by Simon Heffer
Civil servants were not the only people to struggle under the weight of this new bureaucracy. Lloyd George, for all his organisational determination, could not cope with the consequent workflow. He soon gave up approving the agendas and minutes of War Cabinet meetings, leaving the task to Hankey, whose power increased accordingly. Much of what the War Cabinet discussed was highly secret and the minutes initially had limited circulation even among ministers. Those schooled in more traditional ways frequently expressed dislike of the new system, and of Lloyd George’s methods: not everyone supported how he had gathered so much power to himself and to a chosen few, leaving out senior ministers who would normally have been closely consulted about the governance of the nation. In February Hankey recorded a talk with a ‘disgruntled’ Long, who called the system ‘unworkable’.5
Another consequence of the Imperial Conference was that Lloyd George invited Jan Smuts to join the War Cabinet. Smuts, who attended on behalf of South Africa, was a lieutenant general in the British Army, despite having fought for the Boers in the Second Boer War. Lloyd George had been impressed by the originality of his ideas and felt it essential to retain his energies and insight. His contributions would be significant, not least his advocacy of establishing the Royal Air Force. It showed a breadth of mind on Lloyd George’s part to accommodate him, because he was a fervent advocate of Haig’s policy of attrition on the Western Front, a view that would be shaken after the Third Battle of Ypres in the late summer and autumn of 1917, and which the prime minister barely shared in the first place.
Considering his next step over Christmas 1916, Lloyd George still wanted to shift the Allied attack to the Italian front, concentrating on defence rather than offence in the west. By pressing an attack with Britain’s Italian allies he believed the Central Powers would be forced to divert resources from the two existing fronts, rendering them vulnerable in those places. The two principal soldiers in His Majesty’s Army, Robertson and Haig, profoundly disagreed. Despite the heavy losses on the Somme, they continued to believe that the war could only be won on the Western Front, and that Britain’s military strength would be undermined there if troops were taken away to fight in Italy. Given how difficult it was proving to feed and equip the men sent there, Lloyd George had raised the Salonica campaign when the War Cabinet met on 9 December, and again after Christmas.6 Despite so much resistance to his views, Lloyd George was determined to use his prerogative as the King’s first minister to get his way, and not just on Salonica; getting his way, rather than allowing what he considered inferior strategists to get theirs, was why he had wanted the job. Had Asquith still been in charge a disloyal colleague might have leaked details of these problems to the newspapers. As it was, the public were almost entirely unaware of them, as the censor forbade mention of them in the press.
Still looking for alternatives to the western strategy, Lloyd George had in early January been to Rome to discuss with Allied leaders how to win the war; the conference achieved nothing. Then Haig, promoted to field marshal on 1 January, came to see him in London on 15 January with Robert Nivelle, the new French commander-in-chief, who at a turbulent time in French politics had replaced Joffre on 12 December. Lloyd George had met Nivelle in Rome and was impressed by him, and their meeting produced an outcome of unfortunate significance. In his admiration for Nivelle, Lloyd George abandoned what his colleagues thought to be his intense opposition to another offensive on the Western Front, to support one planned by Nivelle. So low was his regard for British generals by that stage of the war that he seemed to imagine anything a French one suggested must be a superior strategy. He would be proved disastrously wrong.
Haig, who wanted another western offensive, then brought Nivelle to London to present what he hoped would be a fait accompli to Lloyd George. However, the prime minister told Haig that that was no longer how things were done: any offensive would happen only if the War Cabinet sanctioned it.7 Lloyd George left Haig in no doubt of his views, or indeed about his traits of character. In the process, he showed that he intended to discharge his high functions without tact or deployment of the mealy mouth. ‘His general conclusions,’ a seething Haig recorded, ‘were that the French Army was better all round, and was able to gain success at less cost of life. That much of our losses on the Somme was [sic] wasted, and that the country would not stand any more of that sort of thing. That to win, we must attack a soft front, and we could not find that on the Western Front.’8 Haig tried to counter, explaining Britain’s duty to help relieve the pressure on the French at Verdun – something he wished the Army he commanded to do in accordance with an initiative he designed and led, and not one designed by the French army, for which he had mild contempt. Despite being in league with Nivelle, Haig sought to strip away the prime minister’s illusions about the discipline of the French army – about which Haig would be proved right after several mutinies during the coming year.
When the opportunity came for him to argue his case, Nivelle was highly persuasive. A fluent Anglophone – his mother was English – he persuaded the War Cabinet to support a ‘breakthrough’ offensive, which he promised would not be like the Somme. He said that, if he was wrong, the offensive would be abandoned within days. Having heard Nivelle’s proposals, the ministers had two more meetings, on the evening of 15 January and the next morning, to discuss its feasibility. The British Army would relieve the French along a large part of the front to allow the French to assault the Chemin-des-Dames, west of Reims, in what would become known as the Second Battle of the Aisne. Approval was eventually given: the first of 1917’s military failures was set in train.
As Haig might have gathered from Lloyd George’s unflattering remarks to him in January, the prime minister was also thinking ahead about improving military direction, contemplating a development that would come to fruition a year later: a unified Allied command that, reflecting his view about the superiority of French generals, might end up being led by a Frenchman. He signalled this to senior commanders at a meeting in Calais on 26 February, ostensibly called to discuss reservations Haig had now developed about the Nivelle plan having studied its logistics more closely, notably that the French railway system could not support the necessary troop and ammunition movements. Although, as Haig had seen, Lloyd George could be direct when it suited him, he often preferred to avoid direct confrontation, and resorted to more Machiavellian methods. With Lloyd George’s connivance, and following his discussions with Aristide Briand, his French counterpart, Nivelle suggested a joint command from 1 March. He made it clear that he should lead it, having authority over the BEF, though with a senior British staff officer at his headquarters as a liaison officer. For all Lloyd George’s cunning, this manipulative use of Nivelle would force the confrontation with Haig, and indeed Robertson, that he had been so keen to avoid.
The plan came as news to Robertson, who despite being CIGS had not been asked to a War Cabinet meeting two days earlier at which this had been settled. Derby had also been absent, and was furious, as war secretary, at not being consulted; Esher noted that ‘Eddy Derby … complained bitterly of the ignorance in which he was kept. He was not told a word of the arrangements planned for the Calais conference.’9 It was also kept from Haig. Lloyd George egged on Nivelle during his presentation of his plans ‘to keep nothing back … as to his disagreements with Marshal Haig.’10 This, according to Haig, surprised even Nivelle. Haig outlined his objections to parts of Nivelle’s plan, notably the idea of attacking Vimy Ridge, because it would mean attacking into a pocket on the Hindenburg Line, the defensive line the Germans had built that winter towards the eastern end of the front, following their failure to break through at Verdun. Lloyd George asked the French to propose a system of command, so that he, Robertson and Haig could discuss it; this was done before dinner that evening, with a view to discussing it the following day. When Robertson and Haig had dined with the French – Lloyd George pleaded illness and did not join them – they were given the French plan. They went to discuss it
with Lloyd George, who sprang on them the proposal that as the French would have the larger number of troops in the forthcoming offensive, the War Cabinet had decided the French commander-in-chief would command the British Army.
Haig said it would be ‘madness’, and that ‘I did not believe our troops would fight under French leadership.’11 It became a battle of wills, with the prime minister telling Haig that he and Robertson now had to carry out the decision of the War Cabinet. Robertson was equally outraged, the more so when Hankey told him and Haig that ‘LG had not received full authority from the War Cabinet’ for the proposals. ‘We agreed we would rather be tried by Court Martial than betray the Army by agreeing to its being placed under the French. R[obertson] agreed that we must resign rather than be partners in this transaction.’ Haig recorded: ‘And so we went to bed, thoroughly disgusted with our Government and the Politicians.’ The next morning the French generals apologised to Haig for the ‘insult’ Briand’s paper – which they confirmed had been drawn up with the full cooperation of Lloyd George – had rendered to the British Army.
Haig, who had long thought Lloyd George ‘cunning … shifty and unreliable’ and for whom the episode confirmed his perfidy, enlisted the King in support. He wrote to him as the two-day conference ended, outlining Lloyd George’s duplicity in leading him and Robertson to believe they had gone to a meeting about transport, only to be asked to rubber-stamp a temporary reorganisation of the command of the Army. He warned the King that he should be ‘watchful, and prevent any steps being taken which will result in our Army being broken up and incorporated in French Corps.’12 Haig also told him that Lloyd George claimed the French insisted upon the change, while the French said it was being done at the insistence of the British cabinet. This would not have raised the King’s estimation of his prime minister. Haig ended by saying he would, of course, resign were it felt another general could do better – itself a slightly disingenuous point, since Haig knew that even if Lloyd George were to ignore the King’s objection to such a course, he could not ignore the feelings of the Unionists. ‘At this great crisis in our History,’ Haig concluded with full pomp and circumstance, ‘my sole object is to serve my King and Country wherever I can be of most use, and with full confidence I leave myself in Your Majesty’s hands to decide what is best for me to do at this juncture.’13
Having thus lighted the blue touchpaper Haig awaited the reply, which came from Stamfordham on 5 March. The King’s private secretary, who had already warned Derby to be ‘extremely watchful’ where Lloyd George was concerned, said Haig’s letter had made ‘anything but agreeable reading to His Majesty’, not least because the King realised the plan had been kept from him too. Whether by chance or deliberately, the King did not receive minutes of the crucial War Cabinet meeting until 28 February, too late for him to object. The ‘momentous change’ proposed in the new arrangements would, Stamfordham stressed, have required ‘further explanation’ before the Sovereign’s consent could be given. The King, who believed Haig’s resignation would be ‘disastrous’, realised that Haig and Robertson had been ambushed. In his diary on 1 March the King noted after a ‘long talk’ with Robertson that Lloyd George ‘makes things very difficult for him.’14 Stamfordham assured Haig the King would do all he could to protect his interests. The Sovereign told his prime minister that ‘no interference should occur in Haig’s position’.15 Derby described the plan as ‘preposterous’ and assured Haig he would have objected had he known of it. All had had an education in Lloyd George’s methods.
The prime minister, according to Miss Stevenson, told the King that ‘the most important thing seems to me that the lives of our gallant soldiers should not be squandered as they were last summer, but that they should be used to the best advantage.’ He would not let Haig forget the Somme, and with some justice. Thanks to the diplomatic genius of Hankey and of General Sir Frederick Maurice, Director of Military Operations since 1915 and grandson of the Victorian divine Frederick Denison Maurice, a face-saving agreement was constructed, which gave Nivelle command for this operation, but allowed Haig a right of appeal to his own government if he felt Nivelle’s plan threatened the safety of the British Army. When Nivelle wrote to Haig officially on 28 February to ask for details of the orders he was giving to his Army, Haig described it crustily as ‘a type of letter which no gentleman could have drafted, and it also is one which certainly no C in C of this great British Army should receive without protest.’16
Most politicians would have learned from this, but not Lloyd George. Indeed, the distrust and hostility Haig and Robertson felt towards him after this attempt to sideline them only hardened his resolve – based more on prejudice than on efficacy, despite Haig’s shortcomings having been exposed in the Somme catastrophe – to trammel the authority of his military top brass. The subsequent failure of the Nivelle offensive at least prevented him from insisting on the execution of another of his ideas, to attack Austria from Italy over the Alps: both, in Robertson’s view, ‘proved that he had no intention of being in any way guided by the advice of British military authorities unless it coincided with his own ideas.’17
Derby, who had a reputation as a pushover, having seen Lloyd George in action as prime minister, was now inspired not to allow him to ride roughshod over him. On 6 March he reminded the prime minister he had been promised, on his appointment, that he would be invited to attend all meetings affecting his office. But then ‘on Saturday, the 24th February, a War Cabinet was held at which a momentous decision affecting the conduct of the war in France was reached, but to which no representative of the War Office was summoned. As this decision has already been acted upon, I see no use in arguing the merits of the matter, but I earnestly hope that steps will be taken which will prevent a recurrence of such procedure.’18 It was typical of Lloyd George that, a week and a half later, he sent Derby a reply evading entirely the point he had raised. Ministers would simply have to get used to a less courteous, less consultative, more dictatorial style.
II
It was also Lloyd George’s style to seek to apportion blame where it could do the least damage to him and, preferably, the maximum to his opponents: he was not above stabbing anyone in the back if it suited him. It was no surprise, therefore, that he took no steps in the spring of 1917 to prevent the Dardanelles Commission publishing an interim report, critical of a number of his former colleagues, but without publishing the evidence on which it was based: that, and a final report, would come after the war. Lloyd George allowed this because it presented a useful post facto justification for his coup against Asquith. The report showed a high level of dysfunction in the conduct of the war. It concluded that in the early months of the conflict the way in which ministers had taken important decisions had been ‘clumsy and inefficient’; though Asquith, as one of the prime targets of criticism, could not understand why that observation had been made, for it fell outside the time span the inquiry had been supposed to examine; and no evidence was adduced for the conclusion.19 However, it served to smear the reputation of the then prime minister. The Times said it proved that Churchill – whom Northcliffe despised – had been the ‘prime mover’, though it praised him for at least having been consistent ‘when all the rest were vacillating’.20 But it called this ‘the consistency of a dangerous enthusiast, who sought expert advice only where he could be sure of moulding it to his own opinion’. It acclaimed his ‘suppression’ in the May 1915 reshuffle, a comment indicative of the hostility that would accompany attempts to restore him to office.
When Hankey saw an advance proof of the report in February 1917 he thought it ‘a very unfair document and much too hard on Asquith, dwelling insufficiently on the difficulties of the times and the tiresome personalities whom Asquith had to handle.’ Hankey believed it against the public interest to publish it. Balfour agreed; other colleagues, perhaps also feeling the need to justify the recent coup, dissented. However, the War Cabinet obtained Parliament’s agreement to edit out what Hankey called �
�some of the more dangerous passages’.21 Asquith’s own expectations, or fears, of the report added to the strain he was under in the autumn of 1916. He defended himself in a long Commons statement on 20 March, making it clear he was angered that the report had been published while the war was on, when far graver matters had to be settled. Publishing without the evidence carried ‘a grave risk of injustice to individuals’ and to the national interest.22
Asquith said that, having been confronted with problems on an unprecedented scale, he would be content to await ‘the judgment of history’ on his conduct. Nonetheless he questioned the depiction of Kitchener – who could not defend himself – in the report. ‘Lord Kitchener by no means was the solitary and taciturn autocrat in the way he has been depicted … it is a complete mistake to suggest or to suppose that Lord Kitchener lived in isolation, and did not consult military opinion at the War Office and elsewhere during the conduct of this War. I am speaking of what is in my own knowledge, and I can absolutely deny that that was the case.’23 He added: ‘We were bound in military matters to defer to the judgment of the great soldier who had patriotically undertaken the duties of Secretary of State for War.’