“Fascism is not opposed to bourgeois democracy; to the contrary, it is its continuation by other means.”
~ Herman Gorter
Simply put, the inspiration of the Red Front came out of the Ruhr revolution. Never before had Germany seen such a well drilled force of far-left paramilitaries than that caused by the general strike of 1920. The Freikorps, pining for the incompetent rabble they had faced in Berlin and Munich the year beforehand, found themselves facing fellow veterans with adequate arms. It was a sight that caused them so much dread that after a few skirmishes the reactionaries had fled from the Ruhr altogether.
Unlike in Bavaria, the Ruhr revolutionaries did not bask in their presumed victory but continued to arm and radicalise the workers, it was a sober and effective strategy that had only begun to bear fruit when the Freikorps returned, this time with the full backing the of the Reichswehr.
This was the first victory of the forefathers of the Red Front, a sign of things to come, but also a sign of their limitations at this early stage. The Weimar government, having returned to Berlin, had reclaimed the support of the army, and then with a handful of objections they had established a new alliance with the reactionary elements that had attempted a string them up a fortnight beforehand. All of the revolutionaries enemies were once again aligned against them.
Eager to avoid further bloodshed, the government delivered an ultimatum on the 25th of April. The industries of the Ruhr would be removed from the workers but would not be returned to private interests, instead they would be nationalised. Further, it would be promised that those involved in the putsch would be prosecuted and that there would be no military presence in the Ruhr. These were the offers that were made, in condition for the revolutionaries laying down their arms.
The offer divided opinion amongst those who saw the deal as a victory for their cause and those who saw it as an attempt to prevent a national revolution, confusion was worsened by the decision of the Communist party's Berlin leadership to announce its support of the ultimatum. Having failed to support the government against Kapp. Levi now felt that a revolution that he had little control over was a far more dangerous prospect than Kapp's putsch.
By the beginning of May most workers had laid down their arms and gone home, leaving a greatly diminished worker's militia to face overwhelming odds once again.
~ Geoffrey Corbett,
The Workers Hammer: A History of the Red Front
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Trigger Warning: Racism
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"It appears that the time has come to meet our hosts"
The blue figures had emerged a few moments before their checkpoint had came into view. No matter how much any of them despised it, the French occupation of the Rhineland was the saviour of what was now left of the Ruhr revolutionaries. There was no going back now.
Johann wasn't usually one for irony but he couldn't help but smirk at the situation he was in. Here they were, veterans of the First World War, fleeing towards the French lines to escape their own countrymen, French lines that now extended to the Rhine.
The Allied occupation of the Rhineland had angered virtually all Germans, regardless of politics. There were rumours of French atrocities, particularly those involving black troops, that were played up to hysterical levels by the right-wing press. Johann had read such stories with an air of scepticism, but he hoped that the reactionaries on their tail might be more trusting of the horror stories about French reprisals. Even if they didn't, it was likely that the French themselves would be intimidating enough. The Freikorps and Reichswehr may have defeated their revolution, but the milita and hobbled military wouldn't be a match for the victors of the First World War. At least that was what he hoped.
Having not seen any action whatsoever, even Johann would have admitted that he wasn't
technically a veteran. By the November of 1918 the hours of flight time required for new combat pilots had been cut drastically but even then he hadn't been at the academy long enough to see any action. He had been drinking something that could charitably be called "coffee" when the news came of the armistice had come through to the training airfield. It was a frustrating feeling, a rather helpless one of seeing his country be given away before he had a chance to save it. He could understand why many turned to scapegoats for Germany's defeat, for it was those same feelings that had made him see the true cause of the world's problems.
Having spoken to some of his newfound comrades, he was beginning to doubt whether or not he regretted his lack of experience, some of the stories he had heard in their retreat had made him question how these men had managed to keep their sanity. They had been sat around the fire one night, but Johann felt he could see something other than the flames relfecting in their eyes. He had remembered screaming when he'd first pulled the trigger on his first sortie against the reactionary enemy, although he could still only barely remember the blur that was his last flight.
He wasn't sure whether he had been hit by anti-aircraft fire or whether the engine had simple exploded on its own terms, he hadn't stopped to examine the wreck whilst recovering from the shock, when he first saw a group of soldiers approaching he thought that he'd had it anyways. They had managed to bring him to his senses by demanding to know whether or not he had been in the plane bearing the red star. Still in shock, he could only nod in the affirmative as the men around him began to cheer. Soon he found himself marching with them, composed enough to join in with 'Solidarität für immer' after he had pointed them in the direction of Wetter.
It had quickly been made apparent to him that these men were not from the Ruhr, instead he got a bizarre story of retreat from Belgium to Bavaria, revolution, defeat, imprisonment, and then freedom due to a general strike and a confused prison guard. Some of the stories would differ but the one who spoke the most seemed to be the natural leader of the group. Adolf was his name, an intense man with a love of hyperbole, he was able to characterise everything as being part of the same conflict that Johann had first learned about in university, as well as convincing a local farmer that they were willing to dig up his fields all day for nothing more than a bowl of hot soup and a barn roof over their heads. The man had seemed courteous enough but it was clear that he had been happy to exploit their labour, it wouldn't be a great shame when he realised that buried guns were unlikely to sprout.
The group were optimistic about their chances of the French giving them asylum, but had realised that bearing arms would be out of the question. So here they were instead, helpless workers on the run from the Freikorps. Refugees in their own nation.
They had not been the only ones looking for clemency from the French. Many genuine refugees had fled the last few weeks of fighting, alongside some of the not-so genuine, like themselves. If there was one thing that the French soldiers were liable to hate more than Germans it was German military veterans, and as such anything to frsutrate the Freikorps was a welcome move, even if it carried the possibility of certain unruly elements being allowed into their zone of occupation. Johann wondered whether the party was at all active under the Allies' nose, and if not whether they would be the ones to set it up. He wondered if he could convince any of the Frenchmen to join them, it was a country defined by revolution after all.
"They don't seem very French to me."
It was comrade Adolf who had pointed out that though these men wore French uniforms they appeared to be of African heritage.
"They were everywhere at the front, the British and French loved using them as cannon-fodder, they would be the first over the top and the last to retreat. The imperialist bourgeois liked to think that they could make a distinction that way. Can't really blame them, a lot of them hadn't seen a industrial society before being shipped to the front. Our own rulers would have done the same if they had had any colonies worth the name."
This wasn't the sort of attitude Johann was used to, although he had to admit he hadn't had as much experience as most of his colleagues, he wondered if they might have read different literature. He thought it would be best to ask anyway,
"But didn't comrade Lenin say that imperialism was the highest form of capitalism?"
There were some agreeing noises amongst the group although Adolf merely scoffed,
"Yes, yes, but that doesn't make them one and the same. The capitalists oppress the worker to maintain their own power, they pursue imperialism to prevent investment at home, the natives in the colonies they acquire are simply bystanders to the whole process."
As the group moved closer to the men ushering the refugees ahead, they looked to be very much part of the world around them,
"So what you're saying is that this isn't their fight?"
Adolf looked perturbed,
"It's got nothing to do with what
I'm saying, Marx made it perfectly clear that they should go back to their huts and concentrate on their own affairs. Acting as they are now they're just the tool of the running dogs, they can't even be made to reason with..."
"Will you please shut up?!" An agitated woman in front of them hissed before Adolf could go off on his rant, the troops were coming within earshot and she clearly thought it was better to reason with them. However the revolutionary could not be dissauded, he called over to one of the soldiers and took out his packet of cigarettes.
This was one of the oddest quirks of the man, he always had a cigarette, yet Johann had never seen him smoke. The soldier did smoke however, and accepted one before trying to find a light.
"Speak German?"
As the soldier's match sparked Johann could see a glimmer in his eyes. He understood that question at least.
"A little."
"Can I ask you where you were born? Was it in France?"
The soldier shook his head,
"Senegal."
Adolf nodded and looked back to Johann, as if that answer proved his point.
"My friends and I were just discussing were you might have come from, obviously we knew that you weren't French and seeing as you aren't I was just wondering why you fight for them. Don't they occupy your own country? Surely it's better for you to go home and fight for independence?"
Adolf changed the wording of the question slightly amidst the four times he tried to get through to the Senegalese soldier, finally the man nodded and seemed to ponder an answer.
"Your accent is very thick. Austrian, maybe?"
Adolf nodded impatiently.
"Yes, yes, but I was hoping you under-"
"You do realise you are going the wrong way don't you, Austrian? You are in Germany. Why aren't you at home fighting for independence?"
Despite their fear of the French, some laughter erupted in the crowd.
At that point, Johann couldn't help but join. At least these French had a sense of humour. Adolf only seemed to scowl for the rest of the day, even once they had safely passed the French lines that would keep away the Freikorps. Having found lodging in the Rhineland that night, Johann couldn't help but overhear their leader muttering about some sort of reckoning.
Looking to the darkening sky in the east, Johann hoped that he meant a reckoning for those who had driven them from the Ruhr. It had to be.
After all, what sort of communist form a grudge over a bit of light mockery when there was a revolution waiting to be sparked?
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The poster implores the working class to vote for the KPD after being 'betrayed by the SPD.'
