As soon as Major Mainz entered the Ruhr industrial region, he felt a strange heaviness in the air.
Once-bustling factories now stood silent, their chimneys cold, and the streets—once alive with the rhythm of industry—lay deserted. In their place, groups of men in worker's caps, waving banners and shouting through bullhorns, had filled the void. Bolsheviks.
Mainz narrowed his eyes, observing from a distance. The crowd was mostly young—men in their twenties, hardly any older than thirty. Their faces burned with frenzy and excitement as they rushed toward the city square. From there, he could already hear the distant cadence of a speech echoing through the streets.
"Battalion commander," one of his soldiers whispered sharply, "they're armed!"
Mainz's gaze hardened. Indeed, many of the workers carried Mauser 98 rifles—the same standard weapon issued to German troops. It wasn't surprising. The Ruhr, heart of Germany's industry, housed countless military factories. The mighty Krupp works in Essen could supply not only rifles but also heavy guns. Who could say how many weapons these Bolsheviks had seized—perhaps even the thunderous Krupp cannons themselves?
"Change into civilian clothes," Mainz ordered quietly. "We'll go into the square and see what we're dealing with."
He knew well enough that with numbers on their side, the workers could easily crush his small force. A reckless attack would lead to disaster—his men besieged, the entire Ruhr awakened in revolt. Field Marshal Hindenburg was still regrouping the army at Bonn, and frontline units were retreating deeper into the Fatherland. They needed rest, reorganization—time that Mainz did not have.
This crackdown, then, had to be swift and precise. No room for hesitation. No room for error.
His deputy captain hesitated. "Sir… it's too dangerous. If those Bolsheviks discover who you are, they'll tear you apart."
Mainz shook his head. "If you never enter the tiger's den, you'll never catch the cub. Sometimes, risk is the only path to victory."
And so, with a handful of trusted men, Mainz slipped into the square.
---
The scene was exactly what he expected. A middle-aged man, broad-shouldered and fiery-eyed, stood on a makeshift platform, shouting into a bullhorn.
"Long live the great Bolsheviks!"
"Comrades! Only the Bolsheviks can save Germany! The Kaiser's abdication is only the beginning! He may have dragged us into this war, but the real bloodsuckers—the bourgeoisie—still sit above us. Overthrow them, and we control the means of production! We decide our future!"
The crowd roared back, faces flushed, fists raised.
"Yes!"
"We don't want to live like this!"
"Never again!"
Their cries grew feverish, echoing against the silent factories. Some workers, trembling with anticipation, looked ready to march on Berlin at that very moment.
Mainz studied the speaker closely. The man was dangerous—not because of the riflemen surrounding him, but because of his voice. His words dug into the hearts of the crowd, stirring hatred for the old order and painting visions of a workers' utopia.
Mainz felt a flicker of admiration for the man's skill, but it died quickly. He knew the truth. A Bolshevik of such conviction could never be allowed to live. Left unchecked, men like him could set fire to the whole of Germany.
He turned his focus back to the square itself, committing every alley and corner to memory. The workers were enthusiastic but untrained—hardly soldiers, despite their stolen rifles. Their guard was down, their discipline nonexistent. They hadn't expected the army to act so quickly.
It was the kind of mistake that seasoned German troops would exploit without mercy.
---
Moments later, Mainz's men moved into position. Soldiers blocked key intersections, set up machine guns on rooftops, and secured the approaches. Slowly, silently, the square became a trap.
And still the workers cheered, oblivious.
When all was ready, Mainz gave a signal. A military band struck up a marching tune, and with a hundred soldiers at his back, he strode openly into the square.
"Look! The army!"
"They've sent soldiers!"
"The bourgeoisie's lackeys have come for us!"
Panic rippled through the crowd. Some workers raised their rifles, hands shaking, their muzzles leveled directly at Mainz in the lead.
"Don't move!" barked a German officer. "Anyone who raises a weapon will be shot!"
Tension crackled in the air. Machine gunners crouched on the rooftops, fingers brushing the triggers. One spark, one mistake, and the square would drown in blood.
The workers looked around, realizing too late they were surrounded. Fear gnawed at their faces. Some shouted, others cursed, a few prepared to fight to the death.
Mainz stepped forward, his voice carrying across the restless crowd.
"Everyone, listen to me! Don't be reckless. Bullets have no eyes. If you act rashly, many of you will die here today. Think of your families—your parents, your wives, your children. Do you want them to hear the news of your death?"
The words hung heavy in the square, cutting through the fever of revolution.
And for the first time, silence fell.
---