Since the day in October 1915 when impertinent French aviators dropped a bomb near the kaiser’s “frontline” villa in Charleville in France, German Supreme Headquarters had been moved to the more secure and comfortable site of Prince Hans von Pless’s white, 300-room castle near Breslau, in Silesia. Prince Hans, William’s bosom companion, possessed one of the great fortunes in Germany, based on Silesian coal and thousands of acres of land. The prince was also married to one of the kaiser’s favorite women, the beautiful English-born Daisy Cornwallis-West.
[Curiously, Daisy of Pless was a former sister-in-law of Winston Churchill’s romantically unconventional American mother, Jennie. After the death of Lord Randolph Churchill, Winston’s father, Jennie married Daisy’s handsome brother George Cornwallis-West, known in the family as Buzzie. The marriage was an embarrassment for Winston because George was nineteen years younger than Jennie and only two weeks older than her son. Now, while Daisy was nominal hostess to the German Supreme Command, her brother George was in the British army.]
“Oh, I am most unhappy. I am always misunderstood,” the unhappy emperor had said to Daisy one night before the war, dropping a tear onto his cigar. Now that war had come, Daisy stayed mostly out of sight, keeping to her own apartments at Pless and having nothing to do with that grim military pair, Hindenburg and Ludendorff.
In fact, the decision was made while the chancellor was still on the train. On the evening of January 8, the military and naval leaders of Germany suddenly heard the kaiser announce that he would support unrestricted U-boat warfare, “even if the chancellor is opposed.” Further, Müller wrote in his diary, “His Majesty voiced the very curious viewpoint that the U-boat war was a purely military affair which did not concern the chancellor in any way.” Early the next morning, Müller met Bethmann-Hollweg at the station to warn him that everything was already settled. Driving to the castle, Müller explained his own defection and begged the “agitated and depressed” Bethmann-Hollweg to come along. “For two years,” Müller contended, “I have always been for moderation, but now, in the altered circumstances, I consider unrestricted warfare to be necessary and that it has a reasonable chance of success.” The chancellor remained silent. At six o’clock that evening, Bethmann-Hollweg entered the palace’s red damask reception hall with tall French windows overlooking a terrace and a park set with lakes, lawns, flower gardens, and giant chestnut trees now covered with winter frost. Hindenburg, Ludendorff, Holtzendorff, Müller, and others were waiting. The kaiser, pale and fidgety, stood by a great chair, his right hand resting on the table. Next to his hand was a copy of Holtzendorff’s memorandum.
The chancellor, despite knowing that the decision had been made, spoke for an hour. He cited Bernstorff’s opinion that America’s entrance into the war would mean Germany’s defeat. He reiterated the ambassador’s conviction, and his own belief, that Wilson’s peace offer was genuine and should be pursued. Bernstorff had been assured that the president meant to press his mediation hard and would coerce the Allies if they resisted his diplomacy. William grunted with impatience and Bethmann-Hollweg halted; he was speaking in a vacuum. The chancellor realized that if he forced William to choose between himself and Hindenburg, the field marshal would win. He surrendered: “If the military authorities consider the U-boat war necessary, I am not in position to oppose them.”
Admiral von Holtzendorff then repeated the argument in his memorandum: unrestricted warfare, “in the course of which every enemy and neutral ship found in the war zone will be sunk without warning,” would allow his U-boats to sink 600,000 tons a month and thus force England to capitulate. He went further: “I pledge on my word as a naval officer that no American will set foot on continental soil.” Hindenburg added, “We are in a position to meet all eventualities against America. We need the most energetic and ruthless action possible. We must begin.” Defeated, Bethmann-Hollweg nodded and said, “Of course, if victory beckons, we must act.”
No more was required. The kaiser signed a document already prepared: “I command that unrestricted submarine warfare shall begin on February 1 in full force.” Then, followed by his generals and admirals, he left the room. The chancellor remained behind, hunched in a chair. Baron von Reischach, a court official, entered and, seeing the lonely figure, asked, “Have we lost a battle?” “No,” said Bethmann-Hollweg, “but finis Germaniae. ” “You should resign,” said Reischach. Bethmann-Hollweg did not resign. Instead, wrapping himself in a traditional Prussian cloak of duty to his king, he remained, politically enfeebled, for another six months. In July 1917, when Ludendorff demanded that the kaiser choose between himself and Bethmann-Hollweg, the chancellor, who had been in office for eight years, resigned. He was replaced by Dr. Georg Michaelis, a nonentity who had been assistant state secretary in the Prussian Ministry of Food. Michaelis lasted for one hundred days.
Holtzendorff immediately forwarded the imperial command to Scheer. In order to achieve maximum psychological impact, the new campaign was not to be announced until the evening of January 31, a few hours before the first torpedoes would be fired. Thereafter, submarines would waste no warning shots and send no boarding parties to examine papers and cargo. Hospital ships were to be spared, except in the English Channel, where Ludendorff believed the Red Cross was being used to mask troop transports. Ships clearly identified as neutral steamers, Belgian relief ships, and passenger liners were to be given one week to reach port safely. Then they, too, were to be sunk without warning.
In Washington, neither Wilson nor Bernstorff was aware that the submarine decision had been made. Both men continued working—for peace if that was still possible; for American neutrality, if not. To the ambassador, the critical thing was to keep the talk going in Berlin; as long as that continued, he believed that Bethmann-Hollweg could hold back the submarines. To facilitate Bernstorff’s contact with Zimmermann in Berlin, Wilson authorized the German foreign minister to send messages in German code to his ambassador in Washington over the State Department cable. Lansing bitterly opposed this breach of diplomatic practice, but Wilson, believing that the nobility of his ends justified these unprecedented means, overrode his secretary of state. At the president’s insistence, Bernstorff had promised to use the cable only for transmitting and discussion of peace offers.
At first, the cable hummed exclusively with messages on the intended subject although they were not of a nature for which either the president or the ambassador had hoped. On January 10—the day after the decisive conference at Pless—Zimmermann informed Bernstorff that “American intervention for definite peace negotiations is entirely undesirable.” Frantically, Bernstorff cabled back: “This government [the United States] must be given time. As everything is decided by Wilson, discussion with Lansing is mere formality. It is my duty to state clearly that I consider a rupture with the United States inevitable if action [releasing the submarines] is taken.” On January 19, Bernstorff was belatedly informed of the Pless decision to start the unrestricted U-boat campaign on February 1—and ordered to say nothing about it until the day before. Immediately, he cabled Zimmermann asking for a one-month grace period for neutral merchantmen and to give Wilson’s peace efforts some extra time. Otherwise, he said, “war inevitable.” The kaiser saw this telegram and wrote in its margin, “I do not care.”
Now, only Wilson remained hopeful. Weighing the replies to his peace initiative, he had concluded that the war aims of the Allies were as grasping as those of the Germans. His approach now was so even-handed that Bernstorff reported to Berlin, “Remarkable as this may sound to German ears, Wilson is regarded here very generally as pro-German.” On January 22, the president made his historic “peace without victory” speech to the Senate. “Victory would mean a victor’s terms imposed upon the vanquished,” he said. “It would be accepted in humiliation, under duress, at an intolerable sacrifice, and would leave a sting, a resentment, a bitter memory upon which terms of peace would rest, not permanently, but only as upon quicksand. Only a peace betw
een equals can last.” The reaction in America was mixed. Some applauded the idealism of the president’s words: Theodore Roosevelt jeered, “Peace without victory is the natural ideal of the man who is too proud to fight.” Bernstorff, hearing the speech and harboring the secret of a policy repugnant to him, decided not to give up. On January 27, he cabled Zimmermann:
House suddenly invited me to visit him. . . . If only we had confidence in him, the president was convinced that he would be able to bring about peace conferences. He would be particularly pleased if Your Excellency were at the same time to declare that we are prepared to enter peace conference on the basis of his appeal. . . . If the U-boat campaign is opened now without further ado, the president will regard this as a smack in the face and war with the United States will be inevitable. . . . On the other hand, if we acquiesce in Wilson’s proposal and plans come to grief on the stubbornness of our enemies, it would be very hard for the president to come into the war against us even if by that time we begin unrestricted submarine war. It is only a matter of postponing the declaration for a little while. . . . I am of the opinion that we shall obtain a better peace now by means of conferences, than we should if the United States joined the ranks of our enemies.
Bethmann-Hollweg, seeing this message, asked the navy to wait. He was told it was too late; twenty-one U-boats had already put to sea. On Janu-ary 29, the chancellor cabled Bernstorff: “Please thank the president. If his offer had only reached us a few days earlier, we should have been able to postpone opening of the new U-boat war. Now, however, in spite of the best will in the world, it is, owing to technical reasons, unfortunately too late. Extensive military preparations have already been made which cannot be undone and U-boats have already sailed with new instructions.” The kaiser made no apologies; the die having been cast, he returned to bluster: “Agreed, reject. . . . Now, once for all, an end to negotiations with America. If Wilson wants war, let him make it, and let him then have it!”
At ten minutes past four on the afternoon of January 31, 1917, a hapless Ambassador Bernstorff formally called on Secretary of State Lansing to announce that Germany would begin unrestricted submarine warfare that night at midnight. A single exception to the submarine blockade would be allowed: once a week, one U.S. passenger ship would be permitted to pass provided that it carried no contraband and docked only at Falmouth, only on Sundays. For identification, the vessel must be painted with meter-wide alternating red and white vertical stripes and must fly a large checkered white and red flag on every mast—“striped like a barber’s pole and a flag like a kitchen tablecloth,” fumed an indignant American historian.
After Lansing had read the German note, Bernstorff said, “I know it is very serious, very, and I deeply regret that it is necessary.”
“I believe you do regret it,” Lansing replied, “for you know what the result will be. But I am not blaming you personally.”
“You should not,” said Bernstorff. “You know how constantly I have worked for peace.”
“I do know it,” said Lansing and, seeing the ambassador’s eyes blurred with tears, took his extended hand. Then Bernstorff bowed, Lansing said, “Good afternoon,” and the meeting was over.
[When Bernstorff reached Berlin via Sweden several weeks later, Bethmann-Hollweg told him that he had been forced to consent to the U-boat campaign because “the German people would never have understood if we had concluded an unsatisfactory peace without attempting to win by means of our last and most effective weapon.” When Bernstorff saw the kaiser, William took him for a walk in the park and affably steered clear of all political discussion. Ludendorff, however, was unforgiving. “In America you wanted to make peace. You evidently thought we were at the end of our tether,” he said. “No, I did not think that,” Bernstorff replied. “But I wanted to make peace before we came to the end of our tether.”]
To Lansing, an interventionist who believed that a German victory would be intolerable and that sooner or later the United States must enter the war to support the Allies, there was a positive side to Bernstorff’s announcement. To Wilson, however, it came as a blow to the foundations of his beliefs and policy. Before Lansing could reach the White House, an Associated Press bulletin announcing the German government’s decision was placed in the hands of Joseph Tumulty, the president’s secretary. Tumulty entered the Oval Office. “He looked up from his writing,” the secretary said. “Without comment, I laid the fateful slip of paper on his desk and silently watched the expressions that raced across his strong features: first, blank amazement, then incredulity, then gravity and sternness, a sudden grayness of color, a compression of the lips and the familiar locking of the jaw which always characterized him in moments of supreme resolution. Handing the paper back to me, he said in quiet tones: ‘This means war.’ ”
In Berlin, Zimmermann, dry-eyed, almost cheerful, was informing Gerard. “You will see, everything will be all right,” he told the ambassador. “America will do nothing, for President Wilson is for peace and nothing else. Everything will go on as before. I have arranged for you to go to General Headquarters and see the kaiser next week and everything will be all right.” Gerard then cabled Washington that Germans felt “contempt and hatred for America” as “a fat, rich race without a sense of honour and ready to stand for anything in order to keep out of war.” At Pless that night after dinner, the kaiser read aloud to the company a long academic essay on the eagle as an heraldic beast. The evening, Müller wrote in his diary, was “gruesome.”
On the day following Bernstorff’s visit to Lansing, Colonel House came to the White House to find Wilson pacing the floor of his library, nervously rearranging his books. Mrs. Wilson suggested golf. House said that he thought that people might consider this trivial at such a time. The president suggested a private game of pool, which the two men played. Wilson’s anguish stemmed from the fact that his freedom of action had been stripped away. Repeatedly over two and a half years, he had said that the United States would not tolerate unrestricted submarine warfare. To yield now on the principle of freedom of the seas would stain American honor and make his own word meaningless. He had no choice. He must break diplomatic relations. On February 3, he ordered that Bernstorff be given his passports and that Gerard be recalled from Berlin. But even these actions did not mean that the United States intended to declare war. The president still found it unthinkable that the German government would deliberately destroy American and other neutral ships. Announcing the diplomatic rupture to Congress, he said, “I refuse to believe that it is the intention of the German authorities to do in fact what they have warned us they feel at liberty to do. . . . Only overt acts on their part can make me believe it even now.” In taking this position, Wilson once again captured the high ground in American public opinion. Spring-Rice, writing to Balfour, counseled patience, warning that although the diplomatic situation was brightening for the Allies, the strongest influence in the country remained the desire to remain neutral and too much should not be expected right away. “The main point is whether and how far the United States government is willing and able to defend its rights,” he said. “Many people here think that it may be willing (although that is doubtful) but that it is not able. There is no doubt that the temper of the Congress is pacific.”
During the first month following the break in diplomatic relations, the nation’s attitude and behavior were disjointed. The president continued to wait, partly to see what the Germans would do and partly for public opinion to crystallize. Congress debated large appropriations for the army and navy. Two American merchant ships, the Housatonic and the Lyman M. Law, were torpedoed with no loss of life. Meanwhile, the German threat to sink all merchant ships on sight had a dragging effect on the economy. Nervous American shipowners were reluctant to send their ships to sea, and harbors on the Eastern Seaboard were clogged with anchored vessels. As the ships jammed together, the paralysis spread inland along the railways; thousands of freight cars, unable to unload, the foodstuffs inside them sp
oiling, were parked on sidings. With the economy slumping, chambers of commerce demanded action, pacifists rallied to demand that American ships stay out of war zones, and interventionists shouted for the arming of merchant ships with orders to shoot on sight. Theodore Roosevelt, purple with indignation, shouted, “He is endeavoring to sneak out of war. He is yellow all through.” On February 26, Wilson reluctantly requested Congress to authorize the arming of American merchantmen to protect them “in their legitimate and peaceful pursuits on the seas.” While he was speaking, news arrived that the small Cunard liner Laconia had been torpedoed without warning. Twelve civilian passengers, including two Americans, both women, were dead.
[The circumstances of these deaths were particularly grim. Laconia was first torpedoed at 10:30 at night. Twenty minutes after the first torpedo struck, and as the passengers were taking to the lifeboats, the U-boat captain fired a second torpedo. The lifeboat holding the two American women and seventeen other passengers scraped down the side of ship as it was lowered, and it arrived in the water, said Wesley Frost, the American consul at Queenstown, Ireland, “leaking like a basket. It filled with water instantly but was buoyed up by air-tanks under its thwarts. . . . [It] drifted away through a chilling drizzle, coasting the twelve-foot ocean swells in the black darkness. . . . As the night wore on, two American ladies found it necessary to stand continuously on their feet, so deep had settled the water-logged boat. These ladies were Mrs. Mary Hoy of Chicago and her daughter, Miss Elizabeth Hoy . . . proceeding to London to join Mrs. Hoy’s husband and son.
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