LITMIR.BIZ

      This edition published by Verso 2017

      English-language edition first published by Libris 1998

      Originally published in German as Kriegsfibel by Eulenspiegel Verlag 1955

      Translation © Stefan S. Brecht 1998, 2017

      Afterword, notes and chronology © John Willett 1998, 2017

      All rights reserved

      The moral rights of the authors have been asserted

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      ISBN-13: 978-1-78478-208-5

      ISBN-13: 978-1-78478-209-2 (UK EBK)

      ISBN-13: 978-1-78478-210-8 (US EBK)

       British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data

      A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

       Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

      A catalog record for this book is available from the Library of Congress

      Typeset by MJ&N Gavan, Truro, Cornwall

      Printed and bound by CPI Group (UK) Ltd, Croydon, CR0 4YY

       WAR PRIMER

       Photo-epigrams

      Afterword

      Brecht’s War: A Chronology

      Notes

      Concordance

      Like one who dreams the road ahead is steep

      I know the way Fate has prescribed for us

      That narrow way towards a precipice.

      Just follow. I can find it in my sleep.

      ‘What’s that you’re making, brothers?’ ‘Iron waggons.’

      ‘And what about those great steel plates you’re lifting?’

      ‘They’re for the guns that blast the iron to pieces.’

      ‘And what’s it all for, brothers?’ ‘It’s our living.’

      Women are bathing on the Spanish coast.

      They climb up from the seashore to the cliffs

      And often find black oil on arm and breast:

      The only traces left of sunken ships.

      The conqueror, General Juan Yagüe, kneels before his throne-chair at an open-air mass in Barcelona’s Plaza de Catalunya. In background is the Hotel Colon, whose tower is seen again in the picture below, at lower right. Behind Yagüe are Generals Martín Alonso, Barrón, Vega. Yagüe and Solchaga moved off to chase Loyalists to the border.

      The bells are pealing and the guns saluting.

      Now thank we God who told us to enlist

      And gave us rifles to be used for shooting.

      The mob is vulgar. God is a Fascist.

      Suppose you hear someone proclaim that he

      Invaded and destroyed a mighty state

      In eighteen days, ask what became of me:

      For I was there, and lasted only eight.

      Great fires are blazing in the Arctic regions

      In lonely fjords the clamour’s at its height.

      ‘Say, fishermen: who launched those deadly legions?’

      ‘Our great Protector, protected by the night.’

      Eight thousand strong we lie in the Skagerrak.

      Packed into cattleboats we crossed the sea.

      Fisherman, when fish have filled your net

      Remember us, and let just one swim free.

      German assault troops, here emerging from beneath railroad cars to attack the Albert Canal line, were young, tough and disciplined. In all, there were 240 divisions of them. But despite the world’s idea that the conquest was merely by planes and tanks, it actually depended on the old-fashioned tactic of a superior mass of firepower at the decisive point.

      Before you join the great assault I see

      You peer around to spot the enemy.

      Was that the French? Or your own sergeant who

      Was lurking there to keep his eye on you?

      Unblock the streets to clear the invader’s way!

      This city’s dead, there’s nothing left to loot.

      There’s never been such order in Roubaix.

      Now order reigns. Its reign is absolute.

      May he die like a dog. That’s my last wish.

      He was the archenemy. Believe me, I speak true.

      And I am free to speak: where I am now

      Only the Loire and one lone cricket know.

      Spring has come to Paris. Here we see one of its most typical signs – fishing along the quays of the Seine has begun in earnest. This year there are more fishermen than ever – a direct sign of the food shortage.

      Here in the heart of Paris you can see us

      Trying to outwit a sneaky little fish

      From which we hope to make a meagre dish –

      Victims of Hitler and of our own leaders.

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