The church register revealed an impressive list of high-status guests: Queen Victoria had visited in 1888, as had her eldest child, also named Victoria, the German Crown Princess; their signatures so similar, Williams reflected, that they might have been written by the same hand. Edward and Alexandra had signed the book, as had their son, Albert, and in 1913, during the last royal visit to Germany, King George and Queen Mary had stopped by. But perhaps most interesting of all was the name of the Kaiser himself, signed not as ‘Wilhelm’ but ‘William’ in recognition of his maternal heritage. The Kaiser had visited St George’s in 1904 as an honoured guest at the wedding of the British ambassador’s daughter. Yet, while the Kaiser’s English spelling was diplomatic, thoughtful even, to have assumed that his action was modest would have been wide of the mark, for his signature was made with a truly magnificent flourish, filling the entire page.
Ten years later, Anglo-German fraternity was about to be torn apart. The political skies over Europe had darkened rapidly after the assassination of the heir to the Austro-Hungarian throne. During a visit by the Archduke Franz Ferdinand and his wife, Sophia, to the Serbian capital Sarajevo in June 1914, a young Serbian nationalist had shot them both dead. One diplomatic crisis followed another as what at first seemed to be a local crisis in the ever-turbulent Balkans had instead spread the contagion of war across a continent. The European system of political alliances and military guarantees was awoken. In the event of war, Berlin would back Vienna in its dispute with Serbia. In response, Serbia would look to Moscow for support, and Moscow, in turn, would look to Paris; Paris looked towards London. On the afternoon of 23 July, the Austro-Hungarian Empire handed a ten-point ultimatum to Serbia. In effect, the Serbs were being ordered to cede sovereignty. They had forty-eight hours to reply or there would be war, with the implicit threat of invasion.
The Reverend Williams read the newspapers and fretted over the prospect of conflict. ‘From week to week I had watched the threatening storm approaching without believing that it could ever burst.’ The Kaiser had left for his summer cruise in Norwegian waters and, while he was there, thought Williams, ‘What need to worry?’ But the Kaiser was breaking off his cruise and returning to Berlin. That Sunday, as Williams made his way home, he could literally hear the drums of war.
I had reached the Palace-bridge [when] I heard the distant sound of a band approaching, and stopped to see it pass. Borne aloft at its head was the eagle surmounted with its waving plumes and tinkling bells that always preceded the goose-stepping guards as they marched down the Unter den Linden on their way to the Palace, according to custom. But on this particular Sunday it was not the usual jaunty regimental march that was being played but the Deutschland Deutschland über Alles, and that could have only one meaning, things were getting definitely serious – War, of which we had so often heard rumours, but which had always seemed so utterly incredible, might be really coming at last!
It was coming, and it was coming fast. Two days later, the Austro-Hungarians declared war on Serbia, and their forces immediately invaded the country. It was only a matter of time before Russia would enter on the side of its old ally.
The Kaiser arrived back in Berlin via Kiel and Potsdam and went straight to the palace. At the same time, the Reverend Williams walked once more to the city centre to see what was happening. The public excitement was extraordinary, and then he saw the Kaiser.
As his car drove up the Unter den Linden towards the palace, the crowd was so dense that it was forced to go slowly, and I found myself pushed so close to it as it passed that I could have touched its royal occupant. I noticed that he was wearing a brass curassier’s helmet that covered the back of his neck as well as his forehead. His face looked bloodless and yellow, while his eyes stared fixedly ahead with a hard, almost fierce expression . . .
That evening, Williams returned yet again; the public clamour for war was almost tangible. ‘I found Berlin gone mad,’ he wrote.
Inside the Brandenburger Tor I got caught in a dense, shouting mob that was pressing forward. Groups of young men arm-in-arm yelling ‘Deutschland, Deutschland über Alles’, were eddying in the current of the tide of surging humanity that swept slowly forward carrying me with it. Somewhere near the corner of the Friedrichstrasse I saw a large printed placard bearing the fateful words ‘ultimatum an Russland – Frage an Frankreich’. Now I knew what was urging the crowd to frenzy. The Day had come at last! When eventually I reached the Palace-bridge at the end of the Linden, the crowd was so solidly packed as to make any further progress impossible - it was about ten o’clock that a sudden roar of voices away ahead told me what I could scarcely see, that the Kaiser had appeared on the palace balcony. Though his words can scarcely have been audible in the prevailing din, he was believed to have said, ‘Tonight our beloved Fatherland stands on the verge of war. I bid you all go home and say your prayers. God with us!’ . . . ‘Deutschland!’ yelled the young men again and again, ‘Deutschland über Alles!’ screamed the crowd.
It was then that there came to me one of the strangest sensations of a lifetime – I seemed to be aware of a dark winged form hovering over that vast, frenzied crowd that filled the broad thoroughfare of the Unter den Linden from end to end and the thought came to me, ‘How many of them will death not have claimed before this war that they are now hailing so jubilantly, and vociferously, is over?’ And as I walked my two-mile way home, past open-doored restaurants and beer-houses filled to capacity, where everyone was frantically applauding the gesticulating speaker of the moment, I felt strangely depressed and lonely. For had not I alone, as it seemed, perceived the ghostly presence of the Angel of Death, watching and waiting as he brooded that night over a bawling multitude of the doomed and blinded in Germany’s capital, and heard the rustle of his wings.
Two hundred and sixty miles away, in the city of Cologne, Harry Miles was staying as a guest of the Hahn family. This city, renowned in Germany for its liberalism and friendliness, was in just as much of a frenzy as the capital. On 29 July, Harry wrote to his father in England describing the developing crisis, how a continent teetered on the edge of a war the like of which had ‘never been known and the result of which is too dreadful to contemplate’.
Those people here who want war are trusting that England will remain ‘neutral’ and leave Germany to wreak havoc as she surely will do if Russia intervenes . . . and those who are for peace are hoping that England will with that characteristic calmness yet iron firmness, demand the peace of Europe . . .
The last few evenings have been very exciting in the town. Crowds gathered round the newspaper offices eagerly awaiting telegrams from Sir Edward Grey and others – processions form with flags and parade the streets singing patriotic songs – the orchestras in the cafés strike up the Fatherland’s anthem and the usual pandemonium follows. I’m sorry if I have bored you only you see all this has been intensely interesting to me here, on the spot, as it were.
Today Karl [Hahn], the son who has been doing soldier’s training, has returned – though we didn’t expect they’d let him owing to the ‘trouble’. He says there were great scenes in the Barracks when the news came through. He is rather wondering how long he will remain at home!!
Three days later, on Saturday 1 August, Harry Miles quickly scribbled a card to his father.
Dear dad
. . . am writing in the most extraordinary of all circumstances – such scenes as are passing are indescribable. Germany has mobilized. The official statements having arrived this evening! This has of course snapped the tendon which has held all Germany for the past few days. It is a sad thing this war declaration – every family here is affected and everything is very sad . . . but!
Most Germans welcomed war, according to British observers, but then those in favour were naturally more likely to fill the streets than the depressed and saddened. It was no different in Britain. The Times reported that holidaymakers had been attracted to London by the overwhelming ‘desire to be present in the capital
in this moment of grave crisis. They were eager for news and impatient to learn what part England was to play. Miniature Union Jacks and Tricolors were sold in the streets, and quickly bought . . . The demonstration of patriotism and loyalty became almost ecstatic . . .’
All along Pall Mall and in front of Buckingham Palace, surging crowds awaited the appearance of the monarchy. It was Tuesday 4 August, the day Britain declared war on Germany. ‘Rule, Britannia!’ was sung and ‘God Save the King’ and even ‘the Marseillaise’, and that was before Britain had even shown her hand.
‘One hears on every side “We must stand by France” [in the event of war]. There seems little doubt that we shall go to war and no doubt that if we do we shall win,’ reported the social observer and author Dorothy Peel. ‘But still we hope that peace may be preserved. The statement “It will all be over in three months” seizes upon the imagination of the people, but no one appears to know why three months is the exact time which it will take to vanquish Germany.’
This war, long expected, had arrived and it was as if an emotional dam had burst across Europe. ‘One could not stay in the house . . . there was a feeling as of an inner smouldering which at moments bursts out into intense excitement,’ wrote a woman in London. In Münster, another English woman, known only as Miss Waring, recalled the astonishing emotion there, too. The town was ‘packed full of soldiers and soldiers’ families for the Mass of farewell’, she wrote. ‘At the end they sang the German Te Deum, “Grosser Gott, wir loben Dich!” It was thrilling at any time, but under the circumstances it bowled me over completely.’
Displays of intense national unity made foreigners feel isolated and vulnerable. Miss Waring returned to her home in Freiburg where at 5 p.m. a notice was pinned up: ‘All English subjects must leave Freiburg at once’. Being British would, it might be assumed, be reason enough for the Germans to reach for lock and key, especially if the individual were young and male. As a priest, the Reverend Henry Williams would not have feared internment, as others did, but he was less certain about what might happen to his beloved English church.
I had given notice that a special service of intercession would be held the following morning and went to the church, which was 2½ miles from my flat in Charlottenburg, prepared for the worst. What, then, was my surprise when the verger told me that less than half-an-hour before my arrival an officer had come from the Palace with a personal message from the Emperor. It was that the church was to remain open and its services to be continued as usual, and that if any help were required it would be forthcoming. This good news was as unexpected as it was encouraging, and was in striking contrast to another action which, I was told, His Imperial Majesty took at about the same time, and not improbably by the same intermediary. It was to deliver at the British Embassy a badly packed brown paper parcel containing all his British decorations and insignia, with a message that while he had hitherto felt honoured to possess them he had now no further use for them.
Why did the Emperor show such extraordinary solicitude on behalf of the English church, of which he was never at any time a member? I can only credit one reason which I believe to be true, namely, that his mother on her death-bed extracted from him the promise that he would always protect her beloved church, and he kept his word.
Williams remained at liberty. The relative freedom afforded to a priest allowed him to use his influence to help British people stranded in Germany in the days and weeks ahead, as well as visiting the burgeoning community of British prisoners of war held in camps across Germany.
One Englishman looking to leave Berlin as quickly as possible was a fifty-one-year-old language teacher from Cheltenham, Henry Hadley. A former army officer in the West India Regiment, he took his cue to go on the outbreak of hostilities between Russia and Germany. Deciding to catch a train to Paris, he quickly sorted out his affairs in the German capital and then, the next day, returned to his rented apartment and packed his bags, leaving early the following morning.
Even in the febrile atmosphere of the time, a middle-aged English gentleman travelling through Germany should have been safe. Accompanied by his housekeeper, Mrs Elizabeth Pratley, he took a train from Friedrichstrasse station at 11 a.m. A German declaration of war on France was expected imminently and great crowds of German mobilised soldiers were being waved off by their families. Henry Hadley and his housekeeper were no doubt fortunate to find seats among such a throng of infantrymen.
The train left Berlin for Cologne. Here, Henry would pick up a connection for the French capital. The journey had been so far uneventful when, as the train neared Gelsenkirchen, Henry and Elizabeth went to the restaurant car. The service was slow. Henry became agitated, then angry with a waiter and a heated exchange took place in front of some dining German officers. Henry and his housekeeper abandoned lunch and the restaurant car to return to their seats. Then, shortly afterwards, he left the carriage once more, telling Mrs Pratley to look after the luggage; he would not be long.
In Schwalbach, Hilda Pickard-Cambridge was also trying to get home but her travel arrangements were complicated. She had arrived in Germany with her husband in early July and was enjoying some rest at the spa town while he dealt with business elsewhere. Hilda had noted the feeling of unrest at the end of July; there were rumours that ammunition was arriving at the railway station, and posters appeared on the trees alerting locals to the grave state of affairs between Austria and Serbia. ‘During Saturday, 1st August, I saw consternation on every face, and in the evening after dinner, I saw a large red placard being posted up outside the Landrat’s office. I ran towards it, and read that Russia had declared war on Germany, and that mobilisation was to begin in the morning.’ Hilda was in a quandary. Within hours she received an urgent telegram from her husband. Rather than attempt to leave, she was to stay put and he would come for her.
It was very difficult to know what it was best to do. I packed everything that morning, and was ready to start at a moment’s notice . . . There was confusion everywhere. From every hotel the visitors were rushing to the station. All the cabs in Schwalbach were tearing backwards and forwards, to and from the railway. Groups of people were standing in the street, with their hand luggage, shouting to the carriages to come back.
Hilda’s instinct was to leave but she had been told to remain where she was. The hotel, which had that morning entertained French, Americans, Dutch and Russians, was all but deserted by lunchtime; only two small parties were left. One was an American family ‘half beside themselves, because they could not get petrol for their motor-car’. They were gone the moment they heard petrol was available in Wiesbaden. The other party consisted of an ‘utterly wretched and frightened’ French family which left on finding they could get a train that evening to Basle. Hilda Pickard-Cambridge was now on her own. That evening she stood outside her hotel hoping her husband might arrive. He never did. The journey had proved impossible.
Next morning Hilda was woken early by the noise of horses’ hooves, passing incessantly. Lines of horses were being brought along each road into town to be sold to the army. Once purchased, they were harnessed in threes and led away for war service. ‘It was extraordinary to see every avenue and open space entirely full of horses, instead of visitors sipping waters,’ she wrote.
As Hilda waited in Schwalbach, Henry Hadley and his housekeeper were well on their way home and not far from either the Dutch or Belgian border. Their train, though, had stopped at Gelsenkirchen. After the altercation in the dining car, they had returned to their carriage but Henry had ventured into the corridor while the train was stationary. After about a minute, Elizabeth heard loud noises followed by sounds of a scuffle. She rushed outside to find Henry lying on the floor. ‘They have shot me, Mrs Pratley, I am a done man,’ he gasped. A German officer, later identified as Lieutenant Nicolay, had fired his revolver at point-blank range, hitting Henry in the stomach. The Germans then turned on Mrs Pratley.
Several men took hold of me and shouted, ‘This your man, this you
r man?’ I screamed with fright. Two policemen rushed in and took me out of the train into some room close by. A military officer came behind. They went back and fetched Mr Hadley into the same room and laid him on a stretcher. They telephoned for a doctor. After they had looked at some papers Mr Hadley had in his pockets, they took him to the [Gelsenkirchen] hospital in an ambulance. I also accompanied him there. Mr Hadley was very anxious for me to stay with him there but they would not let me.
Elizabeth Pratley would not see her employer again. She was taken away for questioning while he clung on to life for another twenty-four hours. At 3.15 a.m. German time, on 5 August 1914, just hours after Britain’s entry into the Great War, Henry Hadley died. He was the first British casualty of the Great War and the first person killed as a direct result of enemy action.
In London, the government heard of Hadley’s death and an explanation was demanded. Through intermediaries, the Germans rebutted all claims of foul play: the assailant, Lieutenant Nicolay, maintained that Hadley had been acting suspiciously. When asked, Hadley had been vague about his travel arrangements, he had been insulting to German officers on the train, and, when confronted, he was aggressive, raising a stick to Lieutenant Nicolay. Finally, although repeatedly told to raise his hands in surrender, Hadley refused to do so and reacted as if he was about to pull out a weapon. Even as Hadley was being removed from the train, he had ‘resisted with all his might’. Lieutenant Nicolay was exonerated of all blame by the Germans and was subsequently promoted to captain. The British government considered the shooting nothing less than murder.
Meeting the Enemy Page 2
