Eleven Eleven - By Paul Dowswell Page 0,13

had to admit to himself, he had done quite well out of the occupation. Georges de Winne knew people. He could be relied on by the Germans to find a duck or a suckling pig for a regimental commander planning a celebratory feast, and in return the Germans had ensured the de Winne family had more than their fair share of provisions. It was a difficult state of affairs. While the other townspeople grew increasingly wan from their near-starvation rations, he and his wife and children were obviously well fed still. Of course people began to talk, and de Winne couldn’t help but notice the stares. He felt guilty about that too. So he started to hoard his extra provisions – the attic was full of tins of beans and cans of stewed beef. His family didn’t starve, but at least they didn’t look as plump as they used to.

The Germans kept a tight grip on news in Saint-Libert but even the dullest plough hand could tell that the balance of power was shifting. The soldiers that passed through the town on the way to fight the Allies looked increasingly old or young. The ones coming back east came through in greater numbers, and many of them were wounded. For the last couple of weeks, when the wind was in the right direction, it was possible to hear the sound of shell fire. Over the last few days de Winne had even heard the rattle of machine guns, and one or two shells had fallen on the town. He worried about his house, of course, they all did, but the days of fear and kowtowing and endless petty restrictions stipulated by notices put up around town Auf Befehl des Stadtkommandanten – by order of the commander – were drawing to a close.

CHAPTER 6

Private train of Marshal Foch Compiègne forest, north of Paris, 4.00 a.m.

One hundred kilometres behind the front line, Captain George Atherley surveyed the scene before him and fought back a deep desire to yawn. The pall of tobacco smoke that hung over the railway carriage was making his eyes water and he was desperate for a cigarette himself. He needed something to keep him awake. He knew this was history in the making, and he was lucky to be here taking notes and witnessing it.

The German delegation had been escorted across the duckboards on to Marshal Foch’s private train at two o’clock; now it was four o’clock and they were still talking. It was cold in the carriage, and although the paraffin heaters were taking the chill off, they added to the drowsy atmosphere.

The Germans had been pushing for talks since early October, but negotiations had only been going on in earnest for three days. Every hour, every minute, brought more needless deaths. The German delegation had been arguing every point, but the British and French were giving nothing away. Why should they, thought Atherley. Germany was on the point of collapse. Berlin, Munich, perhaps half the country, was about to fall into anarchy. Just like the Russians with their Bolsheviks the year before.

Atherley was there to take the minutes on behalf of the British government, represented here by the First Sea Lord. Sir Rosslyn Wemyss was as forbidding and stuffy as his name and rank suggested, but he wasn’t as cold-hearted as Foch. Foch was merciless. The Boche had asked for it though, thought Atherley. They had started the war.

But, just tonight, he had actually begun to feel sorry for the Germans. Matthias Erzberger, the man they had sent to represent the shaky coalition that held power in Berlin now the Kaiser had abdicated, was a nobody, raised to prominence, and no doubt future infamy, for this catastrophic peace treaty they were about to sign. Him and Count Alfred von Obersdorff sitting next to him – a somebody from the Foreign Ministry. They would be blamed for this. The army had sent a major general, sitting there in his ridiculous Pickelhaube helmet and overcoat, looking like a cartoon Hun. Nobody above a division commander was willing to represent the army. There were no generals, no field marshals. The Imperial German Navy had only sent a humble captain. A fellow called Vanselow.

The victors, on the other hand, were there in all their glory. The French had Marshal Foch, Supreme Commander of the Allied Armies, looking unforgiving with his great walrus moustache and the killer eyes of a cat with a bird in its mouth. The British had their