The Grand Scuttle E-Book

Dan Van Der Vat

• Herausgeber: Birlinn
• Kategorie: Geisteswissenschaft
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 440

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2012

Beschreibung

At Scapa Flow on 21 June 1919, there occurred an event unique in naval history. The German High Seas Fleet, one of the most formidable ever built was deliberately sent to the bottom of the sea at the British Grand Fleet's principal anchorage at Orkney by its own officers and men. The Grand Scuttle became a folk legend in both Germany and Britain. However, few people are aware that Rear Admiral Ludwig von Reuter became the only man in history to sink his own navy because of a misleading report in a British newspaper; that the Royal Navy guessed his intention but could do nothing to thwart it; that the sinking produced the last casualties and the last prisoners of the war; and that fragments of the Kaiser's fleet are probably on the moon. This is the remarkable story of the scuttling of the German fleet in Scapa Flow. It contains previously unused German archive material, eye-witness accounts and the recollections of survivors, as well as many contemporary photos which capture the awesome spectacle of the finest ships of the time being deliberately sunk by their own crew.

Leseprobe

This ebook edition published in 2012 by Birlinn Limited West Newington House Newington Road Edinburgh EH9 1QSwww.birlinn.co.uk

This edition first published in 2007 by Birlinn Limited

First published in 1982 by Hodder and Stoughton Limited, London

Copyright © Dan van der Vat

The moral right of Dan van der Vat to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form without the express written permission of the publisher.

ebook ISBN: 978-0-85790-513-0 ISBN: 978-1-84341-038-6

British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data

In memory of my father

CONTENTS

PREFACE

INTRODUCTION: Scapa Flow, 21 June 1919

PART I: A study in folly – the Anglo-German naval arms race

1 German naval expansion ends British isolation

2 Acceleration and the prelude to war

PART II: Willing to wound but afraid to strike – the war at sea

3 The skirmishes before Jutland

4 Jutland and the U-boat campaign

PART III: The Grand Scuttle – the salvage of honour

5 Mutiny

6 The last voyage

7 Internment

8 Reuter’s decision

9 ‘Paragraph eleven. Confirm.’

10 Aftermath

PART IV: Picking up the pieces – the saga of the salvage

11 Unfinished business

APPENDIX I: The ships of the Internment Formation

APPENDIX II: The text of the order to scuttle

A note on sources

PREFACE

For the past three years I have lived with the sonorous names of dead ships. The names are royal, military, commemorative and honorific or merely functional. Seiner Majestät Schiff Seydlitz eventually became my favourite because she should have sunk at the Battle of Jutland in 1916, but refused, because she bore the burden of leading the German High Seas Fleet into internment at the end of the First World War, and because she resisted more than forty attempts to raise her from the bottom for scrap, after the pride of the Imperial Navy scuttled itself at Scapa Flow in Orkney on 21 June 1919.

On that day there occurred the greatest single loss of shipping since Man first sat astride a log and floated away from land. The Persian fleet met its end at Salamis, and the Pacific Fleet of the United States was smashed at Pearl Harbor, but both those disasters resulted from enemy action. The Spanish Armada was scattered and destroyed, but the main reason for its doom was a providential storm. The German High Seas Fleet survived a cataclysmic war almost unscathed, but the bulk of its strength and tonnage was destroyed by order of the German Admiral in command at the time. The scale of the loss, over 400,000 tons of the finest warships then in existence, seventy-four vessels of which fifty-two actually went to the bottom under the eyes of the enemy, is unique in itself. That it was an act of self-destruction based on a misapprehension only compounds the uniqueness of a story which is extraordinary by any standard. It is also surprising that the story of this fleet has never before been told in logical form, from its inception through its construction and frustration in peace and war to its humiliation, its self-immolation in the name of honour, its salvage and its still continuing value as a source of uncontaminated steel: from the idle speculations of an under-occupied naval staff officer called Tirpitz to Man’s first ventures into space. That is the theme of this book.

The reader is entitled to know why and how the author, a most un-naval person, came to attempt to fill this gap. I am a reporter by profession. The Times saw fit in October 1978 to send me to Orkney to cover a seal-cull which never happened. This incidentally had the effect of enhancing my long-standing claim to be one of the most successful if coincidental protectors of the British seal population. The two previous culls I had been sent to cover by another newspaper years before at the Farne Islands off Northumberland were also cancelled. If the non-event in Orkney was anything at all, and it was not much, it was what is known as a ‘colour story’. There was plenty of that: white seal pups with big brown eyes like mermaidenly labradors on grey rocks in the grey-green sea, and also Greenpeace, the ecological pressure group to which the credit for the eventual cancellation mainly belongs. Ready to report at all times, but with the best will in the world somewhat short of events to write about, I found myself with time on my hands in a remarkably beautiful part of the world and I took the chance to explore, so rarely available on out-of-town assignments. Half of Fleet Street seemed to have signed the visitors’ book at the splendid Cathedral of St. Magnus in Kirkwall, the Orkney capital. It also paid to venture further afield.

Thanks to Churchill Causeway, you can drive to the southern extremity of the islands and look down upon John o’Groats from the north, seven miles distant, which must in a small way be comparable with looking at the Arctic icecap from underneath. The causeway was built by Italian prisoners in the Second World War. As you drive along it you see blockships, sunk to protect the Scapa Flow anchorage, ringed by the Orkney islands, against submarine attack. Further explorations on the western side of Scapa Flow by boat and on land reinforce the recollection that this great protected area of water was the main shelter of the British fleet in both world wars. It is a small step from this elementary rediscovery to look for detailed relics of Scapa Flow’s brief but crucial role as the marine ‘garage’ of the British fleet. It is an even smaller step to learn that the German fleet was ‘parked’ here at the end of the First World War, and that this is where it sank rather than surrender.

I was forcefully reminded of this when I went to the stone town of Stromness with its canyon-like streets, hidden behind the port which is still its main livelihood. It was only natural to visit the tiny Stromness Museum and admire the magnificent obsession of the bygone taxidermist of local origin whose work occupied most of the space. He stuffed everything from seagulls to seals and was only narrowly forestalled from tackling a whale by local fishermen whose needs were more immediate. In summer 1974 the little museum found room for a temporary display of pictures and relics of the German ships sunk in Scapa Flow in 1919. The special exhibit proved so popular that it became permanent, and this is what I saw. I was intrigued by the pamphlet on sale which told the story of the Imperial Navy in terms of the amazing salvage operation which followed its destruction. I was sufficiently stirred to visit the Orkney central library in Kirkwall a day or two later to ask what books had been written about the stupendous naval suicide of 1919.

The library staff (to whom I am indebted) led me to their inner sanctum, which contains an enormous collection of books wholly or partly about Orkney that may be consulted only on the spot, and produced a respectable pile of books which mentioned the scuttle, in passing or at some length. These works described everything from the Anglo-German arms race in ships which preceded (and largely caused) the First World War to the salvage of the German fleet after it. They were all admirable in their different ways and I have drawn heavily upon them; but my visit to the Orkney Library and subsequent researches in London (the bug had taken hold) did not reveal an account of the wasted fleet from construction to destruction and beyond. By this time The Times had temporarily closed down, and I was looking for something to do until it resurfaced, which I soon concluded would take a long time. I resolved to prepare a synopsis of a book about the sunken fleet in the hope of attracting the publisher’s advance which was essential to finance the necessary research in Germany and Orkney. Thanks to Graham Watson of Curtis Brown Ltd., my literary agent, since retired, a publisher was eventually found, and my accidental interest in the affairs of the Imperial Navy was translated into a commitment.

As it turned out, I had just enough time to complete the research before The Times resumed publication. The economic recession however hit the publishing trade hard, and the project foundered when the original publisher scuttled, abandoning the production of general interest non-fiction. The more than half-completed book seemed to be sunk. Then my flatteringly enthusiastic new literary agent, Dinah Wiener, persuaded Ion Trewin of Hodder and Stoughton to undertake its salvage – my very best thanks to him.

The main focus of the research was naturally the West German Federal Military Archive in the beautiful city of Freiburg. I am most grateful to the staff of that institution for their help in tracing whole mountain ranges of largely unexplored and unused material which forms the basis of Part III, the core of the book. The files relating directly to the lost fleet would, if stacked, have made a column of paper two metres high; the files which touched upon it in passing might have filled the coal-bunkers of SMS Seydlitz, and I was able to do no more than taste them. The German material is raw and extremely comprehensive; the files in the British Public Record Office at Kew in Greater London, whose staff were no less helpful, were neat, rather thin and suspiciously sanitised. But then it is a German fleet of which I treat, and it was only to be expected that the original owners of the ships would have infinitely more information about them than the former enemy, for whom their destruction at German hands under their noses was in the end no more than an embarrassing incident. The sparseness of the British files attests to the official British attitude about the events in Scapa Flow in 1919: least said, soonest mended.

I am indebted to a number of German naval veterans for their help. They include Commander Yorck von Reuter, son of the Commanding Admiral; Vice-Admiral Friedrich Ruge, former Head of the Federal German navy and Scapa Flow internee, who gave me permission to make use of his memoir; and Seaman Werner Braunsberger.

I should like to say a special word about Herr Braunsberger, who was located for me by the very helpful Deutscher Marinebund (German Naval Federation, the veterans’ organisation in Wilhelmshaven). Herr Braunsberger, living in retirement in Bielefeld, wrote to me in response to a notice placed for me in the Marinebund’s magazine, saying he had a personal, written account of his experiences aboard the interned battleship Kaiser. I wrote back at once, explaining why I was anxious to see it. Herr Braunsberger wrote again saying that after due reflection, he felt unable to entrust his proud memories “to a non-German”. I was able to explain that I was of Dutch origin and birth and that I intended to try to be as neutral in my account as the Dutch had been during his war. I hoped he would agree that justice could be done to the subject only if I had full access to first-hand information. The reply was a large envelope containing his account, loaned to me ‘with a heavy heart and after much internal conflict.’ I was most touched and felt honoured; I hope more earnestly than I can say that I have kept my side of the bargain, both in making use of his invaluable material and in trying to produce a balanced and fair account of the scuttle, as I promised the dignified and polite old gentleman in Bielefeld I would try to do.

I received much help from Orcadians too: their names are mentioned in the text that follows. I should also like to thank Gerald Meyer, editor of the remarkable weekly, The Orcadian, who left Balham, South London to spend a few days in Orkney and is now well into his fourth decade there. He gave me access to his files, publicised my project and put me in touch with people who had information about the events of 1919.

One result of his assistance came in the form of a letter from an exiled Orcadian living in Aberdeen, who had an interesting theory about the Cockney slang word ‘scarper’, meaning to escape or run off. “Knowing the tendency of the southern English to put in an ‘r’ where it should not be (to the fury of the Scots!), I vouchsafe the suggestion that ‘scarper’ is derived from Scapa because of the scuttling of the German fleet.” It would be delightful if this were true; unfortunately the word derives from the Italian scappare meaning to escape, and came into English early in the last century. But it was a nice thought. I am no less grateful for the help, encouragement, interest and advice I received from family, friends and colleagues in Germany and in Britain.

So this is the story of the Seydlitz and her sisters, with iron names like Derfflinger, Von der Tann, Friedrich der Grosse, Karlsruhe, Nürnberg, Emden … or just numbers – G40, V129, S32, B109, H145. They were built as instruments of destruction and death, but there was beauty in them too, and their fate is an unabashedly romantic story. This book contains no fiction or ‘faction’ and all quotations are documented. I have done my best to tell it as it was. If there are errors, they are mine alone.

INTRODUCTION

SCAPA FLOW, 21 JUNE 1919

Midsummer’s Day 1919 brought to the northerly latitudes of the Orkney Islands the kind of fine weather that inspires artists, opening as if to infinity a panorama usually closed in by cloud, fog, haze or rain. The dawn was very early, slow and hardly perceptible because at this time of year, if the sky is clear, the islands almost become an honorary province of the land of the midnight sun. In the great anchorage of Scapa Flow, shielded by the islands, the sea was calm and exceptionally blue, reflecting an open sky.

As people began to go about their daily chores on land, those with a view of the Flow once again saw, in the finest possible light, a spectacle which had hardly changed in seven months. The best view was from the hillcrests of Hoy, the only mountainous island of the group. Immediately to the east of it, drawn up in neat rows at its feet, lay seventy-four grey warships – five battlecruisers, eleven battleships, eight cruisers, fifty destroyers. They were German, and they had been there since shortly after the Armistice ended the First World War in November 1918. They had not been surrendered; they were in internment, floating hostages for German compliance with the Armistice, which was about to be translated into the Treaty of Versailles by the fraught, last-minute negotiations still continuing on that day. The ships remained German property, manned by German skeleton crews, and constituted the main strength of the Imperial Navy’s High Seas Fleet, undefeated in battle. They were under the surveillance of the Royal Navy, but there were no British guards aboard; under international law they would have been trespassers.

Few Orcadians will have given the display more than a passing glance. They were accustomed to seeing great assemblages of warships in the Flow, because it had been the principal anchorage of the British Grand Fleet throughout the war so recently ended. The enemy warships had long since lost their novelty. The only way you could easily distinguish them from Royal Navy vessels at a distance was by their lack of a flag at the stern. The Imperial Naval ensign, with its black cross and eagle, was forbidden in British waters. Only command flags flew from the masts. Closer to, the great floating fortresses and the slim destroyers showed clear signs of advanced neglect, the rust and the spinach-coloured marine vegetation drooling from their anchor-chains attesting to the demoralisation and decay of internment. Further over, British white ensigns could be seen on a squadron of five battleships, the main component of the guard-force, which showed signs of getting up steam.

A handful of tiny patrol-boats and tenders chugged slowly round the familiar rows of anchored ships. A few German sailors could be seen moving about on the decks in the glorious weather so seldom provided by the capricious climate of Orkney. The normally bleak and desolate view was transformed by the sun into a scene of exceptional beauty. Even the German sailors, who had been denied access to shore for more than half a year, acknowledged that. A few of them saluted Midsummer by putting on white uniforms, a rare sight indeed in Scapa Flow. Apart from the special clemency of the weather, it looked like business as usual as those ashore and those afloat turned their minds to breakfast.

Below the untidy decks of the German ships, however, there was a new tension, something in the air hitherto unknown in all the dreary days of confinement. Over the past three or four days, odd things had been happening. Officers, engineers and senior petty officers had been unusually active, clambering into the less accessible parts of the ships and emerging begrimed. They had been seen going round the ships with heavy tools, opening every door they came to and pinning it back, loosening hatches, opening portholes and breaking rods which connected valves below the waterline to control levers above deck. Hammering and sawing was heard coming from below, echoing through the sparsely manned ships. Officers had taken to sleeping aboard destroyers, unoccupied for months and moored alongside their sister-ships; and they took not only food, drink and blankets, but also a sledgehammer or a huge wrench. Only a few of the 1,800 or so men in the fleet knew officially what was going on, and they had been ordered to keep it to themselves. Most of those in the know were captains, and key officers and senior ratings whose co-operation was essential.

The German naval mutiny in the dying days of the war had destroyed the trust between officers and men and exacerbated the difficulties of imprisonment afloat beyond measure. The officers had experienced humiliation and hardship in bringing the ships to their fateful rendezvous with the Grand Fleet off the Firth of Forth in November 1918 prior to internment, and the unrest had continued on most of the ships thereafter. But the more alert crews and individual ratings either guessed or demanded to know what all this unusual activity meant. Aboard some ships, everybody knew; on others, nobody but a small handful. Those who did find out what was going on experienced in many cases a resurgence of the old spirit which had enabled them to fight so well when they had the chance, before the stalemate in the North Sea in the latter part of the war damaged their morale. These revitalised men seethed with an excitement they had not known since going into battle. They could not know, however, although many had guessed, that the British had drawn up detailed plans for the simultaneous seizure of every ship the moment the Armistice ended. As more and more men learned or deduced the secret behind all the activity, the enemy’s intentions, whatever they might be, lost much of their relevance. The uncertainty of indefinite incarceration, the depression caused by enforced inactivity, were lifting at last. The Armistice, as everybody knew despite being starved of news from home and forced to rely in the main on four-day-old copies of The Times doled out in miserly quantities to the command by the British, was about to end at last, after a long series of extensions.

Yet it could just as likely be followed by a renewal of hostilities as by peace. The conditions imposed on a chaotic and prostrate Germany were extremely harsh, and such leaders as the country had were finding them hard to swallow. The Allies were insisting on the surrender of all the interned ships. On this there was absolutely no chance of a compromise. Those internees who were interested enough to follow events at Versailles as best they could, and there were many, knew that the career of the High Seas Fleet must now come to an end in this hated anchorage in British waters. It could not fight because its guns had been spiked; it could not run away because its engines were run down. It would not be allowed to go home. Only two possibilities remained: that they would be handed over to the enemy, or that they would not, slipping away from his grasp in the moment of consummation of the Allied victory. ‘The flag officer in charge, German ships at Scapa’, as the British referred to him, Rear-Admiral Ludwig von Reuter, expected hostilities to resume at noon when he awoke on the morning of 21 June. The last newspaper he had seen, dated 16 June, reported an Allied ultimatum to this effect after the German Government had refused to sign the Treaty. He had already made his dispositions and his choice. Nothing happened that morning to make him change his mind.

After breakfast on that fine and fateful Saturday morning, lines of children began to form on the quayside at Stromness, the little port in the north-western corner of the Flow. They were waiting to file aboard the Admiralty tender Flying Kestrel which had tied up alongside. Eventually some 400 children of all ages from the local school were being taken on for the special day out planned by their teachers and sanctioned by the Royal Navy – a trip round the interned fleet. The crew and the teachers were relieved and the children delighted by the splendid weather, which promised a calm passage and a chance for a really good look at everything.

Soon after 9 a.m. all was ready, the last stragglers counted and safely brought aboard, and at about 9.30 a.m. the tender put to sea. She steamed slowly southwards through the lines of moored ships, on a course roughly parallel with the eastern coast of Hoy. The big ships came first, towering over the squat water-tender. Later came the rows of destroyers in the channel between Hoy and Fara. The acting excursion steamer passed Lyness, the ugly little port where the principal Royal Navy shore installations spoiled the scenery. The children chattered and pointed, waving at the German sailors they saw looking down at them, who responded as they saw fit. After passing through the last isolated line of German destroyers at the end of the channel, the Flying Kestrel put about for the return voyage. It was noon. So far the school outing had been merely exhilarating.

Half an hour after the Flying Kestrel had begun its trip southwards, the British battle squadron with its escort of cruisers and destroyers sailed westwards into the open sea for routine torpedo exercises. The only British warships left in Scapa Flow now were a couple of destroyers to back up the handful of small craft on patrol among the interned enemy fleet.

At this point – 10 a.m. – Admiral Reuter was seen to appear on the quarterdeck of his flagship, the cruiser Emden. The acutely observant watcher would have been struck by his full-dress uniform. One of his officers approached, saluted and addressed him for a minute or two. The Admiral paced up and down, pausing frequently to study various ships through a telescope. At 10.30 a.m. he turned to a sailor waiting nearby with the large notepad of a signaller. Shortly afterwards, a string of flags appeared over the ship. They said in plain language to the initiated: Paragraph 11. Bestätigen. Paragraph eleven. Confirm. How strange that the Germans should be sending a message like that outside permitted signalling hours. But the Admiral’s telescope was now busier than before.

Bernard Gribble was an artist who specialised in marine scenes. He was inspired by the wonderful weather that morning to beg a ride on one of the patrolling naval trawlers so that he could sketch the German ships. Suddenly he noticed that boats were being lowered, against British standing orders, and told an officer. The naval lieutenant paused, then cried: “I’ve got it! I believe they’re scuttling their ships!’

It was noon. Sixteen minutes later, the battleship Friedrich der Grosse turned turtle and sank.

At that moment the children on the Flying Kestrel felt the engines beneath their feet shaking the vessel as she piled on all the steam she could muster. It was their first intimation of the drama that was about to unfold as the tender raced for Stromness to put them ashore – a history lesson in the making which none of them would ever forget. The kaleidoscope of destruction stunned their eyes; but in old age it was the accompanying cacophony of sound made by a dying fleet that these children of long ago so often recalled first. The outward trip offered them a close-up view of a long familiar picture, a huge still-life of helpless, hopeless hulks. The return journey tore the scene to shreds before their eyes and ears like a massive earthquake.

These 400 children witnessed the greatest single act of destruction at sea ever known, the result of a decision by the only man ever to set out to sink a navy at a stroke. The German High Seas Fleet came to a fitting end. If we now go back to its beginnings, it will become clear why this is so.

PART I

A STUDY IN FOLLY – THE ANGLO-GERMAN NAVAL ARMS RACE

Place a military force as strong as possible … in the hands of the King of Prussia; then he will be able to conduct the policy you want. It is not conducted by speeches and shooting-matches and songs. It is conducted only with blood and iron.

Prince Otto von Bismarck, speech to the Prussian legislature, January 1886.

It is on the navy under the Providence of God that the safety, honour and welfare of this realm do chiefly attend.

King Charles II, Preamble to the Articles of War.

1

GERMAN NAVAL EXPANSION ENDS BRITISH ISOLATION

The once magnificent warships which died in Scapa Flow that Midsummer’s afternoon in June 1919, had been the main strength of what was, vessel for vessel, the most modern and powerful navy in the world. They were also the embodiment of one of the greatest geo-political and strategic errors in history and the product of an obsession sustained for two decades in defiance of reality. Nor is it the comfortable hindsight of two generations later that produces such a judgment. The mistake was seen clearly at the time and was eventually acknowledged, though much too late, by Admiral Tirpitz, one of the two men most responsible (the other was his sovereign, Kaiser Wilhelm II). That this protracted and devastatingly costly blunder was also one of the main causes of the First World War makes it one of the most terrible aberrations on record.

The phenomenal expansion of the German navy from 1898 to 1914 was both a product and one of the principal expressions of the power of the new Germany. Otto von Bismarck had united the various German states and statelets under Prussia, whose military pre-eminence in Europe made it the irresistible ‘locomotive’ of German unification. After three short and successful wars against Denmark, Austria and France, which brought extra territory to the Reich, the first Kaiser, Wilhelm I, was crowned with lavish insensitivity in the Hall of Mirrors at the Palace of Versailles in January 1871. In the period of consolidation that followed, Germany, already the greatest military power in Europe, built up a strong economy on the basis of a new and efficient infrastructure, financed to a significant extent by French war reparations. Wilhelm I died in 1888 at the age of ninety and was succeeded by Crown Prince Friedrich, who was terminally ill and ruled for just ninety-nine days. Had he lived, the course of history would, almost certainly, have differed radically because he was a convinced liberal and a committed opponent of militarism and Bismarck’s ‘blood and iron’ policy. As it was, Wilhelm II, who could hardly have been less like his father, became Kaiser at the age of twenty-nine. He soon grew tired of the restraining hand of the old ‘Iron Chancellor’, who was as wise as he was ruthless, and pushed Bismarck into resigning in 1890. The death of Friedrich and the departure of Bismarck was a double disaster for Europe and was seen as such at the time.

In his later years as Chancellor, the post created for him in 1871, Bismarck had devoted himself to the maintenance of the status quo he had done so much to bring about. With the free use of duplicity and the mailed fist, he also made Germany a stabilising force in Europe, as most of its neighbours recognised much of the time. As soon as he retired, Europe began to divide into two camps. The secret German ‘reinsurance treaty’ with Russia was allowed to lapse in 1890; in 1891 Russia concluded an entente with France, bringing that rapidly reviving country out of the isolation to which it had been consigned by Bismarck’s policy since its defeat by the Prussians in the war of 1870. In 1892, the entente was extended by an agreement on mutual military assistance, and a second power-block arose in Europe alongside the Triple Alliance of Germany, Austria and Italy. Britain, as usual, kept up her ‘splendid isolation’ which had suited Bismarck, but irritated Wilhelm II. Under the Kaiser, Germany became the ever-demanding cuckoo in the European nest, driving the British to swallow their distaste for Continental entanglements by entering into the ‘Entente Cordiale’ with France in 1904 and coming to terms with Russia in 1907, thereby creating the ‘Triple Entente’. The British and the Germans made a number of attempts to reach an understanding – and almost succeeded. In the end the growth of the German navy destroyed the possibility.

In 1894 an obscure staff officer of the Naval Supreme Command, Captain Alfred von Tirpitz, with some help from colleagues, wrote a memorandum to his superiors arguing the case for a strong fleet. The captain, a technical expert on torpedoes, had already grown grey in Germany’s then very junior service which he had joined in 1865, and he had the knack of persuasive argument of a case on paper. Tirpitz (1849–1930) started work on his thesis when he was Chief of Staff to the Admiral in command of the Baltic in 1891. The following year he was posted to the Supreme Naval Command in Berlin, where he completed his work on it. The document came to the attention of Wilhelm II and fired the imagination of the erratic ruler as few things did before or after. Such was the moment of conception of what was to become the German High Seas Fleet. The main thrust of the Tirpitz paper was the Germany was now a world power of the first rank with worldwide colonial and commercial interests and therefore needed a world-class navy capable of fighting decisive battles at sea. Germany needed a battle fleet.

Bismarck had shown no interest in naval matters. Prussia, and subsequently the German Empire it dominated, vested its security and its strength as a Continental power in the world’s most modern and powerful standing army. This was a logical, geographical imperative as simple and inescapable as Britain’s reliance upon the world’s largest navy. And Prussia had been able to forge the German Reich and even acquire a respectable scattering of colonies round the world without needing anything more than a token navy, a point conveniently overlooked by the navy lobby when it became a power in the land at the end of the century.

But now policy seesawed. In 1865, the Prussian Parliament rejected a ten-year plan for enlarging the fleet and making Prussia a second-class naval power. Two years later, the decision was reversed and a ten-year programme for the construction of sixteen armoured ships, a mixture of large and small vessels, was adopted. The scheme was abandoned in 1870 because of the war with France, which produced just one small naval incident, a skirmish between a German gunboat and a French despatch boat off Cuba. The ten-year plan was revived in 1872, adopted in 1873 and completed, with some reductions, in 1883. It enabled Germany to show the flag on the high seas, watch her overseas interests and have the potential to make hit-and-run raids in the event of war with a major European power.

Count von Caprivi, a General be it noted, not an Admiral, was put in charge of the Admiralty in 1883 and initiated a four-year programme for building light cruisers. These were designed for raids on enemy commerce, a sound strategy for a land power such as Germany, as the First World War was to show. Caprivi also proposed a large force of torpedoboats and recognised the need for a ‘High Seas Fleet’ to support the cruisers in distant waters. It was during his term of office, which ended in 1888, that work began on the strategic Kiel Canal linking the Baltic and the North Sea across Schleswig-Holstein. Although Caprivi was very much on the right lines in his thinking about Germany’s limited naval needs, the Reichstag showed little enough interest even in those; the General-turned-Admiral himself had no enthusiasm for battleships in the belief that their days were numbered because of the torpedo. On that he was only half right: it was not until the torpedo was combined with the submarine that the invincibility of the battleship ended, ironically, just as the battleship itself became the grand obsession of the Admirals and statesmen of the principal maritime powers. German naval policy and strategy remained ambivalent during the period from 1890 to 1897, when Admiral Hollman served as State Secretary in the Imperial Navy Office. A poor orator, he was unable to make a favourable impression in the Reichstag. But in 1897 he was succeeded by Tirpitz, now an Admiral, as the Kaiser’s chosen head of the navy.

Wilhelm II had had no strong thoughts about his navy until he saw the Tirpitz memorandum in 1894, though he had always loved ships. When he was Crown Prince, he had tried his hand briefly at designing battleships. He saw the Great Naval Review marking Queen Victoria’s Golden Jubilee off Spithead in 1887 and was most impressed. He had also read a seminal work of the time, The Influence of Seapower upon History by the American Admiral Mahan, published in 1890. This was also the year that Heligoland, the small island of vital strategic importance in naval terms which guards Germany’s North Sea coasts, was ceded to the Reich by Britain in exchange for colonial concessions in East Africa. The Kaiser envied Britain’s overwhelming naval supremacy but was not originally hostile to it because he did not regard Britain as a rival, still less a potential enemy.

The personality of the German Emperor was a curious and unattractive one, even though he had, when he chose, a certain charm. As the heir of the Prussian ruling house, the Hohenzollerns, he was steeped in military tradition and much of his young manhood was spent in military training and in the company of dashing young officers. The Imperial Court had a highly military flavour and was distinguished by its grand uniforms. Wilhelm II was emotional and arrogant, romantic and obsessive, erratic, a poor judge of men and impossible to work with except for the yes-men he tended to gather round himself. By and large he was a pompous ass who had no clear idea of what he wanted for the mighty empire misfortune had chosen him to rule. He was short on both intellect and common sense and thoroughly German in his lack of tact.

The system of Imperial government he inherited was not designed to cushion the workings of his personality defects; rather it tended to magnify them. Even though the Prussian landowners, the Junkers, did not exercise the monopoly of influence they had exerted in pre-Imperial Prussia, Prussia dominated the Reich and so did its system of government, essentially a feudal oligarchy. The key to the system was the Chancellor, who ruled alone under the Kaiser. There was no Cabinet. This was all very well when the Chancellor, who was also Prime Minister of Prussia, was Bismarck and left by the Emperor to get on with the job. But when lesser men were chosen and Wilhelm II proved unable to delegate (not that he wished to), the system could not cope and was bound in the end to break down. A contemporary German socialist, Stampfer, described his country under Wilhelm II as the best run but worst ruled in Europe. The Emperor, never slow to change his mind, listened to the Junkers, the Generals and the leaders of the economy he gathered round him at court rather than to the head of his Government. Under him Germany became unpredictable because he was unpredictable. There was at least one thread of consistency through his reign, however: Germany was always demanding. At home, the political system was primitive and the class system archaic; yet the economy was not constricted by these factors and flourished with strong Government aid and encouragement, while social welfare was exemplary if paternalistic and the general standard of living rose dramatically.

To fulfil their scheme for a German battle fleet, the Kaiser and Tirpitz had to start from scratch. Tirpitz had followed up his memorandum with another, shorter paper in 1895 (at the Kaiser’s request) which further expounded his case for a German High Seas Fleet. In this he set out his ‘risk theory’: Germany should be strong enough on the high seas to be capable of inflicting serious damage on the world’s most powerful fleet, even in a losing battle. This strength would deter the leading naval power because its own fleet would be so reduced in such an encounter that its world maritime supremacy would be lost and the basis of its power destroyed. The argument smacks of today’s nuclear deterrent theory. It would therefore avoid the risk of attacking the German fleet, which would thus become a powerful means of extracting concessions or of forcing an alliance (which to the Germans meant a master-and-servant relationship). Although she was not named, all this of course was aimed at Britian: no other interpretation was possible.

German relations with Britain, however, first deteriorated sharply when Wilhelm II saw fit to interfere in the rising tension between Britain and the two Boer republics in South Africa. The two empires had already been at odds in 1892 over the building of the Baghdad Railway across Ottoman Turkish territory, but the Kaiser’s impulsive telegram of effusive congratulation to President Kruger of the Transvaal in January 1896 on his resolute repulse and crushing of the Jameson Raid roused public opinion on both sides of the North Sea for the first time. The Kaiser actually wanted to send troops to help the Boers but was happily dissuaded, not least because he had no means of safely delivering them, a point which he regarded as a strong argument in favour of expanding his navy. As far as he was concerned, Germany must change its policy from internal to external expansion, and to do that it had to acquire a navy other powers would be obliged to take seriously, so that Germany could move from the European to the world stage.

When Tirpitz took over the Admiralty in June 1897 he set out to implement his ideas. Nine months later, the first German Fleet Law was passed (in March 1898) after a two-day debate in the Reichstag which ended with a vote of 212 in favour and 139 against. At that point, Britain had twenty-nine modern battleships with another twelve under construction compared with Germany’s thirteen and five respectively. Now Germany was committed to the construction of seven further battleships and two large cruisers. Allowing for the decommissioning of supernnuated ships, this would give Germany nineteen battleships, twelve heavy cruisers, thirty light cruisers and eight armed coastal defence vessels all by 1903, at the end of the five-year period covered by the Fleet Law. Germany’s pre-1898 battleships had, on average, been a third smaller than Britain’s, being all under 10,000 tons with less than half the coal-bunker space. But in November 1897, the month in which the draft of the Fleet Law was published, Germany seized the Chinese harbour of Kiaochow as a naval base in the Far East, a place of little value for its existing navy which could only become significant after major naval expansion. The seizure was part of the general plundering of China fashionable at the time.

Tirpitz was not only an unusually effective speaker for a professional naval man, he was also something of a propagandist and did not rest content with having the ear of his Emperor on naval matters. He also needed to mobilise public opinion in support of a big navy. Thus the Navy League was set up in 1898, supported financially mainly by the Krupp steel and armament company of Essen in the Ruhr, the district with the most to gain from a large naval programme. The League was a runaway success, drawing in nearly a quarter of a million members in three years. Wilhelm II was its patron and those in search of power and influence soon took up the cause. To justify its existence and its argument for naval expansion, it generated as much anti-British feeling as it could, a task made easier by the Anglo-Boer War. The Kaiser often let it be known how different his policy would have been had he had a navy capable of intervening. As it was, Germany was obliged to remain neutral.

The Boer War unleashed anti-British sentiment in most of Europe, not merely in Germany. Liberal feeling had advanced far enough to see the (white) Afrikaners as the underdogs and hapless victims of British Imperialism and its lust for gold (but not far enough to worry about the blacks in South Africa: the European right to rule non-white peoples was still a long way from being questioned). But Wilhelm’s attempt to create a Continental league to oppose British expansionism outside Europe came to nothing. In Germany however Anglophobia was particularly exacerbated by the runaway success of the Navy League’s propagandising, which was particularly effective in the schools. Unable to intervene, the Kaiser fumed on the sidelines and saw how the British, with their domineering navy, could defy world opinion by moving troops and supplies at will and sealing off their stubborn enemy by blockade. Things would be different in twenty years, he told his Foreign Minister, Bülow: by that time Germany would have a navy nobody, not even the British, could ignore.

The British, meanwhile, preoccupied as they were with their embarrassing flounderings against the Boers and unable to end the game quickly even after stacking the deck in their own favour, did not reciprocate the German hostility; rather they found it puzzling and wondered what they had done to deserve it. Distrust of Germany was slow to grow and made significant advances only when reinforced by fear. Yet the first German Fleet Law was introduced just as the British used the threat of their naval strength to stop the French acquiring control of the Upper Nile Valley (what was known as the Fashoda incident). The lesson was not lost on the Germans.

The British unwittingly played into the hands of the naval lobby once again just as Tirpitz drafted his second Fleet Law at the beginning of 1900. The Royal Navy, acting on a false alarm, boarded a German mail steamer on its way to South Africa. The British thought the ship was carrying volunteers and war material to Delagoa Bay to help the Boers. An international row laced with stiff diplomatic Notes ensued, with strong public opinion exhibited on both sides. The British eventually recognised that they had been in the wrong and paid compensation.

Tirpitz was emboldened to make direct and open reference to the British and their naval dominance in introducing this second Fleet Law, something he had avoided in the first, even if the message could be read plainly enough between the lines. The object of the second Bill was to double the strength of the German navy in sixteen years by constructing three ships a year. By 1920 the High Seas Fleet would consist of two flagships, four squadrons of eight battleships each, eight heavy and twenty-four light cruisers. Tirpitz’s stated goal was to create a navy capable of fighting a battle in the North Sea against the British. Bülow, speaking in the Reichstag in support, said Germany had to have a large navy to be able to deal with Britain, and the German fleet would be developed with an eye to British policy.

This was a fateful decision for Germany. The first Fleet Law alone would have made Germany a force to be reckoned with on the high seas; the second brought her into open competition with Britain in a way the British could not afford to ignore. It was the point of no return. Germany’s shipbuilding capacity was much smaller than Britain’s, so that new dockyards had to be developed for the naval programme. The enormous investment required of Government and shipbuilders was such that, once the programme began, deceleration became very difficult and cancellation inconceivable for economic reasons. Thus the fatal flaw of inflexibility was introduced, and with it the inevitability of confrontation with the increasingly anxious British. But the specially built modern dockyards gave the Germans the advantage in ship design capacity: when the British started counter-building to maintain their superiority, they had to work within the limitations of their older yards. The race to build dreadnoughts, the new and larger generation of capital ships, accentuated the difference. As it is much easier to lengthen a dock than to broaden it, the British produced narrower ships than the Germans, whose vessels enjoyed the extra stability and strength conferred by their distinctly broader beam. Starting almost from scratch as they were, the Germans could produce better-designed ships in purpose-built yards incorporating all the latest equipment and techniques.

The ships provided for in the first Fleet Law were larger than anything the Germans had built before; those planned under the second were larger still and would double the number of battleships. A higher maintenance budget was also envisaged. Tirpitz insisted that the yards had to have a guarantee of continuous production, and only a Law could provide it. The envisaged building programme could be adhered to or overtaken by an even larger one; but it could not be reversed once the Bill became a Law. While the Germans failed to foresee the consequences abroad, particularly in Britain, of their decision, the British never understood why the Germans behaved as if their naval legislation was as immutable as the Ten Commandments and incapable of moderation in the interest of international understanding. There was no room here for the British art of compromise. A Law imposed a duty.

The most vocal opposition to the naval programme came from the Social Democratic Party (SPD), whose leaders objected on grounds of cost and, with more accuracy than they could have known at the time, of the risk of war. But their anti-navy rallies were far surpassed by the powerful lobbying of the Navy League. But to appease the opposition, the Government conceded five large and five small cruisers as well as a smaller reduction in the proposed cruiser reserve, and the Law went through. It was now Germany’s duty to see it observed, and her spokesmen thereafter quite genuinely explained the programme as the inescapable fulfilment of a legal obligation. Only the Germans could see it that way or indeed would see it that way. The scope for misunderstanding was infinite, and the British and the Germans alike, for reasons of national character and national interest, were now doomed to talk at one another in a dialogue of the deaf.

British incomprehension of German legalism was matched by German underestimation of the British instinct to dominate the seas. Like many another British institution, the Royal Navy at the turn of the century was the result of spontaneous growth. There was no such thing as a long-term naval construction programme. Britain’s decisions on building ships were reactions to what other naval powers were doing. Underlying this approach was the philosophy of the ‘two-power standard’, whereby the Royal Navy must always be at least equal in strength at sea to the second and third most powerful navies in the world combined. The strategy behind this was both simple and fundamental to Britain’s survival as an imperial and trading nation. The overwhelming geographical advantage of their island conferred upon the British immunity against invasion, provided only that they maintained a strong navy. If that navy matched or surpassed the combined navies of any possible alliance of other major powers against her, Britain could afford to maintain only a small standing army, to pursue her policy of staying out of Continental entanglements adopted after the Napoleonic Wars, to develop and protect her leading position in world trade, and to police a worldwide empire without fear of interference. The benefits of naval supremacy were so enormous and so vital to national interests that Britain was bound to react to a new challenge in that area, even if she started slowly and tried at first to make a new naval expansion unnecessary by diplomacy.

The version of logic deployed by the Germans in favour of a large navy was so full of non-sequiturs that it is essential to look at it more closely to try to establish exactly what Germany wanted. There was at least one great flaw in Tirpitz’s stated aim of building a navy which could give at least as good as it got; ship for ship, a navy large enough to deter the leading naval power from taking it on for fear of losing its mastery of the seas. He had to concede (he could hardly avoid doing so) that Germany must pass through a ‘danger zone’ before she had assembled a High Seas Fleet of capital ships numerous enough to constitute such a deterrent. This period would last from the adoption of the building programme to its completion. The gamble was worthwhile, the naval lobby argued, because it would have the effect in the end of converting Germany from a virtually land-locked Continental power into a world power of the first rank. Germany, they said, should have a navy commensurate with her enhanced stature. It was her right as a world power and an essential part of her dignity. The trick, therefore, was to persuade the German people that the Reich could establish itself at sea without actually matching the strength of the Royal Navy.

In support of this questionable thesis, it was argued that Germany needed a powerful fleet, even though she had rubbed along without one very comfortably hitherto, because she needed peace, protection against possible blockade and threats to her trade, and a means to defend her new overseas colonies and seaborne commerce. The new navy need not be as large as the British because the Royal Navy had too many worldwide commitments to be able to concentrate enough ships to be sure of defeating Germany without losing supremacy. An enlarged German navy would make it impossible for Britain to rely on being able to take on any conceivable naval coalition, before or (especially) after a maritime confrontation with Germany. Britain might well defeat the High Seas Fleet, but she would then be helpless against an alliance of, say, France and Russia. The High Seas Fleet was therefore to be seen as a powerful lever against Britain.

The deterrent theory was all very well as far as it went, except that at the end of the nineteenth century the British hardly needed to be deterred. Tirpitz himself even used the apparent lethargy of the British as a point in favour of accepting the risks of the passage through the danger zone, a fine piece of logic-chopping.

During the Boer War the Germans successfully exerted disproportionate pressure on Britain to obtain a colonial interest in the Pacific island territory of Samoa, previously shared by the British and the Americans. (They did so, once again, without a world-class navy, be it noted.) The British were puzzled by the vehemence with which Germany pursued its ‘claim’ in Samoa, which they saw as a case of using a sledgehammer to crack a nut; they could not see what the Germans stood to gain.