In time, the massive figure of Grand Admiral Alfred von Tirpitz, with his bald, domed head and his famous forked beard, became instantly recognizable in Germany. The creator of the German navy, Tirpitz was its state secretary (cabinet minister) for twenty years; after Bismarck, he was the most influential government official in Imperial Germany. Like William II, he admired and envied the Royal Navy. During his years as a cadet, Prussia’s small fleet had spent as much time in Britain as at home. “Between 1864 and 1870,” Tirpitz wrote, “our real supply base was Plymouth. Here we felt ourselves almost more at home than in peaceful and idyllic Kiel. In the Navy Hotel at Plymouth we were treated like British midshipmen. We preferred to get our supplies from England and in those days we could not imagine that German guns could be equal to British.” Tirpitz’s admiration extended to English education and the English language. He spoke English, read English newspapers and English novels, and enrolled his two daughters at Cheltenham Ladies’ College.
Tirpitz believed that sea power was a critical factor in national prosperity and greatness. In this, he was a disciple of the American naval officer Alfred Thayer Mahan, who, in The Influence of Sea Power upon History, published in 1890, had traced the rise and fall of maritime powers in the past and demonstrated that in every case, the state that controlled the seas controlled its own fate; states deficient in naval power were doomed to decline. Britain now had a world empire because she was the preeminent sea power; the lesson for Tirpitz was that if Germany wished to pursue Weltmacht, only possession of a powerful navy, with a strong force of battleships at its core, could make it possible. When the kaiser appointed Tirpitz state secretary in 1897, “the German navy,” the admiral wrote later, “was a collection of experiments in shipbuilding surpassed in exoticism only by the Russian Navy.” He worked quickly; on March 26, 1898, the Reichstag passed the First Navy Bill, authorizing construction of nineteen battleships and eight armored cruisers. On June 14, 1901, the Second Navy Bill was approved, doubling the projected size of the fleet to thirty-eight battleships and twenty armored cruisers. This achievement so delighted the kaiser that he raised the state secretary into the hereditary Prussian nobility: Alfred Tirpitz became Alfred von Tirpitz. Subsequent amendments to the Navy Laws increased the planned size of the fleet to forty-one battleships.
As the new German battleships slid down the ways, and his fleet became the second largest in the world, William’s pride soared. He had always loved uniforms; now he had a closet filled only with naval uniforms. When his grandmother made him an honorary admiral in the Royal Navy, his delight was transcendent. “Fancy wearing the same uniform as St. Vincent and Nelson,” he burbled to the British ambassador, and to the queen he wrote, “I now am able to feel and take an interest in your fleet as if it were my own and with keenest sympathy shall I watch every phase of its further development.” By 1914, he had become not only a Grand Admiral of the Imperial German Navy, but also an admiral in the Imperial Russian Navy, in the British Royal Navy, and in the royal navies of Sweden, Norway, and Denmark. Once he received the British ambassador in the uniform of an English Admiral of the Fleet; another time, he attended a performance of The Flying Dutchman in his uniform as an admiral. Frivolous, even ludicrous, as these episodes seem, they provide a key to the purpose of the building of the German navy. It was designed not only to project German power and influence overseas, but also to reinforce William’s confidence and ego in the presence of his English relatives. “It never even occurred to William II to go to war against England,” said Bernhard von Bülow, who was chancellor of Germany for nine years of William’s reign.
What William II most desired and imagined for the future was to see himself, at the head of a glorious German fleet, starting out on a peaceful visit to England. The English sovereign, with his fleet, would meet the German kaiser in Portsmouth. The two fleets would file past each other; the two monarchs, each wearing the naval uniform of the other’s country, would then stand on the bridges of their flagships. Then, after they had embraced in the prescribed manner, a gala dinner with lovely speeches would be held in Cowes.
This was not how the new German navy was seen in Great Britain. To Britons, sea power was life and death. When the world’s strongest military power began building a battle fleet rivaling that of the greatest sea power, the British government and people asked themselves the reason. Arthur Balfour, a former prime minister, writing for German readers, tried to explain: “Without a superior fleet, Britain would no longer count as a power. Without any fleet at all, Germany would remain the greatest power in Europe.” His words made no difference and, with more and more German dreadnoughts accumulating every year and a formidable German fleet now concentrated only a few hours’ steaming time from England’s North Sea coast, the British government began to shift away from a century of “Splendid Isolation.” As the apparent danger across the North Sea mounted, old enmities and rivalries were composed, old frictions smoothed, and new arrangements made. Between 1904 and 1908, Britain became, if not a full-fledged ally, at least a partner of her erstwhile enemies France and Russia. And with the birth of the Entente, the kaiser and Tirpitz discovered that they had achieved the opposite of what they had intended. Instead of expanding German power, the rise of the new navy had pushed Great Britain into the camp of Germany’s antagonists. Germany had a shaky partner in Italy, a member of the creaking Triple Alliance (which also included Austria), but this did not prevent the kaiser from complaining that the fatherland was encircled by enemies. To face this threat, he believed, Germany could count on only a single loyal ally.
Loyal, but on the verge of disintegration. The Dual Monarchy of Austria-Hungary, a multiethnic empire ruled by Austrians and Hungarians but whose population was three-fifths Slav, was crumbling. The emperor Franz Josef was too old to arrest this decomposition; a bald little gentleman with bushy muttonchop whiskers, he was eighty-four in 1914 and already had sat on the Hapsburg throne for sixty-eight years. During that time, his wife, Empress Elizabeth, had been assassinated; his brother, Emperor Maximilian of Mexico, had been executed by a firing squad; his only son, Crown Prince Rudolf, had committed suicide; and now his nephew, Archduke Franz Ferdinand, the new heir to the throne, had also been assassinated. Politically, the most flagrant cause of his current troubles was the small, independent Slav kingdom of Serbia, which acted as a magnet on the restless populations of Austria’s South Slav provinces. Many in the Austrian government and army believed that the polyglot empire could save itself only by crushing the “dangerous little Serbian viper.” But a preventive war against Slav Orthodox Serbia meant confronting Serbia’s protector and ally, Slav Orthodox Russia. And Austria, in 1914, was too weak to confront Russia without German support.
Fortunately for Vienna, by 1914 the German government considered the continued existence of the creaking Hapsburg empire vital to Germany’s position. Not every German was convinced; as late as May 1914, Heinrich von Tschirschky, the kaiser’s ambassador in Vienna, cried out, “I constantly wonder whether it really pays to bind ourselves so tightly to this phantasm of a state which is cracking in every direction.” But then the specter of encirclement rose up: if Austria disintegrated, Germany would face France and Russia alone. This mutual dependence—of Austria on Germany and Germany on Austria—was well understood in Vienna, and the Hapsburg monarchy was thoroughly prepared to exploit the German predicament. In fact, Vienna was not required to beg for German support. For months, the kaiser, at his strutting, bellicose worst, had encouraged Austria to take action against Serbia. “The Slavs were born to serve and not to rule,” William told the Austrian foreign minister during a visit to Vienna in October 1913. “If His Majesty the Emperor Franz Joseph makes a demand, the Serbian government must obey. If not, Belgrade must be bombarded and occupied until his will is fulfilled. And you may rest assured that I stand behind you and am ready to draw the sword.” As he spoke, the kaiser placed his right hand on the hilt of his sword.
The assassination in Saraje
vo of Franz Ferdinand and his wife by a Bosnian Serb provided the pretext Austria needed. The assassin belonged to a secret Serb organization, the Black Hand, whose objective was to detach Bosnia and other Slav provinces from the Hapsburg empire and incorporate them into a Greater Serbia. The Serbian government was not involved, but the assassin had connections with Serbian police officials and his revolver had come from the Serbian State Arsenal. Sympathy for Austria was universal in Europe. “Terrible shock for the dear old emperor,” King George V wrote in his diary. Everyone expected some form of reckoning; Austria’s purpose was to enlarge the punishment into the demolition of the Serbian state. But behind Serbia stood Russia. Accordingly, an Austrian decision for war was contingent on a German promise to bar Russian intervention. On July 5, the Austrian ambassador in Berlin officially asked the kaiser what Germany’s position would be in the event of an Austrian-Serbian war. William understood the underlying question and replied that he did not believe that Russia would enter; he doubted that the tsar would place himself on the side of “a savage, regicide state.” Nevertheless, he said that Germany would stand by Vienna whatever decision was made. “Should a war between Austria-Hungary and Russia be unavoidable,” the ambassador reported the kaiser as saying, “we might be convinced that Germany, our old faithful ally, would stand at our side.” This statement was the famous “blank check” by which the Supreme War Lord of the German empire gave his ally permission to strike down Serbia. If Russia interfered, there would be a German war against Russia. And, if that happened, the German war plan dictated that Germany also fight Russia’s ally France. That Britain might become involved seemed so unlikely, so unthinkable, that it was never discussed. Meanwhile, holding the “blank check,” Austrian diplomats began drafting an ultimatum to Belgrade so severe in its demands that “the possibility of its acceptance is practically excluded.”
William, before leaving on his vacation, had asked whether, in view of the crisis, he should postpone or even cancel his cruise to the Norwegian fjords. For the same reason, he suggested that perhaps the High Seas Fleet should give up its summer exercises in the North Sea. The chancellor, Theobald von Bethmann-Hollweg, was adamant; both the kaiser and the fleet should proceed; sudden cancellations would only alarm an already nervous Europe. The politicians and the army saw no risk of trouble with Britain, but the Naval Staff believed that to send the fleet out of German waters at a time of international tension was risky. During the Norwegian cruise, the fleet would sometimes be divided, with separate squadrons visiting different ports. This scattering would leave the fleet vulnerable to a surprise British attack; German naval officers had never forgotten that a sudden peacetime attack on the German fleet to destroy it before it was fully developed had been publicly advocated in England by no less a figure than Admiral Sir John Fisher, the builder of the modern British navy. And, the Naval Staff noted, just when the German fleet was in Norway, the British fleet, mobi-lized and concentrated for a review by the king, would be unusually well prepared for such an attack. These concerns were overruled by the chancellor and on July 10, three days after the kaiser’s departure, the German High Seas Fleet sailed to conduct exercises in the Skagerrak and off the coast of Norway.
Aboard the Hohenzollern, the first two weeks of the cruise passed in a holiday mood while the Balkan crisis remained in the background. On July 14, William sent a generalized well-wishing message to Emperor Franz Josef, assuring the old monarch that he was ready to fulfill his “joyful duty” by supporting Austria against the Serbs. The kaiser was sharper with his own Foreign Office, counseling it to be firm because Serbia was not “a nation in the European sense, but only a band of robbers that must be seized for its crimes.” On July 23, the day the Austrian ultimatum was delivered in Belgrade, there was tension on the yacht. The Naval Staff ordered Admiral Friedrich von Ingenohl, Commander-in-Chief of the High Seas Fleet, to bring his battle squadrons into Sogne Fjord where the Hohenzollern was anchored. The following day, Ingenohl recommended bringing the fleet home from Norway, but again, the chancellor overruled him, protesting that the fleet’s recall would aggravate the crisis. On the afternoon of the twenty-fourth, William carried out his schedule, leading an excursion ashore to the village of Wik to visit its famous old wooden church. That day, no news regarding the reception of the ultimatum in Belgrade reached the Hohenzollern. Then, in the evening in the smoking room, the kaiser received a telegram that brought a flush to his cheeks. He laid it aside and continued to play cards.
The following day, July 25, the Norddeutsch wireless news service published the text of the Austrian ultimatum. After breakfast, the kaiser arrived on deck and said to Admiral Georg von Müller, Chief of the Naval Cabinet, who was holding the Norddeutsch message in his hand, “That’s a pretty strong note.” “It certainly is,” Müller replied, “and it means war.” William advised Müller not to worry, saying that Serbia would never risk a war. After his morning sail, the kaiser was handed a news agency bulletin reporting consternation in Belgrade and a Russian declaration that she could not remain disinterested. Amid excitement on the yacht, the kaiser gave orders to the High Seas Fleet, now coaling in Norwegian harbors, to prepare to sail for home. At ten a.m., the massive dreadnought Friedrich der Grosse, flagship of the High Seas Fleet, steamed into Sogne Fjord and anchored near the Hohenzollern. Admiral Ingenohl came on board the yacht where he found himself receiving an “operational briefing” by the Supreme War Lord. If war with Russia came, Ingenohl was to take the fleet to the Baltic and bombard and destroy the Russian Baltic ports of Reval and Libau. The admiral remained calm, knowing that if war came, the High Seas Fleet would not be used in the Baltic. “I received verbal orders from the kaiser,” Ingenohl said later, “to take the fleet to the Baltic . . . to be able to strike the first blow against Russia in event of war. When I pointed out the danger of England taking part in the war, and the consequent necessity of having the battleships in the North Sea, the kaiser answered emphatically that there was no question whatever of England’s intervention. In spite of repeated representations, I could only succeed in obtaining permission to send the various units to their home ports, thus enabling the larger proportion of the heavy ships and scouting craft to enter the North Sea.”
Meanwhile, Müller and General Moritz Lyncker, Adjutant General to the kaiser and Chief of the Military Cabinet, agreed that William should break off the cruise. At 3:00 p.m., Müller on his own initiative ordered the captain of the yacht to get up steam. William was taking his usual afternoon nap and had asked to be called at 4:30, but Müller went to see him early and spoke to him while he was still in bed. “I explained the latest telegram from Belgrade, mentioned Lyncker’s opinion, and advised him to sail for home at 6 o’clock. He reflected for a moment and replied, ‘Very well. I agree. Can I go ashore for half an hour?’ I said I had no objection to this and while the kaiser paid farewell visits, I settled details of the homeward voyage of the fleet which was arranged for the following evening.”
At 6:00 p.m., the Hohenzollern weighed anchor. It was a calm, clear summer evening and, as the yacht sailed out of the Sogne Fjord, the kaiser stood on the bridge for a long time enjoying the tranquil picture of mountains and forests. Müller was with him. At one point, William insisted that there would be no war; that at the last moment the leaders of all states would shrink from that appalling responsibility. Serbia, he said, would accept the Austrian terms, and Vienna would be satisfied. Next morning, July 26, when the yacht reached the open sea, a heavy swell obliged closing all the hatches and forbidding passengers from going on deck. A telegram arrived from the chancellor, discreetly reproaching the kaiser for returning early and for ordering the fleet to return merely on the strength of a news agency report. William reacted angrily. “My fleet has orders to sail for Kiel,” he said, “and to Kiel it is going to sail.” After the war, the ex-kaiser remembered in his memoirs: “While I was on my summer vacation trip, I received but meager news from the Foreign Office and was obliged to rely principally
on the Norwegian newspapers from which I received the impression that the situation was growing worse. I telegraphed repeatedly to the chancellor and the Foreign Office that I considered it advisable to return home but was asked each time not to interrupt my journey. When I learned from the Norwegian newspapers—not from Berlin—of the Austrian ultimatum to Serbia and immediately after the Serbian reply to Austria, I started upon my journey home without further ado.”
On July 27, the Hohenzollern arrived at Kiel; a deeply tanned William stepped ashore and boarded his train for Potsdam. The next morning, he read the text of the Serbian reply to the Austrian ultimatum. Serbia had agreed to surrender almost every vestige of national sovereignty. So abject was the Serbian surrender that the kaiser declared that Austria had been given all she wanted. “A brilliant achievement at forty-eight hours’ notice,” he declared. “This is more than anyone could have expected. A great moral victory for Vienna . . . it [has] removed any reason for war.” That afternoon, he received what seemed to be more good news from his younger brother, Prince Henry of Prussia. Two days before—on the twenty-sixth—Henry had come up to London from the yachting races at Cowes and had called on his cousin King George V at Buckingham Palace. “The news is very bad,” the king had said. “It looks like war in Europe. You had better go back to Germany at once.” Henry said he would go that evening and asked, “What will England do?” According to the king’s notes, he said, “I don’t know what we shall do. We have no quarrel with anyone and I hope we shall remain neutral. But if Germany declares war on Russia, and France joins Russia, then I am afraid we shall be dragged into it.” Henry’s version of George’s answer was different: “We shall try all we can to keep out of this and shall remain neutral.” Both men were honest. No doubt Henry heard what he wanted to hear—that Britain hoped to remain neutral—and did not attend to George’s fear that, despite these hopes, Britain might become involved. “Well,” said Prince Henry on leaving, “if our two countries will be fighting on opposite sides, I trust it will not affect our own personal friendship.” Once he reached Berlin, Henry reported this conversation to his brother, who, in turn, seized on it as George V’s promise to remain neutral. During the next few days, when men around the kaiser, most persistently Tirpitz, warned that England might come in, William—although fully aware that England was a constitutional monarchy, ruled by Parliament—said loftily, “I have the word of a king.”
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