Fall of Giants

The bang was deafening in the quiet of the forest. The horse leaped forward. The officer fell sideways and hit the ground, but one foot remained caught in a stirrup. The horse dragged him through the undergrowth for a hundred yards, then slowed down and stopped.

Grigori listened carefully in case the sound of the shot had attracted anyone else. He heard nothing but a mild evening breeze riffling the leaves.

He walked toward the horse. As he got closer he shouldered his rifle and pointed it at the officer, but his caution was unnecessary. The man lay still, face upward, his eyes wide open, his pointed helmet lying beside him. He had cropped blond hair and rather beautiful green eyes. It might have been the man Grigori had seen earlier: he could not be sure. Lev would have known-he would have remembered the horse.

Grigori opened the saddlebags. One contained maps and a telescope. The other held a sausage and a hunk of black bread. Grigori was starving. He bit off a piece of the sausage. It was strongly flavored with pepper, herbs, and garlic. The pepper made his cheeks hot and sweaty. He chewed rapidly, swallowed, then stuffed some of the bread into his mouth. The food was so good he could have wept. He stood there, leaning against the side of the big horse, eating as fast as he could, while the man he had killed stared up at him with dead green eyes.

{VI}

Walter said to Ludendorff: “We estimate thirty thousand Russian dead, General.” He was trying not to show his elation too obviously, but the German victory was overwhelming, and he could not get the smile off his face.

Ludendorff was coolly controlled. “Prisoners?”

“At the latest count about ninety-two thousand, sir.”

It was an amazing statistic, but Ludendorff took it in his stride. “Any generals?”

“General Samsonov shot himself. We have his body. Martos, commander of the Russian 15 Corps, has been taken prisoner. We have captured five hundred artillery guns.”

“In summary,” said Ludendorff, at last looking up from his field desk, “the Russian Second Army has been wiped out. It no longer exists.”

Walter could not help grinning. “Yes, sir.”

Ludendorff did not return the smile. He waved the sheet of paper he had been studying. “Which makes this news all the more ironic.”

“Sir?”

“They’re sending us reinforcements.”

Walter was astounded. “What? I beg your pardon, General-reinforcements?”

“I am as surprised as you. Three corps and a cavalry division.”

“From where?”

“From France-where we need every last man if the Schlieffen Plan is to work.”

Walter recalled that Ludendorff had worked on the details of the Schlieffen Plan, with his customary energy and meticulousness, and he knew what was needed in France, down to the last man, horse, and bullet. “But what has brought this about?” Walter said.

“I don’t know, but I can guess.” Ludendorff’s tone became bitter. “It’s political. Princesses and countesses in Berlin have been crying and sobbing to the kaiserin about their family estates being overrun by the Russians. The high command has bowed under the pressure.”

Walter felt himself blush. His own mother was one of those who had pestered the kaiserin. For women to become worried and beg for protection was understandable, but for the army to give in to their pleas, and risk derailing the entire war strategy, was unforgivable. “Isn’t this exactly what the Allies want?” he said indignantly. “The French persuaded the Russians to invade with a half-ready army, in the hope that we would panic and rush reinforcements to the eastern front, thereby weakening our army in France!”

“Exactly. The French are on the run-outnumbered, outgunned, defeated. Their only hope was that we might be distracted. And their wish has been granted.”

“So,” said Walter despairingly, “despite our great victory in the east, the Russians have achieved the strategic advantage their allies needed in the west!”

“Yes,” said Ludendorff. “Exactly.”

CHAPTER THIRTEEN – September to December 1914

The sound of a woman crying woke Fitz.

At first he thought it was Bea. Then he remembered that his wife was in London and he was in Paris. The woman in bed beside him was not a twenty-three-year-old pregnant princess, but a nineteen-year-old French bar girl with the face of an angel.

He raised himself on his elbow and looked at her. She had blond eyelashes that lay on her cheeks like butterflies on petals. Now they were wet with tears. “J’ai peur,” she sobbed. “I’m frightened.”

He stroked her hair. “Calme-toi,” he said. “Relax.” He had learned more French from women such as Gini than he ever had at school. Gini was short for Ginette, but even that sounded like a made-up name. She had probably been christened something prosaic such as Françoise.

It was a fine morning, and a warm breeze came through the open window of Gini’s room. Fitz heard no gunfire, no stamp of marching boots on the cobblestones. “Paris has not yet fallen,” he murmured in a reassuring tone.