Уильямс Джон. Ефрейтор Гитлер и Великая война 1914-1918

Подождите немного. Документ загружается.

CANNON FODDER

with the troops digging in as they went. By October, the opposing forces were

seeking to consolidate themselves in trenches that would soon zigzag all the way

from the Franco-Swiss border to Nieuport on the English Channel. For all but

the cavalry, the idea of a ‘Race to the Sea’ depends on hindsight. Infantrymen,

alternatively fighting, digging or labouring, had little sense of taking part in a war

of movement. With censorship now in place for the duration, the ‘Race’ was

presented as a confusing series of unrelated battles hundreds of miles apart; in

which the Germans were capturing more than their share of high ground and

prime sites.

‘Antwerp has fallen’, the

Figaro

noted, almost in passing, on 11 October. The

fall of Lille, a few days later, was treated even more off-handedly. The French

communiqué of 14 October, at the bottom of a column headlined ‘Noteworthy

Progress’, did its best to disguise a devastating blow to the French Army’s morale

and a critical strike at France’s economy.

On our left wing, our forces resumed the offensive in the regions of

Hazebrouck and Béthune against enemy elements for the most part

composed of cavalry coming from the Front Bailleul-Estaires-La

Bassée.

The city of Lille, held by a territorial detachment, was attacked and

occupied by a German Army corps.

The capture of such a prize, following so close on the heels of Antwerp, brought

celebration and a resurgence of optimism in Germany. Under banner headlines,

German papers carried the news that ‘Lille has been occupied by us, four thousand

five hundred prisoners have been taken’, as well as the untrue claim that the city

‘suffered no damage from its capture by our troops’.

Meanwhile, in the real war on the Western Front, the forces on both sides were

settling in for a war in which the French Army, then 15 times larger than the British

Expeditionary Force (BEF), would be Germany’s principal enemy until 1917.

Despite this, in the propaganda war within a war, Germany’s civilians and soldiers

were asked to find exceptional reserves of hatred not for France but for England

and all England stood for. Hatred yes, but not contempt, for the English racial

cousins were also to be feared and treated as especially dangerous. As fellow

Teutons, their blood heritage suggested they could be the most redoubtable and

inventive of enemies. But only if they cared to see the war out, for there were

signs – according to German newspapers – that venal English businessmen were

losing interest and that the British public was becoming disillusioned by the

unscrupulousness of their statesmen.

The London public, whose political education has been enriched by the

consideration of war as a commercial undertaking [is] peeved. War

news is failing to materialize, there is no news at all, and thus a lack of

CANNON FODDER

all assets on which the London businessman would be able to stake his

self-interest.

By now, no one was writing as though the war would be over by Christmas.

With nothing of value issuing from OHL, German papers had to take the line that

it was ‘inappropriate at the moment’ to say other ‘than that our prospects are good’.

In fact, the Marne and Aisne had left German strategy in tatters, even if the army

was enjoying some spectacular successes. Near Lille the Germans had ‘gone over

to the offensive’ and thrown ‘the enemy back in many positions. Some two thousand

Englishmen were taken prisoner and many machineguns captured.’ Some of the

first shots in what was soon called ‘the greatest battle in the world’ had already

been fired; a battle that would be called Langemarck by the Germans and First

Ypres by the British. Ypres (Ypern or Ieper), an ancient Flemish weaving town,

was a British-held obstacle blocking the German path to the channel ports. As the

Times

observed, the coming ‘attack in the north is for the moment Germany’s last

effort in the West’. If Calais, Boulogne and Dunkirk were captured, the Germans

would have a military and naval presence 25 miles from Dover. How then could

the British maintain an expeditionary force of at least a million men in France

and Belgium? Could England itself face invasion? Then, as in 1940–41, British

fear of a cross-Channel German landing was tangible, but its difficulties were

underestimated. ‘Now that the war is reaching the climax of its violence’, the

Times

warned, the British must face the prospect of the landing of ‘an expedition in

England for the purpose of compelling us to sign a disastrous peace’.

On 8 October, the men of the List Regiment, enjoying their dinner of roast pork

and potato salad, were in no doubt as to what this sudden burst of largesse

implied. Where at the Front they might finish – or even which Front – no one,

including their officers, knew. Few men had fired more than a magazine of

bullets; they had been issued with rifles only a few days before. It was now that

Mend first became aware of Hitler. He claimed to be immediately struck ‘by his

energetic look and special character’ and took him for ‘an academic, of whom

there were so many in the “List” Regiment’. Yet he also sensed something odd:

‘I saw him for the second time on another day, as he pottered about with his rifle.

He regarded it with the delight of a woman with her jewellery, while I secretly

laughed to myself.’

On Saturday, 10 October, the men marched out of Munich’s Lechfeld barracks

for the last time. The marching columns ‘passed along the Landsbergerstrasse in

the direction of Pasing’ accompanied by ‘cheers and garlands of flowers from the

people of Munich...Waves and farewells, a handshake and last embrace, flags

waved and flowers thrown from windows and balconies – and between times

tears, tears and more tears’. More than tears flowed that day. Hitler complained

of being on his feet ‘from 6.30 a.m. until 5 p.m....all in pouring rain’. There was

no let-up. Shortly after daybreak, the men were ‘on the move again, all of us

dog-tired’, and spent the night under open skies, in the ‘freezing cold’. On Monday,

CANNON FODDER

12 October, they marched through a prisoner-of-war camp housing French

‘shock troops captured at the beginning of the campaign’. ‘They all gaped at us’,

Hitler wrote. ‘Dead tired though we were we marched past them smartly. They

were the first French I ever saw.’ A further week of ‘night marches of up to

42 kilometres [was] followed by brigade manoeuvres’ in the Bavarian countryside

until finally, on the night of 20–21 October, the men entrained. ‘We are going on

a 4 days train journey’, Hitler wrote, ‘probably to Belgium. I am tremendously

excited.’

Mend, Hitler and Franz Rubenhauer – an officer who later provided much of

the material for the regimental official history – described the train journey north

in similar terms. At each stop as they crawled through Bavaria, they were met by

cheering crowds, waving the black and yellow flag of Munich, the white and blue

flag of Bavaria, and the black, white and red flag of the German Empire. A few

spectators squeezed onto the train, draping soldiers ‘with garlands of flowers’. Even

when they left Bavaria the popular enthusiasm continued. Stations all along the

route were filled with people, who ‘shouted hearty farewell greetings and best

wishes’: some even sought to press ‘handfuls of money onto the soldiers’. Thirty

years later Hitler still remembered the impression made by the sight of the Rhine

and the welcome by the people.

I saw the Rhine for the first time in 1914, when I was on my way to the

Western Front. The feelings which the sight of this historic stream inspired

in me remain forever graven on my heart. The kindness and spontaneity

of the Rhinelanders also made a profound impression on me; everywhere

they received us and fêted us in a most touching manner.

One midnight in late October, they passed over the Rhine bridge near Mainz. On

the train ‘all the windows suddenly opened, and while waving the national cloths

and flags, from the depths of a thousand young throats there roared as a rushing

stream: ‘«

Lieb Vaterland magst ruhig sein, fest steht und treu die Wacht am

Rhein

!»’. As they crossed the German frontier, the expressions on ‘the faces of

the Belgian people’ were all Mend needed to realize that ‘we were now in an

enemy land’. There were other, more tangible, signs of their entry into a war

zone. ‘Before and around Liège the first traces of war became evident, burnt-out

houses, torn-up roads, trees shot through.’ Hitler, the ‘poor observer’, seemed

oblivious to the plight of the Belgian people and unmoved by the destruction

around him.

[We] crossed into Belgium at 10 p.m. As we left Aachen, we were given

an enthusiastic send off by thousands of people, and much the same

thing happened throughout our journey. At 9 a.m., we arrived at Liège.

The railway station was badly damaged. The traffic was tremendous.

Army transport only, of course. At midnight, we arrived at Louvain. The

whole town is a heap of rubble.

CANNON FODDER

The ‘heap of rubble’ in question had recently been one of the finest and most

beautiful of Europe’s university towns. And then, after four days of confinement

in cattle wagons, the troops at last reached Brussels. Here they hoped to stretch

out and grab some much-needed rest in the primitive huts awaiting them. Their

officers told them that in the morning they would be departing for a period of

training and orientation, learning the Western Front ropes in backwaters or on the

sea coast near Ostend. To the surprise of officers and men alike, they were

immediately ordered to entrain. They now knew where they were going, ‘in the

direction of Lille!’ With that news, wrote Rubenhauer, ‘came new perspectives,

which were all called “Ypres!”’

On the morning of 23 October between 7 and 9 o’clock, our troops

arrived in Lille...There had been lengthy delays. For long hours the

trains stood immobile at open stretches, then crawled forward from

station to station at a snail’s pace of 8 kilometres per hour.

After a few hours as Lille approached, unbroken cannon-fire was

heard, in the Westerly direction of Armentières fliers were seen circling

in the brightly illuminated evening sky – one already felt the vicinity of

the Front.

Hitler described the journey as going ‘fairly well and peacefully’ until Tournai.

Then there was ‘nothing but trouble. In some places, the rails had been prized

loose despite the closest watch.’ Elsewhere they were delayed by ‘blown-up

bridges and smashed railway engines. Although our train was moving at a snail’s

pace, we kept grinding to a halt more and more often. From these stops, we could

hear the monotonous roar of our heavy mortars.’

After a 61-hour crawl across Belgium, the division – ‘burning with impa-

tience to get to the Front’ – finally arrived at Lille, where it was incorporated as

part of Sixth Army Reserve and placed on alert. The men were granted three

days leave, time for opinions to be formed on this first encounter with occupied

France. Reminders of the war were omnipresent; ‘in Lille the roar of cannon

seemed to be endless’, Hitler wrote. After just a few hours, his francophobia

and preoccupation with cleanliness doubtless coloured the observation that

Lille was a ‘typical French town’ (despite never having seen one) which was

‘all dirty if you scratch under the surface’. It was not to be compared with prim

and proper German towns, as he was reminded ‘time and again’. Befitting a city

that had recently been subjected to artillery bombardment, Lille was under-

standably ‘dirty’ and littered with the detritus of war. Here and there ruined

streetcars ‘that must have been shot up before the occupation could be seen still

smoldering, being now no more than heaps of rubbish’. At this time, Mend claims

to have further satisfied his curiosity about Hitler, in whom he saw the reincarna-

tion of a

Landsknecht

(mercenary soldier of the Sixteenth to Seventeenth centuries):

‘As an active server’, he wrote, ‘I recognized the born soldier in him straight

away.’ As did another NCO, who had known Hitler rather longer.

CANNON FODDER

‘Yes, I know him well, he is actually an Austrian and a fine chap . . .’,

and to my question why an Austrian was serving with a Bavarian regi-

ment, he gave me this answer: ‘As far as I know, he must have reported

to the Austrian consulate on mobilization, but at the same time he went

to King Ludwig; the King gave him his personal permission to serve in

a Bavarian regiment.’

As for the inhabitants, Rubenhauer thought them ‘shy’ at first, but ‘increas-

ingly friendly and [making] no secret of their surprise that our soldiers always

conducted themselves impeccably’. He found ‘absolutely no hostility, they were

rather well disposed’. Mend too found ‘that there was absolutely no hostility’,

particularly not among ‘the beautiful young ladies of Lille [who] especially

understood [how] to flirt with German boys’. When he asked the ‘daughter of

a burgher of Lille why she was not angry with the German soldiers, she gave me

the answer: ‘

J’aime bien les soldats allemans

[

sic

Vous savez Monsieur, dans

l’amour il y a pas patrie

.’ (I like German soldiers very much. You know sir, in

love there is no motherland.) Indeed, if the Bavarians are to be believed, they

were greeted – if not exactly with open arms – with friendliness and hospitality. ‘It

was surprising’, one Lister wrote, ‘especially in the coffee-houses, how quickly

a bond was struck between the upper Bavarians and the French – especially if one

could “talk” with his hands.’

French ‘cafetiers’ seemed to be especially able mind readers, for they

always placed, wholly on their own initiative, something drinkable on

the table as soon as a group of soldiers arrived. For the most part they

did the right thing in respect of the drinks supplied and in a similarly

matter-of-fact manner with the bill. Only when it came to food did

the Frenchmen have difficulties...For the most part – because there

wasn’t any.

Not all of their time was spent drinking or carousing. The troops had barely

settled in when they were ordered to make themselves ready and assemble with

other Bavarian troops in the

Place de Concert

for an honour parade. Taking the

salute would be the Bavarian king, Ludwig III, while leading the march past

would be his son, Rupprecht, the Bavarian crown prince and commander-in-chief

of the (German) Sixth Army.

The king is coming and at his side his son, the glorious victor of Metz.

The royal greeting is answered with a ‘Good morning Your Majesty’.

Father and son inspect the serried ranks; the band plays the Bavarian

royal hymn. Certainly for all present an unforgettable moment! . . .

The troops assemble and the Crown Prince leads the brave Bavarians

in parade-step past his father . . .

CANNON FODDER

Even the French follow the marching troops with admiring glances –

certainly the people of Lille are ahead of the Parisians, for they know

that the reports in French journals about barbarian hordes are miserable

lies.

The men from Munich were in no doubt now that theirs would be a brutal initiation

into Western Front fighting. The rumble of heavy guns and flashes on the horizon

at night were from 20 miles away, at Ypres, where a battle was under way, which

newspapers described as a ‘fight for life and death’ for the German people. ‘On

the 27th at 1 a.m.’, Hitler wrote, ‘the alarm was sounded, at 2 a.m. all of us

marched out’. The regiment mustered in the

Place de Concert

, where an ‘Order

by the Bavarian crown prince against the Englishman’ was read out.

We have now the fortune to have the Englishmen on our front, the

troops of that people whose antagonism has been at work for so many

years in order to surround us with a ring of enemies and strangle us. We

have to thank them above all for this bloody, terrible war...[When] you

meet up with this enemy, [show] them that the Germans cannot be

swept so lightly from world history, show them through German blows

of a quite special kind. Here is the enemy who stands most in the way of

the restoration of peace. Onwards! Onwards!

An exhausting 25-mile march carrying full pack and equipment followed, during

which the sounds of the big guns of Ypres grew louder and were joined, towards

the end of the march, by the clatter of small arms. They spent that night in reserve

and the next day marched to the Front.

WEST FLANDERS 1914

Impossible they say? – Nothing is impossible! We are soldiers and

must be able to die! . . .

– 54th Reserve Division Goc, 30 October 1914

The English are already surrounded on three sides; we’ll now close

off the fourth, and with that the war will be over!

– Major Herrgott, 6th BRD Staff, 30 October 1914

Since it lasted a month, the battle (or more properly ‘campaign’) known to the

British as First Ypres and to the Germans, misleadingly and for publicity reasons,

as Langemarck seems more like a logical, if scaled-down, forerunner of the great

attritional Western Front campaigns of 1916–17 than does any of the classic

two-day battles of the Napoleonic era. Yet for those accustomed to reading of

the Western Front battles of 1916 and 1917, the first battle for Ypres is scarcely

recognizable as a Great War battle at all. In the first place, it was no slugfest

dominated by artillery with attacking troops constantly thrown at near impregnable

position. The trenches of 1914 were hastily constructed, largely improvised and

puny compared with post-1915 structures, and often changed hands in the fighting.

As for the artillery, both sides were hamstrung by a shortage of still-serviceable

guns and stockpiles of shells that were almost exhausted. In fact, First Ypres was

the final act of the war of movement of 1914, forming, in the words of the British

official history, ‘the continuation and final phase of the “Race to the Sea”’, a race

in which ‘the Allies “were always twenty-four hours and an army corps behind

the enemy”’.

While neither side could honestly claim victory from First Ypres, this did not

stop either from claiming one. Since both sides went into the fighting with

aggressive intentions, this fact alone further demarcates it from the ghastly

attritional campaigns of the middle period of the war. In these, as is only too

well known, one side invariably sought, either by design or by compromise

once hopes of a breakthrough were abandoned, to ‘wear down’ the other by

attacking his strongpoints. That this only succeeded in wearing out the attacking

WEST FLANDERS 1914

forces at a greater rate than it did the defenders is what gives the war on the

Western Front its most ghastly and pointless character. Yet hindsight was not

available to the men of 1914 or their commanders. Then the war was still being

fought with the aim of a decisive breakthrough. In the case of the Allies, an

advance eastward from Ypres was planned with the aim of splitting the German

forces. Once this was accomplished, the French and British armies were to

wheel south-east, force a crossing at the Lys, attack the retreating German

flanks and in general, render the German position in Flanders so untenable as to

force them to evacuate Lille and the Belgium Channel ports. Nothing like this

happened, but the German plan was also over-ambitious and probably just as

unachievable.

A claim by Robin Neillands that the German commander, Erich von Falkenhayn,

was seeking to ‘attempt a re-run of the Schlieffen Plan’ is not sustainable.

Falkenhayn was fully aware of his lack of resources and the questionable quality

of the human material available to him, and a rerun of the failed Schlieffen Plan

with a fraction of the resources was the last thing on his mind. However, he still

hoped that the war might be brought to a favourable conclusion with something

far less ambitious. Ypres was the clue – a town that the Germans had actually

entered in the first days of October. If he could recapture this ancient centre of

Flemish culture, German forces would be poised to threaten, and even capture,

one or more of the French Channel ports of Dunkirk, Boulogne and Calais,

leaving the BEF in an unsustainable situation. Like many Germans, Falkenhayn

thought that Britain’s heart was not in this war. Should the BEF’s lifeline in

France be threatened or blocked, he believed England would evacuate its army,

leaving Germany with a single, outnumbered and industrially inferior enemy in

Western Europe. It was a gamble, since Falkenhayn knew that in the vain drive to

capture Paris and knock France out of the war, the Germans had pushed their

regular troops and reserves to the limit. With the invasion force of August 1914

already an exhausted shadow of its former self, Falkenhayn placed his hopes in

troops which, according to the German official history, left ‘those responsible for

the training of the young reserve corps . . . filled with anxiety about their creation’.

Would they be equal to the frightful demands of perhaps a weeklong

fight against a battle-tested and brave enemy? Would their offensive

will for victory be taken away from them by the awesome effects of

modern weapons? This question, which for one and a half months

had been asked and decided in favour of the weapons, had here to find

a final and momentous reply.

In terms of actual military achievement, the reply to this would be in the negative.

These raw troops sometimes fought bravely and with fanatical self-sacrifice.

While it is true that their leaders were sometimes barely competent, this alone is

no cause for their ultimate failure. Time after time these

Kriegsfreiwillige

(war

volunteers) showed themselves to be deficient in battlefield know-how and

WEST FLANDERS 1914

possessed of a near suicidal willingness to put their lives, uselessly, in jeopardy.

In the end, the main contribution of the reservists killed and maimed in the

so-called

Kindermord

(murder of the innocents) of 1914 was the media-inspired

legend, or myth, of Langemarck – a battle that had actually been fought in the

earlier phase of First Ypres and by regular troops at that. The reservists had been

cut down in their masses in fighting three weeks after the real battle of Langemarck.

But myth and legend hardly depend on accurate dates.

First Ypres was in two parts, punctuated by a brief pause during which the antagonists

regrouped. It might be likened to the final two rounds of a prizefight between two

evenly matched, battered, but still resilient boxers. In the penultimate round both

were able to deliver heavy punishment without forcing a decisive points break-

through. All hinged therefore on the last round, with each seeking at least a points

victory or even a decisive knockout. With the List Regiment still involved in

training exercises in Bavaria, the Flanders campaign of 1914 began on 12 October

1914, with a British advance ‘between La Bassée and Armentières’. Aimed towards

Ypres (which had been in German hands since 3 October), this was ‘quickly

checked by the Bavarians, who in turn were stopped by superior British rifle,

machine-gun, and artillery fire’. The subsequent lull in operations was broken by

a German infantry attack, with spasmodic artillery support, near Langemarck on

20–21 October. This was repulsed. On 23 October, ‘after two days of hand-to-hand

fighting’, 1,500 German bodies ‘were counted on the battlefield’.

A German communiqué of 22 October had noted how ‘in the direction of

Ypres our troops advanced successfully’: in ‘very bitter’ fighting, the enemy was

‘falling back slowly across the whole front’. This impression was reinforced by

a communiqué on 23 October describing

all

German attacks west of Lille as

‘successful’. ‘We are in occupation of more districts. On the rest of the Western

Front, quietness reigns.’ The men of the List Regiment may have been lulled into

a sense of security by such comments. Even so, as they trudged towards Ypres,

some must also have wondered about their lack of training, the fact that many had

fired only a few practice rounds, and that the regiment was led by inexperienced

and mostly over-age officers. Falkenhayn, their commander-in-chief, while praising

their ‘incomparable enthusiasm and unexcelled heroism’, well understood their

inadequacies.

The disadvantages of their urgent and hasty formation and training, and

the fact that they were led by older and for the most part retired officers,

as others were not to be had, naturally made themselves felt. In particular

there were deficiencies in the new field-artillery formations, a fact that

was emphasized all the more strongly by the shortage of ammunition.

Nor was the leadership entirely satisfactory.

Falkenhayn was here describing the patchy state of the German Army a bare two

months into the First World War. If Germany had all but won the war as the

WEST FLANDERS 1914

propaganda proclaimed, why were the services of such troops needed? In reality,

as Robert B. Asprey notes, Falkenhayn had ‘inherited a hideous situation’ from

the broken man he had just replaced at the head of OHL, General Count Helmut

von Moltke (the younger). The Marne had been a ‘disaster for German arms’ but

its secret was so well kept that leading members of the Reichstag were unaware

of it. Even Bernhardi knew ‘nothing of the importance of the Marne battle’, only

that ‘a few units had to fall back to reorganize’. He concluded, ‘nothing from the

reports and grew all the more confident as the magnificent achievements in the

East surmounted all our expectations’. If Bernhardi was in the dark, how much

could the man in street or the ordinary soldier have known? The official line was

that the Marne was a German victory. Contrary reports were described as

‘seditious propaganda’. In order to hide the true situation, OHL refused to total

casualty figures and posted only ones specific to towns and villages. Nevertheless,

those near the Front or tending the wounded knew that hospitals in Germany and

the occupied lands were filled with the wounded. Soldiers near the Front had also

seen how their ‘dead covered the fields of France’ and knew that ‘tons of materiel

and guns had been lost’.

In October 1914, Falkenhayn was at the head of a depleted German Army.

Because of the swift advance in August and ‘the many fierce battles’ fought,

reinforcements ‘could not arrive quickly enough. There was everywhere a shortage

of junior officers in their ranks that could not be immediately filled.’

Matériel

was urgently in need of replenishment. The spectre of the

shortage of munitions was already apparent...The Ministry of War had

done everything possible during the last years before the war, according

to the views current at that time, to meet the demands of the General

Staff. Consumption, however, exceeded peacetime estimates many

times over, and was on the increase.

Although Germany’s enemies were also depleted, their combined industrial

superiority augured better for their chances of making up for

matériel

losses. As

for manpower, the situation was more complex. Germany was now paying for

the decisions to conscript only half of those eligible for service in peacetime and

for having rushed freshly mobilized trained reservists into battle in the first

weeks of the war. OHL’s fear of polluting their army with Socialists from

among the ranks of the urban proletariat was not echoed in France, which

conscripted some 80 per cent of its eligible young men. Thus, despite a population

exceeding France’s by some 60 per cent, at the start of war Germany mustered

a trained army (regular and reservist) hardly greater than that of a neighbour that

did not have to fight a war on two fronts and could count on the support of 12

Belgian and British divisions. The Schlieffen-based decision to commit reserves

at the start

might

have been the masterstroke that knocked France out of the war

in six weeks. Instead, it became a high-risk gamble that failed due to misreadings

of the battlefield situation, the tiredness of the men, the resourcefulness and