Hundred Days : The Campaign That Ended World War I (9780465074907)

by Lloyd, Nick

  Things came to a head on 15 August. Haig met Foch at 3 p.m. The Generalissimo immediately urged an attack on the Chaulnes–Roye front, but Haig refused, saying that he could only do so with heavy losses. In view of this, he had ordered Rawlinson and Debeney to postpone their attacks for the moment, while he transferred his reserves to Third Army further to the north. Foch bristled at this. With a confused look on his face, he asked Haig what orders had been issued to attack. At this point, Haig held his hands up. ‘I spoke to Foch quite straightly,’ he recorded in his diary, ‘and let him understand that I was responsible for the handling of the British Forces.’ Foch knew immediately that he had pushed Haig as far as he could. He thus backed down, smiling widely and assuring him that he only wanted information on Haig’s intentions.14 In the end Foch knew that he could not continue to nag Haig. His authority was limited and, in any case, within a matter of days new attacks would go in. So it was settled. Operations would be mounted; but they would take place elsewhere; the important thing was making sure they were properly coordinated and kept up the pressure on the German Army, which, at long last, seemed to be breaking apart.

  Since the spring, the German Supreme Command had been based at Spa in Belgium, nestling in the forested, mist-mantled hills of this famous resort town. OHL was housed in (of all places) the Hôtel Britannique, one of the finest hotels in Europe. It lay along a wide, cobbled street, usually slick with the rain that frequently washed across this part of Belgium, where many staff officers were usually seen, taking the air or having a quiet smoke; trying to forget the war that went on and on. For six months it had been the nerve centre of the German war effort, humming to the sounds of clattering typewriters and the buzz of telephone calls, and busy with senior staff officers and commanders. It had always been run in an efficient and businesslike manner, but in the days after the attack at Amiens, the mood changed to one of high tension, increasing anxiety and depression. While Hindenburg was his usual stoical – almost uninterested – self, Ludendorff raged at the darkening situation, later admitting that Amiens was one of his worst experiences of the war – his ‘black day of the German Army’. As soon as the news of the offensive broke, he sent a staff officer to the front to assess the condition of the divisions who had borne the brunt of the attack. What he reported hit the Quartermaster-General like a slap in the face. ‘Whole bodies of our men had surrendered to single troopers, or isolated squadrons,’ he raged. ‘Retiring troops, meeting a fresh division going bravely into action, had shouted out things like “Blackleg,” and “You’re prolonging the war,” expressions that were to be heard again later.’ It was 8 August, Ludendorff concluded, that put the decline of their fighting power ‘beyond all doubt’.15

  Given Ludendorff’s chronic anxiety and his inability to delegate responsibility, it was perhaps inevitable that in the days after the attack he regularly telephoned round senior officers and their Chiefs of Staff and told them what to do. The Army Group commander, Crown Prince Rupprecht, calmly watched events unfold from his headquarters and recorded in his diary how he ‘admired the patience’ of his Chief of Staff, Major-General von Kuhl, who had to deal with the constant interference from OHL.

  He remained unruffled by the continual telephone calls from Ludendorff, wanting to plan every move of the newly arrived battalions of the Alpine Corps, and just appeased Ludendorff by answering with a ‘yes’ or by saying to him: ‘We cannot yet predict how this will turn out, everything depends on how circumstances develop,’ etc. Telephone contact has so many disadvantages – there tends to be too much of it and in these direct conversations that took place between OHL and the Chiefs of Staff of the army groups and armies, the group commanders are almost totally excluded. Just recently an army Commander-in-Chief said to me: ‘I don’t really know what I’m there for – everything is already decided before I am even consulted!’ . . . If only Ludendorff would just telephone the Chiefs of Staff and not every individual army corps!16

  Rupprecht, always a sensible and responsible commander, had little of the manic energy and optimism of Ludendorff. He realized that the disaster on the front of Second Army was due to the exhaustion of the troops, their ‘inferior organization’, and the widespread despondence over the fate of the last German offensive in July. This was what he called the ‘miserable fact’ of what the German Army had become. Rupprecht would have liked to withdraw Second Army further back, but Ludendorff told him, in no uncertain terms, that the position must be held at all costs.

  In the days after the attack at Amiens, OHL desperately tried to find out what had gone wrong. It reported on 11 August that there had been three main reasons for the ‘defeat’ of Second Army: ‘the troops were surprised by the massed attack of the Tanks’; there were ‘scarcely any positions or obstacles worth mentioning . . . to make a methodical resistance possible’; and the available artillery was ‘wholly insufficient to establish fresh resistance’ against an enemy that had broken through. This was all well and good, but it could not mask the serious decline in Germany’s fighting power. OHL ordered more to be done to observe the enemy, expect surprise tank attacks (particularly at daybreak), and construct more trenches and anti-tank obstacles. The Supreme Command also resorted to the desperate, if understandable, exhortation that troops, ‘even if they are enveloped, must, if necessary, defend their battle zone for days, to the last round and to the last man’.17 For his part, Ludendorff preferred to assign responsibility to command failures, blaming von der Marwitz’s Chief of Staff, Major-General Erich von Tschischwitz, who he believed was not up to the job. He immediately ordered the formation of a new Army Group, commanded by General Hans von Boehn (with the defensive expert, Fritz von Lossberg as his Chief of Staff), which would oversee the operations of Second, Eighteenth and Ninth Armies, and hopefully provide better coordination on that part of the front.

  Despite the heavy casualties and the serious reverse in front of Amiens, Ludendorff refused to contemplate further withdrawals. At one meeting, Lossberg repeated his advice that they should occupy and extend the Hindenburg Line immediately with all available reserves instead of sending every man to the front. ‘My justification for this was that the initiative for action had now without doubt been transferred to the enemy, and that this attack had hit a very sensitive spot on the German front.’ But Ludendorff remained unmoved, telling him to make a reconnaissance of a new fall-back position, running from Combles to Péronne and Noyon. When Lossberg told him that it would take too long for this line to be completed, Ludendorff just ignored him. Believing that Ludendorff was now in total denial about reality, Lossberg went to see for himself. He visited the three armies and gave a detailed brief to General von Boehn at his headquarters at Le Cateau. Second Army was in a ‘poor condition’, and its troops had ‘failed completely’ on 8 and 9 August. Amiens was ‘probably the greatest defeat a German Army had suffered during the war’ and the Supreme Command was greatly overestimating their capacity for resistance. Although Ninth Army had not yet been engaged, the retreat of Second Army had led to the outflanking of Eighteenth Army. Casualties had also been heavy, with a number of divisions being broken up and their men sent to plug gaps in other units. It was a grave situation.18

  On the morning of 13 August, just five days after the attack at Amiens, Hindenburg chaired a meeting at the Hôtel Britannique. The dramatic events of the past week called for a decision about what to do and the Chancellor (Count von Hertling) and the new Secretary of State (Paul von Hintze) had been invited to attend. Hindenburg would claim that he had ‘no illusions about the political effects of our defeat on August 8’, which revealed the weakness of the German Army on the Western Front. ‘The amount of booty which our enemy could publish to the world spoke a clear language. Both the public at home and our Allies could only listen in great anxiety. All the more urgent was it that we should keep our presence of mind and face the situation without illusions, but also without exaggerated pessimism.’ Although he was content that the situation had been stab
ilized – at least temporarily – he was only too well aware that on many sectors the defences were not up to scratch and the men were not showing the stubborn resistance of earlier years. What was worse, he lamented, the enemy had learnt much in how to attack. ‘If the enemy repeated these attacks with the same fury, in view of the present constitution of our Army,’ he warned, ‘there was at any rate some prospect of our powers of resistance being gradually paralysed.’19

  According to Hindenburg’s memoirs, during the meeting on 13 August, he affirmed that the situation was ‘certainly serious, but that it must not be forgotten that we were still standing deep in the enemy’s country’. He believed that ‘a successful conclusion of the war’ was not impossible and ‘hoped that the Army would be in a position to hold out’. ‘Had not France, on whose soil the war had now been raging for four years, had to suffer and endure far more?’ he asked.20 Hindenburg may have radiated his old solidity – a rock that could never be moved – but his deputy, Erich Ludendorff, was falling apart. According to Colonel Hans von Haeften (the Supreme Command’s liaison officer to the Government), when he arrived at Spa on 11 August, he found Ludendorff ‘outwardly calm but very grave. It was not the loss of territory or the superiority of the tank – a weapon which we had neglected – which disturbed him; he was the man to rise to the surmounting of unexpected difficulties. What depressed the General was that he had lost confidence in the morale of his troops, the indispensable element in victory.’ Ludendorff told Haeften that the men could no longer be depended on and that Germany needed peace quickly.21 During the meeting, Ludendorff despaired of what he called Hindenburg’s ‘more optimistic view’ of the situation.

  I reviewed the military situation, the condition of the Army, the position of our Allies, and explained that it was no longer possible to force the enemy to sue for peace by an offensive . . . I sincerely hoped, however, that the Army in France would stand fast. The state of affairs on the Western Front was naturally bound to make an unfavourable impression on our Allies. In this connection, the morale of our Army and people became a matter of even greater importance than before.

  After speaking for some time, the Secretary of State, Paul von Hintze, drew ‘the logical conclusion that peace negotiations were essential and that we should have to bring ourselves to take up a very conciliatory attitude’.22

  The Kaiser was at Spa the following day to chair a Crown Council meeting. In his presence the Quartermaster-General seemed to recover his nerve and banish the pessimism he had previously shown; a not uncommon experience for those in the presence of the Supreme War Lord. Ludendorff talked about ‘moral endurance’; the need to strengthen the hopes of the Army and the people; to instil in them an unquenchable desire for victory; to do whatever it took. Von Hintze addressed the meeting with tears in his eyes and his hands shaking. He urged them to engage in diplomacy to end the war because it could not be concluded by military means; that something must be done to break the political deadlock. For his part, Hindenburg remained unimpressed, gruffly arguing that peace moves should only come when there had been some improvement in the military situation. The question was what to do about it; whether to continue to hang on at the front, hoping for an improvement in the situation, or make some kind of diplomatic move to end the war – a political manoeuvre that might result in revolution and chaos.

  It would later be claimed that the Kaiser received an incorrect view of the situation on 14 August; that his generals had not presented him with all the facts, leaving him to labour on with the impression that something could be salvaged from continuing fighting. This was at least partly true, but hardly unusual; the Kaiser had been sidelined in the running of the German Empire for years. As early as November 1914, he had complained that ‘The General Staff tells me nothing and never asks my advice. If people in Germany think that I am the Supreme Commander they are grossly mistaken. I drink tea, saw wood and go for walks . . .’23 The Kaiser himself had little to say about the meetings at Spa. They were a painful reminder of his failure as Commander-in-Chief and his impotence in the face of Hindenburg and his formidable deputy. Ludendorff was certainly more optimistic than he had been the previous day (perhaps unable to bring himself to admit openly how disastrous the situation was), but Hindenburg’s stand never wavered. His pride and legendary calmness prevented him from admitting what they all knew to be true: that the war had to be ended. They agreed that von Hintze should send peace feelers through the Queen of the Netherlands, but nothing else was done. The war, what was left of it, would have to go on.

  It was evident in the days after Amiens that Ludendorff’s nerves had suffered. From this point – mid- to late August – he seems to have become weaker. Tiredness, bordering on exhaustion, marked his features as he alternated between piteous depression and ridiculous optimism. More and more staff officers now began to notice the decline in their chief, at one point even arranging for the eminent psychiatrist and Chief Staff Physician, Dr Hochheimer, to pay a visit to Spa. When Hochheimer met Ludendorff and began to assess his condition, he found a man bordering on a nervous breakdown, who was overworked, exhausted and unable to function effectively. Rest was urgently required. Hochheimer greeted the commander ‘warmly and casually’ and handed him a precise daily schedule of activity that was intended to free his mind from anxiety and worry. Much to his aides’ surprise, Ludendorff agreed with this diagnosis and followed his advice ‘willingly and happily’. ‘He accepted it,’ Hochheimer noted, ‘although the restriction of his long working hours, especially the night time hours, was difficult for him.’ In the coming days, Hochheimer urged his patient to take pleasure in his garden, especially ‘the most beautiful flowers’ that were brought into his stuffy office (that Hochheimer likened to ‘a dead furniture display as it does not have any pictures hanging on the wall’). While Hochheimer was certainly pleased by Ludendorff’s willingness to work with him – ‘the central issue is the freeing of a fossilized soul’ he would write in his diary – he knew only too well that nothing short of a miraculous turn of events in the west could restore Ludendorff’s nerve. As long as he stayed at his post, he would get no rest, and as the German armies crumbled, the pressure would only increase.24

  *

  The situation at the front only seemed to worsen in the weeks after the blow at Amiens. Six days after the Crown Council meeting, a new offensive opened on the Aisne, this time by Charles Mangin’s Tenth Army, which blasted yet another hole in the line. The attack opened in bright sunlight at 7.10 a.m. on 20 August, General Pétain proudly reporting that ‘it won the most complete success along its entire front, over-ran the whole of the centre of resistance, which for a long time the enemy had been powerfully fortifying’. Eight thousand prisoners had been taken and over 100 guns fell into French hands.25 For the German Army, this attack would be another disaster, comparable in some respects to the defeat at Amiens. Surveying the maps at Advanced Headquarters at Avesnes, and cursing as news came in, was Ludendorff, who was stunned at the speed with which German resistance had crumbled. For him 20 August was ‘another black day’ with ‘heavy and irreplaceable losses’. ‘On August 20th a deep salient was made at Cuts,’ he wrote, ‘rendering the position of the troops, with the Oise in the rear, exceedingly uncomfortable. In the direction of Nouvron, also, the enemy broke into our line, but was driven back, although not completely, by counter-attacks delivered by good German Jaeger divisions.’ Given the exposed position of German troops in front of the Rivers Oise and Ailette he reluctantly agreed to sanction the withdrawal of the right wing of Ninth Army behind the Oise, while moving the centre back behind the Ailette a day later. ‘The battle had again taken an uncomfortable course, in spite of all our precaution,’ he added, ‘the nerves of the Army had suffered. In some places the men would no longer stand the tremendous artillery barrages and tank attacks which had become still more severe.’26

  Mangin’s attack was a powerful illustration of how much Allied methods of attack had improved since the grim mi
ddle years of the war. Mangin employed four corps in an aggressive thrust northeastwards towards the towns of Noyon and Chauny.27 As on the Marne, secrecy had been stressed at all levels. Enemy aircraft were not allowed to observe French preparations, and, as was usual by now, all attacking divisions moved up to the front at night. A preliminary bombardment would take out any German batteries, blow sufficiently large holes in the barbed wire for the infantry to get through (‘at least 30 to 40 metres of breach per front line company’), and destroy enemy command posts and known machine-gun nests. The French guns would also fire a powerful, but short, ‘hurricane’ bombardment immediately prior to the attack. As was becoming the norm by 1918, the infantry would leave behind their capes and backpacks and make sure they were as mobile as possible. Gone were the long, thick lines of infantry that had been so ineffective earlier in the war. Specially designated units were tasked with clearing up dug-outs and shelters and mopping up any enemy stragglers who appeared. The advance would also be supported by tanks. Gone were the wasteful French tactics that had brought the Army to mutiny the previous year. The operation on 20 August was a sign that things had changed. This was well thought through; this was economical; this was the face of war in 1918.28

  While the strain continued to mount for Ludendorff, the moment was particularly sweet for Charles Mangin. A square-headed man with a piercing stare, firm jaw and black moustache, he was a 52-year-old native of Moselle, whose family had fled the German Army in 1870, so it was perhaps understandable if he hated the enemy with undimmed fury. Earlier in the war, Mangin had become notorious for his apparently careless attitude towards the lives of his men; he was one of a number of generals who gained the infamous nickname of ‘the butcher’ and had been removed from command of Sixth Army in May 1917. Nevertheless, by the following year, Mangin’s aggression, determination and vigour were once more in demand and Clemenceau had brought him back. He had masterminded the counterstroke on 18 July, outmanoeuvring his enemy, breaking the German line and imperilling their position on the Marne. But now his greatest battles were with his own army; an army whose will to fight was draining away with each passing day, and whose commander, Pétain, distrusted his aggressive, eager subordinate. On 5 August Mangin wrote in his diary: