by Peter Haden
He also enjoyed going to the house barn for his midday meal. Although the first time he had been mortified when the cook took one look at his oil-stained hands and told him to go and wash at the pump in the yard. She also looked pointedly at Johann, who ignored her and sat down at the long, wooden table.
Somehow Frau Brantis and her maid, Karin, a rather thin-faced woman in her twenties who was still single, managed to produce a delicious stew with mounds of potatoes and on rare occasions even his favourite Schweinshaxe, a large pork knuckle roasted till crispy on the outside and fork tender within. The fifteen or so hands and servant girls who sat down each day were grateful that the master was generous. Even though the rest of the country was barely out of recession, they ate extremely well.
Most of the staff were friendly to Jan, although the daughter of the house, Renate, exchanged only the occasional greeting, perhaps because he was a foreigner. The family did not eat with the staff and workers, although they took the same food in the dining room. Jan did not much take to Helga, one of the housemaids married to a farm worker. A rather stout woman with straw-blond hair, she seemed to think that those who did not work in the house – her husband included – were somehow inferior. Berndt, the husband, a coarse and surly individual who always sat with his wife at one end of the table, usually ate his meal and walked off without saying a word to anyone. Unlike Renate, he had never once bothered to speak to Jan.
Frau Brantis, though, a jolly, dark curly haired middle-aged lady whose size obviously reflected the portions she served, could not have been kinder. She had no children of her own, and took it upon herself to look after the young apprentice separated from his family. Often, before he left, she gave him an extra portion in a small pot ‘just to heat on the stove’. And there would be homemade bread thick with butter, or even a slice of apple tart that had not been produced at lunch but which he loved.
Most evenings Jan was alone, but he did not mind. He was free to walk the estate, which he enjoyed, and although he was last in line within the household, he usually got the Berliner Tageblatt to read, albeit that by the time it reached him the newspaper could be anything up to ten days old. ‘The master buys it,’ Frau Brantis told him, ‘’cause it doesn’t have to reprint propaganda. Then that Herr Goebbels can claim we have a free press.’
But politics played no part in Jan’s by now contented existence. He was learning a good trade and remained pretty much in ignorance of the Nationalsozialistische Deutsche Arbeiterpartei. But before long, the Nazis would raise a terrible cloud over his existence.
Chapter 2
France 1918 – The Western Front
‘Wie geht es Ihnen?’ asked the Leutnant, rather politely thought Günther, after he had saluted and reported for the first time to his platoon commander. ‘Welcome to Assault Detachment.’
‘I’m well, thank you, sir,’ he replied nervously. But the young officer seemed a lot less fierce than the Feldwebel, the company sergeant-major who had grabbed hold of him as soon as he arrived with the rest of the replacements. Günther’s overwhelming impression was that Leutnant Geiger was not tall but wiry – from his slim, athletic frame to the tight, blond curls. His rolled-back sleeves showed muscled, sinewy arms. Günther guessed that the Leutnant was only a few years older than he was, but lines striating sideways from his eyes gave him a war-weary, almost sardonic gaze. From his accent, Jan thought he came from Bavaria.
‘How old are you?’ his new commander asked. His voice sounded tired, almost resigned.
As it mattered, thought Günther. ‘Seventeen, sir,’ he said promptly. The officer looked at him for several seconds, as if seeing through the lie. Günther was a big lad for his age but it would be another month before he reached his next birthday and the legal age for enlistment. The recruiting staff sergeant hadn’t cared – despite the transfer of nearly fifty divisions from the Russian to the Western Front, the German army was desperately short of men. The Allies had their colonies to call on, and now America was entering the war, two massive advantages not conferred upon the forces of Kaiser Wilhelm II. Unless the German Army could secure victory in the forthcoming spring offensive, or at the very least a satisfactory armistice, it must inevitably lose the war. In 1914, a typical rifle platoon had eighty-one men divided into nine squads. Now it was down to forty-five.
‘I’ll put you with Obergefreiter Steinke’s squad,’ the officer went on. ‘He’s an old hand and he looks after his men. Besides, he’s down to seven, so he’ll be glad to have you, even if you are still wet behind the ears.’
An old hand he might have been, but like his new Leutnant, the corporal could only have been a couple of years older than Günther. They were seated on bales in a barn, several miles back from the front. The buildings were on a reverse slope so they couldn’t be seen by enemy artillery spotters. Günther had been made welcome and introduced to his new companions, but more importantly had been given his first hot drink of the day, even though the ersatz coffee was brewed from a mixture of beets and tree bark.
‘How are things at home?’ asked his NCO, by way of conversation.
‘Not great,’ admitted Günther, ‘although my folks farm, so we are better off than most. The British naval blockade has caused a lot of shortages. We have to make bread with potato flour – K-Brot, they call it. It’s supposed to be short for Kartoffeln, but the powers that be insist that it’s called Kriegsbrot. I suppose they think that “war bread” sounds better.’
‘Couldn’t you have stayed on the farm?’ asked Steinke, curiously.
Günther shrugged. ‘No point – they’ve taken all the horses, fertilizer is almost impossible to come by, and we’re barely producing more than half of what we were in 1914. It’s even worse in the cities – we’ve had people coming out at the weekends desperately trying to buy on the black market. Milk’s gone from twelve pfennigs a litre to nearly forty, but folks can’t afford it. Father’s switched to butter and cheese because they’re not regulated.’
In response to Steinke’s next question, Günther went on to explain why he had volunteered. When the authorities arrived unannounced to commandeer the farm horses, he had been out riding. Seeing that they had visitors, and knowing the way things were going, he’d hidden Grane in a nearby wood. Named for his colour, Günther loved the seventeen hands grey. It would have broken his heart to see him put to the lash pulling a gun carriage, or even worse. But too many of the farm hands knew he still had the horse, and sooner or later, word would have got out. Besides, grain was too precious and what little they had went to the livestock. So, in the end, Günther had decided that his best chance of keeping and looking after Grane was to enlist in the cavalry and take his precious horse with him. Although if he had been honest with himself, the thought of joining the army and taking part in the victory had also spurred him on. So, much against his parents’ wishes, he enlisted.
‘Didn’t work out then, did it?’ commented the Obergefreiter. It was as much a statement as a question.
Günther smiled ruefully. ‘Once I had signed on the dotted line, they told me that there wasn’t much call for cavalry. These days, apparently, it’s all trench warfare. It was either that or volunteer for the Stosstruppen.’
‘Wise choice,’ said Steinke laconically. ‘At least we get to be used in small groups as infiltrators. Better to break through the Tommy lines than spend your life knee deep in mud in the trenches hoping not to get blasted by their artillery barrage.’
‘They told me that we’re considered crack troops,’ volunteered Günther, ‘and that we even get better rations.’
‘Supposed to be true,’ replied Steinke. ‘But if what we get is better,’ – he emphasized the last word – ‘God knows what the poor sods in the trench warfare units have to put up with. By the way,’ he went on, ‘what happened to your horse?’
‘Not sure whose horse he is, these days,’ Günther said sadly. ‘The officer running the
training depot took a fancy to him whilst I was there and rode out on him most days. But when I was posted here, they put him with the other remounts. Because I was good with horses and could ride, I was detailed off to go on the train with the handling party. But we had to ride for the last part of the journey – two days, travelling by night to avoid the Camels and SE5As.’
‘And did you…’ asked Steinke, ‘avoid the Royal Flying Corps, I mean?’
Günther nodded. ‘When we got to the remount depot, I managed to speak to the Quartermaster in charge. I explained about Grane and he said he’d do his best to look after him. And if he couldn’t keep him at the depot for one of the staff officers, he’d try to allocate him away from the front.’
‘Which is where we’ll be going soon, if the rumours are true,’ Steinke told him. ‘The Leutnant thinks we’ll be crossing the line somewhere north of St Quentin, so I would clean your weapon then after we have eaten try to get as much rest as you can.’
Steinke smiled as Günther dutifully stripped and cleaned his Bergman MP18. He had been given only a few hours instruction on the Maschinenpistole during basic training, so he was a bit slow and clumsy with it. But the sub-machine gun was new into service that year and it was issued only to Stosstruppen. Its 32 round detachable drum magazine could be blasted off in seconds if you weren’t careful, but its fire rate of 500 rounds a minute made it ideal for clearing enemy trenches. On the range, Günther had been taught to use only short, three- or four-round bursts and he was pleased to be told that he was a good shot with tight groupings on target. Even so, as the prospect of using it in anger loomed ever nearer, he couldn’t help feeling apprehensive. When the time came he just hoped that he wouldn’t let his comrades, or himself, down.
On the twentieth of March, they were given two days’ worth of rations and the battalion moved up to a rest area just behind the Siegfriedstellung – or “Hindenburg line” – as Günther knew the British called it. They were about five miles north-east of St Quentin.
‘Why only two days?’ Günther had asked his NCO when they stopped for a break on the march.
‘Because in two days, either we’ll be through the Tommy lines and able to feed ourselves, or we’ll be dead,’ Steinke had told him. ‘They’re not going to give us rations we might not need,’ he added bluntly.
Günther almost winced at the grim reality. But they were soon only a half kilometre or so from the communication trenches. Miraculously, Steinke managed to find them some dry ground inside a clutch of shelled-out buildings. They ate cold rations and settled down for a damp few hours rest.
The toe of Steinke’s boot nudged him just before eight o’clock that evening. Günther stood up and shivered. He’d been warm enough with a blanket round his uniform, but his cape was wet from a thick, almost drizzling, mist. The platoon gathered round Leutnant Geiger. Günther felt anxious and tired from lack of sleep. But his platoon commander, he realised, had been up for even longer – he would already have attended the Company Commander’s orders group. Now he was holding his own.
‘Well men,’ he began, ‘tomorrow is the twenty-first of March and it’s the Kaiserschlacht, our Kaiser’s battle. The Americans are entering the war. Either we get through the British and French lines and roll up the enemy, or we lose. So, if you want to win, we have to go forward. Think of it like this: it’s the only way home.’ He had their attention. Several heads nodded in agreement.
‘H hour is zero-nine-forty. That’s when a mass of seventy-six first class German divisions will attack twenty-eight mixed quality British divisions across a front of eighty kilometres. From zero-four-thirty-five hours, the Tommies will be hit by a mix of high explosive shells together with chlorine, phosgene, lachrymatory and smoke. If the explosives don’t get them, the tear gas will irritate their eyes and when they take their masks off to rub them, as I can promise you they will, the other gases will hit their lungs. This will suit us, because unlike the French, who hold a thin line and keep most of the troops in reserve, intelligence tells us that the British have put about 30 percent of their manpower in the front line.’ He grinned again. ‘I hope they enjoy what we will offer them for breakfast.’ This produced an almost inaudible grunt of approval.
‘The barrage is a big bonus,’ he went on, as if determined to lift their confidence. ‘Unlike Herr Raschdorf here, who has only just consented to join us, most of you know that after a couple of hours of high explosive shelling the enemy will not know their arse from their elbow – it’s like just coming out from the effects of a powerful anaesthetic.’
Günther managed a rueful smile at the leg-pull – he knew he was the least experienced of all in the platoon. If it amused his comrades, or took their mind off what was coming for a few seconds, that was fine.
‘Also, we’re lucky here,’ Geiger continued. ‘The British took over this section of the line from the French. The trenches are not complete. The Tommies have only had time to put in some strong points, machine gun posts mostly, and there are gaps. All we have to do is find them.
‘Now remember, we are Stosstruppen. Our job is to get behind the lines and destroy their headquarters, their arms dumps and their communications. We bypass heavy resistance and leave it to the assault battalions behind us. But we have to be across “No-Man’s Land” and clear of their forward positions before the barrage begins, otherwise we’ll find ourselves underneath our own guns. Don’t dawdle – we can’t afford to hang about. I’m giving us three hours to cross our own line, an hour to be across the Tommies’ line and through, another two hours to be safely behind their lines, plus an extra hour for safety. We might not need all that time, but just in case, we move out in half an hour. And check your kit. I don’t want to hear a single bump or rattle.’
Geiger paused to let that sink in. He looked up. ‘This mist will hold, so at least the weather is on our side.
‘I’ll lead,’ he went on. And I want Obergefreiter Steinke’s Gruppe behind me. Unterfeldwebel Fuchs comes next with the light Minnenwurfer and Flammenwurfer teams. The other Gruppen follow on in line astern – the usual order. We shouldn’t have to worry about the flanks in this weather’ – he raised his head again to the thick, swirling mist – ‘so we concentrate on getting through.’
Günther’s admiration for his platoon commander went up in spades. Leutnant Geiger could legitimately have commanded from alongside his Unterfeldwebel and the mortar and flame thrower sections, but he was taking point – the most dangerous position of all. His task was to lead them behind the British lines. And it was a safe bet that the Leutnant knew his job.
The Siegfriedstellung had been built as a precaution just over a year ago. But the Germans had been forced to retreat behind it in 1917. As they advanced through the communication trenches, Günther began to appreciate the scale of the defensive position. It was not a single line but several, one behind the other, for a depth of about five kilometres. Duckboards covered the bottom of the trenches, but even so, the going, through water and glutinous mud, had been slow and tough. The stench was appalling. By the time they reached the shallower, front line with its pill boxes, machine guns and barbed wire entanglements, Günther was gagging and exhausted.
At twenty-five minutes past nine, Leutnant Geiger led his platoon through prepared gaps in the wire. From time to time star shells from both sides lit up the night, but the mist was so thick that visibility was down to a few yards. Often, they stumbled or fell as an unseen shell hole halted their progress. The stink from the mud was still dreadful – this was the ground of the first battle of the Somme in 1916. As ordered, Günther was on Steinke’s right flank and a yard or so behind him. They advanced in a line of tight, three-man arrowhead formations, with strict instructions not to lose sight of the man in front. Geiger was on his own and at point. But there was hardly any ambient light. Apart from Steinke and the man behind him, Günther couldn’t see a thing. The sound of machine gun fire came from and left an
d right – enemy Lewis guns, presumably – but the noise was sporadic. Mostly, the silence was frightening. His heart was thumping.
Geiger hit the mud. Steinke followed. Men behind him did the same all the way to the rear. The Unterfeldwebel came forward to within earshot of his platoon commander then ran back. When he returned, there were two men with him, connected by an umbilical hose. The man in front carried what looked like a long pipe with a slight flare at the front end. His comrade had a tank strapped to his back containing just over seventy litres of highly flammable liquid. They both lay down just behind the platoon commander.
Geiger pointed but Günther couldn’t hear what was whispered. The two-man crew leopard-crawled forward and slightly right for a few metres, then an almighty jet of flame spewed out. At its tip, drops of burning liquid showered down. Not a shot was fired, but Günther heard the most distressed, animal-like screaming that seemed to go on forever, but in reality, probably lasted only for about ten seconds. Then there was silence. The Leutnant stood up and resumed his advance, MP18 at the ready. But there was no need. The enemy Lewis gun detachment had sheltered in a circle of sandbags. On the right flank, Günther passed closer than his platoon commander. Uniforms were still smouldering; exposed skin and flesh had charred back to the bone. There was a sickly-sweet smell of roast pork. Günther dry-retched. But at the same time, he realized that if Leutnant Geiger hadn’t spotted the pill box and neutralized it, he would probably have been their nearest and first target. At that range, they wouldn’t have missed. Günther was not a religious man, but he crossed himself, and not for the first time, gave thanks that Geiger knew his trade.