Eleven Eleven - By Paul Dowswell Page 0,14

First Sea Lord. Atherley was in the army, but he was happy to admit it was only proper that the Senior Service represent the Empire at this hour. The Yanks weren’t there. Atherley didn’t really understand why that was.

Now they were arguing about terms again. The French were demanding the Germans hand over 2,000 aircraft. How could they, pleaded Erzberger, after hurried consultation with his military colleagues, when they had only 1,700 left?

They hammered it out. The figures were astounding. The Allies were asking for 5,000 artillery pieces, 30,000 machine guns, 5,000 locomotives – Atherley scribbled it all down – 150,000 railway carriages; he had to interrupt to ask for that figure again. Wemyss looked daggers at him . . . and the entire submarine fleet.

The Germans held out for more concessions. There were women and children starving at home. Would the blockade be lifted immediately? Every day civilians were dying for want of nourishment. The longer they went on arguing, the more would die.

Yes, and more of our soldiers and yours, thought Atherley. He wasn’t really concerned about the German civilians, although a little part of him had to concede he could hardly blame the women and children for starting the war.

All right, agreed Foch and Wemyss. The Allies ‘would contemplate the provisioning of Germany during the Armistice as shall be found necessary’.

Contemplate. As he wrote it down, Atherley gave a little smirk at the mealy-mouthed wording of that particular concession.

Then that was it. They had finished. Papers were to be signed. Atherley looked at his watch. It was 5.10. The war was over. History had been made. The mincing machine would grind to a halt. They all agreed to say they had signed at 5.00, and then the required six hours to bring the Armistice into effect would end the war at eleven o’clock, Paris time. That had a nice ring to it, they thought. The eleventh hour of the eleventh day of the eleventh month.

Atherley felt a little indignant. Surely they could bring it to a halt quicker than that? He had a younger brother out near Mons, and he’d lost two already. Both of them on the Somme in 1916. He hoped Lieutenant Peter Atherley, of the Surrey Rifles, would have the good sense to keep his head down. Some would have to die in the last morning of the war – probably a hell of a lot of men, especially with the American divisions. Their staff officers had reputations to seal, and if they were anything like the British staff officers he’d served with, they wouldn’t be too fussy about the cost.

Erzberger was speaking again. He seemed like a man at the end of his tether. ‘The German people will preserve their liberty and unity, despite every kind of violence. A nation of seventy million people suffers but it does not die.’

Foch looked at him with plain disinterest. ‘Très bien,’ he said.

The Germans left with a reminder that the Armistice would hold for thirty days, to be renewed once a month thereafter. Hostilities would begin within forty-eight hours if any of the terms were breached. There were no handshakes.

The war had six hours left to run.

CHAPTER 7

4.00 a.m.

Axel’s combat group marched away from the town. As far as he could tell by the flares, and occasional rattle of gunfire, they were going parallel to the Front, heading south or maybe south-west. Axel hated not knowing where he was or the names of the places they were passing through. It made him feel as if he had no control over what was happening. No control over his life. Maybe it was the damp night air, but now, as they approached the front line, Axel sensed a distinct lack of fighting spirit among his fellow recruits.

The Feldwebel called a halt and counted off half the men to join a unit already dug in at the side of the road they were marching along. He grabbed them by the arm and pushed them away from the remaining soldiers. There was certainly no encouraging pat on the back for anyone. For the soldier who had been flung to the ground and threatened with execution, there was a sharp cuff on the back of the head. ‘Watch this one,’ said the Feldwebel to one of the position commanders. ‘He doesn’t deserve a second chance.’

The rest of them marched on, the Feldwebel leading the way. Axel cursed himself for positioning himself at the back. He was desperate to take off his