27 February 1907, Darnica Camp near Kiev
Cossack whips and guards' batons were enough to make some men flinch, but Corporal Bauer was made of sterner stuff. His parish priest hit harder than most Russian soldiers, as he had pointed out to their captors, grinning with bloody lips. Apparently, it had worked. At least it had given his men heart, which was important on the long, cold marches along muddy tracks through the Russian countryside. After their capture, they had been separated from their officers, and the men looked to NCOs for leadership. Bauer, at least, had provided it through the marching and the train rides, and held them together as they were walked through the streets of the city, greater and more impressive than Augsburg and far grander than even Munich. Few of them had seen anything like it.
Of course they weren't being led around town to show them the sights. Bauer had been worried about angry civilians assaulting him and his men at every stop, but so far, he had seen little of it. Most villagers en route had been unimpressed, sometimes curious and annoying, but also ready to help out with food or warmth in return for some of the few material possessions they had been able to retain. The official ration allowance of 25 kopeks per day hardly ever materialised, and but for swapping their buttons, pocket knives and canteens, they would have gone hungry many a day.
The city was different. People in the street gave them hostile stares. Some boys spat or threw snowballs, though the novelty quickly wore off. Once, someone tried to kick out the legs under a German who was having difficulty walking in torn-up boots, but a cossack guard discouraged him with a blow of the riding whip. Say what you wanted about the cossacks, but they were fair-minded bullies who'd just as readily pick on their own people as on the enemy. A prisoner in a hussar's uniform fell back to help the man up, and the guards allowed him. Bauer gave the retreating spectator a baleful stare.
“Fucking civilians.” he said between gritted teeth. All the troubles a soldier could have in this world started with civilians. They might be well-meaning and clueless, or outright greedy, vicious, conniving bastards. Or just taking cheap shots, like this little bully. Altogether, Corporal Bauer would have been happier to share black bread and water with a Russian frontovik than caviar and champagne with fat, oblivious civilians, and most of the men in his squad shared that view. Not that caviar was a likely prospect anytime soon.
At the end of their long, convoluted walk, the men were marched into a vast wooden hall that looked like it had been built to exercise a regiment in. Compared with what they had seen of Russian military organisation, this was very impressive, and it took a few pointed admonitions to stop curious staring. A number of large ovens along the walls radiated heat that was very welcome after the long trudge through the snow, and in two roped-off areas towards the back, some men were already eating. That boded well for the day, at least. In Bauer's experience, the Russians weren't actively bad when they had their shit together. You just couldn't trust them not to forget you.
An officer walked up to the column and ceremoniously received the paperwork from their guards.
“All right.” he mumbled in Russian, flipping through the list, then switched to heavily accented German. “All right. You will now be processed. Stand in line and report as your names are called.” He flipped a page. “There is a man from Thionville here, one Private Berger. Who is he?”
A brief silence followed. Being called by name was disconcerting, But you couldn't well just pretend you didn't exist – even the Russians had that much paperwork in order – so after a few awkward moments, an infantryman shuffled forward.
“You are...?”
“Private Berger from Diedenhofen, Sir.”
“Excellent.” The Russian seemed content with the answer. “And we want Privates Wachmann from Metz and Brückner from Saarguemines. Are there any other men from Alsace-Lorraine here?”
A handful of prisoners from other parts of the column stepped forward hesitantly. It looked like six in all.
“Well, then.” The officer rubbed his hands together briefly and cleared his throat. “All you men who were born in Alsace-Lorraine will be aware you are eligible for French citizenship. If you wish to claim it now, we can make the necessary arrangements to have you repatriated.”
An angry murmur rose from the crowd. The faces of the few men addressed registered surprise, indignation and guarded hope.
“And what...?” one of them asked finally.
“And nothing. The Russian Empire has no quarrel with France. You are considered pressed men in the involuntary service of our enemy, and citizens of the French Republic. You will be repatriated through the consular service as soon as this can be arranged. Until then, you will be our guests. Anyone?”
Agitated whispering filled the air. “You'll never get to go home again!” one of the group hissed at another. In the end, none moved.
“All right,” the lieutenant said patiently, “take your time to consider the question.” He gestured to a soldier who pointed the six men to one side of the hall. At a table there, three more German prisoners were seated drinking tea. After a second's hesitation, they went, followed by angry and envious stares.
“Now to you.” He turned to face Bauer's squad. “You men are Bavarians. You will come to understand, I hope, that we bear the Kingdom of Bavaria no ill will. The tide of history has caused our nations to be at war. Russia has no claims against Bavaria nor any grudges. All Bavarian prisoners of war will be conveyed to camps in European Russia where they will be assigned to agricultural or industrial labour details. After the war, you will all the nearer to your home.”
“After the war, Germany's borders will sure be a lot nearer to us.” one of the prisoners snickered. The officer pretended not to notice.
“As to the Prussian prisoners,” he gestured to another section of the column, “they will be held in camps in Turkestan.” He pointedly ignored the angry outbursts from the crowds and repeated the instructions. “All Bavarians, Badensians, Wurttembergers, Hessians and Mecklenburgers, I don't think we have any of those, will go over to that side of the hall for processing.” He pointed to a corner where benches and tables already held some POWs near two large brick ovens. “All Prussians and Saxons will be processed in the west quarter of the camp, in tents.”
04 March 1907, Nandanga, Mlahi Province, Ostafrika
The sound of individual raindrops pattering on tent roof, the soft, squelching, sucking noises that red earth made when it closed around boots and refused to let go, the pervasive background hiss that filled the misty air when fine rain struck leaves and grass, and the moisture that seeped into every piece of clothing and napery - Major Johannes's world had become defined by water. Water, and madness. Sighing, he looked out again over the camp of what passed for his army – Abteilung Süd, or Abteilung Johannes, as Ludendorff had taken to calling it. The man liked to feed egos. Truth be told, it did not look like much. To the right of his tent, 100 Askari had pitched theirs, They were arranged unobtrusively, but clearly around the two machine guns they carried. Twenty white men, volunteers from the province, with their coloured servants forming a kind of makeshift Boer kommando were encamped on his left, infuriatingly undisiplined, but picturesquely sporting huge beards and heavy large-bore rifles. To their front, the main force of the Abteilung was spread out in what had been a meadow yesterday: hundreds of Hehe and Wakamba warriors, some Wayao, and many individual volunteers from the coastal tribes, including some Arabs. The inland tribes had been drawn mostly by Solf's promise of abolishing corvee labour and chombe tax in return for their services, a move Johannes profoundly disagreed with. The coastal men, though, in many cases burned with a desire to avenge themselves on the Russian occupiers. That, he could relate to. A pity that the Hehe and Wayao were by far the most potent fighting force he had. There was simply no way they could be spared. As it was, the idea was crazy.
Well, here he was, in the middle of the Great Rains, trying to move a small army across the southern uplands without being noticed too soon. There might be a time in this country when strategic mobility was easy to achieve, but this wasn't it. Then, he would somehow contrive to surprise the Russian garrison in Lindi and retake the harbour, from where, situation permitting, he would mount offensive operations north towards Kilwa in support of the main thrust of Ludendorff's own Askari and rugaruga force towards Daressalam. All of which to be achieved, somehow, despite the pitiful state of his troops' discipline and their inferiority in arms and equipment. It was easily enough to make you doubt the existence of a merciful God. Two machine guns and a few hundred modern rifles against – if you could trust their spies – two hundred Siberian rifles and the crews of two torepedo boats, plus the vessels' guns in Lindi harbour. You could only hope they were liberally plied with vodka the day of the attack.
Or otherwise occupied.
Major Johannes began to think of a plan.
06 March 1907, Paris
Many readers have contacted us with the question whether it is prudent to purchase Russian bonds at this time. To this, your correspondent replies that it is not only wise, it is patriotic, an act of virtue as well as of financial wisdom. The latest issue, now open for subscription at the Paris exchange, not only promises a regular 5% yield over ten years, but also provides for an additional 2% p.a. interest to be paid from reparations in the event of a victory. No other national bonds in circulation today can match the profitability of the Russian government's obligations, and subscribers must be aware that in addition to partaking of both the safety of a major European power's credit at high yields, they are doing a service to their country and the world. Their country, for France profits from every blow struck against her enemy. Though the government at this time does not see fit to join in the great struggle against Germany, Russia is fighting it, and with every passing day the balance of power tilts more towards Paris and away from Berlin. Thus even an unfavourable outcome of the conflict will have achieved much for the cause of France in the world. The worlds, for Germany's baleful influence over the ancient heart of European civilisation shall diminish. The threat of Teutonic domination and the concomitant destruction of all human values in the name of might and efficacy shall be broken, and the torch-bearer of true culture replace the firebrand of kultur at the head of the continent and thus, of the world. The ancient foe in Berlin, enemy to the Church and the truth, friend of the Jew and the Atheist, suffers today with every franc that buys Russian munitions, Russian guns and swords for the troops that are still fighting on German soil. Should a patriotic Frenchman buy Russian bonds? Indeed, until the day, perhaps not too far, that he may put his money in war bonds of his own government, he must!
(Libre Parole)
07 March 1907, Berlin
Black as night, hot as hell and bitter as damnation: At least the coffee was still good. Since the start of the war, the pleasures of the Cafe Bauer had been sorely diminished otherwise. The rich confections and creamy cakes that had lately drawn so many ladies were distinctly out of vogue even among those who had the ration coupons required. Champagne, wines and spirits similarly were rising in price and dropping in public regard, both matters of equal concern to the brittle honour and comparatively slender purse of general staff officers. Being seen to indulge in such frivolities was best left to those with little sense of shame and face to lose. But coffee, the real stuff, was still to be had at very reasonable prices, and the rations were generous enough for even the hardiest addicts in uniform. Rumour had it that the emperor himself had seen to this. General von Falkenhayn was, at least, willing to consider the possibility. It certainly did not make any economic sense, but he was grateful for all that. Sighing, he sipped from his cup and turned back to Lieutenant Colonel von Seeckt seated opposite him. The two men had secured a window table overlooking Unter den Linden, still elegant in wartime, if somewhat deserted in the chilly winds of early spring.
“My consolation is that if it does go wrong, at least they cannot put me out to pasture. I'll have to be given some kind of command.”
The two exchanged a thin, cheerless smile. Being stuck in Berlin was an awful fate for ambitious officers on the make. Careers and reputations were made at the front. For all the importance of their work, it was unglamorous.
“Do you think?” Von Seeckt shook his head. “If that works, maybe I can come up with the next grand strategic scheme. I wouldn't say no to a front command.”
“More likely a depot somewhere in the Ruhr, I'm afraid.” Falkenhayn replied. “Or maybe training volunteers. Doesn't appeal, does it? If the offensive fizzles out, that's where I'm headed.”
“It hardly seems fair.” Seeckt remarked. “It's not like von der Goltz won't happily take credit for the Southern Arc. How many hours did it take you to talk him into it?”
Falkenhayn wagged his head. “A fair few. But to be honest, talking him into the siege of Ivangorod was harder. Now that we have control of it, we have to use it, and the best way is to strike south. He's stubborn, but he is a brilliant strategist. In the end, he had to come round. Now it's his plan. Well, unless it goes wrong,. Then it'll have been my idea.”
Sipping his coffee, von Seeckt let the operation unfold in his mind: The thrust down the Vistula toward Lublin, cutting through the Russian defenses into the rear area of the Carpathian front. The pivot east, threatening the entire battlefront hinged on Przemysl and Lemberg, forcing the Russians to defend both sided on longer and more perilous supply lines. Success would put the conquered fortresses into an untenable position, shorten the front by potentially hundreds of kilometres, and free up the four Bavarian corps for operations north, into East Prussia and Eastern Poland. If the Russians did not retreat, they could cut off entire armies in their pocket. As strategy, it was nothing short of brilliant. The kind of thing Schlieffen and Moltke had drawn up. The German armies were weeks away from what might turn out to be the greatest victory in military history, assuming the enemy cooperated.
There was that.
“So, what are you going to do with your black eagle, then, general?” he asked flippantly.
Falkenhayn shrugged. “Goltz will get it. Victory has too many fathers for anyone to remember the old man sitting behind a desk in Lichtenfelde. But maybe I can at least get away from playing with toys.”
09 March 1907, Bialystok
The tiniest green buds on the hazel hedge intimated the promise of spring, warmth and sunshine, of dry earth and green grass. General Alexey Brusilov gently stroked the soft, yielding knots on the branches still grey with winter's touch. In the olden days, long before there had been a Czar or even a Russia, the women of his people had welcomed the return of life by adorning themselves with flowers, dancing in the strengthening sunlight and giving sacrifice to the land. With the sun would come fertility, rebirth, the grain that would feed them over the next long winter. This year, spring would bring battle and death.
Abruptly, the general turned and looked over the broad expanse of the castle yard, now filled to capacity with men exercising their close-order drill. In a few weeks, many of them would be dead. How many, or who, was not his to know. His was to ensure that they did not die in vain, and that he would do. After long negotiations, eternal petitioning and futile attempts to pull strings, the aid and confidence of Grand Prince Nikolai had finally placed him in a command that would allow him to make a real difference. All through the long winter at Gatchina and Moscow, he had felt himself confined, chained to his desk, a pointless oracle to gilded staff peacocks. The orders to repair to Bialystok had come as a liberation. The mission, all the more, was of supreme importance. He had hammered out the strategy in snowbound Moscow with Nikolai and his staff. Now, the time to prove his insight and skill was at hand.
The situation, to him, was crystal clear: The Germans had taken Ivangorod. The only reason they would have expended so much manpower and ammunition to that end was to use it as a springboard against the East Prussian front's hinterland. Grodno and Kovno would now lie open to their attack, a vicious sickle cut that would render the entire southern salient untenable and force the army to evacuate not only Prussia, but even large parts of Lithuania. He had warned tirelessly against this chink in the iron armour of their battlefront and finally, had been listened to. Through January and February, in freezing snow and mud, they had marched regiment after regiment, dragging guns and panye wagons along near-impassable roads, to build up their defensive position. Bialystok might not have been built a fortress, but it had teeth now. Hundreds of thousands of teeth, spread out over a deep network of trenches and outposts waiting for the Germans to crash into them, tangle their advancing spearheads in their labyrinth and break apart into a series of painful, bloody battles. This would be the decisive moment of the spring offensive and might well be the hinge on which the war turned. With the attack blunted and their freshly trained volunteer troops bloodied and demoralised, how would the Germans stand up to the thrust that was to take them from the north, when Grand Duke Mikhail's army moved to the reconquest of Königsberg? Brusilov feared they might acquit themselves all too well, but that was beyond his power to influence. What he needed to do was make it possible for that attack to take place at all, and to that end, he needed to hold Bialystok.
The troops now marching across the narrow bridge filled him with confidence. They were Siberians, battle-hardened against the Japanese and ready to stare down whatever fate would throw at them. Oh, they did not look as pretty as the Preobrazhenskoye or march as smartly as the Patriotic Union. But they fought. He would never know how much it had cost the grand prince to get him this many of these veterans – some of whom recalled him from service at the other end of the Empire – but he understood Moscow well enough to realise the immense debt of gratitude he owed his commander and protector. Fortress artillery and field guns, machine guns and rifles, even the newfangled flame projectors and heavy mortar tubes now coming out of the factories, no matter what it was, they had it. The men were training daily, drilling, marching, practising, readying themselves mentally and physically for the clash with the fearsome German. Brusilov had studied the tactics of his opponent, especially the darling of the English newspapers, Mackensen. A daring commander, no doubt he would seek to exploit the opportunity he had been given. His salient on the Bug river would be the jumping-off point. Like a fellow cavalryman, he would be thinking in terms of space, surprise and speed. Brusilov would need to counter with tenacity, adaptability and strategic depth. This could, in many ways, be the battle of the quintessentially German and the quintessentially Russian, the hard, fast, quickly spent blow against the slow, deliberate, irresistible force. The papers would no doubt love it.
His mind wandering, Brusilov considered the problem of counteroffensive. Would it be possible? He hoped it would. Mackensen's blow would fall somewhere, in unknown force – they still had not figured out the numbers of his army. Once it had ground to a halt, the Russians would need to break his front and push forward in their turn. How? They could not hope to concentrate enough force from their defensive stance. A series of probing attacks, reinforced as they succeeded, sounded like the best solution. Fast, hard and unpredictable. The Germans had a nasty way of getting inside your defensive reach, taking their next step before you could figure out how to counter their last. But if you did not know what you would be doing a week from now, if you rolled with the tide of battle, your army a creature of a hundred heads and independent minds united by purpose alone – then they could not do that.
All of this would be easier if only he had some way of knowing how many troops Mackensen would deploy. The few reports from the salient indicated the Germans were hiding them well. Unites were converging on Ivangorod, but few were visibly headed up the Bug. Soon enough, they would know, but Brusilov hoped it would not be too late for too many of his men.
11 March 1907, Breslau
Colonel Saalfeldt had always expected that his duties would take him to unpleasant places. He had steeled his resolve throughout his career, determined to face enemy fire, disease and privation. The thought of finding himself face to face, indeed making common cause, with moral degenerates, though, had never before featured largely in his imagination. And yet here he was, trying his best to stay businesslike and calm as he shook the hand of this Dr Neisser – at least he was a medical man of sorts, though the whiff of scandal was strong enough to ensure he would never be ennobled or invited to court – and at least smile at that harridan he had brought. A Social Democrat, a Jew, a shameless woman, it was enough to make your stomach turn. Had it not been for the fact that these were the people who had the best understanding of prevention of venereal disease – surely, no proper officer would have dignified them with as much as a nod. The things you faced for the fatherland!
“Thank you for coming, Dr Neisser”, the colonel said, “And you, Mrs Fürth. I appreciate your cooperation. Nonetheless, please understand that this has been brought on by the exigencies of war and cannot mean that I or the government condone your usual activities.”
Henriette Fürth smiled thinly. “I assure you, colonel,” she replied acidly, “that the sentiment is entirely mutual.”
The officer was visibly taken aback. Neisser chuckled. That was a common reaction to his fellow activist on the part of conservative men.
“Madam, how...” He got no further.
“Colonel, I should leave you under no illusion that I approve of anything you do. I know what you think of me and my activities, and in truth I think little more of your profession of human butchery and oppression. You may get your medals for slaying men while I went to prison for trying to save women, and yet you think yourself so much above me. But now your precious soldiers are coming down with venereal disease before they get to do your killing work, you need our expertise. Very well, you shall have it. But not my approval. I am sure we can work on this basis, can we not?”
The doctor's muted laughter accompanied Saalfeldt's sputtering struggle to reply. “I hope you do not mid, colonel. Mrs Fürth is rather aggressive, but she does have a point. Now, as regards our assistance in education for the troops, the German Society for the Prevention of Venereal Disease is at your disposal. As we have discussed, there are extant brochures that can be distributed as they are to military medical staff and common soldiers, or rewritten for field purposes.”
He handed over a thin booklet printed on cheap paper. “Der Schutz der Familie” the title read. “Medical and moral considerations for a healthy family life.” Colonel Saalfeldt shuddered. He had read the filth before. It was a wonder that – woman could bear to look at it without blushing. But them, she had written it! He was not sure it was fit for giving to soldiers, let alone the nubile maidens and young wives it was designed for. But circumstances required quick action.
“I believe this will take rewriting,” he said, “for use by the military. But until then, we will use the material you have. Your pictorial material seems especially suitable.”
Mrs Fürth smiled sweetly. “Thank you colonel. I will be glad to hold speeches in front of the troops as may be required. But I would also ask you not to entirely neglect the education of the female sex.”
“The female sex, Mrs Fürth?” the colonel snapped. “We have no women soldiers.”
“No, Sir., But there are a large number of women factory workers and volunteers, many of whom are inspired by patriotic sentiment and liable to grant a departing soldier more wishes than they would in time of peace.” Henriette Fürth scowled. “Will you risk leaving them ignorant and infectious to satisfy your idea of propriety, colonel?”
“That is beyond my purview.” Saalfeldt replied curtly, taking refuge in the oldest of bureaucratic bastions. “You will have to take it up with the War Economy Committee.”
The glance that Mrs Fürth shot him left no doubt that she would. Dr Neisser leaned forward.
“Well, then. Now that we have solved this matter, there is another consideration. I have been forwarded a new design pf prophylactic developed by one Julius Fromm, a Berlin chemist. I believe it to be far superior in all respects to anything I have previously seen.” He fumbled in his pocket to produce a packet of rolled-up rubber sheaths in foil envelopes. “Of course, there would be the matter of mass production if the army decided to purchase them.”
The colonel almost recoiled. “What is the cost?” he enquired. “And how much better are they?”
“Almost complete safety at very little loss of sensitivity.” Neisser stated authoritatively. “Introducing them universally in military brothels” - another pained expression crossed the colonel's face - “could reduce venereal disease transmission to negligible figures. That is, of course, assuming the men could be persuaded to use them. Currently, the price of a packet of three prophylactics would come to 53 pfennige, but I am certain that this could be reduced if mass production were adopted and supply properly organised. The process is patented, but the manufacturer would make it available to the army at no charge.”
Even perverts, then, had a sense of patriotism. Saalfeldt wondered if that Fromm fellow would get some kind of medal for his sacrifice. The way the world was going, he would not be surprised.
13 March 1907, Langensalza Camp
Frederic Bonvoisin had not had high expectations of German institutional cuisine. Geneva might have been remote from the heartlands of French culinary culture, but it was French enough to imbue a man with an appreciation of good eating. What he had set in front of him now made him doubt not so much its wholesomeness as its fundamental nature as food, in the broadest definition of the term. There was, he felt compelled to admit, meat in it, greyish, fibrous lumps and pieces of gristle and sinew boiled to the slippery, yielding consistency of rotting fruit. Beyond this, the slimy, soupy liquid was a mystery to him.
“What in heaven's name is this?” he exclaimed, more harshly than he had intended.
“Rations, Mr Bonvoisin.” Major Holtke answered curtly. Bonvoisin had come to loathe the man. Fat, heavy-jowled and short-tempered, he seemed to resent the very presence of Red Cross staff in his camp, taking even the mildest criticism as a personal insult. “The prisoners in the camp receive the same rations as rear-echelon troops performing light labour. There is bread, half a loaf per man, and potatoes, meat, vegetables, you see, onions, cabbage and turnips, legumes, here are the peas, fat and oats, these at their own request. Cooked to be safe and easy to eat.”
“In the same pot?” Bonvoisin picked up the bread loaf again. It was dense, heavy and sticky, but did not seem particularly repulsive. People outside the camp ate this kind of bread. He had – regretfully – done so himself at restaurants and hotels on his journey through Germany. “You do contract out for the bread, though, right?”
“Well, yes. We don't have ovens in the camp, so we have to purchase the bread from local bakeries. But we have an otherwise fully equipped kitchen.”
The inspector had feared as much. “Staffed by German guards?”
“Of course.” Holtker puffed. “We could hardly trust the prisoners with knives and cleavers!”
Bonvoision refrained from pointing out that trusting the same men with axes, picks, sledgehammers and saws seemed to bother nobody. He took a moment's pause to regain his composure by jotting down notes in his book, snapped it shut and rose to his feet. There was clearly no call to actually taste the vile slop the camp commander had doled out to his charges.
“Major, I am afraid I will have to make serious representations about the management of your camp to the Committee.” he said.
“Sir, we did point out the difficulties of our situation.” That was Doctor Siebold, the camp physician. He was more apologetic that confrontational, but hardly more pleasant than Holtke. “Obtaining supplies the army can use in the middle of a long war....”
“Doctor, I am sure you have, and I have made full allowance for it. But even if you cannot provide the men with mattresses and cushions, where is the difficulty in supplying them with straw to make paliasses and shoes?” The lack of proper footwear had shocked him especially. Some of the men shared a pair of straw shoes or wooden clogs among five or six. German soldiers were infamous for their habit of stealing boots. “Now, assuming you are willing to make improvements, I would suggest first of all to allow the prisoners themselves to supply their foods and allow them materials to produce such things as cannot be provided for them. I am aware that there are things you cannot help.”
He gestured over the hastily erected lines of barracks, paint already peeling away from the few places where it had been applied and gaps opening in the walls and roofs put together from inadequately seasoned lumber.
“But you need to make greater efforts to address the issues you can. I shudder to think what fate would awaits your charges if large numbers were to be added at one time.”
Major Holtke nodded, with visible hesitation. His grunt of farewell might be interpreted as a polite gesture if you read the slurred syllables benevolently. Doktor Siebold, by contrast, looked worried. Bonvoisin hoped it had helped a little. If the camp really were to receive large contingents of new prisoners, the death toll in disease could well be horrible.
17 March 1907, Mbaha, Ostafrika
...It is a rousing sight, watching the native troops ford the Wami river in full flood. Of course Solf the old Fabius kept nattering at me that only a madman would risk troop movements during the long rains. But every great soldier must have a bit of a madman in him, a fact that too many civilians fail to be alive to. We have made ample use of the preparation time the hesitancy of the enemy has given us, and waiting for the dry season in the safety of Kilimatinde would be criminally stupid. And now I know what manner of men it is I command. The rains and the mud have taken the measure of my troops, and I am well content.
No man who has trained for the mannered ballet of a European war can fully fathom what it is like in its raw state. In the old days, our ancestors captured something of its exhilaration, its fierce power and rejuvenating spirit in the songs that landsknechts went into battle with. I rarely though much of then on garrison duty, but now I begin to fathom their meaning. My men are in all regards landsknechts, as were my great-grandfathers, and they, too, sing with their hearts on their lips and their swords in their hands. It is impossible for a man's heart to be unmoved by the voices that drift up to the grey skies at night, or the chants that accompany them on their interminable roads down to Daressalaam. For all the rugaruga may lack in soldiery, they are fighters, and that, ultimately, is what turns a battle. You need but few brains to lead a great many bodies. Tonight, as I passed by the sentries on my way to my tent, I saw such men stand in the rains, a young Masai warrior and a grizzled Askari sergeant,. One in the fine khakis and tall cap, the other wrapped in his native blanket and cowskin cloak, his rifle studded with silver pins and his assegai shining brightly. Any man in my old regiment would have been griping or bellyaching, but these two, they were smiling. My interpreter told me later they were talking of what they would do with the money they expected to take off dead Russians. That is the quality of men that Frundsberg took across the Alps to Pavia and Rome. They are prickly of their honour and light with their fingers, and woe betide the fool civilian who gainsays their will, but for all that, they will conquer all hell if a man were found to lead them who feared not Lucifer. I shall be that man, providence willing.
That, my dear friend, is ultimately why I chose to leave the majority of our white volunteers with Johannes and Solf. They are good men, no doubt, after the manner of the landsturm, stout of heart and dutiful. They will do Solf a power of good as he defends the railway line. But for the kind of work I am contemplating, you need a different calibre of warrior. As we at home draft the 20-year-old youth, when they still feel the heat of their blood and know in their hearts they are invincible and deathless, so have I in effect called a ver sacrum among the black youth of this country and assembled under my banner all the young men who will more happily carry a gun for a merry season than a hoe for forty cheerless years. And I shall give them good cheer when we storm into Daressalaam, however the Russians may think to stop us. I do not deny that the land is made to suffer for their spiritedness. The askari are champion plunderers, organised and systematic, they can pick a village clean in ten minutes. What they do not take, the rugaruga will, often burdening the impressed porters with it until our next camp. But for all that, I could not trust my life or my victory to the shrinking violets that a harsher school of discipline makes of the black man. This is what they are, and what they are is glorious. The old poets spoke of this when they wrote “Im Land herrscht König Tod”. Very well, then: guard thyself, Russian, the landsknecht cometh! And Heia Safari to the shore!
(Letter by General Ludendorff to General Mackensen)
19 March 1907, Markuszov, on the road to Lublin
It is impossible to describe to the reader who has not seen it unfold with his own eyes the scale upon which the Germans make war. Even those who have witnessed the battles of the recent Russo-Japanese War in their full scope are liable to fail to grasp the full extent of the developments. Your correspondent today is seated beside a road in Poland which he is obliged not to disclose for reasons of secrecy, in the morning mist rising from the muddy soil, watching the entire horizon as far as the eye can see erupt in a semicircle of fire reflected garishly on the low clouds. The thunder of distant artillery merges into the sound of wind, rustling leaves and tramping boots to form an ever-present drone that, while intolerable to the untutored ear, becomes nigh-unnoticeable to the men exposed to it for even a few days. We know not, of course, nor have any way of ascertaining how many guns the German army has deployed on this front, but it is abundantly clear that it is a number beyond anything that has been seen in the history of warfare. There must be many hundred batteries alike to that observed earlier today, with heavy field guns manned by the stolid, bearded artillerymen the German army seems to produce in unlimited number.
Equally unimaginable to the gentle reader accustomed to the historical scope of battlefields confined by the marching range of infantry corps is the range over which the battle is being fought today, a theatre of operations unfolding over distances that no one man can oversee or control. It is testament to the remarkable skill and capacity for planning on the part of the German officer corps that such operations should prove able to be conducted at all, let alone with such success as they evidently are, For the third day now, German columns have been marching south and east, towards the great Russian garrison city of Lublin and onwards to the relief of the Austrian forces engaged hotly in the Carpathian mountains. This morning still, the unnumbered lines of dust-blue warriors are trudging towards the arc of fire that lights up the low-hanging clouds. And most remarkably, perhaps, was the encounter yesterday of your correspondent with a brigade of black-coated fighting men with the armbands of the Polish National Army and the beards and forelocks familiar in men of the Mosaic race. These were the very men of international renown, the fighters of the Jewish Brigade who, as they volubly attested to yours truly, will from this day on nevermore bear the ignominy of tyranny and prejudice, and resolve to do battle and die as men ere they would live as slaves. This morning, a large body of Russian prisoners was marched past towards the west, perhaps – it proved impossible to ascertain – the fruit of this resolution already.
…
(New York World)
21 March 1907, Berlin, Gewerbeamt
“Well, if you are looking for dragons to slay, this should be right up your alley.” Commissioner Dorn looked his young colleague in the eye across the desk and smiled sourly. “But I assure you that nobody will thank you.”
Referendar Scheibert adjusted his glasses and returned the gaze. He was not going to be intimidated. Junior he might be, but he had an education, not to mention a cause. “It's disgusting, I will stand by that. Our soldiers at the battlefront go hungry so often, and the workers that supply them save the smallest amounts of their meagre pay to purchase bonds or donate to the Kriegerhilfe, and these profiteers and idle rich gorge on finest delicacies in full public view! It must be put a stop to.”
Dorn nodded sagely. He knew how such things went, in the universe of Prussian officialdom. “Write a memorandum.” he suggested. “You are good with words. Someone who can make these decisions might read it.”
The referendar shook his head irritably. “This is not some trivial administrative issue. The fatherland is at stake! How can we expect the families of our warriors to bear such hardship uncomplainingly if we allow fat bellies to consume a month's pay in an evening of unconscionable luxury?” He tapped his cane on the floor to punctuate his sentences. Dorn breathed in slowly. He shared his colleague's indignation, if not his intensity, and felt a measure of admiration for it. Fatherland and sacrifice weren't empty words here: Crippled by a stiff knee from childhood on, Scheibert had poured his heart into serving the state as a civilian. The meagre resources of his family had seen him through a university education in perpetual penury, achieving the highest honours, yet still being passed over for more prestigious appointments in favour of reserve officers and noblemen. Two of his brothers were in the army, his father reactivated on commissariat duty, and Dorn knew that a significant part of his meagre salary went towards the cadet school fees of his youngest brother, much of the rest for war bonds. There was no official more conscientious or more versed in the technicalities of the law than him in Dorn's department – even the Syndikus sometimes asked him for advice on knotty questions, though he was careful to frame it as a test of his knowledge.
“These things don't happen overnight, Scheibert.” Dorn pointed out mildly. “And you need to watch out on whose toes you step. You're not a lifetimer yet.”
“Still, this needs attention.” The referendar leaned forward. “Have you been to the Kempinski lately?”
“On a civil service salary?” It was Dorn's turn to adjust his spectacles. “How do you get in? Oh, no, let me guess: The Jewish girl?”
Scheibert bristled, but the shade of a blush passed over his pale, youthful face. “Sarah is a Lutheran. Her whole family are Christians.”
“And have been for all of six years if I remember correctly.” Dorn smiled, but his eyes were serious. “Damn, Scheibert, you really need to think about whose toes you're stepping on. Do you want to sabotage your career? You'll end up like me.”
“Times are changing, Mr Dorn. Rathenau has even become a minister, and he is a practicing Jew.”
“Rathenau is the emperor's personal friend and has more money than God, man. You're neither. Marrying a Jewess is a good way of staying a lowly scribe all your life, and I don't care how much money her parents have.” Dorn fiddled with his pen as a moment of silence lengthened awkwardly. “You're really going to do this?”
“Yes.” The young man looked defiant now. “I've asked her father. We're getting married as soon as I have my lifetime appointment.”
Dorn shook his head softly. That boy really had grit. It wasn't like Sarah's family had considered him a good catch. Maybe... “Anyways, if you are serious about this, you'll have to get into the details. Everybody can be outraged. Ministers especially. Get into the fine points of rationing fraud. Suggest concrete measures. That gives you a chance of being heard.”
“Why can't we simply ban the import of unnecessary luxuries? German farmers aren't allowed to produce veal or goose liver any more.” Scheibert scratched his nose absent-mindedly. “And we're paying heavy gold for French fripperies. Surely that's a matter for customs.”
“Well, not really.” For all his book learning, Referendar Scheibert could be a bit obtuse when it came to real-life questions. “The treaty with France stipulates no changes to trade relations while the border is demilitarised. Exporters in Paris are making a mint.”
“But that must undercut the limitations on all other imports. What is to stop them from selling us English and Italian goods?” Scheibert was aghast.
“Nothing.” his colleague pointed out with grim humour. “It's what they're doing. English fashion, fine Indian teas, Italian wines, port and sherry, Belgian chocolate, Swiss watches, all courtesy of the Erbfeind. But you should also look into unrationed and off-card goods. Did you know cassonade does not count towards your sugar ration?”
“It doesn't?” Scheibert blinked. He had hardly thought about such details before. Surely sugar was sugar?
“Nope. At the Adlon, they are using it in all their cakes and compotes, so they don't need to charge ration points. And they're refining it in their kitchen, too, which kind of defeats the point I should think. The Hotel Bristol does it differently: they've registered their waiters as independent business operations – every head waiter operating his crew. That gives them extra to use for white flour, sugar and cream. The waiters sell them their extra supplies.”
“That's – criminal!” Scheibert felt guilty. He had handed over his ration book when they had been served the cake, but he had never thought to check what had been taken off. The memory of the exquisite ratafia sponge to celebrate his engagement turned bitter. “Mr. Dorn, I'll need your help with this. You are well versed in such questions, obviously.”
The older man nodded. “But no nonsense putting my name on the memorandum. I like my job here, I'm not going back to the arse end of Silesia for you.”
Cossack whips and guards' batons were enough to make some men flinch, but Corporal Bauer was made of sterner stuff. His parish priest hit harder than most Russian soldiers, as he had pointed out to their captors, grinning with bloody lips. Apparently, it had worked. At least it had given his men heart, which was important on the long, cold marches along muddy tracks through the Russian countryside. After their capture, they had been separated from their officers, and the men looked to NCOs for leadership. Bauer, at least, had provided it through the marching and the train rides, and held them together as they were walked through the streets of the city, greater and more impressive than Augsburg and far grander than even Munich. Few of them had seen anything like it.
Of course they weren't being led around town to show them the sights. Bauer had been worried about angry civilians assaulting him and his men at every stop, but so far, he had seen little of it. Most villagers en route had been unimpressed, sometimes curious and annoying, but also ready to help out with food or warmth in return for some of the few material possessions they had been able to retain. The official ration allowance of 25 kopeks per day hardly ever materialised, and but for swapping their buttons, pocket knives and canteens, they would have gone hungry many a day.
The city was different. People in the street gave them hostile stares. Some boys spat or threw snowballs, though the novelty quickly wore off. Once, someone tried to kick out the legs under a German who was having difficulty walking in torn-up boots, but a cossack guard discouraged him with a blow of the riding whip. Say what you wanted about the cossacks, but they were fair-minded bullies who'd just as readily pick on their own people as on the enemy. A prisoner in a hussar's uniform fell back to help the man up, and the guards allowed him. Bauer gave the retreating spectator a baleful stare.
“Fucking civilians.” he said between gritted teeth. All the troubles a soldier could have in this world started with civilians. They might be well-meaning and clueless, or outright greedy, vicious, conniving bastards. Or just taking cheap shots, like this little bully. Altogether, Corporal Bauer would have been happier to share black bread and water with a Russian frontovik than caviar and champagne with fat, oblivious civilians, and most of the men in his squad shared that view. Not that caviar was a likely prospect anytime soon.
At the end of their long, convoluted walk, the men were marched into a vast wooden hall that looked like it had been built to exercise a regiment in. Compared with what they had seen of Russian military organisation, this was very impressive, and it took a few pointed admonitions to stop curious staring. A number of large ovens along the walls radiated heat that was very welcome after the long trudge through the snow, and in two roped-off areas towards the back, some men were already eating. That boded well for the day, at least. In Bauer's experience, the Russians weren't actively bad when they had their shit together. You just couldn't trust them not to forget you.
An officer walked up to the column and ceremoniously received the paperwork from their guards.
“All right.” he mumbled in Russian, flipping through the list, then switched to heavily accented German. “All right. You will now be processed. Stand in line and report as your names are called.” He flipped a page. “There is a man from Thionville here, one Private Berger. Who is he?”
A brief silence followed. Being called by name was disconcerting, But you couldn't well just pretend you didn't exist – even the Russians had that much paperwork in order – so after a few awkward moments, an infantryman shuffled forward.
“You are...?”
“Private Berger from Diedenhofen, Sir.”
“Excellent.” The Russian seemed content with the answer. “And we want Privates Wachmann from Metz and Brückner from Saarguemines. Are there any other men from Alsace-Lorraine here?”
A handful of prisoners from other parts of the column stepped forward hesitantly. It looked like six in all.
“Well, then.” The officer rubbed his hands together briefly and cleared his throat. “All you men who were born in Alsace-Lorraine will be aware you are eligible for French citizenship. If you wish to claim it now, we can make the necessary arrangements to have you repatriated.”
An angry murmur rose from the crowd. The faces of the few men addressed registered surprise, indignation and guarded hope.
“And what...?” one of them asked finally.
“And nothing. The Russian Empire has no quarrel with France. You are considered pressed men in the involuntary service of our enemy, and citizens of the French Republic. You will be repatriated through the consular service as soon as this can be arranged. Until then, you will be our guests. Anyone?”
Agitated whispering filled the air. “You'll never get to go home again!” one of the group hissed at another. In the end, none moved.
“All right,” the lieutenant said patiently, “take your time to consider the question.” He gestured to a soldier who pointed the six men to one side of the hall. At a table there, three more German prisoners were seated drinking tea. After a second's hesitation, they went, followed by angry and envious stares.
“Now to you.” He turned to face Bauer's squad. “You men are Bavarians. You will come to understand, I hope, that we bear the Kingdom of Bavaria no ill will. The tide of history has caused our nations to be at war. Russia has no claims against Bavaria nor any grudges. All Bavarian prisoners of war will be conveyed to camps in European Russia where they will be assigned to agricultural or industrial labour details. After the war, you will all the nearer to your home.”
“After the war, Germany's borders will sure be a lot nearer to us.” one of the prisoners snickered. The officer pretended not to notice.
“As to the Prussian prisoners,” he gestured to another section of the column, “they will be held in camps in Turkestan.” He pointedly ignored the angry outbursts from the crowds and repeated the instructions. “All Bavarians, Badensians, Wurttembergers, Hessians and Mecklenburgers, I don't think we have any of those, will go over to that side of the hall for processing.” He pointed to a corner where benches and tables already held some POWs near two large brick ovens. “All Prussians and Saxons will be processed in the west quarter of the camp, in tents.”
04 March 1907, Nandanga, Mlahi Province, Ostafrika
The sound of individual raindrops pattering on tent roof, the soft, squelching, sucking noises that red earth made when it closed around boots and refused to let go, the pervasive background hiss that filled the misty air when fine rain struck leaves and grass, and the moisture that seeped into every piece of clothing and napery - Major Johannes's world had become defined by water. Water, and madness. Sighing, he looked out again over the camp of what passed for his army – Abteilung Süd, or Abteilung Johannes, as Ludendorff had taken to calling it. The man liked to feed egos. Truth be told, it did not look like much. To the right of his tent, 100 Askari had pitched theirs, They were arranged unobtrusively, but clearly around the two machine guns they carried. Twenty white men, volunteers from the province, with their coloured servants forming a kind of makeshift Boer kommando were encamped on his left, infuriatingly undisiplined, but picturesquely sporting huge beards and heavy large-bore rifles. To their front, the main force of the Abteilung was spread out in what had been a meadow yesterday: hundreds of Hehe and Wakamba warriors, some Wayao, and many individual volunteers from the coastal tribes, including some Arabs. The inland tribes had been drawn mostly by Solf's promise of abolishing corvee labour and chombe tax in return for their services, a move Johannes profoundly disagreed with. The coastal men, though, in many cases burned with a desire to avenge themselves on the Russian occupiers. That, he could relate to. A pity that the Hehe and Wayao were by far the most potent fighting force he had. There was simply no way they could be spared. As it was, the idea was crazy.
Well, here he was, in the middle of the Great Rains, trying to move a small army across the southern uplands without being noticed too soon. There might be a time in this country when strategic mobility was easy to achieve, but this wasn't it. Then, he would somehow contrive to surprise the Russian garrison in Lindi and retake the harbour, from where, situation permitting, he would mount offensive operations north towards Kilwa in support of the main thrust of Ludendorff's own Askari and rugaruga force towards Daressalam. All of which to be achieved, somehow, despite the pitiful state of his troops' discipline and their inferiority in arms and equipment. It was easily enough to make you doubt the existence of a merciful God. Two machine guns and a few hundred modern rifles against – if you could trust their spies – two hundred Siberian rifles and the crews of two torepedo boats, plus the vessels' guns in Lindi harbour. You could only hope they were liberally plied with vodka the day of the attack.
Or otherwise occupied.
Major Johannes began to think of a plan.
06 March 1907, Paris
Many readers have contacted us with the question whether it is prudent to purchase Russian bonds at this time. To this, your correspondent replies that it is not only wise, it is patriotic, an act of virtue as well as of financial wisdom. The latest issue, now open for subscription at the Paris exchange, not only promises a regular 5% yield over ten years, but also provides for an additional 2% p.a. interest to be paid from reparations in the event of a victory. No other national bonds in circulation today can match the profitability of the Russian government's obligations, and subscribers must be aware that in addition to partaking of both the safety of a major European power's credit at high yields, they are doing a service to their country and the world. Their country, for France profits from every blow struck against her enemy. Though the government at this time does not see fit to join in the great struggle against Germany, Russia is fighting it, and with every passing day the balance of power tilts more towards Paris and away from Berlin. Thus even an unfavourable outcome of the conflict will have achieved much for the cause of France in the world. The worlds, for Germany's baleful influence over the ancient heart of European civilisation shall diminish. The threat of Teutonic domination and the concomitant destruction of all human values in the name of might and efficacy shall be broken, and the torch-bearer of true culture replace the firebrand of kultur at the head of the continent and thus, of the world. The ancient foe in Berlin, enemy to the Church and the truth, friend of the Jew and the Atheist, suffers today with every franc that buys Russian munitions, Russian guns and swords for the troops that are still fighting on German soil. Should a patriotic Frenchman buy Russian bonds? Indeed, until the day, perhaps not too far, that he may put his money in war bonds of his own government, he must!
(Libre Parole)
07 March 1907, Berlin
Black as night, hot as hell and bitter as damnation: At least the coffee was still good. Since the start of the war, the pleasures of the Cafe Bauer had been sorely diminished otherwise. The rich confections and creamy cakes that had lately drawn so many ladies were distinctly out of vogue even among those who had the ration coupons required. Champagne, wines and spirits similarly were rising in price and dropping in public regard, both matters of equal concern to the brittle honour and comparatively slender purse of general staff officers. Being seen to indulge in such frivolities was best left to those with little sense of shame and face to lose. But coffee, the real stuff, was still to be had at very reasonable prices, and the rations were generous enough for even the hardiest addicts in uniform. Rumour had it that the emperor himself had seen to this. General von Falkenhayn was, at least, willing to consider the possibility. It certainly did not make any economic sense, but he was grateful for all that. Sighing, he sipped from his cup and turned back to Lieutenant Colonel von Seeckt seated opposite him. The two men had secured a window table overlooking Unter den Linden, still elegant in wartime, if somewhat deserted in the chilly winds of early spring.
“My consolation is that if it does go wrong, at least they cannot put me out to pasture. I'll have to be given some kind of command.”
The two exchanged a thin, cheerless smile. Being stuck in Berlin was an awful fate for ambitious officers on the make. Careers and reputations were made at the front. For all the importance of their work, it was unglamorous.
“Do you think?” Von Seeckt shook his head. “If that works, maybe I can come up with the next grand strategic scheme. I wouldn't say no to a front command.”
“More likely a depot somewhere in the Ruhr, I'm afraid.” Falkenhayn replied. “Or maybe training volunteers. Doesn't appeal, does it? If the offensive fizzles out, that's where I'm headed.”
“It hardly seems fair.” Seeckt remarked. “It's not like von der Goltz won't happily take credit for the Southern Arc. How many hours did it take you to talk him into it?”
Falkenhayn wagged his head. “A fair few. But to be honest, talking him into the siege of Ivangorod was harder. Now that we have control of it, we have to use it, and the best way is to strike south. He's stubborn, but he is a brilliant strategist. In the end, he had to come round. Now it's his plan. Well, unless it goes wrong,. Then it'll have been my idea.”
Sipping his coffee, von Seeckt let the operation unfold in his mind: The thrust down the Vistula toward Lublin, cutting through the Russian defenses into the rear area of the Carpathian front. The pivot east, threatening the entire battlefront hinged on Przemysl and Lemberg, forcing the Russians to defend both sided on longer and more perilous supply lines. Success would put the conquered fortresses into an untenable position, shorten the front by potentially hundreds of kilometres, and free up the four Bavarian corps for operations north, into East Prussia and Eastern Poland. If the Russians did not retreat, they could cut off entire armies in their pocket. As strategy, it was nothing short of brilliant. The kind of thing Schlieffen and Moltke had drawn up. The German armies were weeks away from what might turn out to be the greatest victory in military history, assuming the enemy cooperated.
There was that.
“So, what are you going to do with your black eagle, then, general?” he asked flippantly.
Falkenhayn shrugged. “Goltz will get it. Victory has too many fathers for anyone to remember the old man sitting behind a desk in Lichtenfelde. But maybe I can at least get away from playing with toys.”
09 March 1907, Bialystok
The tiniest green buds on the hazel hedge intimated the promise of spring, warmth and sunshine, of dry earth and green grass. General Alexey Brusilov gently stroked the soft, yielding knots on the branches still grey with winter's touch. In the olden days, long before there had been a Czar or even a Russia, the women of his people had welcomed the return of life by adorning themselves with flowers, dancing in the strengthening sunlight and giving sacrifice to the land. With the sun would come fertility, rebirth, the grain that would feed them over the next long winter. This year, spring would bring battle and death.
Abruptly, the general turned and looked over the broad expanse of the castle yard, now filled to capacity with men exercising their close-order drill. In a few weeks, many of them would be dead. How many, or who, was not his to know. His was to ensure that they did not die in vain, and that he would do. After long negotiations, eternal petitioning and futile attempts to pull strings, the aid and confidence of Grand Prince Nikolai had finally placed him in a command that would allow him to make a real difference. All through the long winter at Gatchina and Moscow, he had felt himself confined, chained to his desk, a pointless oracle to gilded staff peacocks. The orders to repair to Bialystok had come as a liberation. The mission, all the more, was of supreme importance. He had hammered out the strategy in snowbound Moscow with Nikolai and his staff. Now, the time to prove his insight and skill was at hand.
The situation, to him, was crystal clear: The Germans had taken Ivangorod. The only reason they would have expended so much manpower and ammunition to that end was to use it as a springboard against the East Prussian front's hinterland. Grodno and Kovno would now lie open to their attack, a vicious sickle cut that would render the entire southern salient untenable and force the army to evacuate not only Prussia, but even large parts of Lithuania. He had warned tirelessly against this chink in the iron armour of their battlefront and finally, had been listened to. Through January and February, in freezing snow and mud, they had marched regiment after regiment, dragging guns and panye wagons along near-impassable roads, to build up their defensive position. Bialystok might not have been built a fortress, but it had teeth now. Hundreds of thousands of teeth, spread out over a deep network of trenches and outposts waiting for the Germans to crash into them, tangle their advancing spearheads in their labyrinth and break apart into a series of painful, bloody battles. This would be the decisive moment of the spring offensive and might well be the hinge on which the war turned. With the attack blunted and their freshly trained volunteer troops bloodied and demoralised, how would the Germans stand up to the thrust that was to take them from the north, when Grand Duke Mikhail's army moved to the reconquest of Königsberg? Brusilov feared they might acquit themselves all too well, but that was beyond his power to influence. What he needed to do was make it possible for that attack to take place at all, and to that end, he needed to hold Bialystok.
The troops now marching across the narrow bridge filled him with confidence. They were Siberians, battle-hardened against the Japanese and ready to stare down whatever fate would throw at them. Oh, they did not look as pretty as the Preobrazhenskoye or march as smartly as the Patriotic Union. But they fought. He would never know how much it had cost the grand prince to get him this many of these veterans – some of whom recalled him from service at the other end of the Empire – but he understood Moscow well enough to realise the immense debt of gratitude he owed his commander and protector. Fortress artillery and field guns, machine guns and rifles, even the newfangled flame projectors and heavy mortar tubes now coming out of the factories, no matter what it was, they had it. The men were training daily, drilling, marching, practising, readying themselves mentally and physically for the clash with the fearsome German. Brusilov had studied the tactics of his opponent, especially the darling of the English newspapers, Mackensen. A daring commander, no doubt he would seek to exploit the opportunity he had been given. His salient on the Bug river would be the jumping-off point. Like a fellow cavalryman, he would be thinking in terms of space, surprise and speed. Brusilov would need to counter with tenacity, adaptability and strategic depth. This could, in many ways, be the battle of the quintessentially German and the quintessentially Russian, the hard, fast, quickly spent blow against the slow, deliberate, irresistible force. The papers would no doubt love it.
His mind wandering, Brusilov considered the problem of counteroffensive. Would it be possible? He hoped it would. Mackensen's blow would fall somewhere, in unknown force – they still had not figured out the numbers of his army. Once it had ground to a halt, the Russians would need to break his front and push forward in their turn. How? They could not hope to concentrate enough force from their defensive stance. A series of probing attacks, reinforced as they succeeded, sounded like the best solution. Fast, hard and unpredictable. The Germans had a nasty way of getting inside your defensive reach, taking their next step before you could figure out how to counter their last. But if you did not know what you would be doing a week from now, if you rolled with the tide of battle, your army a creature of a hundred heads and independent minds united by purpose alone – then they could not do that.
All of this would be easier if only he had some way of knowing how many troops Mackensen would deploy. The few reports from the salient indicated the Germans were hiding them well. Unites were converging on Ivangorod, but few were visibly headed up the Bug. Soon enough, they would know, but Brusilov hoped it would not be too late for too many of his men.
11 March 1907, Breslau
Colonel Saalfeldt had always expected that his duties would take him to unpleasant places. He had steeled his resolve throughout his career, determined to face enemy fire, disease and privation. The thought of finding himself face to face, indeed making common cause, with moral degenerates, though, had never before featured largely in his imagination. And yet here he was, trying his best to stay businesslike and calm as he shook the hand of this Dr Neisser – at least he was a medical man of sorts, though the whiff of scandal was strong enough to ensure he would never be ennobled or invited to court – and at least smile at that harridan he had brought. A Social Democrat, a Jew, a shameless woman, it was enough to make your stomach turn. Had it not been for the fact that these were the people who had the best understanding of prevention of venereal disease – surely, no proper officer would have dignified them with as much as a nod. The things you faced for the fatherland!
“Thank you for coming, Dr Neisser”, the colonel said, “And you, Mrs Fürth. I appreciate your cooperation. Nonetheless, please understand that this has been brought on by the exigencies of war and cannot mean that I or the government condone your usual activities.”
Henriette Fürth smiled thinly. “I assure you, colonel,” she replied acidly, “that the sentiment is entirely mutual.”
The officer was visibly taken aback. Neisser chuckled. That was a common reaction to his fellow activist on the part of conservative men.
“Madam, how...” He got no further.
“Colonel, I should leave you under no illusion that I approve of anything you do. I know what you think of me and my activities, and in truth I think little more of your profession of human butchery and oppression. You may get your medals for slaying men while I went to prison for trying to save women, and yet you think yourself so much above me. But now your precious soldiers are coming down with venereal disease before they get to do your killing work, you need our expertise. Very well, you shall have it. But not my approval. I am sure we can work on this basis, can we not?”
The doctor's muted laughter accompanied Saalfeldt's sputtering struggle to reply. “I hope you do not mid, colonel. Mrs Fürth is rather aggressive, but she does have a point. Now, as regards our assistance in education for the troops, the German Society for the Prevention of Venereal Disease is at your disposal. As we have discussed, there are extant brochures that can be distributed as they are to military medical staff and common soldiers, or rewritten for field purposes.”
He handed over a thin booklet printed on cheap paper. “Der Schutz der Familie” the title read. “Medical and moral considerations for a healthy family life.” Colonel Saalfeldt shuddered. He had read the filth before. It was a wonder that – woman could bear to look at it without blushing. But them, she had written it! He was not sure it was fit for giving to soldiers, let alone the nubile maidens and young wives it was designed for. But circumstances required quick action.
“I believe this will take rewriting,” he said, “for use by the military. But until then, we will use the material you have. Your pictorial material seems especially suitable.”
Mrs Fürth smiled sweetly. “Thank you colonel. I will be glad to hold speeches in front of the troops as may be required. But I would also ask you not to entirely neglect the education of the female sex.”
“The female sex, Mrs Fürth?” the colonel snapped. “We have no women soldiers.”
“No, Sir., But there are a large number of women factory workers and volunteers, many of whom are inspired by patriotic sentiment and liable to grant a departing soldier more wishes than they would in time of peace.” Henriette Fürth scowled. “Will you risk leaving them ignorant and infectious to satisfy your idea of propriety, colonel?”
“That is beyond my purview.” Saalfeldt replied curtly, taking refuge in the oldest of bureaucratic bastions. “You will have to take it up with the War Economy Committee.”
The glance that Mrs Fürth shot him left no doubt that she would. Dr Neisser leaned forward.
“Well, then. Now that we have solved this matter, there is another consideration. I have been forwarded a new design pf prophylactic developed by one Julius Fromm, a Berlin chemist. I believe it to be far superior in all respects to anything I have previously seen.” He fumbled in his pocket to produce a packet of rolled-up rubber sheaths in foil envelopes. “Of course, there would be the matter of mass production if the army decided to purchase them.”
The colonel almost recoiled. “What is the cost?” he enquired. “And how much better are they?”
“Almost complete safety at very little loss of sensitivity.” Neisser stated authoritatively. “Introducing them universally in military brothels” - another pained expression crossed the colonel's face - “could reduce venereal disease transmission to negligible figures. That is, of course, assuming the men could be persuaded to use them. Currently, the price of a packet of three prophylactics would come to 53 pfennige, but I am certain that this could be reduced if mass production were adopted and supply properly organised. The process is patented, but the manufacturer would make it available to the army at no charge.”
Even perverts, then, had a sense of patriotism. Saalfeldt wondered if that Fromm fellow would get some kind of medal for his sacrifice. The way the world was going, he would not be surprised.
13 March 1907, Langensalza Camp
Frederic Bonvoisin had not had high expectations of German institutional cuisine. Geneva might have been remote from the heartlands of French culinary culture, but it was French enough to imbue a man with an appreciation of good eating. What he had set in front of him now made him doubt not so much its wholesomeness as its fundamental nature as food, in the broadest definition of the term. There was, he felt compelled to admit, meat in it, greyish, fibrous lumps and pieces of gristle and sinew boiled to the slippery, yielding consistency of rotting fruit. Beyond this, the slimy, soupy liquid was a mystery to him.
“What in heaven's name is this?” he exclaimed, more harshly than he had intended.
“Rations, Mr Bonvoisin.” Major Holtke answered curtly. Bonvoisin had come to loathe the man. Fat, heavy-jowled and short-tempered, he seemed to resent the very presence of Red Cross staff in his camp, taking even the mildest criticism as a personal insult. “The prisoners in the camp receive the same rations as rear-echelon troops performing light labour. There is bread, half a loaf per man, and potatoes, meat, vegetables, you see, onions, cabbage and turnips, legumes, here are the peas, fat and oats, these at their own request. Cooked to be safe and easy to eat.”
“In the same pot?” Bonvoisin picked up the bread loaf again. It was dense, heavy and sticky, but did not seem particularly repulsive. People outside the camp ate this kind of bread. He had – regretfully – done so himself at restaurants and hotels on his journey through Germany. “You do contract out for the bread, though, right?”
“Well, yes. We don't have ovens in the camp, so we have to purchase the bread from local bakeries. But we have an otherwise fully equipped kitchen.”
The inspector had feared as much. “Staffed by German guards?”
“Of course.” Holtker puffed. “We could hardly trust the prisoners with knives and cleavers!”
Bonvoision refrained from pointing out that trusting the same men with axes, picks, sledgehammers and saws seemed to bother nobody. He took a moment's pause to regain his composure by jotting down notes in his book, snapped it shut and rose to his feet. There was clearly no call to actually taste the vile slop the camp commander had doled out to his charges.
“Major, I am afraid I will have to make serious representations about the management of your camp to the Committee.” he said.
“Sir, we did point out the difficulties of our situation.” That was Doctor Siebold, the camp physician. He was more apologetic that confrontational, but hardly more pleasant than Holtke. “Obtaining supplies the army can use in the middle of a long war....”
“Doctor, I am sure you have, and I have made full allowance for it. But even if you cannot provide the men with mattresses and cushions, where is the difficulty in supplying them with straw to make paliasses and shoes?” The lack of proper footwear had shocked him especially. Some of the men shared a pair of straw shoes or wooden clogs among five or six. German soldiers were infamous for their habit of stealing boots. “Now, assuming you are willing to make improvements, I would suggest first of all to allow the prisoners themselves to supply their foods and allow them materials to produce such things as cannot be provided for them. I am aware that there are things you cannot help.”
He gestured over the hastily erected lines of barracks, paint already peeling away from the few places where it had been applied and gaps opening in the walls and roofs put together from inadequately seasoned lumber.
“But you need to make greater efforts to address the issues you can. I shudder to think what fate would awaits your charges if large numbers were to be added at one time.”
Major Holtke nodded, with visible hesitation. His grunt of farewell might be interpreted as a polite gesture if you read the slurred syllables benevolently. Doktor Siebold, by contrast, looked worried. Bonvoisin hoped it had helped a little. If the camp really were to receive large contingents of new prisoners, the death toll in disease could well be horrible.
17 March 1907, Mbaha, Ostafrika
...It is a rousing sight, watching the native troops ford the Wami river in full flood. Of course Solf the old Fabius kept nattering at me that only a madman would risk troop movements during the long rains. But every great soldier must have a bit of a madman in him, a fact that too many civilians fail to be alive to. We have made ample use of the preparation time the hesitancy of the enemy has given us, and waiting for the dry season in the safety of Kilimatinde would be criminally stupid. And now I know what manner of men it is I command. The rains and the mud have taken the measure of my troops, and I am well content.
No man who has trained for the mannered ballet of a European war can fully fathom what it is like in its raw state. In the old days, our ancestors captured something of its exhilaration, its fierce power and rejuvenating spirit in the songs that landsknechts went into battle with. I rarely though much of then on garrison duty, but now I begin to fathom their meaning. My men are in all regards landsknechts, as were my great-grandfathers, and they, too, sing with their hearts on their lips and their swords in their hands. It is impossible for a man's heart to be unmoved by the voices that drift up to the grey skies at night, or the chants that accompany them on their interminable roads down to Daressalaam. For all the rugaruga may lack in soldiery, they are fighters, and that, ultimately, is what turns a battle. You need but few brains to lead a great many bodies. Tonight, as I passed by the sentries on my way to my tent, I saw such men stand in the rains, a young Masai warrior and a grizzled Askari sergeant,. One in the fine khakis and tall cap, the other wrapped in his native blanket and cowskin cloak, his rifle studded with silver pins and his assegai shining brightly. Any man in my old regiment would have been griping or bellyaching, but these two, they were smiling. My interpreter told me later they were talking of what they would do with the money they expected to take off dead Russians. That is the quality of men that Frundsberg took across the Alps to Pavia and Rome. They are prickly of their honour and light with their fingers, and woe betide the fool civilian who gainsays their will, but for all that, they will conquer all hell if a man were found to lead them who feared not Lucifer. I shall be that man, providence willing.
That, my dear friend, is ultimately why I chose to leave the majority of our white volunteers with Johannes and Solf. They are good men, no doubt, after the manner of the landsturm, stout of heart and dutiful. They will do Solf a power of good as he defends the railway line. But for the kind of work I am contemplating, you need a different calibre of warrior. As we at home draft the 20-year-old youth, when they still feel the heat of their blood and know in their hearts they are invincible and deathless, so have I in effect called a ver sacrum among the black youth of this country and assembled under my banner all the young men who will more happily carry a gun for a merry season than a hoe for forty cheerless years. And I shall give them good cheer when we storm into Daressalaam, however the Russians may think to stop us. I do not deny that the land is made to suffer for their spiritedness. The askari are champion plunderers, organised and systematic, they can pick a village clean in ten minutes. What they do not take, the rugaruga will, often burdening the impressed porters with it until our next camp. But for all that, I could not trust my life or my victory to the shrinking violets that a harsher school of discipline makes of the black man. This is what they are, and what they are is glorious. The old poets spoke of this when they wrote “Im Land herrscht König Tod”. Very well, then: guard thyself, Russian, the landsknecht cometh! And Heia Safari to the shore!
(Letter by General Ludendorff to General Mackensen)
19 March 1907, Markuszov, on the road to Lublin
It is impossible to describe to the reader who has not seen it unfold with his own eyes the scale upon which the Germans make war. Even those who have witnessed the battles of the recent Russo-Japanese War in their full scope are liable to fail to grasp the full extent of the developments. Your correspondent today is seated beside a road in Poland which he is obliged not to disclose for reasons of secrecy, in the morning mist rising from the muddy soil, watching the entire horizon as far as the eye can see erupt in a semicircle of fire reflected garishly on the low clouds. The thunder of distant artillery merges into the sound of wind, rustling leaves and tramping boots to form an ever-present drone that, while intolerable to the untutored ear, becomes nigh-unnoticeable to the men exposed to it for even a few days. We know not, of course, nor have any way of ascertaining how many guns the German army has deployed on this front, but it is abundantly clear that it is a number beyond anything that has been seen in the history of warfare. There must be many hundred batteries alike to that observed earlier today, with heavy field guns manned by the stolid, bearded artillerymen the German army seems to produce in unlimited number.
Equally unimaginable to the gentle reader accustomed to the historical scope of battlefields confined by the marching range of infantry corps is the range over which the battle is being fought today, a theatre of operations unfolding over distances that no one man can oversee or control. It is testament to the remarkable skill and capacity for planning on the part of the German officer corps that such operations should prove able to be conducted at all, let alone with such success as they evidently are, For the third day now, German columns have been marching south and east, towards the great Russian garrison city of Lublin and onwards to the relief of the Austrian forces engaged hotly in the Carpathian mountains. This morning still, the unnumbered lines of dust-blue warriors are trudging towards the arc of fire that lights up the low-hanging clouds. And most remarkably, perhaps, was the encounter yesterday of your correspondent with a brigade of black-coated fighting men with the armbands of the Polish National Army and the beards and forelocks familiar in men of the Mosaic race. These were the very men of international renown, the fighters of the Jewish Brigade who, as they volubly attested to yours truly, will from this day on nevermore bear the ignominy of tyranny and prejudice, and resolve to do battle and die as men ere they would live as slaves. This morning, a large body of Russian prisoners was marched past towards the west, perhaps – it proved impossible to ascertain – the fruit of this resolution already.
…
(New York World)
21 March 1907, Berlin, Gewerbeamt
“Well, if you are looking for dragons to slay, this should be right up your alley.” Commissioner Dorn looked his young colleague in the eye across the desk and smiled sourly. “But I assure you that nobody will thank you.”
Referendar Scheibert adjusted his glasses and returned the gaze. He was not going to be intimidated. Junior he might be, but he had an education, not to mention a cause. “It's disgusting, I will stand by that. Our soldiers at the battlefront go hungry so often, and the workers that supply them save the smallest amounts of their meagre pay to purchase bonds or donate to the Kriegerhilfe, and these profiteers and idle rich gorge on finest delicacies in full public view! It must be put a stop to.”
Dorn nodded sagely. He knew how such things went, in the universe of Prussian officialdom. “Write a memorandum.” he suggested. “You are good with words. Someone who can make these decisions might read it.”
The referendar shook his head irritably. “This is not some trivial administrative issue. The fatherland is at stake! How can we expect the families of our warriors to bear such hardship uncomplainingly if we allow fat bellies to consume a month's pay in an evening of unconscionable luxury?” He tapped his cane on the floor to punctuate his sentences. Dorn breathed in slowly. He shared his colleague's indignation, if not his intensity, and felt a measure of admiration for it. Fatherland and sacrifice weren't empty words here: Crippled by a stiff knee from childhood on, Scheibert had poured his heart into serving the state as a civilian. The meagre resources of his family had seen him through a university education in perpetual penury, achieving the highest honours, yet still being passed over for more prestigious appointments in favour of reserve officers and noblemen. Two of his brothers were in the army, his father reactivated on commissariat duty, and Dorn knew that a significant part of his meagre salary went towards the cadet school fees of his youngest brother, much of the rest for war bonds. There was no official more conscientious or more versed in the technicalities of the law than him in Dorn's department – even the Syndikus sometimes asked him for advice on knotty questions, though he was careful to frame it as a test of his knowledge.
“These things don't happen overnight, Scheibert.” Dorn pointed out mildly. “And you need to watch out on whose toes you step. You're not a lifetimer yet.”
“Still, this needs attention.” The referendar leaned forward. “Have you been to the Kempinski lately?”
“On a civil service salary?” It was Dorn's turn to adjust his spectacles. “How do you get in? Oh, no, let me guess: The Jewish girl?”
Scheibert bristled, but the shade of a blush passed over his pale, youthful face. “Sarah is a Lutheran. Her whole family are Christians.”
“And have been for all of six years if I remember correctly.” Dorn smiled, but his eyes were serious. “Damn, Scheibert, you really need to think about whose toes you're stepping on. Do you want to sabotage your career? You'll end up like me.”
“Times are changing, Mr Dorn. Rathenau has even become a minister, and he is a practicing Jew.”
“Rathenau is the emperor's personal friend and has more money than God, man. You're neither. Marrying a Jewess is a good way of staying a lowly scribe all your life, and I don't care how much money her parents have.” Dorn fiddled with his pen as a moment of silence lengthened awkwardly. “You're really going to do this?”
“Yes.” The young man looked defiant now. “I've asked her father. We're getting married as soon as I have my lifetime appointment.”
Dorn shook his head softly. That boy really had grit. It wasn't like Sarah's family had considered him a good catch. Maybe... “Anyways, if you are serious about this, you'll have to get into the details. Everybody can be outraged. Ministers especially. Get into the fine points of rationing fraud. Suggest concrete measures. That gives you a chance of being heard.”
“Why can't we simply ban the import of unnecessary luxuries? German farmers aren't allowed to produce veal or goose liver any more.” Scheibert scratched his nose absent-mindedly. “And we're paying heavy gold for French fripperies. Surely that's a matter for customs.”
“Well, not really.” For all his book learning, Referendar Scheibert could be a bit obtuse when it came to real-life questions. “The treaty with France stipulates no changes to trade relations while the border is demilitarised. Exporters in Paris are making a mint.”
“But that must undercut the limitations on all other imports. What is to stop them from selling us English and Italian goods?” Scheibert was aghast.
“Nothing.” his colleague pointed out with grim humour. “It's what they're doing. English fashion, fine Indian teas, Italian wines, port and sherry, Belgian chocolate, Swiss watches, all courtesy of the Erbfeind. But you should also look into unrationed and off-card goods. Did you know cassonade does not count towards your sugar ration?”
“It doesn't?” Scheibert blinked. He had hardly thought about such details before. Surely sugar was sugar?
“Nope. At the Adlon, they are using it in all their cakes and compotes, so they don't need to charge ration points. And they're refining it in their kitchen, too, which kind of defeats the point I should think. The Hotel Bristol does it differently: they've registered their waiters as independent business operations – every head waiter operating his crew. That gives them extra to use for white flour, sugar and cream. The waiters sell them their extra supplies.”
“That's – criminal!” Scheibert felt guilty. He had handed over his ration book when they had been served the cake, but he had never thought to check what had been taken off. The memory of the exquisite ratafia sponge to celebrate his engagement turned bitter. “Mr. Dorn, I'll need your help with this. You are well versed in such questions, obviously.”
The older man nodded. “But no nonsense putting my name on the memorandum. I like my job here, I'm not going back to the arse end of Silesia for you.”