Grey Tide In The East

by Andrew J. Heller

  The First Lord considered it unlikely that even the Tsar’s immediate abdication would be sufficient to save the Romanovs. Churchill had little doubt that the terms of the peace treaty the Germans would impose on their defeated foes would be so harsh as to doom the dynasty. The Germans would undoubtedly either annex vast regions of the Ukraine, Poland, White Russia and the Baltic States that they currently occupied, or else establish “independent” states there that would be German dependencies in practice. When the Tsar (whoever it was by then) agreed to such terms, as he would have to do, Churchill could not see how the Russian monarchy could long survive the effects of signing a humiliating and catastrophic treaty.

  Nothing about this war had gone the way the First Lord of the Admiralty wanted, ever since the Kaiser had inexplicably called off the invasion of Belgium and turned his armies against Russia. It had been, in fact, an embarrassing misadventure for Churchill and the small group of cabinet members and military men who had worked for closer ties with France and had hoped to join the British Empire to the Franco-Russian Entente. All their preparations, all their plans for the coming war, had been based on assumption that the Germans would violate Belgian neutrality.

  When that did not happen, they were left stranded high and dry, helpless to affect the outcome of the greatest and most momentous war in a century. Here, Churchill had command of the most powerful navy in the world, and he could do nothing but watch as the fleets of the parvenu German Empire went blithely about shelling and blockading the helpless French ports, seizing or sinking French shipping, turning neutral merchantmen back from France, and generally carrying on as though they were the heirs of four centuries of naval tradition. How he longed to pick up the telephone and order Admiral Jellicoe to take the Battle Line down into the Channel to clear the German blockaders with a few well-placed rounds of 13 1/2 inch piercing-piercing shell! He gritted his teeth in frustration.

  He remembered lingering after a cabinet meeting in late August to talk to Lord Kitchener, shortly after it became clear that the Germans were not going to invade Belgium, and that as a consequence, His Majesty’s Government was not going to come to the aid of France. Churchill had asked the Secretary of State for War for his estimate of the Franco-Russian Entente’s prospects in the coming conflict.

  “They have no chance at all without us,” Kitchener had responded almost immediately. “I should imagine that the French will be able to carry on for a while, but the Russians won’t last more than a year.” Churchill, Grey and the other pro-French members of the Cabinet had since come to see this grim forecast borne out by events.

  The British Empire now faced a dismal post-war prospect. A bloated German Empire (and its Austro-Hungarian ally) would undoubtedly either annex or control through new puppet states most of the productive farmland, iron ore and coalfields of the Ukraine and southern Poland, together with the rich Baltic coastal lands from Lithuania to Estonia. Together, the Teutonic Powers would dominate Europe militarily and economically; a crippled Russia, with its most prosperous and productive provinces lopped off (and possibly having suffered through a civil war?) would be far too weak for many years to provide any sort of counter-weight.

  The Mediterranean Sea was, for all practical purposes, already a Triple Alliance lake. Since being savaged at Cape Cepet, the French fleet was no longer a factor. The Mediterranean Squadron of the Royal Navy was in no position to challenge the Allied Fleet, should some future crisis bring about a confrontation. The Suez Canal, a vital artery through which flowed the commerce that was the lifeblood of the Empire, would be hostage to the German-dominated constellation.

  Churchill believed that Great Britain’s best hope in that region would in the diplomatic realm. It would require nothing short of a miracle to keep ancient enemies, Austria, Italy and Turkey yoked together in the same alliance system for very long. Britain should be able to detach at least one of them, probably Italy. He scribbled a reminder to himself to brace Grey about at the next Cabinet meeting.

  And what, he wondered, would the Kaiser demand from France as the price of peace? Would the Germans offer to negotiate, or simply transfer the million and a half fighting men from the now quiescent Eastern Front to the West, and break through the French fortress system with the overwhelming weight of men and metal? The French would charge a high price in German lives, but if the Kaiser wanted to add Paris to his conquests, Churchill did not see any way he could be stopped.

  Chapter Eighteen: BERLIN, JUNE 29, 1915

  Helmuth von Moltke unconsciously fingered the golden head of his brand-new Generalfeldmarschall’s baton as he stood in the Kaiser’s map room in the Stadtschloss, awaiting his sovereign. He recalled his last visit to the royal palace, back in August, when he had come very near to being sacked for disputing war strategy with the Kaiser. In retrospect, he was forced to admit that the Kaiser’s order to turning the Army east against the Russians had proved to be the correct one. It was hard to see how the war could have gone any better for Germany had the invasion of Belgium proceeded as originally planned, and easy to see how it could have gone very much worse.

  Moltke was secretly (very secretly) a little embarrassed to be the object of great popular adulation that followed the victory over the Russians, when he well knew that the Kaiser’s rash decision (he still thought it was a rash decision) was the primary reason for the favourable outcome of the war. The promotion to Field-Marshall only made his embarrassment worse. To cover his unease, he pretended to closely study his Prussian Field Marshal’s baton.

  It was certainly a garish object. The baton was a metre long, capped by a ruby-encrusted golden knob. The sovereign’s name was inscribed in tiny letters in the scrollwork under the cap, and the shaft was decorated with crowns alternating with eagles, all worked in gold, of course. Objectively speaking, it was one of the ugliest things he had ever seen. But what it represented was the culmination of any German soldier’s career.

  While Moltke was musing, the Kaiser arrived, his medals clinking and his ceremonial sword bouncing against his thigh as he approached. The Field Marshall was also in full dress uniform, including of course the baton, since in less than an hour he was to stand at the side of his monarch as the first of the victorious armies returning from the East passed in review down the Unter den Linden.

  Moltke clicked his heels, bowed and stood stiffly to attention.

  “I grant you permission to sit in my presence,” said the Kaiser, smiling, and motioning for him to sit on a brocaded Empire sofa. He glanced down at the baton, then up at Moltke.

  “Are you perhaps a little uncomfortable with your promotion?” he asked shrewdly. Before he could reply, Wilhelm went on, “I can assure you, my dear Field Marshall, that no-one has ever deserved the honour more than you. The way you improvised the campaign in East Prussia, indeed, your entire handling of the war, has been masterful. Accept the honours I have given you, and be content in the knowledge that you have served your Emperor and your country well.”

  “Yes, well, thank you, then, Your Majesty, you are very gracious,” Moltke replied, abashed. “I will do as you say.”

  “Good,” returned the Kaiser. “But I had a particular reason for bringing you here a little early for the review. You must know that I trust the advice of my generals more than that of my ministers.”

  There was one time at least when you declined to follow my advice, Moltke thought, but he said only, “Yes, Your Majesty, I was aware of it.”

  “I wish to hear your views on a matter which is not wholly military in nature,” the Kaiser continued. “How many men would it cost us to prosecute the war against France until she would be driven to her knees and forced to surrender?”

  “A repeat of 1871, including the occupation of Paris, I suppose?” Moltke asked, referring to the war in which the Kaiser’s grandfather humbled the legions of Napoleon III.

  “Yes, precisely,” Wilhelm agreed.

  The Field Marshall stared up at the gilded ceiling for a few moments,
his lips moving silently. “To penetrate the Belfort to Verdun fortress line might cost 400,000 to a half-million casualties over four to six months. After that, perhaps as many again to destroy the French field armies and occupy Paris, more if Paris is defended. Street fighting in cities can be very bloody.”

  The Kaiser pursed his lips and frowned. “I thought it might be something like that. Holstein and Jagow…” (the Chancellor and Foreign Minister, respectively, for whose military opinions Moltke had not the slightest regard) “…insist that we must crush the French so that they can never rise to challenge us again. I would not be surprised if they want to permanently occupy France, or perhaps annex it to the Reich.” Wilhelm shook his head at the thought. “Now another military question for you: do you believe that the French Army is a serious danger to Germany, or that it will be in the next decade?”

  “That is an easier one to answer, Your Majesty,” Moltke replied. “Unless she gains some formidable allies, France is impotent to harm us, and I expect that to be true for many years.”

  The Kaiser nodded. “That confirms my own opinion,” he said. “Now we come to the question which is perhaps outside of your area of expertise. The American President, Wilson, has offered to mediate a peace between ourselves and France. I intend to accept that offer, and then agree to a soft peace with the French. I will ask only for a few colonies, to keep the Colonial Lobby quiet and to provide coaling bases for Admiral Tirpitz’s ships; say, Martinique in the Caribbean, Morocco or Tunisia in North Africa, and New Caledonia in the Pacific. There will be no indemnities, no territorial claims on Metropolitan France. Do you agree with me that the French would accept such terms?”

  “They would have to be insane not to,” Moltke said. “May I ask Your Majesty why he intends to be so generous to our ancient enemy?”

  “Because we want nothing from France; we need nothing from France,” Wilhelm replied. “Germany’s future lies in the East. When the treaty with Russia is finally signed, the Empire will add vast new territories for our people to settle, rich lands in Poland, the Ukraine, White Russia. That is also why overseas colonies are unimportant: the valuable land is here, in Central Europe.”

  Moltke nodded, impressed. “And a soft peace with France will make it more difficult for her politicians to stir up hatred against Germany, so a future war becomes even less likely and we are free to concentrate on developing our new lands in the East.”

  “Why is it that you can so easily understand what my ministers cannot?” the Kaiser exclaimed. “Perhaps I should make you Chancellor and send Holstein back to his estate.”

  “I have no desire for such responsibilities, Your Majesty,” Moltke protested hastily, “and no ambition to enter politics. I am a simple soldier, and my only wish is to be permitted to continue to serve Your Majesty in that capacity.”

  “Come then, Field Marshall,” said the Kaiser rising. “If you will not be my Chancellor, you must at least stand at my side on the palace balcony during the review, so that all the returning heroes from the East can see you.”

  Moltke rose from the couch, and together with his sovereign he strode off through the marble halls of the Royal Palace of the Hohenzollerns.

  Chapter Nineteen: BRYN MAWR, PENNSYLVANIA, AUGUST 16, 1915

  The sun shined brightly as Ray Swing made his way across the grassy campus of Bryn Mawr College, site of the Peace Conference. The exclusive women’s college had been selected by President Wilson to host the Conference, he had been told, in order to escape the oppressive heat of Washington. Having experienced the nation’s capital in the summer himself, Swing was grateful enough to be spared it.

  He entered the Gothic Revival building where the diplomats were assembling. Since arriving at the Peace Conference a few days earlier, Swing had met a vast array of politicians, diplomats, soldiers and fellow reporters. Some, he forgot almost before he left their company. Others made strong impressions on him, favourable or unfavourable, Out of this crowd of new faces and names, Swing thought the 31-year old Assistant Secretary of the Navy to be the most outstanding. Franklin Roosevelt was charming, witty and well informed about what was going on behind the scenes at the Conference. But beyond that, he had a certain electrifying air about him. He had big ambitions and, Swing sensed, outstanding ability to match. His distant relative, Theodore, had been President of the United States (and one of the best ever, in Swing’s opinion); with a little luck, he thought that this Roosevelt, from the Hyde Park branch of the family, had a chance to follow his famous fifth cousin.

  In almost no time, he and Roosevelt picked up their conversation where they had left it the previous evening, swapping scurrilous rumours about members of the various diplomatic delegations. As he was relating a particularly juicy bit of gossip he had picked up from a code clerk, Swing looked across the room and saw a familiar figure dressed in the U.S. Army officer’s uniform of dark blue jacket and light blue trousers.

  “Please excuse me, Franklin,” Swing said, interrupting his story about the sexual forays of a Third Secretary from the French Embassy. “I see an old friend I haven’t spoken to in a while.”

  Roosevelt smiled amiably. “I’ll let you go, Raymond, but only if you promise to explain exactly what M. Levesque and the two young ladies did with that bathtub full of large-curd cottage cheese when next we meet.”

  Swing promised to finish the story at their next meeting, then made his way across the room until he stood right behind the officer. He tapped the soldier on the shoulder. “Hi, Joe. It’s been a while,” he said, extending his hand to Joe Stilwell, who he now saw wore two gleaming bars of silver on each of his shoulder straps. “Congratulations on your promotion. I see someone upstairs finally had the sense to make you a captain. You probably should be a light colonel by now, if anybody wants my opinion.”

  Stilwell’s face split in a grin. “You know what they say,” he replied as he shook Swing’s hand, “the higher a monkey climbs up a pole, the more you see of his behind. Apparently, somebody at the War Department liked the work I did for them over in Berlin and…” he paused, looking a little embarrassed, and his voice dropped as he finished, “…Ambassador Gerard gave me an excellent evaluation and recommended the promotion.”

  “What?” asked Swing incredulously. “You mean the Ambastad…”

  “Yeah,” Stilwell interjected hurriedly. “Maybe I was a little unfair to him. But I think you have to take some of the credit, or blame, as the case may be, old sport. That information you dug up on the chlorine gas program and the new torpedo really woke them up in Washington. They finally realise how far behind the Krauts we are in weapons research.”

  “I’m glad to hear my information was worthwhile,” said Swing. “Is that why you are here?”

  “They wanted to have an expert on the German Army handy in case they needed one, and somebody seemed to think that I knew something about the subject,” Stilwell said. “Let’s get a cup of java and sit down for a real talk. I think we have a few minutes before the powwow resumes.”

  They were in a spacious, high-ceilinged lobby that served as the antechamber to the auditorium where the diplomats were negotiating. The lobby had a buffet set up along one wall containing coffee, tea, pastries, rolls and an assortment of cold cuts for the attendees. Stilwell and Swing each drew coffee from a silver urn, and then adjourned to a pair of vacant armchairs set on either side of a small table.

  “The last time I saw you was back in January,” Stilwell said. “You covered the Cracow Conference. Kaiser Bill really squeezed the Russians, didn’t he?”

  “The Germans had a simple, but effective negotiating technique. Until the Tsar’s diplomats signed the treaty, their army kept advancing and all the land they occupied was added to German territory,” Swing said. “You had to feel sorry for the Russians. They brought a former Premier, Count Kokovtsov, out of retirement to head their delegation. He made several very dignified and eloquent appeals to the Germans’ sense of justice, which was like trying to get meat away
from a shark by reasoning with it. After a week of these farcical negotiations, the Russians caved in and signed what the Germans put in front of them. They didn’t really have a choice - Russia was incapable of continuing the war.”

  “It’s no wonder they didn’t want to sign. The terms of the treaty were brutal,” Stilwell said. “Russian Poland split between Germany and Austria-Hungary; Bessarabia sliced off and handed to Romania, and Ukraine, Belorussia, Lithuania, Latvia, Estonia and Finland granted their ‘independence’.”

  “Yes, and how odd that all these new ‘independent’ states picked members of the German nobility as their new rulers,” Swing said. “And then immediately signed treaties which gave the German Empire control over their armies, their foreign relations and, oh yes, their police.”

  “Then immediately arrested any nationalists that weren’t quick enough to get out of their countries in time. The Germans aren’t really trying to persuade anybody that the new ‘nations’ are anything but a sham to cover their expansion,” Stilwell said. “They will all be annexed to Germany in a few months, is my guess.”

  “Except for Finland, Joe. Don’t forget Finland,” Swing reminded him. “But then, no German soldier ever set foot there. The Finns won their independence without help from anybody.”