The imbalance, the loss of faith in their striking force of heavy bombers, wild exaggerations of Luftwaffe strength, and the deleterious implications of rationing on the service which most needed reequipment crippled RAF morale. It seemed at its lowest point in 1938, urged there by the most famous aviator of his time. Colonel Charles Lindbergh’s impact had first begun to be felt in early 1936; he had just left Germany and was reappearing in London at the invitation of U.S. ambassador Joseph Kennedy, who squired him around as he shared his views with Chamberlain, his cabinet, Fleet Street, and virtually every other Briton who possessed power and made decisions. Göring, General Ernst Udet, and the rest of the Luftwaffe hierarchy had done a job on the Lone Eagle, but there had been more to it than that. Like many other visitors to Berlin, he and his wife had been impressed by the energy and self-confidence of the Führer and his people. She wrote: “There is no question of the power, unity, and purposefulness of Germany. It is terrific.” Nothing they learned in subsequent visits to the Reich caused them to change that opinion. In April 1938 Lindbergh wrote in his diary: “England seems hopelessly behind in military strength in comparison to Germany” and “the assets in English character lie in confidence rather than ability; tenacity rather than strength; and determination rather than intelligence…. It is necessary to realize that England is a country composed of a great mass of slow, somewhat stupid and indifferent people, and a small group of geniuses.”173
At the American embassy in September he told a select group of Englishmen, presumably those he would include among the geniuses (Kennedy had not invited Churchill), that they couldn’t “realize the change aviation has made” and that “this is the beginning of the end of England as a great power.” He thought that “German air strength is greater than that of all other European countries combined” and that “she is constantly increasing her margin of leadership.” England and France, he believed, “are far too weak in the air to protect themselves…. It seems to me essential to avoid a general European war in the near future. I believe that a war now might easily result in the loss of European civilization.”174
At Cliveden, where Lindbergh was guest of honor, Thomas Jones and Lord Astor said it was “necessary for England to fight if Germany moves into Czechoslovakia.” The others, led by Nancy, shouted them down. Later Jones wrote that after reflecting upon what Lindbergh had said, “I’ve sided with those working for peace at any price in humiliation, because of the picture of our relative unpreparedness in the air and on the ground which Lindbergh painted, and because of his belief that the democracies would be crushed absolutely and finally.”175
After Roosevelt had publicly branded him “defeatist,” Lindbergh’s prestige began to shrink, and when Wilhelmstrasse documents became available to historians during the war crimes trials at Nuremberg, his prewar evaluation of Nazi air strength was discredited. It is a measure of Lindbergh’s prewar renown, however, that Roosevelt found it necessary to take such a step. In 1938 he was at his peak. A. L. Rowse recalls: “Great play in those days, I remember, was made of Lindbergh, treated as omniscient in air matters…. Dawson quoted Lindbergh to me: he was made much of by the Cliveden set.” As Sheila Grant Duff reported to Churchill from central Europe, Lindbergh buttressed the German conviction that England “would be neutral if they attacked Czechoslovakia.” On October 18, 1938, three weeks after the Munich Agreement, Hitler would decorate the American aviator with the highest award Germany could confer upon an Ausländer—the Service Cross of the German Eagle with Star—accompanied by a citation declaring that he “deserved well of the Reich.” The Lone Eagle had earned his Nazi medal.176
On Friday, May 6, when America’s 1938 recession touched bottom and Churchill found his wallet empty, Lord Rothermere told readers of his Daily Mail that “Czechoslovakia is not of the slightest concern to us. If France likes to burn her fingers there, that is a matter for France.” Bonnet, who was prone to nausea, read it over breakfast and became ill. On Saturday, May 7, French and British diplomats in Prague presented a formal demarche to Foreign Minister Krofta. Hitler already knew the gist of it; four days earlier Halifax had told the new German ambassador to the Court of St. James’s, Herbert von Dirksen, that the demarche would “aim at inducing Beneš to show the utmost measure of accommodation to the Sudeten Germans.” (The foreign secretary had not extended the same courtesy to Czechoslovakia’s Ambassador Masaryk.) The Czechs were asked to make a “supreme effort” to go to “the utmost limit” to meet the Henlein demands of April 24, with the hope of reaching a “comprehensive and lasting settlement” with the Sudetendeutsche. Dirksen reported to the Wilhelmstrasse that Chamberlain and his government regarded the possibility of military action “doubtful,” though the French, more optimistic, were ready to march.177
Henderson gave the Germans his personal view: “France is acting for the Czechs and Germany for the Sudeten Germans. Britain is supporting Germany.” He “urgently hoped” that the Führer would “not refuse some kind of cooperation with Britain in this matter, which might then, perhaps, lead to cooperation in other matters also.” Ribbentrop quickly replied that after this question was solved, the Reich would be “durchtränkt”—saturated.178
Any doubts about HMG’s position were resolved by the prime minister. Lady Astor had given Chamberlain a luncheon on May 10; his fellow guests were American and Canadian foreign correspondents. The P.M. was accustomed to the deference of British newspapermen. He also put some of his remarks on the record and some off, a dangerous format, vulnerable to misunderstandings. On May 14 the Montreal Star and the New York Times broke the story, the Star reporting, “Nothing seems clearer than that the British do not expect to fight for Czechoslovakia…. That being so, then the Czechs must accede to the German demands, if reasonable.” The New York Times man, formerly a diplomatic correspondent for The Times, went further: “Mr. Chamberlain today… certainly favors a more drastic measure—namely, separation of the German districts from the body of the Czechoslovak Republic and the annexation of them to Germany.”179
The British press picked the story up. In less than a week the German embassy learned that the articles had been based on the P.M.’s remarks at Nancy Astor’s luncheon. Dirksen advised Berlin that Chamberlain would approve of the Sudetenland’s secession from Czechoslovakia, provided the wishes of the people were determined in a plebiscite “not interrupted by forcible measures on the part of Germany.”
Hitler had hesitated to threaten Czechoslovakia. The Anschluss, he knew, had been much simpler. Austria had lacked allies and a strong military presence; nor did she have a defensive position which, if forfeited, would undermine Anglo-French security. Because the Czechs had all these, deliberate provocation of a crisis would risk a general European war or a humiliating withdrawal. Everything would depend on speed. He needed a fait accompli, before sympathy for the underdog mounted in the democracies, where public opinion counted, and the Russians seized the opportunity to become a European power through intervention. Hitler had wanted reassurance before he took such risks. And now he had it—from Britain.
Although Chamberlain had eased Hitler’s doubts, the Führer had a backup plan. Colonel Malcolm Grahame Christie was an enigmatic figure similar to those found in Eric Ambler novels and Alfred Hitchcock films of the time. Educated in Germany and trained as an engineer, he had been a British fighter pilot in the last war and, afterward, an embassy attaché in Washington and Berlin, where he had become a friend of Göring. In 1930 he had retired from the RAF, ostensibly to become a businessman whose work required frequent trips to Germany. Actually, he was an intelligence officer gathering data on the Luftwaffe and the Reich’s military plans. Vansittart—kicked upstairs, but still serving the FO in an advisory role—was his control. When Van received a message from Henlein, asking for an interview, he asked Christie to make arrangements for him to visit London and return. If shown British resolve, Van reasoned, the Sudeten Germans might think twice before flouting Prague again. He seems not to have c
onsidered the possibility that Henlein, an ardent Nazi, might be acting on orders from Berlin.180
He was. On May 12, exactly two months after the Anschluss, he had stopped at Berlin on his way west, was admitted to the Foreign Ministry through a seldom-used door, and was ushered into the office of Baron von Weizsäcker, Ribbentrop’s under secretary, for his final instructions. Most important, said Weizsäcker, would be British questions suggesting, or assuming, that he had been briefed by anyone in the government of the Third Reich, such as, say, Weizsäcker. Great weight was attached to his meeting with Churchill. The Führer believed that either Churchill or Eden would head the next government in England. Lastly, and this was a matter of judgment, he was expected to determine the temper of the men now in office. Were they as weak and incompetent as they seemed? Or was it all a trap? The Führer, himself a builder of traps, often thought he saw them in other countries, always with himself as their purported victim.181
Van minuted for the FO record afterward that as “it was impossible for members of the Government to see Herr Henlein lest some sort of negotiations be suspected, it was necessary to arrange that Herr Henlein should see not only myself but some persons of consequence in the House of Commons.” Here Churchill was indispensable. The visitor wanted to sample British opinion; a meeting with Winston might persuade him that the British lion could still roar. Churchill, told of the plan, agreed to give Henlein a lunch at Morpeth Mansions. “His visit is being kept a secret,” Winston wrote Archibald Sinclair. “His wish to come to London to see Van and a few others is a hopeful sign.” The other guests were Sinclair, Christie, and the Prof, who served as interpreter and took notes.182
Henlein’s theatrical talents were effective. They listened gravely, nodding in approval as he told them the excessive demands in his Karlsbad speech were not to be taken seriously; they were “bargaining points” from which he was “prepared to recede.” He felt he was entitled to embrace the Nazi ideology but not “to impose it on others.” Questioned over whether he might be used as a pawn in Hitler’s Drang nach Osten, he swore on his word of honor that he had never received orders, or even “recommendations” (“Weisungen”), from Berlin. Asked whether he had claimed a veto power in Czechoslovakia’s foreign policy, he vigorously denied it. Churchill wondered whether he realized that an incident in the Sudetenland “might easily set Europe alight”—that “if Germany marched,” for example, “France would come in and England would follow.”
Henlein replied that he had known that from the outset and had, in fact, avoided incitements, even when he “believed he was in the right.” Looking ahead, he saw three paths: “Autonomy within the Czech State,” a plebiscite which would probably lead to an Anschluss, and war. His followers, who were “impatient,” preferred an Anschluss. If Prague ignored their appeals, they would ask Europe’s great powers for a plebiscite “under international supervision.”183
Police, railway, and postal workers in the Sudetenland would be required to speak German and the Sudeten Germans would be entitled to their own town and county governments, but “the frontier fortresses could be manned by Czech troops, who would, of course, have unhindered access thereto.” As he left—not for his homeland, as his hosts assumed, but for Berchtesgaden, where he would report to Hitler—one of the others called out: “We hope you’re not another Seyss-Inquart!” Over his shoulder he called back: “No chance of that!” Churchill immediately laid Henlein’s terms before Jan Masaryk, who, as Winston later noted in his memoirs, “professed himself contented with a settlement on these lines.” On May 16, three days after his luncheon for Henlein, Churchill told an audience in Bristol that he saw “no reason why the Sudetendeutsche should not become trusted and honored partners in what is, after all, the most progressive and democratic of the new States of Europe.”184
Weizsäcker’s coaching of Henlein—exploiting Britain’s traditional championing of fair play—had been brilliant. The issue in Czechoslovakia had previously been depicted simply, as an unequal struggle in which the huge Reich was intimidating a plucky but outgunned neighbor. Now there was concern over a minority whose rights were being ignored or trammeled by insensitive Prague. In the Berghof, Henlein told Hitler that “no serious intervention in favor of the Czechs was to be feared from England or probably from France.”185
The lunch in Morpeth Mansions had been on Friday, May 13, and Churchill had spoken in support of Henlein on the following Monday. Now, on Wednesday, a Leipzig newspaper published an account of Wehrmacht assault divisions moving into position on the Czech frontier. Thursday the British consulate in Dresden reported that there was “strong reason to believe that German troops are concentrating in southern Silesia and northern Austria.” Later in the day a similar report arrived from Bavaria, together with a cable from Henderson adding: “My French colleague has also heard rumors of concentration of troops on the [Czech] frontier.” The following day Krofta, alarmed, phoned Ernst Eisenlohr, the German minister in Prague, to protest; on his desk were several reports, each confirming the others, of heavy German troop concentrations in Saxony. Thus the stage was set for the May crisis.186
Czech municipal elections were to be held on Sunday. Since Henlein’s return the Sudetenland had been chaotic. Gangs of Sudetendeutsche youths wearing swastika brassards had attacked neighbors of Slavic descent, marched through streets carrying torches, and held rallies which culminated in chants of “Sieg Heil!” and “Wir wollen heim ins Reich!” (“We want to go home to the Reich!”). Goebbels, meantime, had stepped up his denunciation of “Czech terror.” The parallels with Austria were unmistakable. Any incident might touch off an invasion, and Friday, May 20, one made to order occurred when two Sudeten German motorcyclists were shot dead after ignoring a Czech policeman’s whistle. After an emergency cabinet meeting in Hradschin Palace, President Beneš approved an urgent recommendation of the Czech General Staff, calling up reservists and specialist troops to man the Sudetenland garrisons.
In Berlin Ribbentrop heatedly denied hostile Wehrmacht concentrations, but when Eisenlohr and his military attaché called on General Ludvik Krejcí, the Czech chief of staff, they were shown an impressive collection of what he called “irrefutable evidence that in Saxony a concentration of from eight to ten divisions has taken place,” with another twelve on the Czech frontier “ready to march within twelve hours.” All the pieces of what had seemed a puzzle were falling into place. Krejcí’s army believed it could hold the Wehrmacht in check long enough for France, Britain, and the Russians to intervene, provided its fortress line was manned and ready. The country would, however, be particularly vulnerable to a surprise attack by Nazi forces assembled and deployed under what Beneš’s General Staff called “the guise of training purposes.”187
“Training” was indeed the explanation the German high command (OKW) gave Weizsäcker, who passed it on to a skeptical world. But for once it was true. The Wehrmacht wasn’t ready. A scrupulous examination of OKW and German foreign policy documents at Nuremberg after the war revealed that there had been no aggressive concentrations in Silesia or Austria that May. The OKW’s statement that the Nazi troops along the Czech border were assembled for “peacetime maneuvers” was accurate. To foreigners the number of German soldiers near the frontier would have been disquieting, but such numbers could be seen nearly anywhere in the Reich. Germany had become a highly militarized nation; its economy was on a war footing. Hitler did intend to invade Beneš’s country. And these were the soldiers who would form the point of his spearhead. But not yet.
In the spring of 1938, however, the truth was unknown. In Paris and London the men responsible for crucial decisions had every reason to believe that Hitler might be poised to unleash another bolt of lightning from his aerie above Berchtesgaden. Daladier staked out the French position by inviting the German ambassador to his home and speaking “frankly as a French ex-serviceman to his German comrade,” warning him that should Hitler invade Czechoslovakia “the French would have to fight as they did no
t wish to be dishonored,” and that the result could be the utter destruction of European civilization. Halifax, out of character but acting in the finest tradition of British diplomacy, sent the unhappy Henderson to the Wilhelmstrasse twice with personal messages from him to Ribbentrop. In the first he declared that “His Majesty’s Government could not guarantee that they would not be forced by circumstances to become involved” if France, following her treaty obligations, intervened. The second note warned that if the Nazis resorted to force, “it is quite impossible for me to foretell results that might follow, and I would beg him not to count on this country being able to stand aside.”188
Now there was no way Germany could avoid an enormous loss of face. Because the Wehrmacht was unprepared, Hitler could not attack, and since he did not, the Allies concluded that he had backed down. That was Churchill’s interpretation. The Czechs, he wrote in the Daily Telegraph of June 23, had seemed doomed “to be swallowed whole by Berlin and reduced to shapeless pulp by the close-grinding mandibles of the Gestapo.” Now Hitler knew Czechoslovakia would not “be left to struggle week after week against an avalanche of fire and steel.”
Churchill thought the incident a triumph for England, but His Majesty’s Government did not see it that way. For men who had presumably won a victory of diplomacy, they took no heart from it. In fact, they were badly frightened. Still convinced that the Germans had been intent on military action, they thought of the peril they had skirted and mopped their brows. Chamberlain wrote his sisters: “The more I hear about last weekend, the more I feel what a damned close run thing it was.” In another letter to them, he wrote, “The Germans, who are bullies by nature, are too conscious of their strength and our weakness, and until we are as strong as they are” (which, if his defense policies were unaltered, would be never) “we shall always be kept in a state of chronic anxiety.” After reviewing the cable traffic, Halifax and Cadogan vowed never again to approach the brink and, accordingly, sent Paris a telegram warning the French not to be “under any illusion” about the possibility of British help “against German aggression.”189
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