29 June 1906, Skierniewice
Sergeant Kreisky hit the dirt before the sound consciously registered. It was one of the things you learned in a hurry. Everyone who was left of the Kocziuszko Brigade had acquired the facility to instinctively gauge by ear whether an incoming artillery round was headed for them, or elsewhere. This one sounded – strange. Scrambling to a crouching position behind the improvised berm, the sergeant looked up towards the forward position where the Jews were building one of their funny contraptions.
The Jews had been one of the big surprises in this war. They seemed to be everywhere on this front, and like the Koczuiszko volunteers, they kept better discipline than most National Army units. Not that that was saying much, he admitted to himself. Keeping a few hundred Chicago Polacks in line was beyond the capacity of mere mortals. But they fought harder and smarter than many of the men he had seen during his extended holiday. And so did the kikes, he had to give them that. Always tinkering with captured equipment or broken guns, too. Right now, while he wasn't entirely sure what they were trying to do, scuttlebutt had it they would poison the Russians. Or at least, that was what they had been doing before the shell burst on top of their trench. On top! Damn, that wasn't supposed to be possible! .
More rounds came in with the same kind of howling sound, and right on, they burst between their positions. A rifle pit behind a berm of fir trunks took a direct hit. Kreisky swallowed as he saw pieces of wood and flesh flying through the air. They were not supposed to be able to do that! He almost caught himself whining that it wasn't fair, but of course he had learned that “fair” didn't exactly apply here. Kreisky might not have the stomach for viciousness other rebels had, but after he had seen the things hanging from trees that had been comrades, he had embraced the unofficial motto of the Jewish Brigade: No Cossack Left Alive. If the Russians had found a new way of making their lives miserable, well, they'd need to find a counter. And quick.
Then, as though the gunners had been playing around for the opening minute or two, the rain of shells thickened. Earth and debris fell on his as he tried to hug as closely to the ground as humanly possible. It seemed an eternity before he dared look out again. The shells were still falling, though not as fiercely any more. A few of the forward firing positions had been hit. One went up in a huge burst of whitish-green smoke that fountained skyward. And then – oh. fuck – there were the Russians. Kreisky levelled his rifle and began firing, but the erratic bursts of shellfire made him return to cover. The bastards had learned, too. No longer advancing in line, lying down and jumping up on command, they loped forward crouched, in small clumps. Under normal circumstances it would still have been suicidal, but a look over his shoulder told the sergeant, these were not normal circumstances. Few of the defenders were firing. The machine gun position on the hill was silent. Now, fighters from the forward line were running to the back, heedless of the risk of shell bursts. Some were wearing cotton gauze bandages on their faces, or the silly-looking Draeger breathing machines they had come with.
Kreisky remembered that he had responsibilities. He stood up and began looking around for his men. Nobody within sight. One of the fleeing figures brushed past, shouting something incomprehensible in a panicked voice. The sergeant's feet began running of their own accord. Later, he recalled with some pride that he still clutched his Mauser rifle. The last picture he saw looking back was the shell-pocked field and the cloud of white smoke now enveloping their forward trenches, and an irresistible wave of Russian infantry heading towards them.
The first line of skirmishers was running flat out now. Lieutenant Karpov could see enemy troops running, throwing away their rifles and packs. Almost nobody was shooting at them any more. He drew his revolver and shouted encouragement to his men who were now getting up from the dirt, breaking into a triumphant run bayonets levelled, only occasionally pausing to shoot. The high-angle artillery fire had worked. What a trick! The colonel said that the Japanese had still fought creditably after being subjected to this kind of shooting, but the Polish rebels – well, they weren't soldiers. His body singing with excitement, Karpov fired his revolver at the enemy and was gratified to see a man fall. Then, the world turned into a nightmare. Ahead of him, soldiers were coughing, retching and clawing at their eyes. The smoke drifting over the field from the burning trenches – only, it was not smoke. It was some kind of hellish fume that crept along the ground to envelop line after line of troops, cutting off the advance guard. Karpov tried to shout, but as he breathed in, he was racked by a coughing fit that left him stumbling. His eyes were burning, his lungs were on fire, and every breath he took made the pain worse. Terrified, he tried to turn and run, but could not see the direction he had come in. the sheath of his sabre tangled between his legs, and Lieutenant Karpov fell to the ground, coughing and gasping with ever weakening breaths.
“Clever.”, Captain Poniatovsky remarked. Sergeant Kreisky spat out in affirmation. The fierce burning sensation in his throat and eyes was slowly abating, but he didn't trust his voice completely yet. Chlorine was awful stuff. Of course they had gone through it after it had dispersed, finishing off the Russian wounded and collecting prisoners. Kreisky did not see the point of prisoners, but the captain had insisted. The Russians had had a trick of their own, as he now saw. Men from the Lodz battalion were manhandling field guns from deep pits into which their tails had been sunk to point the barrel upwards. That was how they had done it! With a sinking sensation in his stomach, Kreisky realised that they could not get horses to move across the chlorine-saturated fields between their position and the abandoned Russian battery. That meant the precious captured guns had to be dragged by – infantrymen. And weren't they just lucky.
29 June 1906, Warsaw
Marching through the city felt surreal. The broad boulevards seemed bare, their trees gone – in many places, even the stumps had been dug out. On the sidewalks, a seemingly limitless army of gaunt, hollow-eyed beggars cheered riotously. Flowers rained down on the column of the 58th infantry all the way from the train station to the bivouac site. The voices merged into an almost continuous roar of joy and relief. Feldwebel Halltauer looked around at the crowds: old men, women, children, most of them dressed shabbily and looking hungry – no, starving. He had seen hungry looks and shabby dress. This was worse. And there were so many of them – the city seemed crowded far beyond its capacity. Even along the main streets, he could see shanties and improvised homes made in warehouses, offices and government buildings.
A young woman ran from the crowd to drape a wreath of flowers over Halltauer's rifle and press a kiss on his lips. She said something – no doubt something patriotic and heartfelt, though the sergeant could not understand enough Polish to make it out. Some of the men laughed.
“Eyes forward!” Halltauer bristled. “Silence in the ranks!” They obeyed commendably swiftly, for reservists. He would have to watch them in the coming days, though. There were too many young women around, and the expressions on their faces, their hunger, fierce joy and desperate gratitude indicated that there would be trouble. He hoped the officers would get the troops to the front quickly.
29 June 1906, Moscow
Emperor Nicholas rolled up the last of his maps and handed them to his aide. General Sukhomlinov had given him a most satisfying report of his armies' progress. The victories had been stunning. Königsberg was now fully invested, with no sign of effective German resistance. The Army of the Niemen was moving into Masuren meeting almost no enemy forces. Meanwhile, the Army of the Bug had met the Austrians in battle and been victorious, moving onto Przemysl, while troops from Wolhynia were moving on Lemberg. The Serbs would put additional pressure on the Austrians' ability to resist the attack, and the Germans were still in chaos. The inability of young Wilhelm to provide proper leadership was striking. An alliance of a boy and a decrepit old man, that was what he was facing! And soon, the world would understand that fact and France would join the attack.
Minister Goremykin entered, summoned by an imperial page. This was another advantage of the Kremlin, Nicholas thought: Everybody was close at hand. You had all the ministers within the grounds and no need to send gallopers through the streets every time you wanted to speak with one. The old Czars had been on to something, and Peter had been a fool to give it up. Even the rooms here were more fit to the dignity of a czar – a little father, close to his subjects, not remote in mirrored halls, but surrounded by them. Goremykin bowed deeply, with visible effort. Nicholas rose to help him up. “Come, my friend.”, he said graciously, “Be seated. I wish to discuss our diplomatic efforts with you.”
The first minister bowed his head respectfully. “Sire, the time is well chosen.”, he said. “Germany is struggling, Austria is fighting for her life, and Serbia and Montenegro have gallantly joined our cause. Now, you can make peace with honour.”
“Indeed.” The Czar nodded contentedly. “I will ask you to approach the governments in Vienna and Berlin with our terms. Leniency, of course. As we said, this is not a war we are fighting to gain German land, but in the cause of our Slavic brothers and the honour of Russia. Eastern Galicia to Russia, and Bosnia and Herzegovina to be a separate state under a Serbian prince. We want nothing but honourable treatment from Germany, no territory. Maybe the Memel strip, but even that would be symbolic more than anything.”
Goremykin's face fell. “Your Majesty!”, he said, careful to modulate his voice to indicate surprise rather than the terror he felt. “These are harsh terms. I do not think Berlin will agree to them. Vienna certainly cannot.”
Nicholas shook his head quietly, as though explaining patiently to a child: “Of course they can. The terms are better than anything they will get once the French join the war. Better than what they would have to agree to once we hold these lands. Austria-Hungary will break apart under the strain, and they know. The Hungarians will not expend blood and treasure to defend Austrian interest. And Germany has a French bayonet at the back of her neck. Berlin will readily ensure safety for herself by abandoning a useless ally.”
“A white peace, Your Majesty, would surely be acceptable.” the first minister tried one final time. “The Serbs can be rewarded at a different time. The Bosnian question could be settled at a conference...”
Nicholas interrupted him with a gesture. “Oh, I am sick of conferences. Dubrovin was right. The only thing the Western powers understand is might. There is no point in trying to talk nicely to them. My commanders have requested permission to attack the enemy wherever they find him weak, and I have given it. I was a fool to constrain them into a limited plan. Oh, we did not know our power. Send this message. Goremykin. If they will not have these terms, they must take harsher ones when we have demonstrated our might in full.”
29 June 1906, Schouwen
They could still see the fires and flashes out at sea. Black smears of smoke showed harshly against the red light of dusk. Captain Gerard Oosterhuis looked out over the darkening water tiredly.
“We need to go back out.” he said, his voice toneless. On the beach below the lighthouse, sailors huddled under blankets, wet, cold and miserable. Some of them were injured - he had tried to look away from the terrible wreckage that scalding steam and shell fragments could make of human flesh. But even the uninjured ones were beaten, tired, freezing, beyond exhausted. And they, of course, had been lucky.
Out on the western shore of Schouwen, they had been able to see the battle unfold in the late afternoon hours, on the approach to Rotterdam. Some folk had come from Vlissingen to watch. Oosterhuis' son had even made a tidy sum renting out his father's telescope. From all accounts – the captain had not watched – Russian cruisers had attacked the convoy from the north. The confrontation had lacked finesse, he had overheard some disappointed connoisseurs saying. The Germans had positioned themselves before the merchant ships and concentrated their fire on the attackers to shield their charges, while the Russians had bulled through, trying to do as much damage to the convoy as they could before it reached the safety of Dutch waters and the Rhine estuary. When the shells crashed into the freighters, Oosterhuis had called on his neighbours and taken their fishing boats out to sea to pick up survivors.
“All right, captain.” He hadn't been speaking to him in particular, but Willem van Kol took it upon himself to answer. Technically, he wasn't his subordinate. Willem owned his own fishing boat, and Oosterhuis was not much active at sea any more. But everyone in the village deferred to 'the captain'. “Let's go, then. It's getting dark.”
In the distance, a golden-red column of fire rose. The sound did not reach them for many seconds. Van Kol took off his cap and crossed himself. “Poor bastards.” he muttered. “At least it was over quickly.”
Oosterhuis strained to locate the explosion. “We won't have a chance to get to them.” he concluded, sadly. “Must have been a warship. Probably Russian.” He hoped, at least, that it was Russian. His personal sympathies aside, shelling merchant sailors on unarmed ships stuck in his craw. Many of his men felt likewise. They had cheered the first blasts of the German cruisers' guns, and doubly so after news reached them that a boat of theirs had gone down rescuing survivors. The men who had died in that explosion would have much explaining to do to their Creator.
Van Kok waved to his men and headed down to the jetty. Almost mechanically, Oosterhuis followed. A woman pressed a mug of hot tea into his hands along the route, for which he was profoundly grateful. As they stepped on to the wooden deck of the fishing boat and set the mainsail, each one felt the exhaustion in his bones. One more trip would be possible before nightfall. After that – the sea would wash ashore anyone not lucky enough to be picked up. He would have to keep his son away from the beach for a few days.
30 June 1906, Berlin
“We have it, Sire!” Von Neurath was beaming. His behaviour might not be all that would be expected of a junior member of the diplomatic service when coming face to face with his emperor, but in view of the news he carried, that could be forgiven. Tension visibly fell from Wilhelm's body as he heard the words. General von der Goltz sighed with relief. Chancellor von Gerlach let out a long breath. Then, the emperor pulled himself upright in his chair and gestured impatiently. “Well, man, don't stand there. Sit down, tell us the details. What do the French get?”
Legation Secretary von Neurath stepped forward uncertainly. This was decidedly not what he had been trained for. Sometimes, though, you had to take the plunge. His sergeant had told him back in his days as a one-year volunteer: when in doubt, go forward. He sat down opposite his emperor and opened his mouth.
“Erm... Secretary von Bülow has ... Your Majesty, I am charged with...”
Wilhelm interrupted him: “Do we keep Metz?”
The young diplomat looked shocked. “Of course, Your Majesty. The instructions regarding territorial concessions were clear. The French never mentioned Moresnet again, and Alsace-Lorraine was not subject to negotiation at all.”
Von der Goltz stifled a grin and muttered: “See, you can speak in whole sentences if you try.”
The emperor shot him an angry glance. He wasn't above intimidating guests, but he didn't like others doing it for him. “So”, he asked, “what are the details of the deal?”
Von Neurath had visibly thawed. He began explaining fluently: “I am sure Your Majesty has already been apprised of the broad outline. The key part is an understanding that Germany will not pursue any territorial interests of its own in Morocco or support other powers in pursuing them. That means Spain, basically. In return, France will assume a firm neutrality in our conflict with Russia.”
“And gobble up Morocco.”, Wilhelm remarked. “Nice pay for doing nothing!”
“Yes, Your Majesty. I'm afraid that is the projected outcome. However,” the courier continued, “there is the matter of assurances. That was the greatest sticking point. The agreement stipulates that France will demobilise over the course of the next three weeks, beginning at noon, on the second of July. We will withdraw our own forces from the western border in turn, also beginning on that day. By the fifteenth. both powers will have withdrawn their troops from within one hundred kilometres of the border, barring small details to maintain fortresses.”
Von der Goltz looked up. “All forces? 100 kilometres will leave Alsace-Lorraine defenseless. All our fortifications are rendered useless. If France attacks, they could go all the way to the Rhine with just a division or two.”
“Believe me, general, they fear the same thing. Bear in minds, our army will remain mobilised. In the end, we found a formula everyone could agree on, though it is going to be hard for everyone to swallow. Both sides will appoint members of a military commission – I have the details here, including lists of the number of officers, rank and seniority, vehicles to be provided and so forth. The members of this commission will have the authority to inspect fortifications, barracks and depots within 150km of the border, and within 50 kilometres of the Belgian border as well. Always officers of equal rank, German and French.”
“Why would we want to inspect the Belgian border?”, Wilhelm asked.
“We do not, Your Majesty. Though we will, now. The French do, however. They are concerned that an invasion through Belgium would still be possible.”
Wilhelm nodded. It was how diplomacy worked: The French wanted a concession from Germany, so they had to make that concession in return, whether it made sense or not. Europe could be a lot like a playground.
“The other matter concerns their Italian frontier. Italy's territorial claims in Liguria worry Paris. An agreement was reached, however, in which the Italian government will declare a friendly neutrality towards Germany and Austria-Hungary in this war. This will, of course, be done in response to a request by Your Majesty to that end. Honour will be served, and Italy will have done us a greater service than her troops could have done in a war against France.”
Von Gerlach tilted his head. “And what do the Italians get? Other than staying out of the war, of course.”
The diplomat smiled. “The French are operating on the assumption that we want the Italians as our allies, and that they are eager to join us, so they regard this as a great concession. Hence the touchy point of a formal request. In return, they will recognise Italy's claims in Libya.”
Wilhelm sucked his teeth. With a frown, General von der Goltz said: “The sultan won't like that.”
“I'm afraid it would be unavoidable, sooner or later.”, Chancellor von Gerlach pointed out. “And with French and British recognition, we will not have to take a stance on the matter. The Italians have been pushing us for a while now.”
The emperor nodded again. “All right. It's a dirty thing to do, but I don't see how else we can get out of it. The Turks can't defend it, anyway. Anything else?”
Legation Secretary von Neurath shuffled through his notes. “Nothing of major import, though there are some points... the French government insists that German naval forces will at all times respect the neutrality of French shipping in international waters. And they want access to our trade. Basically, an assurance that we will not abrogate existing economic agreements due to wartime measures.”
“I assume someone has done the maths?”, Wilhelm asked.
“I was assured this will be possible, Sire.”, von Neurath answered. “In fact, given the amount of iron ore imported, it may be beneficial.”
“All right. What is the catch?”
Von Neurath looked puzzled. Wilhelm rephrased his question. “There must be something there that sends it all back to the drawing board.
“Well”, the diplomat explained, “Prime Minister Clemenceau insisted that the published version of the agreement must state unambiguously that it was reached in response to a German request. That was a point he would not budge on.”
The emperor smiled. “The wonders of French politics, I guess. We might as well agree, since it's true. And then?”
“Lavassor gets handed over, Your Majesty.” Von Neurath looked worried. This was the part to which he found it impossible to anticipate his emperor's response. Wilhelm's face clouded.
“Released?”, he asked.
“No, Sire. A release is not possible after he was found legally insane. Initially, the French demanded an imperial pardon, but under the circumstances... and it would be illegal, anyway. You cannot pardon asylum inmates.”
“Now I am curious what solution von Bülow came up with.”, Chancellor von Gerlach stated, his eyes twinkling. A lawyer by training, he relished creative reasoning.
Von Neurath cleared his throat nervously. “According to the agreement, Monsieur Lavassor is to be remanded to the custody of the French government for transfer to an appropriate institution of mental health on compassionate grounds. Apparently, his family has petitioned the government intercede on their behalf since they cannot afford to travel to Germany, and the food and climate disagree with him.”
Von der Goltz chuckled coldly. That could have come from IIIb. The emperor rose from his chair, steadying himself on his desk with one hand, and smiled brightly. “Secretary von Neurath”, he said in a formal tone, “thank you. This is the best news I have had in a long time, and it is doubly welcome in dark times. Please, return to Paris as quickly as you can. I am sure your train will be accommodated along the routes easily. Instructions to that end will be sent. We will telegraph ahead, of course, but you may carry the agreement signed by my hand, in case any uncertainty remains in Paris. And when you arrive, you may tell von Bülow from me that today is the day that he has won this war for us.”
He turned to the chancellor. “This leaves just one question, then. Red or black.”
“Black.”, Von Gerlach said decisively. “I do not think anything less will do.”
Wilhelm beamed agreement. “Yes, of course. The order of the black eagle. That's what it was created for. And now, gentlemen:” He took up his pen and signed the agreement that von Neurath held out to him. Then, he scribbled off a few lines to von Bülow and laid the paper on top of the pile. “I believe we could use some champagne. French.”
Sergeant Kreisky hit the dirt before the sound consciously registered. It was one of the things you learned in a hurry. Everyone who was left of the Kocziuszko Brigade had acquired the facility to instinctively gauge by ear whether an incoming artillery round was headed for them, or elsewhere. This one sounded – strange. Scrambling to a crouching position behind the improvised berm, the sergeant looked up towards the forward position where the Jews were building one of their funny contraptions.
The Jews had been one of the big surprises in this war. They seemed to be everywhere on this front, and like the Koczuiszko volunteers, they kept better discipline than most National Army units. Not that that was saying much, he admitted to himself. Keeping a few hundred Chicago Polacks in line was beyond the capacity of mere mortals. But they fought harder and smarter than many of the men he had seen during his extended holiday. And so did the kikes, he had to give them that. Always tinkering with captured equipment or broken guns, too. Right now, while he wasn't entirely sure what they were trying to do, scuttlebutt had it they would poison the Russians. Or at least, that was what they had been doing before the shell burst on top of their trench. On top! Damn, that wasn't supposed to be possible! .
More rounds came in with the same kind of howling sound, and right on, they burst between their positions. A rifle pit behind a berm of fir trunks took a direct hit. Kreisky swallowed as he saw pieces of wood and flesh flying through the air. They were not supposed to be able to do that! He almost caught himself whining that it wasn't fair, but of course he had learned that “fair” didn't exactly apply here. Kreisky might not have the stomach for viciousness other rebels had, but after he had seen the things hanging from trees that had been comrades, he had embraced the unofficial motto of the Jewish Brigade: No Cossack Left Alive. If the Russians had found a new way of making their lives miserable, well, they'd need to find a counter. And quick.
Then, as though the gunners had been playing around for the opening minute or two, the rain of shells thickened. Earth and debris fell on his as he tried to hug as closely to the ground as humanly possible. It seemed an eternity before he dared look out again. The shells were still falling, though not as fiercely any more. A few of the forward firing positions had been hit. One went up in a huge burst of whitish-green smoke that fountained skyward. And then – oh. fuck – there were the Russians. Kreisky levelled his rifle and began firing, but the erratic bursts of shellfire made him return to cover. The bastards had learned, too. No longer advancing in line, lying down and jumping up on command, they loped forward crouched, in small clumps. Under normal circumstances it would still have been suicidal, but a look over his shoulder told the sergeant, these were not normal circumstances. Few of the defenders were firing. The machine gun position on the hill was silent. Now, fighters from the forward line were running to the back, heedless of the risk of shell bursts. Some were wearing cotton gauze bandages on their faces, or the silly-looking Draeger breathing machines they had come with.
Kreisky remembered that he had responsibilities. He stood up and began looking around for his men. Nobody within sight. One of the fleeing figures brushed past, shouting something incomprehensible in a panicked voice. The sergeant's feet began running of their own accord. Later, he recalled with some pride that he still clutched his Mauser rifle. The last picture he saw looking back was the shell-pocked field and the cloud of white smoke now enveloping their forward trenches, and an irresistible wave of Russian infantry heading towards them.
The first line of skirmishers was running flat out now. Lieutenant Karpov could see enemy troops running, throwing away their rifles and packs. Almost nobody was shooting at them any more. He drew his revolver and shouted encouragement to his men who were now getting up from the dirt, breaking into a triumphant run bayonets levelled, only occasionally pausing to shoot. The high-angle artillery fire had worked. What a trick! The colonel said that the Japanese had still fought creditably after being subjected to this kind of shooting, but the Polish rebels – well, they weren't soldiers. His body singing with excitement, Karpov fired his revolver at the enemy and was gratified to see a man fall. Then, the world turned into a nightmare. Ahead of him, soldiers were coughing, retching and clawing at their eyes. The smoke drifting over the field from the burning trenches – only, it was not smoke. It was some kind of hellish fume that crept along the ground to envelop line after line of troops, cutting off the advance guard. Karpov tried to shout, but as he breathed in, he was racked by a coughing fit that left him stumbling. His eyes were burning, his lungs were on fire, and every breath he took made the pain worse. Terrified, he tried to turn and run, but could not see the direction he had come in. the sheath of his sabre tangled between his legs, and Lieutenant Karpov fell to the ground, coughing and gasping with ever weakening breaths.
“Clever.”, Captain Poniatovsky remarked. Sergeant Kreisky spat out in affirmation. The fierce burning sensation in his throat and eyes was slowly abating, but he didn't trust his voice completely yet. Chlorine was awful stuff. Of course they had gone through it after it had dispersed, finishing off the Russian wounded and collecting prisoners. Kreisky did not see the point of prisoners, but the captain had insisted. The Russians had had a trick of their own, as he now saw. Men from the Lodz battalion were manhandling field guns from deep pits into which their tails had been sunk to point the barrel upwards. That was how they had done it! With a sinking sensation in his stomach, Kreisky realised that they could not get horses to move across the chlorine-saturated fields between their position and the abandoned Russian battery. That meant the precious captured guns had to be dragged by – infantrymen. And weren't they just lucky.
29 June 1906, Warsaw
Marching through the city felt surreal. The broad boulevards seemed bare, their trees gone – in many places, even the stumps had been dug out. On the sidewalks, a seemingly limitless army of gaunt, hollow-eyed beggars cheered riotously. Flowers rained down on the column of the 58th infantry all the way from the train station to the bivouac site. The voices merged into an almost continuous roar of joy and relief. Feldwebel Halltauer looked around at the crowds: old men, women, children, most of them dressed shabbily and looking hungry – no, starving. He had seen hungry looks and shabby dress. This was worse. And there were so many of them – the city seemed crowded far beyond its capacity. Even along the main streets, he could see shanties and improvised homes made in warehouses, offices and government buildings.
A young woman ran from the crowd to drape a wreath of flowers over Halltauer's rifle and press a kiss on his lips. She said something – no doubt something patriotic and heartfelt, though the sergeant could not understand enough Polish to make it out. Some of the men laughed.
“Eyes forward!” Halltauer bristled. “Silence in the ranks!” They obeyed commendably swiftly, for reservists. He would have to watch them in the coming days, though. There were too many young women around, and the expressions on their faces, their hunger, fierce joy and desperate gratitude indicated that there would be trouble. He hoped the officers would get the troops to the front quickly.
29 June 1906, Moscow
Emperor Nicholas rolled up the last of his maps and handed them to his aide. General Sukhomlinov had given him a most satisfying report of his armies' progress. The victories had been stunning. Königsberg was now fully invested, with no sign of effective German resistance. The Army of the Niemen was moving into Masuren meeting almost no enemy forces. Meanwhile, the Army of the Bug had met the Austrians in battle and been victorious, moving onto Przemysl, while troops from Wolhynia were moving on Lemberg. The Serbs would put additional pressure on the Austrians' ability to resist the attack, and the Germans were still in chaos. The inability of young Wilhelm to provide proper leadership was striking. An alliance of a boy and a decrepit old man, that was what he was facing! And soon, the world would understand that fact and France would join the attack.
Minister Goremykin entered, summoned by an imperial page. This was another advantage of the Kremlin, Nicholas thought: Everybody was close at hand. You had all the ministers within the grounds and no need to send gallopers through the streets every time you wanted to speak with one. The old Czars had been on to something, and Peter had been a fool to give it up. Even the rooms here were more fit to the dignity of a czar – a little father, close to his subjects, not remote in mirrored halls, but surrounded by them. Goremykin bowed deeply, with visible effort. Nicholas rose to help him up. “Come, my friend.”, he said graciously, “Be seated. I wish to discuss our diplomatic efforts with you.”
The first minister bowed his head respectfully. “Sire, the time is well chosen.”, he said. “Germany is struggling, Austria is fighting for her life, and Serbia and Montenegro have gallantly joined our cause. Now, you can make peace with honour.”
“Indeed.” The Czar nodded contentedly. “I will ask you to approach the governments in Vienna and Berlin with our terms. Leniency, of course. As we said, this is not a war we are fighting to gain German land, but in the cause of our Slavic brothers and the honour of Russia. Eastern Galicia to Russia, and Bosnia and Herzegovina to be a separate state under a Serbian prince. We want nothing but honourable treatment from Germany, no territory. Maybe the Memel strip, but even that would be symbolic more than anything.”
Goremykin's face fell. “Your Majesty!”, he said, careful to modulate his voice to indicate surprise rather than the terror he felt. “These are harsh terms. I do not think Berlin will agree to them. Vienna certainly cannot.”
Nicholas shook his head quietly, as though explaining patiently to a child: “Of course they can. The terms are better than anything they will get once the French join the war. Better than what they would have to agree to once we hold these lands. Austria-Hungary will break apart under the strain, and they know. The Hungarians will not expend blood and treasure to defend Austrian interest. And Germany has a French bayonet at the back of her neck. Berlin will readily ensure safety for herself by abandoning a useless ally.”
“A white peace, Your Majesty, would surely be acceptable.” the first minister tried one final time. “The Serbs can be rewarded at a different time. The Bosnian question could be settled at a conference...”
Nicholas interrupted him with a gesture. “Oh, I am sick of conferences. Dubrovin was right. The only thing the Western powers understand is might. There is no point in trying to talk nicely to them. My commanders have requested permission to attack the enemy wherever they find him weak, and I have given it. I was a fool to constrain them into a limited plan. Oh, we did not know our power. Send this message. Goremykin. If they will not have these terms, they must take harsher ones when we have demonstrated our might in full.”
29 June 1906, Schouwen
They could still see the fires and flashes out at sea. Black smears of smoke showed harshly against the red light of dusk. Captain Gerard Oosterhuis looked out over the darkening water tiredly.
“We need to go back out.” he said, his voice toneless. On the beach below the lighthouse, sailors huddled under blankets, wet, cold and miserable. Some of them were injured - he had tried to look away from the terrible wreckage that scalding steam and shell fragments could make of human flesh. But even the uninjured ones were beaten, tired, freezing, beyond exhausted. And they, of course, had been lucky.
Out on the western shore of Schouwen, they had been able to see the battle unfold in the late afternoon hours, on the approach to Rotterdam. Some folk had come from Vlissingen to watch. Oosterhuis' son had even made a tidy sum renting out his father's telescope. From all accounts – the captain had not watched – Russian cruisers had attacked the convoy from the north. The confrontation had lacked finesse, he had overheard some disappointed connoisseurs saying. The Germans had positioned themselves before the merchant ships and concentrated their fire on the attackers to shield their charges, while the Russians had bulled through, trying to do as much damage to the convoy as they could before it reached the safety of Dutch waters and the Rhine estuary. When the shells crashed into the freighters, Oosterhuis had called on his neighbours and taken their fishing boats out to sea to pick up survivors.
“All right, captain.” He hadn't been speaking to him in particular, but Willem van Kol took it upon himself to answer. Technically, he wasn't his subordinate. Willem owned his own fishing boat, and Oosterhuis was not much active at sea any more. But everyone in the village deferred to 'the captain'. “Let's go, then. It's getting dark.”
In the distance, a golden-red column of fire rose. The sound did not reach them for many seconds. Van Kol took off his cap and crossed himself. “Poor bastards.” he muttered. “At least it was over quickly.”
Oosterhuis strained to locate the explosion. “We won't have a chance to get to them.” he concluded, sadly. “Must have been a warship. Probably Russian.” He hoped, at least, that it was Russian. His personal sympathies aside, shelling merchant sailors on unarmed ships stuck in his craw. Many of his men felt likewise. They had cheered the first blasts of the German cruisers' guns, and doubly so after news reached them that a boat of theirs had gone down rescuing survivors. The men who had died in that explosion would have much explaining to do to their Creator.
Van Kok waved to his men and headed down to the jetty. Almost mechanically, Oosterhuis followed. A woman pressed a mug of hot tea into his hands along the route, for which he was profoundly grateful. As they stepped on to the wooden deck of the fishing boat and set the mainsail, each one felt the exhaustion in his bones. One more trip would be possible before nightfall. After that – the sea would wash ashore anyone not lucky enough to be picked up. He would have to keep his son away from the beach for a few days.
30 June 1906, Berlin
“We have it, Sire!” Von Neurath was beaming. His behaviour might not be all that would be expected of a junior member of the diplomatic service when coming face to face with his emperor, but in view of the news he carried, that could be forgiven. Tension visibly fell from Wilhelm's body as he heard the words. General von der Goltz sighed with relief. Chancellor von Gerlach let out a long breath. Then, the emperor pulled himself upright in his chair and gestured impatiently. “Well, man, don't stand there. Sit down, tell us the details. What do the French get?”
Legation Secretary von Neurath stepped forward uncertainly. This was decidedly not what he had been trained for. Sometimes, though, you had to take the plunge. His sergeant had told him back in his days as a one-year volunteer: when in doubt, go forward. He sat down opposite his emperor and opened his mouth.
“Erm... Secretary von Bülow has ... Your Majesty, I am charged with...”
Wilhelm interrupted him: “Do we keep Metz?”
The young diplomat looked shocked. “Of course, Your Majesty. The instructions regarding territorial concessions were clear. The French never mentioned Moresnet again, and Alsace-Lorraine was not subject to negotiation at all.”
Von der Goltz stifled a grin and muttered: “See, you can speak in whole sentences if you try.”
The emperor shot him an angry glance. He wasn't above intimidating guests, but he didn't like others doing it for him. “So”, he asked, “what are the details of the deal?”
Von Neurath had visibly thawed. He began explaining fluently: “I am sure Your Majesty has already been apprised of the broad outline. The key part is an understanding that Germany will not pursue any territorial interests of its own in Morocco or support other powers in pursuing them. That means Spain, basically. In return, France will assume a firm neutrality in our conflict with Russia.”
“And gobble up Morocco.”, Wilhelm remarked. “Nice pay for doing nothing!”
“Yes, Your Majesty. I'm afraid that is the projected outcome. However,” the courier continued, “there is the matter of assurances. That was the greatest sticking point. The agreement stipulates that France will demobilise over the course of the next three weeks, beginning at noon, on the second of July. We will withdraw our own forces from the western border in turn, also beginning on that day. By the fifteenth. both powers will have withdrawn their troops from within one hundred kilometres of the border, barring small details to maintain fortresses.”
Von der Goltz looked up. “All forces? 100 kilometres will leave Alsace-Lorraine defenseless. All our fortifications are rendered useless. If France attacks, they could go all the way to the Rhine with just a division or two.”
“Believe me, general, they fear the same thing. Bear in minds, our army will remain mobilised. In the end, we found a formula everyone could agree on, though it is going to be hard for everyone to swallow. Both sides will appoint members of a military commission – I have the details here, including lists of the number of officers, rank and seniority, vehicles to be provided and so forth. The members of this commission will have the authority to inspect fortifications, barracks and depots within 150km of the border, and within 50 kilometres of the Belgian border as well. Always officers of equal rank, German and French.”
“Why would we want to inspect the Belgian border?”, Wilhelm asked.
“We do not, Your Majesty. Though we will, now. The French do, however. They are concerned that an invasion through Belgium would still be possible.”
Wilhelm nodded. It was how diplomacy worked: The French wanted a concession from Germany, so they had to make that concession in return, whether it made sense or not. Europe could be a lot like a playground.
“The other matter concerns their Italian frontier. Italy's territorial claims in Liguria worry Paris. An agreement was reached, however, in which the Italian government will declare a friendly neutrality towards Germany and Austria-Hungary in this war. This will, of course, be done in response to a request by Your Majesty to that end. Honour will be served, and Italy will have done us a greater service than her troops could have done in a war against France.”
Von Gerlach tilted his head. “And what do the Italians get? Other than staying out of the war, of course.”
The diplomat smiled. “The French are operating on the assumption that we want the Italians as our allies, and that they are eager to join us, so they regard this as a great concession. Hence the touchy point of a formal request. In return, they will recognise Italy's claims in Libya.”
Wilhelm sucked his teeth. With a frown, General von der Goltz said: “The sultan won't like that.”
“I'm afraid it would be unavoidable, sooner or later.”, Chancellor von Gerlach pointed out. “And with French and British recognition, we will not have to take a stance on the matter. The Italians have been pushing us for a while now.”
The emperor nodded again. “All right. It's a dirty thing to do, but I don't see how else we can get out of it. The Turks can't defend it, anyway. Anything else?”
Legation Secretary von Neurath shuffled through his notes. “Nothing of major import, though there are some points... the French government insists that German naval forces will at all times respect the neutrality of French shipping in international waters. And they want access to our trade. Basically, an assurance that we will not abrogate existing economic agreements due to wartime measures.”
“I assume someone has done the maths?”, Wilhelm asked.
“I was assured this will be possible, Sire.”, von Neurath answered. “In fact, given the amount of iron ore imported, it may be beneficial.”
“All right. What is the catch?”
Von Neurath looked puzzled. Wilhelm rephrased his question. “There must be something there that sends it all back to the drawing board.
“Well”, the diplomat explained, “Prime Minister Clemenceau insisted that the published version of the agreement must state unambiguously that it was reached in response to a German request. That was a point he would not budge on.”
The emperor smiled. “The wonders of French politics, I guess. We might as well agree, since it's true. And then?”
“Lavassor gets handed over, Your Majesty.” Von Neurath looked worried. This was the part to which he found it impossible to anticipate his emperor's response. Wilhelm's face clouded.
“Released?”, he asked.
“No, Sire. A release is not possible after he was found legally insane. Initially, the French demanded an imperial pardon, but under the circumstances... and it would be illegal, anyway. You cannot pardon asylum inmates.”
“Now I am curious what solution von Bülow came up with.”, Chancellor von Gerlach stated, his eyes twinkling. A lawyer by training, he relished creative reasoning.
Von Neurath cleared his throat nervously. “According to the agreement, Monsieur Lavassor is to be remanded to the custody of the French government for transfer to an appropriate institution of mental health on compassionate grounds. Apparently, his family has petitioned the government intercede on their behalf since they cannot afford to travel to Germany, and the food and climate disagree with him.”
Von der Goltz chuckled coldly. That could have come from IIIb. The emperor rose from his chair, steadying himself on his desk with one hand, and smiled brightly. “Secretary von Neurath”, he said in a formal tone, “thank you. This is the best news I have had in a long time, and it is doubly welcome in dark times. Please, return to Paris as quickly as you can. I am sure your train will be accommodated along the routes easily. Instructions to that end will be sent. We will telegraph ahead, of course, but you may carry the agreement signed by my hand, in case any uncertainty remains in Paris. And when you arrive, you may tell von Bülow from me that today is the day that he has won this war for us.”
He turned to the chancellor. “This leaves just one question, then. Red or black.”
“Black.”, Von Gerlach said decisively. “I do not think anything less will do.”
Wilhelm beamed agreement. “Yes, of course. The order of the black eagle. That's what it was created for. And now, gentlemen:” He took up his pen and signed the agreement that von Neurath held out to him. Then, he scribbled off a few lines to von Bülow and laid the paper on top of the pile. “I believe we could use some champagne. French.”