II
THE SAME POINT can be made about the Second Reich’s general approach to mobile warfare. The existence of a specific “German way of war” remains a subject for debate. Robert M. Citino, the concept’s foremost advocate, describes its genesis in a Prussian state located in the center of Europe, ringed by potential enemies, lacking both natural boundaries and natural resources. Unable to fight and win a long war, Prussia had to develop a way to fight front-loaded conflicts: short, intense, and ending with a battlefield victory leaving the enemy sufficiently weakened and intimidated to forgo a second round.
The Western world has developed three intellectual approaches to war. The first is the scientific approach. The scientists interpret war as subject to abstract laws and principles. Systematically studied and properly applied, these principles enable anticipating the consequences of decisions, behaviors, even attitudes. The Soviet Union offers the best example of a military system built around the scientific approach. Marxism-Leninism, the USSR’s legitimating ideology, was a science. The Soviet state and Soviet society was organized on scientific principles. War making was also a science. The application of its objective principles by trained and skilled engineers was the best predictor of victory.
The second approach to war is the managerial approach. Managers understand war in terms of organization and administration. Military effectiveness depends on the rational mobilization and application of human and material resources. Battle does not exactly take care of itself, but its uncertainties are best addressed in managerial contexts. The United States has been the most distinguished and successful exemplar of managerial war. In part, this reflects the country’s underlying pragmatism: an ethic of getting on with the job. It also reflects a historical geography that, since the Revolution, has impelled America to export its conflicts—in turn making administration a sine qua non. As demonstrated by the disasters suffered by Harmar and St. Clair in the 1790s to the catastrophe of Task Force Smith in 1950 Korea, without effective management, successful fighting has been impossible.
The Germans developed a third approach: understanding war as an art form. Though requiring basic craft skills, war defied reduction to rules and principles. Its mastery demanded study and reflection, but depended ultimately on two virtually untranslatable concepts: Fingerspitzengefühl and Tuchfühling. The closest English equivalent is the more sterile phrase: “Situational awareness.” The German concept incorporates as well the sense of panache: the difference, in horsemen’s language, between a hunter and a hack, or in contemporary terms, the difference between a family sedan and a muscle car.
Prussia’s situation did not merely generate but required the tactical orientation of its mentality. This is in direct contrast to the United States, whose fundamental military problems since at least the Mexican War have been on the level of strategy and grand strategy: where to go and how to sustain the effort. The actual fighting has been a secondary concern, which is why so many of America’s first battles have been disasters. Prussia, on the other hand, was unlikely to recover from an initial defeat. This was the lesson and the legacy of Frederick the Great. Its reverse side was the sterility of victories won in vacuums: by the end of the Seven Years’ War, Prussia was on the point of conquering itself to death.
As a consequence, Prussian theorists, commanders, and policy makers were constrained to develop a second, higher level of warmaking: the operational level. “Operational art” is usually defined in general terms as the handling of large forces in the context of a theater of war. The Germans incorporated a specific mentality emphasizing speed and daring: a war of movement. This involved maneuvering to strike as hard a blow as possible, from a direction as unexpected as possible. It depended on, and in turn fostered, particular institutional characteristics: a flexible command system, high levels of aggressiveness, an officer corps with a common perspective on war making. “We must strive,” wrote military theorist Friedrich von Bernhardi in 1912, “to gain a victory as rapidly as possible at the decisive spot by concentration . . . and then take advantage of it with the utmost energy . . .”
As Citino emphasizes, the German way of war had nothing to do with miles per hour—in principle. Practice was another story, especially over the course of the nineteenth century. As industrialization and bureaucratization enabled increasing armies’ size, as technology facilitated their concentration in the theater of war, the new German Empire kept pace. In 1914 its armies took the field without a hitch. At the other end of the military spectrum, Germany boasted Europe’s best-trained infantry and its most effective artillery. What it lacked was the mobility necessary to complete strategic movements like the great sweep through Belgium, and to develop the tactical victories won on the battlefield.
That limitation was more than a consequence of the dominance of firepower and the undeveloped use of internal- combustion engines. It involved a gap in the German way of war: neglect of operational mobility. Like its counterparts, nineteenth-century Prussian cavalry had been essentially a tactical instrument. In the Wars of Liberation, it had been deployed by regiments and brigades. In the Wars of Unification, 1866 and 1870, larger formations had been only organized on mobilization. Despite demonstrating all the disadvantages of improvisation, this remained unchanged in 1914.
The German cavalry division of 1914 was a potentially effective combined-arms team. Its six regiments, 4,500 troopers, had twelve field pieces and a half dozen mobile machine guns as organic fire support. They depended on horses but were by no means helpless on foot. Regiments were extensively trained in marksmanship and skirmishing. Officers did not ignore the potential of dismounted fire action. The division had its own bridging train, and even a radio detachment. Most divisions either had attached or could call on a battalion or two of Jäger. These elite light infantry formations included a cyclist company, a machine-gun company, and a small motor transport column whose ten trucks could be used to shuttle infantry forward, much like the truck companies attached to US infantry divisions in World War II.
Could firepower and mobility compensate for a lack of endurance? The question was never addressed. Alfred von Schlieffen, author of the great offensive plan implemented in 1914, had insisted on strong cavalry forces on the flanks. Instead, half the cavalry of Germany’s active army was directly assigned to infantry divisions. Of the ten cavalry divisions deployed on the Western Front in 1914, five were deployed to cover the advance in such unlikely cavalry country as the Vosges and the Ardennes. One need not assume that German cavalry that was utilized as an early version of the Soviet operational maneuver group would have somehow averted stagnation. The high force-to-space ratios of the Western Front, combined with the overwhelming superiority of firepower over mobility, and protection, would, in all probability, have ended in something approximating the race to the sea and the development of trench warfare no matter what the Kaiser’s horsemen did or did not do. What is significant is the cavalry’s acceptance of its limitations. Comprehensively rethinking the use of existing organizations to improve flexibility and maximize striking power proved to be beyond the collective imagination of the cavalry as well as the high command.
The German cavalry went to war in 1914 all too conscious of its fragility. Apart from the effects of long-range, rapid- fire weapons, devastatingly demonstrated in the Wars of Unification, the cavalry’s self-image was of a specialized arm, demanding a spectrum of skills that required an extra, third year of service from peacetime conscripts. It was an equal shibboleth in the mounted arm that effective cavalry could not be improvised, and therefore the existing force must be carefully husbanded—not kept in the “bandbox” Lord Raglan proposed for British cavalry during the Crimean War, but in no way expendable like common infantrymen. Between 1871 and 1914, cavalry doctrine focused on reconnaissance and screening. These missions offered a chance to salvage the mythology of the arme blanche, albeit on a reduced scale. Charges en masse might be obsolete. German horsemen focused instead on the charge en petite: r
iding at the enemy in traditional style but at troop and squadron strength.
As early as 1905, automobile engineer Paul Daimler demonstrated a surprisingly advanced prototype armored car at the autumn maneuvers. It was dismissed as lacking practical utility. A couple of improvised armored trucks were attached to each cavalry division and used for fire support. Equally improvised detachments of machine-gun crews and riflemen in commandeered civilian cars did useful service occupying bridges and road junctions in advance of the horsemen. In 1915 the General Staff developed specifications for a purpose-built armored car. The resulting models carried two or three machine guns and were well armored for the time. One later model even had a radio. The cars also possessed rear steering positions, enabling them to reverse out of tight spots. That last was a useful quality, given the bulky shapes and high weights that rendered them visible on roads and limited their cross-country mobility to a point near zero.
In the war’s first year, both fronts saw their share of what an earlier generation of horse soldiers called “hussar tricks” of low-level derring do. In Poland, cavalry played an important role in the breakout from Lodz in November 1914 and division-strength raids periodically disrupted Russian communications and Russian equilibrium. The limited Russian road network, however, inhibited the use of the cavalry beyond the hit-and-run level. German generals also increasingly used their mounted troops to plug gaps in what was never a continuous front. Men and mounts alike were worn down for marginal advantages. In the West, beginning in 1915, the Germans cold-bloodedly reorganized their cavalry divisions as semi-mobile infantry or dismounted them altogether.
The fledgling air arm benefited disproportionately from these policies. The future Red Baron, Manfred von Richthofen, was not the only disgruntled troop officer who grumbled that he “had not gone to war to collect cheese and eggs,” and took to the skies instead. But when the German army mounted its final great offensive in March-April 1918, the limits of its infantry-artillery base grew increasingly obvious. The Germans could not develop their initial advantage in the war’s decisive theater. They could break into Allied defenses, and they could break through them. They could not break out.
In one sense Ludendorff ’s often-derided concept of “punch a hole and see what develops” resembles Erich von Falkenhayn’s concept for the 1916 attack on Verdun. Both were ultimately focused on the level of policy: Do so much damage that France in one case, and the Allies in the other, would be impelled to negotiate. When the coalition withstood the shock at policy levels, translating tactical victory to the operational level became decisive. It was not only that Germany lacked the force structure to make even a token effort. From Ludendorff down, no one with serious authority had a paradigm, a template, for making that transition. The oft-cited absence of a decisive operational/strategic focus for the offensive reflected two years of learning how to wipe out Allied gains by devastatingly successful local counterattacks whose decisive points were usually obvious. The vaunted storm troopers eventually first exhausted their bag of tactical tricks, and then exhausted themselves. The specially prepared “attack divisions” were bled white as Allied railroads and trucks reinforced critical sectors before the Germans could advance through them on foot. The result was stalemate, leading to exactly the kind of drawn-out fighting retreat that German planners and thinkers had predicted meant catastrophe, and then to final visions of an apocalyptic last stand in the Reich itself.
There were exceptions. Small detachments of armored cars served in Russia and Romania. One AFV (amored fighting vehicle, the general name and abbreviation for any form of battlefield armor) even found its way to Palestine, where it engaged in a brief firefight with two of its British counterparts before being abandoned by its crew. An improvised “assault group” formed around an infantry battalion that was riding requisitioned supply trucks bounced Romania’s Iron Gates in 1916 and held off a division until relieved. A cyclist brigade played a key part in the rapid overrunning of Russia’s Baltic Islands in 1917. The postwar Freikorps that fought in the Baltic used armored cars as assault vehicles against the Bolsheviks and, on one occasion, combined them with a truck-mounted rifle battalion in a counterattack. It was, however, General Hans von Seeckt who moved the German army from Sitz to Blitz.
III
AN ARISTOCRAT AND a Prussian Guardsman, General Hans von Seeckt fit none of the stereotypes associated with either. Educated at a civilian Gymnasium rather than a cadet school, he had traveled widely in Europe, visited India and Egypt, and was well read in contemporary English literature. During the war he had established a reputation as one of the army’s most brilliant staff officers. Having made most of that reputation on the Eastern Front, he was untarnished by the collapse of the Western Front, and a logical successor to national hero Paul von Hindenburg as Chief of the General Staff in the summer of 1918. In March 1920 he became head of the army high command in the newly established Weimar Republic.
Seeckt disliked slogans; he disliked nostalgia; he rejected the argument, widespread among veterans, that the “front experience,” with its emphasis on egalitarian comradeship and heroic vitalism that was celebrated by author-veterans like Ernst Jünger and Kurt Hesse, should shape the emerging Reichswehr. Instead he called for a return to the principle of pursuing quick, decisive victories. That in turn meant challenging the concept of mass that had permeated military thinking since the Napoleonic Wars. Mass, Seeckt argued, “becomes immobile. It cannot win victories. It can only crush by sheer weight.”
Seeckt’s critique in part involved making the best of necessity. The Treaty of Versailles had specified the structure of the Reichswehr in detail: a force of 100,000, with enlisted men committed to twelve years of service and officers to twenty-five. It was forbidden tanks, aircraft, and any artillery above three inches in caliber. As a final presumed nail in the coffin of German aggression, the Reichswehr’s organization was fixed at seven infantry and three cavalry divisions: a throwback to the days of Frederick the Great. Whatever might have been the theoretical hopes that the newly configured Reichswehr would be the first step in general European disarmament—when, presumably, the extra cavalry would give tone to holiday parades—Germany’s actual military position in the west was hopeless in any conventional context. In the East, against Poland and Czechoslovakia, some prospects existed of at least buying time for the diplomats to seek a miracle. Seeckt’s Reichswehr, however, faced at least a double, arguably a triple, bind. It could not afford to challenge the Versailles Treaty openly. It badly needed force multipliers. But to seek those multipliers by supporting clandestine paramilitary organizations depending on politicized zeal was to risk destabilizing a state that, though unsatisfactory in principle, was Germany’s best chance to avoid collapsing into permanent civil war.
Seeckt’s response was to develop an army capable of “fighting outnumbered and winning.” Among the most common misinterpretations of his work is that it was intended to provide cadres for a future national mobilization. Almost from the beginning the Reichswehr developed plans for eventual expansion. These plans, however, were based on enlarging and enhancing the existing force, not submerging it in an army prepared to fight the Great War over again. The manuals issued in the early 1920s, in particular the 1921 field service regulations titled Fuehrung und Gefecht der Verbundeten Waffen (Leadership and Employment of Combined Arms) emphasized the importance of the offensive. The Reichswehr, Seeckt insisted, must dictate the conditions of battle by taking the initiative. It was on the offensive that the superiority of troops and commanders achieved the greatest relative effect. The leader’s responsibility was above all to maintain pace and tempo. He must make decisions with minimal information. Boldness was his first rule; flexibility his second. Doctrine and training alike emphasized encounter battles: two forces meeting unexpectedly and engaging in what amounted to a melee—a melee in which training and flexibility had a chance to compensate for numerical and material inferiority. Even large-scale attacks were envisaged as a
series of local combats involving companies, squads and platoons finding weak spots, creating opportunities, cooperating ad hoc to exploit success.
General-audience writings like Friedrich von Taysen’s 1921 essay on mobile war also stressed what was rapidly becoming a new—or rediscovered—orthodoxy. Machines, Taysen declared, were useless unless animated by human energy and will, when they could contribute to the rapid flanking and enveloping maneuvers that alone promised decision in war. Two years later he restated the importance of fighting spirit and warned against allowing infantry to become addicted to armor support.
Taysen’s soaring perorations on “Germanic limitlessness” and “living will” were a far cry from Seeckt’s practical approach. They nevertheless shared a common subtext: the centrality of mobility in both the figurative and the literal senses. The Reichswehr had to be able to think faster and move faster than its enemies at every stage and in every phase. Paradoxically, the banning of cutting-edge technology facilitated cultivating those qualities by removing the temptations of materially focused faddism. Elsewhere in Europe, J. F. C. Fuller and B. H. Liddell-Hart depicted fully mechanized armies with no more regard for terrain than warships had for the oceans they traversed. Giulio Douhet and Hugh Trenchard predicted future wars decided by fleets of bombers. French generals prepared for the “managed battle” structured by firepower and controlled by radio. The Red Army shifted from an initial emphasis on proletarian morale to a focus on synergy between mechanization and mass as ideologically appropriate for a revolutionary state.
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