The Kaiser

by Virginia Cowles

  This was one of the few occasions on which the Kaiser blamed his own officials. As he was the supreme ruler, all failures, logically, must rest with him. Therefore he did not allow himself to reflect on Count Metternich’s warnings, over the years, that the German Fleet was locking England into the tight embrace of France and Russia; or on Prince Lichnowsky’s repeated assertions that if Russia became involved in a European war France was bound to support her, and England equally certain to side with France. Nor did he dwell on the indignation and alarm that Germany had provoked in France and Russia by her action over Tangiers, Algeciras, and Bosnia. Nor to the inescapable fact that on July 5, 1914, he had given Austria carte blanche to take violent measures against Serbia, and had informed his army and navy officials that the action incurred the risk of a general war.

  Instead, he returned to his original theme that England had plotted Germany’s downfall. His expression grew calmer and his spirits lifted, for soon his conscience was absolved of all responsibility. Russia had mobilised while he was exchanging telegrams with the Czar and mediating at Vienna, because England, far from trying to restrain St. Petersburg, had flashed the signal for hostilities to open. Edward VII had laid the trap but George V had sprung it. He had lied to Prince Henry about Britain’s neutrality, and pretended, in his telegram to William, that his government was exerting pressure on Russia to accept the “hostage” plan; and all the while his Foreign Office was preparing the issue of Belgian neutrality, not mentioned until August 1st, as a casus belli. Soon the Kaiser was telling his entourage that George V and Nicholas II had plotted the attack against Germany when they met in Berlin in 1913 to attend the wedding of the Kaiser’s daughter, Princess Victoria Louise, to the Duke of Brunswick. William remembered walking into King George’s apartment and finding them locked in close conversation; they had broken off, and jumped to their feet in embarrassment, and now he understood the reason. He told Bülow that history showed no greater perfidy than that his “cousins and colleagues” had led his own daughter, poor child, to her marriage altar “with guile and treachery in their hearts!” And that Queen Victoria must have turned in her grave when the British grandson flung down the gauntlet of war to the German grandson.

  The Kaiser was not the only one to place the blame on England. Soon all Germany rang with tales of England’s villainy. A White Paper was published with selected dispatches, showing the Kaiser’s efforts to keep the peace, which inflamed scholars and intellectuals and convinced them that Britain had entered the conflict from greed and jealousy. Germany, they argued, was fighting a defensive war, for Russia had stepped into a quarrel which did not concern her, in order to smash Germany and advance her own interests in the Balkans and Turkey. But why should England, Teutonic in blood and language, wish to stab her kinsfolk in the back? Why should she help the savage Slav to destroy the great civilisation of Luther and Kant, Goethe and Beethoven? “England,” declared Professor Harnack of Berlin University, one of Germany’s leading academicians, “cut the dyke which has preserved Western Europe and its civilisation from the encroaching desert of Russia and Pan-Slavism. We must hold out, for we defend the work of fifteen hundred years for all Europe and for Great Britain herself… the cause of the trouble is envy, envy of our fleet, our industry, our trade.”[406] The Hellenist scholar, Professor Wilamowitz, described England as “the evil spirit which had conjured up this war from hell;” and the greatest of all German jurists, Gierke, cried out: “Storm on with thy Slav and Gallic accomplices, thou low-minded nation. Thou shalt never falsify the judgement of God, perfidious Albion.”

  The Kaiser was Supreme War Lord and Supreme Authority. No decision could be taken, no plan introduced, without his sanction. Although the civil power of the State, as well as the military, was centred in his person, it was thought proper for a Prussian king to lead his soldiers — a conception that proved to be a century out of date. On August 16th William II quitted his capital and, accompanied by a large retinue, travelled to Coblentz, where he installed himself at Great Army Headquarters. “No other course is open to a sovereign in the prime of life,” the aged Franz Joseph remarked to Chancellor Bethmann-Hollweg.

  The Kaiser arrived at a critical moment. The Schlieffen plan, the blue-print for rapid victory on which all the hopes of the General Staff were pinned, was in full operation. The design called for a huge turning movement through Belgium, which was to strike France in the form of a “great right wheel.” The whole German Army was to be flung into the battle; it did not matter if the Russians penetrated East Prussia, or the French drove their way into Lorraine. Every available division was to be thrown into the supreme battle which would knock France out of the war in six weeks’ time, and bring the whole Allied structure crashing to the ground. Russia would be unable to stand alone on the continent and England would be forced to make peace. The British General Staff had surmised the German plan as early as 1911 and had outlined it to the Cabinet almost exactly as it was put into operation in 1914. The French, however, did not believe that the Germans would be able to accomplish their turning movement and, consequently, left the France-Belgium frontier largely undefended while they launched an offensive in Lorraine.

  The German attack began with an assault on Liege, under the command of General Ludendorff. The heavily defended city fell in two days, and ten days later all the outlying fortresses were in the invader’s hands. The Belgians retreated to their principal bastion at Antwerp, while the German Army, consisting of 35 army corps, poured through the south-eastern corner into France.

  Despite this momentous news, the Kaiser’s presence had a dampening effect on Headquarters, for William was obsessed by the grim reports coming in from the east. The German Commander on this front, General Prittwitz, had been allotted only 14 divisions to stem the Russian tide. And now two Russian generals, Rennenkampf and Samsonov, were advancing into East Prussia, each with an army larger than that of Prittwitz. Although the Schlieffen plan demanded utter concentration on the western front the Kaiser talked indignantly of the violation “of our lovely Masurian Lakes.” On August 20th, four days after the Emperor’s arrival, General von Prittwitz telephoned Great Headquarters in a state of agitation and so upset General Moltke that the latter sacked him on the spot. Moltke then telegraphed General von Hindenburg, a retired commander who possessed an unrivalled knowledge of the treacherous terrain around the Masurian Lakes, and Major-General Ludendorff, who had covered himself with glory in the storming of Liege, and ordered them to take charge of the eastern army.

  All Germany was bewailing the fire and sword that was sweeping East Prussia, and William II’s pride was deeply stung. He felt that it reflected on his personal leadership, and on the morning of the 21st was plunged in gloom. When he went for a walk in the garden with two of his Cabinet chiefs, Müller and Lyncker, he suggested resting a moment on a bench. As the seat was too small for three people the officer went to fetch a chair. “Am I already such a figure of contempt,” said the Emperor icily, “that no one wants to sit next to me?” “This,” wrote Müller, “was symptomatic of his whole outlook. He already imagined himself being cold-shouldered because his policy had resulted in a great part of his country being over-run.”[407]

  While the Kaiser was bathed in self-pity the first great splintering clash between the German and French forces — numbering 2,000,000 men on one side, 1,300,000 on the other — took place near Metz in the Battle of the Frontiers. Three hundred thousand French soldiers were killed, wounded, or taken prisoner; the stronghold of Namur capitulated; the British, who had taken up positions at Mons, retreated; and soon the whole Allied Army was in retreat with the Germans in close pursuit. “The Kaiser is radiant,” wrote Müller. “He told everyone here the news during his ride and even informed the recruits exercising on Rheininsel.”

  We do not know how much pressure, if any, the Kaiser exerted on General Moltke to transfer divisions from the west to the east. All we know is that William II was affronted by the Russian invasion of Pruss
ia, and exultant at the German advance in France. Moltke was so highly strung that he found the Sovereign’s exuberance unbearable and referred scathingly to His Majesty’s “hurray-mood.” “It is heart-rending,” he confided to Müller, “to see how entirely he fails to see the gravity of the situation.”

  Yet on August 25th the nervous, unsure Commander-in-Chief, chosen by the Kaiser for his modesty and courtier-like qualities, forgot the gravity of the situation and appears to have humoured the wishes of his Supreme War Lord. With the French and British armies in full retreat, Moltke allowed himself to be diverted from his main objective and ordered the transfer of two army corps to East Prussia. General Ludendorff cautioned him against weakening the western front, pointing out that the reinforcements could not arrive in time for the impending battle. Indeed, five days later — just as the General Staff was about to move to Luxemburg — news came in that the engagement had been fought. Hindenburg had won a smashing victory over the Russians at Tannenberg with the slaughter and capture of 1,000,000 men. This was one of the great actions of the war, overnight transforming Hindenburg and Ludendorff into national heroes.[408]

  Although fortune seemed to be smiling on Germany, the Kaiser and Moltke were to pay dearly for their defection. Throughout the train journey to Luxemburg William II, in a state of elation, related blood-thirsty tales of German feats at the front which sickened the neurotic Moltke, who once again was tormented by doubt. “We have driven the French back but they’re not defeated yet,” the General protested to Müller. Nevertheless it looked more than promising; the French Army was nearly at the gates of Paris; the French Government was making plans to quit the capital for Bordeaux; and the leading scout patrols of the invading army could see the Eiffel tower. The Germans, however, were not interested in the capital. Their objective was the final destruction of the French field armies; so the two leading German armies, under General Bülow and General Kluck, began to swing left and move between Paris and Verdun.

  On the morning of September 7th the Kaiser drove many miles in an attempt to reach General Bülow’s headquarters. As he neared Chalons he was told that French cavalry might break across the road at any moment. “The route was not safe for the Kaiser,” wrote Müller in his diary. “At 5.15 back in Luxemburg after a fruitless 480 kilometre drive.”

  The Kaiser found bad news upon his return. His 2nd and 3rd Armies had met unexpected resistance, and were making no progress. The next morning it was learned that the remaining three armies, commanded by the Crown Prince, the Duke of Wurtemberg, and Crown Prince Rupprecht of Bavaria, had also been halted. Great Headquarters soon discovered what was happening. Around noon a courier came dashing in with a copy of General Joffre’s battle orders. The whole French Army had done a right-about face and the Battle of the Marne had begun.

  The General Staff was not dismayed by the battle; what concerned them was the fact that General Bülow and Kluck, in turning to present a flank guard to Paris, had left a gap of thirty miles between them; and into that gap the British Expeditionary Force of 120,000 men was marching![409] The German armies were in danger of being cut in half. Where were the reinforcements to plug the hole? At this very moment two army corps, fresh from the western front, were detraining in East Prussia hundreds of miles away. “Desperate panic seized severely the entire army, or to be more correct the greater part of it,” wrote Colonel Bauer, a Staff Officer at Headquarters. “It looked at its worst at the supreme command. Moltke completely collapsed. He sat with a pallid face gazing at the map, dead to all feeling, a broken man. General von Stein, Moltke’s deputy, certainly said, ‘We must not lose our heads,’ but he did not take charge. He was himself without confidence and gave expression to his feelings by saying: ‘We cannot tell how things will go’… We younger people could not get a hearing.”[410]

  The Kaiser was at Headquarters. Here was the Supreme War Lord’s opportunity to take charge of the situation. General Moltke was weeping openly, and was quite unfit to carry on. It was William II’s duty to call his staff officers together to survey the situation coolly and to decide, after listening to the arguments, the best course to follow. But the Kaiser seemed paralysed. He refused to intervene because he could not bear to shoulder the responsibility. The distraught Moltke, therefore, remained in charge. He summoned Lt.-Colonel Hentsch, the Intelligence Officer, and told him to proceed to the armies of Kluck, Bülow, and the Crown Prince; and if he found that the British Army was across the Marne in any strength to co-ordinate a general retreat to the River Aisne. Hentsch found that the British indeed were across the Marne so he ordered all five armies to retreat. The Crown Prince was so indignant that he refused to obey the command until he received it in writing. The next day a telegram was sent to him.

  “Majesty,” Moltke is reported to have said to the Kaiser, “the war is lost.” His loss of nerve had prompted him to take the worst possible decision. If the Germans had dug in they might easily have retrieved the situation. Indeed, the British Army might have found itself in a trap, and been annihilated by the cross-fire of the two armies. But if Moltke had failed, so had William II. The fact that he was incapable of exerting his authority in a crisis did not escape the notice of his service chiefs. “The Kaiser endeavours to express his own excitement,” wrote Admiral Tirpitz on September 11th, “but he is, from a military point of view, out of it. When one thinks of 1870 — the dignity, the earnestness, the clear-headed man who could make up his mind and dare to carry through his decisions, and finally of the ‘Iron’ man — one is filled with fears and anxiety.”[411] A few days later he wrote: “The frightful sacrifices have been in vain… all is to be ultimately attributed to tomfoolery.”

  William II, however, took one decision; he relieved Moltke and appointed General Falkenhayn in his stead. The latter made a valiant effort to retrieve the situation by a huge drive towards the Channel ports. Antwerp fell on the 10th, but the British forces which had been transferred from the Marne and the remnants of the Belgian Army stood firm and the first Battle of Ypres yielded little to the invaders, but huge casualties on both sides. By November the German attack had spent its force and the Battle of the Marne was over. The quick victory prescribed by the Schlieffen plan had not been achieved, and Germany’s calculations, based on a short incisive war, would have to be revised. The Allies knew that they had been saved from certain and swift destruction and spoke of “the miracle of the Marne.”

  This famous battle brought the war of manoeuvre to an end until 1918. For the next three years the two sides remained locked in a stalemate which they tried repeatedly to break, resulting in the greatest letting of blood ever seen. Already, the opening weeks of the war had taken a frightful toll. The French losses in dead, wounded, and captured were over 850,000; the British 85,000; and the Germans 650,000: more than a million and a half men, not counting the sacrifices on the eastern front, in eight weeks’ time!

  The Kaiser established himself at Great Army Headquarters which had moved to Charleville-Mezieres in France. The generals were astonished by their Supreme War Lord. Many of them had never seen him at close quarters before, never worked with him on day-to-day business as his political advisers had done. They knew he was temperamental and restless, but they imagined him to be a man of brilliant talents. Although they had been dismayed by his lack of leadership during the Moltke crisis, they were even more perturbed to discover that he was incapable of serious thought. When they dined with him and tried to talk shop he interrupted the conversation with a flow of irrelevant chatter and anecdote. Even at a Crown Council he would not sit still for more than a short while. He not only failed to give the conference any sense of direction but began drumming on the table if the discussion bored him. Sometimes he broke off an argument of urgent importance by standing up suddenly and saying: “Gentlemen, we must not be late for luncheon.”

  Some of his officers believed that the war had wrought an appalling change in him, while others seized on the Crown Prince’s explanation that the Daily Tel
egraph incident had destroyed his self-confidence. The truth was that he was the same man that he had always been but since the demands made upon him were greater than in peacetime, his faults stood out in sharper outline; unstable, excitable, egotistical, in fact wholly unfitted for the critical position in which he found himself. “The contrast,” wrote General Freytag-Loringhoven, the Quarter-Master General, “between the masterful personality which he tried to assume (and indeed was obliged to assume) and the absence of any real force of character, grew daily more glaring until the bitter end. It was his and Germany’s misfortune that it could not be said of him as of his grandfather that he was no mere War Lord but a true soldier.”[412]

  Yet William II insisted on being treated as a soldier. Although he recoiled from responsibility, he could not bear to shed the illusion of himself as a great generalissimo. He play-acted tirelessly as Supreme War Lord, visiting the front, bestowing medals, and travelling backwards and forwards in his cream and gold train, accompanied by a glittering retinue, between eastern and western headquarters. As his generals began to take his measure, they quietly went about their business and consulted him less and less. Although no decision could be taken without him, they presented him with completed plans and requested his signature as a formality. The Kaiser did not wish to be faced with difficult decisions; on the other hand he was quick to notice any circumvention of his authority, and began to complain that proper deference was not being shown to him as supreme commander.