The captain of the freighter agreed that return was the wisest option, and so delivered the two custom-built T-31 locomotives back to the storage shed at the dock on the Delaware River in Philadelphia, where they now sat, running up Baldwin Locomotive’s storage fees by the day.
Johnson concluded his letter with the demand that the government of the United States do something to put a stop to this unwarranted interference with legitimate business. He did not say exactly what the government should do, just that it should do something, and do that something without delay, as the Baldwin Locomotive Works and its stockholders were continuing to lose money as the result of the German Empire’s illegal and outrageous interference with business. Since the letter had originally been addressed to the Navy Department, Bryan supposed that Johnson expected his locomotives to return to Europe escorted by a battleship, or possibly by the entire U.S. fleet, so that he could deliver his machines without any further difficulties.
It seemed to the Secretary of State that Mr. Alba Johnson was something like a locomotive himself; at least, he seemed to have a one-track mind. In addition, Johnson apparently had the ability to roll right over or through any facts that he did not wish to recognise, such as the war in Europe. It was possible that he still did not suspect that the problems he had encountered in attempting to deliver his machines might persist for as long as the war continued. Bryan wondered if a mere letter from the State Department would be enough to permit the concept to penetrate through to Mr. Johnson. In any case, the man was almost certainly a dyed-in-the-wool Republican, like most of the big capitalists, and Bryan saw no urgency in formulating an answer to his letter.
He sighed again, and put the letter aside for later, picking up in its place the weekly summary of the cause of Mr. Johnson’s discontent, provided to him courtesy of the War Department. Bryan shook his head as he read. He was a man of peace, and could not fathom what was driving the Europeans to cut each other’s throats with such enthusiasm.
It seemed that the deadlock on the Western Front remained unchanged. The French government had finally admitted that their early offensives in Alsace had been thrown back, although they still claimed that they had inflicted greater casualties on the Germans than vice-versa. The War Department report was sceptical of this claim, and estimated that as a result of the heavy losses it had sustained in the fighting in Alsace, the French Army presently was incapable of mounting any significant offensive operations until the spring of 1915 at the earliest.
In addition to the bad news from the front, the French economy was also doing poorly, suffering as it was from the effects of the German blockade. With the main French fleet still bottled up in Toulon by a powerful squadron of German ships, the French were helpless to stop the shelling of both their Atlantic and Mediterranean ports by the Germans, or to do anything at all about the complete disruption of maritime imports and exports. For France, the loss of the Baldwin locomotives represented one small drop in a sea of troubles.
Even with all these difficulties, France was doing well compared to its ally in the East. After the calamitous fighting in East Prussia where the Germans had destroyed two Russian field armies at the very outset of the war, the grey mass had rolled rapidly into Russian Poland and Lithuania, delayed more by the need to alter the Russian wide-gauge railways to German standards than by any great resistance put up by the Russians until this past week.
Grand Duke Nicholas, commander of the Russian armies, had rushed the Fourth and Fifth Armies north from the Carpathians to stem the German tide, largely abandoning the successes gained in opening offensives against the Austrians in Galicia. Bryan consulted a map of Eastern Europe, putting his finger on the places named, then nodded and returned to the War Department summary.
The Grand Duke had attempted to hold the line of the Vistula River, with the defence centred on Warsaw. The German Second Army had forced a crossing of the Vistula north of Warsaw at the town of New Georglewisk, at the junction of the Vistula and Bug Rivers, (here Bryan consulted the map again), then turned south, nearly trapping the Russian Fourth Army in Warsaw.
The Russians had been forced to retreat in a headlong flight east to avoid encirclement. Desperate defensive efforts of the Russian Army combined with torrential rains had finally stopped the German advance. Still, the War Department estimated that along with Warsaw and a considerable slice of central Poland, the Russians had lost as many as 100,000 additional men and great quantities of equipment abandoned in the rush to get out of the German pincers.
The Germans had also rolled east along the Baltic coast at the same time they were flanking the Russians out of Warsaw. Forward elements of the German First Army had reached the shores of the Gulf of Riga in Latvia three days ago, on the 26th, before being forced to stop by having outrun their supply train. The author of the memorandum noted that the Germans were being greeted as liberators by huge crowds of local residents in Lithuania and Latvia. It appeared that the ethnic Latvian and Lithuanian majorities of the Baltic States had not been very happy under Russian rule.
The memorandum opined that the Russian losses, especially in artillery but also in railway equipment, ammunition and even small arms could not easily be made good. Russia was cut off from any outside aid by the German Baltic Fleet in the north and in the south by the Turkish fleet with its new dreadnoughts, which outclassed anything in the Russian Black Sea squadron. Moreover, the Russian economy was utterly dependent for foreign credits on the export of wheat, and the export trade was, because of the aforementioned blockade, currently non-existent. Therefore, even if the Russians could find a way to bring substantial quantities of munitions into the country (from the Pacific on the Trans-Siberian Railroad, or through Archangel on the Arctic Sea), they had neither the hard currency nor any source of foreign credit to pay for them, because of the blockade.
In case these troubles were not sufficient, there were more. The Russian Army was perpetually short of food, ammunition, transport and other essentials of modern war, of everything but men, in fact, because the government of the Tsar was notoriously incompetent, inefficient and corrupt. Finally, there were well-founded reports that the ruling classes of Russian society and the Tsar’s ministries were riddled with defeatists, spies and German sympathisers.
“Outside of the occurrence of some unforeseeable event,” the memorandum concluded, “the short term prospects for Russia in the present war are poor, and do not appear likely to improve within the next twelve months.”
Bryan replaced the War Department memorandum on his desk, shoved his chair backward, and, accompanied by the music of gently creaking springs, began to rock slowly back and forth, his fingers laced across his paunch and his eyes resting thoughtfully on the ceiling.
The Russian Empire was clearly in a bad way. The question was whether Tsar Nicholas could see the hopelessness of his country’s position as clearly as outsiders like Bryan could. Was it too early to consider offering to mediate a peace settlement? Bryan did not have the slightest desire to risk involving the United States in this insane war, but it would be a great act of Christian fellowship if he could somehow contribute to bringing the senseless slaughter to an end, and by so doing, he thought with a wry smile, do something to ease the troubled mind of Mr. Alba B. Johnson of the Baldwin Locomotive Works.
It was not too early to start thinking about it at any rate, he decided. Perhaps he should prepare a little note for Professor Wilson in the Oval Office, laying out some arguments for the U.S. to offer its good offices as an impartial arbiter for the warring parties. He scooted his chair back to the desk, removed a fountain pen from its holder, and began to write.
* * * * *
President Wilson sat in his chair, his back straight, his fingers steepled, peering at his Secretary of State through his pince-nez spectacles. As usual, the President’s austere features were unreadable; Bryan could not tell whether the Professor (as Bryan privately thought of him), approved, disapproved or was utterly indifferent to his idea.
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“Aside from any moral considerations,” Bryan continued, “it has wonderful political potential. Look how much favourable press Roosevelt got ending the war in Siberia in 1905, and how much more when they gave him the Peace Prize,” Bryan said, reminding Wilson that Theodore Roosevelt had mediated the Treaty of Portsmouth that had ended the Russo-Japanese War back in 1905 and been awarded the Nobel Prize for it.
“It’s not too early to start thinking about the 1916 election. There is probably not going to be a significant third party to split their votes this time, and the Republicans are still biggest party in the country,” he continued.
Bryan, a little tactlessly perhaps, was pointing out that Wilson was a minority president, who owed his victory in the 1912 to a split in the Republican party, when Roosevelt had run as a Progressive against the incumbent Taft. The two Republicans had together totalled 50 percent of the vote, while Wilson had received only 42 percent (the Socialist candidate, Eugene Debs had taken most of the remainder).
Wilson pondered this for a moment, and then nodded judiciously. “I cannot at the moment see any grave hazard in proposing the services of this nation as an impartial arbiter to bring about an equitable termination of the present conflict.” As usual, the pompous Professor used three words where one would do, and long ones at that. Bryan had difficulty keeping his eyes from rolling up towards the Oval Office ceiling.
“Our ability to bring about a pacific resolution of the current hostilities is dependent, however, on the inclination of the contending coalitions to negotiate,” he continued. “Is there any evidence to indicate that they are?”
“Not yet, maybe,” Bryan conceded. “But the way the war is going in the east, the Tsar may have to sue for peace within the next twelve months, maybe even sooner. If that happens, the French will be on their own. How long will they be able to stay in the war alone against Germany, Italy, and Austria while still under the German blockade? I imagine that Monsieur Vivani, or whoever is in power in Paris by then, will be looking for any way out, short of total surrender. If we offer to arbitrate now, I agree that neither side will be ready. But, when the time comes…”
“The seed that has been sowed will have had an opportunity to germinate,” Wilson finished for him. “Yes, it is worthwhile to make the endeavour. The benefits of peace go not merely to the nations now engaged in the present conflict, but to all the peoples of the world through the resumption of the normal flow of international commerce.”
Bryan was reminded of the difficulties the Great War was causing for Alba Johnson of the Baldwin Locomotive Works. The thought passed quickly as Wilson’s lecture continued.
“We can hope someday all disputes between sovereign nations will be settled without recourse to violent confrontation, but instead by referral to a neutral adjudicator for arbitration, and wars between nations will looked upon as part of a savage, primeval stage in the social evolution of mankind, long since outgrown,” the President pontificated. “If we are fortunate enough to be permitted to bring this European conflict to an end, that perhaps will be the first step on the road to a future in which mankind is spared the horrors of war.”
Bryan thought Wilson a bit premature to talk about eradicating war itself, especially since the American proposal had not even been made to the parties yet. He also slightly resented the way the Professor now sounded as if he had thought of the whole thing himself. But, despite all that, despite the self-important way he had made this little speech, Bryan could not help but agree in his heart with the sentiments the President had expressed.
“May a merciful God grant us such a gift,” he said. The Secretary of State closed his eyes and bowed his head in silent prayer. After a brief moment of hesitation, he was joined by the President.
Chapter Ten: BERLIN, JANUARY 25, 1915
Ray Swing was lucky to find an empty table in the Guildhall Rathskeller beneath the Municipal Tower that housed the offices of the Berlin city government. It was only because he had come in an off hour, at 2:30 in the afternoon, that he had been able to get a table at all. The circular dining hall was immense, able to accommodate more than 1000 customers at one sitting. Even so, during the busiest times, at midday or between 5 and 6 in the evening the establishment was so full that customers would stand behind the chairs of those fortunate enough to obtain a seat, waiting for them to finish so that they could sit in turn.
At such times, the Rathskeller was a madhouse, filled with shouting, smoking, eating and especially drinking Berliners. Swing could not understand how anyone could tolerate it, but the Germans seemed to love the atmosphere of the place. The combination of cacophonous din and thick clouds of malodorous cigar fumes invariably gave the American a headache.
Well, he had not picked the Rathskeller for his meeting with Stilwell. As the big, outdoor beer gardens were closed during the cold Northern European winter, the American spymaster and military attaché was forced to select an indoor location, and this was it.
Before a waiter could take his order, Swing was joined by Stilwell. The latter was, as was usual on such occasions, wearing civilian clothing. He was dressed much like Swing himself, in a long, brown woollen topcoat over a dark suit.
Stilwell settled into a chair and remarked, ”The Krauts do like their beer, don’t they?” He gestured at a rather garish fresco on the huge column in the centre of the enormous circular dining room. It depicted a pair of rollicking male university students in the company of a pretty young girl, drawing beer from a keg. Underneath the painting was inscribed a poem.
“When beauty’s eyes are smiling near,
And loving hands present the beer,
Then in a glorious dream we rise,
Into the realms of Paradise!”
“Brings tears to your eyes, doesn’t it?” he asked sardonically.
Swing, whose taste in poetry ran towards Edgar Allen Poe, replied, “Yeah, Joe, it’s just lovely. What’s worth ordering here, besides beer, that is?”
Stilwell studied the menu. “The food here is OK, but I wouldn’t risk getting anything too elaborate. I would stick with the Rindfliesch with Kartofflen, if I were you.”
A moment later, an apron-clad waiter with a waxed and fully outspread Kaiser Wilhelm moustache came bustling up to the table to take their orders. Stilwell ordered a beer, but no food. Swing, who had not eaten all day, ordered a plate of beef and roast potatoes to accompany his lager.
After the waiter left them, Stilwell said quietly. “Thanks for the dope on the new Minenwerfer.” One of Swing’s contacts in the German Army’s Experimental Weapons Section had provided details of a new 7.8 centimetre mine-thrower that had been developed for blasting through strongpoints in preparation for an infantry assault.
“Do you have anything on that other ‘innovation’ we discussed?” Stilwell asked. “The… uh…” he held his hand to his throat, and coughed lightly, preferring not to speak the words “poisonous gas” aloud.
Swing leaned forward, and said in a low tone, “They tried it, Joe. They used 18,000 shells of some stuff called methylbenzyl bromide at a place north of Warsaw called Bolimow, two weeks ago.”
Stilwell nodded. “No point in making the stuff if you’re not going to use it. So, what happened?”
Swing shook his head. “It was a flop. It didn’t do a thing. The Russians apparently didn’t even know that anything unusual was going on. As it turns out, it doesn’t work at low temperatures. I’ll get the details to you at the drop tomorrow.” They had worked out a system of passing on information by leaving notes folded in a newspaper on a particular park bench in the Tiergarten. Swing hated what he saw as cloak and dagger nonsense, but he was by now resigned to its necessity.
“Okay,” Stilwell said. “Anything else?”
“Yes,” Swing said. “They already have something a lot stronger: bi-chloride gas. The bromine is supposed to incapacitate by irritating the vision and inducing coughing; chlorine eats away the eyes and destroys lung tissue: it kills. A big-shot chemi
st named Haber is working on it over at the Kaiser Wilhelm Institute. My guy in the War Ministry doesn’t know exactly when they’ll be ready to roll it out, but it will probably be sometime in the spring.”
“That will be a nice treat for the Russkies, as if they didn’t have enough trouble already,” Stilwell commented. “Speaking of trouble, how are things out at the front? I’d like to go and see for myself, but with the my official work for the Embassy, my unofficial work for DepWar and the way the Krauts worry that I am going to give them bad publicity by getting myself killed, I don’t get much of a chance.”
“The front has been pretty static, other than local line-straightening attacks like the one at Bolimow, for a couple of reasons,” Swing said. “First, given how lousy the roads are, winter is not exactly the ideal season for launching a major offensive in Poland. Second, there are still logistical problems. The Germans are still converting Russian wide-gauge track to standard gauge and rounding up more wide-gauge locomotives and rolling stock. They are going to keep having supply problems until they get the rail system organised. I don’t expect anything big to break until spring. In fact, I’m staying on here for a few weeks, to try to catch up on my office work.”
Grey Tide In The East Page 9
