Unexpected Twists: Berlin 1919 - Madrid 1936

By Michael P. Kihntopf

A column of soldiers marched toward the battlefield on a November morning. Over the babble of unconnected conversations Grenadier Franz Ehrholt's voice sounded like a clarion. "You know," he started in his philosophy professor's monotone voice that he used to impress anyone who might be listening, "I'm not frightened of dying". He paus

• Language: English
• Publisher: Westwood Books Publishing, LLC
• Release date: Apr 27, 2021
• ISBN: 9781648035869

Michael P. Kihntopf

Michael P. Kihntopf is a retired U.S. Air Force officer as well as a retired high school history teacher.  He has written two books about the Eastern Front of World War 1 along with numerous articles about the Great War that deal with such subjects as cooking in the trenches to a general retreat of the Russian army in 1915.  He takes this expertise and couples it with a unique family history.  Both grandfathers and their three brothers fought in World War 1 in the German army and participated in the post war Freecorps movements on the Baltic coast and in Germany.  Their experiences along with his own Vietnam and Cold War experiences are melded in this book to create an individual picture of war and its effects on the individual.

Book preview

Copyright © 2021 by Michael P. Kihntopf.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

Westwood Books Publishing LLC

11416 SW Aventino Drive

Port Saint Lucie, FL 34987

www.westwoodbookspublishing.com

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

CHAPTER 1

Silent, emaciated horses guided by equally silent teamsters were pulling heavy wagons along the war-improved ancient Roman road. Their steamy breath in the cold November air gave them the appearance of steady steam engines. They were laboriously hauling ammunition, food, and water from Montmedy to the Argonne where enemy soldiers were gaining ground despite heavy resistance. On either side of the road were the remains of wagons and putrefying horses— testaments to the ongoing ferocious battle. A commotion by road controllers interrupted the flow. Vulgarly protesting drivers were directed off the road and into the surrounding fields to continue their journey. A river had been redirected without aid of a dam. Into the open bed marched a column of soldiers, a battalion strong, as silent and as hungry as the horses they had replaced. The steady, regulated tramping of their hobnailed boots against the ancient cobblestones which had endured the tread of Romans lent a rhythmic beat to the low singsong murmur of idle conversation coming from them. A platoon commander marching at the front of his portion of the column rolled his head from side to side. Protocol would not allow him to look back or move back while on the march. His mind was not on the march; he was trying to discern words in the murmurs. Having come from those ranks by a will of foolishness dinged with bravery, he knew that the comments made on the march gave a general picture of the men’s morale and stamina for a fight. The battalion’s destination was the trenches facing the American drive on the Meuse. Unable to ascertain what the men were saying, he tried to turn his head to catch the eye of his sergeant who marched on the left flank of the platoon at his regulation place, a much better position to hear the men. He could not see the sergeant but he knew that the man was watching every movement his lieutenant made in anticipation of his orders. Surely, he would understand the commander’s fidgeting.

An astute Sergeant Max Schiller caught the lieutenant’s futile head movements and knew what his officer wanted. He faked a stumble, catching himself only when he nearly ran into the left file. He didn’t want to appear too obvious about trying to listen. The men saw the movements of both the lieutenant and the sergeant and were not duped into thinking the stumble was real. They lowered their voices. They knew what the sergeant, who was popular among the ranks but, nevertheless, a member of the ruling hierarchy, was doingand how easily a word, any word, might be twisted into sedition and lead to company punishment or even prison. The dampening of voices in the sergeant’s mind brought visions of a conspiracy. Rumors were circulating about mutinies among the units the General Staff had repositioned from the Russian front. Schiller’s battalion was one of those units.

The Central Powers of Germany and Austria-Hungary had won the war in the east. Russia had pulled out of the conflict. The divisions out there had hoped for a quiet time or even demobilization but instead they had had their ranks culled. Soldiers under twenty-five years old were taken out of their units and formed into new companies, new battalions, and finally new regiments which were retrained to be the new model soldiers called storm troops. They were given clean weapons, new uniforms and shipped west to France where the war still raged in all its fury. The older soldiers, with the exception of the sergeants, were left behind to wander the Russian forests hunting mushrooms and game—an ideal life after three and a half years of freezing for nine months and sweating for the other three on the Riga line. These men that Schiller walked next to had been cheated of a taste of peace. It was no wonder that the young pups were resentful.

Schiller reminisced without losing sight of why he was listening. When he had started out, in ’16, he was all vinegar and salt spoiling for a fight with the French or English or Russians come what may. He endured the basic training, constantly fearful that the war might end at any time, and perhaps before he could get to the real fighting. When he was certified as ready for the front he had felt proud to be carrying a rifle and that pride had not diminished when a speedy victory didn’t come and the killing dragged on for another two years. Seemingly endless artillery barrages and machine gun fusillades accented by boredom and the horror of watching friends mutilated or killed did not diminish his ardor. Even when he was wounded in Galicia, his morale had not lowered one bit. His superiors had noted his stamina and luck in surviving the most grueling ordeals. They promoted him as noncommissioned officer ranks thinned. He was modest when asked what he attributed to his rise by citing his trust in the men, good peasant stock who were faithful to the Kaiser, around him and the high casualty rates inflicted by Russian winters and cannons. The men knew their duty, never faltering for a moment. But times had changed by mid-1918. The comrades of ’16 and ’17 were for the most part gone; the few who remained were mere shells of their former selves. After each engagement, the ranks were refilled but not always with men who werethe best of the lot.

Beside him now, mixed in with the soldiers he had marched with at Riga and in the Carpathians, were men who had participated in labor strikes or bread demonstrations or were too outspoken in their criticism of the empire’s leaders. Those who had been employed had had cushy jobs, well paid jobs exempt from army service, but they had wanted more. The British blockade had brought about a rising cost of living. Feeding a family had become impossible on 1914 wages. So they had taken to the streets and taken part in strikes, or simply put tools down placing a premium on going back to work. They had thumbed their noses at officials who said Germany’s victory depended on their returning to work and countered by stating that if their demands weren’t met, Germany could lose the war. Those who were unemployed met with others of their type in dank bierkellers to ask one another why the war continued to drag on when anyone could see there was no path to victory. The General Staff took exception to those wage demands and calls for peace without victory. The militant workers were replaced by more complacent, former soldiers who were no longer fit for combat and put into uniforms so they might no longer look for a few pfennigs more. Bierkellers were raided and the speech makers, many of whom had seen action in the beginning of the war, were also put in uniforms. Both groups were sent to the front so they would know the answers to their questions. Schiller had learned to manage the dissenters by appealing to their desire for survival and getting home as soon as possible. But there were others in the ranks who were an insidious mold, who were uncontrollable and dangerous to the army’s structure—soldiers who had been exposed to Bolshevik ideas in the semi-peace that had preceded the treaty signing. They ate away at a man’s morale by inciting passive resistance to orders or by inciting desertion. Schiller was dismayed how national loyalty could be replaced by politics. His worry thread was interrupted by a single voice that was a little louder than the rest.

Can you hear that? the voice asked in a whimsical way.

Those who were murmuring took the cue. A hush fell over the files. Schiller knew the voice. It was Rudolph Frick, an old hand despite his scant nineteen years of existence. He had seen plenty of shooting in the last two years since he had volunteered from the gymnasium bench to become, as Frick put it, one of the iron men of the Reich.

Frick continued, Sounds like distant thunder.

The hush turned into a dead silence. Even the hobnailed boots quieted themselves.

Is it a storm?

Frick offered an explanation to his own question, This is November. It should be raining. Why isn’t it raining? We should be slogging through the mud and dripping wet but we’re not. I tell you it isn’t natural to be marching in the dry. Listen. There it is again. Hear it that time? So far off yet near. Is it the American artillery? Are we so near to the front already?

A stern voice answered the question, No, mate. Ain’t thunder. Ain’t artillery. It’s your flamin’ stomach and mine grumbling in chorus with the rest of the stomachs in the platoon. We haven’t had nothin’ to eat in a day now and those tummies don’t like it one bit. Tummies unite, that’s what they’re saying.

Frick, marching just ahead of Schiller, could be seen lowering his head to listen betterto his stomach. You’re right, Stasch. What a grumble. What do you think we should do?

Schiller heard a few laugh then a chorus of no less than ten voices answered breaking the quiet of the somewhat early morning darkness, Eat immediately!

The chorus was so loud that Schiller really lost the marching pace as did the lieutenant. Both stumbled and nearly fell over. The marching ranks opened around his impediment and continued to flow. He finally regained his equilibrium in the fifth rank with the help of one or two soldiers who kept him from falling all together.

Sergeant, the lieutenant called.

Schiller came forward to help the stumbling officer.

Sergeant, he whispered in a forceful tone when Schiller’s ear was nearer, quiet the ranks and mind the pace. If the men have a problem, get it fixed before the company commander hears us. He double timed back to his position at the head of the platoon.

Schiller smirked and dropped back to a parallel position with Frick. He did not turn his head from facing forward but tensed his posture in a way of emphasizing his words. Frick, the lieutenant says that I should fix your problem. I am in agreement with those who answered your question. You should eat immediately as you see an opportunity. He paused for a theatrical effect. But remember: don’t touch your iron rations.

Men laughed but not because they found humor in Schiller’s order. Everyone knew that the iron rations had long since disappeared from the soldier’s kit and not because of issuing shortages. The men had eaten them within hours of issue despite regulations that stated they were not to eat them unless ordered. Hunger was so prevalent. The laughter, Schiller knew the reason for it, was an indication of the soldiers’ morale. He hoped the lieutenant heard the laughs. ‘They still have a sense of humor,’ Schiller thought. ‘No mutiny in these ranks’. He reasoned that men who can laugh are either insane or hopeful of a future.

You know, Grenadier Franz Ehrholt seized hold of the momentary quiet and said in his philosophy professor’s monotone voice to no one in particular, I’m not frightened of dying. He paused to get an effect. A few men snickered or groaned depending on their opinion of the statement and its origin. There were a few comments about whether or not dying would rid the platoon of Ehrholt’s incessant silly thoughts. The comments did not deter Ehrholt. Instead, the criticism told him that many were listening. That was a fatal mistake on their part. He continued, After all, dying is what a soldier does best. The skill comes naturally. No speed training necessary with countless hours of drill and a sergeant major barking orders and insults to make the action flawless even under the least of ideal circumstances. Even the most inept soldier just has a knack for catching a bullet or a piece of flaming shell. Perhaps we’re really magnetic with our iron rations jangling inside.

There were some muffled laughs and a few groans, all of which were encouragement to continue. Ehrholt was the platoon’s barracks lawyer, political conscience, and resident sage. He had dropped out of university after two years because he had fallen in love. The lack of a university standing had brought conscription down on him in 1916 just in time to see the heaviest fighting at Riga. The time at university made him one of the more educated among the tradesmen that made up the majority of the platoon and company. He lorded his education over the men explaining minor matters in great detail, much more than anyone should be exposed to. People seldom took him seriously since, they surmised, he was book smart and not street smart. Yet there were times when his words cut into a man with profound results. The hidden Bolshevik agitators encouraged his ramblings when they were along political lines because they often smacked to socialist concepts. His marching mate and closest friend, Landewehr Private Jakob Fenstermacher, offered encouragement. He always found great mirth in watching listeners’ faces contort when Ehrholt delivered the ending comments.

You’ve got a few ears listening, Ehrholt. Now give it to ’em where it hurts.

Yup, not afraid of dying, Ehrholt said as if he were an echo of his own voice which had just returned from bouncing off a distant mountain. It’s surviving all this, that I’m afraid of.

A disembodied voice questioned, What’s so bad about surviving? Afraid of being a cripple or a madman? At least you’re alive and not eating dirt.

Doesn’t matter. Whole or half, demented or sane, each is still surviving. I’m talking about going back to 16 Bismarck Strasse, my home, after release. My wife, my children, and I lived there for almost three years. The day I arrive at the front door will be like going to judgment day for me. I ask you, what’s in store for me there? Many of you know what I mean. The angel I thought would be there ain’t. My wife has run off with the man who lived in the first floor apartment to a farm in Posen where there is plenty of food and no one can hear the guns of hate. My children actually like him and told me in heartfelt letters that he had plenty of money to buy them sweets and I should stay away as long as possible or get killed even. There were some laughter and a few requests for him to shut his mouth or suffer some consequences when they stopped for rest. Let me go on so you’ll have time to plan how you’ll do me in. I have no job waiting either since the man who employed me as a clerk and promised that when it was all over I could rest assured that the job was waiting, was out here a few months back just in time to get knocked off. His wife sold the business to the man who my wife ran off with, who promptly sold it to someone else for the money so he could run off in style. But that’s not the worst. His sentences were no longer mixed with solider expressions and homely jargon. It was deep toned, ominous, and scholarly. Do you think the homeland we will go back to is the same as it was before we wound up out here? While we were out here defending it against the enemy hordes who wanted to change our way of life, things changed back there without their interference. It’s a new world around 16 Bismarck Strasse. Last time I was on furlough I saw nothing but widow’s veils, crippled soldiers, and street gangs made up of orphans who steal and beg. There are long queues for daily bread and a few potatoes. People are starving and they blame us soldiers for prolonging the war and, therefore, their agony.

He tried to say more but there were many sighs and a general JA, JA from those who were listening. Schiller nodded in agreement with Ehrholt then he caught himself as if he were awakening from a daydream. The philosopher’s hypnotizing words may have had the tinge of truth but they might bring on questions that could undermine discipline.

An unidentifiable voice whispered the question that Schiller feared the most, So why are we still fighting for the homeland?

No one answered, but Schiller knew that more than a few were silently asking the same thing. What could he do? Luckily, the command to halt for a ten-minute rest echoed down the line from company to company. Tired men don’t think when rest is offered and there is no idea of knowing how many kilometers still remain before an end. The men moved off the road to the grassy shoulder. Their relinquishing of the road caused a vacuum, into which the detoured horse-drawn wagons were drawn. The road was not to have a respite from being tromped under foot. The men sat down and laid back on their packs. No order had been given to unhitch the thirty kilo packs.

Schiller sat on the road in front of his platoon and took out his pipe to suck the stem. There hadn’t been any tobacco in a month. Sure there had been plenty of Russian tobacco but its quality was akin to lighting a thorn bush, hot and prickly with a burning trash heap aroma. He had purposely allowed tobacco ashes to build up in his pipe. Somehow they still tasted good, more tasty than all the Russian tobacco in the world. He looked from face to face, trying to put a name to the face. It was so hard. So many faces had been there before these. Faces had become blank canvases. He kept an expressionless gaze as he scanned the ranks. He may be suspicious of a few, angry with a few, and happy to see a familiar face in a sea of strangers, but any mood that could be read might make some uncomfortable. Noncommissioned officers were demigods with officers being gods. Demonstrators and bierkeller orators viewed him as nothing more than a policeman keeping them in the ranks. The lieutenant walked over to Schiller, who stood but didn’t go rigid. After two years of war discipline, most had forgotten prewar standards or chose to ignore them.

In a low tone so that no one but Schiller could hear, he asked, What was that racket about? He motioned Schiller to sit, which he did. The lieutenant saw that standing over Schiller gave him more of an aura of authority.

Schiller looked up at him. The men are hungry. Going on two days without rations.

Tell me about it. The officers, the lieutenant spoke as if they were a separate entity, haven’t eaten either. The men should know that. Tell them when you get a chance. We’re in this together.

Schiller resented his tone and he asked a question of himself that bordered on sedition, ‘If rations came, who would get them first?’ Hastily, he thought of an answer that didn’t betray his opinion. They know that, Herr Lieutenant, but they don’t feel our pain. Just theirs.

The lieutenant was about to say something when the command for officers to report to the battalion commander was relayed down the column. The lieutenant hurried forward. Schiller went back to sucking on his pipe. His mouth salivated when he saw quite a few little red glows among the files. ‘Cigarettes’, he told himself. He didn’t care for them but he would not have turned down an offer. There were also a few plumes of blue smoke rising from pipes. A few of the men still had tobacco, maybe Russian or from home. As a sergeant he couldn’t ask for a favor from the men. That wouldn’t be proper. He had to endure the sight. The men had to offer him a gift and, even then, he was duty bound to turn it away. Graciously, the morning cold and dampness kept the tobacco aroma from spreading.

Every head twisted in response to a commotion at the head of the column. Were the ten minutes up all ready? The noise grew in intensity as it neared. Schiller and many of his platoon jumped to their feet and reslung their rifles. Were they under attack?

The lieutenant came running toward him. Keep the men calm, Sergeant. Keep the men in their ranks.

There was movement in the surrounding fields. Soldiers were running