by Lloyd, Nick
That evening, Prince Max, carrying the burden of an empire on his shoulders, spoke to the Kaiser, through a crackly telephone line. His abdication had become necessary to save Germany, he said.
‘We are steering straight for civil war,’ he warned. ‘I have struggled against admitting it, but the position is today untenable; the abdication would be received with universal relief and hailed as a liberating and a healing act.’
But the Kaiser refused to listen. He would remain at the head of his army and utterly rejected all calls for his abdication. When Prince Max offered his resignation, saying that he did not command the confidence of the Kaiser, Wilhelm refused.
‘You sent out the armistice offer,’ he raged, ‘you will have to put your name to the conditions!’
The Chancellor backed down, chastened and heavy with remorse. He would remain in office until the Armistice was signed.8
At Compiègne, the discussions continued into the following day, 9 November. Erzberger handed Foch a paper on the armistice conditions that had been drafted by his team. It contained a series of complaints and counter-arguments to Foch’s terms, warning of the danger that the Allied demands were too severe, and again stressing the urgent need to give the German Army a break so that it could return home and restore order. This would become a familiar German refrain, one that they would repeat with ever more desperation, but it impressed no one. Foch brushed it aside with his customary disdain, and kept asking Erzberger whether he had received an answer from Berlin and whether he had been empowered to sign the Armistice or not. Erzberger would look depressed and shake his head; no, he would reply, he had not heard anything. In the German capital the atmosphere was ‘oppressive and sultry’, like the moments before a storm. Scheidemann remembered how the big factories were ‘seething with excitement. The machines seemed to be working faster and the wheels grating louder. The shouts of the workers sounded angrier; the curses of the Spartacists and Communists against the Majority Socialists were more bitter; the furnaces grew hotter.’ Large meetings had been held across the city over the last few days and at the Reichstag the discussions over when the Kaiser would resign continued with ever greater urgency. Scheidemann even rang up the Chancellery that morning and asked if the Kaiser had gone. ‘Not yet,’ came the reply, ‘but we expect to hear at any moment.’9
9 November was the Kaiser’s last day at Spa. At midday his son, Crown Prince Wilhelm, arrived after having made the journey from his headquarters during the night. He was received by the Court Marshal, General von Gontard, whose face ‘wore a serious and very anxious look’. The Crown Prince immediately began asking questions about the situation, but all the general did was ‘to raise his hands helplessly’, a gesture that seemed to say far more than words could. He eventually found his father in the garden of his villa surrounded by a group of officers. ‘Never shall I forget the picture of that half-score of men in their grey uniforms, thrown into relief by the withered and faded flower-beds of ending autumn, and framed by the surrounding mist-mantled hills with their glorious foliages . . .’
The Kaiser stood there as though he had suddenly halted with them in the midst of a nervous pacing up and down. He was passionately excited, and addressing himself to those near him with violently expressive gestures. His eyes were upon General Groener and His Excellency von Hintze; but a glance was cast now and then at the Field Marshal General [Hindenburg], who, with his gaze fixed in the distance, nodded silently.10
The Kaiser seemed to have aged; his face was emaciated and sallow. As Ludendorff had done before him, he raged at the situation he was now in, seeking a way out only to find that the maze was now closed, the doors bolted; the only option was to abdicate. Telegrams from Germany and Austria added to the sense of urgency and panic at Spa. That morning Prince Max had informed him that the King of Bavaria and the Duke of Brunswick had renounced their thrones, and that the ‘overwhelming majority’ of the cabinet believed abdication was the only way of avoiding civil war.11
Discussions over what should be done had been raging at both the Kaiser’s villa and the Hôtel Britannique all morning. All of Prussia’s great warrior caste were there; the surviving remnants of an empire that stood on the brink of collapse, including Hindenburg and Groener, Paul von Hintze, Colonel Heye, and the Crown Prince’s Chief of Staff, Count Schulenberg; all airing their views and arguing over whether the Army would stand firm or not. The sense of time and history hung heavily upon them, like the thick fog that blanketed the forested hills around Spa. Some talked of the Kaiser leading the Army back to Germany in person, a kind of reconquista, purging the Fatherland of socialists and anarchists and restoring discipline and honour. Others suggested that he should go to the front, join his men in the trenches and die fighting, although it was pointed out that not only would this be highly dangerous, but also that suicide was unchristian and might bring the accusation that the Emperor had taken an easy route out of his difficulties. It was left to Groener to introduce a sense of realism into the proceedings. He talked at length, calmly and firmly, saying that any kind of campaign into Germany would not be possible given the unreliability of the troops and the fact that most of the bridges and railway stations were now in the hands of rebels. If it were done then civil war would almost certainly be the result.12
Groener knew the game was up. He may have been outshone by the dazzling brilliance of Ludendorff, but he had a much greater, earthier understanding of what the German Army was really going through. While many units would probably continue to fight, at least for now, he believed that they would never raise arms against their fellow countrymen, let alone if the Kaiser remained on the throne. On 5 November he had received a letter from the commander of 192nd Infantry Division, Major-General Löffler, who wrote to him not as the Quartermaster-General, but as an old friend.
My dear Groener, I am writing to you because, from the General Headquarters, insight into the troops doesn’t penetrate deeply enough to measure combat strength by its actual value. As a result, a tone or a shade of vital importance can be missing or not distinct enough in the overall general impression. The strength of the troops is running out. You know me well enough to know that I am not a pessimist. My division hasn’t had a single day of rest since the beginning of May. For weeks and months on end only bivouacs have been possible. There has been no talk of proper sanitizing, delousing, and the like for just as long. At the same time, the troops have been taking part in the fighting and battles along the Aire River for three months; from there they stumbled into the Saint-Mihiel sweep shortly before the crisis there, and for the past eleven days they have been in sustained combat just east of the Meuse. Every man has been committed for the duration, almost without exception. The combat situation or the weakness of the troops after losses has not afforded the retreat of even the smaller companies. As a result of bloody losses of about 7,000 men since the middle of May, particularly in the ranks and in the infantry, the units are no longer as well-formed as before.
Löffler warned Groener that the end was near:
From what I have been able to gather, it has been the same with every other division. Yet we’ve done our part. Every day brings proof of that. The moment of overturning is, however, no doubt approaching. It is no longer a matter of weeks. Eventually there comes a time when every action fails due to fatigue. It is into this state that we are now entering.13
Groener would never be forgiven for what many diehards saw as his treachery on 9 November. They claimed that his pessimism, his defeatism, meant that the Kaiser received an incorrect view of the army’s capabilities and gave in when it should have fought on. General Count Friedrich von der Schulenburg, the Crown Prince’s ultra-loyal Chief of Staff and a former member of the Corps de Garde – a man who had clashed with Groener before – spoke for the diehards. He rubbished Groener’s claims and argued that the Army was holding and only needed rest. If it could be given an opportunity to refresh, to have ‘a good night’s sleep’, to reform its shattered ranks, th
en it would continue to fight, particularly once it had been told how shamelessly it was being betrayed by traitors and Bolsheviks at home. However, if an armistice was signed, he warned them that it would be very difficult to rouse the men to fight again.14 The Kaiser, as befitted his notoriously fragile character, was unsure. He was buoyed by Schulenberg’s staunch defence of the imperial throne and his words about the Army remaining loyal, but knew Groener was not a man to be taken lightly. For his part, the Quartermaster-General explained at length, again and again, that it was too late to restore order at home, that it would be hopeless to take up the fight against the rebels and that, in any case, the Army was no longer loyal to His Majesty.
At one point, when Groener had, once again, reaffirmed his belief that Schulenberg did not understand the difficulties of the situation and that the army’s loyalty had gone, Wilhelm lost his temper. He walked up to Groener – ‘his eyes blazing with anger’ – and said that he must prove his statement by asking the army commanders.15
‘The army,’ said Groener, now also becoming angry, ‘will march back to Germany, peacefully and orderly, under its commanders and commanding generals, but not at the command of Your Majesty because it no longer supports Your Majesty.’
Groener’s stand took courage; more courage than he was ever given credit for. He later admitted that he spoke ‘rather more sharply’ than he should have done; his patience failing him ‘in the face of such unrealistic notions’. ‘Even this brusque word from me was no more than a warning from the bottom of my heart to the Kaiser not to clutch at straws,’ he wrote. ‘If one of the men present had gunned me down at that moment, it wouldn’t have come as any surprise to me, since these words were a monstrosity in a circle such as this, in which only old Hindenburg (and only with the greatest of difficulty) mustered up the levelheadedness to see things as they really were.’ It may have been more prudent for Groener to have kept quiet, but his words were necessary to banish what he called the ‘political fantasy world’ that the Kaiser and his staff, as well as loyalists like Schulenberg, inhabited. Groener’s dour realism, combined with his understanding of what it was really like at the front, may not have won him any friends at Spa, but the thousands of German soldiers in the trenches had cause to thank him. Finally, after all the dreams and illusions of Hindenburg and Ludendorff, the German Army had found a sense of reality and objectivity. The man from Württemberg had delivered the coup de grâce.16
The Kaiser was understandably shaken by what Groener had said. He muttered something about getting this in writing from his generals, but it never came to that. Instead a group of chosen officers who had arrived at Spa that morning were consulted. It had originally been intended that fifty soldiers from the three main army groups should attend meetings on the state of the Army, but only thirty-nine had made it, with many being delayed on the roads, itself an indication of the crumbling supply lines behind the front. Wilhelm Heye, the Chief of Operations at OHL, was given the delicate task of speaking to them. After they had assembled, some still in their muddy uniforms, almost all exhausted, he asked them a series of questions. Whether they realized it or not, the future of the empire rested on their answers. What was their attitude to the Emperor and to Bolshevism? Were they willing to march back behind the Kaiser and re-conquer the homeland? Amid a stunned, uncomprehending silence, a vote was held. On the question of whether it would be possible to regain control of Germany alongside the Kaiser, only one officer said yes, a Major von Kretschmann, Adjutant of 36th Infantry Division in Sixth Army. But his was a lone voice. Twenty-three officers were against it, while 15 were unsure. On the second question, of whether they would be willing to fight against the Bolsheviks, 8 officers thought not, 19 were doubtful, but 12 thought that a period of rest was essential before any further campaign was begun.17 Heye took their replies and reported to the Kaiser. An immediate armistice was essential, he said. ‘The troops remain loyal to His Majesty, but they are tired and indifferent and want nothing except rest and peace. At the present moment they would not march against Germany, even with Your Majesty at their head. They would not march against Bolshevism. They want one thing only – an armistice at the earliest possible moment.’18
Sometime around 1 p.m. the Kaiser finally agreed to abdicate from the imperial throne, but not as the King of Prussia; a constitutional nonsense, but one which salvaged some of his pride. He sent a short telegram to Berlin and told them that the Armistice Commission was now empowered to conclude an agreement with the Allies immediately. He offered to resign from the imperial throne, but would remain as King of Prussia with Hindenburg taking over as Supreme Commander. ‘The Army Commanders and the Supreme Command,’ he stated, ‘are of the opinion that the abdication of the German Kaiser and Supreme War Lord at this moment will provoke the gravest convulsions in the army, and they can therefore no longer assume responsibility for the Army holding together.’19 As the telegram was being drafted, the Kaiser and his staff had lunch, although, as the Crown Prince later noted, it was not a happy one.
That silent meal, in a bright, white room whose table was decked with flowers but surrounded only by bitter anguish and despairing grief, is among the most horrible of my recollections. Not one of us but masked his face, not one who did not make fitful attempts, for that half-hour, to hide his uneasiness and not to talk of the phantom that lurked behind him and could not for a single moment be forgotten. Every mouthful seemed to swell and threaten to choke the eater. The whole meal resembled some dismal funeral repast.20
If the Kaiser felt some pride in remaining stubborn to the end, in never giving in completely to his opponents, and ensuring that he would stay with his army, it was to be short-lived. Just after 2 p.m., as the Kaiser’s last supper was being cleared up, General von Plessen, the General-Adjutant, called His Majesty away. An urgent communiqué had been received from Berlin. The abdication of His Majesty both from the imperial throne and as the King of Prussia (as well as that of his son) had just been announced by Prince Max. Scheidemann had even proclaimed the republic from the Chancellery.
There was a moment of stunned, disbelieving silence, which soon gave way to panic and loud protests as the news got around. There had been some great mix-up, some foul play, some horrific accident, that meant the wrong information had got out. Furious telegrams and phone calls began issuing from Spa as the Kaiser and his staff desperately tried to clarify his position and ensure that the correct information was passed on. The Kaiser was not abdicating from the throne of Prussia, they stated, and he would remain with the Army. Groener, as unruffled as ever, pointed out that there was little they could do in this situation. They sent a formal protest, but the news could not be reined in, no one was listening any more. The Kaiser, now broken in heart and spirit, was then told that there were increasing concerns for his personal safety. There were fears that groups of soldiers were making their way to Spa and rumours that the troops defending him were shaky in their loyalty. Heavy-hearted, and now recognizing that there was no way out, the Kaiser agreed to enter exile in Holland. It was arranged that he would head for the border at five o’clock the following morning. As he was leaving, he bid farewell to Groener, curtly and angrily.
‘You are a Württemberg general; when I am no longer Kaiser, I will have nothing more to do with you.’21
The reign of the Hohenzollerns, once the most feared throne in Europe, had come to an end, not under a great wave of blood and revolution, but fitfully, in confusion, with a whimper.
As Foch had made clear, until the German delegation signed the Armistice, the war would go on, and so it did. For the British and French Armies in the north, progress was steady, but becoming ever more difficult. Wet weather made the roads difficult to pass and the extensive destruction left by the retreating German Army only added to the problems facing Haig and Pétain’s forces. Almost everywhere soldiers got used to the sight of lorries lying helplessly in deep shell holes or stacked up behind the lines unable to move along the sodden roads. Walter Guin
ness, a staff officer with 66th Division, noted with resigned fatalism the ‘downpours of rain’ they had on 6 November as they were getting ready to cross the Sambre. On one march to the front, with his uniform wet through and water pattering on his tin helmet, Guinness found ‘much difficulty in distinguishing between the shallow puddle and the shellholes four or five feet deep and it was quite impossible even to ride at more than a walk’. Getting food up to the front was a constant worry. The night before they had had to wait four hours at divisional HQ for a sober meal of bully beef and dried bread as the mess lorry had taken six hours to cover the six miles from their supply dump. ‘Everyone in the battle is soaked to the skin,’ he admitted, ‘which of course stops things even quicker than bullets.’22
The weather was a constant annoyance, but it was the extensive destruction which the Germans had meted out to French villages, roads and railway tracks in their efforts to impede their pursuers that slowed the Allies down more than anything. A report by the British First Army complained that: