1917: Beyond the Western Front (History of Warfare, 54)

1917: Beyond the Western Front

History of Warfare Editors

Kelly DeVries Loyola College in Maryland

Michael S. Neiberg University of Southern Mississippi

John France University of Wales Swansea Founding editors

Theresa Vann Paul Chevedden

VOLUME 54

1917: Beyond the Western Front Edited by

Ian F. W. Beckett

LEIDEN • BOSTON 2009

Cover illustration: German General Headquarters, General Paul von Hindenburg, Kaiser Wilhelm II, General Erich Ludendorff. ID: HD-SN-99-02150. (Download from http://www.dodmedia.osd.mil/DVIC_View/Still_Details.cfm? SDAN=HDS N9902150&JPGPath=/Assets/Still/1999/DoD/HD-SN-99-02150.JPG) This book is printed on acid-free paper. Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data 1917 : beyond the Western Front / edited by Ian F. W. Beckett. p. cm. — (History of warfare) Includes bibliographical references and index. ISBN 978-90-04-17139-8 (hbk. : alk. paper) 1. World War, 1914–1918. I. Beckett, I. F. W. (Ian Frederick William) II. Title: Beyond the Western Front. III. Series. D521.A18 2008 940.4—dc22

2008033148

ISSN 1385-7827 ISBN 978 90 04 17139 8 Copyright 2009 by Koninklijke Brill NV, Leiden, The Netherlands. Koninklijke Brill NV incorporates the imprints Brill, Hotei Publishing, IDC Publishers, Martinus Nijhoff Publishers and VSP. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, translated, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without prior written permission from the publisher. Authorization to photocopy items for internal or personal use is granted by Koninklijke Brill NV provided that the appropriate fees are paid directly to The Copyright Clearance Center, 222 Rosewood Drive, Suite 910, Danvers, MA 01923, USA. Fees are subject to change. printed in the netherlands

CONTENTS List of Contributors .................................................................... Introduction ................................................................................ Ian F. W. Beckett

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Planning for the Endgame: The Central Powers, September 1916–April 1917 .................................................. Lawrence Sondhaus

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Generalship and Mass Surrender during the Italian Defeat at Caporetto ............................................................................ Vanda Wilcox

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‘Weary Waiting is Hard Indeed’: The Grand Fleet after Jutland ..................................................................................... Nick Hewitt

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Counting Unrest: Physical Manifestations of Unrest and Their Relationship to Admiralty Perception .......................... Laura Rowe

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Climax in the Baltic: The German Maritime Offensive in the Gulf of Riga in October 1917 ........................................ Eric Grove

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Command, Strategy and the Battle for Palestine, 1917 ............ Matthew Hughes

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The Army in India in Mesopotamia from 1916 to 1918: Tactics, Technology and Logistics Reconsidered ................... Kaushik Roy

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War Comes to the Fields: Sacrifice, Localism and Ploughing Up the English Countryside in 1917 ..................................... Keith Grieves

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Index ...........................................................................................

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LIST OF CONTRIBUTORS Professor Ian Beckett is Professor of History and Director of the Centre for the Historical Experience of War at the University of Northampton. His publications include Territorials: A Century of Service, The Great War, 1914–1918, and Ypres: The First Battle, 1914. Dr Keith Grieves is Reader in History in the School of Education at Kingston University. His publications include The Politics of Manpower and Sussex in the First World War. Professor Eric Grove is Professor of Naval History and Director of the Centre for International Security and War Studies at the University of Salford. His publications include Vanguard to Trident, The Future of Sea Power, and The Price of Disobedience. Nick Hewitt is the Historian and Interpretation Officer at the Imperial War Museum’s HMS Belfast in London. Dr Matthew Hughes is Reader at Brunel University and, in 2008–9, Major General Matthew C. Horner Professor of Military Theory at the US Marine Corps University, Quantico, Virginia. His publications include Allenby and British Strategy in the Middle East, 1917–19, Allenby in Palestine, and (with Matthew Seligmann) Does Peace lead to War? Laura Rowe is a postgraduate in the Department of War Studies, King’s College, University of London. Dr Kaushik Roy is a Researcher at the Centre for the Study of Civil War (CSCW) at the International Peace Research Institute, Oslo. His publications include From Hydaspes to Kargil: A History of Warfare in India, and India’s Historic Battles. Professor Lawrence Sondhaus is Director of the Institute for the Study of War and Diplomacy at the University of Indianapolis. His publications

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list of contributors

include The Naval Policy of Austria-Hungary, 1867–1918, Franz Conrad von Hötzendorf: Architect of Apocalypse, and Naval Warfare, 1815–1914. Dr Vanda Wilcox is Adjunct Assistant Professor of History at John Cabot University, Rome.

INTRODUCTION Ian F. W. Beckett When it comes to 1916, popular general histories of the Great War tend to dwell largely upon Verdun and the Somme as the year’s defining conflicts. The Western Front, therefore, dominates the popular historiography though Jutland occasionally makes a token appearance. Popular accounts of 1917 are rather more balanced since it can hardly escape notice that the United States finally entered the conflict in April and Russia left it as a consequence of its two ‘revolutions’ in March and November. Still, however, the Nivelle offensive and its consequences for the French army, and the Third Battle of Ypres, popularly known as Passchendaele, have a significant role to play in popular historiography, the latter especially so in the case of British accounts. There is no doubt that, in the case of the British army, 1917 marks a crucial point on the ‘learning curve’ with respect to the improvement of operational and tactical performance on the Western Front. Those two seminal manuals, SS135 Instructions for the Training of Divisions for Offensive Action and SS143 Instructions for the Training of Platoons for Offensive Action appeared respectively in December 1916 and February 1917.1 Improvement was certainly evident at Vimy and Arras in April 1917 though, of course, this still did not amount to the ability to breakthrough to the ‘green fields beyond’. Similarly, the German concept of ‘defence in depth’ evolved over the winter of 1916–17, with Grundsätze für die Führung in der Abwehrschlacht im Stellungskrieg (‘Basic Principles for the Conduct of the Defensive Battle in Position Warfare’) also appearing in December 1916: it was the German withdrawal to the newly prepared defensive positions of the 1 Paddy Griffith, Battle Tactics on the Western Front: The British Army’s Art of Attack, 1916–18 (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1994); idem, ‘The Extent of Tactical Reform in the British Army’, in Paddy Griffith, ed., British Fighting Methods in the Great War (London: Routledge, 1996) pp. 1–22; Chris McCarthy, ‘Queen of the Battlefield: the Development of Command Organisation and Tactics in British Infantry Battalions during the Great War’, in Gary Sheffield and Dan Todman, eds., Command and Control on the Western Front (Staplehurst: Spellmount, 2004), pp. 173–94; John Lee, ‘Some Lessons of the Somme: the British Infantry in 1917’, in Brian Bond, ed., Look to Your Front (Staplehurst: Spellmount, 1999), pp. 79–88.

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Siegfriedstellung (Siegfried position) between February and April 1917 that did much to unhinge Nivelle’s offensive. While the British succeeded in taking the Messines ridge on 7 June 1917 through a spectacular use of underground mines, the successive defensive lines constructed in Flanders were to blunt the subsequent Passchendaele offensive. 2 The Germans used mustard gas for the first time in the West in July 1917 and Cambrai on 20 November 1917 saw the first extensive use of tanks by the British, for all their technical limitations. Most of the British gains were wiped out by the German counter-attack starting on 30 November, featuring the use of Sturmtruppen (Stormtroop) formations. Yet, in terms of purely military developments, the potency of the new German methods in attack—not least in terms of artillery tactics—had already been demonstrated at Riga on the Eastern Front on 1 September and then in Italy at Caporetto on 24 October. Indeed, Vanda Wilcox’s essay reminds us that it was not just the French and the Russian armies that came close to collapse under the strain of war in the course of 1917 though she emphasises that it was military defeat rather than panic that caused the temporary collapse of morale. In just four days, the Italians lost what they had taken 30 months to gain, the tenth and eleventh battles of the Isonzo having been undertaken in May and August respectively. In any case, by the autumn of 1917 the Italians had advanced just 18 miles into Austro-Hungarian territory at the cost of a million casualties.3 Morale was equally of concern in the Royal Navy as both Laura Rowe and Nick Hewitt illustrate. Jutland had proved something of an aberration in terms of the usual pattern of events in the North Sea though, as Hewitt shows, the popular perception of the lack of interest on the part of the High Seas Fleet in renewing its challenge to the Grand Fleet is a misrepresentation. On land, there was always the prospect of action, whether unwelcome or otherwise, but at sea, and especially in port, inaction was potentially dangerous. As Hewitt remarks, the Grand Fleet did what it needed to do in order to maintain maximum pressure on the High Seas Fleet and, in any case, as Rowe 2 Timothy Lupfer, The Dynamics of Doctrine: The Change in German Tactical Doctrine during the First World War (Leavenworth, KS, US Army Command and General Staff College, 1981), pp. 1–30; Martin Samuels, Command or Control? Command, Training and Tactics in the British and German Armies, 1888–1918 (London: Frank Cass, 1995), pp. 161–97. 3 John Gooch, ‘Italy during the First World War’, in Allan Millet and Williamson Murray, eds., Military Effectiveness: The First World War (Boston: Allen & Unwin, 1988) pp. 165–67.

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suggests, problems of morale within the Royal Navy were apolitical and the reality far from substantiating the actual concerns felt in the Admiralty. It was long periods of enforced idleness in Helsingfors (Helsinki), Reval (Tallinn) and Kronstadt that did much to radicalise the Russian Baltic Fleet, sailors from Kronstadt soon joining in the disturbances at St Petersburg in March 1917.4 Yet, as Eric Grove recounts in a reinforcement of Hewitt’s point about the High Seas Fleet, the Baltic was not in itself a theatre of total passivity, again emphasising that the German navy retained its determination to conduct active operations. Similarly, even after the revolution, the Russian Fleet was still quite capable of contesting German operations in the Baltic. There is a tendency to assume that amphibious operations during the war were largely confined to the British and French assault on the Dardanelles and Gallipoli peninsula in 1915. The Russians, for example, had undertaken amphibious operations in the Black Sea in 1916 and, of course, there was a plan to mount an amphibious assault on the Belgian coast in support of the Passchendaele offensive in 1917.5 One of the justifications of the Passchendaele offensive, of course, was the supposed threat to Channel shipping posed by German submarines operating out of Zeebrugge and Ostend: in fact, German destroyers posed a rather greater danger. Nonetheless, submarines were clearly of increasing significance in the battle to keep open the sea-lanes once Germany renewed unrestricted submarine warfare on 1 February 1917. As it happened, the first convoys had actually been utilised for the protection of the coal trade between Britain and France in February 1917 and for Scandinavian trade in April 1917 before the first official experimental convoy was run from Gibraltar to Plymouth on 10 May 1917. There was a dramatic increase in the loss of Entente shipping, rising from 464,599 tons in February to 597,001 tons in March and to 834,549 tons in April. After May, however, matters improved with a total of 99 homeward bound convoys having reached harbour safely

4 Norman E. Saul, Sailors in Revolt: The Russian Baltic Fleet in 1917 (Lawrence, KS: Regents Press, 1978), pp. 12–20, 27–36, 45–51, 64–80; Ewan Mawdsley, The Russian Revolution and the Baltic Fleet: War and Politics, 1917–18 (London: Macmillan, 1978), pp. 3–21. 5 Richard DiNardo, ‘Huns with Web-feet: Operation Albion, 1917’, War in History 12 (2005), pp. 396–417; Andrew Wiest, ‘The Planned Amphibious Assault’, in Peter Liddle, ed., Passchendaele in Perspective (Barnsley: Pen and Sword, 1997), pp. 201–14; Alf Peacock, ‘The Proposed Landing on the Belgian Coast, 1917’, Gunfire 11/12 (1988), pp. 2–50, 3–56.

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by October with only ten vessels lost. British losses in the last quarter of 1917 of 235 ships representing 702,779 tons were only just over half the peak figure of 413 ships representing 1.3 million tons lost in the second quarter of the year.6 The losses at the time were serious enough, however, and Keith Grieves demonstrates the significance of the submarine threat for the transformation of the British countryside as emphasis was put upon increased agricultural production. Rural areas had sometimes appeared to escape the full impact of the war, but as Grieves illustrates, the demands of the war economy could not be avoided. Nonetheless, sugar became the first commodity rationed in Britain on 31 December 1917. Food supply was critical to civilian morale and, indeed, there were food demonstrations in France and riots in Italy in the course of 1917. Some 10,000 came out on the streets of Paris in May, rising to 100,000 workers on strike in the Paris region by June. At least 510 died in food riots in Turin in August.7 Of course, it was not just Britain and its allies that faced potential starvation since the Allied economic blockade of its continental enemies would gain materially in strength and effectiveness with the entry of the United States into the war. Already in April cuts in the bread ration had sparked major strikes in Berlin and Leipzig and there were food riots again in July.8 While the United States had remained the leading neutral prior to 1917, it was Britain and the Royal Navy that had posed a greater threat to American interests in the intent to impose the blockade on the Central Powers. American entry, however, enabled renewed pressure to be put on Norway and Denmark with the United States placing an embargo on exports in October 1917. New negotiations with the Netherlands were not actually concluded until after the armistice though the Entente had by then seized much of the Dutch merchant fleet. The strain was telling, however, with food riots in Amsterdam in July 1917 as so much food produced in the Netherlands itself was being exported to Germany.9 In the wake of American entry into the war,

6 Ian F. W. Beckett, The Great War, 1914–18 2nd edn. (Harlow: Pearson Longman, 2007), pp. 245–46. 7 Thierry Bonzon and Belinda Davis, ‘Feeding the Cities’, in Jay Winter and J.-L. Robert, eds., Capital Cities at War: London, Paris, Berlin, 1914–19 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1997), pp. 305–41. 8 Holger Herwig, The First World War: Germany and Austria-Hungary (London: Edward Arnold, 1997), pp. 361–65, 376–79. 9 Hermann de Jong, ‘Between the Devil and the Deep Blue Sea: The Dutch Economy during World War I’, in Stephen Broadberry and Mark Harrison, eds., The Economies

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Panama and Cuba also declared war on Germany on 7 April and, in the course of the summer and autumn of 1917, Bolivia, Costa Rica, the Dominican Republic, Ecuador, Guatemala, Honduras, Nicaragua, Peru and Uruguay all broke off diplomatic relations. Peru did so after a Peruvian vessel, the Lorton, was sunk by a German submarine and unrestricted submarine warfare was also instrumental in bringing Brazil into the war on 26 October 1917. Guatemala, Nicaragua, Costa Rica, Honduras and Haiti were all subsequently to declare war on Germany in 1918.10 The centrality of the German decision to resurrect the policy of unrestricted submarine warfare to the events of 1917 is obvious. Hence, Lawrence Sondhaus’s careful analysis of German decision-making is particularly valuable. It was a gamble but one most believed worth taking. Thus, although 1917 was Germany’s best chance to make a successful negotiated peace, this was unacceptable to those like Hindenburg and Ludendorff who still clutched at the possibility of victory. Initially cautious in their response to the speech on 6 July by the leader of the Centre Party, Mathias Erzberger, that the war could not be won, they utterly repudiated such a notion following the Reichstag Peace Resolution on 19 July even though the actual resolution was somewhat ambiguous in not excluding the possibility of other means than annexation of securing German influence in Europe. At least there were some successes for the Germans in forcing both Romania and the Bolsheviks to sign armistices in December 1917, the Germans having facilitated Lenin’s return to Russia. The fourth year of the war for the original belligerents and the growing military, political and social and economic costs was to become particularly evident in the concerted attempts to counter war-weariness and remobilise public opinion for yet greater sacrifices in Britain, France and Germany as characterised by the establishment of the National

of World War One (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2005), pp. 137–68; Hubert P. Van Tuyll Van Serooskerken, The Netherlands and World War I (Leiden: Brill, 2001), pp. 58–70, 83–100, 131–43, 177–254; Har Schmidt, ‘Dutch and Danish Agricultural Exports during the First World War’, Scandinavian Economic History Review 44 (1996), pp. 161–82. 10 A. O. Saldanha da Gama, ‘The European War and the Brazilian Decision to enter the War’, International Commission for Military History, Acta 10, pp. 186–90; Olivier Compagnon, ‘1914–18: The Death Throes of Civilisation: The Elites of Latin America face the Great War’, in Jenny Macleod and Pierre Purseigle, eds., Uncovered Fields: Perspectives in First World War Studies (Leiden: Brill, 2004), pp. 279–95.

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War Aims Committee, the Union des Grandes Associations contre la Propagande Ennemie (‘Union of Associations against Enemy Propaganda’) and the Vaterlandspartei (‘Fatherland Party’) respectively. It was also paralleled in Italy with the appearance of the Opere Federate di Assistenza e di Propaganda Nazionale (‘Federated Society for Assistance and National Propaganda’).11 Negotiated peace had become a metaphor for wider opposition to the war, the call by the International Socialist Bureau for a new peace conference in April 1917 being taken up by the Petrograd Soviet in May with a joint appeal in July for a conference at Stockholm to which the Russian Provisional Government lent its support. In the event, the French government withheld passports from the French socialist delegation and British seamen refused to transport the British socialist delegation with the result that the initiative effectively foundered.12 While liberal democracies like Britain, France and the United States enjoyed greater legitimacy in the eyes of their population than more coercive political systems such as that of Imperial Germany, much still depended upon the ability and authority of political leaderships. 1917, therefore, was a time for a display of political nerve. Lloyd George, who had become British prime minister in December 1916, lost the Labour leader, Arthur Henderson, as a member of the War Cabinet as a result of the aborted Stockholm process and, in January 1918, he would be compelled to define British war aims in response to Lord Lansdowne’s public demand for peace on 29 November 1917. Lloyd George had also faced the escalation of war in the air over Britain with the first strategic bombing raid by conventional Gotha aircraft on Folkestone on 25 May with the campaign soon extending to London. The raid on the capital on 13 June by 14 Gothas, causing 162 deaths and near-panic in the East End—sixteen of the deaths were at the North Street School in Poplar—was followed by the appearance of 21 Gothas over London in daylight on 7 July. There were riotous assaults on allegedly German-owned property in the East End and the affair not only played decisive role in the establishment of the Smuts Committee—and, therefore, the ultimate creation of the Royal Air Force in

11 John Horne, ‘Introduction’, and ‘Remobilising for Total War: Britain and France, 1917–18’, in John Horne, ed., State, Society and Mobilisation (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1997), pp. 1–18, 195–211. 12 H. Meynell, ‘The Stockholm Conference of 1917’, International Review of Social History 5 (1960), pp. 1–25, 203–25.

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April 1918—but also persuaded King George V to change his dynastic name from Saxe-Coburg-Gotha to Windsor. It was only on 16 November that Clemenceau succeeded Painlevé as French prime minister, Briand having previously resigned in March, and Ribot in September. Clemenceau was to pursue perceived internal enemies vigorously—French national morale had dipped lowest in May and June 1917—though his attempted remobilisation of the national will in his total war speech in November 1917 tended to increase divisions.13 Similarly, it was only in October that Orlando became Italian prime minister. In Greece, however, an old contender had returned to the fore, Venizelos returning to Athens with allied support in June following the forced abdication of King Constantine, with Greece formally declaring war on Germany on 30 June.14 Tisza had been dismissed as Hungarian prime minister in May, his opposition to an extension of the franchise having exasperated the new young Emperor Karl, Franz Joseph having died in November 1916. Karl, of course, had also embarked upon an attempt to find a negotiated peace, acting through the agency of his brother-in-law, Prince Sixte or Sixtus) of Bourbon-Parma, a French national serving in the Belgian army, the effort continuing until June 1917.15 German relations with Austria-Hungary, of course, had become fraught over the prolonged wrangle as to the future of Poland and, while Lloyd George was to indicate in his speech on war aims in January 1918 that Italy’s irredentist claims would not be supported, there was also danger in his recognition of the need for self-determination within the Austro-Hungarian Empire. Indeed, Britain had already recognised the Polish National Committee in October 1917 and the French had raised a Polish army in July.

13 P. J. Flood, France, 1914–18: Public Opinion and the War Effort (London: Macmillan, 1990), pp. 107–17, 147–65; Jean-Jacques Becker, The Great War and the French People (Leamington Spa: Berg, 1985), pp. 77–93, 195–204, 217–35, 239–45, 298–301; Leonard Smith, S. Audoin-Rouzeau and Annette Becker, France and the Great War (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2003), pp. 115–16, 131–45. 14 See George B. Leontaritis, Greece and the First World War: From Neutrality to Intervention, 1917–18 (New York: Columbia University Press, 1990); David Dutton, ‘The Deposition of King Constantine of Greece, June 1917: An Episode in Anglo-French Diplomacy’, Canadian Journal of History 12 (1978), pp. 325–45. 15 Gabor Vermes, ‘Leap into the Dark: The Issue of Suffrage in Hungary during World War I’, in Robert A. Kann, Béla Kiràly and Paula Fichtner, eds., The Habsburg Empire in World War I (Ithaca, NY: Columbia University Press, 1977), pp. 29–44; E. P. Keleher, ‘Emperor Karl and the Sixtus Affair’, Eastern Europe Quarterly 26 (1992), pp. 163–84.

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The recall of the Austrian Reichsrat in May had seen it functioning largely as a forum for Czech discontent and there were soon ‘Yugoslav’ demands for autonomy. Thus, while Germany might be ‘shackled to a corpse’, as Sondhaus shows, Austria-Hungary in turn was irretrievably caught in Germany’s embrace for good or ill. Bethmann-Hollweg had also been ousted as German Chancellor in July, to be followed by his successor, Michaelis, in October. Bethmann had finally fallen as Hindenburg and Ludendorff tightened their grip on supreme power in the wake of the Reichstag Peace Resolution while Michaelis had gone following its vote for reform of the Prussian franchise. He had also failed in an attempt to censure the new Unabhängige Sozialdemokratische Partei Deutschlands (German Independent Social Democratic Party) or USPD, formed in April 1917, for its alleged role in fostering a short-lived naval mutiny at Wilhelmshaven in August: Rosa Luxemburg was arrested in July 1917. Bethmann had been forced to promise post-war reform of the Prussian franchise in February 1917 and the Kaiser was persuaded to make the same commitment in April, signing a suffrage bill in July though it had not reached its final stage by the time the war ended.16 The situation within Germany, Austria-Hungary and Bulgaria was deteriorating but it would still require a substantial breakdown in the functioning of the state and in the capacity of political leadership to convert the militancy experienced in most belligerents into actual social and political collapse as in Russia, where following the Bolshevik coup, Latvia, Finland and the Ukraine all declared independence before the end of the year. The last of the Central Powers—the Ottoman Empire—also faced increasing difficulties in 1917. As Matthew Hughes relates, the transformation of British military leadership in Palestine with the arrival of Allenby saw the capture of Jerusalem on 9 December. He also suggests that the actual management of British strategy in terms of the relationship between Lloyd George and his generals was rather better than sometime believed. As Kaushik Roy shows, matters had also greatly improved in terms of the Indian army’s conduct of the campaign in Mesopotamia with Maude’s renewed offensive towards Baghdad, which

16 Martin Kitchen, ‘Hindenburg, Ludendorff and the Crisis of German Society, 1916–18’, in Tim Travers and C. Archer, eds., Men at War: Politics, Technology and Innovation in the Twentieth Century (Chicago: Precedent, 1982), pp. 21–48.

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resulted in its capture on 11 March 1917. Lessons were learned for the Indian army’s future operations in the immediate post-war period. The collapse of Ottoman power raised particularly momentous issues. In July Arab forces, partly inspired by T. E. Lawrence, had captured Aqaba before operating in support of Allenby’s offensive. The Arab ‘revolt’, which had begun in June 1916, had been predicated on allied promises regarding a future Arab kingdom. These promises had been negated by the Sykes-Picot agreement between Britain and France for the division of the spoils the Middle East even before the revolt began. Then on 2 November 1917 matters were further muddied by the British support for Zionist aspirations through the Balfour Declaration.17 Elsewhere, 1917 was also the year of decision for China and Siam (Thailand), China breaking off diplomatic links with Germany on 14 March and declaring war on Germany and Austria-Hungary on 14 August, and Siam declaring war on Germany and Austria-Hungary on 22 July 1917. The Chinese had actually offered troops to help take the German port of Tsingtao in August 1914 and again offered to supply Britain with rifles and ammunition in November 1915. Chinese assistance would have been accepted but for the intransigence of the Japanese, who of course had joined the Entente in August 1914 and had been steadily increasing influence within China ever since. Nonetheless, the Chinese Foreign Ministry had entered contracts to supply labourers to the British and French armies in 1916, the first contingent of 96,000 destined for the British rear areas leaving China in January 1917 and routing through Canada. Their weakness in the face of Japanese demands had made the Chinese all too aware of the need to obtain representation at any post-war peace conference and response to an American note to neutrals in February 1917 inviting them to sever diplomatic ties with Germany was seen as a means of securing China’s future interests. American entry into the war posed the problem of formally aligning the United States with Japan and the success of the prime minister, General Tuan Chi-jui (Duan Qirui) in besting the more cautious president, Li Yuan-hung brought the Chinese into the war. Japanese sensitivities were then assuaged by the Lansing-Ishii agreement on 2 November 1917 by which Washington recognised Japan’s ‘special interests in China. Thai awareness of the

17 A useful summary of the tangled politics of the Middle East during the war is David Fromkin, A Peace to End All Peace (New York: Henry Holt & Co., 1989).

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danger of neutrality in the event of an Entente victory equally brought their entry to the war.18 Bethmann likened the decision to resume unrestricted submarine warfare to a ‘second decision for war’.19 It certainly resulted in an even wider global conflict than that unleashed by German decisions in 1914. Arguably, therefore, 1917 was a decisive year in terms of the eventual outcome of the war and, while Germany would ultimately be defeated on the Western Front, it was not anything that occurred in the fields of France and Flanders during 1917 that ensured that result.

18 F. R. Dickinson, War and National Reinvention: Japan in the Great War (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1999), pp. 84–116; Guoqi Xu, China and the Great War (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2005), pp. 81–199, 222–35; D. K. Wyatt, Thailand: A Short History (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1984), pp. 230–32. 19 Beckett, Great War, p. 192.

PLANNING FOR THE ENDGAME: THE CENTRAL POWERS, SEPTEMBER 1916–APRIL 1917 Lawrence Sondhaus Between September 1916, when Paul von Hindenburg and Erich Ludendorff were granted sweeping authority over the war effort of the Central Powers, and April 1917, when the Germans ( just days after the United States entered the war) sent Vladimir Lenin home to Russia, Germany and Austria-Hungary crafted their ultimate plan for victory in the Great War. Their decisions during these months did much to shape the course of the remainder of the conflict and, in particular, the course of the war during 1917, in the fighting beyond the Western Front. To varying degrees the outcomes of the major actions of 1916 (the Somme, Verdun, Jutland, Austria-Hungary’s Tyrol offensive, and the Russian ‘Brusilov offensive’) influenced their planning for the endgame, but in the end their own deteriorating relationship with each other would matter more than anything else. While on the surface the measures agreed upon by Germany and Austria-Hungary during these months strengthened their common war effort and solidified their alliance, the consolidation of decision-making authority in German hands marked the end of the Habsburg empire’s centuries-old status as an independent great power, accelerating its collapse by causing those who still believed in the Dual Monarchy to lose hope in its future. At the start of the war Germany and Austria-Hungary had the longest-standing formal partnership of any of the great powers, having been allies, officially, since 1879, but unlike France and Russia their prewar relationship did not include a military convention. Their respective chiefs of the general staff, Helmuth von Moltke and Franz Conrad von Hötzendorf, got along very well, but Conrad, for example, remained ignorant of basic elements of the German war plan against France, such as the violation of Belgian neutrality.1 Following the assassination of Archduke Franz Ferdinand, Austria-Hungary pursued a plan for a

1 Holger H. Herwig, ‘Disjointed Allies: Coalition Warfare in Berlin and Vienna, 1914’, Journal of Military History 54 (1990), pp. 274–76; Lawrence Sondhaus, Franz Conrad von Hötzendorf: Architect of the Apocalypse (Boston: Brill Academic Publishers, 2000), p. 101.

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short and decisive war to crush Serbia, securing the so-called ‘blank cheque’ from Germany as insurance in the event that Russia intervened on Serbia’s behalf, but at the end of July 1914 found itself trapped in a commitment to support Germany in a continental war in which its primary duty (at least initially) was to protect the German eastern flank against Russia for six weeks while the Germans concentrated their forces in the west for a knockout blow against France. While Conrad dutifully absorbed punishing losses in Galicia for forty-three days before ordering his armies to fall back on Cracow, Moltke fell short of taking Paris. Conrad later remarked that the Germans had lost the war for the Central Powers in September 1914, by losing the First Battle of the Marne.2 At the time he did not think the war was lost but also did not think it still could be won. The Germans waited several days before informing Conrad of the magnitude of their defeat, or that Moltke, having succumbed to a nervous breakdown, had been replaced by Erich von Falkenhayn.3 In contrast to his positive relationship with Moltke, Conrad did not get along at all with Falkenhayn, who could barely conceal his contempt for Austria-Hungary. Early in the war, long before it deserved such a description, Falkenhayn dismissed the Dual Monarchy as a ‘cadaver’.4 For his part, Conrad in his wartime interactions with the Germans often felt exasperated with what he called the ‘high-handedness and impertinence, which has made the north Germans so hated throughout the world’,5 characteristics personified in Falkenhayn. While many (if not most) historians of the First World War have depicted the Dual Monarchy as an unworthy ally of the Second Reich, a drain on its resources, more trouble than it was worth, and so forth, few have studied the partnership of the Central Powers from the perspective of Vienna and Budapest, and thus have failed to understand fully the tensions that plagued the alliance throughout the war. Indeed, for 2 Conrad, ‘Denkschrift über das Verhmältniss der ö.u. Monarchie zu Deutschland’, n.d., Österreichisches Staatsarchiv, Kriegsarchiv (KA), B/1450: 143. 3 Holger H. Herwig, The First World War: Germany and Austria-Hungary, 1914–1918 (London: Arnold, 1997), pp. 106–07. 4 On the Conrad-Falkenhayn relationship, see Holger Afflerbach, Falkenhayn: Politisches Denken und Handeln im Kaiserreich (Munich: R. Oldenbourg Verlag, 1994), pp. 196–97, 249–52; Gerald Silberstein, The Troubled Alliance: German-Austrian Relations 1914 to 1917 (Lexington, KY: University Press of Kentucky, 1970), pp. 117–18, 154, 261–67; and Sondhaus, Conrad, pp. 167–69, 174–77, 182–83, 188–92. 5 Conrad to Gina Conrad von Hötzendorf, Teschen, 16 November 1916, KA, B/1450: 357.

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good reason a generation ago historian Gary Shanafelt characterized Germany as Austria-Hungary’s ‘secret enemy’, emphasizing the irony that the country upon which the Dual Monarchy most depended for its survival was, by its own wartime actions, the country ultimately most responsible for the Habsburg empire’s demise.6 After taking over as chief of the General Staff in September 1914, Falkenhayn rarely departed from his conviction that Germany could only win the war by winning in the west, and only reluctantly (and temporarily) redeployed significant forces to other fronts. On its own, the Austro-Hungarian army could do little other than stand on the defensive, but with German help its troops fought successfully, albeit with the frustration of having the resulting victories recorded as ‘German’ victories. For example, German troops under General August von Mackensen spearheaded the breakthrough at Tarnów-Gorlice in the spring of 1915, which led to the liberation of Austrian Galicia and occupation of Russian Poland, then were hailed as the conquerors of Serbia in the fall of 1915, even though in the first campaign two-thirds of the troops under Mackensen’s overall command were Austro-Hungarian, and in the second, three-quarters were either Bulgarian or Austro-Hungarian. To make matters worse, long before the arrangements of September 1916 formally placed the Austro-Hungarian army under the German High Command, Falkenhayn repeatedly violated command-and-control arrangements he had made with Conrad, for example, issuing orders to Mackensen in the campaigns of 1915 as if he were any other German general commanding only German troops.7 This inter-allied animosity helped shape the outcome of the major land campaigns of the spring and summer of 1916, in which each of the Central Powers went its own way. Having seen what could be accomplished with German help, especially in the crushing of Serbia, Conrad in December 1915 appealed to Falkenhayn for assistance in delivering a knockout blow against Italy, which had entered the war on the side of the Entente the previous May. Falkenhayn rejected the idea and instead planned to muster German strength for a war of attrition on the Western Front, attacking the French at Verdun. As Isabel Hull has explained, Falkenhayn’s ‘cold, self-wasting calculation’ was grounded

6 Gary W. Shanafelt, The Secret Enemy: Austria-Hungary and the German Alliance, 1914– 1918 (Boulder, CO: East European Monographs, 1985). 7 Sondhaus, Conrad, pp. 174, 181–82.

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in his personal lack of faith in the decisive victory, a faith rooted in the Prussian-German military culture since the days of Helmuth von Moltke the Elder and the wars of German unification. It was a faith to which Conrad also subscribed; he responded to Falkenhayn’s rejection of his ideas by taking back from Mackensen an Austro-Hungarian army that had helped conquer Serbia, and using it in January 1916 to conquer Montenegro and northern Albania. This success, and a quiet Eastern Front, convinced Conrad that he could redeploy enough troops of his own from the east to launch an offensive against Italy without German aid. The plan enjoyed the political support of the Habsburg foreign minister, Count István Burián, and the Austro-Hungarian council of ministers, who were looking ahead to the eventuality of a compromise peace with the Entente, if not yet to a separate peace for the Dual Monarchy. In any event, they were unanimous in the view that a peace safeguarding the ‘prestige’ and ‘interests’ of Austria-Hungary would be possible only after a decisive victory against Italy.8 Conrad’s plan called for an attack out of the Tyrol salient in the Alps, hooking to the south and east, toward Venice and the Adriatic. If successful, the Austro-Hungarian offensive would cut off the rest of the Italian peninsula from the main body of the Italian army, deployed in the extreme northeast of the country along the Isonzo River, where in the past year Austro-Hungarian defenders had already rebuffed four Italian attempts to break through to Trieste. By the standards of the Western and Eastern fronts it was not a large operation, employing 14 divisions pulled from the Austro-Hungarian lines in Poland and on the Isonzo, but no one had ever attempted to cross the Alps with an army of that size. When belatedly informed of Conrad’s intention to attack without German help, Falkenhayn suggested that the troops would better serve the cause of the Central Powers at Verdun. Such a proposal only made Conrad all the more determined to proceed against the Italians. Even if the campaign turned out to be an indecisive bloodletting, at least the losses would come in pursuit of Austro-Hungarian, not German, objectives. The concentration of forces began in February and a mild winter left Conrad hoping that the offensive could begin in early April,

8 Isabel V. Hull, Absolute Destruction: Military Culture and the Practices of War in Imperial Germany (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 2005), pp. 215–17, 220–22; Manfried Rauchensteiner, Der Tod des Doppeladlers: Österreich-Ungarn und der Erste Weltkrieg (Vienna: Verlag Styria, 1993), pp. 319–20; Gerhard Artl, Die österreichisch-ungarischen Südtiroloffensive 1916 (Vienna: Österreichischer Bundesverlag, 1983), pp. 49–51.

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but heavy spring snows spoiled his plans and postponed the attack until mid-May, by which time the element of surprise had been lost. Plagued by infighting among Conrad’s subordinates and compromised by the need to ensure local victories for XX Corps, commanded by the heir to the throne, Archduke Karl, the offensive yielded very modest results. Beforehand the Alpine front had been entirely on the Austro-Hungarian side of the pre-war border; afterward, three Habsburg corps remained on Italian soil. Nevertheless, at its deepest point of penetration the offensive had pushed the Italians back only 25 km, and by the time it was called off in late June, the greatest secured gain anywhere along the front was only 20 km. Austro-Hungarian losses (killed, wounded, sick, missing, and prisoners lost) amounted to 43,000 men, compared to 76,000 for the Italians.9 The consequences of the Tyrol offensive for the situation on the Eastern Front proved to be far more significant than the disappointing outcome of the offensive itself. On 4 June 1916 Russia launched a massive attack against Austria-Hungary, known to history as the ‘Brusilov offensive’ after its commander, General Alexei Brusilov. Falkenhayn’s strategy at Verdun and Conrad’s Tyrol offensive helped motivate the Russians to strike; they had received pleas from both the French and the Italians to relieve pressure on their fronts by launching an offensive in the east.10 Brusilov’s steamroller, consisting of 658,000 men in four armies, crushed a part of the front under the overall command of German General Alexander von Linsingen, manned by four AustroHungarian armies and one mixed army consisting of German and Austro-Hungarian troops. Linsingen’s five armies were numerically weaker than Brusilov’s four, having been reduced to 620,000 men after Conrad redeployed several divisions to the Tyrol for the offensive against Italy.11 The results were disastrous and, for individual units at the very front, catastrophic. In the first three days of their offensive, Brusilov’s forces took 200,000 prisoners. In a single day, 5 June, 77 per cent of the men in the 1st (Vienna) Reserve Regiment (Schützenregiment) were killed. By 16 June the Austro-Hungarian Seventh Army had suffered losses of 9 Artl, Südtiroloffensive, 62–154 passim; Kurt Peball, ‘Führungsfragen der österreichisch-ungarischen Südtiroloffensive im Jahre 1916’, Mitteilungen des österreichischen Staatsarchivs 31 (1978): 422, 430; Sondhaus, Conrad, pp. 183–87. 10 Gunther E. Rothenberg, The Army of Francis Joseph (West Lafayette, IN: Purdue University Press, 1976), pp. 195–96; Norman Stone, The Eastern Front, 1914–1917 (New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1975), p. 246. 11 Herwig, First World War, p. 208.

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57 per cent, most of them killed or wounded, while the Fourth Army lost 54 per cent, most of them taken prisoner or deserted.12 The disaster prompted a hastily arranged trip by Conrad to Berlin, where Falkenhayn agreed to send ten German divisions to reinforce the Eastern Front on the condition that Conrad cancel his offensive against Italy and transfer four Austro-Hungarian divisions back to the east. The redeployments slowed, but did not stop, the methodical Russian advance, which took its toll on the new arrivals before finally grinding to a halt in late September. By then, Brusilov had pushed the entire front south of the Pripet Marshes at least 30 km and in some places 80 km westward, to the foothills of the Carpathian Mountains. In the end, Austro-Hungarian losses outstripped the total initial strength of the five armies targeted by the offensive: 370,000 troops killed or wounded and 380,000 taken prisoner. Added to those captured in earlier action, these prisoners swelled the total number of Habsburg soldiers in Russian captivity to a staggering two million. The Central Powers could take consolation only in the high cost of the victory for the Russians, who lost a million men in the ‘Brusilov offensive’ and completely exhausted their supplies.13 Even though Falkenhayn’s strategy of attrition at Verdun was arguably more ill-conceived than Conrad’s Tyrol offensive and just as responsible for leaving the Eastern Front dangerously weak, within Austria-Hungary civilian leaders blamed Conrad for the debacle. By the end of June 1916 they had lost confidence in their own High Command to such an extent that they trusted the German generals more than they trusted Conrad. Foreign Minister Burián, who had supported Conrad earlier in the year, now called for all future Austro-Hungarian offensives to be undertaken only after consultation with the Germans.14 But the Germans themselves were in disarray in the summer of 1916, as none of their own moves seemed to be working. After receiving command of the High Seas Fleet early in the year, Admiral

12 Rauchensteiner, Der Tod Des Doppeladlers, p. 351; Silberstein, Troubled Alliance, p. 314; Alon Rachamimov, POWs and the Great War: Captivity on the Eastern Front (Oxford: Berg, 2002), p. 33. 13 Figures from Rothenberg, Army of Francis Joseph, pp. 196–97; Herwig, First World War, pp. 209–11; and Rachamimov, POWs and the Great War, p. 106. On the lack of relevance of the Brusilov offensive to the outcome of the Tyrol offensive see Rothenberg, Army of Francis Joseph, p. 195; Artl, Südtiroloffensive, pp. 180–83; Peball, ‘Führungsfragen’, pp. 426n–427n. 14 Rauchensteiner, Der Tod des Doppeladlers, pp. 356, 363; Rothenberg, Army of Francis Joseph, p. 198.

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Reinhard Scheer had taken the entire fleet out on inconclusive sorties in February, March, and April, before his sortie of 31 May resulted in the Battle of Jutland, where the Germans sank more ships than they lost but, the following day, returned to port, leaving the Grand Fleet as master of the North Sea and the British blockade of Germany intact. For the German navy, the celebration of the ‘victory’ at Jutland soon gave way to gloom, upon the realization that the battle had done nothing to alter the strategic situation. In a report to Wilhelm II written on 4 July, Scheer conceded that further action by the surface fleet was unlikely to break the blockade or have a decisive effect on the course of the war. Instead, he advocated a renewal of unrestricted submarine warfare against allied shipping, a policy that Germany had pursued for seven months during 1915, but abandoned under pressure from the United States.15 At this stage the emperor and Chancellor Theobald von Bethmann Hollweg were not prepared to resume the unrestricted U-boat campaign, even after Falkenhayn supported Scheer, characterizing unrestricted submarine warfare as the naval corollary to the war of attrition on land and ‘an integral part of his Verdun strategy’. Throughout the spring and into the summer, Falkenhayn had continued to pour men into the cauldron at Verdun, convinced against all evidence that the French were suffering far greater losses than the Germans. Then, 1 July, in an operation that, in the words of Isabel Hull, ‘shook the German army like no other single event’, the British launched their offensive at the Somme. Within days Falkenhayn admitted to Wilhelm II ‘that his optimism was unfounded’.16 Thus, as the Central Powers faced disappointment on all fronts, Falkenhayn’s High Command represented one corner of a triangle of competition and intrigue also involving Conrad’s Austro-Hungarian High Command and the Hindenburg-Ludendorff headquarters on the German eastern front. While Falkenhayn’s stature, for the moment, remained undiminished, on 18 July Hindenburg’s was enhanced by the addition of command authority over all Austro-Hungarian forces stationed on the Eastern Front north of Lemberg (L’viv). The heir to the Habsburg throne, Archduke Karl, received titular command of the front south of Lemberg, with German General Hans von Seeckt as his chief of Paul G. Halpern, A Naval History of World War I (Annapolis, MD: Naval Institute Press, 1994), pp. 328–31; V. E. Tarrant, Jutland: The German Perspective (Annapolis, MD: Naval Institute Press, 1995), pp. 250–51. 16 Hull, Absolute Destruction, pp. 221, 224. 15

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staff, an arrangement that made Seeckt the de facto commander of that sector. With his own government not standing behind him, Conrad offered no resistance to the humiliating German takeover.17 Meanwhile, the threats facing Austria-Hungary continued to make the alliance with Germany ever more indispensable. Before Brusilov’s advance finally lost momentum at the foothills of the Carpathians, Italy resumed its offensive along the Isonzo River. In the sixth through ninth battles of the Isonzo (6 August to 4 November) the Italian army secured Gorizia and came dangerously close to Trieste. At the same time, the Russian success prompted neutral Romania to join the Entente. On 27 August Romanian troops invaded Transylvania.18 Coming in the midst of the costly German failure at Verdun, the failure of Falkenhayn to foresee the Romanian defection to the Entente provided the pretext for Wilhelm II to replace him with Hindenburg. Because he enjoyed better relations with Hindenburg and Ludendorff than with Falkenhayn, Conrad welcomed the move, yet conceded that Falkenhayn was a scapegoat for broader developments beyond his control.19 Hindenburg assumed the role of chief of the General Staff on 29 August, bringing Ludendorff with him as quartermaster general. Two days later he announced what came to be known as the ‘Hindenburg Programme’, a full mobilization of the German home front in support of the war effort. The programme, in fact developed and supervised by Ludendorff, set ambitious goals for German war industries, for example doubling the monthly production of munitions and artillery pieces, and tripling the monthly production of machine guns. Hindenburg and Ludendorff also received sweeping authority over the civilian population. By the end of the year the Reichstag passed legislation requiring all males aged 17 to 50 to be either in uniform or working in war-related industries or agriculture. As Martin Kitchen has noted, the programme had ominous domestic political consequences inasmuch

17 Peter Broucek, ‘Die deutschen Bemühungen um eine Militärkonvention mit Österreich-Ungarn (1915–1918)’, Mitteilungen des Instituts für österreichische Geschichtsforschung 87 (1979), pp. 448–50; Rothenberg, Army of Francis Joseph, p. 198; Shanafelt, Secret Enemy, pp. 87–88. 18 Rothenberg, Army of Francis Joseph, p. 197. 19 Afflerbach, Falkenhayn, pp. 448–50, 460–61. A staunch apologist for Falkenhayn, Afflerbach contends that Verdun had nothing to do with the success of the Brusilov offensive or Falkenhayn’s subsequent dismissal. He argues that Conrad’s Tyrol offensive led directly to the Russian offensive and the Romanian declaration of war, a sequence of events independent of Verdun. See ibid., p. 454.

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as the militarization of labour was ‘a serious threat to the working class’ and, if implemented successfully, a mortal blow to the Social Democratic Party, the primary internal opponent of Germany’s pre-war militarism and imperialism. Even though the Reichstag supported the mobilization of labour by a wide margin, the policy remained controversial and subsequent legislation would leave it riddled with loopholes. Controversy also dogged Ludendorff’s attempts to exploit the labour of German-occupied Belgium and the Polish territory held since 1915 by the Central Powers, efforts that foreshadowed Germany’s forcedlabour policies of the Second World War, yet on a very modest scale. But the ‘war socialism’ of the Hindenburg Programme foreshadowed National Socialism in more ways than one. Indeed, Hunt Tooley has noted that the overall scheme had ‘a distinct Stalinist air, but without outright expropriation of property’.20 It did not take long for the sweeping powers granted to Hindenburg and Ludendorff within the German context to be extended to the alliance as a whole. There would be no repeat of the spring and summer of 1916, with German and Austro-Hungarian commanders pursuing their own plans and offensives without even consulting one another. During September 1916 the Central Powers (including Bulgaria and the Ottoman Empire) ratified agreements making Wilhelm II their supreme allied commander, a concession that gave Hindenburg and Ludendorff operational control not only over the German army, but over the Austro-Hungarian, Bulgarian, and Turkish armed forces as well. Such subordination was particularly humiliating for the Habsburg Empire, which for centuries had been considered one of Europe’s great powers. A secret annex to the agreement, included at Conrad’s insistence, obligated the Germans to consult Emperor Franz Joseph on matters related to the ‘territorial integrity’ of the Dual Monarchy; otherwise, there was little to protect the country from a de facto German takeover. By the time the unified command was established, Germany already was subsidizing the war effort of Austria-Hungary at a rate of 100 million marks per month. In the future, the Germans would demand a better return on their investment, pressuring the Dual Monarchy to

20 Herwig, First World War, pp. 231, 239–40, 260–61; Martin Kitchen, The Silent Dictatorship: The Politics of the German High Command under Hindenburg and Ludendorff, 1916–1918 (London: Croom Helm, 1976), p. 70; T. Hunt Tooley, ‘The Hindenburg Program of 1916: A Central Experiment in Wartime Planning’, The Quarterly Journal of Austrian Economics 2, no. 2 (Summer 1999), p. 57.

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increase production as Germany itself had committed to do, under the Hindenburg Programme. In cases where Austria-Hungary came up short in producing its own materiel and supplies, Germany filled the void. Thus, by the end of 1916, Austro-Hungarian troops began to look like Germans, even if they did not fight like Germans. By the hundreds of thousands they were issued the new German steel helmets, and all new uniforms were tailored not in their own pike grey but German field grey, from cloth imported from Germany. While the change in the appearance of the troops was superficial, the symbolism behind it was powerful indeed.21 Conrad got along better with Hindenburg and Ludendorff than with Falkenhayn, and could count on them to treat him with respect on a personal and professional level, but when it came to amassing power for Germany at the expense of Austria-Hungary, he acknowledged that they were worse than Falkenhayn. Conrad observed that the German drive to dominate the alliance accelerated after September 1916 ‘not only in the military realm . . . but also in the political realm’. Germany sought to reduce Austria to the level of Bavaria, for its own good, according to an old friend of Conrad’s from the pre-war years, Baron Heinrich von Tucher, the Bavarian ambassador in Vienna. After the initial setbacks against the Russians in the summer and autumn of 1914, Tucher had visited Conrad’s headquarters and suggested that only ‘a strict regime’ and a ‘close union (Anschluss) with Germany’ would save Austria. He cited the ‘progress’ Bavaria had made ‘since 1866 . . . under Prussian hegemony’. At the time Conrad had rejected the notion out of hand, especially the comparison of Austria with Bavaria, but the defeats of the summer of 1916 changed his mind. By that autumn he conceded a closer ‘alignment’ (Angliederung) with Germany was a ‘necessity’ and the only means to prevent a seizure of power by ‘the Slavic element’ within the Austrian half of the Dual Monarchy. He saw this Slavic coup foreshadowed in ‘the bearing of the Czech troops’ (a regiment of which had deserted en masse to the Russians as early as April 1915), and in the overall anti-Habsburg sentiments of the Czech population. Conrad only regretted that an ‘alignment’ of Austria with Germany would mean independence or greater autonomy

21 Broucek, ‘Militärkonvention’, p. 450; Rauchensteiner, Der Tod des Doppeladlers, pp. 364–70; Rothenberg, Army of Francis Joseph, p. 199; Shanafelt, Secret Enemy, p. 88; Herwig, First World War, pp. 237–38.

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for Hungary and require the ‘division of the common [Austro-Hungarian] army’.22 He did not mention the fate of the Habsburg dynasty in such an arrangement; presumably, future Habsburg kings of a free Hungary would double as nominal monarchs of an Austria within the expanded German Reich, a role not unlike that played by the titular kings of Bavaria, Saxony, or Württemberg. But Conrad’s acceptance of the ‘necessity’ of German domination came with a distinct lack of enthusiasm. Later in the autumn of 1916 he indicated to his wife that he wished he ‘could finally be done with this “shoulder to shoulder” (Schulter an Schulter)’, mocking the slogan used by both allies since before the war to refer to their solidarity.23 After his dismissal from the German High Command, Conrad’s nemesis Falkenhayn made a quick recovery as a field commander. In the campaign against Romania, he led German and Austro-Hungarian troops to decisive victories. Mackensen enjoyed similar success at the head of a Bulgarian-based ‘Danube Army’ that also included German, Austro-Hungarian, and Turkish troops. By November 1916 they had occupied almost all of the country. As in the Tarnów-Gorlice breakthrough in the spring of 1915 and the subsequent advance against the Russians, in the Romanian campaign the Austro-Hungarians provided a greater share of the troops than the Germans (in this case, 46 per cent, compared to 22 per cent for the Germans and a combined 32 per cent for the Bulgarians and the Turks), but because the Germans provided the planning and leadership, they received most of the credit for the success. Dreams of the future exploitation of Romanian wheat and oil buoyed the spirits of the home front in Austria-Hungary, but the victory did nothing to revive the prestige of Conrad or the AustroHungarian army.24 Indeed, during the Romanian campaign, Franz Joseph asked the heir to the throne, Archduke Karl, to suggest alternative candidates

22 Conrad, ‘Denkschrift über das Verhältniss der ö.u. Monarchie zu Deutschland’, n.d. (‘in Teschen 1916 begonnen’, after September 1916), KA, B/1450: 143. An annotated index in KA, B/1450: 140 indicates that Conrad recorded reports of desertions and other problems in Czech and other units in a ‘Cechen-Faszikel I’ and ‘Cechen-Faszikel II’. On the turning point in Conrad’s view of the Germans see also Shanafelt, Secret Enemy, p. 105. On the ‘Bavaria’ analogy see Broucek, ‘Militärkonvention’, pp. 445, 456. 23 Conrad to Gina Conrad von Hötzendorf, Teschen, 16 November 1916, KA, B/1450: 357. 24 Rothenberg, Army of Francis Joseph, pp. 197–98.

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for Conrad’s position. Despite his recent harsh words for Conrad after the Tyrol offensive of May–June 1916, Karl advised the emperor not to dismiss him, on the grounds that the Germans obviously held Conrad in high regard. In addition to awarding him several prestigious decorations, Wilhelm II had appointed him ceremonial chief of a Prussian Guards regiment and soon would make him an honorary Generalfeldmarschall, distinctions otherwise reserved for foreign monarchs. Furthermore, Conrad seemed to enjoy good relations with Hindenburg and Ludendorff, who might be upset if he were sacked.25 For his part, Conrad’s personal correspondence reflected a growing weariness with the war, combined with an awareness that the renewed aggressiveness of German policy under Hindenburg and Ludendorff would preclude a compromise settlement with the Entente. For example, when the Central Powers recognized an ‘independent’ kingdom of Poland, the first state created out of any of their conquered territories, Conrad lamented that it made ‘the possibility of a peace’ even more remote.26 Though he decided not to replace Conrad, Franz Joseph did not give him a fresh vote of confidence and paid increasingly less attention to his opinions, especially on non-military matters. In October 1916, after the assassination of the Austrian minister-president, Count Karl Stürgkh, Conrad urged the emperor to fill the vacancy with a military man, a non-partisan figure with strong organizational skills.27 Instead, the emperor appointed a veteran civilian politician, Austro-Hungarian finance minister Ernst von Koerber, the first of a succession of weak ministers to head the Austrian cabinet during the last two years of the war. There would be no equivalent of Georges Clemenceau (or even Vittorio Orlando) to rally the home front.

25 Rauchensteiner, Der Tod des Doppeladlers, pp. 381–82; Rothenberg, Army of Francis Joseph, 202; Ferdinand Stöller, Feldmarschall Franz Graf Conrad (Leipzig: Friedrich Brandstetter, 1942), p. 20. An article in the Neue Freie Presse, 12 December 1914, clipping in KA, B/1450: 418, indicates that Conrad’s appointment as ceremonial chief of the 5th (Spandau) Guards Regiment had occurred by that time. 26 Conrad to Gina Conrad von Hötzendorf, Teschen, 15 November 1916, KA, B/1450: 357. Shortly after the proclamation of the kingdom of Poland on 5 November, Ludendorff acknowledged that Conrad had been right to oppose the project. ‘It became clear to us very soon that General von Conrad had assessed the circumstances correctly’. German plans to mobilize Polish manpower for the Central Powers proved unrealistic. See Erich Ludendorff, Meine Kriegserinnerungen, 1914–1918, 5th edn (Berlin: E. S. Mittler & Sohn, 1920), p. 317. 27 Rauchensteiner, Der Tod des Doppeladlers, p. 392.

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On 17 November Conrad went to Schönbrunn Palace for what would be his last meeting with Franz Joseph, a briefing on the progress of the war effort. The eighty-six year old emperor ‘followed my report with the customary interest but dozed off once and appeared to me to be much weaker than during my last audience. . . . He was friendly as always, rising to greet me upon my entry and standing to take leave of me; coming and going he shook my hand’.28 Franz Joseph’s death four days later came as a shock to Conrad. Ever since his appointment as chief of the General Staff in 1906, Conrad privately had criticized the emperor’s cautious policies, but like so many others he considered the passing of the old man to be the death knell of Austria-Hungary. He remarked to his wife that ‘now we will recognize the significance that the old emperor had for the preservation of the Monarchy’.29 At least initially, the change in monarchs appeared not to endanger Conrad’s position. On 25 November 1916, Emperor Karl promoted him to field marshal, a relatively rare honour in modern times (in his sixty-eight year reign, Franz Joseph had appointed only six men to the rank, and Conrad was the first non-Habsburg so promoted in forty-nine years).30 But within days, it became clear that the new emperor planned to reduce what was left of his authority. On 2 December Karl took personal command of the armed forces, leaving Conrad, at the age of sixty-four, directly subordinate to a twenty-nine year old monarch who actually intended to exercise military authority. After the first of the year Karl took the dramatic step of moving the army’s headquarters from Teschen in Moravia (about 80 km west of Cracow) to Baden, just south of Vienna, a location much more convenient to a reigning emperor serving as commander in chief. Conrad protested the move on the grounds that Austro-Hungarian headquarters should not be so far away from German headquarters at Pless in Silesia, an hour’s drive from Teschen. This soon became a moot point, as Hindenburg and

28 Conrad to Gina Conrad von Hötzendorf, Teschen, 18 November 1916, KA, B/1450: 357. 29 Gina Conrad von Hötzendorf, Mein Leben mit Conrad von Hötzendorf: Sein geistiges Vermächtnis (Leipzig: Grethlein & Co. Nachf., 1935), p. 156. 30 Ironically, in his two-year reign Charles appointed more field marshals (eight) than Francis Joseph appointed in sixty-eight years. See Georg Ludwigstorff, ‘Die Feldmarschälle der k.u.k. Armee im 1. Weltkriege und ihre Orden und Auszeichnungen’, Mag. Diplomarbeit, University of Vienna, 1989, pp. 12, 34.

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Ludendorff, acknowledging the primacy of the Western Front, moved the headquarters to Spa in Belgium later in 1917.31 The allied blockade was causing serious food shortages in Germany and Austria-Hungary by the winter of 1916–17, known in Central Europe as the ‘turnip winter’ after the bulbous taproot that remained in plentiful supply while bread and other staples grew scarce. During the ‘turnip winter’, the average German citizen was subsisting on 1,200 calories a day.32 Such conditions on the home front (worse yet, a home front being expected, under the Hindenburg Programme, to do much more for the war effort) raised the question of how long the Central Powers could continue the fight, even though their armies were entrenched on allied soil on all fronts. Barely a month after Jutland, Admiral Scheer had conceded that the German surface fleet could do nothing to break the British blockade in the North Sea; when his recommendation that unrestricted submarine warfare be resumed was not heeded, he resumed the High Seas Fleet’s regimen of regular sorties, taking the entire fleet out in August and again in October, and most of it in November, in each case without encountering the capital ships of the Grand Fleet.33 Meanwhile, Austria-Hungary’s much smaller navy faced even greater odds at the mouth of the Adriatic, where the Italian navy had imposed a blockade, reinforced by significant numbers of British and French warships. Under these circumstances the U-boat provided the best hope for the Central Powers to break the enemy stranglehold on the seas. A campaign of restricted submarine warfare (during which German U-boats attacked most of their targets while surfaced, after a warning, using their deck gun rather than torpedoes) sank over 1.5 million tons of allied shipping over the five months from September 1916 through January 1917, at a cost of just ten U-boats lost. Such results reflected the potential of the submarine strategy now that Germany had many more U-boats in service than in 1915, as the tonnage sunk over these five months was roughly double the total claimed in the seven months of unrestricted submarine warfare during 1915.34 Arguing that the German navy now had the resources to launch a truly

Rothenberg, Army of Francis Joseph, p. 202. Robert Asprey, The German High Command at War, Hindenburg and Ludendorff Conduct World War I (New York: William Morrow and Company, Inc., 1991), p. 314. 33 Lawrence Sondhaus, Navies in Modern World History (London: Reaktion Books, 2004), p. 192. 34 Halpern, Naval History of World War I, pp. 335–36. 31 32

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devastating campaign of unrestricted submarine warfare, Hindenburg and Ludendorff joined the chief of the Admiralstab, Admiral Henning von Holtzendorff, in prevailing upon the emperor and his chancellor to unleash the U-boats once again. On 9 January 1917, in a meeting held at headquarters in Pless, Wilhelm II and Bethmann Hollweg formally approved the renewal of unrestricted submarine warfare, effective 1 February. In a second meeting at Pless on 26 January, Emperor Karl and the commander of the Austro-Hungarian navy, Grand Admiral Anton Haus, met with Wilhelm II and German naval officials to work out the details of the Dual Monarchy’s participation in the campaign. The Austro-Hungarian navy agreed to send its own submarines out of the Adriatic to prey upon allied convoys between Malta and Salonika, and disarmed two cruisers to free up more personnel to support the German U-boats operating out of Cattaro, at the southern tip of Dalmatia.35 Conrad was not present at the second meeting at Pless, but four days earlier he had joined a majority of Austro-Hungarian ministers in endorsing participation in the campaign of unrestricted submarine warfare. He had favoured the measure as early as August 1916.36 Conrad understood the decision would bring an end to American neutrality but, like Hindenburg and Ludendorff, he viewed the Americans as silent partners of the Entente, already involved in the conflict as providers of food and supplies, and did not foresee American troops having an impact on the Western Front before 1918. Conrad and Admiral Haus thus agreed with the leading German generals and admirals that the submarine campaign was a gamble worth trying.37 As it turned out, Haus died on 8 February, after falling ill with pneumonia on the journey to Pless. Nineteen days later, Emperor Karl—who, unlike his chief of the General Staff, had not yet lost hope in the future of Austria-Hungary—finally dismissed Conrad, then ordered him (against his wish to retire) to accept a field command in the Tyrol. They were replaced by Admiral Maximilian Njegovan and General Arthur Arz von Straussenberg, far less commanding personalities for whom it would be far easier 35 Lawrence Sondhaus, The Naval Policy of Austria-Hungary: Navalism, Industrial Development, and the Politics of Dualism (West Lafayette, IN, 1994), pp. 293–94. 36 According to Oskar Regele, Feldmarschall Conrad: Auftrag und Erfüllung, 1906–1918 (Vienna: Verlag Herold, 1955), pp. 550–51. 37 Conrad to Nowak, Trieste, 18 October 1918, text in Karl Friedrich Nowak, Der Weg zur Katastrophe, 2nd edn (Berlin: Verlag für Kulturpolitik, 1926), p. xcv; Gina Conrad, Mein Leben mit Conrad, p. 159.

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to play the role of faithful, subservient ally to the Germans. In contrast, both Karl and Burián’s successor as foreign minister, Count Ottokar Czernin, had grave misgivings about unrestricted submarine warfare.38 Privately, Karl also doubted the wisdom of continuing the war at all. When unrestricted submarine warfare resumed in February 1917, Germany had 105 U-boats in its fleet and around three dozen deployed around the British Isles, and the abandonment of seven capital ship projects (two dreadnoughts and five battle cruisers) ensured that German shipyards would be able to build more than enough submarines to replace future losses. The new campaign claimed 520,410 tons in February, 564,500 tons in March, and an astounding 860,330 tons in April, three months during which just nine submarines were lost. Another 616,320 tons were sunk in May, and 696,725 tons in June.39 In resolving to renew unrestricted submarine warfare, the leaders of the Central Powers either discounted the danger of the United States intervening in the war or considered the campaign worth the risk. The American declaration of war against Germany on 6 April 1917 had no immediate effect on the land war, as the United States was in no position to deploy significant forces on the Western Front. At sea, the changing nature of the war made the US navy’s fourteen dreadnoughts practically irrelevant, but American pressure helped sway Admiral Jellicoe to agree to adopt a convoy system for merchantmen operating on the high seas, a decision formally taken on 27 April and implemented in June, after which the toll taken by U-boats would fall dramatically. Nevertheless, on the first anniversary of the resumption of unrestricted submarine warfare, the overall shipping tonnage at the disposal of the Allies would still be decreasing, even with new construction accelerated and dozens of German ships interned in US ports in 1914 added to the American merchant marine.40 Austria-Hungary’s contribution to unrestricted submarine warfare consisted primarily of providing and servicing bases in the Adriatic which enabled dozens of German U-boats to operate in the Mediterranean, where they recorded Sondhaus, Naval Policy of Austria-Hungary, p. 293. Halpern, Naval History of World War I, pp. 338–41; Sondhaus, Naval Policy of Austria-Hungary, pp. 293–94; Holger H. Herwig, ‘Innovation Ignored: The Submarine Problem—Germany, Britain, and the United States, 1919–1939’, in Williamson Murray and Allan R. Millett, eds., Military Innovation in the Interwar Period (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1996), p. 229; idem, ‘Luxury Fleet’, pp. 197–98. 40 Halpern, Naval History of World War I, pp. 342, 354, 357–60; Herwig, ‘Innovation Ignored’, p. 229. 38

39

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a significant share of their kills (for example, just over 250,000 tons of the record 860,330 tons in April 1917). The Austro-Hungarian navy only had 27 submarines in commission during the war (compared to 335 for the German navy), and never more than 20 at a time. Even after the resumption of unrestricted submarine warfare, they continued to be deployed primarily against the Entente’s warships attempting to operate in the Adriatic. In their best month, August 1917, they sank just 38,800 tons of allied shipping.41 Because the United States had a peacetime standing army of just 175,000 men (which would have been even smaller if not for an increase authorized by Congress in 1916), it would have to conscript and train almost all of the troops it sent to Europe. Optimists in the German camp believed that few, if any, American troopships would get past the U-boats (ultimately, thanks to the convoy system, only three troopships were torpedoed and 68 American soldiers lost at sea, while 2,079,880 made it safely to Europe).42 Realists, meanwhile, expected the United States to be able to deploy significant forces in France by the summer of 1918, which in the end proved to be the case. Thus American intervention set the clock ticking for Hindenburg and Ludendorff, as the Central Powers would have to come up with a way to win the war within the next 12–15 months. Their spirits had been lifted just three weeks before the American declaration of war, when revolution forced Tsar Nicholas II to abdicate. The provisional Russian government of Alexander Kerensky soon disappointed them (and the war-weary Russian people) by vowing to stay in the war. While this decision was bound to doom the Kerensky regime sooner or later, the Germans no longer had the luxury of time to wait for developments to unfold. On 9 April, the Monday following the American declaration of war, they activated a plan to send Vladimir Ilyich Ulyanov, known to history as Lenin, and other leading Marxist revolutionaries from their wartime exile in Switzerland home to Russia, where, it was hoped, they would cause enough trouble to force the country out the war. While Austria-Hungary was not involved in this plan, the Habsburg government knew Lenin well, having provided sanctuary for him (along with Zinoviev, Kamenev, and several other of his close collaborators) in the immediate pre-war years, playing with fire in retaliation for the

41 42

Sondhaus, Naval Policy of Austria-Hungary, p. 311. Sondhaus, Navies in Modern World History, p. 195.

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sanctuary and aid that Imperial Russia provided to various pan-Slav revolutionary groups seeking to destroy Austria-Hungary. Living in and around Cracow, the Bolshevik leaders had smuggled their revolutionary literature (and at times, revolutionary agents) across the border into Russian Poland. Stalin visited Lenin there, and also spent time in Vienna, where Trotsky lived from 1907 (although as an independent Marxist at the time, not a Bolshevik). They all had to leave AustriaHungary in August 1914, or else be interned there for the duration of the war as enemy aliens.43 Lenin and most of the others settled in Switzerland, which (after Italy entered the war in May 1915) became a virtual prison, completely surrounded by the belligerent powers. The first mention of Lenin in German records dates from November 1914, and in May 1915, following the initial breakthrough of the Central Powers at Tarnów-Gorlice, Lenin held his first meeting with Alexander Helphand, a Russian Marxist who, under the alias Parvus, also served as a German agent.44 Lenin, understandably wanting to avoid the stigma of appearing to be an agent or puppet of the Germans, subsequently dealt with Parvus as little as possible, but was desperate enough to return to Russia that, ultimately, he accepted transportation home aboard the so-called ‘sealed train’ and tens of millions of marks in German subsidies for his revolutionary activity. Almost to the very end, the German High Command had no connection to the Bolsheviks, as Parvus and other agents communicated with the German Foreign Ministry. Arthur Zimmerman, infamous for the intercepted telegram revealing his overture to bring Mexico into the war against the United States, was responsible for arranging Parvus’s first meeting with Ludendorff in mid-March. Ultimately it was Ludendorff who arranged for the week-long journey for Lenin’s party of 32 exiles, via Germany and neutral Sweden, to the Finland Station in Petrograd.45 While awaiting the results of their initiatives on the home front, at sea, and inside Russia, the High Command of the Central Powers resolved to stand on the defensive during 1917. In February German troops on the Western Front began their planned withdrawal to the Hindenburg Line, 160 km of formidable defensive works stretching from Arras to

43 Stefan T. Possony, Lenin: The Compulsive Revolutionary (Chicago: Henry Regnery Company, 1964), pp. 133–61, provides the most detailed account of Lenin’s years in Austria. 44 Possony, Lenin, pp. 176, 179. 45 Asprey, German High Command, p. 306; Possony, Lenin, pp. 202–17.

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Soissons, built during the winter of 1916–17 across a broad salient in the front. The strategic retreat had the net result of shortening the front by 50 km, freeing up several divisions for the reserve or service elsewhere. Austria-Hungary likewise focused on defending the front in the Alps and along the Isonzo. Aside from the east, where they stood ready to exploit a collapse of the Russian army, the Central Powers were dug in. They would respond to allied attacks, and counterattack when there was a clear advantage to be gained from it, but aside from Caporetto in October, Germany and Austria-Hungary would go the entire year without launching a major offensive. For the Central Powers, the resumption of unrestricted submarine warfare, the entry of the United States into the war, and the deliberate provocation of radical revolution in Russia raised the stakes considerably. Hindenburg and Ludendorff were completely comfortable with these decisions and, with the backing of Wilhelm II, disregarded or forced the dismissal of anyone who was not. Three months later the Reichstag would call for a compromise settlement in the so-called ‘Peace Resolution’, a measure which, in a true parliamentary system, would have compelled the government to sue for peace. Instead, Wilhelm II sacked Bethmann Hollweg, then made sure that the succession of weak chancellors who followed him remained subservient to the High Command. Meanwhile, in Austria-Hungary, discomfort with the highstakes outlook of 1917 and desire for a compromise peace reached the highest level, as Emperor Karl, during February, initiated a secret peace overture to France using as emissary his brother-in-law, Prince Sixtus of Bourbon-Parma, an officer in the Belgian army. In letters dated 24 March and 9 May, Karl proposed peace terms including the restoration of Belgium and Serbia, and the return of Alsace-Lorraine to France, but the overture came to nothing when the French demanded, on behalf of Italy, that Austria-Hungary relinquish its ethnically-Italian territories in the Alps and on the Adriatic.46 Nevertheless, the Sixtus overture was the most serious of its kind made by either side during the war, reflecting that while Conrad had accepted the ‘necessity’ of subordination to Germany, and in the process lost hope in the future of Austria-Hungary regardless of the outcome of the war, Karl had not. Throughout his two years on the throne, he would be as

46 See Robert A. Kann, Die Sixtus-Affäre und die geheimen Friedensverhandlungen ÖsterreichUngarns im Ersten Weltkrieg (Munich: R. Oldenbourg, 1966).

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determined to preserve Austro-Hungarian freedom of action as Conrad had been before September 1916. Given the commitments the Dual Monarchy had made in placing its land and sea forces under overall German command, he had very little room to manoeuvre, as by the spring of 1917, Austria-Hungary was bound, for better or worse, closer than ever to its German ally. On land and at sea, the war effort of the Central Powers was far more coordinated than ever before, and firmly under German control. At least on the surface, and thanks mainly to the demotions of Falkenhayn and Conrad to field commands, the frequent tensions and disagreements of the previous two and a half years appeared to have been laid to rest. While many German soldiers and statesmen were critical of their performance, Austro-Hungarian troops throughout the war had been responsible for holding up at least half of the Eastern Front, enabling Germany to focus most of its attention on the west. Meanwhile, in the Adriatic, the Austro-Hungarian navy served as a classic fleet-in-being, by its mere existence tying down an allied naval force many times larger, resources that could have been put to use elsewhere (such as at the Dardanelles, in 1915). But in the spring of 1917, the renewed expressions of solidarity obscured the fact that in the future, Austria-Hungary essentially would be fighting for German war aims. Ironically, with the territory of the Dual Monarchy completely free of enemy troops and secure on all fronts, and with the Balkans almost entirely under the domination of the Central Powers, the very success of the German alliance had left Austria-Hungary with no compelling reasons of its own to keep on fighting. From the perspective of Vienna and Budapest, the rationale for the German alliance all along had been to safeguard the Dual Monarchy against threats from other great powers, and by early 1917, the partnership already had served its purpose. Such feelings, of course, were the product of the overall operational success of the Central Powers in the first two and a half years of the war. Indeed, if not for the hunger pangs in so many stomachs, there would have been hardly a cloud in their sky as of the spring of 1917. In the wake of their low point of the previous summer, they had settled on a unified command, had resolved to fully mobilize their civilian populations behind the war effort, had unleashed a U-boat campaign that would seriously threaten the war effort of the Western powers, and had unleashed the Bolsheviks on a Russia already teetering on the brink of collapse. Awaiting the outcome of these initiatives, they resolved to stand on the defensive and not squander their armies in risky attacks or

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deliberate battles of attrition, as Conrad and Falkenhayn had in 1916. One did not have to suffer from the sort of hubris that reigned at the headquarters of Hindenburg and Ludendorff to have some hope for the future. Indeed, at this stage only the most optimistic observers in the allied camp would have dared to imagine that, over the next year and a half, things would go so horribly wrong for the Central Powers: that the attempt to fully mobilize the civilian population would leave the home front in Germany as well as Austria-Hungary broken by worsening food shortages, strikes, and ultimately revolution; that unrestricted submarine warfare not only would bring the United States into the war, but would fail to bring Britain and France to their knees or to disrupt the transport of over two million American troops to France by the summer of 1918; or that, thanks to the desperate genius of Trotsky’s ‘no war, no peace’ stance at Brest-Litovsk, so many German and Austro-Hungarian troops would advance too far to the east to be redeployed elsewhere by the time the new Bolshevik government finally, formally, took Russia out of the war. Few, too, would have imagined that, in addition to the infusion of American resources and manpower, the allies in 1917–18 would benefit so decisively from the leading role the British would play in finally figuring out how best to fight a modern war on the Western Front and how to check the U-boat threat at sea, at the same time managing to mobilize the resources of their home front (and their empire) more effectively than anyone else, while provoking negative reactions less dramatic than those experienced elsewhere. So, in conclusion, it was not unreasonable, given what they knew in the spring of 1917, for the Central Powers to still hope for a victorious peace. The problem was that a victorious peace meant something very different for Germany than for Austria-Hungary, and that difference compelled Emperor Karl to place his highest priority on finding a way out, an honourable and/or politically acceptable way out, before his country suffered a fatal internal collapse. Full mobilization of the home front, as called for under the Hindenburg Programme, made sense for Germany and, in the abstract, for any great power serious about winning a war, but in fragile, multinational Austria-Hungary such added pressure on the civilian population only encouraged the existing centrifugal forces. To make matters worse, during 1917 the enemy would escalate its efforts at undermining Austria-Hungary through nationalist

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propaganda, as Mark Cornwall has pointed out.47 A number of political and intellectual leaders of the Slavic nationalities and Italian minority had left the empire as early as the summer of 1914, but only in 1917 (and especially after the United States entered the war) did they receive any serious encouragement that the allies, if victorious, would agree to completely dismember the Habsburg state. Tragically for Karl, in April 1918, just after the start of the last German offensive in the west, Clemenceau would reveal the inconclusive Franco-Austrian exchange of the previous spring. The resulting ‘Sixtus Affair’ destroyed what was left of the Dual Monarchy’s credibility as an ally of Germany, and at the same time dealt a fatal blow to the morale of the Austro-Hungarian armed forces and home front. Though he had fought hard against it, Karl remained a prisoner of the same pessimistic conclusion articulated by Conrad in the autumn of 1916: that it was the Habsburg Empire’s fate either to be swallowed up by a victorious Germany or dismembered by the victorious allies. Even before the devastating consequences of the ‘Sixtus Affair’ being made public, it became increasingly difficult for the leadership of the Dual Monarchy to dispel the notion that, win or lose, Austria-Hungary would cease to exist. As the Great War continued with no end in sight, all parties to the conflict experienced challenges in maintaining the morale of their troops and of civilians on the home front. The very real possibility that it would not survive the war regardless of the outcome made these challenges insurmountable for Austria-Hungary. And because Germany depended so much on Austria-Hungary—certainly more than most of its leaders were willing to admit—Austria-Hungary’s problem was Germany’s problem, alas, a problem largely of Germany’s own making.

47 See Mark Cornwall, The Undermining of Austria-Hungary (Basingstoke: Macmillan, 2000).

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GENERALSHIP AND MASS SURRENDER DURING THE ITALIAN DEFEAT AT CAPORETTO Vanda Wilcox The Italian defeat at Caporetto in October 1917 has been the subject of fierce historiographical debate. Analysis of the battle was for many years highly politicised, as the defeat was attributed variously to a crisis of the Liberal regime or to an attempt at popular revolution.1 In particular, debate ranged over how effectively Italian troops had fought to resist the enemy advance. One 1973 textbook explained that the defeat ‘was effectively accompanied by a sort of strike, by widespread insubordination, by mass desertion and a general spirit of revolt and protest’.2 The belief that infantrymen had refused to fight, downing weapons and surrendering in acts of collective insubordination, was shared by many contemporaries. Luigi Albertini, editor of the national newspaper Il Corriere della Sera, reported after a trip to the front on 30 October 1917 that ‘For the most part, the troops did not fight. When sent forward they discarded their weapons and returned unarmed.’3 The army’s own figures for prisoners lost reveal that huge numbers of men were captured in individual incidents during the battle itself—often several hundred at a time.4 However in recent years a broad consensus has been reached in the historiography that Caporetto was primarily a military defeat whose causes lie chiefly on the battlefield.5 How, then, are the incidents of mass surrender to be explained? An examination

This view was most vigorously expressed in the 1921 polemic, Curzio Malaparte, Viva Caporetto! La rivolta dei santi maledetti, Oscar Documenti (Milano: A. Mondadori, 1981). 2 Giancarlo Lehner, Economia, politica e società nella prima guerra mondiale (Florence: G. D’Anna, 1973), p. 57. 3 Olindo Malagodi, Conversazioni di Guerra 1914–1919, ed. B. Vigezzi (Milano: Ricciardi, 1960), p. 173 Conversation of 30 October 1917. 4 Archivio del Ufficio Storico del Stato Maggiore dell’Esercito (hereafter AUSSME) F.11.99/2. 5 Piero Pieri, La prima guerra mondiale. Problemi di storia militare (Udine: Gaspari, 1999); Giorgio Rochat, L’Italia nella prima guerra mondiale: problemi di interpretazione e prospettive di ricerca, 1. ed., I Nuovi testi; 111 (Milano: Feltrinelli, 1976). 1

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of the conduct of the opening stage of the battle offers some answers as to the nature and causes of mass surrender at Caporetto. Initial Breakthrough On 24 October 1917 nine divisions of the Austro-Hungarian army, reinforced by six German divisions, launched a major attack in the northern sector of the Isonzo front. The bombardment began at 02.00, under torrential autumn rains, and the infantry assault commenced at dawn. By midday the Germans were advancing inexorably towards the town of Caporetto.6 By the time the Commander in Chief of the Italian armies, General Luigi Cadorna, had begun to understand the scale of the disaster, the enemy had already taken 20,000 prisoners and advanced over 22 kilometres. Not only were the Italian troops retreating at an extraordinary pace, but it seemed that insufficient effort was being made to resist the advance. The official historian to the general staff, Angelo Gatti, wrote in his diary that evening: People were speaking of the Italian Sedan. The Chief was talking about retreating to the Tagliamento. The whole thing is monstrous and unacceptable.7

This initial catastrophe was only the beginning. Though in some sectors troops resisted well and even launched small scale successful counterattacks, the overall picture was desperate. Cadorna immediately decided to withdraw the entire army to the line of the Tagliamento river, which in theory was his line of extreme defence. By 27 October, only three days after the battle had begun, Cadorna was already contemplating a further withdrawal to the line of the Piave. Though they had yet to arrive there, he did not believe his forces could hold on the Tagliamento.8 The

6 Angelo Gatti, “Fra le cause strategiche di Caporetto,” in Uomini e folle di guerra, ed. Angelo Gatti (Verona: Mondadori, 1929). Pp. 214–54; pp. 215–6. For detailed accounts of the battle’s progress see the report of the official government enquiry, Inchiesta Caporetto, “Relazione della Commissione d’Inchiesta, ‘Dall’Isonzo al Piave 24 ottobre–9 novembre 1917’.” (Rome: Commissione d’Inchiesta institutia dal R.D. 12 gennaio, 1918, 1919), [ hereafter RCI] vol. I, and Corpo di stato maggiore Ufficio Storico, L’Esercito italiano nella grande guerra, 1915–1918, 7 vols. (Rome: Provveditorato generale dello stato libreria, 1927), vol. 4, t. 3. 7 Angelo Gatti, Caporetto: Diario di Guerra (Bologna, 1964), p. 268. 8 Ibid., pp. 272–74.

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following morning, Supreme Command abandoned its headquarters in the city of Udine and set off in a disorderly flight to Treviso. By the time the line began to stabilise on 12 November, the Italians had retreated over 150 km, leaving some 14,000 squared kilometres in enemy hands, with over a million Italians now living under enemy occupation. Losses were phenomenal, of men, material and territory. Artillery pieces and machine guns were simply abandoned to the enemy, as were warehouses and depots.9 One of the most convincing analyses of the battle was written by staff officer General Roberto Bencivenga, who considered the battle in three separate phases. Stage one was the initial offensive: though the attack was substantial it was launched over a small section of the line. Austrian and particularly German tactics were very successful. Secondly came the ensuing collapse: why did this small-scale local breakthrough lead to the collapse of the entire front? What caused panic, mass flight and mass surrender? Finally came the retreat: why did the collapse of the sector entail such a huge withdrawal and loss of such a large area of territory? Why could the line not be stabilised sooner than the Piave?10 Of these three issues the second is perhaps the most controversial question. The first is an almost exclusively military question revolving around the two sides’ respective tactics. The question of the retreat to the Piave raises large scale strategic and political questions about Cadorna’s conception of the war, as well as revealing structural inadequacies in logistics, communications and command structures. This paper focuses instead on the first 48 hours of the battle, and the responses of senior Italian officers, in order to understand the central and controversial issue of how tactical defeat became strategic defeat, and how it happened so quickly. Not all lost battles lead to serious strategic disasters like that at Caporetto: the Italians had suffered tactical defeats before, most notably in the Trentino during the Austrian

RCI vol. II, p. 191, pp. 257–59. Roberto Bencivenga, La sorpresa strategica di Caporetto, ed. Giorgio Rochat (Udine: Gaspari, 1997), p. 14. Broadly the battle can be described as follows: 24 October– 3 November: rout—disorderly mass flight, desertion, huge numbers of prisoners taken; 3–12 November: stabilisation—though still retreating, troops begin to reorganise and resist, the retreat halts at the River Piave; 12–18 November: renewed attack—reinvigorated efforts to break the new Italian lines; 26 November: battle finally ends. 9

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offensive of May 1916.11 So what turned a local, limited defeat into mass flight and surrender? By considering combat motivation and officers’ decision-making we can seek to understand why so many men surrendered in the first few days of the battle, and how these surrenders entailed defeat on such a scale.12 The Italian Generals at Caporetto The crucial sector of the line was held by II Army under General Luigi Capello.13 Capello was a man of enormous energy and enthusiasm, who rarely slept but worked through the night. He was also stubborn, inflexible, quick-tempered and sometimes arrogant, certain of his own superior judgement to the point of insubordination.14 All through September and October 1917 Capello had ignored the admittedly halfhearted directions of his chief, Luigi Cadorna, to prepare his defences for an imminent attack. Instead he hoped to go on the offensive himself before the winter snows set in. He had identified his sector as the most promising part of the whole Italian theatre for achieving a dramatic strategic breakthrough. It turned out that he was right, though perhaps not in the manner that he had anticipated. On 23 October 1917 Capello’s army was made up of 24 Divisions, an estimated 280,000 men, arranged into nine Army Corps. Of these, the two hit hardest by the initial attack were IV and XXVII Corps.15 The successful Austrian breakthrough of May–June 1916 in the Trentino did not lead to a major collapse, since Supreme Command was better prepared and responded more appropriately to the crisis—though of course Italian troops were less war weary. They suffered a tactical surprise, and consequent initial defeat, but the overall defence was well organised and able to effectively respond, counter-attacking and using reserves to limit the Austrian advance. Ibid., p. 14. 12 This paper focuses on the Italian response to the offensive; on the tactics, leadership and planning of the Central Powers in this battle, see Mario Morselli, Caporetto: Victory or Defeat? (London: Frank Cass, 2001), and Filippo Cappellano, L’imperiale regio Esercito austro-ungarico sul fronte italiano 1915–1918 (Rovereto: Museo Storico Italiano della Guerra, 2002). 13 For Capello’s own thoughts on the battle, see Luigi Capello, Caporetto, perché? La 2. armata e gli avvenimenti dell’ottobre 1917 (Turin: Einaudi, 1967). 14 Gatti, “Fra le cause strategiche”, pp. 224–25, Mario Isnenghi and Giorgio Rochat, La Grande Guerra, 1914–1918 (Milan: La Nuova Italia, 2000), p. 199. 15 The third corps which suffered most in the opening stages of the battle was XXIV Corps under the command of Enrico Caviglia, who was substantially responsible for the successful conquest of the Bainsizza plateau in August 1917. He held his corps together relatively well during the retreat from Caporetto, losing ‘only’ some 15,000 men, but due to a personality clash with Badoglio he did not prosper subsequently. 11

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IV Corps was under the command of Alberto Cavaciocchi, who had been promoted to corps commander in June 1916 and who had been at the head of IV Corps for nearly a year by October 1917.16 He shared Cadorna’s view that no serious attack was intended in the upper Isonzo but merely a diversionary operation while the main Austro-German thrust would come in the Trentino. Consequently, like his chief, he had made only half-hearted defensive preparations throughout October. But at least he agreed with his commander in chief. XXVII Corps was commanded by General Pietro Badoglio, who would later run the army under Mussolini and mastermind the Abyssinian war.17 An artillery officer by training and widely regarded as an excellent staff officer, Badoglio was appointed as ( joint) second at Supreme Command on 10 November 1917. Perhaps because of this rapid elevation after the defeat, his role in the disaster was downplayed, though his former superior Capello considered him chiefly to blame for the crumbling of the extreme left wing.18 Badoglio had very different ideas from both Capello and Cadorna. He was young, ambitious and popular with his men, but though an effective small unit commander was out of his depth directing major operations, getting swamped by detail and losing sight of the bigger picture. The total lack of a shared conception of the battle between commander in chief and his army and corps commanders was instrumental in causing the defeat.19 IV Corps lost an astonishing 32,808 men taken prisoner during the battle. What remained of the corps was formally disbanded on 25 November, but very little remained by that stage. XXVII Corps was the second most severely affected in terms of losses, with over 23,000 officers and men being taken captive. Perhaps because of Badoglio’s promotion, the Corps was not disbanded after the defeat, but of the four divisions making up his command, three were permanently dissolved and one was temporarily dissolved and only subsequently reconstituted. 16 Corpo di stato maggiore Ufficio Storico, Le Grandi Unità nella Guerra 1915–1919, 2 vols. (Rome, 1926). Cavaciocchi’s own unfinished memoir, to which he devoted the last years of his life, has only recently been published for the first time: Alberto Cavaciocchi, Un anno al comando del IV corpo d’armata, ed. Andrea Ungari (Udine: Gaspari, 2006). 17 Pietro Badoglio, “Il Memoriale di Pietro Badoglio su Caporetto,” ed. Gian Luca Badoglio (Udine: Gaspari, 2000). 18 Capello, Caporetto, perché? By contrast Cavacciochi was blamed immediately and despite years of struggle never managed to retrieve his reputation. He considered himself to have been made a scapegoat, comparing his situation to the Dreyfus affair. Cavaciocchi, Un anno al comando, p. 245. 19 Isnenghi and Rochat, La Grande Guerra, pp. 371–74.

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Thus while in name Badoglio’s Corps lived on, to all practical purposes it had ceased to exist. XXVII Corps was deployed opposite the bridgehead at Tolmino, controlling the road to Cividale del Friuli, one of the key towns of the region. But due to a combination of slow responses, poor decision making and inadequate planning, particularly with regard to the deployment of his artillery, Badoglio lost his vital position and allowed the enemy to pass more or less unhindered up the valley of the Isonzo to take the town of Caporetto.20 From this position the German troops easily turned the flank of IV Corps, which fought well and resisted to its utmost but stood no chance once Badoglio had caused it to be almost encircled. There was nothing left for IV Corps to do but to surrender.21 The responsibility of Capello, who not merely countermanded Cadorna’s defensive provisions but rearranged the responsibilities and positions of the army corps at his disposal at the last minute, is also significant.22 In the month after 23 October almost 300,000 prisoners were taken—around half of all Italians taken prisoner during the entire conflict.23 It is impossible to be certain how many of these men surrendered willingly and how many were genuinely captured. It suited German and Austrian purposes, of course, to claim that the Italians had simply given up without a fight, since it emphasised the weakness of their opponents and encouraged the idea that the formal surrender of the nation might follow. Explaining the Defeat Attempts to explain the defeat—and to allocate blame—began immediately. A number of aspects needed to be examined: intelligence, planning and preparation; communications and the command structure; the strength of the defensive lines; and above all the extent of the resistance offered by the troops. Many units had been taken prisoner more or less in their entirety, and though as one might expect the majority of Mario Silvestri, Isonzo 1917 (Milan: BUR, 2001), p. 370. Andrea Ungari, “Introduzione”, in Cavaciocchi, Un anno al comando, pp. 8–9. 22 Giorgio Rochat, “Caporetto. Le cause della sconfitta,” in Ufficiali e Soldati: l’esercito italiano dalla prima alla seconda guerra mondiale (Udine: Gaspari, 2000), pp. 55–62. 23 RCI vol. II, p. 191. Around 4.2 million men saw active service, of whom around 600,000—or 1 in 7—were taken prisoner during the war. 20 21

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prisoners were infantrymen, all types of soldiers including the elite Alpini and Bersaglieri had been captured. On 26 October Cadorna expressed his feelings on the performance of his troops in a letter to his youngest daughter Carla: yesterday ten regiments surrendered without fighting! Now we are suffering the consequences of the subversion in our country which has gone unchecked for many years.24

Cadorna argued strongly from the first that political subversion and defeatism were the cause of the disaster, since many troops had not fought but had simply surrendered. He went on to make these sentiments disastrously explicit in an ill-advised memorandum to the government on 28 October: ‘the inadequate resistance of units of 2nd Army, cowardly retreating without fighting or ignominiously surrendering to the enemy, has permitted the Austro-German forces to break our left wing on the Julian front’.25 Despite government efforts to prevent its publication, this text become well-known, and the impression it created both at home and abroad was very poor. Cadorna was not alone in his assertions of cowardice: just three days into the battle, on 27 October, the British military attaché DelméRadcliffe blamed ‘the determination of a portion of the troops to leave the field . . . On the left flank of 2nd Army it was not a question of troops fighting moderately well, but of their fighting at all.’26 Delmé-Redcliffe had made a career out of scathing judgements on his hosts’ military capabilities, and never missed an opportunity to put the boot in. Nonetheless in this case, there is concrete evidence to show that incidents of mass surrender did occur, with little or no resistance being offered. Mass Surrender A few examples will illustrate the extent of incidents of mass surrender, particularly within IV Corps. The 87th Infantry Regiment lost a total of 69 officers and 1455 men, of whom 12 officers and 780 men were taken within a few hours at Plezzo, and 19 officers and 255 men at Monte Rombon, during the course of 24 October. On Monte Nero,

24 25 26

Luigi Cadorna and Raffaele Cadorna, Lettere famigliari (Milan, 1967). RCI vol. II, section 588. The National Archives (UK), CAB 24/30.

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559 men of 97th Infantry and 552 of the 98th were isolated from their officers and captured in large groups. The 223rd and 224th Regiments who made up the Etna brigade each lost over 2000 men, in a succession of separate incidents.27 Where such large numbers were taken in specific locations within a very short space of time, it is clear that prisoners were captured in sizeable groups. There is some evidence to support the argument that such surrender was the result of anti-war feeling or a refusal to fight. Some prisoners of war wrote home admitting that they had chosen to go over to the enemy. A few individuals even testified to the Commission of Inquiry on Caporetto that they had surrendered in the hope of bringing an early end to the war. They explained that they had ‘saved Italy’ by helping to hasten peace and end the destruction being caused by the war.28 Prisoners of longer standing often reacted with disgust when the men from Caporetto eventually arrived in the camps of Austria, Hungary and southern Germany.29 Writing home from Mauthausen in December 1917 one soldier describing the ‘never sufficiently cursed II Army’ claimed that the prisoners taken at Caporetto had arrived laden with money, intent on making a new life for themselves: How shamelessly they presented themselves . . . “We have brought you peace,” they claimed. “We hope the Germans reach Milan and even Rome!!!” they said. But now they’re sorry, God knows they’re sorry, and they bite their fingernails. They tell stories to make your hair stand on end. One of our captains with his whole company of 250 men surrendered to two Germans without even firing so much as a shot! Colonels, Generals surrendered as soon as they set eyes on [the enemy]. Disgusting! As far as Udine, the Germans advanced with their rifles on their shoulders, singing, since not a shot was fired against them, and that explains the speed of their advance.30

But it is not possible to impute ill-intent or defeatism to all acts of surrender. Many prisoners felt their capture to be the cause of acute shame

AUSSME F.11.99/2. RCI vol. II, pp. 484–86, section 535. 29 The novelist C. E. Gadda, a lieutenant in the 5th Alpini group who was captured on 25 October, recorded in his diary the bitter accusations and anger with which prisoners from Caporetto were greeted by their fellow countrymen. Carlo Emilio Gadda, Taccuino di Caporetto: Diario di guerra e di prigione (ottobre 1917–aprile 1918) (Milan: Garzanti, 1991). 30 Giovanna Procacci, Soldati e prigionieri italiani nella Grande guerra (Torino: Bollati Boringhieri, 2000), pp. 511–12. 27 28

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and humiliation and vigorously protested their ignorance.31 Moreover, while Italian observers were claiming that the troops had not fought, reports from the enemy suggested otherwise. When Lt Erwin Rommel and his Württemberg Battalion captured 50 officers and 2000 men of the 4th Bersaglieri Brigade, who surrendered to him en-masse, it was only after fierce resistance. Three times Rommel demanded their surrender and each time the Italians refused, continuing their machine-gun fire and even launching an attack. But after some twenty minutes of ‘very violent firing’ the ‘concealed and very superior positions’ of the German troops came to bear and the Italian officers finally ordered the surrender at the fourth time of asking.32 Rommel’s assessment was that many could have escaped, since ‘clear thinking and vigorous command were lacking’. But it was certain that whatever other deficiencies there had been, spirit and determination were not lacking in these troops. In another testimony from the Austro-Hungarian side, General Alfred Krauss of the 3rd Edelweiss and 22nd Schützen divisions noted that ‘. . . [the mountain group] certainly conquered the first Italian positions, but could not entirely break the line. They could not do so until the columns in the valley bottoms rendered the defence of elevated positions impossible. Only then did whole brigades fall prisoner.’33 If many units had no choice but to surrender, it becomes necessary rather to ask why. Capture not Surrender: Military Explanations Most Italian historians now accept that Caporetto was first and foremost a battlefield defeat.34 The German troops who had been added to Otto von Below’s Fourteenth Army had arrived from Riga where they had applied their new rapid infiltration tactics with great success. Rommel describes how his troops surprised numerous men sleeping or unawares, through swift and silent infiltration manoeuvres under cover

31 See for instance the letters of denunciation sent to Italian authorities by resentful prisoners, keen to report those of their fellows who had willingly deserted. AUSSME, Grande Guerra, F.11.111/2. 32 Erwin Rommel, Infantry Attacks (London: Greenhill Books, 1990), pp. 202–06. 33 A. Krauss, Die Ursachen Unserer Niederlage. Erinnerungen und Urteile aus dem Weltkriege. (Munich, 1921) cited in Cavaciocchi, Un anno al comando, p. 120. 34 See Bruna Bianchi, “La grande guerra nella storiografia italiana dell’ultimo decennio,” Ricerche Storiche XXI, 3 (1991), pp. 698–745.

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of darkness, fog and heavy rain.35 Many Italian units believed themselves to be far from the front-lines and were totally unprepared for the sudden appearance of the enemy.36 The tactical skill of the German troops and commanders was matched only by the ineptitude and command inadequacies of their Italian opposite numbers. The failures of XXVII and IV Corps on 24 and 25 October constituted the opening phase of the disaster, as the initial rupture of the defensive line created the possibility for the subsequent collapses of other units.37 XXVII Corps was deployed opposite the key bridgehead at Tolmino, protecting a crucial crossing point over the Isonzo and controlling the road to Cividale del Friuli, one of the region’s major towns. But due to a combination of slow responses, poor decision making and inadequate planning, Badoglio lost his vital position and allowed the enemy to pass more or less unhindered up the valley of the Isonzo to take the town of Caporetto. From the position German troops could effectively encircle IV Corps. Many units fought well but stood little chance once 19th Division and Badoglio had given way. Badoglio had been ordered to maintain the majority of his troops on the western bank of the river, and keep only pickets and advance troops on the eastern heights. But ignoring this instruction he had arranged 22 of his 49 battalions on the eastern side of the Isonzo, hoping to quickly counterattack after the initial assault.38 These troops being rapidly lost, he had neither reserve nor solid defence on the western bank. The first German troops were across the river as early as 08.00 on 24 October and others crossed lower down shortly after mid-day.39 The rapidity and audaciousness of the advance, combined with the thick fog, took the defenders totally by surprise and left many units almost encircled. Meanwhile as the Austrians began to consolidate their positions on the western river bank, the excessively high numbers of Badoglio’s troops stationed on the eastern side were trapped, with no choice but to surrender.

Rommel, Infantry Attacks, pp. 185–89. Ibid., pp. 193–99; RCI vol. II, pp. 138–40. 37 AUSSME, Grande Guerra, F.11.99/4 “Abbozza delle operazioni 24 ottobre 1917”, 28 January 1918. Errors by XXIV and VII Corps, though significant in the widening scope of the defeat, were a lesser factor in the opening 48 hours. 38 Gatti, “Fra le cause strategiche,” pp. 253–54. 39 RCI vol. II section 144, pp. 113–14. 35 36

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General Giuseppe Della Noce, head of discipline and military justice on the general staff, reported to Cadorna on events in XXVII Corps a few days later: It’s not true that the soldiers didn’t fight. They fought, and well for the most part. But they were in such [poor] positions that they couldn’t defend them: they were on the peaks but not in the valleys and it was easy to encircle them. It isn’t true that the Spezia Brigade didn’t fight: . . . General Villani [19th division] from 25 October . . . says “after a heroic resistance lasting all of yesterday the remains of the brigade has retreated to . . . and the remains of the Taro Brigade has retired to . . .”. If one speaks of the remains of a brigade it means that they fought marvellously. Who can say that the enemy bombardment did not effect an absolute slaughter in our front lines, of which we know little?40

Della Noce’s logic here is flawed: the brigade could be reduced to almost nothing by surrender as easily as by slaughter. But he was correct to point out that the poor defensive positions occupied by several brigades were essentially untenable. A number of senior officers were captured with all their staff, leaving their men without any leadership.41 But one of the most striking aspects of the first few days of the battle is that a number of units were captured in their entirety: officers and men surrendered together.42 As one corporal from Bari wrote home from the prisoner of war camp in Mauthausen, ‘when I was made prisoner it was the fault of my lieutenant not my own fault, we were taken prisoner in a group of 32 soldiers and corporals with two officers, how can they say that I am a deserter?’43 Officers often commanded their entire unit to surrender. For the first time in the war senior officers were also captured: at least half a dozen generals and over 50 colonels were captured in the month after 23 October, including divisional and brigade commanders.44 Those officers who surrendered their whole units did so when they felt they could no longer reasonably fight on. But it seems that sometimes their judgements were needlessly pessimistic, as a few sample decisions from IV Corps can perhaps show. In Della Noce’s opinion,

Gatti, Diario, pp. 424–26. For example, AUSSME F.11.97/1: Col. Brig. Sacconi of Brigata Sele; F.11.97/2: Col. Sciarpa of 125th Infantry. 42 AUSSME F.11.99/2. 43 Procacci, Soldati e prigionieri, p. 402. 44 AUSSME F.11.96 Gen. Farisoglio, of 43rd Division, IV Corps, was the first general captured in the war. 40 41

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vanda wilcox IV Corps, which was the crucial corps, was not in the best of conditions, either strategically, tactically or morally. Strategically they were based around the Rombon and unable to take this key strategic point which commanded the sector. Tactically, troops were not always optimally situated. Lines did not hold the peaks but ran half-way up mountains often ceding territorial superiority to the enemy who could easily bombard the trenches. . . . A number of cases brought from the Caltanisetta brigade (46 Div) illustrate the frequent exchange of propaganda . . .45

Cavaciocchi himself agreed with this assessment, though bitterly; he had requested both fresh troops and renewed supplies in the run up to the battle, and had further proposed that the Corps should withdraw a short way to more defensible positions.46 This combination of weaknesses was reflected in the decision-making processes of IV Corps officers. The logistical headquarters of IV Corps was at Caporetto, and was the primary objective of the 12th Silesian division, with whom the young lieutenant Rommel was also advancing. The first enemy patrols entered Caporetto at around 13.45 on 24 October, less than 12 hours after the offensive had been launched.47 By the time Cavaciocchi anxiously ordered the relocation of his headquarters at 15.00 the only orders he had received from his army commander that day was an instruction to immediately counterattack.48 As the afternoon wore on, dark with fog and heavy rain, reliable news was impossible to come by and only rumours abounded. Shortly after 15.00 Farisoglio, commanding 43rd Division, was captured with all his staff on one of the roads heading into the town.49 At 15.30 the engineer officer in Caporetto responsible for the bridge over the Isonzo ordered his engineers to blow it up.50 Brigadier Colonel Francesco Pisano, commanding the Foggia Brigade, 34th Division, was just outside the town, and heard the explosion: My immediate fear was that the Eiffel Bridge [in Caporetto] had been blown up. But that would have been most strange given that protection of the bridge—which was currently well defended—was vital not only for the evacuation of precious materiel located along the road to Smast, but to secure the road for the retreating troops of the Division over what Gatti, Diario, pp. 397–98. Cavaciocchi, Un anno al comando, pp. 68–80, 88–91. 47 Cesare De Simone, L’Isonzo Mormorava. Fanti e Generali a Caporetto (Milan: Mursia, 1995), pp. 28–29. 48 Cavaciocchi, Un anno al comando, pp. 152–53. 49 AUSSME F.11.96/2, debriefing 10313, December 1918. 50 De Simone, L’Isonzo Mormorava, p. 29; Cavaciocchi, Un anno al comando, pp. 142–43. 45 46

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was now, we believed, the only bridge in the sector. It was essential also so that we could continue to support the many troops to our north fighting on the Volnik . . . The [divisional] Chief of Staff refused to believe my suspicions but admitted that he did not know what orders had been put in place for the bridge . . . I immediately sent to discover whether the bridge had truly been blown up. Alas there could be no further doubt. The bridge had been fully destroyed by the engineers, but it was impossible to know who had given the order. There was not even the time to discover who was responsible for such a terrible, unforgivable error. Rumours abounded that a lieutenant of the engineers had ordered the explosion on his own initiative . . . We made every attempt to organise repairs to the bridge but it was utterly destroyed, and efforts to effect any kind of crossing failed.51

Thousands of men, including virtually the entire Etna and Genova brigades, were trapped on the eastern bank of the river and were left no choice but to surrender.52 This situation was to be repeated many times both in the opening days of the battle and during the retreat, as bridges were destroyed prematurely forcing the surrender of many troops.53 At the very least this incident reveals poor decision making structures and a lack of clear chains of command. The prime example of a premature, panicked decision was the fateful choice to abandon the Saga gorge. Control of the Saga gave control over the river Isonzo for some distance in both directions. The narrow point was commanded by the Polovnik peak which was a key defensive pivot, and it was feared that should this mountain be taken, Saga would be untenable. But so long as it remained in Italian hands, then the Saga—which protected most of IV Corps—was a strong defensible position. Nonetheless, at around 18.00 on 24 October General Arrighi, commanding 50th Division, responsible for the sector, decided to abandon the gorge—although the troops defending the position had not yet seen any direct action.54 Some men managed to retreat in an orderly fashion, many more simply surrendered. The consequences were immediate and catastrophic. The loss of the river crossings at Saga and Caporetto permitted two major incursions

AUSSME F.11.97/1, debriefing 10352, December 1918. AUSSME F.11.99/2, Prigionieri catturati. 53 Most notably the bridge over the Tagliamento at Codroipo on 30 October, which left many thousands of troops isolated. 54 Cavaciocchi, Un anno al comando, pp. 112–13. Arrighi’s communications with Corps command had failed, so his took this decision on his own initiative—despite the orders sent at 15.00 from IV Corps to maintain the position since it was crucial. 51 52

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into the Italian lines, creating a pincer effect: within hours a gap opened up between IV Corps and the next section of the line and all that remained of the Corps was trapped between German and Austrian advances. The decision of the divisional commander is inexplicable given that his cover from the Polovnik was still in place.55 Even more inexplicably, it later emerged, Capello’s second in command, Montuori, had issued the same panicked order to abandon the Saga around two hours before his subordinate had done so.56 This order had never arrived, but the divisional general Arrighi had decided precipitately to do so anyway on his own account. Cavaciocchi questioned ‘the state of mind of the general, who had taken such a grave decision contrary to my orders.’57 No reason for the decision has ever really been found, other than panic on the behalf of both divisional and sector command.58 Capello described it as ‘premature’ since ‘50th division was in good condition to defend the straight well, the danger from the enemy was not immediate . . . a longer resistance would have enabled a calmer organisation of [other] defences’.59 After the destruction of the bridge at Caporetto and the surrender of the Saga on 24 October and then the destruction of the Ternova bridge the following morning, the Italians no longer controlled any crossings over the Isonzo in this sector.60 Can we then speak of a crisis of morale amongst senior officers? These examples suggest that panicked, fearful decisions led directly to the surrender of huge numbers of troops. General Donato Etna, commanding the left wing of Second Army, claimed that a ‘depressed mental state which had pervaded the majority of commanders at that moment, not least because it was so difficult—if not impossible—to receive and transmit news and orders, due to the lack of functioning communications and the extreme organisational problems’,61 a statement which suggests that alarm and uncertainty were widespread amongst

Emilio Faldella, Caporetto: le vere cause di una tragedia (Bologna: Capelli, 1967), pp. 53–55. Krauss expressed himself amazed (and delighted!) by the Italian decision to abandon the Saga. 56 RCI vol. II, pp. 108–10. 57 Cavaciocchi, Un anno al comando, p. 153. 58 Bencivenga, La sorpresa strategica, p. 82. 59 Luigi Capello, Note di Guerra, 2 vols. (Milan, 1920), vol. II, p. 375. 60 Arrighi’s hasty decision to withdraw isolated a substantial number of troops to his rear; two days later he himself was the victim of the similarly panicked withdrawal of troops from Monte Maggiore, in what was later described as a ‘precipitate’ decision. RCI vol. II, pp. 140–43. 61 Ibid., vol. II, pp. 140–41. 55

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Second Army’s officers. Bencivenga described a general ‘paralysis of will’ amongst commanders in these fraught days, adding that ‘all through this first phase of the battle, we see the Italian commanders passively submitting to the will of the enemy’.62 Rommel wrote that senior officers ‘had no intention of fighting although [their] position was far from hopeless’. Only after surrendering, when they realised how easily they might have fought on, did Italian officers ‘become pugnacious’.63 Some generals were more concerned with demonstrating their own blamelessness for the unfolding disaster than intervening to limit it.64 The culture of blame among senior officers was perhaps responsible for this. Cadorna’s tendency was to sack or even demote any officer who met with the least setback—he removed no fewer than 217 generals from their positions in his two and a half years in command, an average of seven per month. And indeed Cavaciocchi was duly dismissed from his post at around 16.30 on the afternoon of 25 October. The Crisis of Morale Such demoralising management practices applied, however, to all armies, not just Capello’s Second Army. It is notable that the collapse of Second Army was not echoed by either Fourth Army to the north or Third Army to the south. Though both were forced to withdraw in November 1917 neither witnessed the same levels of disorder, desertion or surrender. It has been hypothesised that Second Army, and certain key units, had lower morale than troops elsewhere in the theatre. Della Noce believed that morale in IV Corps was particularly low,65 and another officer on the general staff claimed that ‘For two years IV corps has been the refuge of all those who wanted to do nothing,

Bencivenga, La sorpresa strategica, p. 85. Rommel, Infantry Attacks, pp. 220–24. 64 Ardengo Soffici, La Ritirata del Friuli: note di un ufficiale della Seconda armata (Florence, 1919), describes a meeting with General Vittorio Magliano of the Jonio Brigade who was returning to HQ to excuse his conduct and defend his reputation even while his troops were headed into action—perhaps as much a symptom of the command culture under Cadorna as of Magliano’s character. 65 “In morale terms, IV corps had been abandoned to its own devices, lacking in fighting spirit and continually harassed and mistreated . . . soldiers preferred to stay in the forward line even though it was the most dangerous and had highest risk of death or wounding since in the two rear lines such heavy burdens of labour and fatigue duties were imposed by General Boccacci.” Gatti, Diario, pp. 397–98. 62 63

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recommended by senators, deputies etc: so it had nothing in terms of morale.’66 But by autumn 1917 Italian morale was poor in across the army, not just in Cavaciocchi’s unfortunate IV Corps. Political or ideological commitment to the war was never widespread, and a lack of propaganda or systematic instruction meant that many soldiers had no idea what Italy was fighting for. More fundamentally, the idea of Italy was still relatively weak: national identity and patriotic loyalty were underdeveloped.67 Added to these inherent problems, which even concerted state and army action might have struggled to tackle, were a number of areas in which culpable neglect had permitted a full-scale morale crisis to develop. The management of troop rotation and leave was abysmal. The 223rd Infantry Regiment, part of the Etna Brigade, had been stationed at an altitude of over 2000 m on Monte Nero above Caporetto without any relief for over 10 months.68 Perhaps unsurprisingly the Etna Brigade suffered some of the highest losses of any brigade in the first days of the battle, with 4231 prisoners taken—almost the entire unit.69 The stresses of coping with the terrain were not to be underestimated, and the high mountains of the upper Isonzo around Caporetto presented both military and psychological obstacles. But it cannot be argued that men surrendered simply because of tiredness and poor morale. Austrian troops were exhausted and poorly equipped just as their opponents were.70 Only two months before Caporetto, the supposedly ‘exhausted and demoralised’ Italian troops had won a notable success in the 11th battle of the Bainsizza. And though they might have become more tired after this experience it could not, surely, have been demoralising: it was probably the greatest Italian success to date. Meanwhile the rapid recovery, the solidity of the rest of the army and the battlefield successes of 1918 suggest that there was substantial resilience, or at least that the morale crisis was limited in scope and extent. These arguments, then, support the idea that Caporetto was first and foremost a military defeat. Giovanna Procacci, in her 1997 survey of the

Ibid., p. 448—report from Balsamo Crivelli. See V. Wilcox, ‘Morale and Discipline in the Italian Army, 1915–1918’, Unpublished D.Phil, Oxford, 2006, Ch. 6. 68 RCI vol. II section 424. 69 AUSSME F.11.99/2. 70 Bencivenga, La sorpresa strategica, pp. 10–11. 66 67

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First World War in Italy, wrote that ‘The reasons for the disaster . . . are exclusively to be found in grave military errors. . . . There were neither mutinies nor acts of collective insubordination.’ The assertion that there was no collective insubordination is of particular significance, since it reinforces that any incidents of mass surrender came either without the knowledge or with the consent of officers. She continues, ‘undoubtedly the weakness of patriotic sentiment amongst the soldiers helped to spread the conviction that the war was over and that the disaster could be turned into a happy return home’.71 This latter idea perhaps better explains the actions of those many deserters who decided to simply down weapons and head back home than of those who surrendered or deserted to the enemy in the opening stages of the battle. This distinction deserves to be highlighted. Cadorna perceived widespread cowardice and a desire to flee from service; but if these were the key motivations, why did men not simply desert homewards, towards the comfort of family and friends, rather than going over to the enemy? During the course of the war, huge numbers of men deserted internally, returning home or living wild in the Italian countryside. Over 128,000 men were tried for desertion during the course of the war, of whom only 1.6 per cent were charged with going over to the enemy.72 Even allowing for recidivism, this suggests that a high number of men deserted homewards, usually motivated by concern for family and loved ones as well as war-weariness and a desire to evade combat.73 Once the retreat from the Isonzo front was underway, many thousands of II Army soldiers sought to take this option, simply casting aside their weapons and heading for home or else merely wandering off aimlessly in the confusion. The absence of such conduct in the first 48 hours of the battle suggests that at this time it was simply not possible: troops were surrounded or outflanked and had little effective choice.

71 Giovanna Procacci, “L’Italia nella Grande Guerra,” in Storia d’Italia 4: Guerre e Fascismo 1914–1943, ed. Giovanni Sabattucci and Vittorio Vidotto (Rome: Laterza, 1997), pp. 69–70. 72 Giorgio Mortara, Dati sulla giustizia e disciplina militare (Roma: Provveditore generale dello stato, 1929), pp. 14–17 A further 5.8% deserted ‘in the presence of the enemy’. Not all those who deserted to the enemy were charged, of course, but the figure is still very low. 73 Bruna Bianchi, “Le ragione della diserzione: Soldati e ufficiali di fronte a giudici e psichiatri (1915–1918),” Storia e problemi contemporanei 10 (1992), pp. 10–12.

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Is it possible that men surrendered willingly out of despair at Italian prospects? Given the extent of the Italian victory at the Bainsizza, the most significant since the war had begun this seems implausible. A significant territorial advance had been achieved, and prospects for an Italian victory seemed enhanced.74 Nor would Italian troops have had confidence in their treatment at the hands of Austrian captors: Austria, struggling to feed its own army and domestic population, had no food to spare for prisoners. The death rate of Italian prisoners of war in Austrian hands was appallingly high—over 100,000 during the war as a whole—and even before Caporetto it was known in Italy that hunger and disease were wreaking a terrible toll on Italian prisoners.75 Willing surrender through certainty of imminent defeat or in confidence of safety and good treatment cannot have been widespread calculations.76 Another two issues were much discussed in Italy as possible motives for surrender at Caporetto. The first was the Papal Peace Note in August 1917. Benedict XV’s use of the phrase ‘useless slaughter’ to describe the ongoing war had a particular impact in Catholic Italy, and the army was immediately filled with concern over the Pope’s impact on its men. In theory Catholicism was almost ubiquitous, and although in practice many men were not very devout, the Pope’s words were nonetheless taken very seriously. The second key incident was the speech made in Parliament on 12 July 1917 by socialist deputy Claudio Treves. In it he used the memorable and ambiguous phrase ‘not another winter in the trenches’.77 Was this, as some opponents immediately claimed, deliberate incitement to revolt? Or was he simply expressing the heartfelt wish and hope of soldiers and civilians alike? Certainly, after the Russian Revolution in March 1917 fears of a copycat revolt had been widespread in Italy as they had been elsewhere. And the food riots in Turin in August 1917 stoked fears that socialist unrest could threaten the stability of the entire state, as it had in the so-called ‘Red Week’ of July 1914. In this

Ufficio Storico, IOH, vol. IV, t. 2, pp. 153–398. Gatti, Diario, pp. 164, 190–91. Procacci, Soldati e prigionieri. 76 Niall Ferguson, The Pity of War (London: Penguin, 1998) Ch. 13 suggests that German soldiers surrendering on the Western Front during the last 4 months of the war may have been influenced either by a general sense that they had already lost the war, or else by the confidence that they would be well treated if they surrendered. 77 RCI vol. II, sections 514–16, 464–71, on the role of the socialist deputy Treves and his speech to parliament, 12 July 1917. See also Piero Melograni, Storia Politica della Grande Guerra (Torino: Mondadori, 1965), p. 374. 74 75

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climate the apparent incitement to lay down arms was greeted with an uproar. Military chaplains and junior officers were detailed immediately to speak to their men and explain that neither the inflammatory sentiments of the socialist deputy nor the equally troubling disquiet of the Pope should be taken as a suggestion of giving up.78 It is likely that discussions of a negotiated peace and a possible end to the war contributed to the climate of war-weariness and poor morale which was spreading by late 1917. And those who already wished for an end to the fighting took comfort and encouragement from the apparent support of such senior public figures.79 But the Inquiry Commission, though it was very keen to find an explanation for the defeat which exonerated both General Staff and the Government, determined that neither statement had any decisive bearing on the events of October and November. It is hard to disagree with this conclusion, not least since neither issue is much mentioned in any of the sources on desertion and surrender. Since political and ideological motivations for surrender can largely be dismissed, and given that certainty of defeat or desire to be safe in a prisoner-of-war camp were unlikely to be widespread sentiments, this leaves forcible surrender, through encirclement or overwhelming military odds, as one of the few plausible explanations.80 Aftermath What can the aftermath of the battle reveal about the nature of the defeat? One question much discussed is the role of Allied support in halting the Italian retreat and shoring up the line. The halt on the Piave has sometimes been attributed substantially to the impact of these troops, but a closer examination of the timing of events throws doubt on this interpretation. General Ferdinand Foch arrived at Italian headquarters on the morning of 30 October, and Sir William Robertson soon after. The two men created a rather mixed impression among the Italians. When 78 See Gian Luigi Gatti, Dopo Caporetto. Gli Ufficiali P nella Grande Guerra: propaganda, assistenza, vigilanza (Gorizia: Libreria Editrice Goriziana, 2000). 79 E.g. Procacci, Soldati e prigionieri, pp. 432–33. 80 Faldella, Caporetto, pp. 82–83. ‘Military events were the cause of the morale failure . . . without the breaking of the line, the morale crisis would probably not have come to pass.’

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they came to lunch the following day, Gatti recorded his impressions in his diary. He described the bluff uncompromising Robertson81 as ‘an immobile bull-dog’, who spoke almost no French—let alone Italian, and who ‘drank only the whisky he had brought with him’ during the meal. More important that his social inadequacies, he did not create a good military impression either, and Gatti summarised him as ‘an illiterate buffalo’. Foch, on the other hand, made a better impression, intelligent and socially ‘brilliant’. The two visiting generals spent the day carrying out inspections of various sectors of the line before meeting up with Cadorna again in the evening, agreeing at this stage to send no more than six divisions. ‘It is up to Italy to defend herself,’ they told him.82 Clearly they were as unimpressed with the Italians as the Italians were with them. Not unreasonably, both generals were awaiting some sort of stabilisation before deciding whether to commit troops to the theatre. If defeat was inevitable there was no point in sending aid, neither France nor Britain could afford to risk their troops needlessly.83 At the Rapallo Conference on 6 November the French and British largely excluded the Italians from their decision making, even snubbing them on the train journey the day before. Foch and Robertson demanded the replacement of Cadorna as an absolute pre-requisite for sending their support: they made it clear that they considered him to be chiefly responsible for the disaster. Under strong pressure from Lloyd George, who had always supported the idea of British assistance to Italy, the reluctant generals eventually agreed to send eight divisions in total, rather than the six initially proposed, but stressed that the troops would not all be available until 20 November.84 The first French troops were seen in the war zone on 7 November, their blue uniforms causing much excitement. A few British artillery units had been serving on the Isonzo front for some months, but the newly arriving British troops began to gather at Mantova on 10 November. Not until 21 November however did French and British infantry begin to actively reinforce the defence and take over sectors of the line. By this time the line was in fact already fully stabilised. The chaotic

81 David R. Woodward, Lloyd George and the Generals (London: Associated University Presses, 1983), pp. 74–80. 82 Gatti, Diario, pp. 286–89. 83 Ibid., p. 282. 84 Woodward, Lloyd George and the Generals, pp. 222–23.

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mass rout had ended by 3 November, before the Rapallo Conference. After Diaz had assumed command on 9 November, few substantial losses had occurred, and by 12 November the line was officially stable on the Piave. A report sent to Supreme Command on 16 November after a day-long inspection of two army corps stated that although the men ‘still bore the traces of the retreat on their faces’ the troops were ‘well behaved’, ‘solid, responsive to their officers’ will and able to fight worthily’.85 Indeed, by 20 November many of the formerly disbanded troops had been successfully integrated into new units. ‘Calm and confidence have returned’ wrote Gatti.86 The promise of French and British help to come was certainly an encouraging and reassuring factor after 6 November but it was not, in fact, foreign troops who halted the retreat. Had the Italians not succeeded in substantially stabilising the line of their own accord, even before Rapallo, this aid might not have been forthcoming. The morale and determination of the troops was not fundamentally and entirely destroyed, since they managed to recover in two to three weeks. The many morale boosting measures which helped to improve the Italian army’s performance in 1918 had not yet been introduced, nor were they of a type to have an immediate effect. Instead the recovery on the Piave confirms the idea that the panic and demoralisation was a temporary result of a particular set of military circumstances. Had the majority of the troops genuinely sought a revolution or to end the war, the so-called ‘miracle of the Piave’ could not have happened. If mass surrender was caused by military defeat, and not vice-versa, then the Italian defeat is more closely comparable with the French and British retreat of March 1918 and the event is not so exceptional.87 Given that surrender was primarily caused by defeat rather than panic, and that the morale crisis was brought to an end within three weeks, the evidence seems to suggest that the crisis in morale was the consequence rather than the cause of the defeat. Men fled the battlefield—or surrendered if they could not—because they or their neighbouring units had been defeated rather than the other way around. The extent of the defeat was substantially the result of poor decision making by senior officers. As well as error or ineptitude, this reveals both the unhealthy

85 86 87

AUSSME E2:95, Ufficio Situazione, 16/11/1917, com. 38. Gatti, Diario, pp. 407–08. Isnenghi and Rochat, La Grande Guerra, p. 374.

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state of the Italian chain of command and the disaffection and depression, even defeatism, which were widespread at senior levels. Combat morale and battlefield outcomes were cyclical; while low morale can lead to defeat, at Caporetto it was defeat which brought the simmering disaffection into a full-scale morale crisis.

‘WEARY WAITING IS HARD INDEED’: THE GRAND FLEET AFTER JUTLAND Nick Hewitt Fate is not over generous in giving opportunities, and if you miss one you never get another . . . the weary waiting is hard indeed. . . . We are never still all day and manoeuvring about, and all acknowledge that we are advancing in efficiency day by day . . . until our great day comes to prove that it has not all been wasted effort. The fly in the ointment is the dread that that day may never come and all our efforts will have been in vain.1

So wrote Admiral Sir David Beatty, Commander in Chief of the Grand Fleet, in a long letter to his wife written on the first anniversary of the Battle of Jutland. Having achieved his ambition of becoming C in C, perhaps the role that he saw as his destiny, the enemy refused to oblige by ‘coming out’ and giving battle. Beatty was thus forced to develop unfamiliar characteristics, above all, patience. Given the scope of the war at sea during this period it is perhaps wise to state the parameters of this chapter at the beginning. The first theme is one of strategy and tactics: how the Grand Fleet, the cutting edge of the Royal Navy’s sword, learned the lessons from Jutland, absorbed them, and went on to prosecute the war between June 1916 and the end of 1917. The Grand Fleet is defined as the capital ships based at Scapa Flow and Rosyth and supporting elements based at harbours along the British East Coast. This analysis will look at changes in strategic command and direction which were made during the period, plans to break the strategic deadlock in the North Sea, and operations which actually took place. The chapter will not bring in operations outside the North Sea theatre and above all will not examine the introduction of convoy and the long, complex campaign waged against the German unrestricted submarine warfare offensive after 1 February 1917, except indirectly when the U-boat campaign caused or affected other operations.

1 Rear-Admiral W. S. Chalmers, The Life and Letters of David Beatty (London: Hodder and Stoughton, 1951), p. 317.

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The second theme has little to do with grand strategy, but is arguably no less important. There sometimes exists a misapprehension that the Kaiser’s Navy did nothing after Jutland but swing at anchor, its ships becoming ever more rusty and its men ever more mutinous. This is not strictly true and this chapter will show that the German fleet remained a ‘clear and present danger’ in the North Sea and elsewhere, right up to the end of the war. It is, however, accurate enough to say that Admiral Scheer and the High Seas Fleet abandoned their dreams of Der Tag (‘The Day’), that single cataclysmic engagement which would wrest control of the oceans from the Royal Navy, soon after Jutland.2 Faced with victory, but a victory of the most unconvincing and dissatisfying sort, what were the British to do to remain active and confident as 1916 drew to a close and the war dragged on through 1917? More importantly, how were the men of the Grand Fleet, arguably the greatest assembly of largely inactive technology and manpower in the world at the time, to hold up their heads as their brothers in khaki laid down their lives by the hundreds of thousand on the Western Front? Losing the Propaganda War: The Jutland Controversy The Battle of Jutland was fought between 31 May and 1 June 1916. It was the only time that fleets of big-gun ‘dreadnought’ battleships, built at enormous expense between 1906 and 1914, actually came to blows, and it involved, on both sides, 250 ships and around 100,000

2 Professor Eric Grove pointed out to me that Scheer’s abandonment of the fleet action as a strategic goal may well have been the result of being stripped of his Uboats for the unrestricted submarine warfare campaign, as the tactical use of U-boat ‘ambushes’ was an essential part of his plans for reducing British numbers before the fleets even met. However, according to his own account at least, after Jutland Scheer became an enthusiastic supporter of the unrestricted submarine warfare campaign before the decision had been taken to begin it. According to his memoirs (Germany’s High Seas Fleet in the World War) (London: Cassell, 1920), on 20 June he outlined his views in a memorandum to the Kaiser as follows: ‘I replied that in view of the situation I was in favour of the unrestricted U-boat campaign against commerce, in the form of a blockade of the British coast, that I objected to any milder form, and I suggested that, if owing to the political situation we could not make use of this, our sharpest weapon, there was nothing for it but to use the U-boats for military purposes.’ Had Scheer believed that the High Seas Fleet could still triumph, it seems odd that he did not argue more strongly for the U-boats to be retained in support of the fleet. I must therefore on balance ‘stick to my guns’ and conclude that Scheer no longer believed he could win a fleet action. I am, however, very grateful to Professor Grove for making me examine the issue in more detail.

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men. It was at times a confused and bloody action, at the end of which the British had lost fourteen ships and 6,094 men killed, the Germans, eleven ships and 2,551 men. The battle changed nothing for Germany. The Royal Navy maintained its blockade and, in the words of one American newspaper, ‘The German fleet . . . assaulted its jailor, but is still in jail.’3 However, the German fleet escaped and Jutland was certainly no Trafalgar. Worse still, they returned to port first and Admiral Scheer was quick to tell his side of the story. Newspapers announced a German victory, and on 5 June the Kaiser travelled to Wilhelmshaven to proclaim that: ‘The English were beaten. The spell of Trafalgar has been broken. You have started a new chapter in world history.’4 In the meantime the Grand Fleet made for home, burying its dead on the way. Its homecoming was more subdued. Britain expected another Trafalgar and was bitterly disappointed when she did not get it. ‘Great naval disaster! Five British battleships sunk!’ proclaimed the London newspapers.5 As a consequence of this early failure to win the propaganda battle, arguments began to rage almost immediately in Britain about who was to blame for what was viewed as at best a lost opportunity and at worst, a defeat. The debate focussed on the respective roles played by Admiral Sir John Jellicoe, the British Commander-in-Chief, and Beatty, at the time commander of the Battlecruiser Fleet. The intricacies of this debate, which went on well into the inter war period and can still raise the hackles of historians today, lie outside the scope of this chapter, but the essence of it was whether overwhelming victory had eluded the British as a result of the alleged caution (bordering on timidity), inflexibility and lack of initiative of Jellicoe, or the alleged impetuosity, vanity and glory-seeking of Beatty. Both admirals, to their credit, stayed largely aloof (at least publicly) from this poisonous internecine conflict whilst there was still a war to be won, and the battle was mainly fought through the endless and sometimes vitriolic outpourings of their various friends and supporters). Beatty’s wife was less discrete, writing to Dennis Larking, a family friend and retired naval officer, on 10 July 1916:

3 4 5

Robert K. Massie, Castles of Steel (London: Pimlico, 2005), p. 663. V. E. Tarrant, Jutland: The German Perspective (London: Cassell, 2001), p. 275. Massie, Castles of Steel, p. 360.

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nick hewitt Now it is all over there seems to be very little to say except to curse Jellicoe for not going at them as the B.Cs [battle cruisers] did . . . I hear he was frightened to death in case he might lose a B. ship. I think the real truth he was in a deadly funk.6

There is no question that for the Royal Navy in general and the Grand Fleet in particular ‘The Jutland Controversy’ definitely forms a backdrop for the period under examination, particularly in relation to senior command relationships. The Lessons of Jutland In the immediate aftermath of the battle, much of the analysis which took place was focussed on the loss of the three British battlecruisers, Indefatigable, Queen Mary and Invincible, which blew up and sank in the course of the action with the loss of nearly all of their ship’s companies. More than half of the British dead came from these ships alone, and Jellicoe later wrote that the priorities for improvements were: The urgent need for arrangements to prevent the flash of cordite charges, ignited by the explosion of a shell in a turret or in a position between the turret and the magazine, being communicated to the magazine itself. Better measures were required to prevent the charges of small guns from being ignited by bursting shell. Increased deck armour protection in large ships had been shown to be desirable in order that shell or fragments might not reach the magazines . . . the . . . large angle of descent of the projectiles made our ships very vulnerable in this respect. Improved arrangements for flooding magazines and drenching exposed cartridges had to be made.7

Probably the most important results of these deliberations were the decisions to increase the deck armour of all the Fleet’s capital ships and to install revolving flashproof scuttles between the magazines and handling rooms, allowing the doors to be kept shut without affecting the ships’ rate of fire. Such defensive-mindedness was viewed in some quarters as distinctly ‘un-British’, the Director of Naval Construction,

B. McL. Ranft, ed., The Beatty Papers Volume I (London: Naval Records Society, 1989), p. 369. 7 Admiral Viscount Jellicoe of Scapa, The Grand Fleet 1914–1916 Volume II (London: Cassell, 1919), pp. 418–19. 6

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Eustace Tennyson-d’Eyncourt, arguing that ‘the best defence is superior power of offence’.8 Further concerns centred on the ineffectiveness of British shells and the inadequacy of British gunnery and fire control systems, particularly that of the Battle Cruiser Fleet. To an extent this problem could be solved by practice, Jellicoe wrote in August 1916: ‘I hope the BattleCruiser Fleet have been able to do some full calibre firing . . . they want it badly . . .’9 In the matter of shells, Beatty, Jellicoe and their respective Flag Captains, Frederick Dreyer (a gunnery specialist) and Ernle Chatfield (a future First Sea Lord) were all united in their condemnation of the standard British projectile. Dreyer wrote to Jellicoe in July 1916 that: We have many people engaged trying to make out that our A.P. [armour piercing] shell filled with lyddite, which burst half way through the plate, are just as good as the German shell filled with trotyl with delayed action fuse, which burst . . . well inside our ships. It seems a pity not to be willing to learn.10

Unfortunately the Admiralty did not agree and no serious work was carried out on the issue of shells until well into 1917. These major issues were by no means the full extent of the introspection which characterised the Royal Navy after Jutland. Committees were also set up to study ‘torpedoes, anti-flame and gas, signals, searchlights, [and] engineering’.11 So much for equipment. The aftermath of Jutland also saw changes in how the fleet was used, although not all were by any means dramatic or revolutionary. Perhaps the most radical, and at the same time the most discrete, was the full integration of the Admiralty’s wireless intercept and code breaking team, known colloquially as ‘Room 40’, into Naval Intelligence. Naval officers had traditionally viewed the civilian ‘boffins’ of Room 40 with some suspicion, and their remit was strictly limited to providing raw decoded material, with interpretation left to ‘the professionals’. At the time of Jutland serious errors had come about as a result of this attitude. The Director of Naval Operations, Captain Thomas

8 Arthur J. Marder, From the Dreadnought to Scapa Flow Volume III (London: Oxford University Press, 1966), p. 219. 9 A. Temple-Patterson, ed., The Jellicoe Papers Volume II (London: Naval Records Society, 1966), p. 43. 10 Ibid., p. 215. 11 Ibid., p. 213.

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Jackson, was on record as arguing that ‘those chaps couldn’t possibly understand all the implications of intercepted signals’, despite their deep, almost encyclopaedic knowledge of the German Navy.12 In contrast, by July 1917, Room 40 was preparing comprehensive intelligence reports based on their own interpretation of signals intelligence. Probably the greatest tactical lesson learned from Jutland for Jellicoe, the great centraliser, was to permit a greater degree of flexibility and initiative to his subordinate commanders, although this went nowhere near as far as others had been advocating for many years.13 A new paragraph inserted into Jellicoe’s ‘Grand Fleet Battle Orders’ (GFBOs) in September 1916 read: The Commander-in-Chief may make the signal ‘M.P’. This signal is used when the Commander-in-Chief desires to emphasize the fact that under existing conditions he finds it very difficult to control the movements of the whole battlefleet and is a reminder of his desire that the Flag Officers of battle squadrons shall manoeuvre their squadrons independently whilst acting in support of the squadron or division to which the fleet flagship is attached.14

Another significant revision to the GFBOs allowed for greater initiative when faced by torpedo attack—one significant criticism of Jellicoe at Jutland was his turning the fleet away when faced by German torpedo boats, although this was in line with the accepted doctrine of the time. Broadly, squadron commanders were now allowed to refrain from turning away unless directly threatened, a sensible arrangement which allowed elements of the fleet to maintain contact with the enemy: The rear, and possibly the centre . . ., of the fleet, may be compelled to give way to torpedo attacks, but this should not deter the van from taking every advantage of its immunity . . . to keep within effective gun range of the enemy.15

In October 1916 further major revisions were carried out to reflect the potentially fatal superiority in night fighting enjoyed by the Germans. At Jutland, Jellicoe’s intention was to avoid fighting at night, out of fear of torpedo attack and ‘friendly fire’ incidents. Instead he concentrated Massie, Castles of Steel, p. 580. See Andrew Gordon, The Rules of the Game (London: John Murray, 2005), for a fascinating and detailed account of the centralisation debate in the Royal Navy during the latter half of the nineteenth and the early twentieth centuries. 14 Jellicoe Papers, II, p. 48. 15 Ibid., p. 51. 12 13

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on ensuring his fleet was positioned correctly to bring the Germans to battle again the following morning. Once again, this was in line with accepted doctrine and, potentially disastrously, was based on the assumption that the Germans would do the same. The Grand Fleet was ordered back into a passive ‘cruising formation’ of four columns, expecting a peaceful night. Instead its screening destroyers were forced to fight a series of clumsy skirmishes for which they were very badly prepared, and in most of which they came off worse. The changes to GFBOs were, as ever, long and complicated, with lengthy sub-clauses aimed at preventing Jellicoe’s bête noire, ‘friendly fire’, but the opening lines give a clear indication of a new, more aggressive, spirit: The attack at night.—One or more light cruiser squadrons will be detailed to locate the enemy after dark if touch has been lost, and they will be accompanied by destroyer flotillas, which are to attack when the light cruisers have gained contact with the enemy.16

These and other changes resulting from the lessons of Jutland, were gradually introduced throughout the period, against a backdrop of the simmering ‘Jutland Controversy’, the grim isolation of the Grand Fleet’s base at Scapa Flow in the Orkney Islands, and long periods of almost total inactivity by the Germans, a result of the physical damage done to Scheer’s ships and the psychological damage done to his belief in his ability to challenge the Royal Navy. Only occasionally did German action serve as a reminder that the fleet and its leaders were still at war. Action and Inaction: The End of 1916 The stalemate of Jutland was followed almost immediately by another blow, not just to the Fleet but to the whole country. On 5 June 1916 Lord Kitchener, the Secretary of State for War, set out for Russia from Scapa Flow aboard the cruiser HMS Hampshire. On a night described by one witness as ‘the dirtiest night we had seen at Scapa’, Hampshire struck a mine and sank in fifteen minutes within sight of land.17 The

Ibid., p. 56. J. W. Beardsley, quoted in Malcolm Brown and Patricia Meehan, Scapa Flow (London: Pan, 2002), p. 103. 16

17

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appalling weather and inhospitable shore meant that of the 650 men on board, only twelve survived. Kitchener was not amongst them. The face of a thousand recruiting posters, seen by many as the living embodiment of the British army, had died whilst in the care of the Royal Navy. Bizarre conspiracy theories abounded and press and public were not slow to cast blame. Coming so soon after the perceived failure at Jutland, this was a bitter pill to swallow. Jellicoe, in particular, took Kitchener’s death very hard, and it may have been a contributing factor to his declining health and energy during the latter half of 1916. Soon afterwards he wrote: I cannot adequately express the sorrow felt by me personally and by the officers and men of the Grand Fleet generally, that so great a man should have lost his life while under the care of the fleet.18

These sentiments were shared by the people of Orkney who erected a memorial by public subscription after the war. Although it has almost become a cliché to argue that after Jutland, the German fleet ‘never came out again’, Admiral Scheer attempted another sortie very shortly afterwards, on 18 August 1916. Essentially a repeat of his Jutland plan, Scheer’s aim was to once again bombard the East Coast to provoke a reaction from Beatty’s battlecruisers at Rosyth. Beatty was to rush south, losing ships to U-boat patrol lines before being engaged by the full strength of the High Seas Fleet. As before, the German strategy was to destroy Beatty’s force at minimal cost in order to achieve the numerical parity they so desperately needed before engaging Jellicoe. In contrast to May, when bad weather had prevented aerial reconnaissance, Scheer had eight Zeppelin airships on patrol ahead, as well as a patrol line of twenty four U-boats. Warned well in advance by Room 40, the British were once more at sea several hours before the Germans. Although these preliminary rounds bore a strong resemblance to the preparations for Jutland a series of errors and misfortunes prevented the two fleets meeting.19 Two British light cruisers were torpedoed and

18 Admiral Sir Reginald Bacon, The Life of John Rushworth, Earl Jellicoe (London: Cassell, 1936), pp. 336–37. 19 For this action the British also deployed the Harwich Force of light cruisers and destroyers. The principal error came about when a German airship sighted this force and reported it as a group of capital ships. Thinking he had finally caught a detached

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sunk by Scheer’s U-boat screen, and a British submarine torpedoed and damaged the German battleship Westfalen, but neither side had the temerity to claim any kind of victory after such an inconsequential skirmish. As it turned out, the August sortie was to be Jellicoe’s last chance to take on the Germans at sea. His tiredness, increasing caution and preoccupation with the submarine menace was becoming more apparent, and is clearly shown by his disproportionate response to the loss of two light cruisers: I very much regret our losses on the 19th. The only way of avoiding them in future when submarines are so numerous will I fear be to screen all cruisers and light cruisers and I am afraid the number of T.B.Ds [destroyers] won’t run to it.20

Jellicoe’s anxiety about submarines, exemplified by this concern to in effect screen his screening forces, led him to bombard the Admiralty with a series of letters proposing various solutions. This came at a time when the government was becoming frustrated by the Admiralty’s perceived inertia under Arthur Balfour, the First Lord of the Admiralty, and Sir Henry Jackson, the First Sea Lord. It was therefore proposed to promote Jellicoe to First Sea Lord and move him to the Admiralty, with the U-boat menace his main priority. His transfer was seen as a way of both changing the mood of the Grand Fleet and sweeping the corridors of Whitehall with what Andrew Gordon has called ‘a stimulating sea-breeze’, although he goes on to point out that the inadvisability of ‘replacing a lacklustre First Sea Lord with an exhausted one’ was not considered.21 There followed some wrangling, at times ill-tempered, over his successor. Jackson and Balfour had no doubts in their minds: they wanted Beatty, on account of his reputation as a ‘fighting admiral’ and his popularity with the public. Jellicoe was adamant that Beatty was unsuitable on the grounds of age and inexperience, as well as what he referred to somewhat waspishly as Beatty’s ‘many mistakes’.22 There seems little doubt that the ‘Jutland Controversy’ was starting to

force, Scheer altered course to intercept and thus missed any opportunity for battle. See Marder, From the Dreadnought to Scapa Flow, III, pp. 235–45, for a detailed account. 20 Jellicoe Papers, II, pp. 46–47. 21 Gordon, The Rules of the Game, p. 519. 22 Jellicoe Papers, II, p. 105.

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influence his attitude by this point. Professor A Temple Patterson has written that ‘Jellicoe became inclined to undervalue Beatty’s abilities’.23 Jellicoe’s preferred candidate was Sir Charles Madden, his Chief of Staff and brother-in-law, an officer who was only marginally more experienced than Beatty. Jackson and Balfour were unmoved. On 28 November 1916 Jellicoe hauled down his flag, to the sorrow of both officers and men. SurgeonCaptain Robert Hill, of the flagship HMS Iron Duke, later wrote to him that he ‘never saw so many men blubbing before as on the day you left the ship’.24 A few days later Beatty arrived to replace him. He was greeted, according to most accounts, with little enthusiasm, particularly on board Iron Duke, as the ‘Jutland Controversy’ began its insidious assault on fleet cohesion. Indeed Beatty felt so unwelcome on board Jellicoe’s former flagship that on 16 February 1917 he shifted his flag to Queen Elizabeth, a ship he had coveted since the outbreak of war. And so the New Year brought both a new commander and a new flagship. But was it also to bring a new approach? Beatty as Commander-in-Chief During his tenure as Commander-in-Chief David Beatty oversaw a gradual transition from the rigid and complex system of central control favoured by Jellicoe to a system which was, at least on paper, more flexible and more suitable to the challenges of modern warfare. As early as March 1917 he superseded Jellicoe’s Grand Fleet Battle Orders with the far shorter Grand Fleet Battle Instructions, which placed far greater emphasis on independent manoeuvring and personal initiative. These instructions eventually went so far as to state that: When action is joined, the Flag Officers commanding battle squadrons and divisions of the battlefleet have full discretionary power to manoeuvre their squadrons or divisions independently.25

The extent to which Beatty was personally responsible for this change in doctrine has been a source of some controversy amongst historians. Andrew Gordon has argued that:

23 24 25

Ibid., p. 6. Ibid., p. 192. Beatty Papers, I, p. 459.

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Whilst he himself cannot be ranked amongst the most prominent military brains of the twentieth century, he grasped . . . fundamentals of naval warfare which had not been taken on board by some of his technically more proficient or career serving seniors and contemporaries.26

It is, however, perfectly possible to argue that both Jellicoe and Beatty had learned the same lessons in that tough, uncompromising classroom off the Danish coast, and that given time Jellicoe might have reached exactly the same conclusions. The tentative changes he initiated after the battle support this interpretation. But the fact remains that it fell to Beatty to initiate major change, even if he was simply part of what Gordon calls ‘a cumulative revolution’.27 Whatever the extent or otherwise of Beatty’s tactical genius, it was perhaps his charisma and showmanship which were his most important leadership characteristics during a trying time for the fleet, when the enemy steadfastly refused to ‘come out’ and morale was being sapped by inactivity and boredom, leavened with a steady grim trickle of casualties caused by mines, U-boats and the weather. Beatty kept the fleet busy with exercises, antisubmarine sweeps and manoeuvres at sea, along with sports competitions and regattas in harbour. He was usually careful to attend such gatherings, and whenever possible he would address the men, making stirring speeches about annihilating the enemy when they finally dared to emerge from port. In July 1917 he wrote to his wife that: We are having a regatta, which takes the men’s minds off the serious side of life & the weary waiting that they do so much of . . . it’s a great thing as it keeps them fit . . . and unless they are physically and mentally fit we shall not do ourselves justice when the great day comes, and I cannot believe that it won’t come.28

Schemes and Dreams: Offensive Proposals for 1917 Beatty has been portrayed, sometimes with justification, as something of a swashbuckler, but when it came to strategic policy after assuming command of the Grand Fleet he was forced by circumstances to be almost as cautious as his predecessor. In July 1917 he wrote to his wife

26 27 28

Gordon, Rules of the Game, p. 526. Ibid., p. 529. Beatty Papers, I, p. 446.

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that ‘the role of the Navy is to keep its head and not be bounced into attempting impossible things by irresponsible and ignorant cranks.’29 In truth, faced with the complete refusal of the Germans to ‘come out’ and the increasing inroads made into his light forces to meet the challenges of the submarine campaign, there was little else he could do. In July 1917, of more than a hundred destroyers attached to the Grand Fleet, over half were absent on anti-submarine duties or refitting.30 However it seems clear that relying on the almost inevitable long-term success promised by the ‘weary waiting’ of blockade duty remained frustrating, not just for an aggressive campaigner like Beatty but for much of the Royal Navy. This frustration was compounded by their enjoyment of almost complete command of the sea and, increasingly, the air—it seemed impossible that such domination could exist without a parallel ability to hit at the enemy. Consequently throughout 1917 a series of proposals for offensive action were explored to break the deadlock. One of the more outlandish schemes, submitted to the Admiralty in September 1917, was breathtaking in both its simplicity and its impracticality. This was a proposal to close all the river mouths and exits to the Baltic by scuttling nearly a hundred old warships filled with cement. As if that was not enough, the heavily fortified islands of Wangeroog and Heligoland would have to be captured and then held until the operation was completed. There was also a strong possibility that the High Seas Fleet would emerge to try to stop the operation, and whilst a fleet action was desirable, fighting it in German waters was not. Needless to say the proposal never progressed beyond the planning stage. Numerous significant objections were raised, including the difficulty of seizing and holding the islands, the difficulty of placing blockships accurately under fire, the lack of availability of ships and, crucially, the fact that the Baltic exits could not be completely blocked without violating Swedish and Danish neutrality. Rear-Admiral Roger Keyes, appointed Director of the Admiralty Plans Division soon afterwards, wrote succinctly in his memoir that ‘I

29 30

Marder, From the Dreadnought to Scapa Flow, IV, p. 45. Ibid., p. 42.

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am not surprised that this suggestion was rejected, for it certainly was not a feasible operation of war.’31 Resurrected as an alternative to the blockships proposal was one of the pet projects from the earlier Churchill and Fisher era: to seize and permanently hold one or more of the Heligoland Bight islands as an advanced operational base in conjunction with an ambitious policy of offensive minelaying. Huge minefields had already been laid in the Dover Straits and more mines were in the process of being laid across the 250 mile stretch of water which separated the Orkneys from Norway, vast quantities eventually being supplied by the United States. However the depth of the water made the northern fields an imperfect barrier and in any case involved conceding the North Sea to the U-boats. The most effective solution was always seen as mining the approaches to German bases but, as Winston Churchill wrote later, ‘Attempts to mine in the Heligoland Bight had been frustrated by the German sweeping operations, closely supported by the High Seas Fleet.’32 The theory was that by basing a blockading force of old battleships, light forces and submarines on Borkum or Heligoland, the German minesweepers could be entirely prevented from operating. The only way the blockading force could be cleared and sweeping operations resumed—so went the theory—would be for the Germans to engage it with the High Seas Fleet, thus bringing on the fleet action which Beatty and the British so desperately wanted. It hardly seems necessary to point out that the plan was deeply flawed. The Bight islands were protected by well sited and concealed shore batteries. All would be vulnerable to air attack and ‘tip and run’ naval bombardment, and Borkum could in fact be shelled from land. The mines available could not be laid in shallow water, which meant that safe channels would always exist. And even if the blockade succeeded, U-boats could still operate safely from Kiel, entering the North Sea from the Baltic exits with impunity. Once again, any resulting fleet action would be fought in German waters. Keyes referred to it as a ‘wildcat scheme’33 and it was, sensibly, shelved once more.

31 Admiral of the Fleet Sir Roger Keyes, Naval Memoirs: Scapa Flow to the Dover Straits (London: Thornton Butterworth Limited, 1935), p. 114. 32 Winston Churchill, The World Crisis 1916–1918 Part II (London: Thornton Butterworth Limited, 1927), p. 371. 33 Keyes, Naval Memoirs: Scapa Flow to the Dover Straits, p. 115.

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The arguments about the Bight islands clearly demonstrated that as long as the German fleet remained in existence and stronger than any British force which could be permanently maintained in the Bight, the British could not effectively prevent U-boat operations. The debate therefore moved to alternative means of neutralising the High Seas Fleet, if it continued to refuse action. The first years of the war had seen the Royal Navy take a series of tentative steps towards the development of naval air power. These included experiments with airships, the transportation of fixed wing aircraft on larger warships, and the construction or conversion of first seaplane carriers and then primitive but recognisable aircraft carriers. Initially these developments were aimed at breaking the reconnaissance stranglehold of the German Zeppelins on the North Sea, although in fact only one ship-borne aircraft actually shot down a Zeppelin in the air.34 The advent of torpedo carrying aircraft meant that by 1917 British minds were already beginning to turn towards the possibility of using air power more offensively. Beatty, in particular, enthusiastically embraced the new technology, seeing air power as: One of the few ways in which offensive action against the German Fleet is possible [and] one of the few ways in which our command of the sea can be turned to active account against the enemy.35

In June 1917 he was bemoaning the fleet’s lack of ‘efficient and fast seaplane carriers’36 and drafting lengthy instructions encouraging the aggressive use of aircraft. By August he was proposing an ambitious plan to neutralise the fighting strength of the High Seas Fleet using a mass attack of 121 torpedo carrying aircraft from the carriers supported by land based flying boats carrying bombs. When this plan was rejected, mainly on the grounds that the torpedo aircraft were not capable enough, Beatty backed down, only to return to the fray in October: A sustained air offensive on the scale proposed would impose upon the enemy the necessity for active measures of defence . . . affording opportunities which have hitherto been denied to us.37

34 A Sopwith Pup operating from HMS Yarmouth and flown by Flight Sub-Lieutenant B. A. Smart, shot down Zeppelin L23 on 23 August 1917. 35 Marder, From the Dreadnought to Scapa Flow, IV, p. 237. 36 Ibid., p. 439. 37 Ibid., p. 239.

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Ever cautious, the Admiralty continued to reject Beatty’s proposals, citing unavailability of ships and the short range and limited hitting power of aerial torpedoes. No operation on the scale he proposed took place before the war ended. Ever since 1914 ideas had circulated for offensive operations in the Baltic, as a bold means of taking the war into German waters and forcing the German fleet to fight. In 1914 Fisher had even suggested relocating most of the fleet to the Baltic in one grand strategic stroke. The strategy was not without merit, as the threat to Germany’s exposed northern coast and the flow of vital supplies from Sweden would almost certainly have forced the High Seas Fleet to come out and fight. Victory would have freed the Royal Navy from the burden of protecting supply lines to the Western front, and ultimately shortened the war. The official historian, Julian Corbett, wrote that: From a naval point of view the reasons for speedily crushing the German Navy, even by a direct attack . . . were as weighty as ever. It cannot be too strongly or too often emphasised that in every plan which the Admiralty had to consider there was always upon them the dead weight of having to protect the army’s lines of supply and the home ends of our trade terminals.38

Fisher had worked out detailed plans, even commissioning new specialist ships to do the job, including the fast, shallow draught ‘light battlecruisers’ Courageous, Glorious and Furious and shallow draught monitors like HMS Marshal Ney for coastal bombardment. However the light battlecruisers were poorly armoured and mechanically unreliable. Within the fleet they were soon christened ‘Helpless’ ‘Hopeless’ and ‘Useless’. Moreover, the Baltic strategy was without doubt an extraordinarily high risk proposal which had few supporters. On 25 January 1916 Jellicoe had killed off one version, writing to Arthur Balfour, the First Lord, that: I have long arrived at the conclusion that it would be suicidal to divide our main fleet with a view to sending ships into the Baltic.39

However in 1917 the precarious political situation in Russia had given the plans further impetus. In October 1917 the Russian Prime Minister,

38 Julian S. Corbett, Naval Operations Volume II (London: Longmans, Green and Co, 1921), p. 129. 39 Jellicoe Papers, I, p. 203.

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Kerensky, almost begged Sir George Buchanan, the British Ambassador, to take action, prompting Buchanan to telegraph London that the ‘appearance of British Fleet in Baltic would at once effect radical change in situation’.40 Faced with such desperation, and with vocal public support for an ally facing catastrophe, Jellicoe initiated a serious examination of the possibility of entering the Baltic, but the Plans Division of the Admiralty concluded that whilst going in might just be practical, staying there for any meaningful length of time was surely not, as the Germans could seal the Baltic approaches and trap the force with ease. It could then be whittled down using submarines, aircraft and destroyers, or destroyed in a fleet action. It fell to the new First Lord of the Admiralty, Sir Eric Geddes, to finally kill the Baltic Plan stone dead in the House of Commons on 1 November, calling it ‘an act of madness’ which no responsible officer could support.41 Historians to this day continue to argue about whether he was right. ‘Bloody Scapa’ Dear Mum, I cannot tell you where I am. I don’t know where I am. But where I am there is miles and miles of bugger all, love, Ted.42

While Beatty schemed and dreamed and did his best to maintain both his own morale and that of the fleet, his men had to get on with the business of living, or rather existing, in the isolated world of ‘Bloody Scapa’. One Grand Fleet veteran wrote that ‘the atmosphere was always one of boredom and frustration’.43 Another remembered: There was always trouble. Men got bored waiting for the great day which never came. There was a fight almost every day on some mess deck, and a stampede of men to get to see it.44

9 July 1917 saw a break in the monotonous routine, although of an unwelcome nature, when the dreadnought battleship HMS Vanguard blew up and sank in the night. More than seven hundred men were Marder, From the Dreadnought to Scapa Flow, IV, p. 243. Ibid., p. 245. 42 Brown and Meehan, Scapa Flow, p. 228. This undated letter was actually written during the Second World War but using it, with apologies, proved irresistible! 43 Andrew Barrie, quoted in Brown and Meehan, Scapa Flow, p. 115. 44 Sidney Hunt, quoted in Brown and Meehan, Scapa Flow, p. 117. 40 41

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killed, almost certainly as a result of the spontaneous combustion of cordite charges in the ship’s magazines. Percy Ingleby, a naval airman at the seaplane base across the Flow at Houghton left a dramatic account of the disaster: I was looking across at the fleet when I observed that one of the ships appeared to lose its true outline and quiver. It then appeared to lift up in the middle and from this point there rose a vast column of orange-brown and slate grey smoke. This immediately burst into a flickering pillar of fire which cast a crimson glow over the whole anchorage . . . this spectacle lasted four or five more seconds, then the silence was shattered by the sound of a terrific explosion. This ship was about five miles distant but the shock wave, which had taken about eleven seconds to reach me, was heavy enough to momentarily stop my breath.45

Beatty was shocked, writing two days later that it was: An overwhelming blow and fairly stuns one to think about. One expects these things when in the heat of battle but when lying peacefully at anchor it is very much more terrible.46

For the men on the cruisers and destroyers, periodic relief from boredom was provided by convoy escort duty or antisubmarine work, usually welcomed despite the discomfort and risks associated with taking to the North Sea in such small ships: Endless days and nights at sea, on patrol or escort duties—sea sick—everything sticky and wet. The smell of oil fuel and fear of floating mines at night, made it hell at times.47

Sometimes the smaller ships succumbed to the weather, or were despatched by a mine or submarine. Conditions in the North Sea often meant no survivors, a terribly lonely way to die. One of the worst tragedies took place in January 1918 when the destroyers Opal and Narborough struck the Orkney coast during an ill-advised attempt to make landfall in a full gale and blizzard conditions. Only one man survived out of 180 on board, and he had to cling to a narrow ledge in the full force of the storm for 36 hours before he was rescued. Action was rare, although the cruisers and destroyers had the best opportunities to see it. In March 1917 the cruiser HMS Achilles engaged

45 46 47

Percy Ingleby, quoted in Brown and Meehan, Scapa Flow, 109. Beatty Papers, I, p. 447. T. H. Kinman, quoted in Brown and Meehan, Scapa Flow, p. 117.

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and sank a German raider trying to break out into the Atlantic. G. J. Plenty, a wireless operator in Achilles, remembered returning to Scapa to be welcomed by the bands of the anchored fleet: One band was playing “Any Old Iron”, the Achilles being an old four funnelled cruiser. Without hesitation our own band struck up “And the Green Grass Grew All Around My Boys”, referring of course to the fact that the other ships never went to sea.48

Beatty was delighted at this success, writing to his wife that it was ‘a splendid thing getting her’.49 Recreational facilities on Scapa were limited, for all Beatty’s good intentions. Orkney’s tiny towns were not capable of sustaining thousands of thirsty sailors and were mostly off-limits. Instead, primitive amenities were constructed on the small island of Flotta, where according to one veteran ‘there wasn’t even a tree’.50 The YMCA building, now a rather bleak ruin, was the centre of Flotta social activity: ‘a miserable canteen that sold only tea and biscuits. What the hell good was that for thirsty young sailors?’51 Every year it hosted the Grand Fleet Boxing Championship, when upwards of 10,000 sailors would gather in and around it. Football matches were played in deep snow and gales, nevertheless Grand Fleet veteran Frank Bowman recalled that ‘Most of the big ships were able to run ten or twelve football teams . . . forming a small league in each battleship.’52 Midshipman N. K. Calder of the fledgling Royal Australian Navy was serving on board the battleship Royal Sovereign. He recalled one occasion in 1917 when ‘the football team went ashore to play the Resolution and we were beaten 44 to 0’ but he has not, sadly, recorded any excuse for such a dismal performance.53 In such conditions the officers’ golf and tennis facilities must have been challenging, although the golf course was apparently good enough for Jellicoe to be a regular visitor when he was Commander in Chief. The end of 1917 saw new arrivals in the Flow. The United States had entered the war in April, primarily as a result of the increasing ferocity of the unrestricted U-boat offensive which had begun in Febru48 49 50 51 52 53

G. J. Plenty, quoted in Brown and Meehan, Scapa Flow, p. 118. Beatty Papers, I, p. 412. Brown and Meehan, Scapa Flow, p. 87. Ibid., p. 89. Ibid., pp. 85–86. http://www.pbenyon.plus.com/Scapa_Diary/Index.html

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ary. The US government saw political advantages in joining the Grand Fleet and so on 7 December 1917, a date which would one day loom large in US naval history, an American battle squadron under Admiral Hugh Rodman dropped anchor in Scapa. The Americans were placed under British operational control, becoming the Grand Fleet’s Sixth Battle Squadron. They found conditions hard. Rodman wrote of the North Sea that: ‘it seems to be almost continually blowing . . . in addition there is a great deal of snow, hail, sleet and rain, coupled with fog and mist.’54 By and large the Americans were welcomed, although their contribution was initially limited by their poor gunnery. As the year drew to a close they joined their British allies in celebrating a dreary Christmas in ‘Bloody Scapa’. Microhumiliations As far as action was concerned, 1917 was characterised by a series of minor irritations for the Grand Fleet, when German light forces succeeded in tweaking the lion’s tale. It cannot be overemphasised that these small engagements made no difference whatsoever to the strategic balance of power in the North Sea. Nevertheless they irritated press and public and added to the frustrations of Beatty and the Admiralty, who found it hard to explain why German light forces were able to operate with such apparent impunity. Raids by destroyers on British forces in the Channel were a regular irritant, but a series of actions at the end of the year were singled out for particular attention by the newspapers. The introduction of the convoy system as the best defence against attack by U-boats, which were slow and vulnerable to counterattack by escort, had inevitably increased the vulnerability of shipping to attacks by surface ships, which were faster and capable of dealing with escorts on their own terms. This was graphically demonstrated on 17 October 1917 when a Scandinavian convoy was attacked by the fast German minelaying cruisers Bremse and Brummer. The convoy consisted of twelve merchant ships escorted by two armed trawlers and the destroyers Mary Rose and Strongbow, an adequate defence

54

Massie, Castles of Steel, p. 757.

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against the anticipated U-boat threat. Despite the Admiralty being aware that the Germans were at sea, no-one had seen fit to warn the convoy and the result was a massacre. Mary Rose and Strongbow were both sunk with great loss of life, and the German cruisers then stalked and sank nine of the merchant ships before returning home unscathed. A Board of Inquiry blamed the commanding officer of Mary Rose for his ‘ill advised’ decision to attack the enemy, although it is hard to understand how he could protect the convoy by avoiding action. The press response was characteristically disproportionate, the Daily News shrieking on 23 October that: It would be false to say that the country feels the same confidence in the administration of the Navy that it does in the capacity and spirit of the Navy itself.55

The following can perhaps restore perspective. The First Sea Lord, Sir Eric Geddes, reported in the Commons on 1 November that more than 4,500 ships had been convoyed to Scandinavia without loss prior to the incident. And Sir Henry Newbolt, the Official Historian, wrote that ‘it hardly caused a disturbance in the timetable of Scandinavian trade’.56 Before the inquiry into the Mary Rose convoy had even convened, another action had taken place, which history has perhaps rather flatteringly christened the Second Battle of Heligoland Bight. Once again this action was connected to attempts to blockade German U-boats through mining. By 1917 the British minefields at the entrances to the German bases in the River Jade extended as much as 150 miles out into the North Sea. To simplify, this had occurred because each time German minesweepers cleared a swept channel, the British would lay a new line of mines at the end to block it. As a consequence the German sweepers were being forced to operate a long way from home. Well within reach of the British, they had to be provided with a strong covering force. On 17 November, a British force including the light battlecruisers Courageous and Glorious engaged the German minesweepers and their escorts, which turned for home and drew the British into a long stern chase. Joined by the battlecruiser Repulse the British were confident of inflicting a decisive blow, until they were themselves surprised by two 55 56

Marder, From the Dreadnought to Scapa Flow, I, p. 293. Ibid., p. 298.

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German screening battleships. Before any serious losses were incurred both sides broke off the engagement. This rather feeble anticlimax was the last big ship action of the First World War. One German auxiliary minesweeper was sunk. Beatty, predictably, was less than impressed, criticising the senior British officer on the spot for making ‘an error of judgement in the handling of his forces’ by not trying sufficiently hard to place himself between the Germans and their base.57 Beatty was right to be displeased, but again, perspective is helpful. Captain Walter Cowan, commanding 1st Light Cruiser Squadron in HMS Royalist, wrote on 23 November that the action ‘wasn’t bad but it was very disappointing in results’.58 The vulnerability of the Scandinavian convoys was graphically illustrated once more before the year ended. On 12 December four modern German destroyers intercepted a small convoy of six merchant ships, escorted by the destroyers Pellew and Partridge and four armed trawlers. More signalling problems meant that the covering force of armoured cruisers was not present and all the ships of the convoy were sunk apart from Pellew which escaped, damaged, into a rain squall. Once again the press reaction bordered on hysterical considering the small scale of the loss, reflecting both public frustration with German impertinence and a complete lack of understanding of the realities of war in the North Sea. The Daily News wrote of a ‘a disaster which will create indignation as well as deep concern in the public mind’. The Daily Mail called it a ‘humiliating reverse’.59 A Court of Enquiry into the Partridge convoy and a subsequent conference on the conduct of the Scandinavian convoys led to a number of key changes. The overall number of convoy sailings was decreased, to reduce the number of warships required for escorts and screening forces, and the size of each screening forces was greatly increased—initially to include a full battle squadron. This disproportionate ‘knee-jerk’ response could possibly have led to a far more serious reverse. Despatching isolated squadrons of battleships into the North Sea was exactly the sort of dispersion of force which Ibid., p. 308. Paul G. Halpern, ed., The Keyes Papers Volume 1, 1914–1918 (London: Naval Records Society, 1972), p. 418. Interestingly Cowan goes on to comment with far more passion on Beatty’s positive approach to after action analysis, which he scathingly compares with ‘the Jutland trash where yet that hasn’t been done & everyone concerned is still an angel and hero of perfection’. 59 Marder, From the Dreadnought to Scapa Flow, IV, p. 315. 57

58

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Beatty was so anxious to avoid, and if such a force had been caught by a German sortie in fleet strength, disaster could have resulted. Beatty called the decision ‘a grave strategical risk’60 but, arguably more by good luck than good judgement, no disaster happened. Farewell to Jellicoe As the Partridge convoy brought 1917 to a melancholy conclusion, so in Whitehall Sir John Jellicoe’s tenure at the Admiralty ended with a whimper. Brought in to tame the U-boats, he had resisted the introduction of convoy and made few friends in high places. As early as April 1917 Beatty was writing that ‘Jellicoe is not strong in his dealings with the submarine menace’.61 By the end of the year he was exhausted, possibly in poor health, and facing criticism from public, press and government. On Christmas Eve the man once described by Churchill as ‘The only man on either side who could lose the war in an afternoon’ was summarily dismissed by Eric Geddes at the behest of David Lloyd George. The pretext was his unwillingness to contemplate the dismissal of Vice-Admiral Sir Reginald Bacon at Dover, a personal friend and Jellicoe’s eventual biographer, but the establishment wanted change, and it seems likely that if it had not been Dover it would have been something else. Jellicoe’s own view was that: Lord Northcliffe was pressing the Prime Minister to get rid of me, the Prime Minister was pressing Geddes, the latter wanted to avoid trouble and tried to get away from the Admiralty, but failing this carried out the desire of Northcliffe.62

Bacon, for his part, retaliated in his biography of Jellicoe, describing Lloyd George as ‘man totally ignorant of sea conditions’ and ‘a Dictator Prime Minister imbued with a false idea of his own capacity and technical knowledge’.63 The end of 1917 was thus the end of an era for the Royal Navy.

60 61 62 63

Ibid., p. 315. Beatty Papers, II, p. 417. Jellicoe Papers, II, p. 244. Bacon, Life of John Rushworth, Earl Jellicoe, pp. 370–71.

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Conclusions So what was achieved in 1917? On the face of it nothing at all. No great battles were fought. The U-boats ravaged their way through much of the year, while the Grand Fleet swung at anchor. High Command schemed and dreamed, while the men played football and started fights. Actions which were fought were small and indecisive. Yet in truth the Grand Fleet did all it had to. The ships and men stayed sharp, putting in sea time, training, sweeping the North Sea and practising, practising, practising. Throughout 1917 the onus was on the enemy to take the initiative, but when they did it took the form of commerce raiding. Resorting to a Mahanian ‘guerre de course’ can often indicate a power that has given up any thoughts of strategic mastery, and the German surface sorties were flea bites, making no impact whatsoever on the British blockade. The submarine campaign was of course a different story, but even this formidable weapon was intended to enforce a counter blockade on Britain. It did not, in the words of one writer, make meat and butter cheaper in Berlin.64 German government statisticians estimated 260,000 deaths as a result of blockade in 1917, and 294,000 in 1918.65 For the Grand Fleet 1918 was to bring more of the same, although the improving operational effectiveness of the Americans made this formidable weapon yet more quantitively and qualitively superior to its opponent. The German surface fleet languished at anchor, apart from a brief, well planned but ultimately unsuccessful sortie in April 1918. Idleness and poor food eroded morale: the German sailors existed mainly on a diet of dried turnips and a concoction of water, fat and vinegar known as ‘drahtverhau’, or barbed wire entanglement. [This] vastly increased the men’s hunger and heightened their resentment of their officers, [who persisted] in living in high style [clamouring] loudly for a continuation of the war.66

In October 1918, faced with the prospect of a final ‘death ride’ into the North Sea, the crews mutinied. On 21 November 1918 they steamed Massie, Castles of Steel, p. 662. The figures were calculated by the Reichsamt des Inneren (Interior Ministry) by comparing mortality rates with official pre-war figures. 66 Richard Stumpf and Daniel Horn, eds., War, Mutiny and Revolution in the German Navy: The World War I Diary of Seaman Richard Stumpf (New Brunswick: Rutgers University Press, 1967), p. 11. 64

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their ships to surrender and internment under the guns of the Grand Fleet at Scapa Flow, where on 21 June 1919 they were humiliatingly scuttled. ‘Weary waiting’ had delivered a victory comparable with Trafalgar in scale and importance, if not in drama. Perhaps we should let Beatty end this chapter, as we let him begin it, with an address to the fleet delivered on 24 November 1918: I thank you for maintaining cheerfulness through the long weary years of war, for having maintained an efficiency which has created a prestige in the minds of the enemy, and has brought about his downfall . . . the war . . . has been won by seapower. You are the representatives of seapower . . . on you lies the great burden, and to you is due great credit.67

Cheerfulness. Efficiency. Prestige. Ultimately, these were enough to deliver a Trafalgar for the twentieth century.

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COUNTING UNREST: PHYSICAL MANIFESTATIONS OF UNREST AND THEIR RELATIONSHIP TO ADMIRALTY PERCEPTION Laura Rowe By mid-1917 the Board of Admiralty had received a number of worrying reports about unrest amongst the men, as a result of which they launched a number of enquiries to investigate the extent of the problem. The conclusions Their Lordships drew were ambiguous in a number of respects. However, the general consensus they chose to take was one of genuine concern at what they saw as the deeply infectious ‘disease’ of trade unionism, which they believed was being ‘spread’ by hostilities only ratings (HOs) and reservists, and which would, they felt, undermine the very foundations of service discipline. Trade union methods of representation of grievances were the antithesis of those of the Royal Navy, where combination of any kind was illegal. The extent of the Admiralty’s fear should not be overstated; they certainly did not think the fleet was on the verge of disloyalty reminiscent of recent events in, for example, the French army; however, the rhetoric surrounding discussion of this issue, both from the Board and from senior officers afloat, indicates a genuine and substantial concern, which clearly tapped into a pre-war seam of apprehension. This paper examines whether the Board of Admiralty’s fears were borne out by the offences being committed against the Naval Discipline Act (NDA) or King’s Regulations and Admiralty Instructions. If unrest was as prevalent as the Admiralty believed, one would have expected this to be reflected in offences listed in the book of Courts Martial Returns and in the few remaining transcripts of courts martial proceedings. Statistical Analysis There are, however, a number of limitations with this system of assessment. Most importantly the Courts Martial Returns represent only a small proportion of the offences punished. The majority of offences committed by ratings were summarily punished—records of which, sadly, do not survive. Officers above the rank of midshipman, of course,

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could only be punished by court martial, although in wartime officers could be tried by a Disciplinary Court according to the terms of Article 57A of the Naval Discipline Act which states: ‘Where any officer borne on the books of any of His Majesty’s ships in commission is in time of war alleged to have been guilty of a disciplinary offence, that is to say, a breach of section seventeen, eighteen, nineteen, twenty-two, twentythree, twenty-seven, or forty-three of this Act, the officer having power to order such a court-martial may, if he considers that the offence is of such a character as not to necessitate trial by court-martial, order a disciplinary court constituted as hereinafter mentioned.’ Needless to say ‘hereinafter mentioned’ went on for pages. The offences tried by courts martial represent, in theory at least, the most serious breaches of naval law—either by virtue of the offence itself or of the recalcitrant nature of the offender. Restrictions were placed on the severity of punishment it was possible to award summarily, according to Article 56 of the NDA as amended in 1917. Hence, if it was desirable for the potential punishment to include penal servitude, or imprisonment for a period in excess of three months, the case had to go before a court martial. Despite such restrictions it should be remembered that the death penalty and dismissal with disgrace from the service could, theoretically, be awarded as a summary punishment. In respect of the ratings who faced court martial, the figures still present a number of difficulties. There is the dilemma of how to treat men facing multiple charges. From the evidence in the Courts Martial Returns we can only speculate as to whether one alleged offence was dependent on another: for example, there is no way of knowing for certain whether the intoxicated condition of the able seaman directly led to his assault on the lieutenant or not; nor is the offence of smuggling liquor aboard automatically linked to a charge of drunkenness. From the surviving records it cannot be determined which offences are linked, and it is for this reason that I have chosen to treat each offence as being independent. This also presents us with problems in the case of categories like ‘sexual offences’: the figures for this offence are skewed in a number of respects. Importantly, charges like sodomy are generally, although not always, brought against two people—thus effectively doubling the numbers of people charged for one incident. Many of the sexual offences listed were committed by a limited number of men. In one case a single officer was charged with ten different sexual offences and it is hard to make adjustments for the propensity for a man to commit multiple cases of certain classes of offence. Most

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offences of a sexual nature were tried by courts martial, rather than summarily. However, this may not distort the figures as much as one might initially think: there are a significant number of sources to suggest that ratings found to be committing these types of offences were often dealt with unofficially by their messmates, or by the messmates of those against whom the offence was committed. Similar difficulties can be found in the case of mutiny. There were 41 charges of mutiny convicted by courts martial during the war. However, these refer to only four incidents. For the purpose of this statistical analysis it has been necessary to award each offence a category. From the evidence available, it has, on occasion, been extremely difficult to determine into which of these categories an offence should be placed. Into what class, for instance, should one place ‘being in a room with a Boy, 1st Class, with the lights off and the door closed’? Equally, what is ‘Guilty of scandalous action in derogation of God’s Honour and corruption of good manners’? Thus, we can see that the use of Courts Martial Returns presents us with significant problems. Nonetheless, were the Admiralty’s fears to have been well-founded, one would still expect to have been able to see this reflected in the figures for these most serious of offences. The first thing to be noted from the Courts Martial Returns is the numerical insignificance of the charges. From a force which by 1918 numbered over 640,000 men (not including the mercantile marine) only 2,323 men (or 0.4%) faced a total of 4,112 charges between the beginning of 1914 and the end of 1918—82% of which resulted in conviction. One other striking feature of the Courts Martial Returns is the tiny number of murders and attempted murders. There was only one conviction for murder and two for attempted murder in the entire period. Temporary Engineering Sub-Lieutenant Robert Porteous, RNR, was convicted of both murder and attempted murder, although he was declared insane and ordered to be detained in the Royal Naval Hospital until a more suitable arrangement could be made. The other man convicted of attempted murder was an active service petty officer. Of course, unlike in the army, naval men did not routinely carry personal arms which helps partially to explain these figures; however that there were only three such cases in four years is indicative of an organisation which faced no serious levels of unrest. There is some very limited anecdotal evidence of unpopular Masters-at-Arms (ships’ policemen) ‘falling’ mysteriously overboard—but this was certainly not endemic!

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Because of the different regulations governing the trial and punishment of officers and men, I have chosen to examine the figures for ratings, officers tried by court martial, and officers tried by Disciplinary Court separately. Ratings Between 1914 and 1918 a total of 2,116 charges were brought against lower deck men, of which 85% were upheld, from a total of just over 584,000 men who served during the war. Lists of the categories of offences tried by court martial and of the offences for which men were convicted can be found at figures 1 & 2. In keeping with service stereotypes, drinking, disobedience and sexual offences feature within the top eight. If we were to concentrate on those offences which might best indicate the presence of unrest: violence against superior officers; contempt and insubordination; threatening language and behaviour; desertion; absent without leave; overstaying/not returning from leave; disobedience; neglect of duty; refusal of duty; desertion of post; absence from place of duty; improperly leaving ship; and, of course, mutiny we discover that combined these offences come to only 1,104 convictions, with the greatest single charge, violence against a superior, accounting for 451 of them. At the other end of the scale there were only six convictions on the very serious charge of refusal of duty. What we can see from these selected offences, however, is a perceptible peak for the year 1917 (see figure 3(a)). Bearing in the mind there was no significant change in the overall size of the service between 1916 & 1918 this increase, however numerically small, must be seen as significant from the Admiralty’s perspective, coming as it did at a period of other, more general concerns: mutinies were ripping through other fighting forces, revolution was engulfing Russia, and industrial unrest was becoming a significant factor in British politics. If the Admiralty’s fears about the disease-spreading quality of the HOs were grounded, this should be evident in the proportion of offences committed by men from each type of service; however, the Courts Martial Returns do not tell us which of the men facing trial had entered for hostilities only and so it cannot be established if offences were being committed by a disproportionate number of HO ratings. The Returns merely differentiate between the active service (which would include HOs), reservists, marines, and mercantile marines (with

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a handful of others thrown in). What we can compare are the figures for reservists (the Admiralty’s other disease-vector). By 1918, 10% of the RN was composed of reservists—yet they committed 15% of the offences convicted by court martial. This discrepancy is not statistically significant, and we cannot infer from it, as the Admiralty feared, that reservists were firebrand trade unionists or revolutionary socialists causing unrest in the midst of the RN. The small differential may be easily accounted for by the numbers who suddenly found that actions considered to be legitimate and normal (particularly in regard to the representation of grievances) in their respective pre-war professions, had become infringements of the NDA. Officers (Court Martial) When we look at officers convicted at court martial the picture changes somewhat. Between 1914 & 1918 1,262 charges were tried by court martial of which 76% led to conviction. Over 55,300 officers were borne on the RN’s books by the end of 1918, of which only 6% were reservists. However, throughout the course of the war 48% of the officers convicted of an offence at court martial were members of the reserves: the most common offence was overwhelmingly drinking, accounting for 31% of all convictions. In fact the most striking feature of the officers who were convicted by a court martial was the gross over-representation of the reservists (see figures 4 & 5). Using the same selection of charge types selected for the lower decks as unrest-indicators it can be seen that the number of convictions increased slightly from 1914 to 1916, before rising sharply in 1917 and remaining at roughly the same level in 1918 (see figure 3(b)). However, since the maximum number of convictions for these offences in any one year was 109 this would hardly indicate a deep under lying problem for the Admiralty. The continued increase in the number of these offences committed by reservists until 1918 is, of course, in part to be expected because of the increasing numbers of reservists in the service. However, why this figure should double between 1917 & 1918, whilst at the same time the number of convictions against Active Service officers halved, is of more interest and could suggest that as the conflict drew to an end the desire to return to their peacetime jobs might have weakened the reservists’ ties with the RN now that the national emergency had apparently passed. The figures for Active Service officers doubled between 1916 & 1917, before

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falling sharply away in 1918. The fact that this does not correlate with the peak amongst the reservists is also interesting, and could be seen as a reflection of the reduced time spent training by new officers before going to sea. Whatever the cause, with a peak of just 57 convictions for our unrest-indicators, it can be concluded that the RN faced no significant unrest amongst its regular officer’s corps. Officers (Disciplinary Court) We can see similar patterns emerging from the Disciplinary Courts. There were 622 convictions between 1914 and 1918, of which 35% were for drinking. Once again the reservists were disproportionately represented (see figures 6 & 7): despite making up only 6% of the service they constituted 82% of convictions. Using our unrest-indicators (see figure 3(c)) we again see a peak in 1917 of 115 convictions in total—of which 94 were against reservists. The disproportionate appearance of reservist on the charge sheet for officers is not unexpected—less familiar with the rigours of naval discipline than their active service counterparts who had entered at thirteen years of age, the increased frequency with which they transgressed the disciplinary code is hardly surprising. One of the most striking figures is that for reservist skippers convicted of a drinking offence at a Disciplinary Court. Many of these men would have been skippers of trawlers in civilian life, and they frequently treated their naval crews in the same, more familiar fashion, as they had done their civilian predecessors. In the RN, however, sharing a drink with your crew was a disciplinary offence. Quality not Quantity? It would seem then that the fears of Their Lordships were hardly borne out by any huge upsurge in either collective or individual insubordination in any of its manifestations. This leads one to question whether it was the substance rather than the quantity of the offences which generated such concern in the Admiralty. With this in mind one must turn to that most evocative of manifestations of unrest—mutiny! To the lay mind, the phrase ‘naval mutiny’ generally conjures an air of romance and heroism. One pictures gallant members of the lower orders fighting to throw off the shackles of their oppressors. The reality, of course, is not so picturesque. ‘Mutiny’ is an imprecise word, even in

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its legal definition; yet it is a very highly charged one—so highly charged in fact that it is a natural inclination during most incidents of ‘mutiny’ for all sides to play it down—frequently substituting such euphemisms as ‘incident’ or ‘outbreak’. The Manual of Naval Law and Court Martial Procedure from 1912 defines ‘mutiny’ thus: ‘The offence of “mutiny” is not defined in any statute, but it implies collective insubordination, or combination on the part of two or more persons, subject to military or naval law, to resist the lawful authority of superior military or naval officers, whether by violence or passive resistance; or to induce others to resist such lawful authority.’1 In effect this meant that any contravention of Article 11 of Kings Regulations and Admiralty Instructions, could, potentially, be classified as mutiny, depending on the judgement of individual captains.2 In 1969 Cornelius Lammers published a paper in the Administrative Science Quarterly which set out to determine whether ‘organisational conflicts’ (i.e. strikes and mutinies) could be analysed in terms of ‘a single theoretical framework’. He regarded both strikes and mutinies as protest movements which may fall into one of three types: ‘promotion of interest’, ‘secession’, and ‘seizure of power’. He suggested that strikes and mutinies form a sub-class of protest movements ‘because they have in common several components that are relevant from the point of view of a sociological theory of organizations’, namely ‘(1) the context of the conflicts [are] formal organisations; (2) the participants [are] lowerlevel members who come into conflict with higher-level decision makers; (3) the strategies used [such as] suspending usual tasks and/or taking violent action; and (4) the goals at which the strategies are aimed [are] attaining certain advantages or preventing disadvantages’.3 He hypothesised 1 J. E. R. Stephens, C. E. Gifford & F. Harrison Smith, Manual of Naval Law and Court Martial Procedure (London: Stephens & Sons, 1912), pp. 137–39. 2 Article 11 of King’s Regulations and Admiralty Instructions, 1913, reads: ‘Combinations.—All combinations of persons belonging to the Fleet formed for the purpose of bringing about alterations in the existing Regulations or customs of His Majesty’s Naval Service, whether affecting their interests individually or collectively, are prohibited as being contrary to the traditions and practice of the Service and injurious to its welfare and discipline. Every person is fully authorised individually to make known to his superior any proper cause of complaint, but individuals are not to combine either by the appointment of committees of in any other manner to obtain signatures to memorials, petitions or applications, not are they collectively to sign any such documents.’ 3 Cornelius Lammers, ‘Strikes and Mutinies: A Comparative Study of Organizational Conflicts between Rulers and Ruled’, Administrative Science Quarterly, Vol. 14, No. 4 (1969), pp. 558–72 (p. 559).

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that the social conditions conducive to strikes in industry are the same as those that heightened the chances of mutiny in military units, but that mutiny was a comparatively infrequent occurrence in part because of the threat of heavy retributions against mutineers, but predominantly because sailors consider the ‘strong [military] taboo on mutiny’ to be ‘legitimate’. Most sailors, he argues regard work stoppages as being incompatible with military discipline and as therefore threatening to undermine the running of their ship. However, mutiny may be provoked when acute suffering or grievances combine with either a general belief that no serious punishments will follow a collective action; or ‘when basic commitments to the goals and means of the organisation are so weak that the taboo on mutiny is no longer considered legitimate.’ Ties of loyalty to the organisation may also be severed by long periods of inactivity or by the inadequacies of officers, which has the additional side effect of shutting off a vital safety value.4 In Naval Mutinies of the Twentieth Century, Christopher Bell and Bruce Elleman have utilised the framework outlined by Lammers to investigate a selection of naval mutinies.5 They conclude that sailors’ grievances are often linked to broader social or political problems affecting the society from which they come. Bell suggests that ‘ships’ crews represent a crosssection of the nation and tend to reflect the social and political values within it. Conflict within a navy may therefore be either partially or predominantly a spill-over from a state’s social, economic, or political ills.’6 However, they suggest that mutinies usually stem from relatively minor causes relating to the conditions of service. Mutinies can take one of two forms: ‘ship specific’; or ‘fleet- or navy-wide’. The former developing as a result of particular circumstances on a specific ship, the latter caused by more widespread problems, sometimes, though not always, generated by more systemic problems such as poor officer-man relations.7 In such cases the complaint may not be with their direct superiors, but rather with the higher naval command. Bell classifies the various types of naval mutiny along the Lammers’ model as follows:8

Ibid., pp. 565–66. Christopher Bell & Bruce Elleman, Naval Mutinies of the Twentieth-Century: An International Perspective (London: Cass, 2003)—see chapter 13. 6 Christopher M. Bell & Bruce A. Elleman, ‘Naval Mutinies in the Twentieth Century and Beyond’ in Bell and Elleman, Naval Mutinies of the Twentieth-Century, pp. 264–76 (pp. 264–65). 7 Ibid., pp. 264–65. 8 Ibid., pp. 264–76 (p. 266) Table 1—‘Types of Naval Mutinies’. 4 5

counting unrest Type of Mutiny

Goals

79 Characteristics

Naval (or Promotion Sailors seek to improve or of Interest) mutinies maintain their position with respect to income or other working conditions.

Grievances relate solely to naval issues, and may be relatively minor and mundane. Grievances may be extended throughout the entire navy, but are more commonly confined to a single ship or squadron. Usually resolved quickly and easily. Usually passive.

Political mutinies

Demands go beyond what a ship’s captain or even the naval high command can concede. Demands may be unrelated or only indirectly related to conditions of service in the navy.

Sailors seek either: (a) to improve conditions within the navy by exerting pressure on political authorities rather than (or in addition to) their superior officers; or (b) to effect changes of a political (but non-revolutionary) nature.

Seizure of Power Sailors seek either: Or (a) to produce far-reaching or Secession mutinies revolutionary changes in the composition or nature of the government; or (b) to escape from the authority of a government entirely

Are most likely to occur in authoritarian, corrupt or weak states. Are most likely to involve violence and the outright seizure of ship(s).

It is through the use of these definitions and frameworks that I will explore the mutinies in the Royal Navy during the First World War. Throughout the war itself 41 officers and ratings were charged with mutiny (of whom twenty-nine were active service men, eight were mercantile marines and four were reservists) of which twenty-eight of the active service men were found guilty, all eight mercantile marines were convicted, and all four reservists acquitted. These relate to incidents on HMS Teutonic, Jonquil, Fantome, and Amphitrite. The courts martial proceedings relating to HMS Teutonic and HMS Amphitrite survive, and it is from these that conclusions as to the type and nature of the mutinies can be drawn. I will also examine the case of HMS Leviathan where the mutiny was re-classified by the Admiralty an ‘outbreak’ and no charges were brought by court martial despite 150 of her complement breaking out of the ship, taking with them the ship’s piano.

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The earliest of the mutinies took place on HMS Teutonic (a White Star steamship, launched in 1889 and used as an armed merchant cruiser). On the 28th March, 1916, whilst anchored in Liverpool, 178 mercantile ratings refused to turn to. The mutineers were assembled on the upper deck and addressed by the Senior Naval Officer, Liverpool, Rear Admiral Stileman. Accompanied by a 200-strong armed guard Stileman informed the mutineers, as had the captain before him, that what might have been termed a ‘strike’ in the mercantile service qualified as ‘mutiny’ under the Naval Discipline Act. He pledged to put their grievances before the Board of Admiralty personally and then asked them to return to work; eight refused and were imprisoned. During their subsequent trial the eight offered the following statement in their defence: In pleading guilty to the first charge may we also plead for special consideration on the grounds of ignorance of our refusal of duty. We have been for years firemen and trimmers of the Mercantile Marine and unfortunately we have been in the habit of settling any grievance or dispute in the same lamentable manner as we have done on this occasion, with one vast difference, that we have overlooked the fact of our own signing under Naval discipline. It is equally unfortunate that usually when signing any articles as Mercantile Marine firemen and trimmers, the general individual (through force of habit) does not attach enough importance to such articles, and we state that such habitual carelessness was present in this case, but that now, on realising our own unenvyable [sic] position and being very penitent and extremely sorry for the method adopted we beg for leniency in judgement of our offence.9

They were not granted leniency. Their Lordships, not perhaps unreasonably, thought that two reminders during the mutiny that they were under the NDA and that they were committing mutiny should really have been sufficient. Each received two years’ hard labour and was dismissed from the service: a seemingly heavy price to pay for a complaint over no more than food and pay. This incident falls clearly into the ‘protest movement’ type of mutiny. The goals related solely to naval issues and were pursued using the ‘stoppage of work’ tactic, complicated only by the mutineers’ non-typical relationship to the service in which they were employed. It is here that the Lammers’ model falls short: it makes no allowance for differences

9 The National Archives (hereafter TNA), ADM 156/19, Report written by Benson, 28 March, 1916.

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in the relationships with the governing military body between career servicemen and those temporarily drafted. They were not career servicemen, but mercantile men co-opted for the duration, and hence were bound less tightly by professional and personal loyalty to, and pride in, the Royal Navy as an institution, thereby weakening the normative type attachment between the sailor and his employer, and thus the normal taboo on mutiny was not something they would have felt applied to them. They regarded the incident as a strike, not because they were attempting to downplay it, but because they genuinely regarded it as nothing more. They had merely undertaken a normal, legitimate, form of protest movement—sadly for them, the naval authorities did not share their view as to its legitimacy. The second of our case studies chronologically is HMS Amphitrite (an 1895 pre-Dreadnought Cruiser, which had been converted to a minelayer in 1917). At 1.15 pm on the 23rd September 1917, whilst she was stationed in Portsmouth, 58 Able and Ordinary Seamen refused to obey the pipe for both watches to fall in. At the subsequent court of enquiry twenty-two of those men were examined. The court found that the collective insubordination was carried out as a personal protest against the general behaviour of Amphitrite’s captain (Edmund Clifton Carver), the longer hours worked, the irregular hours at which the men got their tea, and the dirty conditions of the mess deck. Just as Admiral Colville, the Commander-in-Chief, Portsmouth, had concluded in his initial investigation, so too did the Court of Enquiry: the blame for the whole incident lay firmly at the feet of Captain Carver. In their submission to the Admiralty outlining the results of the Court of Enquiry, Captains Skipwith and Garforth, firmly stated that: ‘We are of opinion that the cause of this protest was Captain Carver’s tactless and overbearing method of dealing with the Officers and men and that he is most seriously to blame and should be held responsible for the whole series of events which culminated in this most serious offence against Naval discipline.’10 The accompanying letter by Admiral Colville was even more direct: ‘Captain Carver is solely and entirely to blame for the lamentable state of affairs on board that ship; he has most thoroughly maintained his service reputation [ by which he meant Carver’s reputation as an appalling leader], and I submit to their Lordships that he should be instantly relieved of his command

10

TNA, ADM 156/34, Findings of the Court of Enquiry, 25 September, 1917.

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and never employed again in any position where he commands officers and men. If he is left any longer in this ship, there will probably be more serious trouble.’11 That Colville was prepared to recommend this course of action, even though he recognised the potential effect on discipline in allowing the men to achieve the objective they so obviously desired, is indicative of the exceptional circumstances surrounding the case. Once again this is an incident which clearly falls in the ‘protest movement’ mould of mutiny. It was limited in scope and arose from a belief, with which the Admiralty grudgingly agreed, that there was no alternative method for the men to bring forward their grievances. Indeed the Board of Admiralty was in a large degree sympathetic to the men, but felt that this show of insubordination could not go unpunished in view of the recent concessions granted to the lower decks, events on the Teutonic and the recent mutiny in Germany. Of the eight men selected, for no reason other than their seniority, to stand trial at court martial, six were sentenced to 2 years’ hard labour, and two to 18 months’. These were formally reduced by the Admiralty to 16 and 12 months respectively. It was also decided that the sentences would be suspended after 8 and 6 months, but that this suspension would not be announced until the time for suspension arrived: the Second Sea Lord commented ‘Any form of mutiny must be sternly repressed. The sentences are not severe, and to reduce them at the present moment would be inopportune and tend to weaken authority.’12 As for Captain Carver, the mutiny on Amphitrite sounded the death knell of a career which ought, by all accounts, to have ended quite some time before. The First Sea Lord adjudged that since no formal charges could be formed against Carver, despite the unanimous conclusion of everyone concerned that he was solely and entirely to blame: An expression of their Lordship’s opinion on the cause of the dissatisfaction in the ship, coupled with the fact that they do not intend to employ this officer again, should be inserted in the Court Martial Return in the form of a memorandum placed under the sentences on the men convicted of mutiny. I [the First Sea Lord ] have thoroughly considered the point as to whether this course would be subversive to discipline, but since true

11 TNA, ADM 156/157, Letter from Admiral Colville to the Admiralty, 26 September, 1917. 12 TNA, ADM 156/157.

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discipline is founded on justice, and since equal justice has not so far been meted out to the captain of the Amphitrite and the men who were convicted, such a public expression of their Lordships’ opinion will go some way towards redressing the balance.13

The mutiny on Amphitrite cannot be said to have been the result of long periods of inactivity—as a minelayer she was frequently engaged; however, she clearly suffered as a result of the mismanagement of officers, and the consequent injustices in treatment. Hence the First Sea Lord (who would not normally have become involved in such matters), was anxious to see that injustice was not present in the judgement of the case. The last incident for investigation has not been recorded as a mutiny—but it was investigated as such and was only re-christened after the investigations were completed. That the papers were stored in The National Archives is symptomatic of their importance. This ‘outbreak’ took place on board HMS Leviathan (an 1898 pre-Dreadnought Cruiser) at Birkenhead on 6th October 1918. Between the afternoon of Sunday, 6th and the morning of Tuesday, 8th over 150 men (and one piano) broke ship. Even more unusual was that the ship took on the role of a hostel with men popping back to sleep, wash and change, before once again leaving the ship along with even more men than before. No action was taken by the ship’s authorities until the Monday morning to prevent this stream of unauthorised entrance and egress. There had been a significant period of discontent amongst the stokers because of the unhealthy and even dangerous condition of the engine room, and it was the stokers who were at the fore throughout this ‘outbreak’; however, the trigger for this mass ship-breaking was the tactlessly cancelled leave on the Sunday, when the ship’s captain, Captain Evans, managed to tell the crew that he would not permit them to go ashore because he could not trust them. Twenty-nine men had already overstayed leave and he was afraid that if he lost any more the ship would not be able to sail. What ensued was, if we are to believe the report of the Court of Enquiry, a spontaneous decision to leave en masse. Every one of the men examined responded that they had only left because everyone else had, there had been no ring leaders, it was pure coincidence that they had all independently decided to leave at precisely the same moment,

13

TNA, ADM 156/157.

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no outside agitators had been involved (although a couple of men made claims to the contrary), and no one had any idea how the piano had made it down the gangway onto the quay. They all agreed that their only real grievances were Captain Evans’ assertion that they could not be trusted and the subsequent stoppage of leave.14 The vast majority of the mutineers were young men, most of whom had only served a comparatively short period of time, and some of whom were enlisted for the period of hostilities only. The Court felt that a great number of the men failed to realise the gravity of their misconduct. Some of the older seamen interviewed suggested that the relatively young age of the crew had been a factor in the incident since there were not enough ‘staid’ men to ‘keep the young chaps steady’.15 This, these senior hands felt, was compounded by the industrial strikes taking place ashore. The Court concluded that that the action taken by Captain Evans to deal with the incident had been inadequate. The incident, it felt, had shown a ‘lamentable lack of cohesion between Officers and Men, . . . With the exception of the Fleet Surgeon who volunteered for the work and Mr Hambley, Mate, the officers were not called upon to explain to the men how rash and improper was their conduct.’ Although the Court was at pains to stress that ‘throughout the outbreak no manifestation of ill feeling or disrespect towards the Officers or Petty Officers was shown and no damage was done or rioting took place on board or ashore.’16 Rear Admiral Stileman, Senior Naval Officer, Liverpool, agreed with the findings of the Court—the general tone of discipline throughout the ship was, in his words, ‘slipshod and slack’,17 the captain was tactless, and a lamentable lack of initiative was shown by failing to restrain the men earlier. He suggested, however, that the incident should be dealt with summarily and that the ship should proceed to sea as it had been destined to do. The Second and Fourth Sea Lords in their assessment of the case agreed that much of the blame should be borne by Captain Evans and the commander for their handling of the situation, but believed Evans should not be removed from his position for fear it gave the ship’s company the feeling it had only to mutiny in order to 14

pool.

TNA, ADM 156/89, Minutes of Evidence taken by Senior Naval Officer, Liver-

TNA, ADM 156/89, Evidence of Seaman Dawson, who had served 25 years. TNA, ADM 156/89, Findings of the Court of Enquiry into alleged mutiny on Leviathan, 11 October 1918. 17 TNA, ADM 156/89, Findings of Rear Admiral Stileman, Senior Naval Officer, Liverpool, 11 October, 1918. 15 16

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gain advantage. The Second Sea Lord also opposed the paying off of the ship since it ‘would in a sense be a confession that the Admiralty regards the outbreak in a more serious light than is really the case, and would moreover result in the crew returning for a time to the more comfortable life of the Barracks and escaping from the somewhat severe conditions of the service on which the ship is employed; they would thus in a sense obtain a reward for their bad behaviour.’18 It was on his recommendation that the word ‘outbreak’ be substituted for ‘mutiny’. In so doing he was demonstrating another facet of mutiny as discerned by Lammers: namely desire of all involved to downplay the significance of events. It is clear that this incident conforms to the ‘protest movement’ style of mutiny against unhealthy conditions aboard and a tactless captain, although it had no specific goals beyond the registration of displeasure. The Admiralty had been faced with three, not insignificant ‘protest movement’-style mutinies during hostilities—to say nothing of the mutinies which followed the armistice. No evidence has been found as to the nature of the other mutinies, but that no papers survive in The National Archives is probably indicative of their relative unimportance. Mutinies and mutineers were numerically insignificant, but the seriousness of mutinies cannot be judged by the number of participants: Invergordon was relatively moderate; Potemkin sought to spark a national revolution whilst acting in virtual isolation. In many ways it is hard to draw any broad conclusions from these instances. It is almost impossible to generalise as to when grievances will become serious enough to spark a mutiny since the conditions which are sufficient in one ship will not be enough in another. Following Bell’s theory, were these mutinies, which were triggered by particular circumstances, in reality a reflection of broader social and political problems affecting British society? Largely, this was indeed the case, because at their heart was the issue of the relationship between employer and employee. The rights of the employee, and not simply the responsibilities of the employer, were taking centre stage in civilian industrial relations, alongside the recognition of the power of collective action. The RN faced a crisis of identities; a conflict between notions of service and self. Whilst being careful not to overstate the importance of naval collective action it was symptomatic of the difficulties

18

TNA, ADM 156/89.

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of representing grievances. In none of the mutinies or ‘outbreaks’ discussed was there any alternative, legitimate means for the grievances to be aired; and in this respect they do represent a deep blow to naval methods of the maintenance of discipline. This was a continuation of the dialogue ashore about the rights of workers. When the Admiralty saw concessions being granted ashore it is small wonder that action on board which mimicked civilian methods of agitation would have been a cause of concern; hence in their investigations they were anxious to establish whether each incident had been provoked by outside agitation. However, no evidence was discovered which might have substantiated this. Indeed none of these incidents were concerned with Admiralty policy, none suggested any general breakdown in officer-man relations; and none were even supported by the entire ships’ complements. All were apolitical and were not a reaction to the war. Despite a multitude of reasons which explain how and why the Board developed such deepseated concerns about the morale and discipline of the lower decks; it would appear evident that their concerns were not substantiated by the types of offences being tried by court martial, the number of these offences, or indeed by their substance. Figure 1. Ratings Convicted by Courts Martial, 1914–1918 Type of Service Category of Charge Violence (Against Superior) Theft Disobedience Sexual Offence Contempt/ Insubordination/ Insulting an Officer Desertion Drinking Offence Threatening language/ behaviour AWOL Violence (Other) Improperly Leaving Ship OTHER Mutinous Assembly

Marine

Active Service

Mercantile Other Marine

Reservist

Grand Total

45

333

7

0

66

451

31 10 12 3

124 141 143 84

3 3 2 2

1 0 1 0

15 19 14 24

174 173 172 113

9 9 6

64 54 38

1 1 0

0 0 0

26 9 12

100 73 56

4 5 1 2 0

39 30 29 34 28

1 2 0 0 8

0 0 0 0 0

7 10 16 5 0

51 47 46 41 36

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Figure 1 (cont.) Type of Service Category of Charge Neglect of Duty Fraud Uncleanness (STD) Censorship Offence Absent from Place of Duty Deserting Post Inappropriate/Improper Behaviour/Language Disorder/Provoking a Quarrel Hazarding/Stranding/ Damaging Ship Lying Being in Improper Place Possession of Weapon Breaking & Entering Gambling Smuggling/Avoiding Paying Duty Refusal of Duty Complicity Asleep on Watch (NOT in Presence/ vicinity of enemy) Manslaughter Striking Over Staying/Not Returning From Leave Attempted Murder Forgery Asleep on Watch (in presence/ vicinity of enemy) Grand Total

Marine

Active Service

Mercantile Other Marine

Reservist

Grand Total

0 1 1 1 1

24 21 21 21 17

0 0 0 0 1

0 0 0 0 0

4 2 1 1 2

28 24 23 23 21

4 2

7 12

0 3

0 1

10 0

21 18

0

5

8

0

1

14

0

3

2

0

8

13

1 5 1 3 1 0

10 5 4 4 5 5

0 0 0 0 0 0

0 0 0 0 0 0

1 1 4 0 0 1

12 11 9 7 6 6

0 0 0

6 3 3

0 0 0

0 0 0

0 0 0

6 3 3

1 0 0

1 3 1

0 0 0

0 0 0

1 0 1

3 3 2

0 0 0

1 1 0

0 0 0

0 0 1

0 0 0

1 1 1

159

1324

44

4

261

1792

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Figure 2. Percentage of each category of charge committed by Ratings of each service type, 1914–1918 Type of Service Category of Charge

Marine

Active Service

Mercantile Marine

Other

Reservist

Grand Total

Violence (Against Superior) Theft Disobedience Sexual Offence Contempt/ Insubordination/ Insulting an Officer Desertion Drinking Offence Threatening language/ behaviour AWOL Violence (Other) Improperly Leaving Ship OTHER Mutinous Assembly Neglect of Duty Fraud Uncleanness (STD) Censorship Offence Absent from Place of Duty Deserting Post Inappropriate/ Improper Behaviour/ Language Disorder/Provoking a Quarrel Hazarding/ Stranding/ Damaging Ship Lying Being in Improper Place

9.98%

73.84%

1.55%

0.00%

14.63%

100.00%

17.82% 5.78% 6.98% 2.65%

71.26% 81.50% 83.14% 74.34%

1.72% 1.73% 1.16% 1.77%

0.57% 0.00% 0.58% 0.00%

8.62% 10.98% 8.14% 21.24%

100.00% 100.00% 100.00% 100.00%

9.00% 12.33% 10.71%

64.00% 73.97% 67.86%

1.00% 1.37% 0.00%

0.00% 0.00% 0.00%

26.00% 12.33% 21.43%

100.00% 100.00% 100.00%

7.84% 10.64% 2.17%

76.47% 63.83% 63.04%

1.96% 4.26% 0.00%

0.00% 0.00% 0.00%

13.73% 21.28% 34.78%

100.00% 100.00% 100.00%

4.88% 0.00% 0.00% 4.17% 4.35% 4.35% 4.76%

82.93% 77.78% 85.71% 87.50% 91.30% 91.30% 80.95%

0.00% 22.22% 0.00% 0.00% 0.00% 0.00% 4.76%

0.00% 0.00% 0.00% 0.00% 0.00% 0.00% 0.00%

12.20% 0.00% 14.29% 8.33% 4.35% 4.35% 9.52%

100.00% 100.00% 100.00% 100.00% 100.00% 100.00% 100.00%

19.05% 11.11%

33.33% 66.67%

0.00% 16.67%

0.00% 5.56%

47.62% 0.00%

100.00% 100.00%

0.00%

35.71%

57.14%

0.00%

7.14%

100.00%

0.00%

23.08%

15.38%

0.00%

61.54%

100.00%

8.33% 45.45%

83.33% 45.45%

0.00% 0.00%

0.00% 0.00%

8.33% 9.09%

100.00% 100.00%

counting unrest

89

Figure 2 (cont.) Type of Service Category of Charge

Marine

Active Service

Mercantile Marine

Other

Reservist

Grand Total

Possession of Weapon Breaking & Entering Gambling Smuggling/ Avoiding Paying Duty Refusal of Duty Complicity Asleep on Watch (NOT in Presence/vicinity of enemy) Manslaughter Striking Over Staying/Not Returning From Leave Attempted Murder Forgery Asleep on Watch (in presence/vicinity of enemy)

11.11%

44.44%

0.00%

0.00%

44.44%

100.00%

42.86%

57.14%

0.00%

0.00%

0.00%

100.00%

16.67% 0.00%

83.33% 83.33%

0.00% 0.00%

0.00% 0.00%

0.00% 16.67%

100.00% 100.00%

0.00% 0.00% 0.00%

100.00% 100.00% 100.00%

0.00% 0.00% 0.00%

0.00% 0.00% 0.00%

0.00% 0.00% 0.00%

100.00% 100.00% 100.00%

33.33% 0.00% 0.00%

33.33% 100.00% 50.00%

0.00% 0.00% 0.00%

0.00% 0.00% 0.00%

33.33% 0.00% 50.00%

100.00% 100.00% 100.00%

0.00% 0.00% 0.00%

100.00% 100.00% 0.00%

0.00% 0.00% 0.00%

0.00% 0.00% 100.00%

0.00% 0.00% 0.00%

100.00% 100.00% 100.00%

8.87%

73.88%

2.46%

0.22%

14.56%

100.00%

Grand Total

90

laura rowe Figure 3(a). Ratings convicted of ‘unrest-indicators’* at Court Martial

350

Marine Active Service Mercantile Marine Other Reservist Total Number of Convictions

Number of Offenses

300 250 200 150 100 50 0 1914

1915

1916

1917

1918

1919

Date

Figure 3(b). Officers convicted of ‘unrest-indicators’ at Court Martial 120

Marine Active Service Mercantile Marine Other Reservist Total Number of Convictions

Number of Convictions

100 80 60 40 20 0 1914

1915

1916

1917

1918

1919

Date

Figure 3(c). Officers convicted of ‘unrest-indicators’ at Disciplinary Court 140

Marine Active Service Mercantile Marine Other Reservist Total Number of Convictions

Number of Convictions

120 100 80 60 40 20 0 1914

1915

1916

1917

1918

1919

Date

* ‘Unrest-Indicators’ are convictions for the following offences: violence against superior officers; contempt and insubordination; threatening language and behaviour; desertion; absent without leave; overstaying/not returning from leave; disobedience; neglect of duty; refusal of duty; desertion of post; absence from place of duty; improperly leaving ship; and mutiny.

counting unrest

91

Figure 4. Officers Convicted by Courts Martial, 1914–1918 Type of Service Charge Drinking Offence Neglect of Duty Disobedience Hazarding/ Stranding/ Damaging Ship Theft AWOL Fraud Inappropriate/ Improper Behaviour/ Language Improperly Leaving Ship Contempt/ Insubordination/ Insulting an Officer OTHER Sexual Offence Censorship Offence Violence (Other) Disorder/Provoking a Quarrel Lying Absent from Place of Duty Threatening language/ behaviour Borrowing Money from the Ranks Deserting Post Being in Improper Place Desertion

Marine

Active Service

Mercantile Marine

Other

Reservist

Grand Total

4 0 0 0

173 48 33 32

0 0 0 0

2 0 0 0

119 47 40 36

298 95 73 68

1 1 0 0

31 25 16 20

0 0 0 0

1 0 0 0

32 26 33 16

65 52 49 36

0

11

0

0

22

33

0

10

0

0

20

30

2 1 0 0 1

13 18 11 2 7

0 0 0 0 0

0 0 0 0 0

7 2 5 12 6

22 21 16 14 14

0 0

4 7

0 0

0 0

7 3

11 10

0

4

0

0

4

8

0

7

0

0

0

7

0 0

3 2

0 0

0 0

3 3

6 5

0

2

0

0

3

5

92

laura rowe

Figure 4 (cont.) Type of Service Charge

Marine

Active Service

Mercantile Marine

Other

Reservist

Grand Total

Violence (Against Superior) Smuggling/ Avoiding Paying Duty Asleep on Watch (NOT in presence or vicinity/enemy) Forgery Over Staying/Not Returning From Leave Enquiry into Loss of Ship Refusal of Duty Breaking & Entering Attempted Murder Gambling Mu d r r e

0

1

0

0

3

4

0

4

0

0

0

4

0

1

1

0

2

4

0 0

1 3

0 0

0 0

2 0

3 3

0

2

0

0

0

2

0 0

0 1

0 0

0 0

2 0

2 1

0 0 0

0 0 0

0 0 0

0 0 0

1 1 1

1 1 1

Grand Total

10

492

1

3

458

964

counting unrest

93

Figure 5. Percentage of each category of charge committed by Officers of each service type, 1914–1918 (Court Martial) Type of Service Charge

Marine

Active Service

Mercantile Marine

Other

Reservist

Grand Total

Drinking Offence Neglect of Duty Disobedience Hazarding/ Stranding/ Damaging Ship Theft AWOL Fraud Inappropriate/ Improper Behaviour/ Language Improperly Leaving Ship Contempt/ Insubordination/ Insulting an Officer OTHER Sexual Offence Censorship Offence Violence (Other) Disorder/Provoking a Quarrel Lying Absent from Place of Duty Threatening language/ behaviour Borrowing Money from the Ranks Deserting Post Being in Improper Place Desertion

1.34% 0.00% 0.00% 0.00%

58.05% 50.53% 45.21% 47.06%

0.00% 0.00% 0.00% 0.00%

0.67% 0.00% 0.00% 0.00%

39.93% 49.47% 54.79% 52.94%

100.00% 100.00% 100.00% 100.00%

1.54% 1.92% 0.00% 0.00%

47.69% 48.08% 32.65% 55.56%

0.00% 0.00% 0.00% 0.00%

1.54% 0.00% 0.00% 0.00%

49.23% 50.00% 67.35% 44.44%

100.00% 100.00% 100.00% 100.00%

0.00%

33.33%

0.00%

0.00%

66.67%

100.00%

0.00%

33.33%

0.00%

0.00%

66.67%

100.00%

9.09% 4.76% 0.00% 0.00% 7.14%

59.09% 85.71% 68.75% 14.29% 50.00%

0.00% 0.00% 0.00% 0.00% 0.00%

0.00% 0.00% 0.00% 0.00% 0.00%

31.82% 9.52% 31.25% 85.71% 42.86%

100.00% 100.00% 100.00% 100.00% 100.00%

0.00% 0.00%

36.36% 70.00%

0.00% 0.00%

0.00% 0.00%

63.64% 30.00%

100.00% 100.00%

0.00%

50.00%

0.00%

0.00%

50.00%

100.00%

0.00%

100.00%

0.00%

0.00%

0.00%

100.00%

0.00% 0.00%

50.00% 40.00%

0.00% 0.00%

0.00% 0.00%

50.00% 60.00%

100.00% 100.00%

0.00%

40.00%

0.00%

0.00%

60.00%

100.00%

94

laura rowe

Figure 5 (cont.) Type of Service Charge

Marine

Active Service

Mercantile Marine

Other

Reservist

Grand Total

Violence (Against Superior) Smuggling/ Avoiding Paying Duty Asleep on Watch (NOT in presence/vicinity of enemy) Forgery Over Staying/Not Returning From Leave Enquiry into Loss of Ship Refusal of Duty Breaking & Entering Attempted Murder Gambling Murder

0.00%

25.00%

0.00%

0.00%

75.00%

100.00%

0.00%

100.00%

0.00%

0.00%

0.00%

100.00%

0.00%

25.00%

25.00%

0.00%

50.00%

100.00%

0.00% 0.00%

33.33% 100.00%

0.00% 0.00%

0.00% 0.00%

66.67% 0.00%

100.00% 100.00%

0.00%

100.00%

0.00%

0.00%

0.00%

100.00%

0.00% 0.00%

0.00% 100.00%

0.00% 0.00%

0.00% 0.00%

100.00% 0.00%

100.00% 100.00%

0.00% 0.00% 0.00%

0.00% 0.00% 0.00%

0.00% 0.00% 0.00%

0.00% 0.00% 0.00%

100.00% 100.00% 100.00%

100.00% 100.00% 100.00%

Grand Total

1.04%

51.04%

0.10%

0.31%

47.51%

100.00%

counting unrest

95

Figure 6. Officers Convicted by Disciplinary Court, 1914–1918 Type of Service Charge

Marine

Active Service

Mercantile Marine

Other

Reservist

Grand Total

0 0 0 1

17 17 3 5

6 11 1 5

0 0 0 0

181 64 80 40

204 92 84 51

0

6

2

0

38

46

0 0

2 2

2 1

0 0

19 18

23 21

0

3

1

0

13

17

0

2

4

0

8

14

0

0

3

0

8

11

0

1

0

0

9

10

0 0 0

2 2 2

0 1 2

0 0 0

7 4 2

9 7 6

1 0 0

0 1 0

0 0 0

0 0 0

5 2 3

6 3 3

0 0 0

2 0 0

0 0 0

0 0 0

1 2 2

3 2 2

Drinking Offence AWOL Disobedience Improperly Leaving Ship Contempt/ Insubordination/ Insulting an Officer Violence (Other) Inappropriate/ Improper Behaviour/ Language Absent from Place of Duty Disorder/Provoking a Quarrel Threatening language/ behaviour Smuggling/ Avoiding Paying Duty Neglect of Duty OTHER Over Staying/Not Returning From Leave Lying Censorship Offence Borrowing Money from the Ranks Breaking & Entering Deserting Post Violence (Against Superior) Possession of Weapon Desertion Fraud Gambling Theft

0

0

1

0

1

2

0 0 0 0

0 0 0 0

0 0 0 0

0 0 0 0

2 2 1 1

2 2 1 1

Grand Total

2

67

40

0

513

622

96

laura rowe

Figure 7. Percentage of each category of charge committed by Officers of each service type, 1914–1918 (Disciplinary Court) Type of Service Charge

Marine

Active Service

Drinking Offence AWOL Disobedience Improperly Leaving Ship Contempt/ Insubordination/ Insulting an Officer Violence (Other) Inappropriate/ Improper Behaviour/ Language Absent from Place of Duty Disorder/Provoking a Quarrel Threatening language/ behaviour Smuggling/Avoiding Paying Duty Neglect of Duty OTHER Over Staying/Not Returning From Leave Lying Censorship Offence Borrowing Money from the Ranks Breaking & Entering Deserting Post Violence (Against Superior) Possession of Weapon Desertion Fraud Gambling Theft

0.00% 0.00% 0.00% 1.96%

8.33% 18.48% 3.57% 9.80%

2.94% 11.96% 1.19% 9.80%

0.00%

13.04%

0.00% 0.00%

Grand Total

Mercantile Other Marine

Reservist

Grand Total

0.00% 0.00% 0.00% 0.00%

88.73% 69.57% 95.24% 78.43%

100.00% 100.00% 100.00% 100.00%

4.35%

0.00%

82.61%

100.00%

8.70% 9.52%

8.70% 4.76%

0.00% 0.00%

82.61% 85.71%

100.00% 100.00%

0.00%

17.65%

5.88%

0.00%

76.47%

100.00%

0.00%

14.29%

28.57%

0.00%

57.14%

100.00%

0.00%

0.00%

27.27%

0.00%

72.73%

100.00%

0.00%

10.00%

0.00%

0.00%

90.00%

100.00%

0.00% 0.00% 0.00%

22.22% 28.57% 33.33%

0.00% 14.29% 33.33%

0.00% 0.00% 0.00%

77.78% 57.14% 33.33%

100.00% 100.00% 100.00%

16.67% 0.00% 0.00%

0.00% 33.33% 0.00%

0.00% 0.00% 0.00%

0.00% 0.00% 0.00%

83.33% 66.67% 100.00%

100.00% 100.00% 100.00%

0.00% 0.00% 0.00%

66.67% 0.00% 0.00%

0.00% 0.00% 0.00%

0.00% 0.00% 0.00%

33.33% 100.00% 100.00%

100.00% 100.00% 100.00%

0.00% 0.00% 0.00% 0.00% 0.00%

0.00% 0.00% 0.00% 0.00% 0.00%

50.00% 0.00% 0.00% 0.00% 0.00%

0.00% 0.00% 0.00% 0.00% 0.00%

50.00% 100.00% 100.00% 100.00% 100.00%

100.00% 100.00% 100.00% 100.00% 100.00%

0.32%

10.77%

6.43%

0.00%

82.48% 100.00%

CLIMAX IN THE BALTIC: THE GERMAN MARITIME OFFENSIVE IN THE GULF OF RIGA IN OCTOBER 1917 Eric Grove On 17 October 1917, only three weeks before the Bolsheviks seized power in Petrograd on 7 November, an engagement occurred in the Gulf of Riga between the German dreadnought battleships Konig and Kronprinz and three Russian capital ships of the previous generation, the pre-dreadnought battleships Slava and Grazhdanin and the armoured cruiser Bayan. This was the largest clash of major units in the Baltic of the entire First World War and its context was perhaps the most successful amphibious operation of that conflict, ‘Operation Albion’, the German capture of the islands of Osel, Dago and Moon. This was the culmination of just over three years of maritime warfare in a theatre that is usually forgotten, except for the recovery of German codes from the grounded German light cruiser Magdeburg when she was scuttled as she was set upon by the Russian cruisers Pallada and Bogatyr on 26 August 1914. These were passed to the British to give the Admiralty’s code breakers great assistance. Shortly after this debacle the Germans had tried a major sortie with a powerful force of pre-dreadnoughts and cruisers (including the ill fated near battle cruiser Blücher) but the Russian cruisers encountered fled to the Gulf of Finland which was defended by formidable minefields. The mine reigned supreme in the Baltic and the Russians used this underwater weapon aggressively as well as defensively, laying fields off the German coast as far west as Rugen and in the Gulf of Bothnia until ice prevented further operation after mid February 1915. These claimed a notable victim in November 1914 in the shape of the German armoured cruiser Friedrich Karl; many smaller vessels were also sunk. Submarines also scored successes, a U-boat sinking the Russian armoured cruiser Pallada in October 1914. In 1915 the Russians established a ‘Forward Position’ minefield further west in the mouth of the Gulf of Finland between Hango and the island of Dago. This increased the importance of the Gulf of Riga as the ‘Forward Position’ drove any advancing German forces into the

98

eric grove

Cap e Ta c h k o n a Wo r m s K e r te l

D A G Ö

Dagerort

Hapsal

Moon

H e l te r n a a

Sound

17.

III. Soela Sound IV. B . S . Cap e B.S. Pa m e ro r t Ta g g a Cyc 42. Bay I.D.

Schildau

MOON We rd e r Orrisar Wo i

Cap e Ninnast

Ca p e Hundsort

17. 138. Kielkond

Pa p e n s h o l m

255.

131.

Bajan G ra z h d a n i n Slava

Kassar Wiek

ts

Point White

l is

11 / 1 2 O c t . 1917

Cap e To f f r i

O E S E L

107. Div.

17 Oct

Pu t l a

König K ro n p r i n z

Arensburg

Abro Ky n ö

or

be

11 / 1 2 O c t . 1917 2 BBs

1917 16 Oct

Sw

Gulf

Cap e Ze re l

Irbe

S t ra i t Runö

of

Cap e Domesnäs

Riga Courland Windau

OPERATION “ALBION” Kilometers 0 0

10

20

30

10

40 20

Nautical

Miles

Map 3.

50 30

climax in the baltic

99

Gulf. The Gulf also became more important as the Germans began advancing along its southern shore as part of the German priority in 1915 to make the eastern front the decisive theatre. The Russians built up a major naval base south of Worms Island in Moon Sound, mined the Irbe Strait to block the southern entry into the Gulf and dredged Moon Sound so that major units of the fleet could enter it from the north behind the protection of the Forward Position. The British had passed two ‘E’ class submarines into the Baltic in 1914 and these took part in a campaign in 1915 that began again in May and consisted of minelaying sorties by both sides and attempts to intercept them. The Germans also carried out a carrier strike on a factory on the coast of the Gulf of Riga with seaplanes from the captured British merchantman Glyndwr (the Welsh hero after whom the ship was named would no doubt have been pleased to strike a blow against an Entente that contained England.). The seaplane carrier was mined and badly damaged as she withdrew. Despite such reverses the Imperial Navy supported the German army as it advanced eastwards towards Riga. In July 1915 a force of Russian cruisers tried to ambush a similar but weaker German force. The operation resulted in the loss of the German minelayer Albatross but it failed in its aim of a more decisive success. E-9 torpedoed the German armoured cruiser Prinz Adalbert as she sailed up in support, but the damage was not fatal. As the German advance neared Riga its Gulf became the forefront of operations. The Russians reinforced their defences with the predreadnought Slava, a seaplane carrier and lighter forces. In July and August in a reflection of their more general Eastern Front priority, the Germans sent capital ships east, first a squadron of six pre-dreadnoughts under Vizeadmiral Ehrhard Schmidt and then major units of the High Sea Fleet eight dreadnoughts and three battle cruisers commanded by Konteradmiral Hipper. Schmidt was in charge of the operation. The intention was to penetrate the Gulf of Riga, mine its eastern entrance and, it was hoped, draw out the main Russian fleet from behind its minefields. There were two attempts to force the western entrance into the Gulf, the Irben Strait. In the second, two dreadnoughts Posen and Nassau were used which ‘succeeded in keeping the Slava at a distance’.1

1 P. Halpern, A Naval History of World War One (Annapolis, MD: Naval Institute Press, 1994), p. 197. The general account of operations in the Baltic before and after this engagement relies on this vital and unique source.

100

eric grove

Two German destroyers V-99 and V-100 (ironically, powered by engines ordered by the Russians) penetrated the Gulf to attack Slava but their efforts were worsted by the battleship’s net defences. One was sunk by Russian destroyers. As German minesweepers swept passages into the Gulf, the two dreadnoughts hit Slava three times and forced her to retreat. The Germans finally moved into the Gulf, Posen and the cruiser Augsburg sinking a hapless Russian gunboat, while the Germans lost a torpedo boat to a mine. The Germans felt vulnerable to underwater threats and retreated without blocking Moon Sound with their own mines. Their fears were partially justified when E-1 torpedoed the battle cruiser Moltke. The damage was not too serious but Hipper was happy to return to the Jade and it would be over two years before the High Seas Fleet returned. Riga itself remained in Russian hands. The unwillingness of the Army to take the city advised against taking too many naval risks at this stage.2 That summer the British reinforced their Baltic submarine flotilla to a total of five boats and the damage inflicted on the vital trade (especially in iron ore) between Sweden and Germany caused Sweden to organise convoys and the Germans to organise covering patrols to maintain the flow of shipping. E-8 also sank the German armoured cruiser Prinz Adalbert. In 1916 the British decided to send still more submarines; four small flotilla defence boats of the ‘C’ class passed, not without difficulty to Petrograd from Archangel by canal and river. The Germans neutralised the submarine threat by introducing convoys in April 1916, although the convoys provided targets for raids by powerful Russian surface action groups of cruisers and destroyers. These had little effect beyond the sinking of a German armed merchant cruiser escort. The mine was still a the dominant weapon, as the Germans found to their cost when the Tenth Torpedo Boat Flotilla lost seven of its eleven boats on an ill judged foray into mouth of the Gulf of Finland. 1917 was dominated by the political changes in Russia. Although the new regime created by the March Revolution remained in the war much of the Russian Navy had different ideas. The primary casualties to radical unrest were units of the main battlefleet, the four dreadnoughts and two newest pre-dreadnoughts, based largely in static inactivity at Helsingfors (Helsinki) behind the minefields and ice. The Russian fleet

2

Ibid., p. 198.

climax in the baltic

101

commander Vice Admiral A. J. Nepenin was murdered. The older major Russian units, based further forward and more actively engaged in the war so far were more politically reliable. The High Seas Fleet was also suffering the results of inactivity following the withdrawal of its U-boats in October 1916 to engage in operations against merchant shipping. Scheer’s strategy of disproportionate attrition depended on submarine support and he could not engage in any more dangerous forays without them.3 Inactivity fostered morale problems in German as well as Russian ships. There were cases of sabotage and refusals to eat or work. The Naval High Command, only too aware of events in Russia, tried to appease the sailors by setting up messing committees to handle complaints in major units. The well intentioned measure backfired as the committees immediately created a five man central committee to co-ordinate the campaign of dissension and protest.4 A messing committee member Max Reichpietsch went to Berlin to confer with the anti-war Independent Socialist Party (USPD) that had broken away from the mainstream Social Democrats in April. Reichpietsch was a keen agitator and on his return to the Fleet he recruited subscribers to socialist newspapers as well as signing no less than 4,000 sailors as supporters of the USPD. At the beginning of August the commanding officers of the battleship Prinzregent Luitpold were unwise enough to replace a promised cinema show with an exercise march. The ship’s company demonstrated in protest and eleven of the protestors were arrested. The following day, led by Stoker Albin Kobis 400 men (about 40 per cent of the ship’s company) went ashore for a protest meeting in a near-by hostelry. German marines did the traditional duty of such personnel in the world’s navies by getting the errant sailors back on board, apparently through persuasion rather than force. The men of the flagship Friedrich Der Grosse staged a sympathy strike and Scheer, rather rattled by the co-ordinated action came down hard on the mutineers and agitators. Both Reichpietsch and Kobis were shot, seventy five sailors were imprisoned and hundreds more disciplined less severely. Scheer and his staff needed some action to prevent further trouble and they grasped the opportunity

Ibid., p. 333. Jutland had little or nothing to do with it. A. H. Ganz, ‘Albion—The Baltic Islands Operation’, Military Affairs, Vol. XLII, (1978), p. 93. 3 4

102

eric grove

of action in the Baltic with both hands as ‘a welcome diversion from the monotony of war in the North Sea’.5 Operations to occupy the islands at the entrance to the Gulf of Riga had long been under consideration but now the time seemed finally ripe. As Russian resistance faltered, Riga was finally attacked but a further advance directly on Petrograd seemed ruled out because of swampy terrain and the need to send troops to Italy (where they smashed the Italians at Caporetto). Nevertheless it was now held to be desirable to maintain pressure on this axis of potential advance by taking the islands ‘to carry out the further weakening of Russia and to provide a better basis for a further offensive against Petersburg in the year 1918, if required . . .’6 War games held on 12 September demonstrated the operational need for heavy units for bombardment duties and to protect the landings from the Russian fleet, whose inactivity could not be taken for granted. The Operations Group of the Admiralstab also saw the potential of such an operation ‘in bringing Russia close to chaotic civil war’.7 Time was of the essence given the inability of minesweepers to operate in heavy weather and the staff created to supervise ‘Operation Albion’ made their plans as their train trundled east to Libau. Wisely the old Gulf of Riga hand Vizeadmiral Schmidt, now of the First Battle Squadron and the senior subordinate flag officer in the High Seas Fleet, was put in command of the naval forces involved the specially created Flottenverband fur Sondernunternehmungen (Sonderverband for short). Schmidt was subordinate to Hutier’s Eighth Army that had overall control of the operation. The land force was provided by Generalleutnant von Kathen’s XXIII Reserve Army Corps that had played the major role in defeating the last Russian offensive in 1917. A force of almost 25,000 men was put together at Libau based around the highly experienced and battle hardened 42nd (Alsace Lorraine) Infantry Division. This was reinforced with another infantry regiment, two independent storm troop companies, a five battalion bicycle infantry brigade (an unlikely formation which was, however, to play a crucial role) a cavalry regiment,

5 6 7

Scheer, quoted ibid. Ganz, ibid. Ibid.

climax in the baltic

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two independent machine gun units and artillery support comprising some forty guns, both field and heavy.8 A fleet of transports was hastily improvised by the Imperial Navy to carry all these men, their equipment and supplies for a month. A mixed bag of seventeen merchantmen was assembled, some former Allied prizes. Ships that had been cannibalised for their equipment had to be made seaworthy again and modifications had to be made to facilitate their use as landing transports. The embarkation and disembarkation of horses, vehicles and guns was a particular problem but a solution offered itself in the use of towed commercial horse barges (‘Pferdeboote’) with folding sterns that were taken up from trade to make what were, for the time, excellent landing craft. The infantry landed in normal open boats. The fighting component of the Sonderverband was an impressive force. Schmidt flew his flag in the battlecruiser Moltke, making a return to the Baltic. He had two whole battle squadrons of dreadnoughts, the most powerful in the High Seas Fleet, the Third (Bayern, Konig, Grosser Kurfurst, Kronprinz and Markgraf commanded by Vizeadmiral Paul Behnke) and the Fourth (Friedrich Der Grosse, Kaiser, Konig Albert, Kaiserin and Prinzregent Luitpold commanded by the hero of the Goeben affair Vizeadmiral Wilhelm Souchon). There were also nine cruisers, a hundred destroyers and torpedo boats, ninety five mine countermeasures vessels (North Sea minesweepers reinforcing the regular Baltic units), sixty anti-submarine vessels and six U-boats, a total fleet of about 300. Given fears about the British submarine threat of particular importance was the Rosenberg Flotilla that grouped torpedo boats and anti-submarine trawlers into a specialised force. There were also six airships and about ninety aeroplanes and seaplanes provided by both services to reconnoitre, bomb and spot for the guns. Command responsibilities were clearly specified, a necessity for joint amphibious operations. Schmidt was to direct the transport and landing of the troops who were under his orders until the actual landing. They then passed to the control of XXIII Corps to whose requests

8 R. Foley, ‘Osel and Moon Islands: Operation Albion, September 1917, The German Invasion of the Baltic Islands’ in T. Lovering, Amphibious Assault: Manoeuvre From the Sea (Seafarer, Woodbridge, 2007), p. 26. This, together with Halpern and Ganz, is the third main source for this paper. The sources do not entirely correspond in detail. I have, however, done my best to reconcile the three accounts which with their different emphases cover the Albion relatively comprehensively.

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for support, and those from Army HQ , Schmidt had to respond ‘with all means available’.9 To defend the islands the Russians had a naval force whose main anchorage was in the north east corner of the Gulf between Moon and the mainland. It was commanded by Rear Admiral Bakhirev flying his flag in the armoured cruiser Bayan. He had two pre-dreadnoughts Slava and Grazhdanin (as Tsessarevitch had been renamed after the fall of the Tsar), another armoured cruiser, 26 destroyers (of which a dozen were capable modern boats), three of the British C-class submarines and a mixed bag of gunboats, torpedo boats, mine warfare vessels and patrol craft. Morale was remarkably high considering the political situation. The situation was less favourable ashore on Osel, the largest island where the 425 Infantry Division was down to only about two thirds strength, less than 10,000 men. The German plan was to mount a diversionary attack on the Sworbe peninsula in the south west of the island. The bicycle troops, 1,650 in all, were to be landed at Pamerort to the east of the main landings with two major objectives, to drive south to capture the capital Arensburg in a coup de main and to move rapidly eastwards along the coast to capture the Orisar side of the causeway connecting Osel to Moon Island. The main forces were to come ashore in Tagga Bay on the north western side of the island. An assault force of two regiments reinforced by storm troops was to be landed by torpedo boats to break the Russian defences and to seize the high ground to protect the main landings. Once the main forces were ashore they would advance in a south eastern direction towards Arensburg and Putla, while supplies were built up at the beach head. These included 45,000 rounds of artillery ammunition, 110,000 grenades and five million rounds of small arms ammunition. The original D-day for ‘Operation Albion’ was 26 September but the cyclists did not reach Libau until 1 October and the precursor minesweeping operations took longer than expected in the bad weather. The extra time was used to train the troops in the novel art of landing operations. On meteorological advice it was decided that D-day would be 12 October and after two days’ embarkation the invasion armada set sail on the 11th from Libau and Danzig. The U-boats, before going on to provide a forward reconnaissance patrol, had laid light markers to

9

Foley, ibid.

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direct the ships into the swept channels. Nevertheless, to provide extra security, minesweepers still led the way followed by the torpedo boats of the assault force. Then came the impressive battle squadrons that had overtaken the slow transports The latter now followed some distance behind in columns, heavily screened by cruisers, torpedo boats and other vessels, with sperrbrechers (vessels given extra buoyancy to survive mine explosions) ahead providing a last ditch anti-mine defence. Despite the continued bad weather which prevented effective minesweeping except at the slow speeds Schmidt decided to press on regardless and his force arrived at 0300 at Point White, seven miles north of Tagga Bay, the planned anchorage and meeting point marked by minelaying submarine UC-49. The arrival was only one hour behind schedule. The battleships Friedrich Der Grosse and Konig Albert had already been detached under Souchon to make their demonstration against the 12-in batteries on Sworbe. At first light they opened fire with their 11in guns. German torpedo boats also bombarded the Russian seaplane station at Kielkond. Off the main landing beach Konig, Grosser Kurfurst, Kronprinz and Markgraf directed their 12-in guns against the 5.9 in battery on Cape Ninnast covering the entrance to Tagga Bay from the east. On the other side Kaiser, Kaiserin and Prinzregent Luitpold took on the battery at Cape Hundsort. Grosser Kurfurst struck a mine but the damage was contained. The Russian batteries were quickly silenced, their log protection being no match for the German 12-in shells. Even before the gun battle began the initial assault force had begun to land. One of the ships carrying it, the little Corsika was mined and the troops on board were rescued by escorting torpedo boats with no loss. Resistance stiffened after initial Russian surprise but by 0800 the assault force was ashore. The transports had been ordered in an hour and a quarter before and they took up their assigned anchorages marked by buoys. Their contents were disembarked into the boats that were towed ashore in threes by motor barges and launches. The best landing spots on the beach were marked and German engineers (from the 9th Pioneer Replacement Battalion) built improvised landing piers that made disembarkation easier. By the evening all the infantry allocated to the main landings were safely ashore but as yet few guns; nevertheless the beachhead had been fully secure. As the main landings went in the cyclists were going ashore at Pamerort. The Russian battery on the other side of Soela Sound at Cape Taffri hit a torpedo boat but it was soon silenced by the 15-in guns of

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the damaged Bayern and the 5.9-in shells of the cruiser Emden. Bayern was mined, however and the damage proved to be quite serious. She had to put back into Tagga bay and then limped slowly back to Kiel. The storm troops and sailors landed by the Rosenberg Flotilla to take out a supposed battery at Pamerort found that no such battery existed and the cyclists were safely landed. They commandeered horses and wagons moved quickly inland in what can only be described as a ‘bicycle blitzkrieg’. The battalion group sent on the Arensburg axis was unable to take the town but it did succeed in its secondary objective of cutting the Arensburg-Orrisar Road. At Orrisar itself, four companies of the 4th Cyclist Battalion led by Hauptmann von Winterfeld, having rapidly moved the fifty kilometres from Pamerort, tried to cross the causeway on the 13th and got to within about thirty metres of Moon before being repulsed by the Russians counterattacking from the smaller island. The main thrust south from Tagga took place on three axes. The combat team built around the 255th Reserve Regiment advanced on Hasik, seven km northeast of Arensburg while on its left the 65th Brigade made up of troops from the 17th and 138th Infantry Regiment was to advance on Putla 20 km from the island’s capital. The aim was to cut the Russians’ retreat but the poor roads compounded by wet weather made movement laborious. Neither group had reached its objectives by nightfall on the 13th and the Russians, who were not putting up much of a resistance began to slip through the German’ fingers. A fourth group based around the 131st Regiment was sent to cut off the Russians in the Sworbe Peninsula. This formation was more successful in containing the Russian 425th Regiment. The German naval forces were carrying out an advance of their own through Soela Sound into the Kassar Vick the stretch of water between Dago and Osel that led into Moon Sound. The aim was to cut off the Russian forces in the Sound. The waters were very tricky and even the smaller German vessels being suffered damage as they touched bottom. On the day of the landings Russian destroyers had forced a retreat by German minesweepers into Soela Sound. The German battleships drew far too much water to give effective support and on the afternoon of the 12th the armoured cruiser Admiral Makarov effectively used its 8-in and 6-in guns to support nine destroyers and a gunboat to block an advance of the German flotillas. The Germans were forced to retreat through Soela Sound at nightfall. The German Navy as well as Army suffered from poor weather on the 13th when a combination of fog and Russian destroyers frustrated

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a plan to use the modern cruiser Emden from entering the Sound to support lighter forces. That night, however, a Russian plan to block the sound miscarried when the designated blockship ran aground and the ship’s soviet of the netlayer Pripyat pressed into service as a minelayer refused to proceed with the operation. On the 14th the Germans were able to sweep a channel to bring up the battleship Kaiser to the entrance to the sound. She brought the Russian forces in the Kassar Wick under the fire of her 12-in guns. A German naval landing party was also put ashore at Cape Toffri on Dago to safeguard entry into the sound. German light forces under Kommodore Heinrich then steamed through into the Kassar Wick. The Russian destroyer Grom was disabled by Kaiser’s fire and abandoned. Attempts by the Russians to take her under tow failed. A German destroyer now tried to capture her and although Grom sank the Germans were able to retrieve a valuable chart. By mid afternoon the Germans were in command of the Kassar Wick and the Rosenberg Flotilla was able to advance along the southern shore to Orrisar where Winterfeld’s cycle troops were being pressed hard. The retreating Russians of 107th Infantry Division on Osel were making no attempt to defend Arensburg but were attempting to retreat to Moon via the causeway. Their way was blocked by Winterfeld’s battalion of cyclists now reinforced by one of the stormtroop companies. The Russians had artillery support and made the main attack on the night of the 13th–14th with fierce fighting for some hours. The Russians on Moon joined in and, assailed from both sides as well as being short of ammunition, Winterfeld was forced to withdraw from the end of the causeway. He and his troops were able to hold off yet another Russian counterattack on the morning of the 14th and he received reinforcements from the 5th Bicycle Battalion which allowed him to block the Arensburg road and cover the causeway with machine guns. The Rosenberg Flotilla now appeared both to supply Winterfeld’s men with food and ammunition and to provide naval gunfire support; even the smallest torpedo boat had the fire power of two field guns. The flotilla engaged the batteries on Moon Island and added its fire to the machine guns preventing a retreat over the causeway. It retreated at nightfall but by then relief was coming on the landward side. Late on the 13th a German reconnaissance aircraft had reported Winterfeld’s exposed position and the units of the 42nd Division was ordered to move at once as best they could to assist the cyclists at Orrisar. After a difficult march through driving rain on muddy roads the 65th Brigade arrived at 1900 on the evening of the 14th. The end of the causeway

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was recaptured. The 255th Brigade, with further to go, arrived at Orrisar at midnight. The Russians were effectively assailed both front and rear and after quite a hard fight on the morning of the 15th the Russian divisional commander surrendered. The German naval forces had not felt secure enough to stay in the Kassar Wick over the night of the 14th–15th and the Russians had another attempt at mining in the darkness, having replaced the Primyat’s crew with more aggressive men from the torpedo boats and destroyers. Together with three motor minelayers, Primyat laid mines north of Cape Pawasterort half way across the Wick. When the Germans moved back in on 15 October they led with their powerful destroyers rather than torpedo boats. B-98 had her bows blown off and her sister B-112 went aground trying to find a way round the new minefield. The Russians now reinforced the Admitral Makarov that had stood guard the previous day with the pre-dreadnought Slava. The Russian Navy had put much effort into obtaining the greatest gunnery value from their older ships. Slava had had her four 12-in guns increased in elevation to thirty degrees and the range of both these and her ten 6–in could be could be increased still further by heeling the ship. The Admiral Makarov could also be heeled to improve the range of her recently enhanced armament of three 8-in and twelve 6-in guns. These ships still stood in the way of a German entry into Moon Sound by the northern route. The only answer to these ships was the German battlefleet but, because of the shallows, the capital ships cold not advance further east than Soela sound. The only alternative was send battleships across the Gulf of Riga itself by forcing the Irbe Strait. This was defended by minefields covered by the 12-in battery at Cape Zerel. Little damage had been inflicted by both an air attack on 30 September that had blown up a magazine or the initial demonstration by Friedrich der Grosse and Konig Albert. The guns made minesweeping difficult and the situation was rather similar to that faced by the British in the Dardanelles over two years before. With the situation around Arensberg still in doubt on the 14th Schmidt ordered an advance through the strait to support the army. Three battleships, Konig Albert, Friedrich der Grosse and Kaiserin carried out a long range bombardment as the 131st Regiment advanced overland. Supported by the battleships and their own artillery the German troops forced the 425th Russian Infantry Regiment to lay down their arms in the early evening. Most of the gun battery crews deserted but the rest blew up the guns and their ammunition.

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The German mine countermeasures ships were now able to sweep a path for the heavier units. The battery had not been silenced when the German ships had withdrawn on the 14th but on the following day it remained silent. Minesweeping was made impossible, however, because of a new threat. This came from the pre-dreadnought Grazhdanin escorted by four destroyers that had been sent to destroy the Zerel battery. The Russian group bombarded the abandoned battery and was able to evacuate those Russians from the peninsula who had not fallen into German hands. The Germans now were able to bring powerful forces into the Gulf to take on the Russian forces in Moon Sound. Vizeadmiral Behnke had under command the battleships Konig and Kronprinz, the light cruisers Kolberg and Strassburg, the minesweeper depot ship Indianola, destroyers and other flotilla craft including two sperrbrechers which led the way. The German squadron was attacked by the small British submarine C-27. The little boat suffered a range of problems including grounding and a fouled propeller but was eventually able to get off two torpedoes which hit Indianola and forced her to be towed to Arensburg. Further advance towards Moon Sound depended on the depot ship’s minesweepers. The Russians moved Slava and Grazhdanin to reinforce the armoured cruiser Bayan guarding the southern entrance to the Sound. Together with the battery on Moi the two pre-dreadnought used their 12-in guns to hold off the Germans from a further advance when they tried again on the 17th. Slava outranged the German dreadnoughts, much to their disgust, and it took until 1000 for the minesweepers to secure a path for the two German battleships to advance to effective range. Konig hit Slava and she was soon on fire and listing; Kronprinz hit Grazhdanin and Bayan, albeit less seriously. Rear Admiral Bakhirev ordered a retirement through the Sound but Slava was too badly damaged. She was drawing too much water to cross even the dredged shallows. So the last survivor of the ill fated ‘Borodino’ class, the rest of which had been lost at TsuShima twelve years before, had to be scuttled. Her crew was taken off but the scuttling charges proved ineffective and the brave old ship had to be torpedoed by the destroyer Turkmenetz-Stavropolski; the wreck lasted until 1937 when it was scrapped by the Estonians.10

10

Ibid.

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Although the Russians tried to block the Sound with blockships and more mines the Germans ashore could now press their attack on Moon Island. On the night of the 17th–18th the Rosenberg Flotilla was to land the 138th Regiment on the small island of Kleinast which gave access to northwestern Moon by a sand bar while, covered by gunfire both from ashore and afloat, the 255th Regiment and 18th Storm Troop company would attack across the causeway in the morning. On the night of the 17th–18th attempts were made by the navy to cut off Moon Island from the mainland but these had to be abandoned when the torpedo boat S-64 struck a mine. Things went better ashore, however. German reconnaissance showed the Russians not to be in such strength as had been feared and the 135th Regiment, covered by Rosenberg’s guns and a smoke screen went ashore on Moon itself. The Storm Troops assaulted the causeway at 0200 and almost made it across before being stopped by Russian machine guns. The Russians were dismayed by an assault from two directions and retreated abandoning both guns and an armoured car. On the 18th the causeway was repaired to take guns and vehicles and the Germans advanced pursuing the retreating Russians with cavalry and cyclists in the lead. Eventually all on the island, 5,000 in all had surrendered, including a ‘Death Battalion’ of volunteers. Although naval support hade been a vital factor in this success the Admiral Makarov and her supporting destroyers continued to create problems for the Germans in the Kassar Wick on the 18th; the destroyer B111 lost her bow to a mine. Russian warships and boom defences also kept a stopper on Moon Sound for a while but the Germans were able to get as far north as Schildau Island on the 19th. On that day Admiral Bakhirev ordered the rest of his units to withdraw and take refuge behind the Gulf of Finland minefields. The Germans were well on their way to capturing Dago by this stage, the 17th Regiment with supporting artillery having landed through the Toffri beachhead on the 18th. Some of the Russian garrison were however evacuated by sea. On the 20th the battleship Konig towed by mine countermeasures vessels arrived at Kuwast roadstead to the east of Moon, the former Russian fleet anchorage. The only allied opposition in the Gulf now was in the shape of the two British C-class submarines. C-32 attacked the netlayer Eskimo but was badly damaged by her escorts. She had to be run ashore and destroyed by her own crew. On the 19th the main units of the German fleet had been ordered to cease operations against the Russians and withdraw

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as soon as possible. As she left the Gulf of Riga on 29 October the battleship Markgraf struck a mine and was damaged. By 2 November the last unit of the High Seas Fleet had departed. So ended what Edmonds, the British Official Historian, called ‘a model enterprise of its kind’.11 It can justly lay claim to being the most successful amphibious operation of the entire war. Even though the quality of the Russian troops ashore was doubtful, the Germans did their best to keep a demoralised enemy off balance by rapid manoeuvre. The synergy of Winterfeld’s cyclists and Rosenberg’s torpedo boats was particularly telling. Kerensky’s Navy, with only one exception, fought remarkably well but ‘Operation Albion’ saw the only occasion where a German battleship sank a Russian. The presence of the High Sea Fleet battleships was not the ‘overkill’ that some have argued but a necessary precaution given the defensive forces available to the Russians.12 As one of the German Army officers involved put it; ‘one cannot dispense with battleships so long as the enemy uses them. It is impossible to conduct a naval war with torpedo boats and submarines alone when the enemy can effectively bring to bear the fire of long range guns.’13 How far the ‘Albion’ further demoralised the Russians before the revolution on 7 November is hard to estimate although the unhinging of the Russian ‘Forward Position’ defending the approaches to Petrograd cannot have helped Russian assessments of the utility of continuing the war. Certainly, possession of the islands allowed the Germans to advance to Reval in Estonia in 1918 and to give assistance to the Finns in their struggle against the Reds. Most of all, however, the story of ‘Operation Albion’ is a valuable counter to attempts to view the war at sea in 1914–18 as merely a matter of the North Sea culminating in Jutland and the failure of the Dardanelles. Amphibious operations were possible in this period in the right conditions and with the right preparations. Most importantly of all, the story of ‘Albion’ is yet more evidence of the fact that German High Seas Fleet did not spend all the period after Jutland swinging supinely at anchor awaiting revolution.

11 12 13

Quoted Foley, ‘Osel and Moon Islands’, p. 34. See discussion in Halpern, Naval History, p. 220. General Tschischwitz, quoted ibid.

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COMMAND, STRATEGY AND THE BATTLE FOR PALESTINE, 1917 Matthew Hughes* This chapter examines the interchange between and within British command and grand strategy during the Palestine campaign of 1917, a significant military operation that drew off hundreds of thousands of Entente and Central alliance soldiers, one which lasted till the war’s end, and one which led to the formation after the war of the modern Middle East. Command and leadership are often confused, and this analysis is primarily interested in the former, defined here as the management and coordination of military force, rather than the personal inspiration and motivation qualities associated with leadership.1 Command can be exercised at all levels of war, from politicians and senior generals at the level of grand strategy down to the operational and tactical activities on the battlefield. This examination focuses on the highest reaches of British command in 1917, exploring the relationship between senior politicians (notably Prime Minister David Lloyd George), the senior military-political liaison officer in the form of the Chief of the Imperial General Staff (CIGS) (General Sir William Robertson) and the Palestine theatre commander (General Sir Edmund Allenby). How the British command ‘system’—if we can call it that—operated during the Great War helped to determine the outcome of the war. Command was shaped by British grand strategy, defined here as the art and science of employing the armed forces of a nation to secure the objectives of national policy by the application of force, or the threat of force, a definition that suggests some overlap between command and strategy, a point worth bearing in mind in the discussion that follows.2 The Prime Minister and the CIGS did not agree on strategy, often described as a clash between Lloyd George’s ‘eastern’ versus Robertson’s * The author acknowledges the Trustees of the Liddell Hart Centre for Military Archives for permission to quote from material held in the Centre. 1 For a fuller discussion of these terms, see G. D. Sheffield, ed., Leadership and Command: The Anglo-American Experience since 1861 (London: Brassey’s, 2002), pp. 1–16. 2 For a concise discussion of strategy, see the entry in J. W. Chambers, ed., The Oxford Companion to American Military History (Oxford: OUP, 1999), pp. 683–695.

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‘western’ strategy.3 Put simply, Robertson and the military high command wanted to concentrate efforts on the main war front in France (westerners) while politicians such as Lloyd George sought victory by reinforcing outlying war zones such as Palestine (easterners), avoiding battle in the main theatre of war—the latter approach a British strategy characterised by the military thinker Basil Liddell Hart after the war as the ‘indirect approach’ or the ‘British way in warfare’. However, to heap policy-makers into one or other category miscasts the people involved. The ‘westerner’ Robertson was also an ‘easterner’ inasmuch as he was keenly aware of the need to protect the British Empire’s eastern possessions and the route to India; Lloyd George was a ‘westerner’ in that as far as he understood military questions, he realised that Germany had to be defeated on the Western Front. The dispute revolved around how best to manage Britain’s finite and dwindling resources. The Prime Minister wanted to preserve British power for use during and after the fighting. What he wanted was to shift the burden of the fighting onto the shoulders of others such as the French, or Americans, and in doing so save Britain’s power as represented by her armed forces—another traditional British strategy. Robertson felt that strategy should be kept out of the hands of military amateurs like Lloyd George. It was not so much ‘easterners’ and ‘westerners,’ as ‘long-term’ versus ‘short-term’ strategies; it was not that Lloyd George thought that he could win the war in Palestine, more that he became convinced that the generals would lose it in France with costly offensives such as the battles of the Somme (1916) and Passchendaele (1917). Robertson’s fear was that in pursuance of his ‘long-term’ strategy Lloyd George would lose the war. While Robertson was aware of the worrying implications of Russia’s collapse for the British Empire in the East,4 he saw little military value in pursuing campaigns such as the one in Palestine. He viewed them as a waste of time, energy and resources, and was content to deal with

3 For a detailed discussion of this issue, see the two volumes by D. French: British Strategy and War Aims, 1914–16 (Oxford: OUP, 1986) and The Strategy of the Lloyd George Coalition, 1916–18 (Oxford: OUP, 1995); also the two volumes by D. Woodward: Lloyd George and the Generals (London and Toronto: University of Delaware Press, 1983) and Field Marshal Sir William Robertson: Chief of the Imperial General Staff in the Great War (Westport CT: Praeger, 1998). 4 See, for instance, Liddell Hart Centre for Military Archives (hereafter LHCMA), Robertson papers, 4/6/1, ‘Military Effect of Russia Seceding from the Entente,’ 9 May 1917 and 4/6/3, ‘The Present Military Situation in Russia and its Effect on our Future Plans,’ 29 July 1917.

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military threats such as the Central powers’ push towards Baku on the Caspian Sea with small specialist military missions.5 In his autobiography, published in 1921, Robertson complained that at least 20 per cent of the time of the General Staff in 1917 was spent assessing peripheral operations.6 Lloyd George, who himself had no military experience, viewed the Palestine campaign as a way of preventing costly offensives in France.7 He was also keenly aware of the need to provide Britain with territorial bargaining counters for any post-war peace settlement, and the war in Palestine and the Levant could supply these. The Palestine Campaign, June–December 1917 In his War Memoirs (1938) Lloyd George remarked how before Allenby left for Egypt in June 1917: I told him in the presence of Sir William Robertson that he was to ask us for such reinforcements and supplies as he found necessary, and we would do our best to provide them. ‘If you do not ask it will be your fault. If you do ask and do not get what you need it will be ours.’ I said the Cabinet expected ‘Jerusalem before Christmas.’8

This quotation’s emphatic tone gives the impression that Lloyd George was in charge of his generals, and that his plans for the Palestine campaign were well thought-out and only needed implementation. Quite the opposite: civil-military relations in late 1917 were tense, and the differences between Lloyd George and Robertson reflected a lack of focused strategy by Britain, a situation that impeded Allenby’s command in Palestine. Allenby had not been the first choice for the Palestine post. The South African general, Jan Smuts, was offered the command in Palestine over Allenby, but turned it down precisely because he knew that the military and the War Office were not fully behind the operation,

5 Such as ‘Dunsterforce’, whose adventures are told by its commander in L. Dunsterville, The Adventures of Dunsterforce (London: Edward Arnold, 1920). ‘Dunsterforce’ went through Persia and ultimately to Baku; for Trans-Caspia, Britain sent a force under General Malleson. See, D. Fromkin, A Peace To End All Peace: Creating The Modern Middle East 1914–1922 (London: Penguin, 1991), pp. 360–362. 6 W. Robertson, From Private to Field Marshal (London: Constable, 1921), p. 319. 7 Lloyd George spent a short period in the militia, 1881–82. See, J. Grigg, The Young Lloyd George (London: Methuen, 1973), p. 44. 8 D. Lloyd George, War Memoirs (London: Odhams, 1938), II, pp. 1089–90.

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preferring to keep attention on the main fighting in France.9 Because of Allenby’s perceived failure with Third Army at the battle of Arras in April 1917, he did not have Smuts’ option, and he was angry at being moved from France to Palestine in June 1917.10 In his memoirs, Robertson wrote how ‘the advance into Palestine had for its main object the thwarting of hostile designs against Mesopotamia, and not the capture of Jerusalem’.11 This parochial operational view can be contrasted with a speech given by the Prime Minister to Parliament on 20 December 1917 following Jerusalem’s capture (on 9 December): The British Empire owes a great deal to side-shows. During the Seven Years’ War . . . the events which are best remembered by every Englishman are not the great battles on the continent of Europe, but Plassey and the Heights of Abraham; and I have no doubt at all that, when the history of 1917 comes to be written, and comes to be read ages hence, these events in Mesopotamia and Palestine will hold a much more conspicuous place in the minds and the memories of people than many an event which looms much larger for the moment in our sight.12

Lloyd George was considering wider political and imperial factors. Regarding the former, he saw the propaganda value to be had for home-front morale by successes in peripheral war zones. For a national war-effort a feat such as Jerusalem’s capture was a propaganda triumph. Lloyd George certainly made the most of the taking of Jerusalem, announcing its fall first in the House of Commons, with the whole affair ‘carefully stage-managed’.13 One London local paper recorded how ‘By the capture of Jerusalem, General Allenby has made his Palestine campaign historic. More than military significance attaches 9 B. Gardner, Allenby (London: Cassell, 1965), p. 111; and M. Thomson, David Lloyd George: The Official Biography (London: Hutchinson, 1948), p. 272. Smuts’ correspondence re the appointment can be found in W. K. Hancock and J. van der Poel, eds., Selections from the Smuts Papers (Cambridge: CUP, 1966) III, letters 741, 745, 757, 762. 10 LHCMA, Allenby papers, 6/8/68, McMahon to Wavell, 18 October 1936. Gardner, Allenby, p. 113 describes Allenby as being ‘desolate’ on hearing the news that he was to go to Egypt. 11 Robertson, From Private to Field Marshal, pp. 306–07. 12 P. Guinn, British Strategy and Politics 1914–1918 (Oxford: Clarendon, 1965), ft. p. 283 (from Hansard, col. 2211, 20 December 1917 where Lloyd George expands on the value of the Palestine campaign). Robertson saw little or no benefit in Jerusalem’s capture saying, ‘the military effect would be of no value to us’ (from LHCMA, Robertson papers, I/16/7/2c, ‘Future Military Policy,’ 9 October 1917). 13 J. Newell, ‘Learning the Hard Way: Allenby in Egypt and Palestine 1917–19,’ Journal of Strategic Studies 14/3 (1991), p. 372.

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to the surrender into British hands of a city held in reverence by all Christendom.’ It went on to note what the Germans had to say in their press: ‘This is doubtless a success for the English, though more moral than military . . . the conqueror of the city, of course, gains a halo.’14 These comments show the wider value of successes such as Allenby’s in Palestine. The boost to national morale resulting from the occupation of Palestine was considerable, especially as in December 1917 the long-term outlook for Britain was bleak. In late 1917, it looked as if the war would continue beyond 1918 into 1919, or even 1920. For the Entente, 1917 was very much the year of ‘strain’ with Russia’s collapse, Italy’s defeat at the battle of Caporetto, mutinies in the French army following the Nivelle offensive, unrestricted submarine warfare, and no sign of the early arrival of American troops. Talking to Sir Maurice Hankey, the cabinet secretary, in October 1917, Lloyd George outlined his worries saying that Britain should save herself for ‘the great and terrible effort in 1919’.15 In a letter to Lord Murray in July 1917, Lord Esher wrote how ‘Both in England and France, men are old and weary. Even those young in years are too travelled-stained to make any show.’16 What would 1918 bring?17 There were severe industrial disputes in Britain in the spring and summer of 1917 and this, coupled with the rise of Bolshevism in Russia, caused alarm within the British establishment.18 Therefore, Britain’s prosecution of the war was crucial. With the capture of Messines Ridge in June 1917, the stage was set for General Douglas Haig’s offensive towards Passchendaele. Lloyd George 14 Islington Daily Gazette & North London Tribune, 12 December 1917, Islington Local History Collection, Islington Central Library, London. 15 Churchill Archives Centre (hereafter CAC), Hankey papers, 8/2, 15 October 1917, ‘Note by Sir Maurice Hankey of a Conversation between the Prime Minister and Himself,’ p. 8 (there is a copy of this in the National Archives (hereafter TNA), CAB 1/42). The War Cabinet on 30 October 1917 (meeting 259A) discussed whether to make the main allied effort in 1918 or 1919. Wilson (‘Memorandum by CIGS on Possibility of War Continuing to 1919,’ 19 March 1918) was emphatic (p. 2) that the war would go on into 1919 (TNA, CAB 25/73). 16 CAC, Esher papers, journal 2/20, letter to Lord Murray, 28 July 1917. 17 F. Maurice, ‘The Campaigns in Palestine and Egypt 1914–18 in Relation to the General Strategy of the War,’ The Army Quarterly 18 (April–July 1929), p. 22 describes how Lloyd George wanted Palestine as a bargaining counter in a war which would go on until 1919. 18 J. Turner, British Politics and the Great War (New Haven CT: Yale UP, 1992), pp. 5–7 and Guinn, British Strategy, pp. 235, 242. See British Library (hereafter BL), Balfour papers, Add. Mss. 49719, Esher to CIGS, 20 June 1917 for the revolutionary threat to Britain.

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was very bitter about the casualties incurred at Third Ypres, and the Prime Minister’s anger was reflected in his relationship with Robertson. In 1932, talking to the military thinker Liddell Hart, Lloyd George remarked: ‘Haig utterly stupid. That was the man we made an earl. And I gave £100,000 to.’19 The Prime Minister felt that Robertson blindly backed Haig: ‘Robertson never attempted to guide strategy of [the] war. Merely backed Haig and would have backed a successor similarly.’20 It is true that Robertson did agree with Haig, but a more balanced assessment is that Robertson ‘believed that he had no choice but to support Haig. If he did not, he feared that the civilians would exploit the disunity within the high command to redirect higher strategy.’21 Lloyd George’s enthusiasm for Allenby to push on stood in marked contrast to the CIGS’s pessimism. Robertson remarked to Haig how Lloyd George was ‘very keen on capturing Jerusalem and this of course I . . . had to fight and I intend continuing to do so . . . But it is very disturbing all the same to have these hankerings after other plans and mistrust in present ones.’22 This civil-military dispute made Allenby’s job harder, and it was an unnecessary distraction at a pivotal time for Britain in the First World War. When the eastern expert Sir Mark Sykes returned to London in mid-September 1917, he recalled how ‘the War Cabinet still had not agreed on how far Allenby should go in Palestine’.23 During the meeting of the Cabinet Committee on War Policy of 3 October 1917, Smuts pointed out that the current instructions to Allenby ‘did not mean the conquest of Palestine which indicated that we had not settled a policy at present for knocking out the Turks’.24 As Allenby was to begin the

19 LHCMA, Liddell Hart papers, 11/1932/42, ‘Talk with Lloyd George—Generals in WW1,’ 24 September 1932. Thomson, Lloyd George, p. 272 says that Lloyd George ‘never forgave Haig for Passchendaele.’ 20 LHCMA, Liddell Hart papers, 11/1932/42, ‘Talk with Lloyd George—Generals in WW1,’ 24 September 1932. 21 D. Woodward, ed., The Military Correspondence of Field-Marshal Sir William Robertson (London: Army Records Society, 1989), p. 194. 22 LHCMA, Robertson papers, 7/7/40, Robertson to Haig, 21 July 1917. D. Woodward, ‘Britain’s “Brasshats” and the Question of a Compromise Peace 1916–18,’ Military Affairs (1971), p. 67 points to the new low in civil-military relations by late 1917. 23 M. Adelson, Mark Sykes: Portrait of an Amateur (London: Jonathan Cape, 1975), p. 241. 24 TNA, CAB 27/7–8, 18th meeting of the Cabinet Committee on War Policy, 3 October 1917, p. 2. Further copies can be found in the British Library Oriental and India Office Collection (hereafter OIOC), Curzon papers, Mss Eur F112/136 and TNA, CAB 27/6.

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third battle of Gaza by assaulting Beersheba in southern Palestine at the end of October 1917, it is apparent his assault was not part of a clear central strategic framework. Neither can clarity in the direction of war strategy be found in the international conferences Britain held with her allies. The two conferences of 25–26 July and 7–8 August 1917 succeeded in allowing one division (the 10th Irish) to be moved from Salonika to Palestine.25 Yet this was a hard-won victory for Lloyd George, and not until the London conference in August was it finally agreed actually to move the division to Egypt. As Hankey pointed out: ‘The whole morning was spent in discussing and wrangling over a ridiculous question of moving one division from Salonika to Egypt,’ the whole affair being ‘very futile.’26 Alliance warfare complicated war strategy as Britain and France struggled to co-ordinate the campaigns in Salonika and Palestine. Britain had no intention of allowing France a role of any importance in Palestine in military terms, knowing that France would use her assistance as a bargaining counter after the war. France, likewise, did not want Britain to land at Alexandretta, behind the Turkish lines, as she considered this area to be in her imperial zone. The Zionist, Chaim Weizmann, in June 1917, told W. Ormsby Gore that ‘the French policy in Greece was partly dictated by the desire to prevent our reinforcing the Palestinian front so as to prevent Britain gaining a footing in Palestine’.27 France preferred for the British troops to remain at Salonika where they did little and suffered badly from malaria. The Cabinet Committee on War Policy, one of the many committees spawned by the War Cabinet, and which held twenty-one meetings in 1917, illustrates many of the damaging effects of the civil-military dispute in late-1917 on war strategy.28 Reading the minutes is to discover

25 Minutes of the proceedings in OIOC, Curzon papers (Allied Conference IC series), Mss Eur F112/152 (copies also in TNA, CAB 28/2). See Hankey, Supreme Command, II, pp. 689–90 for the August conference. 26 CAC, Hankey papers, diaries, 1/3 vol. 2, 25–26 July 1917. 27 Hull University Brynmor Jones Library, Sykes papers, DDSY(2)/12/8, report by Gore, 10 June 1917, p. 3. 28 Of the 21 meetings, numbers 15, 16, 18, 19, 20 and 21 dealt with Palestine. Various WP papers and reports were produced by the committee and copies can be found in TNA, CAB 27/7–8 (also in OIOC, Curzon papers, Mss Eur F112/135–136 and Bodleian Library Oxford, Milner papers V/B/360). There are no minutes for the 19th meeting as Hankey had a cold (see S. Roskill, Hankey: Man of Secrets (London: Collins, 1970), I, p. 440) although Robertson gives his side of what happened in TNA, WO 106/721 (with Robertson saying not to attack in the Middle East).

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a depressing catalogue of prevarication and indecision: ‘a talking shop, seldom sticking to its agenda and almost never reaching positive conclusions which could be passed by the secretariat to the appropriate department for action’.29 The final meeting on 11 October 1917—possibly misdated and held on the 9th30—saw Lord Milner replying to advice given by Major-General Lynden-Bell in the previous meeting. Lynden-Bell, the ex-Chief of General Staff of the Egyptian Expeditionary Force (EEF) in Palestine, was seen as Robertson’s representative, and the following comment by Milner captures some of the spirit of civil-military relations: LORD MILNER said he was quite undiscouraged by General Lynden Bell’s evidence [against attacking Turkey]. If Sir Douglas Haig had approached his problem in the same spirit, he could have made an even stronger case against doing no more. In fact, the military made no proposals. They waited for the War Cabinet to make proposals, and then they overthrew them.31

Lloyd George backed Milner by pointing out that Lynden-Bell ‘when asked if the whole resources of the British Empire were put at his disposal could he smash the Turks, he had replied in the negative’.32 These deliberations were inconclusive, and the debate over whether to attack Turkey through Palestine carried on well into 1918. In an attempt to give himself military credibility, Lloyd George used Lord French, the former Commander-in-Chief of the army in France, to prepare a report that was submitted on 20 October 1917.33 General Sir Henry Wilson also helped with this report that was critical of, firstly, Haig, and, then, Robertson. In French’s report Robertson’s negative attitude to the Palestine campaign received the retort: To my mind the idea of staking the remainder of our resources on one desperate blow after another on the Western Front has become much

29 S. Bidwell and D. Graham, Coalitions, Politicians & Generals: Some Aspects of Command in Two World Wars (London: Brassey’s, 1993), p. 87. 30 See Woodward, Lloyd George and the Generals (ft. p. 218) and Woodward, Military Correspondence of Field-Marshal Sir William Robertson (ft. p. 324). 31 TNA, CAB 27/6, 21st meeting of CCWP, 11 October 1917, p. 4. 32 Ibid. 33 TNA, CAB 27/8, WP60, ‘The Present State of the War, the Future Prospects, and Future Action to be taken. Memorandum prepared by Lord French in accordance with the request of the War Cabinet’ (WC247b, conclusion 7). See also TNA, CAB 23/13/247(a), 10 October 1917, pp. 2–3 and 255(a), 23 October 1917, pp. 5–6 for WC views.

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more of a ‘gamble’ than anything else we have undertaken in this war. This method has been given a very long and patient trial under the most favourable conditions.34

Lord French continued that in his opinion an offensive in Palestine: ‘offered such favourable chances and possibilities as should have induced the General Staff to bring it up for discussion by the War Cabinet at a time when it would have been possible to consider it’.35 So what French saw as a feasible military operation was now impracticable due to the lateness of any attack. This, said French, meant that the possibility that Turkey could have been knocked out of the war by the spring of 1918 would now not be realised. Because the Palestine campaign had been delayed by those such as Robertson, French felt that ‘it would be impossible to look for any decisive action by an army operating in that theatre [Palestine] before the winter of 1918’.36 If French is correct, the military had succeeded in its task of keeping the focus of the war in France, thwarting Lloyd George’s strategical insight. There were, however, serious flaws in Lloyd George’s plans for a victory in Palestine. Robertson and the General Staff had good reason to be sceptical about any Palestine offensive. The Turkish leadership was becoming increasingly uninterested in Palestine, preferring to pursue expansionist aims in the Caucasus. The Turks looked to link up with fellow ‘Turanian/Turkic’ speakers in Asia, and the loss to them of part of Syria or Palestine would have been bearable. More than this, in what fashion would the occupation of, say, Damascus defeat Turkey? The one operation that might have removed the Ottoman Empire from the war was the assault at Dardanelles/Gallipoli in 1915. Short of Allenby marching the EEF across the Anatolian heartland and threatening Istanbul, Turkey was going to stay in the war. That a drive to Aleppo—some 350 miles from Jerusalem—would not endanger the core of Ottoman economic and political activity which was based around Istanbul was pointed out in papers by British military representatives within the Supreme War Council (SWC): ‘The loss of DAMASCUS or ALEPPO would have a serious moral effect on the Turks, but neither of these places nor MOSUL are, strategically

34 35 36

TNA, CAB 27/8, report by French, p. 16. Ibid. Ibid., p. 23.

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speaking, of very great importance to the cause of the Central Powers.’ They went on to observe that: In Palestine no definite or adequate objective offers itself. Even if it were possible to seize ALEPPO it would not be worthwhile to use up any considerable resources for the importance of the place has dwindled to comparatively small proportions in consequence of the new lines of communication now available for the Turkish Army by the Black Sea to Caucasia.37

The accuracy of these military reports was borne out in September– October 1918 when the Ottomans sued for peace. They did so following the surrender of Bulgaria, which cut Turkey’s land link to Germany, who herself was retreating in France. Turkey was well aware of her reliance on Germany as the strongest power in her alliance. In September– October 1918, following the battle of Megiddo in Palestine, the EEF did advance to Aleppo, but this was not what caused the Turks to surrender on 30 October 1918. The Allied army at Salonika had attacked on 15 September, and the Central powers’ front quickly collapsed. This was more threatening to Istanbul than Allenby’s attack in Palestine. In turn, the Central powers’ collapse in Salonika and Palestine related very much to the retreat of the German army in France from August 1918. The fairest conclusion would be that both Robertson and Lloyd George were ‘right’. They had, however, different conceptions of the war. The CIGS saw the military dimension and the need to fight the ‘amateurs’, as represented by those like the Prime Minister. This stood in contrast to Lloyd George and his far wider political brief to deal with the morale of the home front; to give Britain something to bargain with after the war to help keep the empire intact; to keep a British army in being; and to keep his own coalition government in power.38 With Jerusalem’s capture Lloyd George did get his Christmas present for the nation, and he was acutely aware not only of its value for home-front morale, but of the negative attitude of the War Office to

37 TNA, CAB 25/78, ‘Probable Enemy Action in the Balkans and Turkey,’ Brig-Gen H. Waters, GS, 22 July 1918, p. 3 and TNA, CAB 25/84, ‘Proposed Joint Note,’ from British Military Representatives, 31 July 1918, p. 5. 38 As B. Busch put it, ‘The soldiers looked at maps of France; the amateurs looked at maps of the world.’ B. Busch, Britain, India and the Arabs (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1971), p. 115.

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‘this historic triumph’.39 But if a case can be made for Lloyd George’s pursuit of the Palestine campaign up to December 1917, his continued attempts—one might even say obsession—to force through more action in Palestine after December 1917 are harder to comprehend. The General Staff repeatedly told Lloyd George that, after Russia’s collapse, a German offensive in the West was impending. If the Palestine campaign was not going to force Turkey out of the war, and if there were no more major cities for Allenby to capture which had the sentimental attachment of Jerusalem, Robertson’s purely military arguments make sense. Cities such as Beirut, Damascus, Homs, Hama or Aleppo had none of the religious significance of Jerusalem. Jerusalem was a different matter in an era where people had a far more detailed grasp of the Bible, and Allenby’s capture of Jerusalem was very much portrayed as a reversal of the defeat of 1187 when Saladin recaptured the city from the Crusaders. Military Duplicity, Command and Strategy Following a conversation with Lloyd George after the war, Liddell Hart noted that: ‘L[loyd] G[eorge] remarked that he had never known politicians tell a deliberate lie. “They colour, exaggerate, but they avoid a lie because of the heavy risk of being tripped up.” G[eneral] S[taff ] told L. G. palpable lies.’40 Did the military lie to Lloyd George in an attempt to scupper his war strategy, and did this have an effect on Allenby’s command in Palestine? It was an assessment given by Allenby to the War Cabinet on 10 October 1917 that was the most egregious example of a military report designed to limit the Palestine offensive. David Woodward has described it as ‘one of the most absurd appreciations ever presented to a British government’.41 The request came in an assessment that Allenby made to Robertson on 9 October 1917, which the CIGS passed on to the War Cabinet the following day, and it was part of Allenby’s calculation of

Lloyd George, War Memoirs, II, p. 1092. LHCMA, Liddell Hart papers, 11/1932/42, ‘Talk with Lloyd George—Generals in WW1, LH’s impressions of LG,’ 24 September 1932. 41 Woodward, Lloyd George and the Generals, p. 206. For Allenby’s report see Bodleian Library Oxford, Milner papers, V/B/360, WP 52, Robertson to Secretary War Cabinet, 10 October 1917 enclosing GOC-in-C GHQ Egypt to CIGS War Office, 9 October 1917. 39 40

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what he would require to maintain his Palestine campaign. Allenby had in his expeditionary force in Palestine seven infantry and three cavalry divisions. In his 9 October report Allenby pointed out that he would need a total of twenty-three divisions to capture Jerusalem and hold southern Palestine. Allenby was asking for an extra thirteen infantry divisions. Thus, a total force of twenty-three divisions was being asked for, numbering some 200,000 fighting men, an impracticable request to say the least. As Allenby went on in November-December 1917 at the third battle of Gaza to capture and hold Jerusalem with his existing ten divisions, one sees the incongruity of his assessment and request, and the War Cabinet in December 1917 was not slow to point out to Robertson the curious nature of Allenby’s October report.42 Woodward describes Robertson’s actions as ‘cooking’ the figures to force Lloyd George to act cautiously, and that Robertson did so by sending Allenby a secret ‘R’ telegram to get him to make this inflated estimate of twenty-three divisions. However, if Allenby’s October report were part of a collusion or ‘plot’ why, on 9 October, did Robertson assess Allenby’s divisional requirements as an extra five divisions, leaving Allenby’s more inflated estimate of the same day looking rather forlorn?43 Robertson was, it seems, simply reacting to a genuine report by Allenby. While Robertson needed little prompting to do this—and Allenby’s divisional assessment supported his own view that a Palestine offensive was problematic—this did not mean that he was acting in bad faith. The fairest conclusion is that Allenby genuinely misread Turkish capabilities and intentions. Allenby had supposedly failed at the battle of Arras, and he could not sustain another defeat and keep command; this led him to act methodically and cautiously. British intelligence vis-à-vis the Turks was faulty and this helped to exaggerate a possible Turkish offensive in Palestine. The fear of a potential Turkish attack in Palestine, coupled with the need to garrison occupied areas, was the foundation for Allenby’s request for twenty-three

42 See, for instance, Robertson defending the military to the War Cabinet in TNA, WO 106/727, CIGS to War Cabinet, 14 December 1917. See also Cabinet minutes in TNA CAB 23/4/296(5), 12 December 1917. Robertson also brings up the subject of the Cabinet’s annoyance in W. Robertson, Soldiers and Statesmen (London: Cassell, 1926), II, p. 184. 43 LHCMA, Robertson papers, 4/5/8, ‘Occupation of Jaffa-Jerusalem Line,’ 9 October 1917. Robertson’s letter to Hankey accompanying his report (I/16/7/1) gives the impression that Robertson had little idea of Allenby’s coming assessment (see also Robertson, Soldiers and Statesmen, II, p. 184).

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divisions. The water problem surrounding the impending third battle of Gaza compounded Allenby’s concerns. The third battle of Gaza relied for success on Allenby’s Australian mounted infantry capturing Beersheba’s wells intact. Luckily, as the German demolition officer stationed in Beersheba was on leave, only two of the town’s seventeen wells were blown up as the Australians charged in on 31 October 1917, but Allenby’s fear was of his troops being left out on a limb because of the lack of water.44 The Turks were, indeed, planning an offensive in Palestine. The Turks were putting together a force, usually called Yilderim, meaning ‘thunderbolt’ or ‘lightning’ after the Ottoman ruler, Bayezid (c. 1354–1403); for the Germans it was Heeresgruppe F.45 While British intelligence reports indicated that up to four German divisions were destined for Palestine, the reality was that the Yilderim force contained only three German infantry battalions. This nucleus was added to an existing German force of artillery and technical units called ‘Pasha I’, itself reinforced by four further battalions, but none of these German units arrived in time for the third battle of Gaza.46 In reality, the force was more nominal than real. Indeed, by late 1917 no small specialist force, however competent, was going to be able to make up for the general deficiencies of the Ottoman armed forces. The Turkish pledge of nine divisions for Yilderim indicated that it was a force to be taken seriously. However, of these nine divisions only two (the 19th and 24th) arrived in time to take part in the third battle of Gaza. The 20th Division arrived at the front before Jerusalem’s fall, and two divisions were broken up en route. As for the remaining four divisions, they arrived fitfully and in a much depleted condition.47 The state of the Turkish railway system, coupled with national war-weariness, made any Turkish division that arrived

44 P. Dalbiac, History of the 60th Division (London: George Allen, 1927), p. 123 for the officer being on leave. The Australian film ‘The Lighthorsemen’ (1987) has an Australian Light Horse trooper dramatically saving the wells. 45 See, TNA, CAB 45/80, authors N-Y, H. Pirie-Gordon to Becke, 4 April [no year]. 46 ‘Notes on Foreign War Books,’ The Army Quarterly ( July 1939), p. 357. For Yilderim order of battle, see C. Falls and G. Macmunn, Military Operations: Egypt and Palestine (London: HMSO, 1928 and 1930), II, pp. 42–43, appendices 4, 5, 6 (hereafter Official History). 47 For order of arrival see Official History, II, p. 24. See also C. C. R. Murphy, ‘The Turkish Army in the Great War,’ RUSI Journal (February 1920), p. 103 and Hussein Husni Amir Bey, Yilderim (trans. Capt. G. O. de R. Channer) (Turkish General Staff, n.p., copy in Australian War Memorial, Heyes papers, AWM 45[5/1]).

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in Palestine very much a paper formation.48 The British misread the capabilities and intentions of the Ottomans. Turkish troops released by Russia’s collapse were used in a gradual drive on Baku; they were not sent to Palestine. Baku did not fall until September 1918, and the Yilderim force was not the threat it seemed. This was the background to the accusation that the ‘generals’ misled Lloyd George. As to Allenby’s complicity in any military ‘plot’ to trick Lloyd George, the evidence shows Allenby to have been honest in his dealings. He made his twenty-three division request fairly soon after arriving in Palestine, and this estimate should be viewed within the context of a new commander getting to grips with his new force. To emphasise Allenby’s twenty-three division request is to ignore the fact that commanders of armies usually ask for more than is absolutely necessary. Allenby was not unique in trying to get as many men as possible to deal with the vagaries of war. The charge that Robertson was lying was a very serious one. Lord Derby, the Secretary of State for War, writing to Lloyd George, felt the accusation ‘almost beyond belief ’, as Robertson was essentially ‘honest’.49 Arthur Balfour, the Foreign Secretary, was perhaps closest to the truth when he wrote to Andrew Bonar Law that as the military were not behind a Palestine campaign little would happen. This was not to say they acted in a deceitful fashion, more that they were simply lack-lustre in their attitude to an eastern offensive.50 The problem with the Palestine campaign in late 1917 was more profound. British war strategy was in turmoil in late 1917, and this was not due to the General Staff acting in bad faith. In a comparison to Winston Churchill and the Second World War, Malcolm Thomson in his biography of Lloyd George gets some way towards the truth writing that: ‘Lloyd George never possessed such authority [as Churchill]; and in consequence the year 1917 was a period of frustration for him as regards its military operations.’51 The difficulty for Lloyd George was that he did not possess the authority to direct matters as he might have wished. His solution

48 For an overview of Turkey’s railways see W. Stanley, ‘Review of Turkish Asiatic Railways to 1918: Some Political-Military Considerations,’ The Journal of Transport History (November 1966, published 1970), pp. 189–203. 49 House of Lords Record Office, Lloyd George papers, F/14/4/83, Derby to PM, 11 December 1917. 50 BL, Balfour papers, Add. Mss. 49693, Balfour to B. Law, 10 September 1917. 51 Thomson, Lloyd George, p. 270.

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was to replace Robertson as CIGS in February 1918, a move quickly overtaken by the Ludendorff offensives the following month. Allenby’s Command As for Allenby in Palestine, he got on with his task of preparing his army for battle, building up his force with the reinforcements sent by Lloyd George. When Allenby arrived in Egypt on 27 June 1917—assuming command the following day—EEF morale had collapsed. Under the uninspiring leadership of General Sir Archibald Murray, the force had been defeated, twice, at the town of Gaza in the spring of 1917. While capable of building the communication infrastructure needed to take the EEF across the Sinai, Murray lacked the verve to move from logistics to operational success. The two defeats at Gaza, while partly the result of determined Turkish defence, were, in the main, the product of Murray’s inability to control operations. This lack of grip seeped into the fabric of the EEF and Allenby first job was to rebuild it into a force capable of successfully taking the offensive. He moved his headquarters to Khan Yunis, just behind the front line at Gaza, and embarked on a series of tours of EEF front-line troops. The tough Australian and New Zealand mounted troops that formed a mobile core to the EEF soon noticed the change in atmosphere.52 Trooper L. Pollock, an Australian light horseman, remembered how under Murray he and his comrades were ‘fed up—we considered we hadn’t had the leadership we were due for and it seemed to be one blunder after another. Then the arrival of Allenby, morale rose.’53 Allenby’s impact resonated through the EEF. Richard Meinertzhagen, an EEF staff officer, recorded how the force was finally awakening from its ‘lethargic sleep’ under Murray, while Storrs noted that under Allenby the EEF was advancing with ‘exhilaration into new hope’.54 With the weight of the Western Front lifted from his shoulders, Allenby rose to meet the challenges of his new post. Unlike Murray, Allenby was not an office general and, physically fit, was willing and able to travel over bumpy 52 Allenby’s Australian and New Zealand ‘cavalry’ were usually classified as ‘mounted’ rather than ‘cavalry’ troops because they were not armed with the sword or the lance. 53 Trooper L. Pollock, Imperial War Museum, Sound Archive, 4220. 54 Rhodes House Library Oxford, Meinertzhagen diaries, 15 July 1917; R. Storrs, Memoirs of Sir Ronald Storrs (New York: Arno, 1972), p. 270.

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tracks in the stifling heat to visit units in the desert. Allenby’s experience of field command of everything from a troop in southern Africa in the 1880s to an army in France gave him the standing to talk to rankers and lift their spirits. His physical and psychological presence lifted morale and, like Generals Sir Bernard Montgomery and Sir William Slim in the Second World War, he convinced the men that they now had the leadership and resources to win the impending battle.55 Independent command in Palestine away from the intrigues of the Western Front and the coterie surrounding Haig’s headquarters drew out Allenby’s best qualities and emphasised a more human side to his personality.56 Allenby’s mix of martinet, motivation and toleration infused new life into the EEF, transforming it into a fighting force capable of taking the offensive. His first battle, the third battle of Gaza, opened in October 1917 with the objective of capturing Jerusalem, successfully achieved in December 1917. Notwithstanding the differences over grand strategy, Allenby was successful, but as the accounts above illustrate, his achievement was as much in the realm of personal leadership as it was in that of command. When Allenby arrived in Palestine in June 1917, he accepted as his plan for battle at third Gaza one worked out by Murray’s staff and presented to him on his arrival. Thus, it was Allenby’s staff officers who provided the basic command structure, one which he then drove forward to victory. What Allenby provided was good leadership and effective management of a pre-existing command system. Conclusion Had Lloyd George and his generals worked together more effectively in 1917, Britain could have better co-ordinated Western Front and peripheral campaigns, and Allenby would have had a clearer mandate for his command in Palestine. Robertson and the General Staff did push their case robustly, and were often were very narrow in their analysis of what constituted war strategy, but the argument that Lloyd George was the victim of military duplicity seems overstated. Arguably, the prime 55 Matthew Hughes, Allenby and British Strategy in the Middle East, 1917–1919 (London: Frank Cass, 1999), pp. 14–17. 56 This is a point made by Cyril Falls in his entry for Allenby in the 1949 Dictionary of National Biography. Allenby’s entry for the New DNB (Oxford: OUP, 2004) (edited by Brian Harrison) has been comprehensively revised by this author.

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minister’s pursuit of a Palestine campaign, at least after December 1917, was asking too much of over-stretched armed forces already heavily committed to the Western Front. In the end, and notwithstanding the aforementioned differences, Lloyd George and his generals did present a formidable team that ultimately won the war, and one that stands up well to comparison with the command structures and grand strategies of the other protagonists in the First World War.

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THE ARMY IN INDIA IN MESOPOTAMIA FROM 1916 TO 1918: TACTICS, TECHNOLOGY AND LOGISTICS RECONSIDERED Kaushik Roy The Great War or the First World War was the world’s first ‘Total War’. The roles of the non-European armies in the extra-European theatres are generally neglected in the standard works on First World War. The focus of the historians is mainly on France and on the British and German armies and the battles they fought such as Verdun, Somme, and Cambrai. Since the fate of the war was mostly decided on the Western Front, historians probably have reason to focus on the carnage in France. However, a large number of extra-European soldiers fought outside Europe and the experience of war affected their military organizations, and finally their host societies. Cultural and political changes in those societies in the long run were inevitable. Hence, for a holistic understanding of the dynamics and impact of the First World War, it is important for us to look beyond West Europe. The main focus of academic military history since the last decade has been on war and society approach which highlights the impact of social changes on military organizations. And in recent times, the fashion is to go for cultural studies of the military.1 All these approaches have undoubtedly enriched military history but the combat capacities of the militaries have been relegated to the background. Nevertheless, Carl von Clausewitz rightly says that armies in the final count exist for combat.2 Hence, in this paper, the limelight is turned on analyzing the Army in India’s combat capacity during the First World War in a particular theatre of war, i.e. Mesopotamia (now Iraq). In 1914, the Army in India, which was preparing mostly for a possible war in Afghanistan and an extensive counter-insurgency operation 1 For the changing contours of colonial India’s military historiography see, Kaushik Roy, ‘Introduction: Armies, Warfare, and Society in Colonial India’, in K. Roy, ed., War and Society in Colonial India: 1807–1945 (New Delhi: Oxford University Press, 2006), pp. 1–52. 2 Carl von Clausewitz, On War, ed. and tr. by Michael Howard and Peter Paret (1984, reprint, Princeton, New Jersey: Princeton University Press, 1989), p. 95.

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in South Asia, was sent to fight the Great War. Its presence in France during 1914–15 was marginal. Though the Indian Army was deployed at various places such as Egypt, East Africa, Persia and Aden, Mesopotamia, as evident from table 1, was its primary theatre. Three interrelated aspects which generate military power: hardware, tactics and supply, are considered in this essay. Instead of a chronological narrative of the Mesopotamian expedition, a thematic analysis is undertaken. The army is studied as an institution. The objective of the article is to assess what the shortcomings of the Army in India were, its reaction from the institutional point of view and how far it was able to overcome the limitations. The Military Establishment in British-India The Army in India comprised the British units stationed in the subcontinent and the Indian Army. The latter included the Indian units which were composed of Indian soldiers but commanded by the British officers. On 1 August 1914, the combat strength of the Indian Army was 155,423 men. The strength of an Indian infantry battalion varied between 600 and 912 men. Theoretically, the officer cadre comprised of 14 British officers and 16 Indian officers. The latter were known as Viceroy’s Commissioned Officers (hereafter VCOs). In practice, every infantry battalion had only 12 British officers.3 The highest ranking British officer in each battalion was either a colonel or a lieutenantcolonel. In the Indian Army there were two types of cavalry regiment: irregular (also known as siladari unit) and regular. The sanctioned strength of each cavalry regiment (both regular and irregular) was 14 British officers and 620 sowars (cavalrymen). There were 3 regular cavalry regiments and 36 siladari regiments. The siladari system was a legacy of the pre-colonial Indian military system. In the siladari regiment, the sowars provided for their own horses, clothing, and other accoutrements. The

3 Philip Mason, A Matter of Honour: An Account of the Indian Army, Its Officers and Men (1974, reprint, Dehra Dun: EBD Educational Pvt. Ltd., 1988), p. 413; Lieut.-Col. Gautam Sharma, Indian Army through the Ages (Bombay: Allied, 1979), p. 247.

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government issued only the firearms.4 Mostly, the landed gentry and their retainers joined the irregular cavalry regiment. The establishment of the Army in India at the outbreak of World War I was 263,555 all ranks.5 In 1914, the Army in India had 118 Indian infantry regiments. The 95 infantry regiments and the 12 pioneer regiments had one battalion each. Only 11 infantry regiments (especially the Gurkha regiments) had 2 battalions each. In addition, the Raj mobilised 22,479 soldiers (7,673 cavalry, 10,298 infantry and the rest sappers and transport corps) of the princely states. They were designated as Imperial Service Troops.6 India had a field army of nine divisions and eight cavalry brigades. Out of them, seven divisions and five cavalry brigades were equipped for conducting war along the North West Frontier. None of the units were equipped for fighting a modern war. The field army lacked adequate amount of transport units and had poor telephone equipment.7 By late November 1914, the total number of troops sent overseas from India amounted to two cavalry divisions and two infantry divisions with all their respective ancillary services and establishments to France, two divisions to Mesopotamia, the equivalent of a division to Egypt, and more than a brigade to East Africa.8 Each division had three brigades of four battalions each. The strength of a division amounted to about 13,000 men.9 Some scholars have delved into the Indian Army’s performance and the British effort in Mesopotamia. Edwin Latter asserts that most of the Indian recruits sent to Mesopotamia were partly trained.10 A. J. Barker emphasizes the logistical difficulties and terrain which troubled the Indian units. There is no grazing area available for the draught animals. Most of Mesopotamia is flat with few trees. Besides the rivers, 4 S. D. Pradhan, ‘Organisation of the Indian Army on the eve of the Outbreak of the First World War’, Journal of the United Service Institution of India (hereafter JUSII ), vol. 102, no. 426 ( Jan.–March 1972), pp. 61–68. 5 Lieut.-Col. B. N. Majumdar, History of the Army Service Corps: 1914–39 Volume III (New Delhi: Sterling Publishers Pvt. Ltd., 1976), p. 5. 6 The Army in India and its Evolution including An Account of the establishment of the Royal Air Force in India (1924, reprint, Delhi: Anmol Publications, 1985), pp. 99, 131, 156. 7 Majumdar, Army Service Corps, III, p. 6. 8 Field-Marshal Birdwood, Khaki and Gown: An Autobiography (London/Melbourne: Ward, Lock & Co., Limited, 1941), pp. 238–39. 9 F. W. Perry, The Commonwealth Armies: Manpower and Organisation in Two World Wars (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 1988), p. 86. 10 Edwin Latter, ‘The Indian Army in Mesopotamia 1914–18’, Journal of the Society for Army Historical Research, Part II, LXXII, no. 291 (Autumn 1994), p. 160.

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there were virtually no landmarks. Dust, mud, mirage and climate caused lot of trouble for the troops.11 The tide of war in Mesopotamia turned in favour of the Allies from 1917. Field-Marshal Lord Carver in his study of the twentieth century British Army argues that from 1917 onwards due to increasing British pressure in Palestine, the Turkish strength in Mesopotamia declined.12 Writing in 1919, Edmund Candler claimed that the decline in Turkish strength in Palestine was due to their increasing concentration in the Caucasus region.13 This might be true but the Army in India also experienced internal changes. For example, the logistical infrastructure, claims Ron Wilcox, registered improvement from 1917.14 Since the wider strategic issues are not the concerns of this essay, the following sections along with some other themes will analyze the issues raised by Latter, Barker and Wilcox. Finally, in order to understand the transformation of the institutional format of the Army in India between 1916–18, it is necessary to focus on the two years preceding 1916. Technical and Tactical Evolution of the Army in India During the war, the Army in India was not in a state of stasis. The organisation noted its limitations and attempted to evolve new measures for increasing its combat effectiveness. The initiative for changes and upgradation came not only from the high command and generals but also from the mid level officers. Select engagements will be analyzed to assess the tactical proficiency and resultant combat effectiveness of the Indian units. The army in Mesopotamia was mainly composed of Indian units.15 The Mesopotamian Expeditionary Force left India on October 1914. In November 1914, the 16th Infantry Brigade (part of the 6th Indian Division) was sent to capture Basra and protect the Anglo-Persian oil 11 A. J. Barker, The Bastard War: The Mesopotamian Campaign of 1914–1918 (New York: Dial Press, 1967), pp. 28, 38. 12 Field-Marshal Lord Carver, Britain’s Army in the Twentieth Century (1998, reprint, London: Pan, 1999), p. 108. 13 Edmund Candler, The Long Road to Baghdad Volume II (London/New York: Cassell & Co. Ltd., 1919), pp. 278–86. 14 Ron Wilcox, Battles on the Tigris: The Mesopotamian Campaign of the First World War (Barnsley, South Yorkshire: Pen & Sword, 2006), pp. 220–23. 15 India’s Services in the War, 2 vols., Volume I, General (1922, reprint, Delhi: Low Price Publications, 1993), pp. 23, 25–26.

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installations from the Turks in Mesopotamia.16 As regards the operational aspect, the Mesopotamian campaign could be divided into five phases. The first phase involved landing at Fao and then occupation of Basra and Kurna. When the Turks attempted to recapture Basra, they were defeated at Shaiba. The second phase involved expulsion of the Turks from Persian Arabistan and occupation of Amara on the Tigris and Nasiriya on the Euphrates. In the third phase, Kut-el-Amara was captured, and then the army advanced to Ctesiphon. However, units of the British-Indian Army under Major-General C. V. F. Townshend were forced to retreat to Kut. The fourth phase involved the unsuccessful attempt to relieve the besieged army at Kut.17 And the last phase saw the regeneration of the Army in India and eventual defeat of the Turks. When the British-Indian units descended upon Mesopotamia, the Turks had 17,000 infantry, 380 cavalry, 44 field guns and three machine guns.18 The Turkish shellfire and rifle fire were inaccurate when the British-Indian troops captured Basra.19 At Nasiriya, the Turks made strong defensive preparations by building entrenchments and embankments on both sides of the river. In July 1915, the 67th Punjabis as part of the 12th Division (which was composed of the 12th and 13th Brigades) took part in the Nasiriya operation. At the tactical level, British captains led bayonet charges by the Indian troops against the Turks who occasionally broke and fled.20 Occasionally, Turkish rifle and shell fire were able to resist the infantry charges launched by the Army in India’s units. In course of time, sophisticated combined arms tactics evolved. We will focus on the disaster at Kut, the failed efforts of the relief column and subsequent innovations in the Army in India’s units. Between 7 and 8 December 1915, Townshend’s force suffered 18 casualties. On 9 December 1915, the Turks started heavy bombardment

16 Philip Warner, Auchinleck: The Lonely Soldier (1981, reprint, London: Cassell, 2001), p. 24. 17 Mesopotamia Commission Report, London, HMSO, 1917, Cd 8610, Appendix I, Vincent-Bingley Report, p. 134. 18 Brigadier-General F. J. Moberly, History of the Great War based on Official Documents: The Campaign in Mesopotamia, 1914–18, Volume I (London: HMSO, 1923), Appendix VI, p. 353. 19 Barker, Bastard War, p. 29. 20 Lieut.-Col. Geoffrey Betham and Major H. V. R. Geary, The Golden Galley: The Story of the Second Punjab Regiment, 1761–1947 (n.d., reprint, New Delhi: Allied, 1975), pp. 40–41.

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from north, west and southeast since dawn.21 On the same day at 10.00, Townshend was alarmed and reported that the Turks were ‘heavily bombarding us from north and west and southeast since daylight’.22 The Turks carried out desultory attacks against Townshend’s troops all day. It resulted in forced retirement of his bridgehead detachment. In response, Townshend blew up the bridge during the night of 9–10 December. Townshend further reported on the absence of the enemy’s mounted brigade. He assumed that probably it had gone downstream on some mission.23 The signalling arrangements for the British and Indian troops were in disarray. On 9 December it was debated within the Mesopotamian high command if it was safe to send an aeroplane to Kut to bring back Major Booth whose service was urgently required to organize signalling arrangements for the corps on Tigris line. On 9 December 1915, MajorGeneral F. J. Aylmer was appointed Corps Commander Tigris Line.24 On the same day Aylmer received the following instruction from General Headquarter (hereafter GHQ ): ‘The main objective of your operations is the defeat of the enemy on the Tigris line and the relief of General Townshend’s force at Kut. Your sphere of operations will extend from Ezra’s Tomb inclusive up the Tigris to Kut and beyond as circumstances permit.’25 In order to boost the flagging spirit of Townshend, Aylmer sent a telegram on 10 December at 6 AM: ‘Have assumed command on Tigris line. Have outmost confidence in defender of Chitral and his gallant troops to keep the flag flying till we can relieve them. Heartiest congratulations on brilliant deeds to yourself and your command.’26 Townshend had gained fame in withstanding successfully the Siege of Chitral in India’s North West Frontier. The British military authorities fondly believed that history would repeat itself. On 14 December, Townshend asked for air reconnaissance to be carried out in order to ascertain the strength and position of the Turkish troops.27 21 War Diary of the Tigris Corps, General Staff (Operations), 9 December to 31 December 1915, Basra, 9 Dec. 1915, vol. I, pp. 1–2, No. WWI/521/H, National Archives of India (henceforth NAI), New Delhi. 22 War Diary of the Tigris Corps, p. 1. 23 War Diary of the Tigris Corps, p. 2. 24 War Diary of the Tigris Corps, p. 1. 25 War Diary of the Tigris Corps, vol. I, Appendix I (18–9) no. 1008–126–0, GHQ , IEF D 8 Dec. 1915. 26 War Diary of the Tigris Corps, p. 2. 27 War Diary of the Tigris Corps, Telegram from GOC Kut, 69–3–G of 14 Dec, Telegram to General Townshend (14 Dec. 1915), p. 6.

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On 15 December 1915, the high command in Mesopotamia surmised that there was apparently no immediate threat to Nasiriya down Euphrates. So, it was decided that the brigade of Meerut Division earmarked for Nasiriya would be sent up to Amara to hasten concentration on the Tigris line. If necessary, a brigade of the Lahore Division would be diverted to Nasiriya later. The Meerut and Lahore divisions had experience of trench warfare in France. The GHQ agreed to this plan and informed the Tigris Corps that units of 3rd and 7th divisions were about to arrive and therefore it would be necessary to organize brigades on arrival. After the necessary regrouping they would be sent up.28 As the units of the Army in India tried to rush towards Kut to save Townshend’s force, the Turks conducted several delaying actions. Two divisional size actions (involving three infantry brigades from two divisions) should be analyzed to assess the military effectiveness of the Army of India’s units in Mesopotamia. On 4 January 1916, the 35th Brigade under Brigadier-General Rice (14th Division) moved forward from Ali Gharbi. The 19th Composite Brigade (1st Seaforth Highlanders, 72nd and 77th howitzer batteries, Section 104 Heavy Battery and 125th Rifles) followed Rice from a distance of half a mile. The rate of march of the 19th Brigade was quite slow. It took seven hours to cover between 8 to 9 miles. This was because after every 200 to 300 yards, roads had to be made through the irrigation ditches.29 On 7 January 1916, they were ordered to march north and attack the left flank of the Turkish position. The 19th, 21st (these two brigades belonged to 7th Division) and 35th Brigades advanced towards the Turks. After having advanced 500 yards, it was observed that the Turkish covering patrol at a distance of about 800 yards from them was retreating and the Turkish soldiers were taking position inside their trenches. The 1st Seaforth Highlanders attacked frontally and came to a standstill about 350 yards from the enemy’s trenches. There was a gap of about 700 to 800 yards between B, D and A, C companies. Further, A and C companies located on the right flank of the battalion got mixed up with 125th Rifles. Meanwhile, the Turks started to advance on the flanks of the battalion. When dusk came, the battalion was entrenched on a frontage of about 1,200 yards. The total casualties

28 War Diary of the Tigris Corps, Telegram from GHQ 1008–176–0 of 15 Dec. 1915. 29 Notes from War Diaries, Part LXXXV, Force D, pp. 3–4, WWI/1459/H, NAI.

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of the 1st Seaforth Highlanders were 20 officers and 314 other ranks. The attack failed because the advancing troops found themselves in the Turkish crossfire. Further, many firing positions of the Turks were invisible due to mirage. To sum up, blundering forward towards a setting sun, inadequate reconnaissance, unsophisticated frontal attack against prepared positions of the enemy, absence of artillery support and inadequate cohesion among the brigades sounded the death knell of this attack. However, on 9 January 1916, the Turks evacuated their position and retired. The 19th Brigade advanced and bivouacked at Shaik Saad.30 On 12 January 1916, a detachment advanced from Shaikh Saad with the 21st Brigade on the left, the 19th Composite Brigade at the centre and the 35th Brigade on the right. Next day at 13.00, as the units were crossing the Wadi Creek in knee deep water, they came under Turkish artillery fire. The 21st Brigade was heavily engaged on the left. The 125th Rifles and the 92nd Punjabis of the 19th Brigade attacked in an extended formation. The 35th Brigade on the right was ordered to advance towards the river bank where the enemy was retiring. However, night fell before the retreating Turks could be pursued effectively. In the action during the day, the cavalry on the right flank of the 19th Infantry Brigade remained a mute spectator. The artillery gave support to the 21st Brigade but not to the 19th Brigade. In fact, the covering batteries failed to open up on the Turks who retired before the 19th Brigade. Inadequate infantry-artillery cooperation and lackadaisical infantry-cavalry cooperation were the shortcomings exhibited by the detachment (comprising three brigades) as a whole. In this action, the casualties of the 1st Seaforth Highlanders were 1 officer and 35 other ranks.31 Let us analyse the platoon level actions of a particular brigade in the environs of Orah. On 19 January 1916, at Orah, the 1st Battalion of the Manchester Regiment was attached to the 7th Indian Brigade. The other units comprising the brigade were the 1st Battalion of the 1st Gurkha Regiment, 1st Battalion of the 9th Gurkha Regiment and the 93rd Burma Infantry Regiment. The brigade advanced along the south bank of river Tigris. The brigade was ordered to attack an Arab village and clear the ground on the right bank immediately opposite

30 31

Notes from War Diaries, Part LXXXV, pp. 5–6. Notes from War Diaries, Part LXXXV, p. 7.

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the Turkish position on the left bank of the river so that the position could be enfiladed next day. The attack on the village was carried out successfully by the Gurkhas and the 93rd Regiment. At about 15.30, it was found that 2 Turkish battalions were advancing towards the British side of the river directly opposite the Turkish position. The Number 4 Company of the 1st Battalion of the Manchester Regiment and a Gurkha company were ordered to drive out the Turks. The Number 4 Company advanced with Number 16 Platoon led by Lieutenant Wilkins and supported by Number 14 and 15 platoons. The Number 13 platoon was echeloned to the right to protect that flank. The Turks opened rifle fire and shrapnel shells from a distance of about 900 yards. There was no cover in the ground for the advancing troops. However, the saving grace was that the Turk’s shooting was bad. The advancing troops started firing when they reached within 500 yards of the Turkish position. But, soon it was dark and the Turks started retreating from the riverbank. The Number 4 Company in this encounter suffered 11 casualties.32 As early as mid 1915, the GHQ was concerned about inadequate artillery in the hands of the Army in India’s units. The operation at Qurna started with the advance of the 6th Division along the Tigris. On 31 May 1915, at 5 AM, bombardment on the Turks’ forward position on the line of Birbek Creek begun. The Royal Garrison Artillery bombarded with 2 5-inch guns and 2 4-inch guns. At Fort Nahairat, which was about 1,200 yards in front of Fort Qurna, 4 5-inch howitzers of the Royal Field Artillery were deployed. Later during the day, a 5-inch gun bombarded Bahran from opposite Norfolk Hill for 45 minutes. The counter-battery fire was directed against 4 Turkish guns firing from entrenchments. The action ceased at 11.40 AM. In addition to the above mentioned guns sited on land, two 5-inch and two 4-inch guns deployed on the river barges were also used. Since, the surrounding countryside was flooded, it was assumed that the guns on barges would be more mobile than guns on wheels. However, the guns on the barges were unable to obtain a quick rate of fire.33 After analysing the action at Qurna between 31 May and 1 June 1915, GHQ India concluded that the heavy batteries of the Indian

32 33

NAI.

Notes from War Diaries, Part LXXXV, pp. 1–2. Notes from War Diaries, Part LXXXIV, Appendix I, p. 10, WWI/1459/H,

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units were handicapped by the obsolete guns (4-inch and 5-inch) with which they were equipped. The weight of a 4-inch shell was only 25 pounds. So, it was not considered as a heavy gun. Most of the guns were without recoil buffers. Hence, the equipment suffered and the rate of firing was also low. The GHQ India argued that actual effect and moral effect of the artillery on the enemy was to a great extent dependent on the rate of firing. Firing 100 shells at a particular target in 30 minutes was considered more effective than throwing 150 shells in 60 minutes regardless of the material damage done. Hence, concluded GHQ , a large number of quick firing 18-pounder guns were required.34 The situation did not improve in the next year. During the siege of Kut it was revealed that while the Turks’ 5-centimetre guns fired rapidly and accurately at 7,500 yards, the Army in India’s units 5-inch guns were very old and ineffective beyond 6,000 yards.35 Most of the guns of the Indian units were breech loading mountain guns which fired a 10 pound shell to a maximum range of 6,000 yards.36 The best portion of artillery available with the Army in India was already sent to France in 1914.37 Several officers concerned themselves about the issue of raising firepower of the Indian units. In 1916, Captain F. A. G. Roughton of the 113th Infantry Regiment noted in the Indian Army’s service journal that though there were no regulations on the subject of establishing a brigade of machine guns, in Mesopotamia a sort of experiment for brigading the machine guns was carried out. However, no occasion arose to test this in action. The following technique was adopted for employing brigaded machine guns. On receiving instructions to bring the guns into action, the Brigade Machine Gun Officer would instruct the Section Officers of the firing point and ride forward to reconnoiter the position. The Brigade Range Takers would then join the Brigade Officer. The Section Officers would indicate the line of advance to their sections. The Section Officers would then contact the Brigade Officer about the target, range and fire direction points. Then, the Section Officers would return to their sections, bring up the guns

34 Notes from War Diaries, Part LXXXIV, Force D, Jan. 1916, Details of Ammunition expended during the Operations at Qurna on 31 May and 1 June 1915, p. 12. 35 Candler, Long Road to Baghdad, I, p. 216. 36 Charles Chenevix-Trench, The Indian Army and the King’s Enemies: 1900–47 (London: Thames and Hudson, 1988), p. 29. 37 Mesopotamia Commission Report, p. 37.

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to the firing point and get prepared to open fire. The Section Officers would divide the target into sections for themselves. Several methods of fire were worked out: Concentrated Fire and Traversing Fire. The former meant that the fire of every gun in the brigade was directed at the point ordered. And the latter denoted that each gun was to fire along the whole length of the target. During Traversing Fire, in each gun section, the left hand gun was to fire from left to right and the right hand gun from right to left. Another method of firing was ‘By Sections Concentrate’. This meant that the guns of each section were to fire at the centre point of their own section of target. For passing orders when the guns were firing, it was suggested that signals be used. Each method of fire was to be represented by a letter of the semaphore alphabet and increase or decrease of range by dashes of the Morse code. Each dash represented 25 yards; a blue flag represented increase and a white one represented decrease. Roughton argued that all these would require a great deal of practice and a drill for brigaded machine guns ought to be worked out.38 In 1916, Captain T. Moss of the 30th Punjabis argued that recent warfare had proved the importance of machine guns, a weapon which was previously despised and ignored. He further stated that the firepower of the regiment ought to be increased by having eight Maxim guns per regiment. More and more infantry soldiers ought to be trained in machine guns firing. At that time, training for machine guns was given only in the Musketry School. Hence, the number of officers and non-commissioned officers trained in manning machine guns remained limited. The training facilities, concluded Moss, required to be expanded.39 In 1917, Lewis Guns were introduced in the Indian battalions in Mesopotamia. The organization of the platoon was as follows: one section of bombers, one section of Lewis gunners, one of rifle grenadiers and one of riflemen. Separate machine gun battalions were also raised.40 During October 1917, each Gurkha battalion was given 8 Lewis Machine Guns.41 By February 1917, 2-inch trench howitzers 38 Capt. F. A. G. Roughton, ‘An Improvised Drill for Brigaded Machine Guns’, JUSII, XLV, no. 203 (April 1916), pp. 193–4, 196–7. 39 Capt. T. Moss, ‘Musketry Notes suggested by the War’, JUSII, XLV, no. 202 ( Jan. 1916), p. 97. 40 Lieut.-Col. W. L. Hailes, War Services of the 9th Jat Regiment: 1803–1937 (1938, reprint, Uckfield, East Sussex: The Naval & Military Press Limited, 2004), p. 124. 41 Col. L. W. Shakespear, History of the 2nd King Edward’s Own Goorkhas (The Sirmoor Rifle Regiment), Volume II, 1911–21 (Aldershot: Gale & Polden, 1924), p. 156.

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were introduced among the units.42 This gave them an advantage against the Turks entrenched within their trenches. Besides hardware, leadership was another component of combat effectiveness of the units. Officers constitute the brain of the army. For efficient tactical handling of the troops in the battlefield, good officers are necessary. By 1916, the Indian Army faced a shortage of British officers. At that point in war due to rapid expansion and massive casualties, most of the armies were suffering from officer shortage. However, the problem was probably more acute in the Indian Army due to its unique structure and organization. Latter writes that the Indian troops relied a lot on the British officers. Heavy casualties among the British officer cadre attached to the Indian units made the Indian soldiers helpless on the battlefield.43 This is not a racial explanation but an issue connected with the structural framework of the Indian Army. Most of the recruits were either illiterate or semiliterate and came primarily from rural backgrounds. This was due to the Martial Race ideology which was prevalent in the high command of the Indian Army. The Martial Race ideologues believed that only illiterate peasants ought to be recruited, as they would not be politically disloyal to the Raj.44 They had no understanding of the tools and technology used by a modern industrial society. Hence, the Indian soldiers felt utterly at loss in the midst of a modern industrial warfare. One must note that the campaign in Mesopotamia was not as capital intensive as the war in France. Hence, the above explanation holds especially true for the Indian soldiers deployed in France between 1914–15 and to an extent on the Indian soldiers stationed in Mesopotamia. Again, the Western soldiers probably to an extent were motivated by the desire to save their motherland and their empire from the central powers, who in their eyes to borrow a modern terminology constituted the ‘axis of evil’. But, India was not threatened either by the Turks or their allies, the Germans and the Austro-Hungarians. To a great extent, the Indian soldiers were mercenaries. However, pecuniary motives cannot entirely explain why Indian soldiers braved their lives. An example

42 Historical Record of the 4th Battalion 16th Punjab Regiment (n.d., reprint, East Sussex: The Naval and Military Press Ltd., 2005), p. 112. 43 Latter, ‘The Indian Army in Mesopotamia’, p. 160. 44 David Omissi, The Sepoy and the Raj: The Indian Army, 1860 –1940 (Houndmills, Basingstoke: Macmillan, 1994), p. 27.

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can be cited to show that the martial ethos propagated among the recruits was indeed absorbed by them—a company of Rajputs while deployed in the Suez area during the First World War ran away from their post. By this action, they put the Rajput izzat (honour of the community) at stake. They were beaten up with slippers by the VCOs and were ostracised from their community and socially excommunicated. These men were not allowed to join the mess till they retrieved their honour by exhibiting bravery in the battlefield.45 Regimental loyalty was an important constituent that held the Indian troops together in the midst of a firefight. One crucial determinant of regimental solidarity was the ties of loyalty that bound the British officers with the Indian soldiers. A British officer had to spend lot of time in a regiment to acquire the sepoys and sowars’ affection.46 Once the old officers fell to the enemy’s bullet, the new British officers in the regiment could not automatically evoke loyalty and affection from the Indian soldiery. The new British officers who replaced the ‘old timers’ had also their own problems. Most of the volunteer Europeans who were appointed as officers in the Indian Army suffered from several inadequacies. Their military training while receiving commissions remained inadequate. And, most of the newly commissioned officers were quite old. Secondly, there was the language problem. Since most of these European gentlemen came from Burma and federated Malay States (now Malaysia), where Hindustani was not spoken, most of the newly commissioned officers had no knowledge of Hindustani, the lingua franca of the Indian Army. At best, some officers had only a smattering of Hindustani. However, it was absolutely necessary that the British officers must know Hindustani extremely well in order to communicate effectively with their Indian soldiers during the heat of battle.47 When the British officers became casualties or proved inefficient, the VCOs could not replace them because most of the VCOs were illiterate as they had been promoted from the ranks and were too old to perform strenuous duties.48 The highest ranking VCO was the subedar-major in the infantry battalion and resaldar-major in the cavalry regiment. The

Edmund Candler, The Sepoy (London: John Murray, 1919), pp. 132–34. Chenevix-Trench, Indian Army, pp. 15–16. 47 Major B. P. Ellwood, ‘The Provision of a Reserve of Officers for the Indian Army for Future Campaigns’, JUSII, XLV, no. 203 (April 1916), pp. 181–82, 192. 48 Lieut.-Col. Gautam Sharma, Nationalization of the Indian Army: 1885–1947 (New Delhi: allied, 1996), pp. 1, 11. 45 46

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position of a subedar-major aged above 50 years was below the fresh British ensign of 19 years age. At best the subedar and the subedarmajor could command a company (between 80 to 100 men) and his subordinate the jemadar could handle a platoon (30 men). The urban middle class could have provided adequate number of commissioned officers for the Indian regiments. But, the university educated Indian youth from the urban educated middle class were not allowed to join the army because they were considered politically disloyal by the colonial establishment.49 Nevertheless, thanks to better hardware and intensive training, the Army in India’s tactical effectiveness increased with the passage of time.50 In April 1916, Lieutenant-General F. S. Maude was appointed as commander of the Tigris Corps. By September, Maude had 150,000 men and decided to go into the offensive. Initially, his offensives were not that successful,51 but the swing of the pendulum towards the Allied side started from 1917 onwards. Let us have a snapshot of a successful action conducted by Maude’s troops. On 23 April, 2,000 Turks with nine guns reached Duhaba on the left bank of Tigris. The rest of the XIII Turkish Corps was stationed 17 miles in the rear. Maude’s plan as described in his own words follows: The infantry was to attack Duhaba, whilst the cavalry moving wide to the north was assigned the mission of intercepting any Turkish forces moving up in support. Our right came in contact with the Turks soon after daybreak. As the pressure from our left began to be felt, the Turks gave way, crossed the river and retired up the left bank. Then, they presented targets to our artillery and machine gun fire. Several Lancashire battalions attacked them. About 100 Turks died and 150 taken prisoner.52

49 Anirudh Deshpande, British Military Policy in India, 1900–45: Colonial Constraints and Declining Power (New Delhi: Manohar, 2005), pp. 87–122. 50 Despatch by Lieut.-Gen. F. S. Maude on the Operations of the Mesopotamian Expeditionary Force, 1 April-30 Sept. 1917, p. 8, L/MIL/17/15/111, India Office Records (henceforth IOR), British Library, London. 51 Field Marshal Lord Carver, The National Army Museum Book of the Turkish Front 1914–18: The Campaigns at Gallipoli, in Mesopotamia and in Palestine (2003, reprint, London: Pan, 2004), pp. 159–61. 52 Despatch by Maude, p. 4.

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Frontal attack by the infantry supported by artillery and machine guns and wide enveloping maneuver by cavalry completed the discomfiture of the Turks. In late February 1918, the 50th Brigade of the 15th Indian Division was concentrated at Madhij. On 22 February, the division marched to Ramadi and then to Khan Abu Rayat up the Aleppo Road. On 8 March the Turks evacuated the town of Hit and Broad Wadi. In early March 1918, as the Turks retreated from Hit and Salahyieh towards Khan Baghdadi, their movement was greatly harassed by the aircraft.53 On 25 March, the 9th Jat Regiment attached to 50th Brigade marched towards Khan Baghdadi. The objective was to pin the enemy in that position which would enable the 7th Cavalry Brigade to outflank the Turks from the west, take their position in the rear and cut their communication along the Aleppo Road.54 On 26 March 1918, an action was fought at Khan Baghdadi. At the break of dawn, the 42nd and 50th Indian infantry brigades made a frontal attack. The attack was launched at 17.30 under heavy covering fire from machine guns and artillery. Lack of artillery cover to the advancing infantry was a thing of the past. Simultaneously, General Cassels with his 11th Cavalry Brigade and armoured cars moved round the Turkish 50th Division’s flank and cut the latter’s line of retreat to the Euphrates. At night, the Turks failed to break through Cassels’ cordon and on the morning of 27 March started to surrender in large numbers. General Brooking commanding the 15th Division had a pursuit force of infantry and machine guns ready in Ford vans. He launched this force accompanied by cavalry and armoured cars along the Aleppo Road. The final outcome was complete destruction of the Turkish 50th Division. This action proves that the Indian units had learnt to launch sophisticated tactical operations. Throughout the course of the battle, aerial reconnaissance was used to guide the cavalry and armoured cars over un-reconnoitred ground and to report on the progress of infantry attacks.55

Candler, Road to Baghdad, II, p. 259. Hailes, War Services of the 9th Jat Regiment, pp. 125–26. 55 Lieut.-Col. J. E. Shearer, ‘The Final Phase of the Mesopotamian Campaign—12th March 1917 to the Armistice, Part III’, JUSII, LXVIII, no. 290 ( Jan. 1938), pp. 78–9; Hailes, War Services of the 9th Jat Regiment, pp. 127–28. 53 54

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kaushik roy The Logistics of Defeat and Victory When Allah had made Hell he found it was not bad enough: so He made Iraq and added flies—Arab proverb56

The term logistics can be defined as all the activities connected with supplying, sustaining, and moving the armies in a particular theatre. In this essay, logistics covers not only all the activities associated with supplying the military units with stores, food, equipment and ammunition but also protecting the military personnel from the ravages of disease. In Mesopotamia logistics was mostly dependent on riverine transport. From the start, the Indian Expeditionary Force in Mesopotamia suffered because water management was bad. The contingents sent from India met at Bahrein on 21 October 1914. Here, the troops were trained in rowing and disembarking in the boats that were carried on the ships. The halt was uncomfortable due to heat and shortage of drinking water.57 Control over the ports was necessary in order to induct reinforcements (military manpower and animals for logistical purposes) from the subcontinent. The port of Basra was the key to Mesopotamia. However, it had no quays and other facilities for disembarking troops and materials and for storing guns and supplies. This port was restricted to vessels drawing not more than 16 feet of water. Shipping had to be unloaded in the mid stream into a large number of small country crafts which had to pass through innumerable small channels that lay between the swamps and palm groves.58 This meant that neither big ships could be sent to Basra nor could a large number of relatively smaller ships be unloaded simultaneously at Basra port. So, quick induction of large number of human, animal and material reinforcements into the Mesopotamian theatre from outside during an emergency was not possible. On 6 November 1914, the units of Army in India under BrigadierGeneral W. S. Delamain captured Fao port. On 15 November 1914, Delamain defeated and dispersed the Turkish troops at Saihan.59 After disembarking the troops in southern Mesopotamia, the British generals

56 Col. R. Evans, A Brief Outline of the Campaign in Mesopotamia: 1914–18 (1926, reprint, London: Sifton Praed & Co., 1935), p. 6. 57 Majumdar, Army Service Corps, III, p. 17. 58 Evans, Campaign in Mesopotamia, p. 7. 59 The Operations of the Mesopotamian Expeditionary Force 1914–15–16–17–18, Force D, WWI/1438/H, NAI.

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became dependent on river transport as roads were few. The terrain between Baghdad, Southern Arabistan, the head of the Persian Gulf and the river Euphrates is one of flat plain of alluvial clay. Baghdad is little more than 100 feet above sea level and about 500 miles from the Persian Gulf. Between the capital and the sea lies one vast area of desert. At places, this desert is crisscrossed with rivers which are fed by melting snow from far off mountains. Often the rivers spilled over and create marshes. Except the palm grooves along the riverbanks, the whole region is barren—treeless, stone less and waterless. In many regions deep irrigation channels obstructed the movement of wheeled transport. Moreover, a few hours of rain turned the whole region into a quagmire of greasy mud. During floods large areas of the desert get covered with sheets of water or is transformed into an impassable morass. South of the line Kut-Kufa, the inhabitants had constructed bunds (earthworks) in order to check the flow of floodwater.60 These bunds further blocked the movement of wheeled transport. In the arid semi-desert region, it was not possible to maintain a large number of animals for supplying the troops advancing into central Mesopotamia. So, the troops could not operate far beyond the rivers. Hence, control over the rivers and the network of associated canals along with the villages situated on the riverbanks was absolutely necessary. Between Basra and the interior, the principal arteries of water communication were as follows: the Shatt-al-Arab—formed by the confluence of the Tigris and the Euphrates and navigable as far as Nahr Umbar by vessels upto 20 feet draught; the Tigris, the Euphrates and to a lesser extent the Karun. Along the Tigris, steamers sailed upto Baghdad but navigation was difficult. This was because the channel was altered by floods during May and June and perpetually shifting sandbanks. During floods, vessels drawing 5 feet of water were able to reach Baghdad. But, during the dry season, navigation was limited to vessels of 3 feet draught. The riverine journey took more than 5 days. The Euphrates due to extreme shallowness of the channel along the Hammar Lake had little utility as far as navigation was concerned. The Karun was navigable along a narrow tortuous channel for vessels drawing only 2 feet of water (5 feet during the flood season).61

60 61

Evans, Campaign in Mesopotamia, p. 6. Evans, Campaign in Mesopotamia, p. 8.

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Basra and Qurna were captured on 22 November and 9 December 1914 respectively. Topographical and hydrographical information of the area of operations around Qurna, Basra, Nasiriya and Hawize were inadequate. The effect and extent of the high floods were not fully known. Till 30 September 1915, the floods had been unprecedented and most of the military operations were amphibious in nature.62 The disaster at Kut to a great extent was due to logistical failure. Nikolas Gardner in a powerful article puts the blame for logistical failure on the dietary habits of the Indian soldiers. He argues that the refusal of the sepoys (except Gurkhas) to consume horsemeat until the final stage of the siege (14 April 1916) resulted in the depletion of the garrison’s food supply faster. Further, lack of meat weakened the sepoys and made them unfit to launch counter-attacks against the Turks.63 It is unfair to expect that the Hindu and Sikh sepoys would change their dietary culture in accordance with the exigencies of fluctuating military situation. Rather, the British military authorities should have taken care of the cultural sensibilities of the different communities from which the sepoys were recruited. The failure at Kut as discussed below was due to a complex amalgam of managerial failures on part of the British military staff and harsh physical environment. Early in 1915, news was received of a Turkish concentration for an attack on Basra and the oil pipe was threatened along the Karun River. The threatened attack of the Turks and the unrest among the Arabs necessitated further reinforcements. Hence, another brigade was sent from India which arrived on 7 February 1915.64 LieutenantGeneral Sir John Nixon was commander of II Indian Corps. He was a cavalry soldier, a polo player, a pig sticker and had a reputation for dash. However, his failing was that he never took administrative and logistical aspects of campaigns into account while planning operations. Here, lied the seeds for the subsequent disaster at Kut. Nixon was fired by the thought of capturing Baghdad. As a step towards that objective, he decided to capture Amara which would result in cutting off Turkish communications with Northern Arabistan and the oilfield area. However, at that time, the climate was becoming hotter and the force was

62 Majumder, Army Service Corps, III, p. 26; Operations of the Mesopotamia Expeditionary Force, Force D. 63 Nikolas Gardner, ‘Sepoys and the Siege of Kut-al-Amara, December 1915–April 1916’, War in History, 11, no. 3 (2004), pp. 307–26. 64 Mesopotamia Commission Report, p. 15.

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short of transport, tents, medical equipment and supplies. Nixon’s force entered the desert area without adequate communication facilities.65 On 27 May 1915, Nixon telegraphed that six powerful tugs be sent to him as quickly as possible with a draught not exceeding three feet and each capable of towing two large flats. He also asked for twelve 10–12 knot motor launches. Nixon wanted these crafts at the earliest because between 15 July and 15 October the rivers would be very shallow. The Government of India (hereafter GoI) searched everywhere in India for tugs of the type demanded but failed to find any. On 20 June, GoI informed Nixon that they would ask the India Office to try and obtain them from England.66 Nixon lacked adequate number of river crafts to send the transport animals up as the troops moved deeper into Mesopotamia. While the naval guns and field guns were mounted on river steamers, the mountain guns and machine guns were put on rafts. On 23 June 1915, Nixon ordered Major-General G. F. Gorringe to open the waterway from the Hammar Lake to the Euphrates and to secure the occupation of Suq ash Shuyuk and Nasiriya. Beyond Kubaish, the water route presented difficulties. The steamers had to move through a tortuous channel in the shallow Hammar Lake. At the end of June, the channel was five feet deep. By the middle of July, the depth had been reduced to three feet. Then, the rafts had to be dragged through mud and water. The Turks used gunboats to prevent the Indian Expeditionary Force from using the rivers. The naval flotilla assembled at Qurna under Captain W. Nunn (of the Royal Engineers) consisted of two sloops, two armed launches, three stern wheeler river steamers, and two boats with a 4.7-inch gun in each. One of the stern wheeler river steamer named Shushan was armed with a 12-pounder, one 3-pounder and a Maxim machine gun. However, two sloops and one armed launch could not go beyond Kubaish due to shallowness of the river. Another stern wheeler river steamer named Mahsoudi was armed with a 3-pounder and a Maxim, while the other stern wheeler river steamer Muzaffari had only a Maxim machine gun. The troops were accommodated in the river steamers named Lynch, Mejidieh, and Malamir, on each of whose foredecks were mounted two 18-pounders. The tugs Shuhrur, Shirin, T-1 and T-4 and three launches also accompanied the force. They, and the river steamers

65 66

Evans, Campaign in Mesopotamia, pp. 31–32. Moberly, Campaign in Mesopotamia, p. 268.

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towed six mountain and two machine gun rafts and other boats full of ammunition and stores. On 27 June 1915, the convoy reached Akaika channel and the troops were landed to occupy the surrounding villages. On 28 June the sappers and the miners, with explosives destroyed the dam which the Turks had constructed to obstruct the British-Indian units from using the waterway. The channel was then widened to an average depth of 4–5 feet.67 This partly solved Nixon’s problem. The 6th Division occupied Ali-al-Gharbi. In September 1915, the transfer of troops from the Euphrates to the Tigris was slow and difficult because of the low water level.68 The high command in Mesopotamia had inadequate number of river crafts. The situation was further worsened on account of loss of such crafts. The two ships Firefly and Comet were lost during Townshend’s retirement to Kut.69 On 13 December 1915, Townshend warned that his casualties were roughly 150 to 200 per day and soon gun ammunition would run out. Moreover, morale of troops was very low.70 In January 1916, while the Indian troops made preparation to withstand a siege in Kut, the weather turned bad. Besides high wind and heavy squalls of rain, the river was flooded and the surrounding area became marshy.71 The Siege of Kut by the Turks lasted for 143 days. The garrison of Kut of whom 2,756 were British and 6,000 Indian soldiers plus non-combatant followers of the regiments under Townshend surrendered on 29 April 1916. This was because they had consumed all their provisions and the relieving force was unable to arrive on time due to floods on both bank of river Tigris. As early as 2 March, the barley meal ration of an Indian soldier was reduced from one pound to three-quarter of a pound. The net result was loss of morale and physical exhaustion of the soldiers. Floods hampered all operations and movement of the relief column.72 The high command was intent on rushing reinforcements (both infantry as well as sappers and miners) from late 1915 so that Townshend’s force at Kut could be relieved. On 9 December 1915, the Number 67 Moberly, Campaign in Mesopotamia, pp. 275–78; Operations of the Mesopotamian Expeditionary Force, Force D. 68 Majumdar, Army Service Corps, III, p. 29. 69 War Diary of the Tigris Corps, p. 1. 70 War Diary of the Tigris Corps, p. 4. 71 Majumdar, Army Service Corps, III, p. 37. 72 Operations of the Mesopotamian Expeditionary Force, Force D; Candler, Long Road to Baghdad, I, pp. 211, 224.

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13 Company Sappers and Miners (belonging to the Meerut Division) were ordered by GHQ to be sent from Basra. This unit was bound to arrive at Amara on 13 December. Besides the available sapper officers, the GHQ and Commander-in-Chief of Mesopotamia theatre agreed that more Royal Engineers were required in order to construct bridges for use upstream. General Douglas was informed of the intention to march units of 35th Brigade to Ali Gharbi and was asked to collect materials for bridging.73 The First Artillery Brigade which arrived at Basra was ordered to go to Amara. However, inadequate transportation was a major problem.74 Let us take a micro-perspective of the transportation of troops. In December 1915, the 28th Punjabis and East Kents on arrival at Amara, immediately sent the ships back to Basra.75 On 11 December 1915, the 37th Dogras was transshipped from Basra in tightly packed lighters which were towed by a steam powered launch. The second line of transport of the 35th Brigade included country sailing boats towed by steamers. On 22 December 1915, the 41st Dogras arrived at Basra in a river paddle steamer and two barges.76 The 1st Battalion of the Manchester Regiment arrived at Basra on 8 January 1916. This unit was trans-shipped to two barges and proceeded up the Shatt-al-Arab river towed by the tug Shurhur. On 11 January, this unit reached Qurna. On 17 January, it reached Ali Gharbi and Shaikh Saad was reached next day. On 19 January, this unit disembarked at Orah.77 However, all these attempts proved too less and too slow. Throughout the Mesopotamian campaign, the total casualties amounted to 92,501. Of them, 12,087 died of disease.78 In 1914, the force from India (which roughly amounted to a division) was equipped for a frontier expedition and its medical equipment was even below that scale.79 A medical organisation which was insufficient for a division,

73 74

p. 5.

War Diary of the Tigris Corps, pp. 1–2. War Diary of the Tigris Corps, Telegram to General Townshend, 14 Dec. 1915,

War Diary of the Tigris Corps, p. 2. The Gallant Dogras: An Illustrated History of the Dogra Regiment (New Delhi: Lancer in association with Dogra Regimental Centre, 2005), pp. 48–49. 77 Notes from War Diaries, Part LXXXV, p. 1. 78 Carver, Britain’s Army in the Twentieth Century, p. 108. 79 Mesopotamia Commission Report, p. 13. 75 76

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catered to the II Indian Corps. In mid 1915, due to shortage of vegetables, the Indian soldiers suffered from scurvy.80 On 3 June 1915, when the Indian troops occupied Amara, the weather was hot and sultry.81 By the middle of June the heat in Mesopotamia had become so great as to affect seriously the health of the troops. Convalescing in this trying climate was difficult. Between May and October, the temperature rose to 134 degrees Fahrenheit. Away from the sea, the heat was dry, but south of Amara the weather was damp and muggy. Slowly, it started becoming cooler and by December it was quite cold. Plague, smallpox, malaria, sandfly fever, dysentery and Baghdad boils were endemic. Cholera, typhus, scurvy and heat stroke became epidemic. Insects like mosquitoes and sandflies which were carriers of infection spread sickness.82 To give an example, on 24 June 1915, the 1st Battalion of the 4th Hampshire Regiment could only muster 16 officers and 289 privates who were medically fit. This unit was used in operations around river Euphrates. Owing to sickness among the troops and also because of the fact that a great number of the medical corps had become invalid, on 18 June 1915, Nixon wrote to the GoI for more medical personnel.83 Again, the position selected by Townshend for making a stand against the Turkish Army was unhygienic. A British medical officer described Kut in the following words: Kut-al-Amara is a small town on the left bank of the Tigris consisting of a dense collection of houses and huts built more or less promiscuously. The town contained about 650 houses, including 200 shops, several cafes and a few wool-presses. The better class houses are built of burnt brick, but the majority of the habitations are larger or smaller mud huts. The main part of the town and most of the well-constructed houses stand near the bank of the river. . . . There is no drainage system to the town. . . . This town was the most insanitary place we occupied in Mesopotamia.84

A look form below will highlight the problems faced by the troops in the battlefields. On 1 January 1916, the 1st Battalion Seaforth Highlanders (26 officers and 887 other ranks) arrived at Ali Gharbi on the river

Evans, Campaign in Mesopotamia, p. 36. Majumdar, Army Service Corps, III, p. 28. 82 Evans, Campaign in Mesopotamia, pp. 6–7. 83 Moberly, Campaign in Mesopotamia, p. 269. 84 Mesopotamia Commission Report, Appendix III, Account of the Medical Arrangements, Etc, during the Siege of Kut-Al-Amara by Col. P. Hehir, p. 169. 80 81

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steamer Julnar. The next day, the unit remained in the camp and given one blanket and one waterproof sheet for each man. Each officer’s kit was limited to 30 pounds. The reduced scale of baggage was due to inadequate transport facilities. On 3 January around 20–30, it began to rain and poured all night. The personnel found that lying on the ground with only one blanket was very uncomfortable. This battalion along with the 125th Rifles, 28th Punjabis and the 92nd Punjabis formed the 19th Brigade. The baggage and surplus stores of the brigade were carried in the river steamers Blosse Lynch and Julnar.85 On 14 January 1916, after crossing Wadi Creek, as the units bivouacked, LieutenantColonel W.M. Thomson (the commanding officer of the 1st Seaforth Highlanders) noted: More rain during the night making the ground ankle-deep in mud. This, together with bitter cold wind made us all very miserable indeed, especially having no cover except our greatcoats with us; the ration carts having been unable to trace the battalion for two days. . . . During the recent operations the medical arrangements for receiving wounded were distressingly bad; in fact no arrangements were made that one could see, wounded lay out on the river bank the whole night with no covering, and only one or two medical officers to attend to about 3,000 wounded. . . . Some wounded died behind our line of exposure and starvation.86

In January 1916, the 7th Hariana Lancers was deployed at Orah but the ambulance carts remained at Basra.87 The situation improved by late 1917. Not only the quality and quantity of rations registered improvement but the Indian regiments also started receiving ice.88 The latter commodity was unthinkable for an Indian regiment deployed inside India. The Arab light cavalry’s hit and run tactics dislocated the Army in India’s logistical chain in Mesopotamia. Lieutenant-Colonel E. deV. Wintle who commanded 12th Cavalry noted on 31 January 1916: One of the characteristics of the fighting in Mesopotamia is that hostile bodies of Arabs appear suddenly from all directions—their object being to envelop the force; transport of all kinds must therefore march on a broad front and be protected on all sides by as strong a force as possible. The question therefore arises as to what is to be done with 1st line

85 86 87 88

Notes from War Diaries, Part LXXXV, p. 3. Notes from War Diaries, Part LXXXV, p. 7. Notes from War Diaries, Part LXXXIV, p. 7. Shakespear, Sirmoor Rifle Regiment, II, p. 153.

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kaushik roy transport of a body of cavalry moving quickly. It has been found that 1st line transport mules when led by a mounted man, are absolutely unable to keep up with their unit marching at 6 miles per hour. I am of opinion that troop reserve ammunition and entrenching tools must as formerly be carried on horses and not on mules; water, stretchers, and signalling equipment being pushed up afterwards on mules.89

Hence, cavalry protection was provided for the transport echelons. One troop of cavalry escorted every 100 regimental mules.90 This in turn raised the demand of cavalry and draught animals for bringing supplies from the river barges to the troops moving away from the river. Till January 1916, 1,050 camels and 487 Persian mules were brought for service to Mesopotamia. However, it was found that compared to the Indian camels, those camels were undersized and weedy. Very few of them could carry more than 4 maunds of load each. Some officers demanded large numbers of North African mules or light draught horses. It was found that Indian draught mules were suitable for the conditions in Mesopotamia.91 During the course of the war, India sent 45,577 mules and ponies, 44,288 horses, 4,986 dairy cattle, 4,649 draught bullocks and 3,026 camels to Mesopotamia.92 However, many animals died during the voyage.93 Grass constituted the best fodder for the horses. Since grass did not grow in abundance in Mesopotamia, they were fed bhoosa only and salt rations for the animals could not be provided every night. Hence, many animals fell ill.94 Captain D. O. W. Lamb of the 10th DCO Lancers pointed out that in the absence of fresh fodder, it was better to provide oats rather than grain or bhoosa.95 But, the problem persisted as to how to get those commodities in adequate amount to Mesopotamia. During December 1915, the cavalry brigade at Orah got only half the amount of required fodder. The net result was that the condition and staying power of the horses declined, at a time when cavalry was required for reconnaissance of Turkish defensive positions and Turk-

89 90 91

NAI. 92

93 94 95

Notes from War Diaries, Part LXXXIV, p. 7. Notes from War Diaries, Part LXXXIV, p. 7. Notes from War Diaries, Part LXXII, 31 Jan. 1916, p. 11, WWI/1458/H, India’s Contribution to the Great War (Calcutta: Supdt. of Govt. Printing, 1923), p. 95. Notes from War Diaries, Part LXXII, p. 11. Notes from War Diaries, Part LXXXIV, p. 7. Capt. D. O. W. Lamb, ‘Oats’, JUSII, XLV, no. 202 ( Jan. 1916), pp. 83–6.

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ish troop movements and for escorting supply columns.96 By August 1917, a road connecting Khan Jadidah and Daudieh with Baquba was constructed.97 The completion of Shaikh Sa’ad-Sinn light railway somewhat reduced the Army in India’s dependence on waterways and animals for sustaining military operations.98 With time, railway transportation improved due to import of locomotives. In January 1918, there were 144 locomotives (88 meter gauge, 31 4’–8.5” and 25 2’–6” gauge respectively) in Mesopotamia.99 Besides inadequate medical, transport facilities and animals, lack of trained manpower was another problem area for the Indian Army. Captain T. Moss had noted that the number of men for the firing line of an Indian regiment had been greatly depleted due to the calls made on companies to supply men for signalling, machine guns, transport etc. Hence, an increase in establishment had to be made to obtain full fighting value of the regiment. The minimum strength for a company going into action ought to be 100 men. He had argued that the number of regimental signallers would have to be increased for easing communication facilities with other units during the battle.100 The Indian Army lacked a huge reserve for replacing large wastage. The sanctioned establishment of Indian Army’s reserve was 35,717 and its actual strength was 33,712.101 General Sir Beauchamp Duff (Commander-in-Chief in India, 1914–16) had commented: ‘Our difficulties in India throughout have been that the direction of the campaign in Mesopotamia has rested in London, and that we never could foreseen the advances that might be ordered or the additional troops that might be allotted to the Tigris campaign. Working in semi darkness we have produced recruits which I do not claim as satisfactory, but of which, when all the circumstances are known, India has reason to be proud rather than ashamed.’102

96 97 98 99

IOR.

Notes from War Diaries, Part LXXXI, p. 7. Shakespear, Sirmoor Rifle Regiment, II, p. 153. Operations of the Mesopotamian Expeditionary Force, Force D. Mesopotamia Transport Commission, Appendix E(1), p. 71, LMIL/7/18588,

100 Capt. T. Moss, ‘Infantry Establishment Indian Army’, JUSII, XL, no. 202 ( Jan. 1916), pp. 87–88, 96. 101 Majumdar, Army Service Corps, III, p. 5. 102 Mesopotamia Commission Report, Appendix II, Memorandum on the Report of the Vincent-Bingley Commission, by General Beauchamp Duff, p. 168.

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A. J. Barker, a historian of the Mesopotamian campaign blames lack of foresight on part of the planners to send more river craft which would have ensured proper supply and mobility of the units. Barker continues that the GoI responsible for Indian Expeditionary Force D did nothing. The GoI continued to think in terms of the North West Frontier, pack transport and screw guns.103 It is indeed a harsh judgement on the GoI. To give an example about the GoI’s effort to supply the Indian Expeditionary Force in Mesopotamia, the production of shells for the quick firing 13 and 18-pounder guns rose from 100,208 between 1 August 1914 to 31 March 1915 to 170,681 between 1 April to 31 March 1916. Between 1 April 1916 and 31 March 1917, production was 204,035 which further increased to 227,939 between 1 April 1917 to 31 March 1918.104 Conclusion The nature of combat in Mesopotamia was different from that which took place in the Western Front. Heavy density of troops and concentrated heavy artillery fire along the static trench lines that characterised operations in the Flanders were absent in Mesopotamia. In Mesopotamia, trench warfare occurred but abundant space existed for turning operations, cavalry raids etc. To an extent, the ‘face of battle’ in Mesopotamia was probably somewhat similar to the ‘face of battle’ in the Russian steppe theatre. Credit had to be given to the Turkish units for conducting effective delaying actions against the Army of India’s units which tried to relieve Kut during the early months of 1916. Inadequate coordination between the various branches was a weakness of the Army of India’s units. This limitation was somewhat rectified later on. From 1917 onwards, the quality and quantity of hardware at the disposal of Army of India’s units rose. Towards the end of the Mesopotamian campaign, the Army in India’s units learnt to cooperate with aircraft. This was put to good use during the Third Afghan War (1919) and the Waziristan campaign of 1921–22.105

Barker, Bastard War, pp. 32, 39. India’s Contribution to the Great War, p. 112. 105 In the 1916 Mohmand Campaign aeroplanes were used. Brian Robson, Crisis on the Frontier: The Third Afghan War and the Campaign in Waziristan 1919–20 (Staplehurst: Spellmount, 2004), p. 258. 103 104

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Logistics remained the ‘Achilles heel’ of the Mesopotamian campaign. Conscription of able bodied men to the age of 41 was introduced in Britain on 1 April 1916,106 but never in India due to political reasons. The real problem for the Indian Army was not unavailability of manpower but absence of trained manpower reserve. India had huge demographic resources; around 360 million. The problem lay in inadequate training facilities and equipment for training the recruits. Rather than manpower, inadequate transport facilities proved to be disastrous for the Army in India during the initial period of the campaign in Mesopotamia. Unlike France, in Mesopotamia, rivers and riverine transport played a crucial role in sustaining the units which advanced along the arid plains. By late 1917, though logistical difficulties were not entirely solved, the supply situation was at least partly ameliorated. The Army in India’s performance in Mesopotamia shows that it was not a hide bound institution. In the final analysis it can be said that the Army in India registered quite a moderate learning curve.

106 Nigel Hamilton, The Full Monty: Montgomery of Alamein, 1887–1942 Volume I (London: Allen Lane, 2001), p. 85.

302,199 (including 7,812 Indian officers) 104,419 86,382 34,511 24,451 17,573 9,717 579,252

Numbers Despatched

3,513 4,944 2,460 368 455 1,618 29,010

15,652

Killed

8,001 16,297 1,986 210 566 3,669 61,916

31,187

Wounded

501 1,127 43 3 22 101 3,241

1,444

Missing

Casualties

28 538 21 28 16 3 6,146

5,512

Prisoners

1,223

Probably Prisoners

Source: India’s Services in the War, 2 vols. combined, vol. 1, General (1922, reprint, Delhi: Low Price Publications, 1993), p. 23; India’s Contribution to the Great War (Calcutta: Supdt. of Govt. Printing, 1923), p. 97.

Egypt France East Africa Persian Gulf Aden Gallipoli and Salonika Total

Mesopotamia

Theatre

Table 1. Casualties suffered by the Army in India in Overseas Theatres during World War I

158 kaushik roy

WAR COMES TO THE FIELDS: SACRIFICE, LOCALISM AND PLOUGHING UP THE ENGLISH COUNTRYSIDE IN 1917 Keith Grieves In 1917 the British home front faced a test of endurance and its most obvious expression throughout the year was the ‘food question’. It was a year in which ‘good corn day[s], wind and sun’ were assiduously counted’.1 Amid long term political and cultural debates on agricultural decline and the emptying of the countryside, the British government was suddenly forced to acknowledge that dependence on distant lands for cheap staple food was an inappropriate assumption in total war. In particular, the sinking of ‘wheat ships’ during the unrestricted U-boat campaign unleashed in February 1917 raised the spectre of the calamitous undoing of the soldier’s sacrifice as food scarcity threatened prospects for victory. Until the harvest and beyond the crisis conditions of ‘food security’ led to an unforeseen addition to the essential war industries. On 11 February 1917 the Prime Minister, David Lloyd George, told Lord Riddell, ‘The nation knows that food, ships, coal and transport are vital, and that we have now reached the point when these industries can be no further depleted.’2 In March 1917 the War Emergency Committee of the Royal Agricultural Society of England pondered the effects of the U-Boat campaign and asked its membership, ‘Do those who live tucked away in quiet corners of England fully realize that one of the most potent ways of combating this danger and thus avoiding disaster is by producing all the food possible here—now and at once?’3 1 G. Phizackerley, ed., The Diaries of Maria Gyte of Sheldon Derbyshire, 1913–1920 (Cromford: Scarthin Books, 1999), p. 45: entry for 21 September 1917. 2 Lord Riddell, War Diary 1914–1918 (London: Ivor Nicholson & Watson, 1933), p. 239. See also House of Lords Record Office (hereafter HLRO), Lloyd George Mss, F/15/8/3, Prothero to Lloyd George, 1 January 1917; The Times 27 January 1917; Jay Winter and J.-L. Robert, eds., Capital Cities at War. Paris, London, Berlin 1914–1919 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1991), p. 322; Keith Grieves The Politics of Manpower, 1914–1918 (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 1988), p. 96. 3 The Times 29 March 1917; C. Dakers, The Countryside at War 1914–18 (London: Constable, 1987), p. 14.

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War had come to the fields. Throughout the spring months Board of Agriculture reports described unsatisfactory sowing conditions in Britain, especially in the west where re-sowing was necessary. Food producers, especially skilled ploughmen, became essential war workers, as the nation was implored to ‘Eat within your tether’ and ‘Spare at the brink and not at the bottom’. As gun and shell output required National Organisation in 1915, so ‘All hands to the plough’ suddenly had a similar resonance in the lexicon of ‘all-out’ war. As debates on citizenship were intertwined with the raising of Kitchener’s New Armies in 1914–15, so the emergence of an agricultural army in 1917 drew attention to the ever widening implications of total war. The conditions necessary for the eventual decisive blow became endurance, social cohesion and the management of privation in civilian societies on the home fronts. As a precondition of victory, the new importance of sowing and harvesting positioned the tractor, alongside the tank, as mechanical expressions and eventual icons of ‘late’ remobilisation. The strategic importance of food production in 1917 was accompanied by the clamour of exhortation, for example, ‘making effort and sacrifices commensurate with the interests at stake’.4 It was the relationship between exemplary activity and regulation in the broader context of voluntarism and compulsion in food production which will be the focus of this essay, with particular emphasis on managing agricultural labour. In April 1917 the draft Corn Production Bill announced the government’s statutory framework for increasing home agricultural output in 1917. But by the time that it was enacted much had been done that arose from direction tempered with co-operation and precept matched by example, especially in translating national interest into local action. For example, in 1917 the food crisis became a ‘reasonable excuse’, within the education acts, to release children under 12 years from elementary schools for agricultural work, until a letter to magistrates from the Home Office in conjunction with the boards of Agriculture and Education, dated 17 August 1917, deprecated the numerous local instances of children being kept away from school for employment on farms.5

The Times 29 March 1917; Trevor Wilson, The Myriad Faces of War (Oxford: Polity Press, 1988), p. 514. 5 The Times 21 March 1918; Pamela Horn, Rural Life in England in the First World War (Dublin: Gill & Macmillan, 1984), pp. 175–77. 4

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Avner Offer has persuasively highlighted why data on the world’s supply of wheat as a vital source of energy and protein was of such unexpected interest to Britain in the fourth year of the war. As a free trading naval power, and of all the larger grain producing powers, ‘only Britain retrenched so completely’ in the decades after 1880. He added, ‘The Low Countries, Britain and Germany made up the chief wheat-deficit region of the world. This region also provided the main setting for the Anglo-German war of 1914.’6 In 1914 70–80 per cent of wheat consumption in Britain was imported yearly, but pre-war naval plans assumed that sea lanes would remain protected, the cost of a price guarantee for home production could be avoided and Canada and Australia would supply Europe in continuous ‘superabundance’.7 Instead, in April 1917 Lord Devonport, Food Controller, issued a grave warning, ‘We must eat less.’8 Merchant shipping was acknowledged as a ‘wasting security’ and home food production became the most decisive factor to sustain national security until the next harvest. The loss of 2.5 million tons of British shipping in the months of January to July 1917 marked a reduction by ten per cent of the merchant fleet, with construction in the same period at 0.5 million tons. In April 1917 sinkings peaked at 881,027 tons of unescorted merchant shipping, but losses exceeded 500,000 tons each month until September 1917. In May 1917 an experimental convoy was organised by the Admiralty and in June the Atlantic Convoy Committee instigated plans to cover the most vital shipping routes.9 Consequently, in 1917 the threatened scarcity of staple foods on the home front was a challenge to National Organisation. At the outbreak of war the British Isles produced on average 15.5 million quintals of wheat and imported 58.8 million quintals. In 1915 record yields of 20.1 million quintals fell to 16.5 in 1916, significantly below pre war average yields. In the Food Production Department of the Board of

6 Avner Offer, The First World War. An Agrarian Interpretation (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1991), pp. 84, 86; John Turner, British Politics and the Great War. Coalition and Conflict 1915 –1918 (London: Yale University Press, 1992), p. 172; L. M. Barnett, British Food Policy during the First World War (London: Allen & Unwin, 1985), pp. 60–61. 7 David Lloyd George, War Memoirs 2 vols. (London: Ivor Nicholson & Watson, 1936), I, p. 756. 8 Quoted in Richard van Emden and S. Humphries, All Quiet on the Home Front. An Oral History of Life in Britain during the First World War (London: Headline, 2004), p. 194. 9 S. Roskill, Hankey. Man of Secrets. Vol. 1, 1877–1918 (London: Collins, 1970), p. 339; R. H. Rew, Food Supplies in Peace and War (London: 1920), passim.

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Agriculture Sir John Wilson projected world wheat yields for 1917 of 27 per cent below yields for 1916 and 16 per cent below average yields for the five years 1911–15, using data from the International Agricultural Institute in Rome. On the assumption that average wheat consumption in Britain could be reduced in 1917 from 75 to 66 million quintals and home production maintained at 16 million quintals, significant increases in wheat, barley, oats and potato production at home would be necessitated, until sufficient wheat imports from India and Australia were secured to meet import requirements of 50 million quintals. These harvest projections focused on the issues of production, supply and consumption arising by October 1917 in advance of autumn sowing and the implementation of ambitious plans for three million additional acres for wheat growing in Britain in 1918. Schemes for ‘bread economy’ included reducing the quantity of wheat in the quarter loaf, whose maximum price was nine pence in January 1917, but had risen to one shilling in London two months later. ‘Food security’ and the avoidance of protest in British cities was discussed and starkly tabulated within the global context. Table 1 provides a summarising statement from August 1917 as the purchasing season got underway in the northern hemisphere. Table 1. Present prospects for gross yield of this year’s harvest [1917] compared to the average yield of five years ending July 191310 Importing countries

[harvest projections]

Britain France Italy Spain Tunis Egypt Switzerland Holland Denmark Japan

Equal Much below Somewhat below 108 per cent Equal Equal Somewhat above Somewhat below Equal 109 per cent

10 The National Archives (hereafter TNA) CO 323/766, ‘The World’s Supply of Wheat’, Part II, 22 August 1917, Prospect of the Harvest of 1917, Sir J. Wilson, Food Production Department, Board of Agriculture, for the Colonial Office, with minute dated 16 August 1917. There are 10 quintals (hundredweight) to the ton. See also TNA, CAB 23/2, WC 97, ‘The Food Question’, W. S. G. Adams, 15 March 1917; Peter Dewey, British Agriculture in the First World War (London: Routledge, 1989), p. 206.

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Table 1 (cont.) Importing countries

[harvest projections]

Austria-Hungary Germany Belgium

Much below Much below Much below

Exporting countries India Romania Russia US Canada Argentine Australia New Zealand

108 per cent—a record crop Much below considerably below 95 per cent About equal Much above Much above Above

The principal importers were Britain, France and Italy. The crops in Romania and Russia were noted as poor, with barely any export potential. Production in the USA, Canada and Australia were noted as drained of manpower. The British Empire Producers’ Association, chaired by Lord Milner, was formed in 1916 to develop and mobilise imperial agricultural resources. But the prospect of a coherent plan involving India, Australia, Canada and Egypt remained aspirational in February 1917.11 Hitherto, globally and locally, the presumption of ‘business as usual’ reflected the widespread expectation that the world’s food production would not be damaged by a continental war. Furthermore, that in England the ‘country round’ would remain a reassuring antidote to war. In the first two years of the war life in the countryside was set apart from urban ‘nerve’ centres and military camps, which were in closer economic and psychological proximity to the fighting fronts. For example, in 1915 the Rector of Great Leigh in Essex drew solace from walking past ‘peaceful rural operations, cutting hedges, breaking clods, spreading manure. Not a sign that a soldier had ever been in the district.’12 Amid the timeless continuities of the seasons, Robert Saunders, headmaster of Fletching National School in Sussex, noted on hearing the sound of The Times, 2 February 1917. J. Munson, ed., Echoes of the Great War. The Diary of The Reverend Andrew Clark 1914–1918 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1988), p. 74: entry for 17 July 1915. 11

12

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guns in June 1915, ‘forcing you to remember we are at War & taking your attention from Country sights and sounds’.13 Early in the war the ‘otherness’ of the English countryside in a European war also found expression in the removal of unsightly recruiting posters from trees in the belief that their display was more appropriate on the London underground. More generally, Alun Howkins has concluded that the impact of war on rural communities was ‘initially muted’, especially where the social equilibrium of rural districts was maintained.14 After the introduction of British summer time in 1916, ‘natural time’ was maintained on some farms in preference to ‘artificial time’. Similarly, local resistance to the employment of prisoner labour and women endured until the onset of food scarcity. Memories of diminishing food supplies in the countryside in 1917 have remained an enduring part of rural folklore deep into the twentieth century. Free hedgerow provisioning re-emerged including the hunting of birds mesmerised by torchlight. Joe Risby remembered ‘rabbit pie, rabbit soup, rabbit dumplings, every part of the rabbit was used’.15 In 2002 Ruth Armstrong lived in the village of Tilshead in Wiltshire, where as an eleven year old in 1917, she remembered, ‘my mother going out and picking dandelion leaves and washing them and making sandwiches with them. It tasted like lettuce. Another thing, my mother, my grandmother, my little brother and me used to go out into the fields and pick the greens off the turnips and swedes. You had to pick a lot because they shrunk so. We took them home and cooked them with potatoes and mashed it up with margarine. That was our Sunday dinner.’16 In May 1917 Robert Saunders drew the conclusion ‘unless we grow something we will have to eat less and less’. His cottage garden contained 15 rows of potatoes, six rows of carrots, three rows each of beetroot and shallots and one row each of long pod beans, Windsor beans, dwarf beans and dwarf peas. He also grew gooseberry, raspberry and blackcurrant bushes and once more bread was made by his wife in the cottage oven.17 In a letter to The Times Dr Shipley won13 Imperial War Museum (hereafter IWM), Saunders Mss, 79/15/1, 29 April 1917. See also M. Bunce, Countryside Ideals: Anglo-American Images of Landscape (London: Routledge, 1991), p. 23. 14 A. Howkins, Reshaping Rural England. A Social History 1850–1925 (London: Routledge, 1991), p. 25. 15 Van Emden and Humphries, All Quiet on the Home Front, p. 201. 16 Ibid., p. 191. 17 IWM, Saunders Mss, 79/15/1, 4 May 1918 and 25 March 1917.

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dered whether starch might be obtained from underground stems of bracken-fern as bread substitute, but was warned that labour intensive extraction and transport made the suggestion untenable.18 Instead, early in 1917, ‘Speeding up on the farm’ became an irresistible social duty, which took pragmatic form as ‘husbandmen’ steeped in the pre-modern country round were exhorted by representatives of the farming community in their districts to contemplate the new benefits of manures, motor tractors and machinery. After becoming Prime Minister and overcoming prevarication, Lloyd George appointed Arthur Lee, a munitions ‘leading hustler’, Director General of the newly created Food Production Department within the Board of Agriculture in January 1917. Nominally a Conservative and unloved by influential landowners and the farmer’s interest, in the Party, Lee was without ministerial rank. To some extent Rowland Prothero, his departmental head, who was a scholar of English farming practices, formerly land agent to the Duke of Bedford and a less iconoclastic temporary minister, afforded him protection from a traditional landlordism, intent on sustaining mixed farming practices and the capital value of grassland to which they had moved over decades of declining rent, diminishing land values and uncompetitive cereal crops, especially in the west and south of England. In 1917 the Food Production Department’s energising and co-ordinating function mirrored the organisational precedent of numerous new branches of the Ministry of Munitions in June 1915. Two years after the onset of National Organisation, ‘men of push and go’ and ad hoc local administrative practices were remobilised in the fiercely contested terrain of food production. In short, the Food Production Department was established to implement a national priority whereby labour, machinery and supplies were deployed ‘for farming land to the best advantage’.19 John Grigg has argued that this ‘feat was achieved by a judicious blend of direction and persuasion’.20 The urgent blending of national compulsory powers and local voluntary effort and mediation, informed by full knowledge of growing conditions, was necessary for the numerous questions of labour, machinery and supplies. Extensive powers under the Cultivation of Lands Order 1917 (DORA) were delegated to The Times, 20 February 1917. TNA, MAF 39/12, ‘Formation and Cessation of Food Production Department’, 1 January 1917. See also Dewey, British Agriculture, pp. 93, 96. 20 John Grigg, Lloyd George: War Leader, 1916–1918 (London: Penguin, 2002), p. 133. 18 19

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county war agricultural executive committees. The significance of these committees as repositories of patriotic social action was emphasised by the government’s expectation that membership was the most important duty of all for self selected local elites, who remained available for war work on the home front. In the local distribution of machinery, seeds, feedstuff and fertiliser persuasion and advice accompanied regulation and control in the absence of a political consensus on the purpose, content and potential consequences of the Corn Production Bill. In January 1917 the Ministry of Munitions established an Agricultural Machinery branch and took control of output and labour supply in concert with an advisory committee, which comprised experts from the trade. The advisory committee for ‘Field munitions’ included E. C. Ransome of Ipswich and R. H. Fowler of Leeds.21 Arthur Lee’s celebrated telegraph order for 10,000 tractors from Henry Ford, who built a new factory at Detroit for the purpose, was a quintessential new ministerial intervention dependent on government purchasing power, import controls and advocacy of innovative use at local and county levels.22 The Fordson tractor was also assembled at Trafford Park, using parts shipped across the Atlantic. By mid-March the Food Production Department had acquired 250 tractors and appealed for voluntary drivers. Mechanical solutions to the ‘food question’ were feted in specific localities. In Buckinghamshire an experiment demonstrated the practicality of motor ploughing by night, using acetylene headlights. In five days and three nights 42 acres were ploughed, compared with twelve days by tractor and 56 days by horse plough.23 At the same time the Sale of Horses Order ensured that land cultivation was the first claim on heavy draught horses through licensing, which did not extend to ponies or cobs, in addition to the temporary loan of draught horses from military transport units. By September 1917 mechanised government binders were visible on the most isolated of corn-growing landscapes.24 Moreover, county councils had purchased tractors, which

Dewey, British Agriculture, p. 149. Grigg, Lloyd George, p. 133; A. Clark, ed., ‘A Good Innings’: The Private Papers of Viscount Lee of Fareham (London: John Murray, 1974), p. 167; Lloyd George, War Memoirs, I, p. 774; Peter Dewey, ‘Agricultural Labour Supply in England and Wales during the First World War’, Economic History Review 18 (1975), pp. 108–09. 23 The Times, 6 March 1917. 24 Phizackerley, Diaries of Maria Gyte, p. 144: entry for 8 September 1917. See also A. Howkins, Death of Rural England: A Social History of the Countryside since 1900 (London: Routledge, 2003), p. 32, plate 3. 21 22

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were lent to farmers at three pounds per day. It was not coincidental that the Chequers Estate Bill was drafted by the end of 1917. Arthur Lee intended that Chequers be given to the nation as an inspiring country residence for Prime Ministers, sufficiently endowed to be maintained as an estate comprising model experimental farms where innovatory practice would be maintained.25 The county war agricultural executive committees exhorted farmers to employ prisoners, ‘village women’ and the Women’s Land Army as substitute labour. In August 1917 120,000 women from all sources worked on the land. They included those who responded to the Women’s Labour Department of the Board of Agriculture appeal for women aged 18–30 years to leave office jobs to older women, and accept the hardships which accompanied working on the land. Similarly, a mixture of directives and exhortations accompanied the department’s plans for Sunday working for spring sowing, which despite Episcopal objections took the form of clerical dispensation from seven consecutive Sunday church services in many districts. At Burpham vicarage, near Arundel, the Rev. Toogood noted, ‘I have received papers asking the clergy to point out the great need of trying to produce all possible food, especially potatoes, for if the war should last into autumn there may be a very real scarcity.’26 In these instances the urgently redefined national interest of food production was mediated locally, so that a more consensual tillage campaign might overcome farmer’s resistance. John Turner’s summation remained apposite many months after food production had become a new strategic priority, ‘the politics of food and the agricultural interest dominated parliamentary calculations in the middle of 1917’.27 Similarly, local opinion mattered when confronted by the spectacle of a 22 acre field of autumn sown wheat being requisitioned by the War Office as a site for the construction of military huts. This instance provoked outrage, because the construction of a ‘Wheat field camp’ discounted the effects of the underlying precept; ‘more wheat will be destroyed than the whole county could save in more than a year by strict compliance with rationing orders’.28 This visible contradiction to ‘bread economy’ arose from the military presupposition that it had first call on scarce

The Times, 5 October 1917. West Sussex Record Office (hereafter WSRO), PAR 21/7/1, Burpham Quarterly Paper, No. 60, January 1917, C. Toogood. 27 Turner, British Politics, p. 214. 28 The Times, 16 March 1917. See also Horn, Rural Life, p. 75. 25

26

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resources, but in 1917 the War Office acted unilaterally on matters of labour supply at its peril. The poetic imagery of a ‘county enlistment championship’ in 1914, as men went to war in defence of sub-national places as well as for King and Country, was echoed in the executive deliberations of county war agricultural committees in 1917. Ailwyn Fellowes, Chairman of the Norfolk War Agricultural Committee, observed, ‘The point is, what assistance shall be sent her so that this other national call, the call for food, not wheat alone, may be as well met by the county as was the earlier demand for men [for the army].’29 The deployment of soldiers to meet ‘the special need of Norfolk’ in February 1917 drew immediate demands for military labour from Lincolnshire, Yorkshire and Essex and other important wheat growing counties to meet county quotas for breaking up grasslands in the national interest. In this process the voluntary implementation of cultivation orders determined by county war agricultural committees, and negotiated with landowners and farmers, was the essential tool of intervention as the Board of Agriculture conceded that decisions for ploughing up grassland should be settled on the spot. In August 1917 Wilfrid Scawen Blunt, the irascible anti-war but conservative ‘south country’ squire, reflected on ‘the idea of compelling people to plough up their meadows’. He noted, ‘A party from the agricultural war committee, with Lord Goschen at its head who is at the head of it for Sussex, called on me a month ago to know whether I would be willing to plough up my land here & I had no difficulty in persuading him that it would be a stupidity to attempt growing any kind of crop on such poor land, and they ended by suggesting that I should try it on 20 acres out of 500 & by way of giving a good example. That was all, nor have I since heard anything more of it.’30 Blunt doubted the government’s competence in agricultural policy. He provided no indication that the use of his meadows should be determined by any other authority than his custodianship of the lands arising from an unbroken 300 year stewardship by one family. His experience of Wealden clay as three horse plough land affirmed his authority on land use near Horsham, but Blunt also conceded the necessity for exemplary behaviour in his locality. In the form of inspection visits and specific

29 30

The Times, 17 and 19 February 1917. See also Dakers, Countryside at War, p. 147. WSRO, Blunt Mss, 64, W. S. Blunt to Lady Anne Blunt, 18 August 1917.

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local agreements voluntary endeavour, with the threat of compulsion, persisted long into 1917. Blunt was not alone in arguing that owners and their tenants should retain the inalienable rights of property owners and respond to the crisis of food production in ways that they could best determine for themselves. In Lloyd George’s War Memoirs the objections of landlordism feature strongly as a source of recrimination and hostility towards the emergence of ‘National Organisation’ in agriculture, alongside all other sources of resistance to the interventionist ‘Man Who Won The War’. In particular, the Unionist landowner Walter Long was depicted as the pre-eminent ‘passive resister’ in the Cabinet, ‘so strongly did he disapprove of any control over the owners and occupiers of land’.31 Walter Long advised his tenants that productive grassland should not be ploughed on his Wiltshire estate. Moreover, dairy stock was such a vital capital asset that tillage programmes were obstructed until the outcome of the Corn Production Bill was known.32 As ‘King of Lancashire’ and Secretary of State for War, Lord Derby shared Long’s hostility to ploughing orders. Their discontented positioning within Lloyd George’s coalition government highlighted the challenge of rebalancing the war effort, embracing sectional interests and privileging agricultural production in a wider definition of the warfare state at the highest executive level. A persistent ideological gulf focused on the extent to which the state’s requirements in war could incorporate the management of land and its output was not quickly resolved, even in the context of ‘wheat ship’ sinkings. However, there were incremental shifts over many months towards new understandings of ‘all-out’ war, so that such contemporary phrasing conveyed much more meaning than the military focus on continuing the third Battle of Ypres beyond August 1917. Indeed, villages and counties began to be incorporated into a truly national narrative of Britain at war, now with material as well as symbolic meaning. In December 1917 the food production programme for 1918 was agreed by the War Cabinet, without the debates which persisted into the late spring sowing period in 1917. At each incremental step towards harvesting cereal crops in 1917 disputes were reconciled on the appropriate deployment of fit men of military age. In February 1917 the idea of a ‘Land Army’ was

31 32

Lloyd George, War Memoirs, I, pp. 769, 767. Clark, Good Innings, p. 168; Turner, British Politics, p. 215.

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largely a misnomer. However, the phrase captured the urgency of the situation and conveyed a pressing equivalence to the raising of Lord Kitchener’s New Armies in 1915. But the importance of the new agricultural army on the home front, with skilled ploughmen as noncommissioned officers, was vigorously contested by the War Office. Its projections for the supply of recruits for the British armies in France in 1917 assumed that agriculturalists were not ‘indispensable’ to the war effort. The persistence of the ‘large army first’ principle in 1917 ensured the continuing relevance of the recruiting poster directed at Irish ploughmen in May 1915. It asked, ‘Can You any longer resist the Call?’ A vision of St. Patrick and the ruins of Reims Cathedral demanded the departure of agriculturalists from the land to vanquish the foe on the ‘only’ field of battle.33 Food production would be left to others or to another day. Apparently, ploughmen remained subordinate to the imperative of a large continental army. Instead, the militarisation of the agricultural output was the subject of constant inter-departmental strife throughout the sowing and harvesting months in 1917 and hinged upon the issue of whether skilled ploughmen of age for military service should be exempt, alongside aeronautical engineers, shipyard workers and coal miners. One of the most significant developments in the history of British man-power planning in the Great War focused on the adequate supply of agricultural labour in 1917. In particular, on 28 June 1917 Lord Milner, War Cabinet arbiter of manpower par excellence, announced in the House of Lords a significant variation to the military demand for men. He summarised that in the spring months 40,000 soldiers were released from home forces for late sowing and 12,000 men were additionally lent for the hay harvest. These men were described as being on leave in late April, which was extended into early May. By June 1917 men could only be recruited for military service with the consent of agricultural committees. The January quota of 30,000 agriculturalists for military service remained unfulfilled, tempered by the reverse flow of 5,000 soldiers who could handle horses to the fields. Lord Milner announced that for the months July to September 1917, 70–80,000 men under military orders would be provided for harvesting.34 This calculation included approximately IWM, PST 13637, ‘Can You Any Longer Resist the Call?’ [poster]. TNA, CAB 23/3, WC 169, 26 June 1917; WC 170, 27 June 1917; HLRO, Bonar Law Mss, 81/1/22, Milner to Bonar Law, 28 June 1916; Liverpool Record Office, 920 DER (17) 27/1, Derby to Lloyd George, 6 July 1917. 33 34

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6,000 prisoners of war who were returned from the Western Front. Critically, the belated acknowledgement that harvesting had become a national duty, commensurate with military service, finally halted the flow of agricultural labourers to the fields of France and Flanders.35 No longer would skilled food producers be subordinate to the military requirement for 940,000 men for the Western Front in 1917. Consequently, the Home Army, deployed to defend the east coast from invasion or raid in depth, supplied military labour for spring cultivation programmes despite the fiercest objections of the War Office. Two quotas of 15,000 men were deployed in wheat growing counties in February 1917. The exemption of farm labourers from military service gathered momentum and the highly contentious process of returning skilled ploughmen from the Western Front was authorised by the War Cabinet, but not undertaken expeditiously in the British armies in France.36 By December 1917 only 1,500 skilled ploughmen had returned from military service to their farms, despite numerous Cabinet discussions of this issue and clear instructions that this process be hastened in time for harvesting in 1917. ‘Farm soldiers’ were also deployed from the Home Army in agricultural companies, such as mobile reaper-binder units. They were beyond the control of any one farmer or landowner and methodically provided where skilled resident harvesters were scarce. Furthermore, at the Porton Down experimental station, founded in 1915 as a field trials site for chemical warfare, Royal Engineers were deployed from biological warfare capacity-building to cultivate land. An official photograph bore testimony to ploughing-up land at the station to meet a threat as great in total war as chemical warfare.37 In these urgent months new definitions of national preparedness to secure food security, through the breaking up of grasslands, involved richly textured debates in land use. National imperatives encountered sources of local knowledge, always with the possibility that the Land Question, revisited in 1913–14, would re-emerge. For example, some voices persisted in deviating from the warfare state’s expectation that

35 Turner, British Politics, p. 175; N. Mansfield, English Farmworkers and Local Patriotism, 1900 –1930 (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2001), pp. 15–17; Horn, Rural Life, p. 102; Howkins, Death of Rural England, pp. 30–31. 36 TNA, CAB 23/3, WC 170, 27 June 1917. 37 IWM, PD-CRO-23, The Royal Engineers Experimental Station at Porton Down during the First World War [official photograph].

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all would cry ‘God speed the plough’.38 The mobilisation of all food producers, including allotment holders and gardeners, was accompanied by the question of how knowledgeable and influential agriculturalists would represent the needs of their localities to the state and vice-versa. Further, what would be the effects of emergency schemes for the breaking up of permanent pasture as a critical moment in the history of British agriculture? In 1917 the work of county war agricultural executive committees presaged the systematic planning for vast increases in wheat growing area in 1918, to reach its highest recorded extent since 1882. In 1917 farms were repositioned in a militarised landscape. Lord Selborne was well placed to acknowledge the continuing effects of a submarine peril. In 1915–16 he was successively President of the Board of Agriculture and First Lord of the Admiralty. On becoming President of the Central Land Association, in succession to Walter Long, in July 1917, he urged the necessity for all-out food production in the expectation that a guarantee of stable income would be provided. Earlier, without relish for centralising bureaucratic solutions, Lord Selborne explained to the Farmers Club that where poor management of farm land was suspected by the Board of Agriculture it ‘did not mean that the estate would be managed by a clerk sitting in London, but by a man of proved competency to manage an estate in the county in question’.39 These encounters of endurance and survival between localities and nation on the land question were mediated by the intermingling of voluntarism and compulsion, the militarisation of civilian assets in uniformed service and the demise of distinctions between forward and rearward areas of the war effort. Amid the problems of food supply, the renewal of English agriculture and the restoration of prosperous conditions for village life after the war, the countryside also became the scenic focus of debates on the role of rural quietude for convalescent soldiers in 1917. In a different sense the war came to the fields as schemes developed for convalescing neurasthenic patients, which utilised the countryside as a recuperative sanctuary. The solace of fresh air, good food and light outdoor work in secluded estate villages took form in 1917 as the Country Host Institution. Its founder, Dr Thomas Lumsden, encouraged landowners to remobilise their traditional function as generous hosts for the ‘nerve

38 39

The Times, 9 November 1917. Ibid., 5 June 1917 and 21 July 1917.

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wrecked’ casualty of the battlefield recovering from war neuroses. He noted, ‘I earnestly hope all concerned will help us raise from our English gardens a harvest of health, as well as flowers and fruit.’40 In gardens and parkland palliative places of self-repair were constructed for nerveshattered men. This initiative drew heavily on the rural imagery of defending home as cottages, gardens and fields. Aristocratic and gentry patronage was remobilised to meet the needs of war worn soldiers, even if the Duke of Marlborough drew attention to the impact of high taxation on estate finances and the limits of country house hospitality.41 In August 1917 the Duke of Sutherland concluded negotiations with the Scottish Board of Agriculture for a farm near Lairg to become 20–25 small-holdings for men returning from the war. Initiatives by the British Red Cross Society also located care, work and accommodation for ‘war-shaken’ men in the countryside who were unable to cope with the stress of town life. These initiatives used the countryside as a sheltering ‘bridge’ to useful work and self-sufficiency. The moral codes and charitable largesse of the estate village had a continuing utility in the care of the wounded, as if a tranquil organic landscape in close proximity to nature might facilitate recovery from machine-age war. How grimly ironic therefore to note in the same year substantial advances in the mechanisation of English farming practice and the emergence of ‘farm soldiers’ as the fields became another site of uniformed total war work. By 1917 the economic conditions for scenic timeless England, underpinned by stable food prices were more propitious. However, barely mechanised ‘south country’ representations of going ‘afoot’ in pre-industrial, picturesque and sparsely populated England remained necessary ingredients for understanding war aims. For example the images presented in the golden remembrancer volume The Old Country. A Book of Love and Praise of England published in 1917 by the YMCA.42 The same interplay of social integration, economic dependence, scenic living and aristocratic munificence was apparent in the Shrivenham Settlement Scheme in Berkshire. Lady Barrington’s scheme provided, to use the full name of the charity, Village Homes (and employment)

Ibid., 20 May 1919. Ibid., 31 August 1917. 42 E. Rhys, ed., (1917) The Old Country: A Book of Love and Praise of England (London: 1917); A. Howkins, A., ‘The Discovery of Rural England’, in R. Colls and P. Dodd, eds., Englishness: Politics and Culture 1880 –1920 (London: 1986), p. 80. 40 41

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for Disabled Sailors and Soldiers. She noted, ‘for the severely wounded, the cheerful cottages with bright outlook over the bowling green, cricket and recreation ground must appear as havens of rest after the painful experiences and awful sights of those months or years of service at the Front’.43 The Village homes were semi-detached cottages with large gardens, planted with fruit trees, with a carpentry bench in each shed. They clustered around the village green, where men might watch games in semi-retirement amid the beauty aesthetic of medieval ‘Merrie England’. This model response to bringing the disabled soldier home enjoined other counties to do likewise. Lady Barrington energetically remobilised voluntary effort using comforting village imagery for the protection of disabled men, whose future prospects would not be determined by the norms of labour supply and demand. The metaphor of an estate, or ‘close’ village was supposed to keep modernity at bay, as a site of solace and sanctuary and without myriad social encounters in factory conditions. Yet the countryside had such a dearth of adult male labour that it was repopulated in 1917 by numerous quasi-military organisations of men and women. Their appearance in the countryside, clad in corduroy trousers, wielding industrial tools and organised along Fordist lines was shocking; rural quietude was supposed to provide curative processes in idealised villages.44 More generally, the land beckoned to discharged soldiers and sailors. In a return on the aspirations of men in the British armies in France on demobilisation 17,000 of 97,000 returns at the front wanted a life on the land in Britain or the Dominions; ‘They wanted to dig their own trenches, but on small holdings.’45 The Rev. Andrew Clark recorded a conversation with a civil servant in Felstead, Essex, ‘He said that the soldiers met on leave all say that when the war is over they will seek some very quiet occupation, such as minding pigs.’46 In the years 1914–16 visitors to English villages from urban war centres sometimes wondered if the ‘country round’ had changed at all.

43 C. Barrington, Through Eighty Years (1855–1935) (London: John Murray, 1936), p. 215. 44 Stuart Sillars, Art and Survival in First World War Britain (London: Macmillan, 1987), pp. 138, 144. 45 E. B. Strutt, L. Scott, and G. H. Roberts, British Agriculture The Nation’s Opportunity. Being the Minority Report of the Departmental Committee on the Employment of Sailors and Soldiers on the Land (London: 1917), pp. 8, 41. 46 Munson, Echoes, p. 189; Philip Gibbs, Since Then (London: William Heinemann, 1931, 3rd edn.), p. 242.

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When advocates of ‘all out’ war demanded National Organisation in 1915 the countryside was peripheral. On receiving the freedom of the City of London, in the presence of fellow members of the Gardener’s Company, Rowland Prothero asserted the new realisation of 1917; a ‘man who wielded a spade or drove a plough played just as essential a part in winning the war as the man who shouldered a rifle’.47 As inducements to break up old grasslands were contemplated in 1917, interest was reawakened in the relationship of farming and national defence in war. In short, on the relationship between ploughing and eventual victory, facilitated by stable prices for cereals, recognising the indispensable role of farmers and agricultural labourers, and symbolised by the wearing of purple ribbons as a sign of economy and frugality. Throughout 1917 the language of voluntarism, obligation, exemplary action and local variation often forestalled compulsion ‘from above’. Explanatory and sometimes discursive modes accompanied appeals for local action as the government and individual landowners debated where competence lay in this most ‘civilianised’ of all war industries. In yet another sector of the war economy a hesitant and always incremental transition to the fuller mobilisation of manpower and material resources ensued. Yet again essential war work was redefined as ‘farm soldiers’ became the latest expression of the constantly evolving manpower question. Unforeseen labour and output priorities placed emphasis on the contribution of land workers to the war effort in ways unimaginable two years before and provided further demonstrations of the attachments to locality and place that persisted deep into a machine age war. Amid a world struggle for food production in a globalising war, signified by the plotting of convoy routes at the Admiralty after May 1917, war came to the fields. Expressions of localism, voluntarism, timeless continuities and customary practices intermingled with macro political and economic planning for food security as a precondition of peace and prosperity. The adaptive, tentative and consensual efforts to instigate changes in ploughing policy and practice were necessary in a contested terrain. Deep into the war oppositional notions of the warlike and tranquil, modern and traditional, democratic and inegalitarian, artificial and natural positioned the rural, the field worker and the seasons as the ‘other’, separate from, and antidotal to, the remorseless attritional

47

The Times, 4 July 1917.

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and industrialised machine killing of the Great War. However, in 1917 tractors and agricultural implements became accoutrements of national defence and ‘farm soldiers’ were deployed as adaptable labour in total war. In the third and fourth years of the war preparation for the ‘end game’ had brought a truly mobilised home front into being.

INDEX Albertini, Luigi 25 Allenby, Edward xvi–xvii, 113, 115–18, 121–28 Armstrong, Ruth 164 Arras ix, 19, 116 Arz von Straussenberg, Arthur 16 Athens xv Aylmer, F. J. 136 Bacon, Reginald 68 Badoglio, Pietro 29–30, 34 Baghdad xvi, 147–48 Bakhirev, Rear Admiral 109–10 Baku 115, 126 Balfour, Arthur xvii, 55–56, 61, 126 Barrington, Lady 173–74 Basra 134–35, 146, 151, 153 Beatty, David 47, 49, 51, 54–58, 60–65, 67–68, 70 Behnke, Paul 103, 109 Below, Otto von 33 Benedict XV, Pope 42 Berlin xii, 7, 69 Bethmann-Hollweg, Theobald von xvi, xviii, 8, 16, 20 Blunt, W. S. 168–69 Bonar Law, Andrew 126 Booth, Major 136 Brooking, General 145 Brusilov, Alexei 1, 6–7, 9 Buchanan, George 62 Budapest 3, 21 Burián, István 5, 7, 17 Cadorna, Luigi 26–31, 35, 39, 41, 44 Calder, N. K. 64 Cambrai x, 131 Capello, Luigi 28–30, 38–39 Caporetto x, 20, 25–46 Carver, Clifford 81–82 Cavaciocchi, Alberto 29, 36, 39–40 Chatfield, Ernle 51 Churchill, Winston 68, 126 Clark, Andrew 174 Clausewitz, Karl von 131 Clemenceau, Georges xv, 13, 23 Colvile, Stanley 81–82

Conrad von Hötzendorf, Franz 3–14, 16, 20–23 Constantine, King xv Cowan, Walter 67 Czernin, Ottokar 17

1,

Dago 97, 106–07, 110 Dardanelles xi, 21, 108, 111, 121 Delmain, W. S. 146 Della Noce, Giuseppe 35 Delmé-Redcliffe, Brigadier 31 Derby, Lord 126, 169 Devonport, Lord 161 Diaz, Armando 45 Douglas, General 151 Dreyer, Frederick 51 Duff, Beauchamp 155 Erzberger, Mathias xiii Esher, Lord 117 Etna, Donato 38 Evans, Captain 83–84 Falkenhayn, Erich von 3–9, 11–12, 21–22 Fellowes, Ailwyn 168 Fisher, John 61 Foch, Ferdinand 43–44 Fowler, R. H. 166 Franz Ferdinand, Archduke 1 Franz Joseph, Emperor xv, 10, 12–14 French, John 120–21 Gallipoli xi, 121 Garforth, Captain 81 Gatti, Angelo 26, 44–45 Gaza 119, 124–25, 127–28 Geddes, Eric 62, 66, 68 George V, King xv Gorringe, G. F. 149 Goschen, Lord 168 Haig, Douglas 117–18, 120, 128 Hankey, Maurice 117, 119 Haus, Anton 16 Heinrich, Commodore 107 Heligoland 59, 66

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Helphand, Alexander 19 Helsingfors xi, 100 Henderson, Arthur xiv Hill, Robert 56 Hindenburg, Paul von xvi, 1, 8–11, 13–16, 18–20, 22 Holtzendorff, Henning von 16 Hutier, Oskar von 102 Ingleby, Percy 63 Ishii, Kikujiro xvii Isonzo x, 5, 9, 20 Jackson, Henry 55–56 Thomas 51–52 Jellicoe, John 17, 49–57, 61, 64, 68 Jerusalem xvi, 116, 121–25, 128 Jutland ix–x, 1, 8, 15, 47–56, 111 Karl, Emperor xv, 6, 8, 12–14, 16–17, 20, 22–23 Kathen, General von 102 Kerensky, Alexander 18, 62, 111 Keyes, Roger 58 Kitchener, Herbert 53–54, 170 Kobis, Albin 101 Koerber, Ernst von 13 Krauss, Alfred 33 Kut 135–36, 140, 147–48, 150, 152, 156 Lamb, D. O. W. 154 Lansdowne, Lord xiv Lansing, Robert xvii Larking, Dennis 49 Lawrence, T. E. xvii Lee, Arthur 165, 167 Lenin, Vladmir xiii, 1, 18–19 Libau 102, 104 Linsingen, Alexander von 6 Li Yuan-hung xvii Lloyd George, David xiv–xvi, 44, 68, 113–24, 126–29, 159, 165, 169 London xiv, 118–19, 155 Long, Walter 169, 172 Ludendorff, Erich xvi, 1, 8–11, 13, 15–16, 18–19, 22, 127 Lumsden, Thomas 172 Luxemburg, Rosa xvi Lynden-Bell, Major General 120 Mackensen, August von 4–5, 12 Madden, Charles 56 Marlborough, Duke of 173

Maude, F. S. xvi, 144 Megiddo 122 Meinertzhagen, Richard 127 Messines x, 117 Michaelis, Georg xvi Milner, Alfred 120, 163, 170 Moltke, Helmuth von 1, 3 Montuori, General 38 Moon 97, 99–100, 104, 106–07, 109–10 Moss, T. 141, 155 Murray, Archibald 127–28 Lord 117 Nasiriya 135, 137, 149 Nepenin, A. J. 101 Nicholas II, Tsar 18 Nivelle, Robert ix–x, 117 Nixon, John 148–50 Njegovan, Maximilian 16 Northcliffe, Lord 68 Nunn, W. 149 Orah 138–39, 154 Orlando, Vittorio xv, 13 Ormsby Gore, W. 119 Osel 97, 104, 106 Passchendaele ix–xi, 117 Petrograd xiv, 19, 97, 111 Piave 26–27, 45 Pisano, Francesco 36 Plenty, G. J. 64 Pless 14, 16 Porteous, Robert 73 Prothero, Roland 165, 175 Ransome, E. C. 166 Rapallo 44–45 Reichpietsch, Max 101 Reval xi, 111 Rice, Brigadier-General 137 Riddell, Lord 159 Riga x, 33, 97, 99–111 Risby, Joe 164 Robertson, William 43–44, 113–16, 118, 120–24, 126–27 Rodman, Hugh 65 Rommel, Erwin 33, 36, 39 Rosyth 47, 54 Roughton, F. A. G. 140–41 Salonika 119, 122 Saunders, Robert 163–64

index Scapa Flow 47, 53, 62–65, 70 Scheer, Reinhard 8, 15, 48–49, 53–55, 101 Schmidt, Ehrhard 99, 102–05 Seeckt, Hans von 8–9 Selborne, Lord 172 Shipley, Dr 164–65 Sixtus, Prince xv, 20, 23 Skipwith, Captain 81 Smuts, Jan xiv, 115–16 Somme ix, 1, 8, 131 Souchon, Wilhelm 103 Stileman, Rear Admiral 80, 84 Storrs, Reginald 127 Stürgkh, Karl 13 Sutherland, Duke of 173 Sykes, Mark xvii, 118 Tarnów-Gorlice 4, 12, 19 Tennyson-d’Eyncourt, Eustace 51 Thomson, W. M. 153 Tisza, Count xv Toogood, Rev. 167 Townshend, Charles 135–37, 150, 152 Trentino 27, 29

179

Treves, Claudio 42 Trieste 5, 9 Trotsky, Leon 19, 22 Tuan Chi-jui xvii Tucher, Heinrich von 11 Turin xii, 42 Tyrol 1, 5–7, 13, 16 Venizelos, Eleutherios xv Verdun ix, 1, 4–6, 8–9, 131 Vienna 3, 11, 14, 19, 21 Weizmann, Chaim 119 Wilhelm II, Kaiser xvi, 8–10, 13, 16, 20, 48–49 Wilkins, Lieutenant 139 Wilson, Henry 120 John 162 Winterfeld, Captain von 106–07, 111 Wintle, E. de V. 153 Ypres

ix, 118, 169

Zimmerman, Arthur

19

History of Warfare History of Warfare presents the latest research on all aspects of military history. Publications in the series will examine technology, strategy, logistics, and economic and social developments related to warfare in Europe, Asia, and the Middle East from ancient times until the early nineteenth century. The series will accept monographs, collections of essays, conference proceedings, and translation of military texts.

1. Hoeven, M. van der (ed.). Exercise of Arms. Warfare in the Netherlands, 15681648. 1997. ISBN 90 04 10727 4 2. Raudzens, G. (ed.). Technology, Disease and Colonial Conquests, Sixteenth to Eighteenth Centuries. Essays Reappraising the Guns and Germs Theories. 2001. ISBN 90 04 11745 8 3. Lenihan P. (ed.). Conquest and Resistance. War in Seventeenth-Century Ireland. 2001. ISBN 90 04 11743 1 4. Nicholson, H. Love, War and the Grail. 2001. ISBN 90 04 12014 9 5. Birkenmeier, J.W. The Development of the Komnenian Army: 1081-1180. 2002. ISBN 90 04 11710 5 6. Murdoch, S. (ed.). Scotland and the Thirty Years’ War, 1618-1648. 2001. ISBN 90 04 12086 6 7. Tuyll van Serooskerken, H.P. van. The Netherlands and World War I. Espionage, Diplomacy and Survival. 2001. ISBN 90 04 12243 5 8. DeVries, K. A Cumulative Bibliography of Medieval Military History and Technology. 2002. ISBN 90 04 12227 3 9. Cuneo, P. (ed.). Artful Armies, Beautiful Battles. Art and Warfare in Early Modern Europe. 2002. ISBN 90 04 11588 9 10. Kunzle, D. From Criminal to Courtier. The Soldier in Netherlandish Art 15501672. 2002. ISBN 90 04 12369 5 11. Trim, D.J.B. (ed.). The Chivalric Ethos and the Development of Military Professionalism. 2003. ISBN 90 04 12095 5 12. Willliams, A. The Knight and the Blast Furnace. A History of the Metallurgy of Armour in the Middle Ages & the Early Modern Period. 2003. ISBN 90 04 12498 5 13. Kagay, D.J. & L.J.A. Villalon (eds.). Crusaders, Condottieri, and Cannon. Medieval Warfare in Societies Around the Mediterranean. 2002. ISBN 90 04 12553 1 14. Lohr, E. & M. Poe (eds.). The Military and Society in Russia: 1450-1917. 2002. ISBN 90 04 12273 7 15. Murdoch, S. & A. Mackillop (eds.). Fighting for Identity. Scottish Military Experience c. 1550-1900. 2002. ISBN 90 04 12823 9 16. Hacker, B.C. World Military History Bibliography. Premodern and Nonwestern Military Institutions and Warfare. 2003. ISBN 90 04 12997 9 17. Mackillop, A. & S. Murdoch (eds.). Military Governors and Imperial Frontiers c. 1600-1800. A Study of Scotland and Empires. 2003. ISBN 90 04 12970 7

18. Satterfield, G. Princes, Posts and Partisans. The Army of Louis XIV and Partisan Warfare in the Netherlands (1673-1678). 2003. ISBN 90 04 13176 0 20. Macleod, J. & P. Purseigle (eds.). Uncovered Fields. Perspectives in First World War Studies. 2004. ISBN 90 04 13264 3 21. Worthington, D. Scots in the Habsburg Service, 1618-1648. 2004. ISBN 90 04 13575 8 22. Griffin, M. Regulating Religion and Morality in the King’s Armies, 1639-1646. 2004. ISBN 90 04 13170 1 23. Sicking, L. Neptune and the Netherlands. State, Economy, and War at Sea in the Renaissance. 2004. ISBN 90 04 13850 1 24. Glozier, M. Scottish Soldiers in France in the Reign of the Sun King. Nursery for Men of Honour. 2004. ISBN 90 04 13865 X 25. Villalon, L.J.A. & D.J. Kagay (eds.). The Hundred Years War. A Wider Focus. 2005. ISBN 90 04 13969 9 26. DeVries, K. A Cumulative Bibliography of Medieval Military History and Technology, Update 2004. 2005. ISBN 90 04 14040 9 27. Hacker, B.C. World Military History Annotated Bibliography. Premodern and Nonwestern Military Institutions (Works Published before 1967). 2005. ISBN 90 04 14071 9 28. Walton, S.A. (ed.). Instrumental in War. Science, Research, and Instruments. Between Knowledge and the World. 2005. ISBN 90 04 14281 9 29. Steinberg, J.W., B.W. Menning, D. Schimmelpenninck van der Oye, D. Wolff & S. Yokote (eds.). The Russo-Japanese War in Global Perspective. World War Zero, Volume I. 2005. ISBN 90 04 14284 3 30. Purseigle, P. (ed.). Warfare and Belligerence. Perspectives in First World War Studies. 2005. ISBN 90 04 14352 1 31. Waldman, J. Hafted Weapons in Medieval and Renaissance Europe. The Evolution of European Staff Weapons between 1200 and 1650. 2005. ISBN 90 04 14409 9 32. Speelman, P.J. (ed.). War, Society and Enlightenment. The Works of General Lloyd. 2005. ISBN 90 04 14410 2 33. Wright, D.C. From War to Diplomatic Parity in Eleventh-Century China. Sung’s Foreign Relations with Kitan Liao. 2005. ISBN 90 04 14456 0 34. Trim, D.J.B. & M.C. Fissel (eds.). Amphibious Warfare 1000-1700. Commerce, State Formation and European Expansion. 2006. ISBN 90 04 13244 9 35. Kennedy, H. (ed.). Muslim Military Architecture in Greater Syria. From the Coming of Islam to the Ottoman Period. 2006. ISBN 90 04 14713 6 36. Haldon, J.F. (ed.). General Issues in the Study of Medieval Logistics. Sources, Problems and Methodologies. 2006. ISBN 90 04 14769 1 37. Christie, N. & M. Yazigi (eds.). Noble Ideals and Bloody Realities. Warfare in the Middle Ages. 2006. ISBN 90 04 15024 2 38. Shaw, C. (ed.). Italy and the European Powers. The Impact of War, 1500–1530. 2006. ISBN-13 978 90 04 15163 5, ISBN-10 90 04 15163 X 39. Biggs, D. Three Armies in Britain. The Irish Campaign of Richard II and the Usurpation of Henry IV, 1397-99. 2006. ISBN-13 978 90 04 15215 1, ISBN-10 90 04 15215 6

40. Wolff, D., Marks, S.G., Menning, B.W., Schimmelpenninck van der Oye, D., Steinberg, J.W. & S. Yokote (eds.). The Russo-Japanese War in Global Perspective. World War Zero, Volume II. 2007. ISBN-13 978 90 04 15416 2, ISBN-10 90 04 15416 7 41. Ostwald, J. Vauban under Siege. Engineering Efficiency and Martial Vigor in the War of the Spanish Succession. 2007. ISBN-13 978 90 04 15489 6, ISBN-10 90 04 15489 2 42. MCCullough, R.L. Coercion, Conversion and Counterinsurgency in Louis XIV’s France. 2007. ISBN 978 90 04 15661 6 43. Røksund, A. The Jeune École. The Strategy of the Weak. 2007. ISBN 978 90 04 15723 1 44. Hosler, J.D. Henry II. A Medieval Soldier at War, 1147-1189. 2007. ISBN 978 90 04 15724 8 45. Hoyos, D. Truceless War. Carthage’s Fight for Survival, 241 to 237 BC. 2007. ISBN 978 90 04 16076 7 46. DeVries, K. A Cumulative Bibliography of Medieval Military History and Technology, Update 2003-2006. 2008. ISBN 978 90 04 16445 1 47. France, J. (ed.). Mercenaries and Paid Men. The Mercenary Identity in the Middle Ages. 2008. ISBN 978 90 04 16447 5 48. Meyer, J. (ed.). British Popular Culture and the First World War. 2008. ISBN 978 90 04 16658 5 49. Jones, H., J. O’Brien & C. Schmidt-Supprian (eds.). Untold War. New Perspectives in First World War Studies. 2008. ISBN 978 90 04 16659 2 50. Burgtorf, J. The Central Convent of Hospitallers and Templars. History, Organization, and Personnel (1099/1120-1310). 2008. ISBN 978 90 04 16660 8 51. Villalon, A.L.J. & D.J. Kagay (eds.). The Hundred Years War (Part II). Different Vistas. 2008. ISBN 978 90 04 16821 3 52. González de León, F. The Road to Rocroi. Class, Culture and Command in the Spanish Army of Flanders, 1567-1659. 2009. ISBN 978 90 04 17082 7 53. Lawrence, D.R. The Complete Soldier. Military Books and Military Culture in Early Stuart England, 1603-1645. 2009. ISBN 978 90 04 17079 7 54. Beckett, I.F.W. 1917: Beyond the Western Front. 2009. ISBN 978 90 04 17139 8 ISSN 1385–7827