Dreadnought, Britain, Germany and the Coming of the Great War

by Robert K. Massie

  The view from the ship was magnificent. A broad bay of sparkling blue water was framed by steep brown cliffs rising seven hundred feet from the sea. At the top stood the walls and towers of Agadir Castle, an imposing Portuguese bastion built centuries earlier, when Portugal reached out across the globe. Below, at sea level, in the small fishing village of Funti, people lived and worked in an ageless fashion. No Europeans and no sign of European life were present; the port had been closed to international shipping for many years.

  One European was on the way. Doing his best, as instructed, to arrive before the warship sent to protect him, Herr Wilburg, subsequently nicknamed the "Endangered German," was a representative of the Hamburg business consortium in Morocco. On June 28, he was in Mogador, seventy-five miles north of Agadir. Because all telegrams to Morocco had to be sent in French and French officials were free to read them, a code had to be worked out in which Wilburg's instructions and destination were hidden in a seemingly innocuous text. Three telegrams were necessary, and it was not until

  * 211 feet long, 32 feet in beam, one 4-inch gun forward, one aft.

  the evening of July 1 that Wilburg was able to start. His journey was arduous and miserable. The heat which afflicted Europe that summer was even more intense in Africa. Wilburg found all the grass and shrubs burned up by the sun; he even found that goats had climbed into trees to escape the scorching rays. The road was no more than a track, sometimes only a few feet wide, winding through hills strewn with rocks and stones. On corniches along the sea, on one side he touched a cliff and on the other, he looked down on a precipitous drop. Caravans of mules and camels came toward him, forcing him to press his horse against the rock.

  When Wilburg arrived at Agadir on the afternoon of July 4, the Panther had been at anchor for three days. Wilburg saw the warship, but was too exhausted to make contact. The next morning when he awoke, he saw that a second, larger German ship had entered the bay and anchored during the night. This was the 3,200-ton light cruiser Berlin, with ten four-inch guns and a crew of three hundred. Immediately, Wilburg tried to let his countrymen know that he was present. At first, he had no luck; the men on the Berlin took the man on the beach running up and down, waving his arms and shouting faint cries, for an excited native, perhaps with something to sell. The Admiralty had given strict orders that men were not to be landed without further instructions. Wilburg, seeing the men on the ships staring at him without apparent interest, became dispirited and stood motionless, looking back at the two gray ships lying silent in the bright sunlight. His posture identified him: suddenly an officer on the Panther was struck by the lonely figure on the beach standing with his hands on his hips. Africans did not employ this stance. A boat was launched and soon Wilburg, the "Endangered German," was taken under the protection of the Imperial Navy. It was the evening of July 5.

  News of the Panthersprung (panther's leap) created a sensation in Europe. At noon on July 1, German ambassadors in all capitals delivered the following note to their host governments:

  "Some German firms established in the south of Morocco, notably at Agadir and in the vicinity, have been alarmed by a certain ferment which has shown itself among the local tribes… These firms have applied to the Imperial Government for protection for the lives of their employees and their property. At their request, the Imperial Government has decided to send a warship to the port of Agadir, to lend help and assistance, in case of need, to its subjects and employees, as well as to protect the important German interests in the territory in question. As soon as the state of affairs in Morocco has resumed its former quiet aspect, the ship charged with this protective mission will leave the port of Agadir."

  Within the Reich itself, Kiderlen's move had overwhelming support. "Hurrah! A deed!" shouted the headlines of the Rheinisch Westfalische Zeitung. "Action at last, a liberating deed… Again it is seen that the foreign policy of a great nation, a powerful state, cannot exhaust itself in patient inaction." Pan-Germans assumed that the partition of Morocco was at hand, that Germany would annex a piece of the seaboard. On June 12, the Crown Prince, a fervent nationalist, expressed this view to Cambon. Inviting the Ambassador to the Imperial box at the Grunewald Races, he spoke of Morocco as "un joli morceau," adding, "Give us our share and all will be well." On the day of the Panther's leap, Arthur Zimmerman of the Foreign Office assured the Pan-German League, "We are seizing this region once and for all. An outlet for our population is necessary." Kiderlen kept silent, refusing to reveal whether his goal was a piece of Morocco or a larger slice of territory somewhere else. Either way, the Panther's spring would serve: "Little by little we will make ourselves at home in the ports and the hinterland and then at the right moment, attempt to come to an understanding with France on the basis of the division of Morocco or of compensation by a part of the French Congo."

  Jules Cambon, the French Ambassador in Berlin, was immediately affected by the sudden coup. A week before, he had left Kiderlen at Kissingen, having been asked to "bring back something" from Paris. In his own capital, he had found the government in disarray, the Foreign Ministry in chaos. Before anything could be decided, the Panther was at anchor in the Bay of Agadir. Cambon did not know what it would take to persuade the ship to sail away. He knew that negotiations must continue and that "serious colonial compensation" would have to be considered. But now it seemed that Kiderlen thought seriously of annexing part of southern Morocco. Kiderlen himself was unhelpful in determining the goal of German policy; the State Secretary now employed the same sphinxlike behavior as Bulow had in 1905. "The more silent we are, the more uncomfortable the French will become," Kiderlen noted cheerfully.

  Negotiations began on July 9 when the French Ambassador, icy and austere, called on Kiderlen. "Eh Men?" he said, inviting the State Secretary to explain reasons for the Panther's leap. "Vous avez du neuf?" ("Do you have anything new?") replied Kiderlen, tossing the ball back to his guest. Gradually, the shape of the negotiations began to emerge. The French government could not agree to acquisition of Moroccan territory by Germany because of French public opinion, but was ready to offer compensation elsewhere, perhaps in the French Congo. Kiderlen, certain of his negotiating advantage, observed that the hopes of the German public for a piece of Morocco had now been raised and could be satisfied only if the compensation elsewhere was substantial. He declared to a friend, "The German Government is in a splendid position. M. Cambon is wriggling before me like a worm."

  Although Kiderlen expected to deal directly-and only-with France, the Panther's arrival in Agadir concerned other powers. Kiderlen, in calculating his move, had not given the reaction of other nations much thought. Russia, he sensed, would give only half-hearted support to her ally; St. Petersburg had never been anxious to fight a war over a French colony in Africa. England's role in the matter Kiderlen had scarcely considered. Thus, when Sir Edward Grey called in Count Metternich on July 4 to discover Germany's intentions, the Ambassador could not be helpful. He did not know himself; Kiderlen had not informed him. When Grey asked whether German troops would be landed, Metternich pleaded ignorance. Grey made the point that while Germany had taken an overt step by sending a ship, Britain "had not taken any overt step, though our commercial interests in Morocco were greater than those of Germany." He left the Ambassador with the statement that Britain's attitude toward what happened in Morocco "could not be a disinterested one" and reminded his guest of "our treaty obligations to France."

  Great Britain's apprehension over the Panther's appearance at Agadir arose from several sources. There was dislike for the suddenness and roughness of the German move; it smacked of the same shock tactics Bulow and Holstein had employed in the Kaiser's sudden descent on Tangier. There was concern that Germany intended to acquire a naval station on Morocco's Atlantic coast; this could threaten the Imperial sealanes to South Africa and around the Cape. (Careful analysts at the Admiralty and in the press discounted this danger, pointing out that a base at Agadir, 1,500 miles from the North Sea, would be h
ighly vulnerable and ultimately a source of weakness rather than strength for the Imperial Navy. The First Sea Lord, Sir Arthur Wilson, assured Grey that neither Agadir or any other Moroccan site could quickly or easily be transformed into a fortified and formidable naval base.) Finally, Grey was concerned about France and the Entente. Once again, as at Tangier and Algeciras, Germany seemed intent on humiliating France, either by forcing a partition of Morocco or by stripping France of an embarrassingly large slice of French territory elsewhere. Such a loss of French prestige, while England stood by, would gravely damage the Entente. Grey was resolved that England should not merely stand by.

  In the face of London's concerns and Grey's questions, Berlin remained silent. Asquith, speaking in Parliament on July 6, suggested that the government would welcome a statement of German intentions. Crowe, writing on July 17, asked himself: "What is Germany driving at? Herr von Kiderlen's behavior seems almost inexplicable." From Paris came reports that the French government was being squeezed to give up the entire French Congo; from Morocco, that German troops had landed at Agadir and that German officers were negotiating with tribal chiefs. Days passed and still Germany offered no explanation other than that endangered Germans were being protected. This passage of time added conspicuous insult to possible injury. Grey had stated in his July 4 conversation with Metternich that Great Britain had a vital interest in the future of France's role in Morocco, yet for over two weeks, the Imperial government had ignored that concern. Officials at the Foreign Office, many considerably more Germanophobic than Grey, were alarmed and angry. "This is a test of strength, if anything," Crowe argued. "Concession [by France] means not loss of interests or loss of prestige. It means defeat. The defeat of France is a matter vital to this country." Sir Arthur Nicolson, who in 1910 had returned from St. Petersburg to become Permanent Under Secretary of the Foreign Office, agreed. Without a strong show of England's support, he advised the Foreign Secretary, German pressure would soon compel France either to fight or to yield. If France yielded, he continued, German hegemony on the Continent would become permanent.

  By July 19, Grey was convinced that he must have information as to German intentions. He asked Asquith to allow him to "make some communication to Germany to impress upon her that, if the negotiations between her and France come to nothing, we must become a party to a discussion of the situation." Otherwise, he feared that the "long ignorance and silence combined must lead the Germans to imagine that we don't very much care." The Prime Minister agreed and Grey summoned Metternich to an interview on the afternoon of July 21.

  From the British perspective, the twenty-first was the critical day of the Agadir Crisis. The Cabinet met in the morning, the Foreign Secretary saw the German Ambassador in the afternoon, and a historic speech was given in the evening. During the day, several conversations between leading members of the British government gave clear definition to British policy. The previous morning The Times had published an accurate but unauthorized story from Paris, describing Germany's sweeping demands on France. British public opinion, previously dubious about France's Morocco policy, had turned against the Germans. When the Cabinet met in the morning, Grey summarized the state of the Franco-German negotiations as reported to him by the French government. He pointed out that seventeen days had elapsed without any notice being taken by Germany of the British query about German intentions. He announced that he was seeing Metternich in the afternoon and would ask for clarification. Meeting the German Ambassador at four p.m., Grey explained that Britain had waited in hopes that France and Germany would reach agreement, but that he had heard that German demands were too excessive for France to accept. Meanwhile, the German presence continued at Agadir: no one knew "whether German troops are landed there, whether treaties were concluded there which injure the economic share of others," whether, perhaps, the German flag had been raised. Metternich, as much in the dark on these matters as Grey, was, the Foreign Secretary minuted, "not in a position to give any information."

  Meanwhile during the day, another drama was unfolding in Whitehall. For weeks, David Lloyd George, the volatile, German-ophile Chancellor of the Exchequer, had been wrestling with the implications of the Panther's leap. He wished to give Germany time to explain, yet the long silence from Berlin was ominous. That morning, before the Cabinet meeting, Winston Churchill visited him in his office. "I found a different man," Churchill was to write. "His mind was made up. He saw quite clearly the course to take. He knew what to do and how and when to do it… He told me that he was to address the Bankers at their Annual Dinner that evening and that he intended to make it clear that if Germany meant war, she would find Britain against her. He showed me what he had prepared and told me that he would show it to the Prime Minister and Sir Edward Grey after the Cabinet." Lloyd George was irritated and concerned: "When the rude indifference of the German Government to our communication had lasted for seventeen days… I felt that matters were growing tensely critical and that we were drifting clumsily towards war," the Chancellor wrote. "It was not merely that by failing even to send a formal acknowledgement of the Foreign Secretary's letter, the Germans were treating us with intolerable insolence, but that their silence might well mean that they were blindly ignorant of the sense in which we treated our obligations under the Treaty [of 1904], and might not realise until too late that we felt bound to stand by France."

  Lloyd George did not speak up at the meeting of the Cabinet and thus, when Grey met Metternich, the Foreign Secretary was unaware of the new resolution found by his colleague. The Foreign Secretary learned about it only in the late afternoon when, he wrote, "I was suddenly told that Lloyd George had come over to the Foreign Office and wanted to see me. He came into my room and asked if the German Government had given any answer to the communication I had made on behalf of the Cabinet on July 4. I said that none had reached me… Lloyd George then asked whether it was not unusual for our communication to be left without any notice and I replied that it was. He told me that he had to make a speech in the City of London that evening and thought he ought to say something about it; he then took a paper from his pocket and read out what he had put down as suitable. I thought what he proposed to say was quite justified and would be salutary, and I cordially agreed… The speech was entirely Lloyd George's own idea. I did nothing to instigate it, but I welcomed it." On Grey's recommendation, Asquith approved.

  On the evening of July 21, Lloyd George arose before the assembled bankers of the City of London at the banquet given them at the Mansion House by the Lord Mayor. The bulk of his speech dealt with politics, the budget, inequities of property and wealth, and the prospects for world prosperity. Peace, he declared, was the "first condition of prosperity." Then, halting the flow of extemporaneous words, he picked up a piece of paper and read slowly the carefully considered words he had showed to Grey and Asquith:

  "I would make great sacrifices to preserve peace. I conceive that nothing would justify a disturbance of international good will except questions of the gravest national moment. But if a situation were to be forced upon us in which peace could only be preserved by the surrender of the great and beneficent position Britain has won by centuries of heroism and achievement, by allowing Britain to be treated, where her interests were vitally concerned, as if she were of no account in the Cabinet of nations, then I say emphatically that peace at that price would be a humiliation intolerable for a great country like ours to endure…"

  The message was not remarkable: Britain, in matters affecting her interest, did not intend to be ignored. Sir Edward Grey had been passing this message to the diplomatic chancellories of Europe for six and a half years. What gave the Mansion House speech significance were the lips from which this message sprang. Lloyd George was a radical, a pacifist. His views on foreign affairs, insofar as they were known, were considered to be pro-German; certainly he had always strongly favored an Anglo-German understanding. The fact that he had stood up in public and warned that Britain would fight to maintain her pr
estige came as a shock to many in both England and Germany. During the furor that followed, Grey reckoned that the speech had a positive effect. "Lloyd George was closely associated with what was supposed to be a pro-German element in the Liberal Government and the House of Commons," the Foreign Secretary wrote. "Therefore, when he spoke out, the Germans knew that the whole of the Government and House of Commons had to be reckoned with. It was my opinion then, and it is so still, that the speech had much to do with preserving peace in 1911. It created a great explosion of words in Germany, but it made the Chauvinists doubt whether it would be wise to fire the guns."

  Lloyd George's speech had made no reference to any specific nation, but Germans recognized that the Chancellor's warning was addressed to them. The German press quickly turned violent against England, protesting that here was yet another episode in the age-old story of Britain interfering in a question which did not concern her. Her real aim, declared Germania, was to make certain that she shared in any partition of Morocco: "Whenever a country occupies one village, England immediately demands three and preferably four." Indignant cries mingled with blustering anger. "The German people refuse to be dictated to by foreign powers," said the Kolnische Zeitung. "Strong in the justice of her cause, Germany admonishes the stupid disturbers of the peace, 'Hands off!' " shouted the Lokal Anzeiger.

  In the Wilhelmstrasse, Kiderlen was angry because the British Chancellor's speech, by encouraging the French, could only make his negotiations with Paris more difficult. And the State Secretary was furious at what he considered a breach of diplomatic manners. The British Foreign Secretary had asked the German Ambassador for a clarification of the German position in Morocco. The Ambassador had promised to contact his government in an effort to provide what was asked. Yet that very same evening, before the Ambassador's message could even be decoded in Berlin, a senior minister of the British government had issued a public warning to the Imperial government. Kiderlen assumed that the entire British Cabinet had drafted or at least approved Lloyd George's speech and then chosen the leading pacifist and Germanophile among them as a mouthpiece to increase the harshness of the insult. Kiderlen seethed: "If the English Government had intended to complicate the political situation and to bring about a violent explosion, it could certainly have chosen no better means than the speech of the Chancellor of the Exchequer."