by Vicary, Tim
And so the prefects' first response was to laugh. That laugh mortified Werner to his core, for these were the very type of young men, only a year or so away from a commission in the army, whom Werner had so far worshipped. One day, he hoped, he would become one of those godlike figures himself. But after this . . .
Of course, the prefects had released him, and officially disapproved, but not before one — the head of house, Cavendish — had placed his large hand on the wriggling buttocks in a casual, intimate, patronising gesture that was somehow worse than anything that had gone before. And when Werner was free, and they saw who he was, they showed scant sympathy.
Especially when he spat at them.
For although Werner could not prevent these things happening, his spirit was never quite broken. That was the one thing he had to hang on to, and the thing that ensured that the torments continued. He even struck back once, arranging for a dead snake to rot slowly in his principal tormentor's mattress. But that only made things worse.
It led to the incident, finally, when they broke his hand. The day when they pegged him out on the grass, below the bank at the far end of the cricket pitch where no one would find them, and put ants in his hair and slugs up his nose in an attempt to make him say foul things about his mother. When he would not, and insulted their own mothers instead, they brought the big cricket roller, the one that weighed half a ton, to the top of the bank and held it there, poised above him, insisting that if he defied them it would be the last thing he would ever do.
The boys holding the roller had all been tense, sweating; it was a threat bigger than they had ever made before. Werner, pegged out on the ground below them, had realised suddenly that it was a moment of crisis. If he defied them this time they would never be able to threaten him with anything so awful again; he would have won.
So he had looked up at them, shadowy figures blocking out the sun at the top of the bank, and sneered; and the sneer had driven them wild. They realised what it meant, just as he did.
Now, or never again.
Their leader, Rickman, had screamed: ‘I warned you, Kraut!’ and told the others to let go. Perhaps he meant, as he afterwards said, that only those at his end should let go, so that the roller should go near Werner's head and give him a fright; or perhaps he thought he could let it roll a few yards and then stop it.
Whatever Rickman thought, he was wrong. Once released, the roller was unstoppable. Standing in the doorway of the small Ulster town of Newtownards, Werner saw it again now as he did in nightmares; the sheer vast metal bulk of it trundling slowly but with inexorably increasing speed down the bank towards his head . . .
He always woke up then, in dreams. At the time he had shut his eyes. So he was never quite sure how Rickman and the others had managed to lug the lumbering monster to the side, so that the ton of smooth iron missed the thin bones of his skull, and only crushed the bones of his right arm instead, pegged out as it was above his head.
His right hand had never worked properly again. He flexed it now in front of him. Shrivelled, weakened fingers that could never fully bend or straighten, a thumb that could not be persuaded to touch his palm. The legacy of an English public school.
But at least his broken hand had been the last of the torments. There had, of course, been a scandal. Rickman and two other boys had been expelled. When Werner had returned from hospital, he had found himself treated with a wary caution. Most of the boys had heard the story of how Werner had defied his tormentors, and that gained him some respect, even among those who disliked him. And the whole school had had some very strong warnings from the headmaster. Werner was placed under the specific protection of the head of his house, Charles Cavendish.
That, for a while, had been Werner's dream. Cavendish then seemed just the type of English gentleman he himself longed to become. Tall, slim, good-looking, with a casual grace that made him naturally good at all sports. The school had an army cadet corps, and Cavendish was a leading light in that — a marksman in the shooting team, a skilled horseman, clearly officer material. Werner became his personal fag, shining his shoes, cooking his toast, lighting his fire, cleaning his study — duties he would have resented doing for anyone he had not so admired.
At first Cavendish was kind to him. He took an interest in the boy's welfare, made sure he was bullied no more. He helped him with his Latin, watched him encouragingly as he painstakingly practised the skill of writing with his undamaged left hand. Werner glowed as the tall young man leant over him, his hand on the back of his chair, passing friendly comments as the clumsy letters formed. Sometimes Cavendish would put his hand on Werner's shoulder. Once he held his hand to help him shape the letters.
One evening, when he had locked and bolted the study door, Cavendish ran his hands through Werner's hair, and kissed him . . .
It became a nightmare for Werner, worse even than what had gone before. Because he liked and admired Cavendish, he did, at first, the things that the elder boy wanted. They were not painful, they were done and asked for in a friendly way, they seemed to give pleasure. But the more Werner agreed the more Cavendish demanded, and so the study came to seem to him like a trap, in which his former hero lurked with soft, insistent lips and hands that stripped off his clothes and touched him everywhere, in places that no one should ever want to go, and . . .
Werner had been terrified. He had felt dirty and powerless and utterly invaded, and still he smiled at Cavendish and consented because the elder boy to him represented power and protection. He knew what they were doing was wrong, but he thought that if he complained to the Headmaster he would be disbelieved and sent back to Cavendish to be caned. Either that, or the Head would believe him. And then they would both be expelled, and Werner would be sent home to his father with a letter that said . . . Great God, he would endure anything in the world other than that! So he went every night smiling to the Spartan study of his casual English sporting hero, and shut his mind and allowed his body to do things and have things done to it that he never, ever, wanted to remember again.
Until the summer came and he returned to Germany. There, for the first time, the father saw the full extent of what had happened to his son's hand and was stricken with guilt. If he had not sent the boy to such a school, he thought, it would never have happened. He praised his son for his courage in the face of adversity and tried to make it up to him in any way he could. He bought the boy a pony — which Wemer's hand made it hard for him to ride — took him everywhere with him to military revues, let him fly in one of Zeppelin's new balloons. But all the time he saw the grief in the boy's eyes. So when he asked Werner what he really wanted and the boy said simply ‘to leave that school’, the old man was uncharacteristically sympathetic. Werner was enrolled in a Prussian military academy near his home, and for the next five years, forgot all about England.
Until, at the age of eighteen, he tried and failed to achieve his lifelong ambition — a commission in the Imperial German Army. Predictably, he was turned down because of his hand. But then, a wise general had offered him a chance to put his education to some use, in gaining revenge on the society which had maimed him.
Officially, he had been appointed a foreign correspondent for a Swiss newspaper, the Neue Zuricher Zeitung. Secretly, he had also been awarded a commission as a lieutenant in the Army Intelligence Service. It was not what he had hoped for, but at least it was in the service of the Kaiser, with military status of a sort. And it was something at which, to his surprise, he had proved unusually good.
So good, in fact, that a couple of weeks ago he had been invited to meet two of the most powerful men in Germany.
General Eric von Falkenhayn was Minister of War to His Imperial Majesty Kaiser Wilhelm II of Germany. General Helmuth von Moltke was Chief of the Imperial General Staff. Werner had been summoned to see them to discuss a report he had written about the possibility of civil war in Ireland.
Werner's report explained the British government's intention to radically alter the
Union of Great Britain and Ireland, by establishing a Home Rule Parliament in Dublin. This parliament would take over responsibility for most Irish affairs and would, inevitably, be dominated by Roman Catholics. The majority of Irishmen supported this idea but a vociferous minority, particularly concentrated among the Protestants of Ulster, vehemently opposed it. Home Rule, they said, would mean Rome Rule. No Protestant could be expected to accept that.
So their leader, Sir Edward Carson, had stated publicly that if the Home Rule Bill were passed, the Unionists of Ulster would not accept it. They would form their own Provisional Government of Ulster, loyal to the King, but not to his Liberal government, which, they said, was betraying the Union. They would defend themselves with their own army, the Ulster Volunteer Force. 237,368 of them had signed a Covenant to this effect, several cutting a vein in their arm to sign so that they could sign in their own blood.
‘Being convinced in our consciences that Home Rule would be disastrous to the material well-being of Ulster as well as of the whole of Ireland, subversive of our civil and religious freedom, destructive of our citizenship, and perilous to the unity of the Empire, we … men of Ulster, loyal subjects of His Gracious Majesty King George V … do hereby pledge ourselves in solemn Covenant … to defeat the present conspiracy to set up a Home Rule Parliament in Ireland.’
Andrew Bonar Law, the leader of the Conservative Party, had spoken in support of this Covenant, and General Wilson, the Chief of Military Operations at the War Office, had signed it, as had many other prominent members of the British Establishment, including Lord Milner, Rudyard Kipling, and Edward Elgar. The commander-in-chief of the Ulster Volunteer Force had been recommended to Sir Edward Carson by one of Britain's greatest military heroes, Field-Marshal Lord Roberts of Kandahar.
An even larger number of Ulster women had signed a shorter covenant, in support of their men:
‘We … women of Ulster … desire to associate ourselves with the men of Ulster in their uncompromising opposition to the Home Rule Bill now before Parliament, whereby it is proposed to drive Ulster out of her cherished place in the Constitution of the United Kingdom, and to place her under the domination of a Parliament in Ireland.’
‘So when the Home Rule Bill is passed through Parliament later this year,’ Werner had told the two generals, ‘it is quite likely that there will be civil war.’
‘So I understand,’ von Falkenhayn had answered smoothly, staring thoughtfully at the pale blue eyes of his intelligence officer. ‘But, Major von Weichsaker, I am less clear about the timing of this civil war, and its likely outcome. You state in your report that it will come soon, I believe?’
Werner nodded. ‘Within the next few months, Herr General. The Home Rule Bill has been through the Commons and rejected by the Lords twice; it is due to be introduced in the Commons for the third time in the next few weeks. The Government of the Realm Act states that the Lords can only reject a Bill twice. So unless the government loses its nerve, the Bill will become law before the summer.’
‘And the government shows no sign of losing its nerve?’
‘Not at present, Herr General. On the contrary, they are becoming more aggressive. The day before I left, the First Lord of the Admiralty, Winston Churchill, spoke in Bradford. He called the Unionists "sinister revolutionaries", and "anarchists", as I recall. He is believed to speak on behalf of the Prime Minister.’
Falkenhayn smiled. ‘I read that speech. It seems Mr Churchill has a longing for war, and if he cannot fight Admiral Tirpitz, he will fight the Ulstermen instead. But . . . do you really believe this Ulster Volunteer Force can offer serious resistance?’
‘I believe so, Herr General, because of the moral force on their side. They are, so far as I have seen, very well disciplined, but lacking in military equipment. Many of them drill with sporting rifles and shotguns, even wooden guns. I saw one machine-gun only. So in any full-scale conflict they would undoubtedly be defeated. But equally, there is great reluctance among the British Army to fight them, and they have enormous support among the Protestant population in their province. So I believe that the regular army will fight half-heartedly and the Ulstermen will resist with passion, making the struggle a more equal one.’
‘And how long will it last?’
‘That is much harder to say. It depends on moral as well as military force, as I said. If the Ulstermen were better armed, it would last several weeks. A month even.’
Von Moltke had spoken for the first time. Ten years older than von Falkenhayn, he was a blunt, crusty soldier of the old school. Werner had the impression that he regarded undercover intelligence work as an unnecessary evil, and wondered if he had even bothered to read the entire report.
Moltke scowled. ‘Surely we can arm the rebels, Major? Isn't that what one normally does in situations of this kind? Ask Tirpitz to organise a shipload of machine guns? A few free gifts to friendly natives — why don't you go ahead and organise it, man?’
Werner smiled. ‘I have indeed thought of that, Herr General. It is mentioned in my report. A consignment of 25,000 rifles and two and a half million rounds of ammunition is due to leave Hamburg within the next week. The Ulstermen believe, of course, that they have organised this all on their own, but with General von Falkenhayn's consent, my colleagues and I have, er, taken a few steps to clear the way.’
Moltke beamed; he was genuinely delighted. ‘Excellent! Excellent! And are there more on the way?’
‘Not so far, Herr General. This is the maximum the Ulstermen believe they can handle at present. And it remains to be seen how they can land them. After all, we cannot be seen to help them openly. They may behave like rebels, but they regard themselves as loyalists; they distrust Germany as much as the Liberal government does. As I say in my report, any suggestion that we were openly involved would be likely to unite both sides against us.’
Moltke nodded, convinced but disappointed. Falkenhayn picked up Werner's report from the table, and leafed through it thoughtfully.
‘It seems to me, Major von Weichsaker, that what we are discussing is a situation of enormous potential for the Empire of His Majesty Kaiser Wilhelm. I fully appreciate the detailed study you have given to it, and both General Moltke and I accept the point you raise that it is politically impossible for us to be seen to interfere openly in this conflict. But . . . I think perhaps General von Moltke would like to explain to you why this civil war is so crucial to the fortunes of Germany.’
Moltke had lumbered importantly to his feet. It was not the first time in the interview he had done this; it was as though the constriction of a chair and a desk were too much for him, and he yearned to be back in the saddle at the head of his troops. He strode to the large map of Europe on the opposite wall, and slapped it emphatically with his riding crop. The end of the crop landed on the Belgian border.
‘You see this, von Weichsaker, don't you? The weak point in the French defences. All along the French border with Germany the French Army are prepared — perhaps to attack us. It would take millions of men to overcome them. But if we sweep around the outside, through Belgium, there will be no resistance, none. The French have no fortifications at all on their Belgian border. We shall be in Paris within a month, and the French will be annihilated. Then we can regroup and concentrate our forces on our destiny, which is in Poland and Russia, to the east.’
Werner had smiled, perhaps a trifle too complacently. ‘Yes, Herr General, I realise that.’ It was not only he who knew about the Schlieffen plan; knowledge of it was so widespread amongst senior army officers that Werner would be surprised if the French did not know of it also. Even if they hadn't found out, they ought to have been able to work it out for themselves. They had maps in France, after all, didn't they? That was why the French had been so keen to get the British to sign a guarantee of Belgian neutrality. And to get the Germans to sign it, too.
Moltke waved his hand again, imperiously. ‘You realise it, Major, yes. But you do not think about it enough. You do not
realise its importance. Whereas I, who will have to implement this plan, think about it day and night.’
Werner had sat back in his chair. It was the first indication he had had that he had been summoned to discuss matters far wider than Ulster. What has this got to do with my report, he had wondered.
‘Over a year ago, in December 1912, I wanted to implement this plan.' Moltke continued. The army was ready, we could have crossed the Belgian border and smashed the French in a few weeks. I recommended action, but the Kaiser overruled me because of the navy — Tirpitz told him they would not be ready for another eighteen months, when the Kiel Canal would be opened. That will be in June of this year — 1914. That gives us just two months from now — do you understand me? Then, if there is the slightest pretext, I shall recommend that we move — through Belgium, into France. You follow me so far, Major?’
‘Perfectly, Herr General.’
‘Good! And as an astute intelligence officer you will know that the neutrality of Belgium is guaranteed not only by the French, but the British.’
And ourselves, Werner thought. Poor Belgians.
‘So, when we invade Belgium, we shall find ourselves fighting not only the French, but the British Empire too, unless . . .’ Moltke scowled ferociously at Werner, as though to ensure his full attention. Werner watched him with his pale blue eyes and thought, this is it. This is why they are so interested. A pulse of fear and excitement began to throb urgently in his throat.
