The attack opened on February 21st and although the first and most terrible onslaught ended by the first of March, the battle continued, except for brief intervals, for nearly six months. But long before the autumn leaves had fallen it was apparent that Falkenhayn was unlikely to achieve his objective. Although the Allied losses were one and a half times as great as those of the Germans, French morale had weathered the Verdun storm and British soldiers had shown themselves unflinching on the Somme. 1916 ended with the number of dead, wounded, and captured exceeding a total of two million men: German 964,000; French 876,000; British 621,000.
Hindenburg and Ludendorff began to have doubts about Falkenhayn’s plan as early as March, when the first shattering drive had spent itself. The Kaiser was deeply dejected. “One must not utter it,” he confided to Admiral Müller on March 11th, “nor shall I admit it to Falkenhayn, but this war will not end with a great victory.” The general public were slower to doubt, but by May rumours were sweeping Berlin that Verdun was a costly failure, and for the first time the public began to have gnawing doubts about Germany’s ability to win the war. The sacrifices had been tremendous. The merciless grip of the British sea blockade had put the country on an austere rationing system from the early days of the struggle; the roll of killed, wounded, and missing mounted daily and by the middle of 1916 Germany’s total losses approached two and a half million men. Were these terrible demands being made for nothing? An agonising reappraisal slowly forced itself upon the nation. The cold scrutiny of the public gaze centred on the Kaiser, and the imperial leadership, until now accepted with pride and confidence, began to be questioned with startling candour.
The criticism was overdue, for it would be difficult to imagine a great power governed in a more bizarre way than Germany during the war years. Although William II was the supreme authority of the State, civil as well as military, he did nothing to co-ordinate the nation’s efforts or to impose any overall plan. The army had no inkling as to what the politicians were doing, while the Chancellor often learned of the army’s plans by pure accident. “During my whole tenure,” wrote Bethmann-Hollweg, “no kind of war council was held in which the political and military agreed the issue.”
The Kaiser insisted that political matters were of secondary importance, and continued to try and foster the ridiculous impression that he was in command of his army. He had grown more restless than ever, and now the imperial train not only took him across Germany to military headquarters but to Cadinen for a look at his farm; to Homburg for rest-cures; to Potsdam to see the Empress. A steady flow of couriers pursued him around the countryside trying to get answers to urgent questions. Intermittently, almost fitfully, he held Crown Councils at Army Headquarters; but more often he informed the emissaries that he was “holding the matter in abeyance” or referred them to his Cabinet chiefs. The navy made the most urgent representations, for the fleet could not move without the Emperor’s consent. Sometimes William took umbrage at these intrusions. Once, when the Commander-in-Chief of the Fleet asked permission to send a squadron into the Baltic to attack Russian shipping at Riga, he snapped back that he refused to concern himself with such details; the Baltic Commander could use his own initiative. “And yet,” Müller wrote in his diary, “he insists that he himself is the Supreme Commander…”
But it was on the civilian front that the Emperor’s omissions were most glaring. There were vital problems that needed careful thought and delicate handling: propaganda, diplomatic strategy vis-a-vis the neutrals, industrial co-ordination, finance, food, civilian morale. Yet William II, posturing childishly as a war lord, refused to spend any time in his capital. He talked contemptuously of “civilians” and referred scathingly to the Reichstag, which was becoming increasingly important as a sounding board of public opinion, as “that monkey-house.” “I cannot understand,” wrote Herr Ballin, the great ship-owner: to Admiral Müller on May 12, 1916, “why His Majesty does not send for men like Wangenheim and Count Schwerin-Lowitz etc. to see him at Headquarters and discuss their wishes and anxieties with him.[424] I cannot conceal from you that the Kaiser’s aloofness has had a very bad effect upon the nation… I consider it essential in the interest of The All Highest that he should take a more active part in the leadership and a more personal interest, so that the people will refrain from questioning the usefulness of their Emperor. A communique from Headquarters that the Kaiser had received this or that high official in a long audience, that he had given a full report on the present situation, etc., would suffice to lead patriotic feelings back into the right channels and prevent them flowing unnaturally to Eastern Headquarters…”[425]
Admiral Müller repeated the contents of Ballin’s letter to the Emperor. “Just as I was beginning to pick up again in health,” the Sovereign protested. “He also pleaded,” wrote Müller, “that Schloss Bellevue was not yet ready and that all the carpets had been removed etc. I spoke immediately to Gontard [Controller of the Royal Household] and ordered him to see that the castle was put in order overnight and to inform the Emperor forthwith.”[426] William II finally said curtly that he would leave on the 19th “unless anything of military importance happened in the meantime.”
William II did not understand that even in an autocracy power springs from the will, or at least the obedience, of the people. His authority had never been questioned, and he believed that the strength of Germany and the security of his dynasty emanated solely from the army. It never occurred to him that the war might be won in other ways as well: by outwitting the enemy in diplomacy, by inventiveness and cunning, by utilising the brains and energy of civilians. Nor did it occur to him that civilian anxieties could sap the vitality of his wonderful military machine. But even if he had understood all this, he would not have known how to gather the reins in his hands and direct a concentrated war effort. He had been born to his position, not struggled for it, and was scarcely aware of the reinforcements which kept it in place. It would have been impossible for him to break away from monarchical traditions, and suddenly to become accessible to men in all walks of life; to discard his autocratic paternalism, and to woo and convince his subjects as a politician might have done. Although he acceded to Admiral Müller’s request and spent several days in Berlin, receiving important members of the Reichstag, he did not seem to know what was expected of him, and made little impression on them.
Perhaps all that was needed was the application to formulate a policy, and the will to enforce it, but this was beyond the Emperor’s capacity. He had never been able to resist the contagion of ideas. So he toyed long over decisions, often ending by taking them haphazardly on the advice of his subordinates. He was always looking for an escape from his anxieties and he derived much joy from the Battle of Skagerrak, known in England as the Battle of Jutland. This episode marked the principal encounter of the war between the British and German navies. The British Admiralty learned that the German High Seas Fleet was planning to leave harbour on a “fleet sally” and ordered Admiral Jellicoe to sail forth and engage it. The Admiral blundered and never managed to bring his super-dreadnoughts into action; as a result the Germans sank six British battle-cruisers and eight smaller vessels, while the English destroyed only one German battle-cruiser, one old battleship, and nine smaller ships. Neither side lost any dreadnoughts but the fact that the German Navy, with greatly inferior forces, had sunk a much larger tonnage than the British prompted well-justified jubilation inside Germany. “The spell of Trafalgar has been broken,” the Kaiser declared at Wilhelmshaven. However, as the German Navy had been lucky enough not to come into contact with England’s super-battleships, the event had little bearing on the course of the war.
Meanwhile in Berlin morale continued to decline. By the summer the news that Romania would enter the war on the side of the Allies, hard on the heels of the appalling casualty lists stemming from Verdun, produced a dangerous frame of mind. “How badly we are led” became a universal cry and the Kaiser was condemned loudly for not making drastic chan
ges. The Reichstag deputies demanded that Falkenhayn should be replaced by Hindenburg and Ludendorff, while the service chiefs attacked Bethmann-Hollweg for timidity and weakness. Although the Emperor was informed of the growing dissatisfaction, he refused to concern himself; when Bethmann asked to see him urgently he sent word that he was too busy. “Political questions are of no importance now.”
He finally was prevailed upon to receive his Chancellor at Pless and agreed to attend a meeting with his ministers in Berlin. The conference, however, was an utter failure, for the Kaiser refused to spare more than three-quarters of an hour for the session and monopolised the conversation with “stories of the harvesting at Pless, the birth of a zebu calf at Cadinen and the instructions he had given to Hindenburg.” “The company was flabbergasted,” wrote Müller. One of the Cabinet chiefs declared that in future the Kaiser should not be asked to make visits to Berlin; but Müller, who did not understand the material he was dealing with, insisted that the Sovereign must be forced to fulfil his duties. The Court Marshal, Freiherr von Reichach, tried to convince the Admiral “that if we wished to avoid the Kaiser’s complete breakdown His Majesty must be allowed a long convalescence at Homburg,” but Müller remained adamant. “I stood by my guns,” he wrote, “and insisted that the Kaiser did not need any physical cure but that we must work on his temperament by giving him some responsible work to do to jolt him out of his lethargy. Soon after this,” continued Müller, “I was given an audience by His Majesty and I must confess I was horrified to notice how worn and ill he looked. Violent and unpredictable, dominated by a single thought: ‘Leave me in peace.’ Occasionally this changed to: ‘The Chancellor must make up his own mind.’”[427] At the end of August Romania entered the conflict, and Bethmann-Hollweg told William that he must dispense with Falkenhayn and appoint Hindenburg Chief of the General Staff and Ludendorff First Quartermaster-General. Otherwise the Chancellor could not guarantee “the dynasty.” Although in some ways the Emperor was thankful to have strong hands take charge, he wept openly, for he could not bear the thought of being over-shadowed in the public eye by the great war leaders. When the announcement was made Bethmann tried to console him by pointing out the enthusiasm of the population, but William replied stonily: “I do not care.”
However Hindenburg managed to handle his imperial master with considerable tact for in October the Kaiser told Admiral Müller calmly that “he, the Supreme War Lord, was not for the moment the ruler. During the war he had to take a back seat. Hindenburg had said that politics had no place at Headquarters.”[428]
Although for twenty-five years William II had posed as a warrior king, exciting his people with romantic references to “shining armour” and “gleaming swords,” this grim struggle was not at all what he had envisaged. He had thought of a short, sharp conflict ending with the German Kaiser leading his triumphant army through the Brandenburg Gate as his father and grandfather had done before him. Instead, the army scored successes but not victories, and the generals were pushing the Sovereign aside. Worst of all, he could not see an end to it. No matter what successes Germany had in the east, how was she to break the deadlock in the west? William II had spent most of the war fighting against a premonition of defeat. Now he eagerly encouraged the Chancellor to put out peace-feelers.
Bethmann-Hollweg and most of the Foreign Office had been in favour of a negotiated peace for many months. Indeed, the main reason that the Chancellor had installed Hindenburg as Chief of the Great General Staff was because he believed that the Field Marshal’s stature and prestige were necessary to shield the monarchy against the criticism that might arise. He had told Hindenburg his plan, and the Field Marshal had given the Chancellor his tacit consent. However, Bethmann-Hollweg soon discovered that Ludendorff still believed fiercely in total victory and was exercising an ever-increasing influence over the old man; and the only peace that Ludendorff desired was a conqueror’s peace.
Nevertheless William II stood by his Chancellor and encouraged him to make overtures to the Allies. “Such an initiative as this,” he wrote to Bethmann-Hollweg on October 31st, 1916, “needs a Monarch whose conscience is awake, one who knows himself responsible to God, who acknowledges his duty to all men — even his enemies; a Monarch who feels no fear because his intentions may be misinterpreted; who has in him the will to deliver the world from its agony. I have the courage; I can dare this thing, with God. Quick, Mr. Chancellor. Submit me the notes. Make everything ready.”
It was decided, however, that the peace move would have a better chance of success if it were not dispatched until after the defeat of Romania. This did not take long. Romania entered the war on the 28th of August, and by December 6th German and Austrian troops were marching into Bucharest. A week later the Chancellor forwarded a brief note to the enemy powers. The latest events, he said, showed that the resistance of the Central Powers was unbreakable; but since they did not seek to annihilate their opponents, they proposed negotiations. “They feel sure that the propositions which they would bring forward would serve as a basis for the restoration of a lasting peace. If, notwithstanding this offer of peace and conciliation, the struggle should continue, the four Allied powers [the Central Powers] are resolved to carry it on to the end, while solemnly disclaiming all responsibility before mankind and history.” Ludendorff, however, drew up such a flamboyant army order, which was made public the same day, that Bethmann-Hollweg’s note had little chance of success: “Soldiers! in the consciousness of victory which you have won, the rulers of the Allied States have made an offer of peace. We shall see if the object is achieved. Meanwhile you have with God’s help to stand fast against the enemy and defeat him.”
Mr. Lloyd George, who had overthrown Mr. Asquith as Prime Minister only a few days earlier, was not favourably impressed by Ludendorff’s extravagant claims, nor even by Bethmann-Hollweg’s self-confident assertions. “To enter into a conference,” he told a large London audience, “on the invitation of Germany, proclaiming herself victorious, without any knowledge of the proposals she has to make, is to put our heads in a noose… What hope is there in the Chancellor’s speech that the arrogant spirit of the Prussian military caste will not be as dominant as ever if we patch up peace now?” Ten days later, on December 30th, the Allies sent a formal rejection.
Meanwhile President Wilson had stepped into the picture. Before Germany received the Allied reply, he requested the belligerents to announce the terms on which they thought the war could be ended. Germany did not comply at once, but the Allies sent a blustering note which could only mean war to the bitter end; the return of Alsace-Lorraine, the dissolution of Austria, the partition of Turkey, the cessation to Russia of Austrian and German Poland. At the end there was an attempt to drive a wedge between the German people and their leaders. “There is no need to say that if the Allies desire to shield Europe from the covetous brutality of Prussian militarism, the extermination and the political disappearance of the German people have never formed part of their design.” President Wilson was shocked by the Allied note. For months he had been talking about moderation and “peace without victory,” and London’s only response was a series of impossible demands. On January 6th, 1917, the American Ambassador to Germany, Mr. Gerard, was instructed to give the Allies a rap over the knuckles. “Our relations have never been bitter,” he told the American Chamber of Commerce in Berlin, “and their continuance is guaranteed so long as men like Bethmann-Hollweg, Helfferich, and Zimmermann, Hindenburg and Ludendorff remain.”[429]
Here was Germany’s golden opportunity, but neither the Kaiser nor the Chancellor, neither diplomats nor deputies nor service chiefs, were shrewd enough to see it, much less to grasp it. President Wilson wished to bring the war to an end, and the United States was the only power in a position to exercise influence on Britain. Britain could not continue to fight without the food and munitions flowing across the Atlantic. If the Germans had responded to Wilson’s invitation, and sent reasonable peace terms, the President would have p
ut pressure on England to enter into negotiations; and England could not have refused. “There was one mistake in diplomacy that, if it had been made, would have been fatal to the cause of the Allies,” wrote Sir Edward Grey in his memoirs. “It was carefully avoided. The cardinal mistake would have been a breach with the United States, not necessarily a rupture, but a state of things that would have provoked American interference with the blockade, or led to an embargo on exports of munitions from the United States. Germany on the other hand did make this cardinal mistake.”[430]
The reason that the Kaiser and Bethmann-Hollweg failed to grasp the significance of Wilson’s intervention was because they looked upon the American President as “pro-English.” He had done nothing more than censure Britain when she insisted upon a total blockade and refused to allow foodstuffs to reach Germany in flagrant violation of the Declaration of London. Ludendorff, on the other hand, was strongly opposed to a negotiated peace, and not in the least afraid of bringing America into the war. He still had a burning faith that German arms would triumph, and alluded to the almost non-existent American army with derision. He made great play of the Allied rejection of Bethmann’s peace-feelers, referring to it as “a contemptuous rebuff.” After Lloyd George’s speech he telegraphed the Kaiser urging him to sanction submarine warfare without delay.
Although William II stubbornly had opposed the suggestion for eighteen months, he now felt the ground cut from under his feet. He dreaded bringing more neutrals into the war, yet he could see no alternative. His navy was so confident of results it assured him that England would be brought to the peace table by the summer. Lastly, and perhaps most decisive, he feared running into a headlong clash with Hindenburg and Ludendorff. So he did what he had often done before; instead of insisting that the political views should be put strongly to the military, he avoided an encounter by “suddenly coming round to the idea.” “He is definitely in favour of it,” wrote Müller on January 5th, “even if the Chancellor is opposed to it. He voiced the very curious viewpoint that the U-boat question was a purely military affair which did not concern the Chancellor in any way.”[431]
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