"Your difficulties have been acknowledged by the military," Colonel Mainz said in a tone of weary routine. "We will attempt to bring this matter before the government."
The colonel's words carried the weight of fatigue. He had repeated similar assurances countless times during his travels, each time with less conviction, each time knowing little would come of it.
The general before him, a man well into his sixties, bristled at the perfunctory reply. His voice betrayed both urgency and desperation:
"It cannot be delayed any longer—absolutely cannot! If this drags on, the teachers and staff will scatter. Once they are forced to leave for their livelihoods, it will be nearly impossible to bring them back together again!"
The truth of his words was undeniable. If the schools dissolved, the educators—once tied to their institutions—would disperse across Germany, some even venturing abroad for work. By the time relief came, recalling them would be nearly impossible. Each loss was not merely personal—it was a loss to the nation itself. And the cost of rebuilding such a foundation in the future would be immeasurable.
"Colonel," the general pressed, leaning forward, "can the army not intervene directly? Allocate funds—after all, these units are still tied to the military. Surely the Reichswehr cannot ignore them!"
The meaning was unmistakable: he was asking for money. If the government refused, then the military must step in.
Mainz remained silent.
Money. Always money. The endless shortages consumed every discussion. But the truth was harsh—no institution in the Reich had enough. Not even the army. Even the generals who were being appealed to had nothing left to spare.
---
"So what is to be done?"
At the end of May, Mainz returned to Hamburg, reporting directly to Field Marshal Paul von Hindenburg. In the quiet of the headquarters, he recounted what he had seen and heard.
Hindenburg listened patiently, his weathered face unreadable. Instead of giving an opinion, the old marshal asked the younger man:
"What do you think?"
"Marshal," Mainz began cautiously, "is there any way the army itself could address these problems?"
He knew the answer before asking, but some sliver of hope compelled him to try.
Hindenburg shook his head slowly. "The government has not allocated funds for months. The Reichswehr itself is in arrears. And even if I held money in my own hands—which I do not—it would first go to my soldiers. For now, there is nothing left to spare."
The bluntness carried no malice. It was simply the truth, unvarnished and merciless.
Seeing the disappointment etched on Mainz's face, Hindenburg softened his tone.
"The entire Reich is suffering. Even I, with all my years, have never lived through such hardship. Do not shoulder this burden alone, Mainz—it is not yours alone to bear."
Perhaps it was the marshal's reassurance, or perhaps it was the sudden clarity of his own thoughts—but Mainz lifted his head. His eyes gleamed with renewed resolve.
"It is time to disarm," he declared firmly. "It must be done."
---
Few soldiers knew that their fate would be decided by the words of a colonel.
Whether from financial collapse or relentless pressure from the Entente, the decision was sealed. In June 1919, Field Marshal Hindenburg ordered a sweeping disarmament of the German Army, beginning with the units stationed along the Rhine.
Within weeks, one million men were released from service. The once-mighty Western Front shrank to a mere 200,000 troops. And even that number was temporary—under the Treaty of Versailles, the Reichswehr could retain no more than 100,000 men, with all surplus dismissed.
This second wave of reductions struck harder than the first. Where the earlier cuts had focused on civilian auxiliaries and logistics, this round reached deep into the officer corps. Hundreds of Junker aristocrats—long the backbone of Prussia's martial tradition—were stripped of rank and livelihood.
The reaction was inevitable. The Junker class fumed at the humiliation, their anger directed at Hindenburg—and, increasingly, at Mainz, the man who had first uttered the word "disarm."
---
"Mainz, many in the army know this was your proposal," Hindenburg told him one evening, his tone grave. "They are not pleased."
By now, Mainz sat on the Disarmament Council, tasked with reviewing names—deciding who would remain, and who would be dismissed.
He refused to compromise. The Reichswehr, bound to only 100,000 men, had no room for mediocrity. Mainz insisted on retaining only the most capable officers—those who could carry the future of the German Army on their shoulders. Those who failed to meet the standard, regardless of birth or influence, were struck from the rolls.
His firmness earned him enemies. Only Hindenburg's silent protection kept the colonel from being consumed by the fury of dispossessed nobles.
This time, however, the marshal spoke plainly.
"What will you do now?"
Mainz paused, then replied without hesitation:
"I fear I cannot continue my work on the Council. And the domestic situation offers little hope. I plan to go abroad—to study how other nations solve their problems."
Hindenburg exhaled slowly. Relief touched his face. The truth was, he had wanted Mainz away from the storm. The colonel's departure, though bittersweet, would shield him from the growing resentment.
"Very well," the marshal said. "I approve your request. Before you go… is there anything you wish to leave behind?"
Mainz handed him a document. "This list. No matter whose relatives are excluded, these men must remain. They are the future of the Reich."
Hindenburg studied the names: Heinz Guderian. Erich von Manstein. Karl Dönitz. Albert Kesselring. Young officers of promise, scattered across the branches of the army, navy, and air force.
The old marshal fell into silence, gazing at the list.
Perhaps the colonel was right. Perhaps, even in disarmament, the seeds of Germany's rebirth could still be planted.
---