“Well, someone has to act as the chaperon for this esteemed company”, Wernher replied to Willi. “And besides, you don’t have to suffer this nightmare of a uniform for long, as I luckily have civilian clothing with me. I am supposed to report to the regiment in a few days anyways.”
Wernher descended from horseback and offered the reins to a nearing servant before following Fritz and the others. He took a stern tone with his voice, not much different than his professional voice. “Feed and water Hugo well. The Kramers will be displeased at me, if they spot Hugo's lost weight.”
Fritz led his party of friends into the
drawing room, which in some ways appeared to have not changed much since the castle was built by the Teutonic Knights in the bygone-era of horsemen and pagan Lithuanians. There were three green couches, oriented in a U-shape around an oak coffee table just in front of the fireplace. Old family portraits from von der Austerwalds stretching back to the time of
der Alte Fritz hung around the room. The only person who would be able to identify them, Fritz’s father Heinrich, was now lying in the family crypt. Fritz, on the other hand, couldn’t have cared less about the stolid old figures hanging on the wall.
He took a seat on a green chair, worn from years of use, just beside the fireplace and gestured towards the table, on which were bottles and bottles of wine and glasses to accompany them, “let us drink! You must be parched!” He laughed jovially, as he grabbed the first bottle of red wine and poured himself a glass that was far fuller than custom dictated, “come on, then! Don’t be shy!”
“Do not mind if I do,
mein freund.” Willi chattered back, grinning ear to ear. Similarly, he approached the set table, filling his crystal with a heavy helping of the spirit. “Cabernet? Merlot? Ah, who the hell am I kidding? To the
Freiherr!” He toasted, taking his first gulp.
Hans removed his riding cap as he entered the door to the castle. He pulled his overcoat off as he followed Fritz to the drawing room. Upon entering the room, he deposited the coat, hat, scarf, goggles and gloves upon a table near a bookshelf. He followed Fritz, Willi, Marc and Wernher to the couches. He spotted a few bottles of Riesling; one from Saxony-Anhalt, one from the Rhineland-Palatinate or Ahr and the third from the Moselle River valley in Coblenz also in the Rhineland. Hans was familiar with the Riesling wines, especially the southern wines from Wurttemburg and Baden. But of the ones setting on the table, he knew the Mosel Riesling was the finest in the room.
Hans hefted the green bottle to inspect its label. “Mosel Kabinett, 1892. Himmelreich Vineyards,” Hans read the label aloud. “This is one of your finest bottles in my opinion. At least for German wines. It was bottled in the village of Graach about fifty kilometers southwest of Coblenz. Most Rieslings are sweet wines, but the Kabinett has a drier taste to it. I prefer the dry wines over the sweet ones personally. A refined pallet for wines, if I do say so, myself.”
“1892. This is a good year for wine.” Hans picked up a corkscrew to unplug the bottle. He poured the light colored liquid into a white wine glass. He sipped at the beverage. “Mmm, delicious.” He raised the glass in salute to
Freiherr with Willi. “To our Host, Fritz! Gott sei Dank!” Hans tipped the Kabinett Riesling back, taking another sip. “Mmmm, delicious wine.”
Marc moved behind the group and smiled as he looked at the different wines, “my my, these are beautiful!” he said. “Hans, are you sure you want to spoil us like this, I know that I’d never leave Königsberg if this was the hospitality that I’d get.”
He relaxed some as he smiled at the assortment of wines in front of him, not knowing of what to choose from, but he found something sweet among the mixture. “Refined in bitterness Hans.” he said, “if you have such a good pallet, you would know each wine has it’s pairing.” he took the bottle of a nice bottle of red wine from Bourgogne. “Your bitter wine goes perfectly with a good ham,” he said his eyes peering at Hans with a smile from the side of the bottle his face was up against.
He would lower it and open it, before pouring himself a not so modest glass and smelling it as if he himself was a connoisseur of wines. Soon after taking it to his lips, and tilting it up as the liquid slowly relieved him of his dryish throat. “To Fritz! For a warm welcome from our dull lives away from each other!”
Wernher put his coat on a back of a couch, and took a friendly sip of the wine when toasting for Fritz. He wanted to take it easy, as he had never been “on par” with his friends for drinking. If he drank like they did, he would be the first one under the table, and he definitely didn’t know his wines as well as Hans. His colleague, Leutnant Fromme always teased him about his lightweightness and fondness for other drinks than German wines.
"Wernher, Tell us about the army," Hans asked. "Do they treat you well? What exciting things have you done? Your uniform looks great on you."
“Of course they treat me well, as if they would dare to mistreat von Lockstedt” Wernher said to Hans. His family name had a few ounces of weight in the military, and he rarely got flak for it. He still had to prove that he was worth the name, though.
“There hasn’t been much excitement in the ranks, but training has been hastened in the past months. I have been either training new conscripts or sitting my arse off on a lecture or otherwise in training” Wernher continued and finished his glass.
Fritz, who had been silently enjoying his own personal bottle of red wine - he didn’t really care for what brand it was, as long as it was alcohol - was starting to feel the booze kick in and felt a little more inclined to speak, “why did you even bother to join the army? It’s nothing more than a pony show for Junkers like us, so we can wear medals to fancy dance balls with other aristocrats, and show off as if we’ve fought a war!” He laughed, knowing well that Wernher would be provoked - just as he wanted him to be. He swallowed the rest of his third glass and poured the rest of the bottle to refill it, continuing his provocation, “when was the last time Germans fought a war? A true war, I mean, not an adventure against the Russians or some gambit for Schleswig-Holstein against the weak Danes? I dare say we’ve never raised our arms in anger since the Siebenjähriger Krieg!” His view on the military had been colored by his brother’s untimely death in the Rhineland, training for a war that would never happen.
“Which was almost a century and a half ago, Fritz. And you almost make the whole Schleswig-Holstein campaign sound like a walk in the park. A great few Prussians died for the king and country in Denmark”, Wernher replied to Fritz. He poured another glass from a bottle of white wine, not minding the label. He glanced back at Fritz. Wernher knew that Fritz was trying to pour gunpowder into a cinder, but Wernher kept his calm face.
Wernher took a sip of the wine and continued. It tasted a little like strawberry. “And to be honest, I haven’t stayed in the army for the uniforms or the parades or to go goose stepping just because some Oberst says so. I want to keep my countrymen and friends safe and sound. If I need to raise a rifle for it, so be it.”
“That’s what it means to be German, eh?” Willi interjected between sips of wine. He wasn’t so picky about his poison. Truth be told he picked the wine he liked the name of the most, by no means a connoisseur of spirits. If anything the short, lean Westerner was trying to diffuse the argument. Ironic perhaps, considering his affinity for debate.
“Ah! There’s no use!” Fritz waved his hand to dismiss Wernher, smiling widely and grinning like a devil, “there’s no one home up there! Useless!” He tapped on his own forehead, and began to laugh. It was all one big joke to him, “at least you have a reputable job! I have just been puttering about. Nothing at all to do…” his voice trailed off, “yours is exciting, at least.”
“When a war breaks out with the
Süddeutsche, I have men under my command to look after” Wernher replied in a factual tone. He was annoyed at Fritz’ cavalier attitude towards warfare and ignored Willi’s intention of breaking the argument. Never start an argument if you don’t mean to finish it, Wernher had always thought. For Wernher, war did not present itself as a glorious adventure; to him, it was a necessary evil, even if Prussia was an army with a state.
He took a longer sip from his glass and a second’s break savouring it. If Fritz wanted to provoke him, then Wernher would strike back. He often was diplomatic and took the peacekeeper’s role in most debates, but he took the risks of warfare and the lives of his men seriously. “Most of the conscripts haven’t been a hundred kilometres from where they were born. Some of them will die from an artillery shell, a couple might catch dysentery or trench foot, a few might take a peek too long or a wrong turn and catch a sharpshooter’s bullet through an eye. But at least the officer’s pay is good, and there are no dull moments, as you say.”
Hans put his wine glass down and picked up a book off a nearby shelf. The book title read, “
Deutsche Reichsgründung” by Friedrich von Werner. “Check out this historical fiction,” Hans exclaimed. “Have you ever read this Fritz? Talks about what would happen if the North and South ever unified, Ha!” Hans chuckled at the idea.
Willi simply stayed to his corner in awkward unease at the topic. To be truthful, war had not quite crossed his mind. As he took another sip of wine, he found no other way to diffuse the tension, perhaps even visibly cringing at exchange and the matter-of-fact statements about the horrors of war. It was not for him.
“Ah! See! Now there’s the spirit! Maybe I should’ve joined the Army too!” Fritz laughed, not meaning a single word. He had no interest in the military, as much as the Prussian society may encourage its young men to throw themselves and their youth into armed service. He turned his direction to Hans, who was admiring the books collected by von der Austerwalds of past, “I think I read that. Doesn’t he think that we’ll all unify over some business with the French? That we’ll all put our differences aside to give Pierre a good thrashing?” He chuckled in the same manner as his friend did, in a sardonic sort of way, “the only way Germans will ever unite is if that damned fool in Vienna has his head lopped off!”
“Well, his fiction made sense to me. Had we wanted to oust the Austrian influence over the southern German states, we should have done that decades ago” Wernher pointed out. He thought pragmatically about Prussian Realpolitik. “Now, they would be more prepared than a generation ago.”
“Well, my father has mentioned this years ago. He believes the Austrians are going to pull us into a war against the bloody Bavarians,” Hans declared. He drew more Riesling Kabinett into his glass and drank. “I’ve never been all that interested in politics either. I listen to Herr Generalleutnant go on about the various General Officers he relates to. Most are fairly reasonable men, but a few are quite daft. He is surprised they made it as far as they did. I just hope he is wrong about the Austrians pulling us into a war against our brethren to the south.”
“Does Kaiser Karl think that he still holds sway over anyone except deluded backcountry Sudetenlanders and Bohemian subhumans?” Fritz dismissed Hans and Wernher’s worrisome talk of war with the Austrians with a wave of his hand. Downing the rest of his glass, he placed it down on the table and grabbed another bottle of red wine, forsaking the glass entirely and drinking straight from the bottle, “the only people who would listen to a bunch of inbred Catholics are the simpletons that live in the Ostmark!”
Fritz winced a little bit as he realized the present company, momentarily forgetting Willi’s Catholic habits, “well, not to say that all Catholics are inbred, Willi,” he flashed a wide grin, hoping to diffuse a possible heated argument, “I’m sure your family has no cousin-fuckers.”
“Damn right.” Willi retorted, at first serious, then cracking a grin. Sipping another mouthful of wine, he continued. “Besides, what’s a hard-working Rhinelander to a shit-shoveling Bavarian?” He laughed out, raising his glass.
“Nothing, they speak the father language like we do, but are they really true to the Fatherland?” asked Marc. “They did not join us, they did not form the Fatherland as a whole, they live on our land, with our food, and speak our language… They make beer as we do, the only difference is they do not see us, like the brothers that we are. Here in the north, we see each other as friends and family.”
He settled himself a bit and chuckled, “My father says we would be the most powerful force in all of Europe if the Austrians, the Bavarians, all of them joined us in a single country. The natural resources in the south, the coal… if we got the iron from Alsace… If we controlled the Rhine and the Danube into the lowland countries which were once a part of the First Reich. When the German peoples spread from Denmark in the north to Tyrol in the South, From Calais in France to Riga in old Prussia…” he finished his glass, “Imagine… we could rival the potential the Russians have, we could rival the navy of the British… The armies and industry of France, and the prestige of Austria… something the German peoples had long ago, and want again now…”
“Brothers, that’s what would happen if we went to war… but I don’t think we will, peace is something that has come to us all naturally… Imagine us fighting, Willi would be fighting those close to his home, and his family would be at risk… And so would Gunther’s, several of my father’s factories would be at risk as well.” he said looking at them, “I have my place for glory in war, but I prefer staying right here, with my friends in the peace and comfort of our homes.” he raised his empty glass and started to pour himself another at the end of his insight.
“For peace in our lifetime” Wernher said and raised his glass, drinking the rest of his wine. The wine was starting to rise to his head. “I hope the qualms of the future are settled with words and pens than with bayonets and rifles. Realistically, though, if we were to fight both the French and the
Süddeutsche at the same time, we would need to knock the wind out of one or the other quickly. Our country wouldn’t survive long in a two-front modern war.”
His father had lectured to Wernher about the challenges of modern war. Compared to warfare a century ago, industry would play a role greater than at the beginning of the 19th century. The pace and the tempo of war had quickened many times over. Campaigns that had taken months a hundred years ago, could be over in weeks or even days nowadays, but it required that the soldiers were supplied continuously, as always.
Even if Oskar had served most of his career with conservative officers, he had always kept his eyes open for economy and logistics. The gods of war are ever hungry, his father had told him. He had often used artillery and their shells to illustrate logistics. Modern artillery can lob shells a couple dozen of kilometres forward and shoot faster than a cannon a century ago. “If we desire to prevail in such a conflict, we would need foreign allies and capital to survive the war.”
“Well, isn’t that what the Englander is for?” Fritz perked up. He was, in an inebriated state, enjoying this hotly-charged discussion on geopolitics. Typically, he didn’t care much for it, but the drink brought out more than an unusual degree of interest, “he’ll keep the French busy while we give the Hapsburg a good thrashing all the way to Vienna!” The young noble sipped a little more of wine, and then grunted in dismissal of the Germans’ enemies, “what real threat can those stolid old empires do? The Austrians have been playing an elaborate game of theater since 1848! And only God knows how the Bourbons have managed to clung on so long. How many peasant uprisings have they faced? One swift kick from a Prussian boot and the whole Catholic alliance will shatter like glass!”
“The Engländer have put their faith in their navy” Wernher enlightened Fritz. He filled his glass again. He actually liked the white wine that tastes like strawberries. ”They have only a small, but professional army. If they want to enter into conflict with the continental powers, they would need to radically increase the quantity of divisions and regiments and get those forces across the Channel to fight the French on their turf. That would take months, and we would be fighting and bleeding during that time.”
“And you still make warfare sound like a walk in the park. If it as simple as you think, why haven’t you proven me so and joined the army?” Wernher now challenged Fritz, hoping to provoke him. He had been talking of joining the army, but Wernher knew Fritz well enough that he was only bluffing his enthusiasm. “I am certain that a Freiherr would rise through the ranks like a geyser.”
“Ah! Come off it!” Fritz waved his hand in dismissal - something he seemed to be doing quite a lot of tonight - and laughed quite jovially at the suggestion, “I couldn’t leave this estate! My sister, may God condemn her soul, would run this place into the ground! If that bleeding-heart had her way, we’d be speaking Polish to the servants!” He paused, took a sip of his glass, and thought for a moment. And knew the perfect way to cajole his friend, “I tell you what, Herr Leutnant, if this grand war pops off after all, and we do end up at war with the Austrians, then I’ll join your Army and I’ll volunteer to be in the first unit to go to the front! How does that sound?”
Fritz rose to his feet, setting the glass down on the table, and walked towards Wernher, extending his hand out in a handshake-oath, “by God and Hellfire, I swear this to you!” He smiled widely, knowing that he would never be forced to answer to it.
Wernher shook his hand. He had his doubts about how serious or honest Fritz’ promise was, but Wernher thought that he couldn’t find a way to back away from this. He had made a promise in front of witnesses, who were also his friends. “It sounds good enough,” Wernher told him.
Fritz instantly regretted the oath, as he knew that if War broke out then he would be forced to answer to it. But, he was tempered by the wine and the knowledge that in this advanced and civilized age, War was impossible. A sheer impossibility! What use was it to parry sabers when you could rob the foe blind economically? What use was it to take land by force, when you could buy up the economy and possess it without all the bloodshed?
Yet, he retired back down to his chair, feeling an odd chill run up his spine. As if the Hand of God was rattling his soul. He gulped, then turned back to his wine, the night continuing out without much incident.
