The General’s eyes narrowed. “No. I am committed only to sending the Baron to von Prittwitz. The old fool is quite incapable of dealing with those hard-headed Germans on the Kaiser’s staff, and will only make a mess of things. If you can get no satisfaction from von Prittwitz, let the Baron return and report to me. Proceed on your own to German Main Headquarters and do the best you can. I’ll give you a separate letter for von Moltke. But this is between ourselves. Not a word of this must reach the Archduke, or he will insist on his old crony accompanying you on the second stage of your journey.”
“Jawohl, Excellence!” In a high good humour, de Richleau clicked his heels and saluted. Such an arrangement could not have suited him better, had he devised it himself. Moreover, if he played his cards carefully, it looked as if he stood a very good chance of so manipulating matters that von Hötzendorf could be induced to adhere to his original plan of attacking in a northerly direction, in which case the Austro-Hungarian armies would court a much greater risk of sustaining a major defeat. In any case, he felt entitled to congratulate himself on the success of the clever little intrigue, which would result in his being able to leave in safety and comfort, instead of having to take the long road home through Russia.
But he was soon to learn that the shortest road is not necessarily the safest.
Chapter XXIII
The Armies Clash
An hour later, while the bright light of the summer evening still lingered, the Duke was on his way out of Przemysl. He knew that he could not consider himself really safe until he had left the German headquarters in East Prussia as, if the K.S. learned that he had joined von Hötzendorf’s staff, a telegram ordering his arrest could still catch him there. But as he had spent only a bare two days in Przemysl he felt that the number of people who knew that he had been in the city must still be comparatively small. One or two of them might yet mention his presence when writing to Vienna, but such a piece of social gossip was of no particular interest now that he had left, so the odds seemed against it getting as far as Major Ronge. With heart-felt thankfulness at being able to depart in easy circumstances and with such good prospects of getting safely to Holland, he decided that he must make the best of the companion fate had forced on him. And he soon found that he might have fared worse.
Colonel Baron Lanzelin Ungash-Wallersee was a final product of the once sound, but long since outworn, feudal system that was now so near dissolution. In return for certain services and rents in kind, his remote ancestors had given the people on their lands a rough justice, led them on cattle raids, defended their homes and fed them in time of famine. The present holder of the title still owned the lands, but neither he nor his predecessors in the past several hundred years had done anything very much for anybody. He was, nevertheless, a very kind and charming person. His many estates in various parts of the Empire totalled in area that of an English county. They had been accumulated through many generations by a long series of suitable matrimonial alliances, and safeguarded by a succession of entails that precluded any heir from succeeding should he be so misguided as to insist on marrying a lady whose coat of arms embodied less than sixteen quarterings. It was this principle which had resulted in nearly all the higher nobility of Central Europe being related to one another, and the Baron’s veins, therefore, metaphorically contained blood of an unadulterated blue.
He was, almost needless to remark, immensely rich. He owned three castles, a palace in Vienna, another in Budapest, a villa in the south of France, a two thousand ton yacht in the Adriatic, and several hunting lodges. He also paid the rent of a number of flats for young ladies, who spent fifty weeks out of most years entertaining more sprightly, if less blue-blooded, gentlemen.
As a young subaltern in a crack cavalry regiment, he had often given parties that had gone on for several days and nights in succession, climbed the tower of the Michaelerkirche, and ridden his favourite charger up three flights of stairs to his mistress’ bedroom. Up to the age of thirty, he had managed to keep fairly even in the number of stags he had shot and the number of young women who had succumbed to his advances. After that, the stags took a permanent lead, but he still rolled a bucolic eye whenever he saw a good-looking girl. He had not the faintest interest in either art or politics, and knew less than most corporals about warfare. He had never served his country as diplomat, jurist or statesman. On the other hand, he had drunk more champagne than would have filled the giant tun at Heidelberg, had eaten more caviare than would have served to stuff a whale, and had all his clothes made in London. In short, from his youth onward he had, within his extremely limited mental horizons, enjoyed all the fun he might have had if he had been a lesser monarch-cum-millionaire, without the necessity of devoting a single hour to business or suffering the tedious duties and anxieties inseparable from royalty.
At the present time he was just over sixty, with a square-shouldered stalwart body that he had kept in passably good shape. His skin was slightly mottled, but he was handsome in his way and, at first sight, his striking head belied its emptiness. The blue eyes had for so long had the habit of command that they gave the impression that he was not to be trifled with, and his sensual mouth was hidden by an impressive grey moustache and beard. The former curled gracefully upward, the latter was square-cut and parted in the centre, to match the parting of the hair on his head which ran right down to the nape of his neck—an eccentricity impossible to any man who lacked a valet to brush his hair every morning.
The Baron’s valet was, of course, travelling with them, although temporarily disguised as a soldier, and now also filling the role of servant to the Duke for the duration of their mission. So was the Baron’s private No. 1 chauffeur, and they were in the most recently purchased of his fifteen cars, which he had ordered up from Vienna. As he sat there, obviously thinking of nothing in particular, except possibly that it was rather a bore to have been sent to see some upstart German General, he looked and was as clean as a new pin. He smelt faintly of eau-de-Cologne mingled with the aroma of fine Havana cigars. Like most of the great Austro-Hungarian nobles, he was known by the diminutive of his first christian name—his friends called him Lanzi.
The roads to the west were still packed with columns of olive-grey troops, guns, ammunition wagons and fodder carts, all moving up towards the front; so the powerful, smooth-running car could be let out only on short infrequent stretches. In consequence, it took them six hours to cover the eighty odd miles to Tarnow, and there the Colonel Baron decreed that they should sup and sleep. As a well-stocked picnic basket had provided them with dinner, they were in no real need of food; so, using the urgency of their mission as an excuse, the Duke suggested that he should relieve the chauffeur at the wheel and that they should push on. But Lanzi Ungash-Wallersee would not hear of it.
He took occasion to point out that their mission was of no vital importance, as the Germans would make mincemeat of both the French and the Russians anyway. That, he seemed to think, was the only purpose for which an all-wise Providence had created Germany. He added that he had had it from a fellow in the Kriegsministerum in Vienna that the war would be over in three months, and indicated that he would have cause to feel considerable annoyance should it last longer, as he had already selected the colours and stuffs with which he planned to have some of the principal rooms in his villa at Nice re-decorated for the coming winter season.
Although it was after midnight, he had most of the staff at the best hotel roused to attend him, and after one glance they willingly ran to supply his requirements. He said little, but what he did say was quietly and pleasantly spoken. His name, and one look at his slightly protruding blue eyes above the beautifully barbered moustaches and beard, were sufficient. Lesser beings were turned out of the best rooms at a moment’s notice, the chef stoked up his kitchen fires, the wine-waiter produced his best Hock, and the prettiest chambermaid was chucked under the chin, then told to get into the great man’s bed and warm it.
To de Richleau he could not ha
ve been more charming. He would have behaved with easy friendliness to an ex-ranker had such an officer been sent with him, but he was obviously pleased to have a companion whom he regarded as one of his own kind. The de Richleaus were, of course, mere parvenu compared with his own House and its eight hundred years of ancestry. But he had a vague idea that they had made their mark on French history, and he recalled having once participated in a very jolly drinking bout with the Duke’s father. The cigars he produced after their late supper were enormous torpedo-shaped affairs which had been specially manufactured for him in Havana and, connoisseur as de Richleau was, he had rarely smoked anything better.
They did not get to bed till two o’clock, Lanzi remarking, as they went upstairs, that he thought about half past nine would be quite early enough to start in the morning. The Duke made no protest. He understood well enough now why von Hötzendorf had no confidence in the Colonel Baron Ungash-Wallersee as an emissary, and pitied any C.-in-C. who had the services of such a man forced upon him by an idiot Prince representing an effete Imperial House. But the last thing he intended was any endeavour to persuade von Prittwitz to aid the Austro-Hungarian offensive, and the longer they delayed in getting to his headquarters the less likely it was that their mission would prove effective. So he considered any small additional risk that he might be running himself, owing to dilatoriness on the journey, amply justified.
Next morning, therefore, he did not suggest, as he would have done had his heart been in the matter, that, as all Russian troops were said to have been withdrawn from the Polish salient, they should chance a dash across it. And it did not seem to have entered Lanzi’s well-groomed head that he was in any way called on to risk his life or liberty in an attempt to expedite the service of his country. Instead, they continued their leisurely, semi-royal progress for the next two days round the vast arc, by way of Cracow, Ratibor, Breslau, Posen and Thorn to von Prittwitz’s headquarters at Wartenburg.
The headquarters was situated in an old manor house some way outside the town. With the usual German speed and efficiency, a number of hutments had already been erected near it, to accommodate the less important members of the staff, and a railway line laid up to within a few hundred yards of the building, so that the Army Commander could come and go in his special train with a minimum of inconvenience.
The Baron and the Duke arrived in the evening on Thursday the 20th, just in time for dinner. They were received with due deference by the Austro-Hungarian liaison officer, Captain Fleischmann, and, after a quick wash and brush up, were taken to the drawing-room of the house, which was now being used as a mess ante-room. There, they were duly presented to the fat, monocled Commander of the German 8th Army and several of his principal staff officers.
There was a great deal of clicking of heels, bowing sharply from the waist, and rapping out of surnames. Then they went in to dine. Von Prittwitz placed his distinguished guests on his left and right, but he seemed extremely ill at ease, made no effort at conversation, and ate almost nothing. Only about half the places at the long table were occupied, and most of the officers present ate rapidly in silence. After a bare, uncomfortable quarter of an hour, the General stood up, asked his guests to excuse him from discussing the situation with them that night, and said he would see them in the morning. Within another five minutes all his staff had followed him, leaving Fleischmann to look after the visitors.
On their return to the ante-room they found it empty, and settled down in arm-chairs round a wood fire that was smouldering in the grate. Fleischmann brought a bottle of brandy and some glasses over from a side table, and old Lanzi produced his enormous cigars. Then he said to the liaison officer:
“The Germans always were a set of boors, but there must be some special reason for this shocking display of ill-manners. Why are they behaving in such an extraordinary way?”
“It is the battle, Herr Oberste Baron,” replied Fleischmann, pulling a face. “The XVIIth Corps under von Mackensen is reported to have been completely smashed and is in full retreat.”
“What!” exclaimed Lanzi. “It’s not possible! You cannot really mean that those Russian oafs have inflicted a defeat on the German army?”
“It’s not quite as bad as that—yet. The 1st Corps under von François have done brilliantly, and von Below’s 1st Reserve Corps have done pretty well too; so the position may be stabilised to-morrow. But there is certainly cause for grave anxiety.”
“We know next to nothing about this front,” the Duke remarked, “so it would be best if you tell us what has happened from the beginning.”
“Jawohl, Herr Oberst Graf.” The Captain bowed. “This, then, was the position. You will know that the central section of this front has a natural defence consisting of the Masurian Lakes and marshes which extend for about sixty miles, with the fortress of Lotzen in their centre. That barrier cannot be crossed, so to invade East Prussia the enemy forces must strike north of it through Gumbinnen or south through Tannenberg; or, should they do both, they must for some days be separated by the lakes, so that neither half of them could come to the assistance of the other.”
De Richleau nodded. “Count Schlieffen saw that. When he made his major plan against France he made a subsidiary plan for this front. He laid it down that the remaining eighth of the Germany army should deploy centrally behind the lake screen, so that its whole weight could be thrown either north or south against the first Russian army to cross the frontier. He assumed that the Russians would split their forces, so the Germans would be equal in numbers to the first invading army and be able to defeat it. Then, with the excellent system of lateral railways they have built here for the purpose, they could switch their forces and take on the second Russian army with an equally good hope of defeating that.”
“Exactly!” agreed Fleischmann. “And the Russians have split their forces. Their 1st Army under General Rennenkampf, is advancing against us from Kovno in the north, and their 2nd, based on Warsaw, is coming up from the south. Unfortunately, von Prittwitz lacked the courage to leave one of his flanks temporarily exposed: so, instead of following Schlieffen’s plan, he spread his army out. He sent his 1st Corps, under von François, right up north; his XXth Corps, under Scholtz, down to the south; and kept von Mackensen and von Below with the XVIIth and 1st Reserve Corps in the centre behind the lake barrier.”
“He must have been crazy,” grunted the Duke. “Splitting his forces like that meant that whichever of his flank corps was attacked it would have to fight four times its numbers.”
“That would have been the case if it had not been for General von François. He is a real tiger. I wish to God that he was C.-in-C. instead of the fat boy—that’s what everyone here calls von Prittwitz. Anyhow, when Rennenkampf’s army started to pour over the frontier on the 17th and 18th, von François came here and raised hell. Apparently, von Prittwitz’s orders are to hold the Russians as well as he can, but not to commit himself so heavily as to risk a major defeat, which would prevent him from retiring behind the Vistula and stabilising a front there. He wanted to retreat at once, but von François became downright insubordinate and refused to let him. I gather there was a terrific scene, and von François got the best of it. He not only bullied the C.-in-C. into ordering the XVIIth Corps north, but the 1st Reserve as well, with the intention that all three Corps should stand and fight at Gumbinnen.”
“Now let’s hear about the battle,” put in Lanzi, helping himself to another brandy.
“It was joined at dawn to-day, Herr Oberste Baron. Von François’s Corps was farthest north, of course, and he took the Russians by surprise. They say he gave them a terrific pasting, then succeeded in getting a cavalry division round their flank, which is playing merry hell with their transport and communications. Von Below, at the other end of the front, also did well, and drove back the Russians opposite him. It’s the centre that is the trouble. Apparently, von Mackensen failed to achieve surprise and found the Russians on his front dug in. Nevertheless, he sent his troop
s in to attack them. They were shot down in droves. The survivors panicked and fled. He and his staff went up to the front and tried to stop the rout themselves. But it was no good. Our centre has been broken wide open.”
Lanzi simply could not understand it, but de Richleau could. He knew that the bravest and best disciplined troops in the world could not stand up to machine gun fire from prepared positions, and that von Mackensen was not the only General who would learn that before he was much older.
They talked on for another hour. Occasionally one or two officers came in, had a quick drink and hurried out again. Every room in the house was ablaze with light; orderlies continually scurried up and down stairs and along the corridors. Outside, in the broad sweep of the drive, motors and motor-cycles constantly came and went. It was about a quarter past ten when the plump figure of the C.-in-C. appeared in the doorway. Only the Duke and the two Austrians were in the room at the time. They at once stood up, and de Richleau said:
“May we offer our sympathy to your Excellency on this temporary set-back. It is disappointing, but more than offset by the fine performance of your Ist Corps.”
Von Prittwitz made no direct reply. He stood glowering at them for a moment, then he barked: “Herrshaft! It is useless for you to remain here. You are wasting your time. I have just received news that General Samsonov’s army has crossed our southern frontier in force. I have no intention of allowing myself to be cut off. I have just ordered an immediate retirement to behind the Vistula.”
Snapping his heels together, he made them a jerky bow, turned on his heel, and marched off.
“Behind the Vistula!” gasped Lanzi, his blue eyes popping. “But that means giving up the whole of East Prussia. He must be out of his senses.”
“To order a retreat of a hundred and fifty miles after only one day of battle is certainly an extraordinary step,” the Duke agreed. “Of course, with practically the whole of his army intact, he will be quite safe there. But I wonder what All Highest War Lord Willi Hohenzollern will have to say about this. I shouldn’t like to be in von Pritt-witz’s shoes when he has to explain matters to his Kaiser.”
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