‘The war experience is an ultimate confirmation of the power of men to ascribe meaning and pattern to a world, even when that world seems to resist all patterning.’
~ John Leed,
No man's land
‘As Marx once said, "History repeats itself, first as tragedy, then as farce." Having failed to learn anything about practicality from the prior examples of the Paris Commune and the Spartacist Revolt, we, the workers and soldiers of Munich, were told to hold the line against a force that outnumbered us thirty-to-one. Today it is clear that we were being led by those who believed in the same outdated tactics used in 1848.
And so the farce began. As in Paris and Berlin our movement was hopelessly outnumbered, and for the most part untrained. Anyone of any real military experience was forced into desperate improvisation over any attempt at basic strategy by our so-called leadership, I found myself in this position and tried my best to inflict as many casualties as possible on the counter-revolutionary forces who had come to sack Munich and murder its workers.
To think of the paradise we might have inherited if we could have made Munich the graveyard of people’s enemy!
The fall of Munich must serve as a final lesson to all of those within our movement that confrontation with counter-revolutionary elements in German society must always be met with the upmost mobilisation of collective resistance.
Why were the military formations loyal to the revolution broken up? Why were the piecemeal elements forbidden to officially train the revolutionary volunteers? Why did comrade Levine ignore comrade Lenin’s advice on the mobilisation of the workers? Why was greater use not made of the the many alleys, tall buildings and squares to isolate and destroy the enemy rather than them face head on in so many pointless and suicidal confrontations?
I have heard these questions repeated often from my fellow survivors of the Munich farce, it is pivotal now that we turn these testaments to military incompetence into lessons for the future, written in stone, so that we never make the same mistakes again!’
Adolf Hitler,
Our Struggle
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George felt himself shiver as the Freikorps approached, it had been a while since his last real combat, and he had never fought fellow Germans before.
The enemy troops were clearly experienced, not surprising as George guessed many would have been fighting in France alongside him not too long ago. They were perhaps a little too relaxed, perhaps a sign that they were growing accustomed to not being shelled and gassed every day. That could only be a good thing. George felt his own heart pounding at a rate he hadn’t felt since those last few humiliating weeks of retreat in France. That anxiety was normal for him, as was the way he whistled tunelessly in an attempt to stay focused. The prey would soon be in the trap, and the time to spring it would soon be upon him and his comrades.
Even this small group of Freikorps clearly outnumbered the militia forces that had been put under his disposal, though he felt confident all the same. They were a good bunch, not necessarily well drilled but cohesive at the very least, and willing to spit in the face of those in charge even whilst hopelessly outnumbered. The group of industrial workers and students had different ideas and backgrounds but George had managed to unite them around the very thing that had changed his own mind, a hatred of the authority that had got Germany into this mess.
The square he had been tasked with defending was a necessary artery of the city, lying in the middle of Sonnen street. The Palace of Justice sat most prominent amongst many government buildings, perhaps even more importantly for those they were fighting against the bank of Munich’s vaults were nearly as close by. After all, the council had warned them all about the true motivations of the ‘White Guards of Capitalism’.
The importance of these locations had caused George to fear a double envelopment, though there had been no commotion to indicate anything amiss. This wasn’t as reassuring as it should have been. The city was fighting but not nearly to the extent he had hoped, there was the distant rumbling of gunfire, and in the distance he could see a plume of smoke rising from behind the Volkstheater, but the Freikorps had clearly been able to walk leisurely through several blocks with little to no resistance. George hadn’t expected the enemy to be this complacent by the time they had arrived at his little patch of the city and he could at least turn that to his advantage, but he had expected there to be less of them as well. It had turned out that any hopes of attrition had been overly optimistic, if there was the slightest chance of survival, every shot had to count.
The leader of the column halted in front of the shambolic barricade that George had helped assemble, unlike the original plans of those in overall command, it was not to the basis of their defence. Instead it would be a focal point for a far more ambitious strategy.
More and more Freikorps came into the line of sight, swaggering and disorganised, as if this were a routine patrol in friendly territory. George’s whistle became almost inaudible as he placed the sight of his Mauser squarely on the chest of the one who seemed to be in charge, he was no sniper but he had already reckoned it was best to bag the commanding officer first. When the first shots rang out all surprise would be lost, as such it was best to make them count as much as possible.
George had drilled those under his command to wait for his shot but he realised that with every moment he lingered that that became less and less likely. He had wanted as many Freikorps within his little killing cauldron as possible but he could already imagine the nerves getting better of one of his comrades, giving the game away prematurely. He had waited as long as possible, soon the barricade would be torn down and the enemy below would have a direct route of escape.
‘The enemy’ were men he might have fought with less than a year beforehand, back before the Spring Offensive where it had seemed that victory might still have been possible. In different circumstances he might have been celebrating Germany’s victory with these men, or even in defeat he might have been advancing alongside them just now, advancing into Munich to crush a revolution that George had helped perpetrate, perhaps with someone else aiming at his chest instead of the other way around. George put such hypotheticals to one side and opened fire.
It was the first shot he had fired in anger since returning to Germany and it showed, George’s aim was nowhere near as strong as the drive that encouraged him to commit an act that he would have once seen as treachery. In the same way that a person will shiver and gasp after having just jumped into a cold body of water, George was temporarily stunned as he watched the man he had been aiming for throw his arms over his head and attempt to run for cover.
In the same way the body acclimatises to the new conditions around it, George had regained his composure before the Freikorps officer could make it. A small splatter of blood erupted from the man’s leg, then a larger one from his exposed back. George could see the man was in great pain but could not hear his screams over the gunfire from his comrades and those on the ground who had begun to fire back. Before he could put the man out of his misery a bullet smashed the window pane next to his head and George flung himself to the floor out of habit. He might have become a revolutionary now but his old soldier’s instincts were still with him.
Bullets were now slamming into the wall behind him, creating a cloud of dust that made it hard to crouch down the hallway without placing his hands on any broken glass. It was long before he was cursing and wrapping a handkerchief around the large gash across his left palm. The firing had stopped behind and down the hall his men were making a good account of themselves, peaking out from the window he realised they had managed to pin down those Freikorps still alive on the street. As he had hoped, the rest had been thrown into retreat.
Several grenades fell down from the upper floors of the gymnasium down the street as the enemy attempted to withdraw and regroup, he didn’t wish to risk sticking his head out of the window frame and as such missed the sight of the resulting, witnessing only the smoke and the anguish below him. He began to open fire, the men below were only temporarily disorientated despite the sight of so many dead comrades, it seemed as if they were veterans after all.
George put the whistle to his lips and screeched, the firing from the windows lost frequency as he and many others slung their guns around their backs and ran down the staircases as quickly as possible without breaking their necks. He had hoped it would have taken the enemy longer to organise themselves amidst the confusion but it seemed as if they were already adjusting to the shock. There was only one thing left to be done, abandon the high ground and charge.
The numbers were too weighted against them for Munich’s high buildings to be off any long-term value, the enemy could count on reinforcements whilst he couldn’t. Taking the fight to them was inevitable, and it was better to do it now than wait to be surrounded. Many of his men had seemed incredulous when George had suggested this the night before, he wasn’t even supposed to be in charge, but he was the only veteran amongst them and whilst it wasn’t the sanest of strategies it was aggressive enough to excite those who had never been to war. He had no doubts that he would be running out in the open by himself, his comrades had a taste for it now.
By the time George was outside the Freikorps were already on the back foot, exposed from cover they were scrambling back in the complete reverse of the way they had swaggered forward only a few minutes beforehand. George knelt in to the alleyway on the side of the library, relying on its cover to take aim at one of the retreating troops and fire. Satisfied that the body was on the ground for good he tried to find another target, amidst the panic there were many to choose from, all too late he remembered that panic was a two-way street in combat.
In his eagerness to press the attack, he had ignored the figure lurking in the shadows of the alley, only becoming aware of him when he felt the wind disappear from his lungs. The effect of being stabbed in the ribs was a terrible phenomenon, at the front George had always felt that he could emphasise with comrades who had been hit by shrapnel or run afoul of a bayonet but having to endure the experience first-hand was an entirely different matter. The confusion, the inability to breath, and above all the pain, everything seemed to arrive in rapid succession. He didn’t have time to fear for his life as the concealed soldier dragged him into the shadows in an attempt to finish him off.
Before George could react to this horrible end one of his comrades opened fire down the alley, his would-be killer’s face and neck were ground up behind him as he had attempted to use George’s body cover. The cadaver collapsed and George with him, still gasping for breath only to realise blood was coming up instead. His saviour attempted to help him to his feet, George wasn’t sure whether his own look of desperation had caused the student alarm or whether it was the blood he could feel coming out of his mouth.
An increasing numbness was coming upon him as the young man laid him to the ground once again and sitting him upright against some old scaffolding. The student was speaking now, reassuring him that everything was going to be alright, that he was going to just go and get help. George would have told him to forget him and concentrate on the task at hand but his senses were dulling and the only thing he seemed able to focus on was the speed of their decline. The student held his hand for a moment, squeezing it tightly, George faintly squeezed back, it was his one indication of having some sort of life left. It seemed to satisfy his saviour enough as an indicator that George wouldn’t necessarily die before he could go to get help.
Left alone in the alley George could barely hear the increasing amount of gunfire as it grew louder, something was firing off a lot of bullets and it was getting closer. His vision was becoming increasingly blurry but it was clear enough to see his fellow revolutionaries falling back. They had gotten too excited in their advance, or the enemy had arrived with reinforcements. He dreamily couldn’t be that they had simply lost their nerve, they had made him proud. He had made himself proud.
George saw that one of his comrades running past was still brandishing a large crimson banner even in flight. The flag’s colour remained vivid despite his consciousness slipping, as it disappeared he coughed up more blood into his hands.
So that’s what it means.
It was all he could think as he stared down at his hands with the image of the banner clear in his mind, George was rather happy to have made the connection as he finally fainted.
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The poster is "Beat the Whites with the Red Wedge" by El Lissitzky
Special thanks to
@iainbhx for his help in mapping the battle of Munich!
