five thousand men, with their cars, guns, tents, and field kitchens, and transferred them to rail and road transport. Today we will disembark another five thousand, and the same tomorrow. There is no delay, sir. This is fucking fast.”

  Chuck grinned at Gus and murmured: “That’s told you.”

  The stevedores were colored soldiers. Wherever black and white soldiers had to share facilities, there was trouble, usually caused by white recruits from the Deep South; so the army had given in. Rather than mix the races on the front line, the army assigned colored regiments to menial tasks in the rear. Gus knew that Negro soldiers complained bitterly about this: they wanted to fight for their country like everyone else.

  Most of the regiment went on from Brest by train. They were not given passenger carriages, but crammed into a cattle truck. Gus amused the men by translating the sign on the side of a railcar: “Forty men or eight horses.” However, the machine-gun battalion had its own vehicles, so Gus and Chuck went by road to their camp south of Paris.

  In the States they had practised trench warfare with wooden rifles, but now they had real weapons and ammunition. Gus and Chuck, as officers, had each been issued with a Colt M1911 semiautomatic pistol with a seven-round magazine in the grip. Before leaving the States they had thrown away their Mountie-style hats and replaced them with more practical caps with a distinctive fore-and-aft ridge. They also had steel helmets the same soup-bowl shape as the British.

  Now blue-coated French instructors trained them to fight in cooperation with heavy artillery, a skill the United States Army had not previously needed. Gus could speak French, so inevitably he was assigned to liaison duties. Relations between the two nationalities were good, though the French complained that the price of brandy went up as soon as the doughboys arrived.

  The German offensive had continued successfully through April. Ludendorff had advanced so
fast in Flanders that General Haig said the British had their backs to the wall—a phrase that sent shock waves through the Americans.

  Gus was in no hurry to see action, but Chuck became impatient in the training camp. What were they doing, he wanted to know, rehearsing mock battles when they ought to be fighting real ones? The nearest section of German front was at the champagne city of Rheims, northeast of Paris; but Gus’s commanding officer, Colonel Wagner, told him that Allied intelligence was confident there would be no German offensive in that sector.

  In that prediction, however, Allied intelligence was dead wrong.

  { II }

  Walter was jubilant. Casualties were high, but Ludendorff’s strategy was working. The Germans were attacking where the enemy was weak, moving fast, leaving strong points behind to be mopped up later. Despite some clever defensive moves by General Foch, the new supreme commander of the Allied armies, the Germans were gaining territory faster than at any time since 1914.

  The biggest problem was that the advance was held up every time German troops overran stocks of food. They just stopped and ate, and Walter found it impossible to get them to move until they were full. It was the strangest thing to see men sitting on the ground, sucking raw eggs, stuffing their faces with cake and ham at the same time, or guzzling bottles of wine, while shells landed around them and bullets whistled over their heads. He knew that other officers had the same experience. Some tried threatening the men with handguns, but even that would not persuade them to leave the food and run on.

  That aside, the spring offensive was a triumph. Walter and his men were exhausted, after four years of war, but so were the French and British soldiers they encountered.

  After the Somme and Flanders, Ludendorff’s third attack of 1918 was planned for the sector between Rheims and Soissons. Here the Allies held a ridge called the Chemin des Dames, the Ladies’ Way—so named because the road along it had been built for the daughters of Louis XV to visit a friend.

  The final deployment took place on Sunday, May 26, a sunny day with a fresh northeasterly breeze. Once again, Walter felt proud as he watched the columns of men marching to the front line, the thousands of guns being maneuvered into position under harassing fire from French artillery, the telephone lines being laid from the command dugouts to the battery positions.

  Ludendorff’s tactics remained the same. That night at two A.M. thousands of guns opened up, firing gas, shrapnel, and explosives into the French lines on the summit of the ridge. Walter noticed with satisfaction that the French firing slackened off immediately, indicating that the German guns were hitting their targets. The barrage was short, in line with the new thinking, and at five forty A.M. it stopped.

  The storm troopers advanced.

  The Germans were attacking uphill, but despite that they met little resistance, and to Walter’s surprise and delight he reached the road along the top of the ridge in less than an hour. It was now clear daylight, and he could see the French retreating all along the downhill slope.

  The storm troopers followed at a steady speed, keeping pace with the rolling barrage of the artillery, but all the same they reached the river Aisne, in the cleft of the valley, before midday. Some farmers had destroyed their reaping machines and burned the early crops in their barns, but most had left in too much of a hurry, and there were rich rewards for the requisition parties in the rear of the German forces. To Walter’s astonishment, the retreating French had not even blown up the bridges over the Aisne. That suggested they were panicking.

  Walter’s five hundred men advanced across the next ridge during the afternoon, and made camp on the far side of the river Vesle, having advanced twelve miles in a single day.

  Next day they paused, waiting for reinforcements, but on the third day they advanced again, and on the fourth day, Thursday, May 30, having gained an amazing thirty miles since Monday, they reached the north bank of the river Marne.

  Here, Walter recalled ominously, the German advance had been halted in 1914.

  He vowed it would not happen again.

  { III }

  Gus was with the American Expeditionary Force at the Chateauvillain training area south of Paris on May 30 when the Third Division was ordered to help with the defense of the river Marne. Most of the division began to entrain, even though the battered French railway system might take several days to move them. However, Gus and Chuck and the machine guns set off by road immediately.

  Gus was excited and fearful. This was not like boxing, where there was a referee to enforce the rules and stop the fight if it got dangerous. How would he act when someone actually fired a weapon at him? Would he turn and run away? What would prevent him? He generally did the logical thing.

  Cars were as unreliable as trains, and numerous vehicles broke down or ran out of gas. In addition they were delayed by civilians traveling in the opposite direction, fleeing the battle, some driving herds of cows, others with their possessions in handcarts and wheelbarrows.

  Seventeen machine guns arrived at the leafy small town of Château-Thierry, fifty miles east of Paris, at six P.M. on Friday. It was a pretty little place in the evening sunshine. It straddled the Marne, with two bridges linking the southern suburb with the northern town center. The French held both banks, but the leading edge of the German advance had reached the northern city limits.

  Gus’s battalion was ordered to set up its armament along the south bank, commanding the bridges. Their crews were equipped with M1914 Hotchkiss heavy machine guns, each mounted on a sturdy tripod, fed by articulated metal cartridge belts holding 250 rounds. They also had rifle grenades, fired at a forty-five-degree angle from a bipod, and a few trench mortars of the British “Stokes” pattern.

  As the sun set, Gus and Chuck were supervising the emplacement of their platoons between the two bridges. No training had prepared them to make these decisions: they just had to use their common sense. Gus picked a three-story building with a shuttered café on the ground floor. He broke in through the back door and climbed the stairs. There was a clear view from an attic window across the river and along a northward-leading street on the far side. He ordered a heavy machine-gun squad to set up there. He waited for the sergeant to tell him that was a stupid idea, but the man nodded approval and set about the task.

  Gus placed three more machine guns in similar locations.

  Looking for suitable cover for mortars, he found a brick boathouse on the riverbank, but was not sure whether it was in his sector or Chuck’s, so he went looking for his friend to check. He spotted Chuck a hundred yards along the bank, near the east bridge, peering across the water through field glasses. He took two steps that way, then there was a terrific bang.

  He turned in the direction of the noise, and in the next second there were several more deafening crashes. He realized the German artillery had opened up when a shell burst in the river, sending up a plume of water.

  He looked again to where Chuck stood, just in time to see his friend disappear in an explosion of earth.

  “Jesus Christ!” he said, and he ran toward the spot.

  Shells and mortars burst all along the south bank. The men threw themselves flat. Gus reached the place where he had last seen Chuck and looked around in bewilderment. He saw nothing but piles of earth and stone. Then he spotted an arm poking out from the rubble. He moved a stone aside and found, to his horror, that the arm was not attached to a body.

  Was it Chuck’s arm? There had to be a way to tell, but Gus was too shocked to think how. He used the toe of his boot to push some loose earth aside ineffectually. Then he went down on his knees and began to dig with his hands. He saw a tan collar with a metal disc marked “US” and he groaned: “Oh, God.” He quickly uncovered Chuck’s face. There was no movement, no breath, no heartbeat.

  He tried to remember what he was supposed to do next. Whom should he contact about a death? Something had to be done with the body, but what? Normally you would summon an undertaker.

  He looked up to see a
sergeant and two corporals staring at him. A mortar exploded on the street behind them, and they all ducked their heads reflexively, then looked at him again. They were waiting for his orders.

  He stood up abruptly, and some of the training came back. It was not his job to deal with dead comrades, or even wounded ones. He was alive and well, and his duty was to fight. He felt a surge of irrational anger against the Germans who had killed Chuck. Hell, he thought, I’m going to fight back. He remembered what he had been doing: deploying the guns. He should get on with that. He would now have to take charge of Chuck’s platoon as well.

  He pointed at the sergeant in charge of the mortars. “Forget the boathouse, it’s too exposed,” he said. He pointed across the street to a narrow alleyway between a winery and livery stables. “Set up three mortars in that alley.”

  “Yes, sir.” The sergeant hurried off.

  Gus looked along the street. “See that flat roof, corporal? Put a machine gun there.”

  “Sir, pardon me, that’s an automobile repair shop, there may be a fuel tank below.”

  “Damn, you’re right. Well spotted, Corporal. The tower of that church, then. Nothing but hymnbooks under that.”

  “Yes, sir, much better, thank you, sir.”

  “The rest of you, follow me. We’ll take cover while I figure out where to put everything else.”

  He led them across the road and down a side street. A narrow pathway or lane ran along the backs of the buildings. A shell landed in the yard of an establishment selling farm supplies, showering Gus with clouds of powdered fertilizer, as if to remind him that he was not out of range.

  He hurried along the lane, trying when he could to shelter from the barrage behind walls, barking orders at his NCOs, deploying his machine guns in the tallest and most solid-looking structures and his mortars in the gardens between houses. Occasionally his subordinates made suggestions or disagreed with him. He listened, then made quick decisions.