Battleship Bismarck (5 page)

Vice Admiral Sir Thomas Troubridge, who as a captain served as British naval attaché in Berlin from 1936 until 1939, was a sharp-sighted observer of the German political scene. (Photograph courtesy of Tom Troubridge, London.)

Early on the morning of 11 November, I reached London in a spotlessly clean British railway car. The lead article in
The Times
, “A Black Day for Germany,” unreservedly condemned the violence. It voiced my opinion exactly; I could have signed every sentence. It was
terribly depressing to be starting out on my first mission abroad under these circumstances, and I was grateful to my British friends for being so tactful as not to mention to me the events in the Reich that must have shamed all decent German patriots.

Germany took another politically significant step in December 1938, this time concerning the German naval construction program, which then conformed to the terms of the Anglo-German Naval Treaty of June 1935. In this agreement, Germany pledged not to increase the strength of its fleet to more than 35 percent of the strength of the British fleet. This percentage applied not only to the total strength of the fleet, but to individual ship categories, as well. Although the treaty granted Germany the right to parity in submarine strength, the Reich professed its willingness not to go beyond 45 percent of British submarine strength. Should it ever appear necessary to exceed these limitations, the matter was to be discussed. At the time it was signed, the treaty was accepted with satisfaction in Germany, because it overturned the limitations set by the Treaty of Versailles and made possible the building of a bigger and a balanced fleet.

Now, in December 1938, the Reich called the attention of the British government to the clause in the treaty that allowed Germany to exceed the 45 percent limit on its submarine strength if “a situation arose” which, in the opinion of Germany, made it necessary to do so. Such a situation, Berlin informed London, now existed. The government of the Reich, therefore, intended to build up its submarine tonnage to parity with the British. Simultaneously, it announced its intention to arm two cruisers under construction more heavily than had been originally provided.

Technically, the German claims were perfectly in order. But were they being made at a politically propitious moment? The British, aware of the capacity of Germany’s shipyards, were bound to know that the Reich would not have its increased submarine tonnage available for several years. And political opinion in Great Britain, already disturbed by the Munich Agreement, was such that the presentation of Germany’s claims at this moment could only work to the political disadvantage of the Reich: this view was frequently expressed in conversations in London at the time and widely voiced by the British press. Therefore, why not patiently await the tactically correct moment? It was actions such as this that made it possible to read aggressive intent into everything Germany did, even when it was not there.

The next crisis came in the spring of 1939, and it was a serious one.
In mid-March, Hitler forced the Czech government to conclude a treaty making the provinces of Bohemia and Moravia a German protectorate. In violation of the Munich Agreement, he then occupied that area and incorporated it into the Reich. Czechoslovakia, as such, disappeared from the map. This action shook Europe like an earthquake. “It is evident,” Troubridge wrote in his diary on 17 March, “that Chamberlain’s policy of appeasement is now gone by the board and all Sir Nevile’s work [Sir Nevile Henderson, British ambassador to Germany] gone west, too. I saw him at the embassy this afternoon pacing up and down his study like a caged lion using ‘quarterdeck’ language. I am not surprised. His rather too optimistic telegrams of a month ago (we all thought them a bit too much) have now been shown to be complete nonsense. “

The British government and public were the hardest hit; the policy of appeasement towards Germany appeared to be shattered once and for all. Thereafter, many circles of British society avoided all contact with official representatives of the Reich. For the first time, Hitler’s act of force was not taken quietly in London. Germans were no longer allowed to set foot in the Czechoslovakian embassy building. It now served the newly organized Czechoslovakian government in exile, which immediately recognized the former British diplomatic representative in Prague. The German embassy tried desperately to find a way of interpreting the event to its host country. I realized that a political turning point had been reached.

At the end of March, I attended a social gathering in the HMS
Calliope.
This venerable sailing ship was used for training the Tyne Division of the Royal Naval Volunteer Reserve. Her home port was Newcastle. The affair was to commemorate the fiftieth anniversary of the Samoan hurricane of 1889, which the
Calliope
had been fortunate enough to survive. Because some German and American fighting ships were also caught in the storm, the naval attachés of both countries were invited to the ceremony.
*
The American attaché was represented by his assistant, Lieutenant Robert Lord Campbell, with whom I traveled to Newcastle. On the way, I wondered what effect events in Czechoslovakia would have on the gathering in the
Calliope.
I need not have worried. I had a pleasant evening of good comradeship, only slightly dampened by Germany’s treatment of its new protectorate. In his welcoming address, the British host spoke of “troublous times” but did not go into particulars, and the evening’s planners saw to it that no one else spoke. “It’s a shame,” Campbell said to me afterwards, “I had thought of a few things to say and would have been more than happy to do so.” I could not exactly share his regret.

I also remembered Campbell because of the increasingly intense verbal attacks that his loathing of National Socialism occasionally led him to launch against the Reich. During a casual conversation one day he suddenly changed the subject and very aggressively upbraided me for the harsh conditions that our imperial government had imposed on Russia in the so-called Peace of Brest-Litovsk in March 1918. After he had finished his remarks, which were delivered like an oration, I tried—although I did not have the historical details in my head—to ground our conduct at that time on the need to safeguard ourselves in the east so long as the war was still underway in the west. I hardly convinced him of that, and, indeed, I myself had known for a long time that our territorial annexations and demands for indemnities had turned out to be highly unwise. But as a national-minded German with a sense of political obligation to Germany toward the outside world, I had chosen to give a substantive answer in preference to the immature alternative—recently become fashionable in such cases—of referring to the fact that I was seven years old at the time and demonstrably devoid of civic responsibility.

Only a month after the events in Prague, more alarming diplomatic signals came from Berlin. In his speech to the Reichstag on 28 April Hitler gave notice that he was canceling two treaties: the German-Polish Nonaggression Pact of 1934 and the Anglo-German Naval Treaty of 1935. Hitler had convened the Reichstag on this date basically to answer a note from President Franklin Delano Roosevelt, in which on 15 April the latter had proposed certain common steps for the preservation of world peace. First, however, Hitler devoted himself to European affairs, including relations with England, which he attacked sharply. He referred to a remark Prime Minister Chamberlain made following the German march into Prague, that trust could no longer be placed in Germany’s promises, and accused England of a policy of encircling Germany, which violated the provisions of the naval agreement. He had decided to notify the British government of this today.

Troubridge had seen the cancellation of the naval agreement coming for some time. In his diary entry for 19 March, he wrote:

The German papers have now concentrated their counterattack on England in the usual familiar fashion and hint at tearing up the Naval Agreement. This I think quite likely and it may well be followed by our breaking off diplomatic relations. A treaty more or less means nothing to this country and I have consistently reported that the A.G.N.A. [Anglo-German Naval Agreement] would go west when the moment was ripe. . . . [And on 30 April] Adolf Hitler tore up the A.G.N.A., which was little surprise to me and also his treaty of non-aggression with Poland. So the decks are cleared. I do not think there is any doubt that he intends to settle the [Polish] corridor question in the very near future. . . . The British people are undoubtedly fed up with A.H. and would, I believe, be ready even to the extent of going to war to put an end to a situation which is altogether intolerable. The Germans have their two motorized divisions close to the Polish frontier.

In Great Britain, the cancellation of the naval treaty was seen as the prelude to an unrestrained expansion of the German fleet; while that of the pact with Poland appeared to augur another dangerous political adventure. Hitler had switched the course of European affairs onto another track. Whether the tremendous international risks that he was taking, his principle of making territorial demands by ultimatum, permitted the preservation of peace or meant war, and, if war, whether Britain would take part in it, were questions about which observers in London became increasingly contradictory. Were there indices of the British attitude? Yes, I discovered one in the office of our naval attaché, who on 28 September 1938 telephoned a report to the Oberkommando der Kriegsmarine in Berlin:

British fleet mobilized at midnight. Order for general mobilization is signed, the date left open. Security measures of all sorts and partial mobilization of the armed forces and civil population in full swing. Mobilization orders of all sorts also given for civil defense services. Women’s auxiliary service understood to be in process of formation. From Chamberlain’s speech appears that the British Empire will take arms, not for Czechoslovakia, but against any use of force for a goal which in British opinion is attainable without use of force. That is the new watchword for the struggle. Deadline of demand and rejection of Chamberlain’s last offer will be seen as intolerable pressure on England under which it is resolved not to negotiate. From this arises the firm decision to fight in event of German use of force.

In reply to a question from the Oberkommando if the mobilization of the British fleet was to be understood as a complete mobilization, the attaché declared that he could not say. That same day Troubridge noted in his diary: “Also news of the mobilization of our fleet which ought to impress them here but will not simply because the people will not hear of it.”

That the political leaders of the Reich had not reckoned on a firm attitude on the part of the British government is more than sufficiently well known today. Such a view was again communicated to me, although quite peripherally, on 1 September 1939, when the staff officer assigned to the staff of the Mürwik Naval School, Fregattenkapitän Heinrich Ruhfus, shouted, apparently from the deepest conviction, to the midshipmen assembled on the parade ground on the occasion of the outbreak of war that he did not believe Great Britain and France would declare war on Germany.

During the days when I was trying to find the answer to this question, I often thought of an unforgettable meeting I had in London not long before. In the British Admiralty, the Director of Naval Intelligence, Rear Admiral J. A. G. Troup, a rather taciturn Scot, was responsible for liaison with the accredited naval attachés. His assistant in this duty was the cosmopolitan, suave Commander Casper S. B. Swinley, who handled the day-to-day business of liaison. At a routine official gathering soon after my arrival in London, Troup said to me, “Baron, one day soon you and I will dress in our cutaways, put on our top hats, climb into a taxi, and visit Lady Jellicoe.” I replied, “Admiral, it would be a great honor.” At that time no German naval officer had to be told who Lady Tellicoe was. But that was long ago, so I should explain that she was the widow of Admiral of the Fleet Lord Tellicoe, who died in 1935. Lord Jellicoe commanded the British Grand Fleet at the Battle of Jutland in May 1916 and was later First Sea Lord. He enjoyed great esteem in German naval circles as well as in his own country.

Troup’s first invitation to visit Lady Jellicoe was, however, not followed up, and I almost forgot about it. Then, at another meeting, Troup again said, “Baron, soon you and I will dress in our cutaways, put on our top hats, and go in a taxi to visit Lady Jellicoe.” I said, “Admiral, I would be delighted.” But once again it seemed that nothing was going to happen. Then one day Troup called me up: “Be at my house in the designated dress tomorrow afternoon. We’ll drive to Lady Jellicoe from here.” And so we did.

Lady Jellicoe received us in her tastefully furnished London flat.
The drawing room was decorated with many souvenirs of her husband’s long and distinguished naval career, notably a silver model of his flagship the
Iron Duke.

“I am delighted that Admiral Troup was so kind as to bring you to me,” Lady Jellicoe told me, “and I bid you a cordial welcome.” Then we discussed the two navies, the events of the world war at sea, the promising start towards an Anglo-German understanding around the turn of the century, its breakdown, and the subsequent, unhappy course of events. We parted with the mutual hope that peace between our two countries would be preserved—and that was more than an empty wish. I thought about this visit for a long time afterwards. Why had Lady Jellicoe wanted to see me? Ever since the end of the world war, her husband had been convinced that a political settlement with Germany would be in Britain’s best interest. He had worked for it with all his strength to the last, and this was the spirit in which Lady Jellicoe talked to me.

On a daily basis, most of my duties as assistant to the German naval attaché were performed in the office. My dealings with the Royal Navy were limited to liaison with the Admiralty; I did not visit any British ships. I evaluated the daily and monthly press, professional periodicals, and literature on naval topics, and I cultivated my contacts with the assistant naval attachés of other countries. I assisted my chief in his reporting activities, one of which was to observe the effects of Franco’s declaration of a blockage of the Republican coastal areas during the Spanish Civil War. Implementation of the 1935 naval treaty was naturally a very important facet of Anglo-German relations. Although the main business connected with that was not conducted in the office of the German naval attaché in London, correspondence on the subject came to our attention. In it, the two governments informed one another of the most important data regarding the warships they had under construction and had completed. This is how we learned the names of new British ships; for example, the battleships
King George V
and
Prince of Wales
and the aircraft carriers
Ark Royal
and
Victorious.
A report from our consulate in Glasgow in the summer of 1939 stated that the twenty-two shipyards on the Clyde would be working to capacity on new naval construction into the winter, and some of them for more than two years. When the
Prince of Wales
was launched at Birkenhead on 3 May 1939, the London agency of the German News Bureau reported: “This morning in Birkenhead the battleship
Prince of Wales
left the stocks, christened by the sister of the king. She is one of the fastest
and most powerful ships in the British fleet. She has a displacement of 35,000 tons and is armed with ten 14-inch guns in three turrets, sixteen 5.25-inch guns in eight twin mounts, and numerous smaller guns. Her speed is said to be greater than that of the battleship
Nelson
, which makes 23 knots. The
Prince of Wales
is the second ship of its class to leave the stocks. The first was the
King George V
, which left the stocks in the presence of the king in February. Three more ships of the same class will follow.”