by Lloyd, Nick
Karl was a rarity, someone who had served since the beginning of the war (he volunteered in August 1914) and only collapsed at the very end. Medical records also reveal the decreasing quality of the recruits being drafted into the German Army; those who were unfit for service and broke down much quicker than men like Karl. One of these unfortunates was Wilhelm Wilhöft, who arrived at a military hospital in Hamburg in September 1918. He suffered from fainting fits and had, since childhood, lacked control of his bladder. His doctor complained that he was a ‘considerably inferior person’ and ‘exceptionally childish’. Although some improvement in his condition was made by treatment (with electric shock therapy), it was eventually agreed that he was unfit for future military service. Wilhöft seems to have been a regrettable case, but the authorities were understandably wary of appearing to be too lenient on those who might have been seeking a way out and there was widespread concern about the spread of malingering, which only got worse as the German Army haemorrhaged men in the summer and autumn of 1918. Electro-shock therapy was widely used in such cases. Karl Passhaus was someone who was treated in this manner. He arrived at the Department of War Neurosis in Bonn in July 1918 with ‘hysterical symptoms’ – a common term for shell-shock – after being evacuated from the Marne. His doctor thought he was malingering and noted that his condition disappeared after regular half-hourly sessions with the Kaufman Method, when electricity would be applied to the affected area and the patient encouraged to overcome his symptoms.31
The succession of hammer-blows on the Western Front did more than smash men’s minds. It also forced a dramatic reappraisal of German strategy. OHL wanted new defensive areas to be set up behind the line and hosted a conference at Avesnes on 6 September to determine where they should run. The Chiefs of Staff of the three main Army Groups, including the defensive expert, Lossberg, were invited. At this meeting Ludendorff unveiled what he called the ‘Hermann Line’. It would run from the North Sea along the River Escaut and the Scarpe to Tournai, through Condé, Valenciennes and Le Cateau to the west of Guise. It would then be positioned along the River Aisne north of Verdun. Another line – the Michel Line – had already been constructed between Verdun and Metz. Lossberg noted that Ludendorff ‘appeared to be very nervous: in contrast to his previously assured manner’.
He spoke very critically of the troops. He blamed them and their commanders for what had recently happened without any admission on his part that his own flawed leadership was mainly responsible for events. He announced to us that Supreme High Command had ordered the amalgamation of the third and fourth Infantry Companies because there were no further reserves of officers or men . . . General Ludendorff demanded severe reprisals for shirkers.
Ludendorff then asked the opinions of those present. Lossberg spoke first. He said that General von Boehn had made daily visits to the Siegfried Line and had found it in a ‘very poor state with only a few barbed wire obstacles’. Combined with the state of the troops, it was not possible to rely on this as a permanent defensive position. Work on this ‘Hermann Line’ had not even started yet. Lossberg recommended that as soon as the Siegfried Line was breached – he regarded this as inevitable – the German Army should be withdrawn ‘at a single stroke’ from the sea back to Verdun, to the shorter Antwerp–Meuse Line. Before this took place, as much equipment as possible should be withdrawn and all railways, bridges and roads should be destroyed.32
Lossberg’s advice was sensible and realistic, but was, once again, totally unacceptable to Ludendorff, who – like Hitler a generation later – could only issue desperate exhortations to his men to hold their ground at all costs. Little was settled at Avesnes that day. There would be no radical withdrawal. Ludendorff even rejected the suggestion to comprehensively destroy all railways and bridges; perhaps a reflection of his lingering hope for future offensives. When Lossberg pointed out that only by removing the German Army from contact with the enemy could they buy enough time to regroup and consolidate their forces, Ludendorff shook his head. The Hermann Line would be constructed and that would be held even if the Siegfried position fell. The mood at OHL was now becoming progressively worse. The senior staff officers were all upset at Ludendorff’s bitter words against the men and felt he was speaking out of turn and not appreciating the sacrifices being made daily at the front. Many found Ludendorff’s methods intolerable and resented his constant interference, as well as his continued fantasies of new offensives that never materialized. Like Lossberg, a growing number of staff officers were recommending further withdrawals, even arguing that Germany must sue for peace.
One of Ludendorff’s most trenchant critics was Lieutenant-Colonel Georg Wetzell, his Chief of Operations. By September, Wetzell had come to the conclusion that his boss was unfit for command. Several days earlier, Ludendorff had admitted withholding information from Paul von Hintze during the meetings of 13–14 August because of the bad effect it would have had on the homeland. Wetzell was horrified at this deception and urgently petitioned Hindenburg to make sure the Kaiser and the Government were fully informed of the situation. But Hindenburg remained unmoved and Wetzell’s attempts came to nothing.33 Adding to his frustration was the fact that Ludendorff was now bypassing his office and, once again, phoning the armies directly. On 9 September Crown Prince Rupprecht complained that ‘The mood amongst the Chiefs of Staff had also suffered due to Ludendorff’s restlessness; in the space of 3 weeks, during the Ninth Army’s heavy fighting, he changed their Chief of Staff three times – to no obvious advantage. His continual interventions, coming directly to us by telephone, bypassed the Chief of Operations, and led the latter to request that he be relieved of his post.’34 That day Wetzell’s resignation was accepted and he left the Supreme Command.
By the time Wetzell had left OHL the movement of German units into the Siegfried Line had largely been completed. Although many officers had been disappointed at the state of the defences – by 1918 parts of the Hindenburg Line were in need of thorough refurbishment – units settled down in their trenches and dug-outs and awaited the oncoming storm. A curious air of anticipation settled upon the Western Front as the movement of the preceding month drew to a close. In some sectors trench warfare even restarted, as British and French battalions reoccupied old trench systems and began the nightly task of patrols and raids, sending feelers out into no-man’s-land to find out where the enemy was. Some German divisions could be relieved and sent on leave, but most of the Army – or what was left of it – remained at the front and was fed a steady diet of spine-stiffening propaganda reminding the men of their duties, the importance of defending to the end, and of the horrors that would befall the Fatherland if her soldiers failed her at such a critical moment of history. Germany had played her last card. The Allies, by contrast, were only just getting started.
7. Enter the Americans
The Americans are multiplying in a way we never dreamt of.
Crown Prince Rupprecht1
12–16 September 1918
It was perhaps only when he reached the front, when he passed through the ruins of French villages or saw the plumes of dark smoke rising from the landscape, that the American soldier truly understood the war. The war came to him when he smelt the damp earth of the trenches, or shuddered as shells screamed down upon him, at Belleau Wood, Château-Thierry, or on some blasted hill in the Argonne. This was why, he realized, the fighting had caused so much death and misery, and gone on for so long. He felt the iron-like taste of despair and fear – so familiar to his French and British friends – when he leapt out of his trench and advanced in the open to face the rattle of Maxim machine-guns. So this was why, he would realize, so many had been unable to defeat the German Army. The essence of the war hit the American soldier in those first few frantic moments, banishing any idealism or naivety he may have had, thrusting him into a cold world of suffering, hunger and pain, revealing in all its agony, clear and bold, the greatest tragedy in European history.
For Elton Mackin, a high sch
ool graduate from Lewiston, New York, his war began at a crossroads near Marigny Château. ‘Because the long-range German guns over Torcy way were spewing bits of hate in the form of high explosives, we were put into the partial shelter of the roadside hedge, allowing time to pass. The war had come down our road to meet us. We took time to study it, to note its greeting. We had an hour or more of sunny June-time afternoon through which to wait and watch and gather swift impressions.’ A German battery had zeroed in on the road and the shells ‘came down in perfect flights of four, always of four, and four, and four, with just enough space between blasts for the crews to serve the guns. Methodical, precise, deadly, the gunfire swept the crossing. Men and horses died. Huge old army camions and Thomas trucks crashed and smashed and burned engineers died while recklessly moving the wrecks to keep the roadway clear.’ Despite the horror, despite the flaming slaughter they could see, Mackin’s men were safe. ‘We were enthralled’, he wrote. ‘We were privileged men to lie out there, short rifle range from the carnage, learning, watching how things went.’ Yes, this was how, here in France, things went.2
American troops had seen action at a variety of locations on the Western Front since the autumn of 1917, including the famous action at Belleau Wood. Notwithstanding their important role at Second Marne, they had always fought in units no bigger than corps and as part of larger French operations. Now all that would change. The First US Army, some 500,000 men strong, would meet the war at Saint-Mihiel, a salient that jutted into French lines southeast of the fortified town of Verdun. This battle, fought between 12 and 16 September 1918, marked the baptism of fire for General Pershing’s waxing force. At last they had their own battlefield; now it was time, they knew, for the doubts about Americans’ capability to fight this war, to be swept away. Saint-Mihiel – a battle that remains neglected, often ignored, by French or British historians – marked a momentous occasion. The Americans were finally here; it had been seventeen months in the making.
Both British and French newspapers had fallen over themselves to welcome the US into the war in the spring of 1917 and, almost immediately, rumours of fantastic new weapons and masses of equipment began circulating, doing wonders for morale, but sadly raising expectations of the American impact to unsustainable levels. As early as May 1917, the French Prime Minister, Alexandre Ribot, cabled the US War Department, demanding the formation of a flying corps of approximately 4,500 aircraft to be sent immediately, as well as the construction of 2,000 aircraft and 4,000 engines every month.3 Such numbers were, however, firmly in the realm of imagination; Pershing later commenting that even years later ‘the primitive state’ of US aviation still gave him ‘a feeling of humiliation’. When he had led a punitive expedition to Mexico in 1916, he had taken ‘eight of the thirteen antiquated tactical planes which constituted our all in aviation’. When they declared war on Germany, America did not have the aircraft or the facilities to support mass operations in the air. Even worse, the aircraft they did have were ‘constantly in danger of going to pieces’.4
The depressing truth was that for all America’s industrial might and technical knowhow, it did not have an army to put into the field. Although up to four million soldiers would serve between 1917 and 1920, America was woefully unready for a major continental war in May 1917, with few trained troops, small numbers of rifles and little heavy artillery. Given these limitations, it is little wonder that British and French delegations to the US were constantly talking about ‘amalgamation’ and always requesting the one element they required above all others: manpower. If the Americans could just send their young men to France, they explained, the Allies would see that they were trained and equipped in their armies. Soon after America declared war, the French Military Attaché even proposed to the US Government that one division and 50,000 trained railwaymen be immediately despatched to France. The British were, perhaps, a little more subtle. Major-General Tom Bridges, a member of the British Military Mission, argued forcefully that the war was at a critical stage and the only possible way for the Americans to play a major role would be to send their untrained men into British depots, where they would be drafted into Haig’s armies. Anything less and the war might be over before the Americans got there.
As was perhaps to be expected, both President Woodrow Wilson and Pershing were unhappy about these proposals, Pershing later writing that ‘I was decidedly against our becoming a recruiting agency for either the French or British and at that time this was the attitude of the War Department also. While fully realizing the difficulties, it was definitely understood between the Secretary of War and myself that we should proceed to organize our own units from top to bottom and build a distinctive army of our own as rapidly as possible.’5 This was certainly a logical and reasonable political decision. It would have been very difficult, if not impossible, for Wilson to have sanctioned the overseas deployment of American troops and placed them under the command of foreign generals. It was only right that those soldiers who volunteered, or were subsequently drafted, fought under American officers under the American flag. Nevertheless, the British and French were correct in their claims that the war might be over before the United States could intervene in any strength. The problem was time, and with the menacing eruption of the German Spring Offensive in March 1918, the arguments over amalgamation suddenly became much more urgent as the Allies pleaded desperately for American support.
By the time Ludendorff launched his devastating ‘peace offensive’ on 21 March, only 287,000 US combat troops had arrived in France. Although much was achieved during 1917 in raising and training a huge new army, it was now openly doubted whether the British and French could hold out until the bulk of American strength was ready. American reinforcements were, therefore, of the essence. In the frantic days of March, Pershing finally gave way, agreeing that US divisions could serve under British or French command. He also agreed to an Allied suggestion that, in order to ship more men to the front, priority would be given to infantry and machine-gunners, rather than their supporting units. While this had the result of rapidly increasing the amount of US manpower in France, it meant that they were without much of their supporting infrastructure, which had a detrimental effect on their combat performance. It was a compromise, and like all compromises it satisfied no one.6
When the Americans finally got to France, first impressions of them were mixed. For many veterans of the Western Front, both British and French, the Americans always remained outsiders and amateurs. One British officer, Lieutenant R. G. Dixon, had first come across US soldiers in the spring of 1918 in the Ypres Salient, and was left distinctly unimpressed. One morning, a ‘long column of men hove in sight’, he wrote, ‘infantry, all wearing very broad-brimmed hats, and marching in a very sloppy manner along the road from Poperinghe. We sat up and gawped at them. Who the hell could they be? Not Australians, not Canadians – in any case our Dominion troops would all be wearing tin hats on that road, and they certainly wouldn’t be marching in one solid phalanx like this lot. And they would, if Dominion troops, certainly be marching better!’ Presently the column of troops halted, fell out to either side of the road, and began lighting up cigarettes. Dixon approached them.
‘Good morning, gentlemen,’ he said.
‘Say, buddy,’ replied the American officer – a chunky cigar in his mouth – ‘how far is it to this l’il old shootin’ gallery of yours?’
Dixon did not like the man. He admitted to being ‘shaken to my foundations’ by the question and glared at the ‘coarse-grained, insensitive lout’ in front of him.
‘If you mean the Ypres Salient, sir, you will be in it in about five minutes from here. And I strongly advise you to move your troops as quickly as you can, because it is now three minutes to eleven, and at eleven Jerry puts down a carefully bracketed shoot of high velocity shells upon that stretch of road you have halted upon.’
‘Oh,’ grinned the American, ‘I guess that’ll be ok.’
Within seconds the scream of German shell
s rent the sky and crashed down on to a nearby crossroads. The Americans scattered hastily from the road, cursing at the punctuality of the German artillery batteries and leaving Dixon with a wry smile on his face.7
The French perspective was, initially at least, much warmer. Aware of their weakness and of the need for American help, many French soldiers enthusiastically welcomed their new associates, and rosy memories of Lafayette and Franco-American cooperation during the War of Independence helped to smooth any teething problems. To the French tank officer Lieutenant Charles Chenu, ‘we fought alongside them, admired them, loved them’.8 Although there were concerns about American inexperience and naivety (as well as disdain about US attitudes towards black soldiers), the bravery and verve of American troops were widely admired. One French commander, General Eugène Savatier, remarked that ‘their splendid courage amazed us, and we applauded their successes whole-heartedly. Our affection was not based wholly upon our admiration. We were pleased to find in them our own qualities and defects, which made our mutual liking only the more lasting.’9 Indeed, not all Americans were the cigar-chomping ‘louts’ as described by Dixon. Some, like Major Charles Whittlesey, who commanded the ‘lost battalion’ in the Argonne, was a deep-thinking and sensitive soldier who had been a partner in a law firm in New York when the war broke out. Another complex individual was the logger from Tennessee, Alvin York, who had originally applied to become a conscientious objector because the war was against his religious principles. Despite this, he was sent to the front and saw action in the Meuse–Argonne, and was awarded the Congressional Medal of Honor for his actions on 8 October when he led an attack and killed up to twenty-eight enemy soldiers. Others, however, perfectly epitomized the pioneering, frontier spirit of the west, and two legendary American soldiers would cut their teeth on the Western Front: George S. Patton, a fire-eating tank commander, and Douglas MacArthur, a flamboyant brigadier who struck an almost cinematic pose in France.