Chapter LXXX
The only firm gain in a revolution is that which has been won by the mass of the proletariat. The only gain worth recording is that which really has been firmly won.
~ Vladimir Lenin, Won and Recorded
~ Vladimir Lenin, Won and Recorded
The stillness and cover granted by the large Hameler Wald forest brought a great relief to Peter, having fallen back into the woods with so many others after the disastrous rout that had unfolded in their failed assault on Lehrte. The concrete, the metal armour, the death, and the stench of human flesh all felt far away amongst the trees. Being here, sat upon an old stump, he felt a oneness with nature, as if he were wrapped in Gaia’s arms, protected from the horrific images he had just witnessed.
Or perhaps it had been the morphine the medic had administered to him before removing the bullet fragment from his arm.
Peter took a glug of water from his canteen, and poured the remaining contents over his head in an attempt to shake off the grogginess of the drug. Standing up to refill it from a nearby steam he felt more confident on his feet but also became aware of his friend Klaus arguing with some others nearby.
“Why did you call the retreat? We were making progress until you broke us off like that!” A private exclaimed bitterly, apparently uncaring about Klaus’ superior rank.
“We were getting massacred out there because we didn’t know what we were up against, so I got some of us out of there whilst we were still alive.”
Those grouped around them watched on distastefully, some of them wary of Klaus’ rank, others bitter about the retreat, some wallowing in defeat, others angry that they had retreated at all.
“It was our duty to go in if the main infantry attack faced serious resistance and we were carrying that out,” The private, clearly in the latter camp, protested, “we were pinned down its true, but the communists were arrested in pinning us down
“You will address me by my rank, private.”
“I respected your rank and look where that got us, your rank doesn’t mean shit any longer. It’s all gone to hell.” The private spat on the ground, and stormed off, there were many other groups in the forest after all. The rest of the division had been forced into a chaotic rout when the forces defending Lehrte had gone on to the advance.
“He’s right, in a way, it is clearly over for us.” Klaus mused to no-one in particular.
“Don’t say that,” A corporal urged reassuringly, “we can regroup, head back to our lines, fight another day.”
“No, it’s not just our defeat here it’s this entire situation.”
Klaus spoke on and louder, more disorientated soldiers gathered around him.
“I don’t know about any of you but what we were up against in that town, that strength, that unity, that’s what Germany needs. I’m finished fighting for the Junkers and the Krupps and the Kaiser,” he took off the remains of his officer's coat, “I’m joining the future.”
Klaus began to walk away and Peter followed, he had no idea how he could talk his friend out of this but this was too far. Surely?
“That’s desertion.” One of the group called back.
The click of loaded weaponry stopped them back in their tracks, Klaus froze but Peter instinctively swung round and drew his sidearm, before he could process what he was actually doing.
“Those who wish to leave are allowed to leave,” he declared somewhat hesitantly. His hand was shaking but those with their rifles pointed at the two of them took a step back. Slowly Klaus turned to his side and began to walk away, trying to keep his eye on the rifles, Peter now did the same, his own gun fixed on the shocked troops, until they blurred in amongst the rows of trees.
They were safe, for the moment, but their bridges were burned.
“What exactly are we supposed to do now?” Peter asked angrily, the question was meant to sound rhetorical but he was genuinely curious to see if Klaus had any sort of plan.
“Well, we need to make sure we aren’t being followed, and then we try and avoid bumping into any other Reichswehr personnel in this forest. Then, if we can get out whilst achieving both of those things, we go back to Lehrte and tell them we were in the Soviet Union for the last year and during that time we were recruited by Soviet military intelligence and now want to defect.”
“Does such a thing even exist?”
“Does it matter? Hitler broke with Stalin before all this started; they'll hardly be able to double-check and at any rate we do know things about the Reichswehr’s plans. Enough to get us a hearing at least. We don’t exactly have a large number of other options.”
“We could ditch our uniforms, lie low until this all blows over. You’re already halfway there.” Klaus laughed at the state of his own burnt clothing, not much more intact than his coat had been.
“That will be the plan of a good number of those back there,” Klaus theorised out loud, “but the Communists will be looking out for that and if we were to be found out later whilst doing so, well, remember what Marx said, “We shall not make excuses for the terror”. We’d be better getting ahead on that.”
“Or putting our heads in the lion's mouth…”
Klaus shrugged whilst they continued to wander through the woods until they found a clearing directing them back towards Lehrte. Some smoke was still billowing from the town but there were now figures sprawling the outskirts, perhaps looking for scattered Reichswehr elements such as themselves. They grew nearer and Peter felt his stomach turn much as it had done before the beginning of the battle.
“Hold up your hands,” Klaus urged under his breath before breaking into a smile at the venomous faces of the People’s Guard patrol before he cleared his throat.
“The world is one of an ever present struggle, our struggle.”
---
“In the midst of the mighty struggle for the freedom and future of the German worker, I am speaking to all Germans who resist tyranny to announce once again: victory. The grounds for it are: to give all German people insight into the tribulation we have lived through; to express our thanks to the deserving workers and sailors; and to direct, once again a call to resist.
We have seen the losses, individually surely heavy, which the People’s Guard has suffered in battle within the past three months. When you consider that, within this time, we have erected a front which reaches from the Rhineland to Saxony, then the sacrifice has not been in vain. The fascist tyrants have been driven back wherever they have attempted to break the solidarity of the German worker, united, and free.
We are now on the offensive. The coming battles-”
Gerda Muller stepped out of the silent room of the Radio Einheitsfront recording studio, where Adolf Hitler was finally making his speech. This was the third take and if she thought it was coming across as too phlegmatic still. Hitler would undoubtedly be demanding a fourth as well. Such were the demands of keeping the Social Democrats happy, alongside the need to give due reverence to what had occurred; large parts of Hamburg’s docks and the surrounding area were still smouldering. From the window she could see that even those buildings and streets untouched by the blasts were covered in ash. The random craters caused by the naval artillery had crippled the city’s water supplies in an ironic twist. The deaths were in the thousands.
She wondered if a victorious speech was what the people of Hamburg wanted to hear, she certainly didn’t, but the outside world had to know what had gone on and if it might do some good in that regard then they should use every means at their disposal to broadcast it. She turned from the window, trying to get the ash out of her own hair and flinched at the sight of a Reichsmarine sailor walking through the corridor. Her heart stopped before she saw the People’s Guard men behind her pushing him forward with stahlrutes.
Following the men curiously she saw Goebbels grinning impishly at the head of the procession, leading the captured sailor down towards one of the empty recording studios like the pied piper. The man never grew tired of ingratiating Hitler, so this must have been something important if it meant missing the third take of the General Secretary’s triumphant speech.
The sailor was lowered down gently onto a seat by the microphone, staring ahead of himself silently. At least he seemed to be staring, his eyes were too swollen to really make out properly, his face had been beaten black and blue, ironically the swollen pieces being the ones that weren’t still covered in ash. The sailor flinched as Goebbels handed him a script and whispered something to him that was unintelligible outside of the booth. The sailor acknowledged whatever it was with a barely discernible nod and soon after began reading.
“My name is Paul Wennecker, chief artillery officer of the battleship SMS Schleswig-Holstein. I was ordered to shell workers and civilians in Hamburg, whether men, women or children. This was the order given by the would-be dictator Von Schleicher and the would-be Kaiser Hohenzollern and I followed it of my own free will. I now must come to terms with my crimes but I implore all fellow men of the Reichswehr and Reichsmarine not to be used in the way in which I was.
Lay down your arms and desert, return to your homes and families. In spite of my crimes I and my fellow sailors are being well treated for the United Front seeks no reprisals, only an end to the fascist tyranny which the would-be Duce and would-be Kaiser have attempted to impose on Germany. Return to your homes and families now and this nightmare will be over all the sooner.”
The recording broke off, just as Hennecker began to sob into the still audible microphone. His voice had sounded pained, perhaps his vocal cords had been damaged in escaping the fire but now his crying sounded like a low shriek. Thankfully the microphone was also cut-off at that moment.
Gerda continued to examine the man, now soundlessly weeping in the booth. It looked like the man might rather be dead, brought so low by the defeat and his subsequent capture he would be reduced to parroting the enemy’s line. She realised at that moment that she had been in the crosshairs of these people for too long to feel any sympathy for them but, up close, it was clear they were still human.
Fascists of course, but human at some level.
What if they could be reclaimed?
---
The painting is Night-time encounter with a madman by Otto Dix
