Fall of Giants

Walter surveyed the surrounding countryside through his field glasses. It was a bright, cold day and he could see clearly. To the south the wide river Oise passed slowly through marshes. Northward, fertile land was dotted with hamlets, farmhouses, bridges, orchards, and small areas of woodland. A mile to the west was the network of German trenches, and beyond that the battleground. Here the same agricultural landscape had been devastated by war. Barren wheat fields were cratered like the moon; every village was a heap of stones; the orchards had been blasted and the bridges blown up. If he focused his binoculars carefully, he could see the rotting corpses of men and horses and the steel shells of burned-out tanks.

On the far side of this wasteland were the British.

A loud rumbling caused Walter to look eastward. The vehicle approaching was one he had never seen before, though he had heard talk. It was a self-propelled gun, with giant barrel and firing mechanism mounted on a chassis with its own one-hundred-horsepower engine. It was closely followed by a heavy-duty truck loaded, presumably, with proportionately huge ammunition. A second and a third gun came after. The artillery crews riding on the vehicles waved their caps as they passed by, as if they were on a victory parade.

Walter felt bucked. Such guns could be repositioned rapidly once the offensive got under way. They would give much better support to advancing infantry.

Walter had heard that an even bigger gun was shelling Paris from a distance of sixty miles. It hardly seemed possible.

The guns were followed by a Mercedes 37/95 Double Phaeton that looked distinctly familiar. It turned off the road and parked in the square in front of the church, and Walter’s father got out.

What was he doing here?

Walter passed through the low doorway into the tower and hurried down the narrow spiral staircase to the ground. The nave of the disused church had become a dormitory. He picked his way through bedrolls and the upturned crates that served the men as tables and chairs.

Outside, the graveyard was packed with trench bridges, prefabricated wooden platforms that would enable artillery and supply trucks to cross captured British trenches in the wake of the storm troopers. They were stashed amid the tombstones so as not to be easily visible from the air.

The stream of men and vehicles passing through the village from east to west had now slowed to a trickle. Something was up.

Otto was in uniform, and saluted formally. Walter could see that his father was bursting with excitement. “A special visitor is coming!” Otto said immediately.

So that was it. “Who?”

“You’ll see.”

Walter guessed it was General Ludendorff, who was now in effect supreme commander. “What does he want to do?”

“Address the soldiers, of course. Please assemble the men in front of the church.”

“How soon?”

“He’s not far behind me.”

“Right.” Walter looked around the square. “Sergeant Schwab! Come here. You and Corporal Grunwald-and you men, come here.” He dispatched messengers to the church, the canteen that had been set up in a large barn, and the tent village on the rise to the north. “I want every man in front of the church, properly dressed, in fifteen minutes. Quick!” They ran off.

Walter hurried around the village, informing the officers, ordering the men to the square, keeping an eye on the road from the east. He found his commanding officer, Generalmajor Schwarzkopf, in a cheese-smelling former dairy on the edge of the village, finishing a late breakfast of bread and tinned sardines.

Within a quarter of an hour two thousand men were assembled, and ten minutes later they looked respectable, uniforms buttoned and caps on straight. Walter brought up a flatbed truck and backed it up in front of the men. He improvised steps up to the back of the truck using ammunition crates.

Otto produced a length of red carpet from the Mercedes and placed it on the ground leading to the steps.

Walter took Grunwald out of the line. The corporal was a tall man with big hands and feet. Walter sent him up onto the church roof with his field glasses and a whistle.

Then they waited.

Half an hour went by, then an hour. The men fidgeted, the lines became ragged, and conversation broke out.

After another hour, Grunwald blew his whistle.

“Get ready!” Otto barked. “Here he comes!”

A cacophony of shouted orders burst out. The men came quickly to attention. A motorcade swept into the square.

The door of an armored car opened, and a man in a general’s uniform got out. However, it was not the balding, bullet-headed Ludendorff. The special visitor moved awkwardly, holding his left hand in the pocket of his tunic as if his arm were injured.

After a moment, Walter saw that it was the kaiser himself.

Generalmajor Schwarzkopf approached him and saluted.