Small Powers in the Age of Total War, 1900–1940 History of Warfare

Editors Kelly DeVries Loyola College Maryland John France University of Wales Michael S. Neiberg University of Southern Mississippi Frederick Schneid High Point University North Carolina

VOLUME 65 Small Powers in the Age of Total War, 1900–1940

Edited by Herman Amersfoort Wim Klinkert

LEIDEN • BOSTON 2011 Cover illustration: “In de Verdrukking. Holland: “De heeren oorlogvoerenden laten me niet veel ruimte om m'n boodschappen te doen.” by Albert Pieter Hahn (Groningen, 1877–1918).

Th is book is printed on acid-free paper.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Small powers in the age of total war, 1900-1940 / edited by Herman Amersfoort, Wim Klinkert. p. cm. -- (History of warfare, ISSN 1385-7827 ; v. 65) Includes bibliographical references and index. ISBN 978-90-04-20321-1 (hardback : alk. paper) 1. Europe--History, Military--20th century. 2. Neutrality--Europe--History--20th century. 3. Neutrality, Armed--Europe--History-- 20th century. 4. World War, 1914-1918--Europe. 5. World War, 1914-1918--Infl uence. 6. Netherlands--Military policy--History--20th century. 7. Belgium--Military policy--History-- 20th century. 8. Denmark--Military policy--History--20th century. 9. Norway--Military policy--History--20th century. 10. Switzerland--Military policy--History--20th century. I. Amersfoort, H. (Hermanus), 1951- II. Klinkert, W. III. Title. IV. Series.

D431.S65 2011 355'.033549--dc22

2011002720

ISSN 1385-7827 ISBN 978 90 04 20321 1

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, translated, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without prior written permission from the publisher.

Authorization to photocopy items for internal or personal use is granted by Koninklijke Brill NV provided that the appropriate fees are paid directly to Th e Copyright Clearance Center, 222 Rosewood Drive, Suite 910, Danvers, MA 01923, USA. Fees are subject to change. CONTENTS

List of Contributors ...... vii Preface ...... xi

Chapter One Introduction. Small States in a Big World ...... 1 H. Amersfoort and W. Klinkert

Chapter Two ‘Too Good to Be True?’ European Hopes for Neutrality before 1914 ...... 27 M. M. Abbenhuis

Chapter Th ree Neutral Tones. Th e Netherlands and Switzerland and Th eir Interpretations of Neutrality 1914–1918 ...... 57 P. Mo e y es

Chapter Four Fall K. German Off ensive Plans Against the Netherlands 1916–1918 ...... 85 W. Klinkert

Chapter Five German War Plans Against Denmark 1916–1918 ...... 119 C. Paulin

Chapter Six Th e Development of the Air Defence of Copenhagen ...... 135 M. H. Clemmesen

Chapter Seven Th e Debate on Denmark’s Defence 1900–1940 ...... 153 K. Galster

Chapter Eight Small Nations under the Gun. Europe 1914–1940 ...... 183 W. Murray vi contents

Chapter Nine Th e German Army in the Interwar Years ...... 201 M. Strohn

Chapter Ten Between Passéisme and Modernisation? Th e Case of the Belgian Fortifi cation System 1926–1940 ...... 221 J. Vaesen

Chapter Eleven Give us Back our Field Army! Th e Dutch Army Leadership and the Operational Planning During the Interwar Years ...... 251 H. Amersfoort

Chapter Twelve Neutrality Guard or Preparations for War? Th e Norwegian Armed Forces and the Coming of the Second World War ...... 281 T. Kristiansen

Chapter Th irteen Th e Development of the Swiss Army’s Combat Methods aft er the First World War ...... 307 M. M. Olsansky

Chapter Fourteen Strategic Dilemmas of a Small Power with Colonial Empire. Th e Netherlands East Indies 1936–1941 ...... 321 A. C. Tjepkema

Bibliography ...... 351

Name Index ...... 363

Geographical Index ...... 369 LIST OF CONTRIBUTORS

Dr. Maartje Abbenhuis is a Senior Lecturer of Modern European History at the University of Auckland, New Zealand. Her research interests lay in the fi eld of neutrality studies, particularly relating to Europe. In 2001 she received her Ph.D. on Dutch neutrality during the First World War at the University of Canterbury. In 2006 she published Th e Art of Staying Neutral. Th e Netherlands in the First World War: 1914–1918. She is now working on a monograph regarding the history of neutrality in Europe in the period 1815–1914.

Professor Herman Amersfoort is working since 2006 at the Netherlands Defence Academy as head of section Military History and Strategy. He studied history at the University of Leiden and received his Ph.D. in 1988 on the last Swiss regiments in Dutch service, 1814– 1829. Most of his publications discusses the history of the Dutch draft system and subjects concerning the Second World War. His current research focuses on Dutch military history in the Interwar years. Previous to the appointment at the Defence Academy, Amersfoort was researcher at the Netherlands Institute for Military History in Th e Hague. Since 1994 he also holds a chair as professor of Military History at the University of Amsterdam.

Michael Hesselholt Clemmesen, MA (hist.) Brigadier General (ret. Danish Army), was Director Strategy Department and Course Director of the Danish Joint Senior Command and Staff Course at the Royal Danish Defence College from 1991 untill 1994 and creator and fi rst Commandant of the Baltic Defence College from 1998 untill 2004. He has since the late 1980’s been lecturing military history, strategic theories and the realities of doctrinal development at staff and war college levels. Clemmesen is currently a senior research fellow at the Royal Danish Defence College Center of Military History. He has published numerous books and articles. His latest publication (2010) is – with the title translated from Danish-: Th e Long Approach to 9. April. Th e History about the Forty Years prior to the German Operation against Denmark and Norway. viii list of contributors

Kjeld Hald Galster, Ph.D., M.A., is a senior researcher at the Royal Danish Defence College in Copenhagen and a visiting lecturer at the University of Copenhagen. Moreover, he works as an external examiner of graduate and undergraduate history students at Danish universities. He served as an offi cer with the Royal Danish Life Guards and was a military advisor for the UN in Georgia from 1993 to 1994. 1996–99 he spent in the diplomatic service working on the staff of the Danish Delegation to the OSCE in Vienna. He published a wide range publications, articles and reviews regarding military history. His latest book is For King and Coff ers: Danish Troops with the Williamite Colours, 1689–9, to appear April 2011. Kjeld Galster is presently researching the intricacies of coalition warfare.

Professor Wim Klinkert studied history at the University of Leiden. Since his military service he is attached to the Royal Military Academy (present day Netherlands Defence Academy), since 1992 as associate professor. In 1992 he received his Ph.D. at the University of Leiden on Dutch defence strategy 1874–1914. His publications focus on Dutch military history between 1870–1945, the military history of Brabant and the history of military education. He co-edited and contributed to Militaire strategie (2002) and Studeren in uniform. 175 jaar KMA (2003). His current research focuses on the Dutch army 1900–1925. Since 2007 he is attached to the University of Amsterdam as professor of Military History.

Dr. Tom Kristiansen is a Senior Research Associate at the Norwegian Institute for Defence Studies. He is also responsible for the teaching programme on military theory and history at the Norwegian Command and Staff College. He is a graduate of the University of Oslo and earned his doctorate at the University of Bergen. Kristiansen has written extensively on Scandinavian diplomatic, naval and military history in the late 19th and fi rst half of the 20th centuries. Tom Kristiansen is now in the process of fi nishing a book on Norwegian security policy, strategy and eff orts to re-arm from the mid-1930s to the German attack in April 1940. During the recent years his focus has been on maritime issues and the defence traditions of small states. His latest books include Great Powers and the Scandinavian crisis 1905–07 (Stormaktene, Sverige og Norge 1905–1907 (2006) ) and the history of the Oslo Class frigates (Fregatter i Storm og Stille, (2007) ). list of contributors ix

Dr. Paul Moeyes works since 2001 as a teacher at the section Inter- national Degree in English and Education at the School of Education of Amsterdam. He is a module leader in Literature and History. He received his Ph.D. in 1993 with his thesis Siegfried Sassoon: Scorched Glory, published in 1997. His most well known publications are: Buiten Schot: Nederland tijdens de Eerste Wereldoorlog 1914–1918 (2001) and De Sterke Arm, de Zachte Hand: het Nederlandse leger en de Neutraliteitspolitiek 1839–1939 (2006), both dealing with Dutch neutrality.

Professor Williamson Murray graduated from Yale University in 1963 with honours in history. He then served fi ve years as an offi cer in the United States Air Force before returning to Yale University where he received his Ph.D. in military-diplomatic history. He taught two years in the Yale history department before moving on to Ohio State University in fall 1977 as a military and diplomatic historian. Professor Murray has taught at a great number of prestigious other institutions. Among his many important publications are: Military Eff ectiveness, three volumes (1988) with Allen Millet; Calculations, Net Assessment and the Coming of World War II (1992) and Military Innovations in the Interwar Period (1996). Professor Murray has also edited with MacGregor Knox, Th e Making of Strategy, Rulers, States, and War (1994) and Th e Dynamics of Military Revolution, 1300–2050 (2001). In 2000 Professors Murray and Millett have published an operational history of World War II, A War To Be Won, Fighting the Second World War. Presently he is a Senior Fellow at the Institute of Defence Analysis and a member of the National Strategic Studies Group.

Dr. Michael Olsansky is assistant professor in military history at the Militärakademie an der ETH Zürich (MILAK). His recent publications include: “Die “Südumfassung”. Zur Rolle der Schweiz im Schlieff en- und im Moltkeplan”, in: Der Schlieff enplan. Analysen und Dokumente edited by Hans Ehlert, Michael Epkenhans und Gerhard P. Gross (2006) and “Die deutschen Beteiligten und das frühzeitige Kriegsende in Italien 1945”, in: Militärgeschichtliche Studien II/Schrift enreihe: MILAK Schrift , Nr. 7 (2006).

Christian Paulin, MA is attached to the University of Copenhagen as a MA student and he is currently working on his Ph.D. thesis x list of contributors

entitled: Denmark and the Northern Neutrals in German Strategic Th ought during the First World War – a comparative study of German war plans against Denmark, Norway and Holland. In 2007 he was an assistant for Brig. Gen. Michael H. Clemmesen, at the Institute for Military History at the Royal Danish Defence College. Since 2008 Paulin is attached to the Danish Institute of International Studies (DIIS) in Copenhagen.

Dr. Matthias Strohn is, since 2006, Senior Lecturer in the Department of War studies at the Royal Military Academy Sandhurst, England. He lectures in general international Military History, the development of military theory, insurgency and counter-insurgency, expeditionary warfare and military doctrine to offi cer cadets and offi cers of the British army. He was awarded the degree of Philosophy at the University of Oxford. His main work is Th e German Army and the Defence of the Reich. Military Doctrine and the Conduct of the Defensive Battle 1918– 1939, published in 2010.

Col. Anne C. Tjepkema MA., worked as a helicopter pilot for the Royal Dutch Airforce. Recently he was Associate Professor Air Power at the Netherlands Defence Academy. His Ph.D. research focuses on the doctrine of the airforce of the Royal Dutch-Indian Army during the Interwar years. His main fi elds of expertise are the history of the military air doctrine, helicopter operations, air transport, future warfare and modern military operations in Afghanistan and Sudan.

Dr. Joost Vaesen studied history at the Free University of Brussels and he focused on military history. A revised version of his MA thesis concerning the Belgian military policy in the face of economic crisis during the 1930s was published by the Belgian Army Museum in 2004. Since 2001 he is working as a researcher at the History Department of the Free University of Brussels. In the spring of 2008 he there obtained his Ph.D. on Belgian federalism and the case of Brussels in particular. In the meantime he continued to publish on several aspects of military history, such as Belgian military historiography since 1970. PREFACE

Th is volume is the fruit of an international conference on Small Powers in the Age of Total War, 1900–1940, held at the Netherlands Defence Academy in Breda, the Netherlands, on 26 and 27 November 2008. Th e organizers believed there were good reasons for holding a conference devoted to the security questions faced by the smaller states of Europe in the period 1900 to 1940. In the fi rst place, the First World War, as the fi rst modern total war, presented the smaller European states with problems of a novel kind. Th e politics of laissez-faire and neutrality that neutral states had been wont to follow in previous decades were put to the test in an unprecedented manner shortly before and especially during the war of 1914–18. Th e anchoring of neutrality in international law, achieved during the Hague Peace Conferences, was no longer suffi cient as such. Th e preservation of neutrality required constant vigilance and skilful manoeuvring, not just in a political but also in a military sense. Th e war years, therefore, constitute a worthwhile case-study of the actual functioning and importance of neutrality policies in circumstances determined by a new way of warfare, viz. total war. Th is volume highlights the military policies of these neutral countries, which makes it an appropriate sequel to the collection published following the conference of the Netherlands Institute for War Documentation, entitled “Th e End of Neutrality?”, which was held in Amsterdam in 2009 and which focussed on the non-military aspects of neutrality.1 Our focus extends beyond the war years of 1914–18. In the following two decades the small states also had to ask themselves what consequences the Great War would have for their military policies. Con sidering their limited means, how were they supposed to follow the trends of increasing scale, the growing importance of technology and industrialisation, rising expenditure, and the increasing involvement of the civilian population in the war eff ort? Th is tension between, on the one hand, military logic and ever-increasing fi nancial requirements, and limited resources, on the other, was intensifi ed by the

1 Johan den Hertog and Samuël Kruizinga (eds.), Caught in the Middle. Neutrals, Neutrality and the First World War (Amsterdam: Amsterdam University Press, 2011). xii preface

economic recession of the 1920s, the economic crisis of the 1930s, and the threat of imminent war due to Germany’s rearmament and territorial expansion in the latter half of the 1930s. Dividing the subject into two parts has aff ected the layout of this volume: the fi rst part deals with the period from the turn of the century to the First World War, whereas the second part covers the 1920s and 30s until the outbreak of World War II. Both parts start off with an introductory article of a general historical nature about, respectively, the signifi cance of neutrality prior to the First World War, and the diffi cult relationship between law and power in the interaction between the greater European powers and the lesser ones in the inter-bellum. Th e organizers and compilers of this volume wish to express their gratitude, fi rst and foremost, to the authors who willingly made their contributions to the conference and adapted their articles for publication aft erwards. Grateful use was made of the editorial support of Drs. A. Alta and Drs. H. Kirkels, Lecturers in English at the Netherlands Defence Academy, who oversaw the editing of some of the articles. Harmonizing the texts of the various articles on the basis of the rules of the Chicago Manual of Style was done meticulously by Frederic Jonckheere, while Egbert Stolk, who had assisted in organizing the conference, left us a very useful fi le for putting this volume together. A fi nal word of thanks must deservedly go to Brill publishing house for this carefully produced book.

Th e editors CHAPTER ONE

INTRODUCTION SMALL STATES IN A BIG WORLD

H. Amersfoort and W. Klinkert

One of the primary responsibilities of any state is the development of a political-military strategy which meets the circumstances in which that state fi nds itself, the manner in which the state perceives its own position in its international relations, and the level of its ambitions in this. In this respect, the period between 1900 and 1940 was a diffi cult and turbulent one for the small European states. Having said this, the term ‘small states’ must fi rst be clarifi ed and defi ned. However, choosing the right criterion is no easy matter. Using population, Gross Domestic Product, size of territory or size of the armed forces each lead to diff erent rankings. And besides that it is obvious that whatever the criterion, most of the states in the interwar world are to be considered small. In the context of this volume, a defi nition that refers to military security seems more appropriate. Robert Rothstein for example defi ned the small state as “a state which recognizes that it cannot obtain security primarily by the use of its own capabilities, and that it must rely fundamentally on the aid of other states, institutions, processes, or developments to do so; Th e Small Power’s belief in its inability to rely on its own means must be recognized by other states involved in international politics”. A related defi nition introduces the way small states perceive themselves and are perceived by others: “[I]f a state’s people and institutions generally perceive themselves to be small, or if other state’s people and institutions perceive that state as small, it shall be so considered”. Combining these two defi nitions it seems fair to conclude that in the context of this volume the term ‘small states’ denotes those states that viewed themselves as such and that did not play an active role in the power- political controversies of the European great powers. Although this defi nition is not authoritative, for the period under scrutiny in this 2 h. amersfoort and w. klinkert book there is little discussion on what can be termed great and small powers.1 Th e problems facing these states in this period can be summarized as a dangerous combination of an increasing war threat, the growing infl uence of ideologies such as nationalism, communism, liberalism, national socialism and fascism on the war aims of the belligerents, an increase of scale in the conduct of war, the emergence of new and costly military technology, and overall off ensive military doctrines. Th e new century saw the re-emergence of a question that had been relevant as early as 1860, viz. whether small states would still have a role to play in the future Europe.2 Did the problems of a globalizing world not require great, strong states, and were the small ones not fated to disappear? At the time it could not be foreseen that the outcome of World War I would point in a completely diff erent direction. It was not the small states that went into decline, but rather the great ones, the losers of World War I. Four empires disappeared or dissolved, the German Empire, the Russian Czarist Empire, the Austrian-Hungarian Double Monarchy and the Ottoman Empire, while in the Interwar years, in particular, new small or weak states and mandated territories emerged in Central Europe and the Middle East. Th is did not mean that the strategic problems for the small states of Europe had ceased to exist aft er 1919, on the contrary. World War I had evolved into a total war and it was hardly a question anymore whether small states would be able to follow this trend in the conduct of war. In such circumstance, guaranteeing one’s own security by means of a

1 For the discussion on the defi nition of small states the authors are very much indebted to the contribution of Peter R. Baehr to the November 2008 congress in Breda. See also Chr. Ingebritsen et al., ed. Small States in International Relations, (Seattle, Reykjavik: University of Washington Press, University of Iceland Press, 2006), Robert L. Rothstein, Alliances and Small Powers, (New York, London: Columbia University Press, 1968) p. 29 and J. A. K. Hey, Small States in World Politics: Explaining Foreign Policy Behaviour, (Boulder CO: Lynne Rienner Publishers, 2003), p. 3. For the diff erent theories on the motives of states in their international relations see G. Wright, B. Porter ed. International Th eory. Th ree Traditions (Leicester: Leicester University Press London, 1991). For small states see E. Inbar, G. Scheff er ed. Th e National Security of Small States in a Changing World (London: Frank Cass, 1997). 2 For a brief description see M. de Keizer, I. Tames, ‘Introduction’ in: M. de Keizer, I. Tames ed. Small nations. Crisis and confrontation in the 20th century (Zutphen: Walburg Pers 2008) p. 7–24 and the quoted A. Alesina, E. Spolaore, Th e size of nations (Cambridge: MIT Press, 2003). For the Dutch and Belgian cases see C. A. Tamse, Nederland en België in Europa (1859–1871). De zelfstandigheidspolitiek van twee kleine staten (Den Haag: Nijhoff , 1973). introduction 3 national, independent political-military strategy became an insolvable problem, while good alternatives were absent. As a result of the Th ird Reich’s foreign policy, this issue was becoming acute in Europe from the mid-thirties onwards. World War II, however, like World War I, did not lead to a decline in the number of states; rather, the number of states, great and small, increased again. Th e defeat of the Th ird Reich led to the partitioning of Germany, while the dissolution of the colonial empires in Asia and Africa resulted in a number of new states. Th e same phenomenon manifested itself aft er the end of the Cold War with the dissolution of Czechoslovakia and Yugoslavia, two creations from 1919 of the Congress of Paris, and the emergence of new states in the southern periphery of the former Soviet Union. Simultaneously, with the disappearance of the Warsaw Pact, NATO saw itself faced with the challenge of reinventing itself, and new questions on the future of European political and economic integration were raised. It was a time in which small states more and more had to fend for themselves in an increasingly insecure world.3

Small States in the International Balance of Power

It goes without saying, therefore, that scientifi c research into the manner in which small states held their own in an age so full of confl ict is as relevant as that into the fate of the great states, who, on the face of it, seem to have determined the course of modern history. As stated above, this collection of essays focuses on the small European states in the period between 1900 and 1940. Th e observation made above certainly pertains to this period and to these states: the contributions to this collection clearly show that countries such as Switzerland, Belgium, the Netherlands, the Scandinavian countries and the humiliated great power Germany of the years 1919–1933 all struggled seriously with their security policies. Th is does not mean that they were also completely powerless, as at the same time their international positions, as well as the security policies they pursued, were constantly factors in the strategic calculations of the great powers on the continent. Th e relations

3 P. C. Bobbitt, Th e shield of Achilles. War, peace and the course of history (London: Allen Lane, 2002). D. Reynolds, One world divisible. A global history since 1945 (London: Allen Lane, 2000). 4 h. amersfoort and w. klinkert between states are not only formed by objective factors such as economic and military strength or geopolitical position, but also by the manner in which states perceive themselves as well as others. Th e latter relates to the political views on the state and status of a country, its own obligations, the perceived threats, the results of emanating strength or even bluff and the risks of over-estimation. Paul Kennedy4 and Jeremy Black5 have pointed out the paradoxical character of the power position of the great European powers in the early modern and modern periods. Th eir economic, fi nancial, political and military strength in principle gave them ample opportunities to impose their will on other states. Whether this was actually the case depended on the international power relations. Th eir dominant power position or even imminent hegemony could provoke reactions from rival great powers and coalitions of smaller states, whether or not under the leadership of a great power. As a consequence, the history of early modern and modern Europe – and not only this continent – is replete with international power confl ict, shift ing alliances, disruptions of the power balance and wars, especially wars of attrition. Kennedy and Black have shown that it was also the great powers in particular who were sensitive to the dangers ensuing from this. Th eir stature obliged them to constantly assert their strength, to intervene, take the initiative and wage war, on peril of losing their status as a great power. Eventually, imperial overreach, followed by imperial overstretch, would be lying in wait and the great powers would be digging their own graves. Th e ensuing inherent instability of the European balance of power would benefi t the small powers. Also, their modest military and other resources or their geopolitical position could be interesting for the great powers in their strategic considerations. Th is gives them, precisely because of their relative weakness, a considerable freedom of action. Th is freedom of action may also impact the relations that small states maintain with the great power they feel most affi liated with. Under certain circumstances a small state can go a long way in ignoring its larger partner or even treating it with contempt, as it knows that it has enough value to the latter to prevent the other from deserting it.6

4 P. Kennedy, Th e rise and fall of the great powers. Economic change and military confl ict from 1500 to 2000 (London: Unwin Hyman, 1988). 5 J. Black, Great powers and the quest for hegemony. Th e world order since 1500 (London: Routledge, 2008). 6 Th e most important comparative studies into the neutrality of small states aft er 1918 are: L. E. Roulet and R. Blätter ed. Les Etats neutres européens et la Seconde introduction 5

Small States and Neutrality

Th us the small states of Europe certainly were not powerless in the turbulent decades between 1900 and 1940. Th ey had at their disposal a range of options in their external security policies. Th e fi rst of these was to embark on a mutual alliance on the basis of guarantees of mutual support in case of an attack on any member of the alliance. Another option was to seek protection with one of the great powers on the continent by concluding a unilateral alliance, a choice also known as bandwagoning. A third possibility was neutrality, whether guaranteed or self-elected, temporary or not, and supported or not by the deterrent value of strong armed forces. A special case is that of imposed neutrality, laying down the framework of the foreign policy and military strategy of the state involved. Finally, the years aft er World War I saw a serious experiment with a collective security organization, the League of Nations. In practice the small states of Europe tried all these options between 1900 and 1940, either consecutively or in combination. Th e most popular of these was neutrality in its diff erent guises. In the 19th century it was very much a mainstream choice which became gradually codifi ed in international law, initiated by the experiences of the Franco- Prussian War. Th is codifi cation covered a broad range of issues from (sea)trade, contraband and accountability for the ‘neutral’ conduct of subjects to a mandatory eff ective maintenance of neutrality in order to obtain international legal acceptance of neutrality. Neutrals also gained experience in humanitarian action and the internment of the military personnel of belligerent countries. According to Abbenhuis, this undoubtedly gave the neutral states a useful function in international relations in the sense that they had a restricting infl uence on the use which great powers made of their political and military power. But it is also clear that there were quite diff erent factors, pointing rather at an imminent explosion of violence. Th e codifi cation of

Guerre mondiale (Neuchâtel: Editions de la Baconnière, 1985); R. L. Bindschedler Schwedische und Schweizerische Neutralität im Zweiten Weltkrieg (Basel: Helbing und Lichtenhahn, 1985); H. A. Schmidt Neutral Europe between war and revolution 1917– 1923 (Charlottesville: University Press of Virginia, 1988); J. M. Packard Neither Friend nor Foe (New York: Scribner 1992) and N. Wylie European neutrals and non-belligerents during the Second World War (Cambridge: University of Cambridge Press, 2002). For a discussion of this phenomenon in the Middle East during the Cold War see E. Karsh, ‘Th e Middle East and the Cold War. Th e tail that wagged the dog’ in: De Keizer, Tames, Small nations p. 162–179. See also H. Morgenthau, Politics among nations. Th e struggle for power and peace (New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 1948). 6 h. amersfoort and w. klinkert international rules of law took place in a period in which military organization was revolutionized. All but a few states used some form of conscription, and the development of weapons technology had considerably increased fi repower. Th us, the great powers created the conditions for industrially armed mass armies, turning World War I into the fi rst modern war. Simultaneously with the build-up of these armed forces came the militarization of society. Before the war, and even more during it, conscription and growing feelings of nationalism caused armies to develop into important instruments for internal cohesion and discipline, and the realization of far-reaching, ideology- domi- nated ambitions. Furthermore, in the decades leading up to 1914, neutral countries had to determine their role against a background of bloc formation in Europe and of growing international tension. World War I ruthlessly exposed the contrast between the international legal codifi cation of neutrality and the reality of power politics. Th e total character of this war deeply eroded the rights of the neutrals and dulled the moral appeal inherent in neutrality according to some states. True, most neutral states managed to stay outside the confl ict, but this required some diffi cult compromises. Because of this the war years were characterized by the destruction of many of the rights of neutrality that had been built up over the years and an erosion of the positive image of neutrality, yet, on the other hand, also by a dem- onstration of the ‘usefulness’ of small neutral states and diff erent forms of active interpretation of what neutrality actually meant for the various states.

Th e Appreciation of Neutrality

Th is volume investigates the signifi cance of armed forces as an instrument for the policy of neutrality and the way in which the small states diff ered in this respect. Th e complete picture of neutrality is of course much broader. Abbenhuis discusses in depth the diff erent types of nineteenth century neutrality: fi rst, permanent neutrality, guaranteed by other powers, second, long term neutrality, a voluntary choice made by states, and third, ad hoc neutrality. Th e countries discussed in this volume are examples of the fi rst two types. Th e questions dealt with here are of a military nature. How did neutrality and military preparedness interact in both guaranteed and voluntary neutral states? Partic- ularly during the Cold War period theoretical and historical treatises introduction 7 were published on this topic, dealing with the position of neutral states, their reasons for seeking neutrality and the military options for neutral states. Although these works cover a longer period, they also provide relevant insights for the early twentieth century. A classic study on neutral states is by the Norwegian Nils Ørvik, dating from 1953.7 In his view, the period between 1914 and 1918 is one of a decline in the position of neutral states. “Squeezed, battered, and beaten from both sides, they were compelled to do what was expedient, rather than what was desirable from their own point of view.”8 He illustrated this humiliating dependence by means of the economic stranglehold in which the belligerents held the Scandinavian neutrals in particular. In this respect he might also have pointed at the Dutch situation. He concludes, “Th ere can be little doubt that the small countries which had the choice preferred to stay neutral, because small and weak as they were, neutrality in its classic defi nition seemed to guarantee them just what they were afraid to lose: prosperity, sovereignty, political and economic independence. In spite of this, they were un-neutral, because they were too weak to resist the force of the belligerents, and consequently had to yield. What they lacked was not the will but the force.”9 Ørvik seems to soft en this stern judgement somewhat, especially with regard to the military leeway of the small neutral state, when in 1973 he states that when a neutral state opts for large armed forces, it can convince a large belligerent that it is capable of resisting the latter’s enemies. Th us, the belligerent need not fear that the neutral state will become the victim of its enemy, which may possibly cause the former to refrain from launching a preventative or even pre-emptive (in case the neutral state is perceived as a threat) attack on the neutral state itself. So, the small state must convince its big neighbours that ‘help’ in the guise of military intervention is unnecessary and does not serve the interests of the big states; in Ørvik’s words, a defence against help. Credible armed forces and the political will to use them are necessary requirements for this10, and this seems to be an option that fi ts the Dutch situation. A neutral state, then, is not entirely powerless. For this

7 N. Ørvik Th e Decline of neutrality 1914–1941 (Oslo: Frank Cass, 1953). 8 Quoted by R. Ogley, Th e theory and practice of neutrality in the twentieth century (London: Routledge, 1970) p. 87. 9 Ibid, p. 95. 10 N. Ørvik “Defence against help, a strategy for small states?” (1973) p. 228–231. 8 h. amersfoort and w. klinkert reason alone, Ørvik’s initial negative judgement on neutrality during World War I should be qualifi ed, and on top of that he emphasizes almost exclusively the power political interpretation of the concept. Without question, the great powers violated the rights of neutral states during the war, but there was still some leeway to preserve their neutrality and the neutrals managed to make clear that respect for their neutrality served the interests of the belligerents. With respect to this last argument, Ørvik agrees with Roderick Ogley, who three years earlier had pointed out that the military eff orts of small neutral states are relevant when they force the great powers to make a cost-benefi ts analysis of a possible intervention. Th e great power has to weigh the preservation of neutrality of a small state against a military violation of that neutrality. As it is, the latter action may be to the detriment of its own military main eff ort and may provoke counter-action from its opponent, creating a new front. Th e bottom line of this argument, however, is that the fate of neutral states is in the last instance determined in the capitals of the great powers.11 Th ese insights of Ørvik and Ogley coincide with those of Kennedy and Black mentioned above on the risks of imperial overreach and imperial overstretch of the great powers. An awareness among the great powers of these risks may lead to reservations with regard to the violation of the neutrality of small states. Finally, in connection with this it is worthwhile pointing out Efraim Karsh’s12 analysis on the credibility of the neutrality of small states. In his view, it depends on the established diplomatic tradition of the neutral country, its internal social and economic stability, its military strength, the absence of expansionist territorial aspirations and a stance of strict impartiality vis à vis the belligerents. Besides, a neutral state can strengthen its position by off ering diplomatic and humanitarian services and by continually demonstrating that its neutrality off ers the belligerents more advantages than disadvantages. Th is requires a thorough understanding of the interests the belligerents may have regarding a possible violation of that neutrality. Th ese interests need not be equal for all belligerents, as the geopolitical situation diff ers for all neutrals. Karsh argues that ‘rim states’, located in the periphery of the continent, have a better chance of preserving their

11 R. Ogley Th e theory and practice of neutrality in the twentieth century (London: Routledge, 1970). 12 E. Karsh Neutrality and small states. (London, 1988). introduction 9 neutrality than buff er states, whose possession may be considered so vital by a great state as to venture the use of violence. Belgium in 1914 is an example of this. Th us, the neutral state can cause a belligerent to refrain from violating neutrality by granting it certain advantages, such as a passage of goods, the delivery of raw materials or provision of information. So, Karsh expands Ørvik and Ogley’s train of thought by emphasizing the leeway a neutral state can create for itself for determining its own fate, albeit still within the proviso that the great power determines what is going to happen in the last instance. For Karsh, too, is forced to conclude that there is no guarantee of success, as instability in the international constellation or unrestricted ambitions of hegemony can always push a great power to a preventive or pre-emptive attack.

Neutrality and Politico-Military Strategic Culture

Although the theories discussed briefl y above do off er some help with regard to the options of the neutrals in the early twentieth century, it is not suffi cient. Th ey mainly seek the explanation of the politics of the small neutral states in the international balance of power, in the military threat to which the small states were exposed in a certain period and in their geopolitical situation. Of course, these are important factors. Th eir limitation, however, is that they mainly explain the similarities between the small states, whereas they fail to make clear why there were such great diff erences between the neutral countries during World War I and the interwar years. Th ey hardly have an eye for the internal diff erences and diverging political and military traditions of the neutral countries themselves. Many contributions to this volume point at the importance of the internal political relations for the realization of the security policy, while others stress the oft en tense relations between the political and military leadership of the small states. In this relation it is not the external threat and the way it develops and the geopolitical circumstances of a country which exclusively determine the security policy, but also the way this is perceived by the political and military leadership and the readiness or ability to accept the consequences. Th is perception may diff er per country. Th e same holds good for the extent to which a country embraces the legal angle of neutrality or the value of this legal basis as a moral high ground. In principle these values are absolute, but are they so in the everyday politico-military practice? Besides, there is the 10 h. amersfoort and w. klinkert question of the role the armed forces played in active support of neutrality. Th e answer to such questions determined the extent to which a government faced with a (threat of) war was prepared to accommodate the belligerents or even favour one of the parties over the others, apparently without deeming this in contravention of neutrality. All these questions pertain to the internal politico-military relations, at the heart of which lay the stance of diff erent political parties with regard to the security policy and the infl uence of internal changes of power. It is also about the extent to which defence was a politicized issue and the question whether politicians could speak with authority on military policy, for instance, on the basis of know-how, or whether they more or less left it to the military leadership, while checking on main lines until an international crisis forced them to show a more direct involvement. Underneath these questions lie deeper factors of infl uence, such as a country’s historical experiences, the manner in which the politico-military elite and other parties involved with security policy dealt with earlier comparable security issues and established traditions with regard to defence. In the last instance, such patterns belong to the political and military-strategic culture of a country.13 An important element in this is the image a country has of itself in an international context and the extent to which other states, and in particular the great powers, respect this self-image in their strategic considerations. Th is is a complex and internally contradictory subject. Th e Dutch neutrality, for instance, was on the one hand based on strong armed forces, within the Dutch capabilities, but also on the concept of moral superiority. In the decades leading up to World War I the Netherlands developed a strong self-image and foreign reputation of a champion of international legal rules that were to codify the rights and obligations of neutral states more precisely. Th e basis of this was an obvious self-interest, which the politico-military elite aimed to legitimize through the moral superiority of the appeal to justice rather than stark force and the violence of war. Th is ingenious combination of limited actual strength and a widely communicated self-image of moral superiority can also be seen in other small states. Th us, the Scandinavian countries in the period also cultivated the concept of neutrality as the moral stance of choice. Th is did not prevent the same northern states from seeking, albeit fruitlessly, international guarantees for their

13 See for instance P. J. Katzenstein Th e culture of national security. Norms and identity in world politics (New York: Columbia University Press, 1996). introduction 11

neutrality. During World War I Belgium could profi t internationally from the unprovoked violation of its neutrality, the ensuing atrocities against its civilian population perpetrated by the Germans and the destruction of its cultural heritage. Th is self-image brought the country much international sympathy in a critical period.14 In the Swiss case neutrality developed into such an unalienable part of the national self- image that the neighbouring countries could also hardly imagine this country as other than neutral. Paradoxically, this gave it the leeway to bargain with its neutrality by giving belligerents advantages, which were in fact in contravention with neutrality. Th e problem with such self-images is that they are intellectual constructions within the national political and societal structure, and as such they prevent and legitimize a lack of true political and military strength. On the face of it, this may be adequate for internal political relations, but, as said before, in the international power politics in the last instance true political and military strength tips the balance. Pending this, other, greater powers may respect the self-image of a small power, if and as long as this is in their interest. Even within the national context this self-image is not free from problems. In their guise as intellectual constructions national self- images may even co-exist alongside other, contradicting ones. Th e early twentieth century Netherlands is a case in point of such a complex situation. In this period it was a small, neutral power, playing hardly any role of signifi cance in international power relations. Th at was why it developed a self-image as a champion of the international rule of law. At the same time, however, it wanted to be seen as a country of a larger order, in view of its major colonial possessions in Asia. But here, too, it was more self-image than true strength, its position in Asia being totally dependent on the protection of its colonial neighbour, the British Empire, and later the United States of America. Th is latent truth would only come to light in Europe and Asia through the course of history, with the German invasion in May 1940 and the Japanese conquest of the colony in late 1941-early 1942, followed by the decolonization war of 1945–1949.15

14 In the Balkans the cultivation of the victimization of the small states or peoples is an old, regularly recurring phenomenon. Repression and cruelties by foreign rulers proved to be useful means for obtaining moral and factual support from third parties. See the cited volume De Keizer, Tames. Small Nations. 15 J. A. de Moor, ‘Met klewang en karabijn: een militaire geschiedenis van Nederlands-Indië (1815–1949)’ in: J. R. Bruijn, C. B. Wels, Met man en macht. 12 h. amersfoort and w. klinkert

Denmark is another case in point in this context as is shown by K. Galster in his overview of the debate on Denmark’s defence in the 1900–1940 period. He addresses the problem of how in a democratic political system party politics and changing political coalitions determine the diffi cult adaptation of a country’s defence strategy to a changing international environment and, especially aft er World War I, to the increased perceived threat from Denmark’s southern neighbour Germany. Th us Galster provides the internal political context for the other contributions on Denmark’s military-operational decision making before and during World War I and continues the argument in the Interwar period. Th ere is every reason, as this volume shows, to consider the internal politics and the politico-military strategic culture of the small states as a factor for the emergence of the security policy to be at least as important as the foreign military threat or the geopolitical position of the countries, the factors that usually attract the most attention. A comparison of the various small states on this point is a vital key to the explanation for the divergent reactions of those countries to the same, or at least comparable, foreign military threats.

Th e Period Between 1890 and World War I

Th e three states at the heart of this volume in the period of World War I are Denmark, Switzerland and the Netherlands. What they have in common is their geographical position, wedged as they were in between the warring power blocks. But the concrete political and military measures they employed to shape their neutrality diff ered and this was mostly, as has been argued above, the result of their internal situations. Th is allowed one country to choose a line of conduct which in another would have been rejected as being at odds with neutrality. First, let us have a look at the similarities. All three states had a tradition of neutrality and of an armed defence in case war should break out in the near future. Besides, they took into account the possibility of their territory (on land or at sea) being used by a belligerent and had reinforced

De militaire geschiedenis van Nederland 1550–2000 (Amsterdam: Balans, 2003) p. 199– 244; F. Gouda, Dutch Culture Overseas: Colonial Practice in the Netherlands-Indies, 1900–1942 (Amsterdam: Amsterdam University Press, 1995) and M. C. Rickfels A History of Modern Indonesia (Stanford: Stanford University Press) p. 208. introduction 13 their key areas with modern fortifi cations. In the Netherlands this was the Fortress of Amsterdam, in Denmark the Fortress of Copenhagen and in Switzerland the Gotthard Fortress.16 Apart from their armies these were the most tangible manifestations of their will to defend their countries for a longer period of time. But it is, in fact the diff erences that are striking. Th e Danish armed forces were very small, while the Swiss army was bigger, but diff ered from the others in being composed on the basis of a militia. As for its composition and organization, the Dutch army was emphatically based on the German model, and besides, of considerable size, with a strength of 200,000 men in a population of over six million. Th e government and the army leadership emphatically believed in a signal function towards the belligerents. Th e Swiss and Danish armies were not used in this manner, on the contrary. Th e Danish government was of the opinion that a large armed force would present an occasion for hostile attacks. Th e Swiss government reduced the number of standing troops, which at the beginning of the war had been at a strength of 200,000, to 50,000 men in 1914, and reduced it even further to 20,000 in 1918.17 It was the internal political relations and the civilian-military relations that led to these diff erent outcomes. During the mobilization it became clear how much the infl uence of the army leadership diff ered in the three countries. Only the Nether- lands, which had the most ‘Prussian’-style army of the three,18 not only kept its standing army up to level, but also trained so many men that in the worst case an army of half a million men could be fi elded. Far more than Denmark, the Netherlands had a Prussian military culture, which was supported politically and resembled the Prussian military tradition, albeit without an off ensive stance. It was also diff erent from the Swiss military tradition, which was so bound up with the militia character of the army, rooted as it was in the cantonal citizenship. Besides, the Netherlands had a large colonial empire, where just prior to World

16 Th e Swiss operational war planning before and during World War I is described at length in H. R. Fuhrer Die Schweizer Armee im Ersten Weltkrieg (Zürich: NZZ Verlag, 1999). Th e background to Swiss neutrality is analyzed in M. Mittler Der Weg zum Ersten Weltkrieg (Zürich: NZZ Verlag 2003). 17 G. Hirschfeld Enzyklopädie Erster Weltkrieg (Paderborn: Ferdinand Schöningh 2001). 18 Th ere has been little research to date into the extent to which the small European states mirrored Prussia with their armed forces and military culture. For Switzerland R. Jaun Preussen vor Augen (Zürich: Chronos, 1999) off ers an excellent introduction. 14 h. amersfoort and w. klinkert

War I many military successes had been achieved, which had boosted nationalism. In this respect, the Netherlands seems to be an exception compared to the other two small neutrals. All three countries had to somehow deal with the Allied blockade of Germany, and especially in the fi eld of the economy this issue dominated the policy of neutrality. But here too there were diff erences. Switzerland could aff ord itself a bit more freedom, in that it could negotiate with diff erent belligerents for what it had on off er: arms. Th e Netherlands, extremely important for Germany as a transfer area, faced severe British pressure, but realized that it should not relent to the British pressure to such an extent that the Germans could no longer profi t from Dutch neutrality. Such a situation would lead to German measures, including military ones.19 Th e Danish mostly experienced pressure from Germany. Th e three states were well aware of the military vulnerability of their neutrality and realized that there was a real possibility of their territorial integrity being violated. For the Netherlands, this was narrowed down to the eccentric provinces of Limburg and Zeeland, for Denmark, the waters of Skagerak and Kattegat, and for Switzerland, the lower north-western regions. To all likelihood such a violation would be carried out as a pre-emptive or preventative move by one of the bellige r- ents. In Klinkert’s and Paulin’s contributions the Danish and Dutch stance towards a possible German preventative attack is analyzed, and this case, too, shows an interesting combination of diff erences and similarities. Both states started out from the possibility of preventative attacks, either by the Germans or the British, and both states deemed active diplomacy an important instrument in diminishing that danger. For the Danish, this mostly came down to establishing contacts with the German government and sharing information in order to testify to the Danish sincerity with regard to neutrality. Denmark lacked the military component to lend force to this, whereas the Netherlands emphatically employed it. Besides, there was a diff erence between the Netherlands and Denmark in the sense that the former tried to spread its secret political and military contacts evenly over Germany and Great Britain.

19 Th e economic history of Swiss neutrality is described in R. Rosfeld and T. Strauman ed. Der Vergessene Wirtschaft skrieg (Zürich: Chronos, 2008), that of the Netherlands in M. Frey Der Erste Weltkrieg und die Niederlanden (Berlin: Akademie Verlag, 1995). introduction 15

Klinkert shows that the Dutch political and military leadership attempted to remain in contact with both belligerents and even share information with them, in order to show that it would maintain a strict Dutch neutrality to the utmost. Instead of bending along with the Germans, as the Danes did, the Dutch leadership had more confi dence in such a stance. In their neutrality policy both the Netherlands and the Danes exploited the discord at the time between German army, navy and civilian politicians.20 Th e Swiss, Moeyes explains, were even more active and with that more free and open with their international contacts. Th ey were without the almost forced emphasis on the legal basis of their neutrality and handled it far more pragmatically. Th e Swiss considered their neutrali ty as so obvious that further emphasis on it was unnecessary. Th us, they felt more at liberty to enter into far-reaching contacts with belligerents, which other neutral states would consider dangerous violations of neutrality, a point which was raised above. For the Danes things were diff erent, as Clemmesen emphasizes. Th e left government had not only been prepared to lay mines in Danish waters on the ‘request’ of the Germans in August 1914, it also held the view that there should be no expansion of the cadre of the army, that private industry should stay away from arms production – aft er all, this could be interpreted as a provocation – and that the defence eff ort as a whole, for the same reason, should decrease rather than increase. Th is military reserve was a direct result of the left -liberal character of the government. Both Klinkert and Paulin demonstrate the above-mentioned general rule that small neutral states, in spite of their being weak, still have the means to take their fate into their own hands, but that the decision whether or not to attack a neutral state lies with the large belligerents. One of the main reasons why Germany chose not to was the same for the Netherlands and Denmark. It could not spare the troops it needed for the main eff ort on the west front. Th e military eff ort an attack would require, added to the risk of a new front, was too great. As long as the Germans were convinced that Great Britain would not attack Denmark or the Netherlands, and as long as they could profi t from the neutrality

20 For a detailed discussion of the Danish military neutrality policy see M. Clemmesen Th e Danish armed forces 1909–1918 (Copenhagen: Royal Danish Defence College, 2007). 16 h. amersfoort and w. klinkert of these countries, an attack would probably be counter-productive. In this respect Fall J and Fall K, the German plan of operations for an intervention in Denmark and the Netherlands, respectively, were very similar. Both Paulin and Clemmesen show that there was one military investment that did have an eff ect on German military planning: the Copenhagen fortress. Paulin concludes that it was these fortifi cations that caused the Germans to refrain from carrying out a possible bombardment of Copenhagen by the German navy. Focusing on the Danish side of the fortress construction, Clemmesen shows that the Danish military leadership was aware of the possibility of military violence against the larger cities – with London as an example – becoming incorpo rated in accepted methods of warfare. Th e defence of Copenhagen was a telling example of the manner in which the realization of the totality of modern warfare took hold.

Th e Interwar Years

Th e small states in Europe that had managed to stay neutral during World War I retained this policy aft er the war had ended. But the war that lay behind them had given their neutrality a diff erent meaning. As in so many areas, World War I is also a watershed in the history of the continent in this respect. Before the war neutrality was a realistic, rational and functional concept which contributed to limiting wars and keeping the balance of power. Aft er World War I, and in particular as the thirties progressed, it became increasingly an option for lack of something better; an option that could barely hide the fact that the external security problem of the small state had become impossible to solve. Where the twenties had still seen signs of hope with the Locarno Treaties in 1925 or the Kellogg-Briand Pact of 1928, the developments in Germany aft er 1933 caused concern in many European capitals. As early as the twenties a number of the new Central European states drew the conclusion that they had to associate themselves with one of the great powers. Th is brought France her Little Entente. Up to 1936 Belgium, too, opted for military cooperation with France. Other countries held on to their pre-war neutrality. In both cases the future was equally uncertain. In World War II the Little Entente could protect neither France nor the Central European states from loss of independence. Th e neutrals, including Belgium aft er 1936, suff ered divergent introduction 17 fates. Th us, Sweden and Switzerland stayed out of the war, but most small neutral states were drawn into the confl ict. For them, World War I had turned their neutrality into something diff erent from what it had been before 1914. Th ere are several reasons for this. Th e War had seriously discredited the concept of neutrality and exposed a vulnerability that needed to be defended constantly instead of off ering a self-evident protection. Th e moral appeal of neutrality on which the neutrals had banked had paled. Th ey had seen that the great powers had not shied away from gross violations of international rules of law. In this war international rule of law had increasingly had to yield to necessities of war. Furthermore, this total war had hit them directly on all sorts of fronts. Th ey had deeply felt the eff ects of the British blockade of the continent, the trade restriction, the confi scation of ships and the food shortages. Th e unexpectedly long duration of the war had forced the governments of the neutral countries to establish a war economy, by cutting deep into the normal economy and by harnessing sectors of industry to the defence eff ort. Militarily the political and military lead- erships had had to deal with provocations and possible military interventions from the belligerents. Only in this way had they been able to maintain the credibility of the neutrality, and although they had stayed out of the armed battle, each of the neutral states had had its own share of war experience. Apart from this, the increase of scale and the violence of modern warfare posed an insurmountable problem for the small states. With their limited fi nancial-economic and demographic resources and limited territory lacking any decent strategic depth, they would not be able to follow these trends. And insofar as they tried it anyway, they usually did so without any experience of the warfare of 1914–1918. Th us, the divide between the manner in which the great powers could wage war and that of the small states became wider. It became manifest in the revolutionary development of the air arm, which lent the conduct of war a new, technologically modern and costly dimension and, most important of all, next to the armed forces, made the civilian population the object of military violence. Th is also manifested itself in the motorizing and mechanizing of the land forces, which allowed faster and deeper operations, the command and control of which was enabled by the use of radio. Both these developments made small states vulnerable. Besides, they also required a war industry which would give the armed forces, also in the days of the industrial warfare, their necessary sustainability. Moreover, these developments forced them to seek the 18 h. amersfoort and w. klinkert right balance between the demands of position warfare, on the one hand, and manoeuvre warfare on the other. Th is involved fundamental issues, such as the operations plans, the military organization, the relation between the peacetime and wartime strength, the size of the professional cadre in relation to the reserve cadre, the system of mobilization, the style of training, material equipment and preparations for a deep mobilization of the entire society for a possible new total war.21 Furthermore, the great powers were now able to carry out a successful strategic surprise attack with the peacetime strength of their armed forces, before the small state would have a chance to mobilize. Th is partially undid the military deterrence their armed forces could muster. In hindsight, this was a theoretical threat, as the course of events during the German actions between 1938 and 1940 against Austria, Czecho- slovakia, Poland, Denmark, Norway, Belgium and the Netherlands clearly showed. In all these cases the military annexation or conquest was preceded by a political crisis. But that did not mean that the small countries could ignore such a scenario. Th ese developments forced Germany’s major opponents, France and Great Britain, to carefully determine their stance towards the threatened neutral states. From 1938, for instance, they conducted secret negotiations with Belgian and Dutch political and military authorities on possible cooperation in case of a German attack. Th ese negotiations did not lead to giving up neutrality, but they did make it particularly ambiguous. While publicly professing strict neutrality, the governments were preparing an allied war against Germany behind the scenes. Militarily speaking, therefore, the policy of neutrality had already gone bankrupt before the outbreak of the war. Th us, Belgium to some extent returned to the military cooperation with France it had offi cially ended in 1936. Th e Netherlands acted in accordance with the conclusion the General Staff had drawn in the 1920s.22 In case of the Netherlands, it cannot be ruled out that Germany saw through this duplicity and that this infl u- enced the German decision to attack the country in May 1940.23

21 A. R. Millett, W. Murray, Military eff ectiveness Volume II Interwar years. (Boston: Allen & Unwin, 1998). 22 H. Amersfoort, Een harmonisch leger voor Nederland. Oorlogsbeeld, strategie en operationele planning van het Nederlandse leger in het Interbellum (Breda: Nederlandse Defensie Academie, 2007). 23 T. van Gent, Het falen van de Nederlandse gewapende neutraliteit, september 1939–mei 1940 (Amsterdam: Bataafsche Leeuw, 2009). introduction 19

Another reason why the post-war neutrality diff ered from the pre- war one was that the war had clearly laid bare the diff erences between the neutralities of the various countries. Instead of a uniform concept, it had proved to be a complex phenomenon, composed of diverging national politico-military strategies. Th e Netherlands had pursued an armed and active neutrality policy, whereas the Danish neutrality can be characterized as moral-passive. Switzerland had followed a very pragmatic course and the ‘rim states’ Norway and Sweden had not deemed it inconsistent with their neutrality to favour one of the belligerents. Yet another factor that lent post-war neutrality its specifi c character was the emergence of new types of neutrality not bound up with states. Among them were humanitarian actions by the Vatican, as the leader of the Catholic world community, and the increased importance and further development of humanitarian war law at several international conferences and through the International Committee of the Red Cross in Geneva. Th e international anti-militarism and pacifi sm that emerged in many European countries as a reaction to the bloodbaths of World War I, also signifi ed a chance of direction, as these movements proposed a radical political alternative to the traditional policies. One last factor worth mentioning is the establishment of the League of Nations. Under the actual circumstances of the 1920s and 1930s the system of collective security which the League aspired to did not provide small states with a serious alternative for their security policy. Most of them, however, joined and this led, implicitly or explicitly, to a redefi nition of their neutrality as a result of the stipulations about the right of passage of foreign armies and mutual assistance based on the League of Nations treaty.24

Strategic Culture, Home Politics and Operational Planning

World War I discredited the concept of neutrality. Th at held serious consequences, as international relations aft er Hitler’s assumption of power in Germany became increasingly dominated by stark power politics. As Murray argues, this uncompromisingly laid bare the fundamental diff erence between great and small powers in Europe during

24 John Horne pointed this out in the First World War Studies Conference in London, September 2009 20 h. amersfoort and w. klinkert the Interwar years. He assumes the realist’s perspective when he argues that in the relations between states it is ultimately pure military power that tips the balance and not considerations of justice or fair play. Th is means that the great powers will always treat each other during and aft er armed confl icts in a diff erent way than small states. A great power will always treat a defeated other great power as a potential equal and this is to the detriment of the small states. In the same vein, a defeated great power will not begin to behave like a small power, but it will always act from the perspective of the power it had prior to the defeat and which it aspires to for its future. Th is last point is underlined by Strohn’s contribution on the German army in the interwar years. In a military sense the Treaty of Versailles relegated Germany to a third-rate power. In the view of the German government that was a harsh fate for a great power and it called a number of meetings to investigate the military options Germany had at its disposal in case of a rejection of the Treaty. In the east there was still a chance of tactical and operational successes, but that would be off set by the foreseeable strategic defeat in the west. Aft er signing Versailles, the Truppenamt looked into the possibility of building up an army based on the Reichswehr, capable of a showdown with the allies in case of war. Aft er the occupation of the Ruhr area had shown the futility of such plans, even a radical solution – arming the population to fi ght a guerrilla war – popped up briefl y. Th is initiative, however, was as fruitless as the previous plans. Th e inconsistencies in the German operational planning were solved aft er Hitler came to power in 1933. In the years leading up to the outbreak of World War II Germany’s military might and the place it demanded for itself in international relations gradually aligned, albeit in this case for a criminal political programme. Th e threat of war during the 1930s forced upon the small states the acuteness of the issue of how to prepare militarily for the inescapable next European war, and especially the question of whether they would be able to keep up with the increase in scale that the previous war had heralded. Th e dilemma was the same in Norway, the Netherlands, Belgium and Switzerland. Th e solutions embraced by each country show diff erences and similarities, which, in that time, too, depended on their geopolitical position, internal political relations and the dominant strategic culture. As border states of Germany, the Netherlands and Belgium faced the same dangers. As Vaesen and Amersfoort argue, both countries expected they would be unable to stay out of the coming Franco-German war. introduction 21

For the Netherlands this was a change in the military-strategic expectation, which was entirely due to the eff ects of the last war. On an operational level both countries wrestled with the problem of which conclusions they should draw from the type of warfare World War I had left behind. Should they prepare for position warfare in a static, prepared defence? And if this was the choice, which part of the territory should be defended, the whole territory or only part of it? Or did modern technology, with its mechanizing and motorizing of war, point more in the direction of a mobile defence in depth with a fi eld army that used successive strong lines? In the Dutch case the political and military debate focused on the question whether the centre of gravity of the defence should lie to the south of the Rhine, Waal and Meuse Rivers, or to the north. Th e border area with Belgium off ered the best possibilities for the Dutch fi eld army to cooperate with the Belgian and French armed forces. To the north of the rivers the Netherlands was more on its own, but the possibilities for position warfare were more favourable as a result of the construction of the New Hollands Water Line and the Fortress of Amsterdam in the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. In Belgium the issue centred around the choice between a more static border defence, which would exploit the good terrain in the Ardennes, on the one hand, and a more mobile defence in depth, which would culminate into a tenacious defence of the coast and the ports of Antwerp, Ostend and Zeebrugge, on the other. Th e fi rst option was most favourable for cooperation with the French armed forces, while the second was more directed at keeping the connection with the sea open, and so primarily Great Britain. Both countries failed to solve these dilemmas satisfactorily and encountered the Wehrmacht in 1940 with an ambiguous operational plan, which in the case of the Netherlands was not coordinated well with the allies, on top of that. Th e cause for this, however, was diff erent for both countries. In the Netherlands, Amersfoort argues, the politico-military decision making on the modernization of the fi eld army and the plan of operations was hampered by the fact that the two military authorities involved were not in full agreement and consequently failed to convince the Minister of Defence of the correctness of their view. Th e discussions on these issues were mostly conducted behind closed doors and were not complicated by involvement of Parliament, political parties, lobby groups or the electorate. In spite of this, the functionaries involved did not manage to break the impasse into which the operational decision-making kept sliding back, with the above-mentioned ambiguous outcome. 22 h. amersfoort and w. klinkert

In Belgium the defence issue was strongly politicized throughout the interwar years, and that is, in Vaesen’s view, the main cause for the instability in the operational preparation for war. In Belgium the question which part of the country was to be defended could not be separated from the division of the country in a French-speaking part bordering on France, and a Flemish-speaking part that comprised most of the coastal area. Major military issues were automatically bound up with the language issue, and consequently with partisan politics. Changes of Cabinets more than once led to changes of direction between a border defence in the Ardennes and a mobile defence in depth, with the result that on the eve of World War II Belgium was stuck with a strategic-operational concept which consisted of entirely diff erent and in part mutually exclusive components. In the course of the interwar years Norway found itself in a comparable position to Belgium and the Netherlands. For the former country, too, World War I had led to a profound change in the international security situation and within the political-military leadership serious diff erences of opinion surfaced with regard to a suitable answer. Th e country had not known war for a long time, and it had developed a tradition of international abstinence, no attachment, faith in international law and a rejection of the use of military force as an instrument of foreign policy. Th e army had acquired a strongly territorial character, directed at the protection of the population in the entire territory, and was rooted in local society. Th is cadre-militia army fi tted the egalitarian character of Norwegian society well, just as the tradition of being unattached fl owed naturally from the eccentric location of the country on the edge of the continent, protected by an uninviting North Sea. Aft er World War I this comfortable situation came to an end, when the country came to lie at the very heart of German, British and Russian interest in the northern region. At the same time, Germany and Great Britain became more and more convinced of the strategic importance of the Norwegian coast for control of the Atlantic Ocean. Technological innovations and an increase of scale in naval warfare increased the risk of violation of Norwegian neutrality from the sea. Th e rapid rise of the air arm exposed the country to aerial bombardments or a strategic air raid, whether or not in combination with naval forces. Th ese developments caused a military bankruptcy of neutrality policy aft er World War I as bad as in Belgium (aft er 1936) and the Netherlands. Given its traditional orientation towards Great Britain, a war fought on the British side against Germany was the most likely. introduction 23

Th e political leadership found it very hard to fi nd an adequate answer to this new situation. In the fi rst place, it had little experience with military issues and cooperation with the military leadership. In the second place, it was unclear what would constitute the best response, militarily speaking. In this respect, Norway wrestled with the same problems as did the Netherlands and Belgium, a discussion which was complicated even further by the option not to defend the country at the borders, but more from a distance by reinforcing the navy and air forces. In this regard Norway did profi t from its eccentric position, an option that Germany’s direct neighbours, the Netherlands and Belgium, lacked. When Switzerland is taken into the equation, the picture becomes even more interesting. As with everywhere else it was a moot point in Switzerland whether aft er World War I the country should opt for a static defence or position war, or that the new technology would be able to bring back mobility in the war and lend new possibilities to the off ensive. As Olsansky shows, the Swiss answer was surprising in the sense that it in fact ignored the revolutionary signifi cance for the land war of World War I. In the view of the Swiss military leadership, the classic infantry was still the best combination of fi re power and movement, in spite of all the new technologies and the increased importance of heavy fi eld artillery. Mass in combination with a highly- developed off ensive spirit should, just as before 1914, be able to break through a defensive front or to sustain one’s own defence by means of counter-attacks. It is easy to understand that this idea about warfare was a proof of the strength of the pre-war military culture in Switzerland, a strong inspiration of the pre-war French doctrine and a good fi t with the militia character of the Swiss army.25 It is equally easy to see, Olsansky argues, that the evaluation of World War I was seriously fl awed. It is obvious to suppose that this is due to the lack of actual war experiences during the period 1914–1918.26

25 Probably, of the small states the Swiss neutrality has received the most academic attention. See for instance: M. Heiniger Dreizehn Gründe warum die Schweiz im Zweiten Weltkrieg nicht erobert wurde (Zürich: Limmat Verlag, 1989); S. P. Halbrook Target Switzerland (New York: Sarpedon 1998) and G. Kreis (ed.) Switzerland and the Second World War (London: Frank Cass, 2000). 26 In this respect the Swiss post-war doctrine is similar to the American doctrine from the interwar years. Although the American army had its own experiences with the West Front, it had not gone through the static trench warfare, only the successful allied off ensive of 1918. See W. O. Odom, Aft er the trenches. Th e transformation of the US Army, 1918–1939 (College Station: Texas A&M University Press, 2008). 24 h. amersfoort and w. klinkert

Also with regard to the Dutch colonial possessions in Asia, the Netherlands-Indies, the military leadership hindered a smooth preparation of the defence, in this case against Japan. Th e problem here was not an inadequate idea of modern warfare, but, as Tjepkema argues, a deeply-rooted rivalry, going back to the pre-World War I period, between the fl eet and the East Indies army over the question as to who should have the main responsibility for the defence of the colony. At fi rst it seems the fl eet, heavily equipped, would get the better of it, but the ascendancy of the air arm, in particular the bomber, gave the army the opportunity to thwart the navy. In the past the army had had to content itself with the defence of the heart of the colony, the island of Java, in case a Japanese invasion force had landed there. Now it would be able to attack the transport ships when they were entering the entrances at the periphery of the archipelago, where, until now, the navy had had everything to itself. Tjepkema concludes that the bomber fl eet was a tactically feasible concept, but the fact remains that the rivalry between the fl eet and the army was detrimental to the strength of the defence of the Dutch East Indies.

Conclusion

In general, pursuing military-historical science takes place within national frameworks. In most countries the military historians concentrate on their national histories, oft en even divided in the historiography of the separate Services. For a number of reasons this is diffi cult to avoid, but it does the complexity of the object of research an injustice. Comparative research, both between services and countries, therefore, is a fruitful addition in this situation. Th e present volume shows that a comparative approach can considerably increase our understanding of the neutrality policy of the small European states and the importance of the armed forces in this in the early decades of the previous century. Neutrality has proved to be a dynamic, changeable concept. At the end of the nineteenth century it was a useful, respected and not too problematical instrument for ensuring national security. During World War I the small states found that their neutrality became part and parcel of the strategic calculations of the belligerents, both in the showdown between the warring parties and in the relation of the neutrals towards them. Th is forced the neutral states to do something they had anxiously avoided in the introduction 25 past: playing along in the game of power politics and the use of their armed forces in this. Th ey had to learn to see through the intentions of the warring parties. Besides, they had to fi nd out how to infl uence the strategic considerations of the great powers to their advantage by sending political and military signals, without compromising their neutrality to such an extent that they gave occasion to a military intervention of one of the great powers. Most countries succeeded in this balancing act, but this had a paradoxical eff ect. On the one hand, the period between 1914–1918 confi rms the correctness of the path followed, but, on the other, it was precisely through and aft er the war that the neutrality policy lost much of its value. Under these circumstances some states chose an alliance with a great power, while others adhered to their neutrality. Th e latter, however, was more appearance than reality. In a number of neutral states the military leadership drew the conclusion that the neutrality policy had gone bankrupt, militarily speaking, but that there was no other political option than holding on to it. Th e ways in which these small states tried to disentangle this Gordian knot of contradictory political and military logic showed similarities as well as diff erences. Th e increase of scale in warfare brought the small states the same problems, whether they related to the industrial preparation for war, the choice between a more static or more mobile defence or the reforma- tion of the army system. Th is same increase of scale also decreased the diff erences in geopolitical position. Th e diff erences mostly came down to national military culture, military-strategic tradition and the fric- tion between political and military leadership. Th us, the collective result of the research of the authors contributing to this volume is in fact a strong plea to not only investigate neutrality as a legal concept or the stance of a country in its international relations, but also as a military problem. Th e latter perspective especially shows that the small states of Europe make up an integral and indispensable part of the military history of the continent, next to the great powers. In a time of total war the small states, too, had their own war experiences. Apart from that, the strategic calculations and operational planning of the belligerents in the years between 1900 and 1940 cannot very well be understood without taking into account the neutral states and their military might.

CHAPTER TWO

‘TOO GOOD TO BE TRUE?’ EUROPEAN HOPES FOR NEUTRALITY BEFORE 19141

M. M. Abbenhuis

As the renowned historian, C. V. Wedgwood, famously wrote in her biography of William the Silent, “history is lived forward but it is written in retrospect. We know the end before we consider the beginning and we can never wholly recapture what it was to know the beginning only.”2 Th is is, of course, a warning to historians that any attempt at being ‘true’ to the past is a fl awed exercise. It is a particularly apt warning, however, when we assess the writing of the history of nineteenth-century European neutrality, which is oft en imbued with the foreknowledge of the havoc that the First and Second World Wars would wreak. Th e First World War is acknowledged as the event that witnessed the decline of the viability and relevance of neutrality and the Second World War as the confl ict that killed the traditional idea of neutrality off completely.3 Th e age of total war made neutrality a diffi cult, almost impossible, position for any nation-state to uphold.

1 With grateful acknowledgment of the support of the Department of History, Faculty of Arts at the University of Auckland and the University of Auckland Research Committee’s Early Career Research Excellence Award. With much thanks to Dr. Gordon Morrell for his invaluable insights and comments. 2 C. V. Wedgwood, William the Silent, William of Nassau, Prince of Orange, 1533– 1584 (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1944), as quoted in J. Atlas, “Pinpointing a Moment on the Map of History,” New York Times, March 19, 1995, p. E1. 3 N. Ørvik, Th e Decline of Neutrality 1914–1941: With special reference to the United States and the Northern Neutrals (Oslo: Johan Grundt Tanum Forlag, 1953); and R. Ogley, ed., Th e Th eory and Practice of Neutrality in the Twentieth Century (London: Routledge, 1970), p. 24. Already in the 1930s, the renowned international jurist and expert on neutrality, P. C. Jessup, discussed the concept of the ‘death’ of neutrality (“Th e Birth, Death and Reincarnation of Neutrality,” Th e American Journal of International Law 26, no. 4 (October 1932): pp. 789–793). See also: N. Tracy, ed., Sea Power and the Control of Trade. Belligerent Rights from the Russian War to the Beira Patrol, 1854–1970. (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2005), p. 414. I tend to agree with S. C. Neff : “Historical perspective, however, must lead to instant suspicions of any claims of the death of neutrality. Twice in the twentieth century [1918, 1945], the obituaries proved false … Neutrality will end when armed confl ict ends.” Th e Rights and Duties of Neutrals: A General History (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 2000), p. 218. 28 m. m. abbenhuis

In contrast, experiences of neutrality in the period 1815 to 1914 would suggest that the nineteenth century was a ‘golden age’ for neutrality:4 an age when neutrals were protected, the laws and regulations relating to neutrality were advanced and more universally accepted, and neutrality as a foreign policy choice was widely adopted. By contrasting the experience of neutrality from 1914 onwards with its pre-war equivalents, historians risk tainting nineteenth-century conceptions and adoptions of neutrality with an air of naïveté. For example, the idea of gallant little Belgium naïvely awaiting its doomed fate in the First World War (let alone the Second World War) is predicated to some degree on a judgement about what neutrality was and meant before 1914.5 I would like to argue that judging neutrality as a naïve and fl awed foreign policy option in the context of the two world wars (in the age of total war) misses the point about the relevance of neutrality in nineteenth- and early twentieth-century Europe. We need to heed Wedgwood’s warning and remove the war and interwar years from our analysis of neutrals and the uses of neutrality in the pre-war era. Instead we need to focus on the importance of neutrality as part of nineteenth-century international relations. Ultimately, what I am arguing is that within the international system created and sustained by the great powers in the nineteenth century, neutrality played a vital role as it helped to protect not only the balance of power in Europe but also the idea that it was in the best interest of the entire continent that wars between European states should remain limited aff airs. War was a legitimate foreign policy option, in Clausewitzian terms, but so was peace. Neutrality in wartime, then, was also a “continuation of policy by other means.”6 Th is off ers one reason why it was so readily and easily adopted by small and great states alike.

4 Th e concept of neutrality’s ‘golden age’ comes from H. J. Morgenthau, Dilemmas of Politics (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1958), as referenced by C. Agius, Th e Social Construction of Swedish Neutrality. Challenges to Swedish Identity and Sovereignty (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 2006), p. 16. It is closely related to the idea that the 1800s were also a ‘golden age’ for international law (P. Lyon, “Th e great globe itself: Continuity and change,” ed. E. F. Penrose, P. Lyon and E. Penrose, New Orien- tations. Essays in International Relations (London: Frank Cass, 1970), p. 15). See also: T. C. Salmon, Unneutral Ireland. An Ambivalent and Unique Security Policy (Oxford: Clarendon, 1989), pp. 9–10. 5 On this see: N. Wylie, “Introduction: Victims or actors? European neutrals and non- belligerents, 1939–1945,” in European Neutrals and Non-belligerents during the Second World War, ed. N. Wylie (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2002), p. 2. 6 C. von Clausewitz, On War, ed. Anatol Rapoport (Harmondsworth: Penguin), p. 119. european hopes for neutrality before 1914 29

Perhaps it is the notion of neutrality as a naïve or fl awed position that has infl uenced why so little is written about nineteenth-century European neutrality. Th is is not to say there is no history – as the excellent works noted below attest to – but to suggest that much of it is directed towards ‘what came next’, namely the two world wars. Th ere are studies available on the history of the laws of neutrality;7 the history of permanent neutrals (particularly Switzerland and Belgium)8 and of avowed neutrals like Sweden;9 and the United States features prominently in the historiography as well (as, arguably, the most important neutral).10 Recently, economic and maritime historians, particularly those focussed on the history of blockade, are paying greater attention to neutrality taking their lead from the impressive and key study by John Coogan, Th e End of Neutrality.11 Still, neutrality is conspicuously absent from even the most recent diplomatic, military and naval histories of nineteenth-century Europe.12

7 For example: Ogley, Neutrality in Twentieth Century; Neff , Rights and Duties; E. Chadwick, Traditional Neutrality Revisited: Law, Th eory and Case Studies (Th e Hague: Kluwer Law International, 2002); and E. Chadwick, “ ‘Th e ‘Impossibility’ of Maritime Neutrality During World War I,” Netherlands International Law Review 54, no. 2 (2007): pp. 337–360. 8 For example: D. H. Th omas, Th e Guarantee of Belgian Independence and Neutrality in European Diplomacy, 1830’s–1930’s (Kingston: D. H. Th omas Pub., 1983); and G. Perrin, La Neutralité Permanente de la Suisse et les Organisations Internationales (Paris, 1964). 9 For example: O. Elgström, “Do Images Matter? Th e Making of Swedish Neutrality: 1834 and 1853,” Co-operation and Confl ict 35, no. 3 (2000): pp. 243–267; H. A. Barton, “Sweden and the War of American Independence,” Th e William and Mary Quarterly 23, no. 3 (1966): pp. 408–430; and T. Norman, “Stages in Swedish neutrality,” in Neutrality in History: Proceedings of the Conference on the History of Neutrality organized in Helsinki 9–12 September 1992 under the auspices of the Commission of History of International Relations, ed. J. Nevakivi (Helsinki: Finnish Historical Society, 1993), pp. 303–312. 10 For example: N. A. Graebner, “Th e Long American Struggle for Neutrality,” in ed. J. Nevakivi, pp. 45–55; and G. A. Craig, “Th e United States and the European Balance,” Foreign Aff airs 55 (1975–1976): pp. 187–198. 11 J. Coogan, Th e End of Neutrality: Th e United States, Britain, and Maritime Rights, 1899–1915 (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1981); Tracy, Sea Power; L. E. Davis and S. L. Engerman, Naval Blockades in Peace and War: An Economic History Since 1750 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2006); R. Hobson and T. Kristiansen, eds., Navies in Northern Waters 1721–2000 (Portland: Frank Cass, 2004); B. E. Elleman and S. C. M. Paine, eds., Naval Blockades and Seapower. Strategies and counter-strategies, 1805–2005 (London: Routledge, 2006). 12 In the history of nineteenth-century British diplomacy there are no (or few) mentions of neutrality and never in relation to a British position in a confl ict, this despite the fact that Britain was an avowed neutral in most European confl icts of the era: P. Kennedy, Th e Realities Behind Diplomacy: Background Infl uences on British 30 m. m. abbenhuis

Neutrality is fi rst, and perhaps foremost, a foreign policy option, yet even in the study of international relations by political scientists, neutrality is neglected. In her work on Sweden, Christina Agius posits that this is due to the negative stereotypes attached to neutrals, which she traces back to the Middle Ages and the contested place of neutrality within the notion of ‘just war’.13 Th ese stereotypes revolve around the perceptions of neutrals as self-interested outsiders and profi teers and that neutrality was deemed a policy of the weak, the dishonourable, and the immoral. In the words of Agius, “[n]eutrality was seen as trick- ery and indecision … [and] … signalled a refusal to defend certain values that held the unit or community together.”14 In an age of ‘just war’ and even in an age of total war and genocide, such stereotypes of neutrals are understandable (even from a non-belligerent’s point of view).15 However, applying such stereotypes to nineteenth-century neutrality is largely anachronistic. Th e nineteenth century was an era of much war. Michael Geyer and Charles Bright’s work on quantifying the number of armed confrontations and confl icts in the mid-1800s overturns the idea that the century was a peaceful one. Geyer and Bright have refocussed our attention on a ‘world in turmoil’ albeit one dominated by decentralised warfare.16 Th ere were few major confl icts involving three or more states, which meant that there were always more neutrals than warring parties and

External Policy 1856–1980 (London: Fontana, 1981); M. E. Chamberlain, ‘Pax Brittanica’? British Foreign Policy 1789–1914 (Harlow: Longman, 1988); and K. Bourne, Th e Foreign Policy of Victorian England (Oxford: Clarendon, 1970). For naval history: L. A. Rose, Power at Sea, vol. 1, Th e Age of Navalism 1890–1918 (Columbia: University of Missouri Press, 2007). For military history: J. Black, A Military History of Britain from 1775 to the Present (Westport: Greenwood Publishing Group, 2006). 13 C. Agius, Th e Social Construction of Swedish Neutrality: Challenges to Swedish Identity and Sovereignty (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 2006). 14 Agius, Swedish Neutrality, p. 13. 15 As United Nations Ambassador at Large for War Crimes, David J. Scheff er, explained in 1998: “ ‘Neutrality’ in the face of genocide is unacceptable and must never be used to cripple or delay our collective response to genocide,” as quoted in: E. Guttman, “Th e Concept of Neutrality Since the Adoption and Ratifi cation of Th e Hague Neutrality Convention of 1907,” American University International Law Review 14 (1998–1999): p. 57. And as the historian, M. P. Böethius, questioned in 1991 in describing Sweden’s neutrality in the Second World War: “whether the moral price for amoral self-interest was too high?” (as quoted in: N. Andrén, “On the Meaning and Uses of Neutrality,” Cooperation And Confl ict. Nordic Journal of International Studies 26, no. 2 (1991): p. 76). 16 M. Geyer and C. Bright, “Global Violence and Nationalizing Wars in Eurasia and America: Th e Geopolitics of War in the Mid-Nineteenth Century,” Comparative Studies in Society and History 38, no. 4 (October 1996): pp. 621 and 625. european hopes for neutrality before 1914 31 that at least some of the neutrals were great powers. Geyer and Bright also focus on the fundamental role played by Britain in setting the tone for European diplomacy and, perhaps more importantly, economic relations in the century: “Britain geared up for – in fact, quite literally invented – a politics of global power … [that] aimed at controlling global lanes of communication and exchange and living off the sur- pluses of this circulation.”17 Britain’s enormous success in achieving this global economic dominance has oft en led historians to focus on Britain’s belligerency (which is what Geyer and Bright do as well).18 I would argue, however, as Quincy Wright did as early as 1940, that only by sustaining the balance of power in Europe through the judicial application of neutrality that Britain was able to keep its global pre- eminence.19 Furthermore, it is precisely the application of neutrality by the great powers (not just Great Britain) in the wars of the 1800s and early 1900s that enabled the development of neutrality laws and the possibility for neutrality to be seen as a viable, valid, and pragmatic way to guarantee the independence of non-belligerent European states, regardless of size, in time of war. Neutrality was a much more common wartime strategy and diplomatic choice than historians generally give it credit for. Neutrality was not an option for small and weak states alone. It was a commonly used, frequently discussed, and repeatedly applied policy by many European countries in the period from 1815 to 1914. Th is universality of experience helped to make neutrality a major discussion point at international congresses and diplomatic gatherings. In the words of renowned jurist and neutrality expert, Philip C. Jessup, “Th roughout that period neutral power greatly exceeded belligerent power and might can strengthen right.”20 In other words, the regulation of neutrality was not implemented solely to protect small states, such as Belgium and Switzerland, and thereby the balance of power in Europe, although this did play some part. Rather, neutrality was of enormous value to the great powers. It advanced their own interests to stay out of their neighbours’ wars. As a result, it was not, as the international jurist,

17 Geyer and Bright, “Global Violence,” p. 651. 18 Ibid., p. 622; and Neff , Rights and Duties, p. 88. 19 Q. Wright, “Th e present status of neutrality,” Th e American Journal of International Law 34, no. 3 (July 1940): pp. 411–412. See also: P. Salmon, “British attitudes towards neutrality in the twentieth century,” in Nevakivi, pp. 117–118. 20 Jessup, “Neutrality,” p. 791. 32 m. m. abbenhuis

J. H. W. Verzijl, argues because there were fewer belligerents that there were fewer challenges to neutrals and the principles of neutrality,21 but rather that because there were more neutrals that there was greater impetus to advance neutrality. To this end, from the Declaration of Paris in 1856 on, there was a concerted eff ort – if a confl icted one – to limit, at least in part, belligerent rights in international law in favour of more universally applicable neutral rights. Th is paper wishes to refocus some of the traditional ways of analys- ing state behaviour in the century or so from the Congress of Vienna to the outbreak of the First World War and to re-centre neutrality within these events. At the same time, it hopes to shift historians’ attention away from the promotion of belligerent rights – as is oft en done to describe British isolationism and maritime strength in the nineteenth century, for example – to neutrality rights. In the process, it echoes historian J. M. Roberts’ assertion that “the formal willingness of states to accept some restraints on their behaviour was probably greater [in the era leading up to 1914] than in the whole history of modern Europe.”22 Th e Declaration of Paris, the Geneva conventions of 1863 and 1906, the two Hague Peace Conferences of 1899 and 1907, all indicate that there was a shift to some acceptance that states could be controlled by international agreements and legal developments. As well, there was some (if limited) agreement that in certain circumstances humanitarian principles could override sovereign rights and that international law could supersede national interests for the sake of peace and international prosperity.23 So the history of neutrality in these conferences is part and parcel of the history of the attempts made to ‘civi- lize’ war, to ‘restrain’ state behaviour in wartime, and to promote peace. As Elizabeth Chadwick posits, neutrality was a law of peace as much as a law of war because it was believed that neutrality could safeguard independent sovereign states from instances of confl ict.24 It is important, however, to recognise that the regulation of neutrality in international law was not only about ‘restraining’ behaviour or ‘avoiding war’, although it was oft en sold as such within the rhetoric of peace of the time. Much more signifi cantly, the regulation of the rights

21 J. H. W. Verzijl as quoted in: Chadwick, Traditional Neutrality, p. 27. 22 J. M. Roberts, Europe 1880–1945, 2nd ed. (London: Longman, 2001), p. 200. 23 A. Eyffi nger, “A Highly Critical Moment: Role and Record of the 1907 Hague Peace Conference,” Netherlands International Law Review 54 (2007): p. 200. 24 Chadwick, Traditional Neutrality, p. 191. european hopes for neutrality before 1914 33 and duties of neutrals was focussed on the pragmatics of staying out of war, particularly by limiting the impact of war on neutral citizens. While neutrals are oft en represented as profi teers reaping the benefi ts and profi ts from the suff ering of others, the regulation of the laws of neutrality was in large part initiated to protect neutral merchants, busi- nesses, and others involved in global trade networks and the global economy from interfering belligerents. Th e universality of neutral experiences in the many wars of the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, particularly when it came to trading diffi culties, gave real impetus for European states (small and great) to discuss and attempt to attain consensus on the rights and duties of neutrals vis-à-vis belligerents and each other. To this end, there is no discernable diff erence between the Swiss who had trouble obtaining grain imports from Prussia during the 1870–1871 Franco-Prussian war as the Prussians feared that they would export it out again to France; the German, Danish, and British colliers attending to the Russian fl eet in the Russo- Japanese War (1904–1905) raising the ire of Japan for breaching their neutral status by supplying military materials to a belligerent;25 the diffi culties encountered by British and Dutch merchants in trading in contraband with the United States and Spain during the Spanish- American War of 1899;26 or the attempts made by the Egyptians during the Italian-Turkish war (1911–1912) to disarm Turkish ships trying to enter the neutral Suez canal.27 Th ese examples refl ect that neutrality was about negotiating what behaviour belligerents and neutrals would accept from each other. Th ey also refl ect an acknowledgment that if neutrality was to become more common (as many believed in the late 1800s and early 1900s), it made sense to achieve some clarity on what was acceptable behaviour for belligerents and neutrals alike. Achieving

25 Cabinet reports on Foreign Aff airs to the King Edward VII, 19 and 25 November 1904, Records of the Cabinet Offi ce. Cabinet Minutes and Papers. Photographic Copies of Cabinet Letters in the Royal Archives. Bound volume of Cabinet letters, 1904, National Archives, Kew, London, Reference CAB41/29/38 and 39 (to be referred to as PRO CAB 41/29). 26 PRO, Records created and inherited by the Foreign Offi ce. General Correspondence from Political and Other Departments. Foreign Offi ce and predecessor: Political and Other Departments: General Correspondence before 1906, Spain (formerly incorporating Spanish America). War between United States and Spain. Observance of Neutrality. vol. 2, 1898 Apr. 24–28, Reference FO 72/2092. 27 Dutch representative in Cairo to the Minister of Foreign Aff airs, Netherlands, 10 October 1911, Ministerie van Buitenlandse Zaken. A-dossiers, 1815–1940, Nationaal Archief, Th e Hague, entry number 2.05.03, inventory number 646 (to be referred to as NA 2.05.03). 34 m. m. abbenhuis consensus and clarity was, as all international agreements of the time were, a fraught business. Th at only limited agreement was ever achieved, however, should not take anything away from the concerted eff orts to attain it in the fi rst place. Th ere were other motivations for regulating neutrality in the 1800s. Th e century marked an era of massive change, driven by industrialisation, the rise of global trade networks, and inter-connected markets. Th e spread of European empires, colonies, and trading posts, as well as advances in the technology of communication and trade (steamships, telegraph cables, railways etc.) changed the application of customary practices in economic warfare, including the abolishment of privateering and changes in blockading methods.28 Th e rules of neutrality had to change to meet these developments and, I would argue, in many ways, neutrality formed an integral part of these developments as well. For example, there was a general recognition that warfare should not interrupt the world economy. In the words of the historian, Brian Bond, there was an “almost mystical value” attached to the free exchange of goods in the middle of the century.29 Th is translated into the belief that there should be protection aff orded to merchants of non-warring states and even arguments that all private property and trade should be free from interference by the belligerents.30 Here again, the frequent experience by neutrals (great and small) of wartime realities drove such debates. In this paper, the focus is on neutrality and its application throughout Europe in the period 1815 to 1914. It suggests that this was a ‘golden age’ for neutrals and neutrality but also that neutrality was a refl ection of the age, a key part of the ways in which European diplomacy worked. Neutrality promised much too many and at least for a hundred years or so seemed to deliver on that promise.

Th e History of Neutrality to 1815

Neutrality was not a nineteenth-century invention. Th ere is a very long history of states declaring their non-participation in wars. From the

28 See: Tracy, Sea Power. 29 B. Bond, War and Society in Europe 1870–1970, rev. ed. (Gloucestershire: Sutton Publishing, 1998), pp. 31–32. 30 Tracy, Sea Power, pp. xvi–xviii. european hopes for neutrality before 1914 35 early Middle Ages on, this non-participation came to be associated with ideas of sovereignty, particularly at sea. For example, the consolato del mare [regulations at sea] set common laws for shipping in the Mediterranean, including restrictions on neutral trade and property in wartime.31 Th e sixteenth-century legal principle of mare librum [freedom of the seas], which was advocated by the Dutch jurist Grotius, among others, overturned the basic premises of the consolato del mare, although the application of mare librum was always limited by belligerents’ rights to capture enemy ships and goods. Inevitably, sixteenth- century belligerents interfered in any rights neutrals wished to advance.32 Nevertheless, by the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, a mix of customs and common law practices, particularly relating to warfare at sea, existed with regard to neutrality. None of these rules, however, went uncontested, particularly when it came to contraband and the transportation of enemy goods on neutral ships. Importantly, many of the issues that dogged neutrals and belligerents in the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries have their origins in the 1600s and 1700s,33 including debates about the principle that ‘free ships equalled free goods’;34 that neutral trade should go uncontested in international waters; that contraband could be seized by belligerents but only if it covered goods of military value; that blockades could only be declared and upheld if they were eff ective;35 that neutrals had the right to convoy to try to avoid capture by belligerents; that neutrals should defend and protect their sovereign territory both on land and at sea from belligerents’ use thereof; that neutrals should treat all warring parties equally and impartially; that neutrals should not trade with belligerents in

31 Namely that belligerent goods contaminate neutral ships, and can, therefore, be seized by other belligerents: Agius, Swedish Neutrality, p. 13; and D. M. Griffi ths, “An American Contribution to the Armed Neutrality of 1780,” Russian Review 30, no. 2 (April 1971): p. 164. 32 Coogan, End of Neutrality, pp. 17–19. 33 Davis and Engerman, Naval Blockades, p. 7; A. C. Carter, “Th e Dutch as Neutrals in the Seven Years’ War,” Th e International and Comparative Law Quarterly 12, no. 3 (July 1963): pp. 826 and 828; J. B. Hattendorf, “Maritime confl ict” in Th e Laws of War. Constraints on Warfare in the Western World, ed. M. Howard, G. G. Andreopoulos and M. R. Shulman (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1994), pp. 105–106; and Neff , Rights and Duties, pp. 65–68. 34 Namely, that neutral fl ags protected all cargo, regardless of its point of origin or destination. Belligerents, obviously, contested that neutrals should not be able to transport enemy goods and particularly not contraband items (goods useful for the conduct of war). 35 Namely, that the blockaded ports were actually cut off by enemy warships. 36 m. m. abbenhuis ways that did not occur before the war; and that the principles of continuous voyage applied to neutral trade.36 Eighteenth-century neutrality was, in the words of Philip Jessup, a living and developing concept,37 not only negotiated between belligerents and neutrals but also backed by resolve and military might. Before the Napoleonic era, determined neutrals were not adverse to banding together and collectively protecting their non-belligerency. Th e most important example of this occurred in 1780, during the American War of Independence, when the Russians invited the Danes and Swedes to ally together in what was known as the League of Armed Neutrality. Th e three countries convoyed vessels, resisted belligerents’ demands to search and visit, and attacked privateers.38 Th ey protected their neutrality collectively and as a collective stood stronger in obtaining concessions from Britain, France, and the United States. Th e League existed fi rst and foremost to counter Britain’s indiscriminate interference in their neutral trade and shipping, particularly aft er Britain defi ned contraband to include all naval stores (timber, masts, sailcloth, pitch, tar etc.). Ultimately, while Britain refused to recognise the League’s right to exist, to convoy, or to protect contraband from seizure, the League’s actions forced Britain to limit privateering and helped its neutral merchants ply their wares across the supposedly open seas.39 Without the strong-arm tactics of the League, however, that protection would not have been forthcoming. As happened repeatedly during the nineteenth and twentieth centuries as well, might rather than right oft en determined the fate of neutrals. Neutrality has always been controversial. While peace and tranquil- lity are supposedly embedded in the concept of ‘being neutral’, the practice of ‘being neutral’ is loaded with confl ict and compromise. Th e reason for this revolves around the natural tension that exists between the belligerents’ wishes to conduct war to the most eff ective end possible

36 Namely, that the destination of goods and their port of origin were what determined the status of the goods, not the fl ag of the ship that transported the cargo. 37 Jessup, “Neutrality,” p. 791. 38 Privateering was a practice where a belligerent government issued ‘letters of marque’ allowing private individuals to raid against enemy ships and goods. Neutral ships were oft en targeted by privateers if they carried contraband or enemy goods. For more, see: Tracy, Sea Power. 39 Barton, “Sweden,” pp. 423–425; Griffi ths, “Armed Neutrality,” pp. 164–166; Henry Wheaton, “Extract from History of the Law of Nations, giving a brief history of the armed neutrality [1845],” in Offi cial Documents Bearing on the Armed Neutrality of 1780 and 1800 (Washington DC, 1917), pp. 3–7; and Neff , Rights and Duties, pp. 71–72. european hopes for neutrality before 1914 37 by restricting their enemies’ ability to wage war and the neutrals’ desires to protect the freedoms of peacetime to conduct their economic (and other) business unmolested with whomever they like. Perhaps Th omas Jeff erson explained this best in 1793: reason and usage had established that, when two nations go to war, those who choose to live in peace retain their natural rights to pursue their agriculture, manufactures, and other ordinary vocations; to carry the produce of their industry, for exchange, to all nations, belligerent or neutral, as usual; to go and come freely, without injury or molestation; and, in short, that the war among others shall be, for them [the neutrals], as if it did not exist.40 When belligerents and neutrals managed to compromise and set mutually agreeable boundaries to their rights and duties, neutrality tended to survive a confl ict, when they could not (as frequently happened in the eighteenth century and Napoleonic era), neutrality failed. In other words, neutrality was a fragile position, adopted with little certainty of success. Th e implication of this is that all the advances that were made in the 1800s and early 1900s to defi ne the rights and duties of neutrals, starting with the Declaration of Paris of 1856 and particularly the neutrality conventions of the 1907 Hague Peace Conference, were signifi cant in bringing a degree of certainty to neutrals. Th e other key implication is that neutrality laws and regulations were never adopted without debate, compromise, and a degree of strife. As the historian Niek van Sas explained with regard to the seventeenth- and eighteenth- century Anglo-Dutch wars, the relationship between neutrals and belligerents was “always more than a simple matter of legal rights and wrongs.”41 One of the defi ning events in the history of neutrality was the newly formed United States of America’s adoption of an isolationist and neutral stance towards the European powers in 1793. Historians and legal experts view George Washington’s declaration of neutrality as the foundation stone of nineteenth-century neutral rights.42 In the words of a

40 J. B. Moore (1931) attributed to Secretary of State, Th omas Jeff erson, September 1793, in Chadwick, Traditional Neutrality, p. 267. 41 N. van Sas, “Between the Devil and the Deep Blue Sea: Th e Logic of Neutrality,” in Colonial Empires Compared. Britain and the Netherlands, 1750–1850. Papers Delivered to the Fourteenth Anglo-Dutch Historical Conference, 2000, ed. B. Moore and H. van Nierop, (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2003), p. 35. 42 Chadwick, Traditional Neutrality, p. 7. See also: J. M. Gabriel, American Conceptions of Neutrality aft er 1941, 2nd ed. (Houndsmills: Palgrave Mcmillan, 2002), chap. 1; and Graebner, “Neutrality,” p. 45. 38 m. m. abbenhuis

British commentator at the time: the neutrality declaration “constitutes an epoch in the development of the usages of neutrality. Th ere can be no doubt that it was intended and believed to give eff ect to the obligations then incumbent upon neutrals. But it represented by far the most advanced existing opinions as to what those obligations were”.43 Th e United States was a key advocate of neutral rights in the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries and set an important example of neutral behaviour. However, we must be careful not to overstate the infl uence of the United States in the behaviour of European neutrals in the period 1815 to 1914. During the Napoleonic wars, neutrality was a highly contentious issue between the naval and land powers, particularly France, the United States and Great Britain.44 Th e War of 1812, for example, occurred largely out of a deadlock on unresolved neutrality issues between the United States and Great Britain, most of which remained unsettled even at the end of the war. Above all, what the experience of this confl ict illustrated was that no single state could dictate maritime law or neutrality.45 What the War of 1812 has done for historians is to heighten the rivalry between Britain and the United States on issues of neutrality and belligerency throughout the nineteenth century, and, in part, as John Coogan also argues, take away from the fact that Britain moved away from a strong belligerent position during the century and became an activist for neutrality by the early 1900s.46

Neutrality from Vienna to Paris, 1815–1856

Th e Napoleonic Wars saw several challenges to the maintenance of neutrality on the European continent. However, at the Congress of Vienna (1815), neutrality was purposely brought back as a key component of European security. Certain European states and regions would be neutralised over the coming decades, including Switzerland and the Swiss regions of Chablais, Faucignon, and parts of Savoy in 1815, the

43 Mr. Hall, British publicist, 1793, in E. Maxey, “Growth of Neutral Rights and Duties,” Th e American Lawyer 55 (1906): p. 56. 44 Maxey, “Neutral Rights and Duties,” p. 57. 45 Coogan, End of Neutrality, p. 19; and J. B. Hattendorff , “Th e US Navy and the ‘Freedom of the Seas’ 1775–1917,” in Hobson et al., pp. 164–165. 46 Coogan, End of Neutrality. european hopes for neutrality before 1914 39

Ionian Islands in 1815, and Belgium in the 1830s.47 Th e great powers guaranteed the neutrality of these regions and, by doing so, invested that neutrality with a new character, namely one that drew its strength not out of the neutral’s own policies but the guarantees of protection aff orded by outsiders. Signifi cantly, these neutral states existed to sustain the balance of power on the continent and helped to keep the great powers from going to war with each other. To some extent it was the perceived success of Swiss and Belgian neutrality that saw neutralisation employed to ‘solve’ other potential hot beds of great power confl ict within and outside Europe, including the Black Sea in 1856, Luxemburg in 1867, the Congo basin in 1885, the Pacifi c island of Samoa in 1889, Honduras in 1907, and Albania as late as 1913.48 Still, by 1900, the willingness of the great powers to stand behind their neutrality guarantees had waned substantially. Undoubtedly, this had much to do with changes in the balance of power itself and the fears of being pulled into an unwanted war if the neutrality of these regions were to be seriously violated. Of course, it is one thing to be neutral oneself, quite another to protect the neutrality of another. A key distinction must be made, therefore, between types of neutrality. Th e nineteenth century witnessed the introduction of permanent neutrals, namely those countries whose neutrality was guaranteed by others, such as Switzerland and Belgium. In many ways, this augured a new era of neutrality history. A more common position was that of long-term voluntary neutrals: states, like the Netherlands and Sweden, who embraced neutrality as a lasting diplomatic choice. Both permanent and voluntary neutrals should be distinguished from occasional neutrals – described by Roderick Ogley as ad hoc neutrals, although that term has connotations of a lack of foresight and planning attached and feeds the myth that neutrality

47 For a useful overview of nineteenth-century permanent neutralisations: Memorandum on the Neutralization of States, April 1887, in PRO, Records created and inherited by the Foreign Offi ce. Foreign Offi ce: Confi dential Print. Foreign Offi ce: Confi dential Print (Numerical Series). GENERAL: Memo. Neutralization of States. (Sir E. Hertslet), April 5, 1887, Reference FO 881/5423. 48 J. E. Helmreich, “Th e End of Congo Neutrality,” Historian 28, no. 4 (August 1966): p. 610; W. E. Mosse, “Th e end of the Crimean system: England, Russia and the neutrality of the Black Sea, 1870–1,” Th e Historical Journal. 4, no. 2 (1961): p. 164– 166; Ogley, Neutrality in Twentieth Century, pp. 46–50; and Neff , Rights and Duties, p. 101. 40 m. m. abbenhuis was not a carefully adopted foreign policy strategy.49 Occasional neutrals adopted neutrality when it suited at the outbreak of particular confl icts. In theory, the same laws and regulations apply to all three types of neutrals but the way they operated in the world (particularly in time of peace) diff ered substantially. Permanent neutrals had few foreign policy options – they had to remain impartial in world aff airs in time of peace and war.50 Although long-term voluntary neutrals retained the option of backing out of their neutrality, their peacetime focus was oft en on promoting their future wartime neutrality. Th ey oft en featured as strong advocates of developing and supporting neutral rights and duties in international law. Occasional neutrals present the most common, and least studied, form of neutrality in the period 1815 to 1914. Arguably, they were just as important in the design and promotion of the laws of war and neutrality as their status and infl uence on international aff airs was oft en much greater than the voluntary neutrals. It was precisely because the occasional neutrals adopted neutrality intermit- tently and could foresee themselves adopting it again that they gained a vested interest in advancing and protecting neutral rights. Th e Declaration of Paris (1856) illustrates well how important occasional neutrals were in developing international neutral rights. While the Crimean War (1853–1856) may have been “one of the bad jokes of history,”51 it did bring about some fundamental changes for the application and use of neutrality. Much of the diplomatic correspondence during the war focussed on the belligerents’ rights of blockade, privateering, the capture of neutral vessels, and contraband.52 It is signifi cant that at the end of this confl ict, the warring powers advocated a willingness to codify maritime law and establish principles of neutrality. In the words of historian Olav Riste, the Declaration of Paris was “the most remarkable of the milestones that marked the progress of neutrality”53

49 Ogley, Neutrality in Twentieth Century, p. 3. 50 Perrin, Neutralité Permanente, pp. 27 and 40. 51 P. Guedalla, Th e Two Marshalls, (1943) quoted in Dictionary of Military and Naval Quotations, ed. R. D. Heinl Jr. (Annapolis: U.S. Naval Institute, 1966), p. 73. 52 PRO, Records created and inherited by the Foreign Offi ce. Foreign Offi ce: Confi dential Print. Foreign Offi ce: Confi dential Print (Numerical Series). GENERAL and RUSSIA and TURKEY: Reports. Law Offi cers, on Questions Arising out of the Crimean War, 1853–1856, Reference FO 881/3576. 53 O. Riste, Th e Neutral Ally: Norway’s Relations with Belligerent Powers in the First World War (Oslo: Universitetsforlaget, 1965), p. 18. european hopes for neutrality before 1914 41 because it consecrated long-existing rules relating to neutrality that had not been universally recognised previously, namely: privateering was outlawed; free ships meant free goods, except for contraband; neutral goods were protected even if carried by belligerent merchants; and blockades were only binding if they were eff ectively maintained.54 By 1914, all sovereign states, with the important exception of the United States and the slightly less signifi cant exception of Venezuela, had formally accepted the Declaration.55 In many ways, the Declaration of Paris hails an era in which nation-states became willing to accept some limitations to their behaviour – their unfettered sovereign rights – in order to guarantee the hope of sustaining their other sovereign right, namely to remain independent and unmolested by the wars of others.

Th e Wars of the 1860s and 1870s

Th e United States Civil War (1861–1865) and Franco-Prussian War (1870–1871) off ered two profound challenges to existing perceptions of neutrality and helped to redefi ne the accepted parameters of neutrals’ responsibilities. Th e former confl ict overturned the traditional neutral-belligerent relationship and rivalry that existed between the United States and Great Britain and in doing so brought the role of neutrality in time of war into sharp relief for both. Th e Franco-Prussian War, in turn, off ered the fi rst major contest to the neutral status of Belgium and Switzerland, and brought to the fore the challenges of sustaining neutrality on land (rather than ‘at sea’ where most neutrality confrontations had occurred in the past). Both wars illustrate that neutrality had become an integral concern to European security and shift ed ideas on neutral rights and responsibilities substantially. In this way, they were essential informers of the rules and regulations relating to neutrality that were formalised in the ensuing years. Th e United States Civil War was relevant to neutral Europe for many reasons but particularly, in terms of neutrality, because the Americas formed a key part of the European continent’s trade networks. Th e war

54 B. Ranft , “Restraints on war at sea before 1945,” in Restraints on War, ed. M. Howard (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1979), pp. 44–45; Chadwick, Traditional Neutrality, pp. 29–30; and Neff , Rights and Duties, pp. 97–98. 55 Riste, Neutral Ally, p. 18; Th e United States refused to abolish the right to use privateers, a position which the Union government may have regretted during the US Civil War (Tracy, Sea Power, p. xx). See also: Hattendorf, “US Navy,” pp. 165–166. 42 m. m. abbenhuis that waged between the Union forces of the north and Confederate forces of the south became tied up with issues of neutrality from the moment the Union government declared its blockade of southern ports.56 Perhaps the most signifi cant European neutral during this bitter war, at least from the United States’ perspective, was Great Britain. Both the Union and British governments were acutely aware that their positions on neutrality would have long-term relevance. As United State Secretary of State, William H. Seward, explained in 1863: “It is … obvious that any belligerent claim which we make during the existing war, will be urged against us as an unanswerable precedent when [we] may ourselves be at peace.”57 Th is sentiment echoed similar ideas presented a year earlier in the British press: “England … should not forget that the arguments she might now employ against her neighbour [the United States] might, we know not how soon, be retorted against herself with all the force of admissions.”58 Despite the fact that both Britain and the Union took great care not to off end the other and press for neutral and belligerent rights, they became embroiled in several tense stand-off s during the war relating to blockade running, continuous voyage, and the sale of British warships to the Confederacy.59 Th e latter issue was deemed so fundamental, in fact, that it was brought to an international arbitration tribunal in Geneva in 1871 at the end of the Franco-Prussian War.60 Where the United States Civil War is generally recognised by historians as an important neutrality event, the Franco-Prussian War rarely receives mention in the history of neutrality. Th is astounds me given

56 Formally, according to the rules of war, a state must declare its belligerency towards another state before it can operate a legal and binding blockade on neutrals. So-called ‘pacifi c’ blockades were declared in the nineteenth century, but because they did not occur in time of war, were also not binding on neutral parties. For more see: Tracy, Sea Power, pp. 6, 44 and 72–75. For more on blockading practices and historical controversies in the United States Civil War see: Davis and Engerman, Naval Blockades, pp. 109–110; J. P. Baxter, “Th e British Government and Neutral Rights, 1861–1865,” Th e American Historical Review 34, no. 1 (October 1928): pp. 9–29; and J. P. Baxter, “Papers Relating to Belligerent and Neutral Rights, 1861–1865,” Th e American Historical Review 35, no. 1 (October 1928): pp. 77–91. 57 W. H. Seward, report on neutral mails, to President Abraham Lincoln, 24 April 1863, in Baxter, “Papers,” p. 87. 58 Times, March 1, 1862, as quoted in Baxter, “Th e British Government,” p. 12. 59 Baxter, “Th e British Government,” pp. 18–19; Chadwick, Traditional Neutrality, p. 8; Hattendorf, “Maritime confl ict,” p. 109; and Tracy, Sea Power, pp. xx–xxii. 60 G. Best, “Peace conferences and the century of total war: Th e 1899 Hague Confer- ence and what came aft er,” International Aff airs 75, no. 3 (1999): p. 629; and Chadwick, “Th e ‘Impossibility,’ ” p. 348. european hopes for neutrality before 1914 43 that this confl ict presents the fi rst serious challenge to the neutrality of Europe’s most important permanent neutrals, Belgium and Switzerland. It is also the fi rst European war in which (as far as I can tell) the standards of behaviour exhibited by primarily land-based neutrals were of paramount relevance. Due to their close proximity to France and Prussia, both the Swiss and Belgian governments were petrifi ed of breaching fundamental neutral obligations during the war. Th ey also had no certainty about ‘how’ they should proceed to act against neutrality violations, for example when French or Prussian soldiers accidentally crossed the neutral border or to counter the smuggling of contraband across the frontier. Th e Belgians sought extra assurance from the great powers (particularly Britain, who was also neutral in the war) about the appropriateness of their ‘neutral’ behaviour.61 It was in the diplomatic correspondence that ensued between the Swiss, the Belgians, other neutrals, and the belligerents that several advances in thinking about what neutrals should or could not do was achieved. Many of these obligations would be commonplace to neutrals’ behaviour in the course of the First World War, including: the need to intern foreign military personnel who entered a neutral country; the obligation to give medical treatment to wounded foreign soldiers; the right for escaped Prisoners of War to be repatriated via a neutral state; the requirement to mobilise and police neutral frontiers; and the need to supervise the movement of goods, imports and exports into and out of neutral territory. However, during the Franco-Prussian War, much of what the Belgians and Swiss did was uncertain and was couched in seeking assurances from outsiders that what their actions were ‘right’ in terms of international expectations. In these ways, the experiences of the Belgians and Swiss were foundational to changes made in the international rules governing neutrality at the 1874 Brussels Convention and the 1899 and 1907 Th e Hague Conventions.62

61 See correspondence on this in: PRO, Records created and inherited by the Foreign Offi ce. Records of Embassies, Legations, Consulates, etc. Foreign Offi ce and Foreign and Commonwealth Offi ce: Embassy and Consulates, Belgium: General Correspon- dence. To Foreign Offi ce, 1870 Aug.–Dec., Reference FO 123/142. 62 For Brussels convention: NA 2.05.03 nr. 377; and A. V. Freeman, “Non-Belligerent’s Right to Compensation for Internment of Foreign Military Personnel,” Th e American Journal of International Law 53, no. 3 (July 1959): p. 640. For neutrality clauses in Convention II (Laws and Customs of War on Land), decided at the First Hague Peace Conference, July 1899: Yale Law School, “Th e Avalon Project. Documents in Law, History and Diplomacy,” Lillian Goldman Law Library, http://avalon.law.yale.edu/ 19th_century/hague02.asp#art1 (Accessed November 2008). For Conventions V 44 m. m. abbenhuis

What is most signifi cant about neutrality in the United States Civil War and Franco-Prussian War was that these two confl icts illustrated that neutrals had an extraordinary responsibility to sustain and protect their neutrality. Violations of neutrality could occur from within and outside neutral space and could be initiated by belligerents and neutrals alike. Neutrality was not just about trade and shipping, but even when it was, neutral governments had a responsibility to police the behaviour of their citizens and to take due care in protecting their neutral territory. As the international lawyer, Edwin Maxey, explained in 1906, from the 1870s on the “neutral was no longer free from blame” when it came to neutrality violations.63 Th e Geneva Arbitration decision in 1871 illustrates this well. Th e United States had taken a case out against Britain on the grounds that the latter had not taken due care to prevent its citizens from fi tting out warships for sale to the Confed- eracy during the civil war. Th e Swiss court (with judges from Britain, the United States, Italy, Brazil and Switzerland) ruled in favour of the United States and Britain duly paid sizeable reparations to the Americans. Britain’s agreement with the ruling was an extraordinary admission by a neutral of its duty to exercise ‘due diligence’ in exercis- ing its non-belligerency and set another precedent for the behaviour of future neutrals.64 What the wars of the 1860s and 1870s also illustrate, and this is an area that needs a lot more research, was that neutrality was not a foreign policy alone but had everyday consequences for neutral and belligerent citizens alike. From the snippets I have uncovered in diplomatic fi les in Britain, Belgium, and the Netherlands, it would seem that neutral governments realised that neutrality was an active policy, maintained by involving all citizens in the neutral cause. Furthermore, neutrality was an open and acknowledged foreign policy, even for occasional neutrals like Great Britain. Interested citizens of neutral countries were well

(Concerning the Rights and Duties of Neutral Powers and Persons in Case of War on Land) and XIII (Concerning the Rights and Duties of Neutral Powers in Naval War), decided at the Second Hague Peace Conference, October 1907: “Th e Avalon Project. Documents in Law, History and Diplomacy,” http://avalon.law.yale.edu/20th_century/ hague05.asp and http://avalon.law.yale.edu/20th_century/hague13.asp (Accessed November 2008). 63 Maxey, “Neutral Rights and Duties,” p. 57. 64 Chadwick, “Th e ‘Impossibility,’ ” p. 348; Bond, p. 32; Tracy, Sea Power, pp. 82–83; Best, “Peace conferences,” p. 629; and Chadwick, Traditional Neutrality, pp. 19–21, 43, 45 and 56. european hopes for neutrality before 1914 45 aware of what neutrality was and meant and utilised this knowledge to their own advantage. For example, understandings of neutrality underpinned a British shipowners’ complaint to Lord Palmerston in 1860 that they were losing out on shipping contracts in the Asia-Pacifi c region (particularly in India and China) to the United States because the United States was internationally recognised as a neutral with pre- eminent neutral rights in a future war.65 Th e irony of this request should not be lost on the historian who, with the advantage of hindsight, can acknowledge the oncoming civil war. But it illustrates another rarely studied feature of neutrality, namely that neutrality was not only about diplomacy, economics, or warfare, it was as much about the impact of war (or the potential impact of a future war) on ordinary people. Ordinary Europeans understood neutrality and used it at times oppor- tunistically to advance their own ends. For example, Dutch citizens petitioned the Union government in 1863 to release family members conscripted into the Union army on the grounds that they were Dutch and neutral and should, therefore, not have to serve in a belligerent’s military force.66 Th is awareness of neutrality by ordinary Europeans is particularly signifi cant. I need to do a lot more research, but am erring towards the conclusion that neutrality was a public idea in the late nineteenth century and not only the preserve of those in charge, diplomats, and lawyers. Th is struck me particularly as I waded through British archives on the Russo-Turkish War of 1877 and 1878. During this confl ict, concerned groups – church congregations, working-class affi liations, town councils, other citizen collectives – inundated the Foreign Offi ce with petitions that Britain must not join this ‘awful confl ict’ and that the country should sustain its ‘strict and practical neutrality’.67 As far as

65 Sir Edward Hertslet, Foreign Offi ce Librarian, notes on neutrality, 9 February 1893, in Tracy, Sea Power, pp. 92–93. 66 Letters from concerned parents to the Dutch government and United States con- suls, 1864 and 1865, in NA, ‘Gezantschap Verenigde Staten/Legatie Washington, 1814– 1946’ entry number 2.05.13, inventory number 32. 67 Petition signed at ‘Quarterly Meeting of the Society of Friends of Sussex, Surrey and Hampshire’, 1878; Petition signed at public meeting, County Wilts Manningford Bruce, 1 January 1878, both in PRO, Records created and inherited by the Foreign Offi ce. General Correspondence from Political and Other Departments. Foreign Offi ce and predecessor: Political and Other Departments: General Correspondence before 1906, Ottoman Empire. Resolutions, memorials, etc., on the subject of neutrality, confi dence in H. M.’s Government, etc. vol. 1. 1877 Dec. 1878 Jan., Reference FO 78/2930. Th ere are hundreds such petitions in this fi le and in 2931, 2932, 2933. 46 m. m. abbenhuis

I can tell, many of the requests came out of concerns about the economic and military consequences that entry into the war would have for Britons, but also out of an understanding of the horrors of war. Many of the petitions drew attention to the nature of this ‘cruel war’ and to avoiding prolonging ‘the duration of that terrible confl ict’.68 Undoubtedly, the economic strive in the country at the time was a huge contributing factor in the sheer number of requests as were pushes by the government to increase military and naval expenditure, but the links between neutrality, peace and prosperity cannot be ignored.

At the Turn of the Century

Th e Spanish-American War of 1899 off ers a wonderful example of how connected neutral citizens were to the opportunities, restrictions, and implications of neutrality. Th is confl ict saw tensions arise between belligerents and neutrals on issues of contraband, the coaling of ships in neutral ports and by neutral colliers, and a relatively new concern, namely the cutting of telegraph cables owned by neutrals to Cuba and the Philippines.69 Th e palpable insecurity of neutral shipowners, telegraph operators, and merchants during the war oozes out of the archives in both the neutral Netherlands and Great Britain.70 Th e Spanish- American War signalled that even at this early stage of what we would these days call globalisation, the ramifi cations of war were manifold and not restricted to those actually at war. It raised to international prominence the importance of clarity on the obligations and rights of neutral states and their citizens.

68 Petition by citizens of Holmfi rth, York, to Secretary of State, Earl of Derby, 4 January 1878, in PRO FO 78/2930. It is worthy to note there were a couple of letters in support of government policy, including a letter from the Lambeth Conservative Society, who, on 12 January 1878, desired “to assure [the British government] of its fullest confi dence and sympathy, and to express its strong reprobation of the persistent eff orts made by an unpatriotic minority to render the task of administration discour- aging and diffi cult” (PRO FO 78/2930). 69 For example: Submarine Telegraph Company, London, to Marquis of Salisbury, British Foreign Offi ce, 25 April 1898, in PRO FO 72/2092. See also: NA 2.03.05 nr 426. Th e issue of belligerents’ use of neutral telegraph cables had come up in the Franco- Prussian War as well: PRO, Records created and inherited by the Foreign Offi ce. Records of Embassies, Legations, Consulates, etc. Foreign Offi ce and Foreign and Commonwealth Offi ce: Embassy and Consulates, Belgium: General Correspondence. From Foreign Offi ce, 1870, Reference FO 123/140. 70 Particularly: PRO FO 72/2093. european hopes for neutrality before 1914 47

An ideal setting to debate such obligations and rights came with Tsar Nicholas II’s request in 1898 for an international conference to discuss “the most eff ectual means of insuring to all peoples the benefi ts of a real and durable peace, and, above all, of putting an end to the progres- sive development of the present armaments.”71 As the historian James Sheehan recently explained in his engaging book on Europe, Where Have All the Soldiers Gone, while “it is easy enough to dismiss the Hague Conference [of 1899] as a gathering of knaves and fools, a farci- cal prelude to the century’s impending tragedies,” it is much more important to recognise the motivations that existed at the turn of the century to restrain a warring and tense world.72 Th e neutrality clauses of the fi rst Hague Peace Conference were limited for sure, but the fact that they were discussed and some agreement found is signifi cant. We must not forget that “for the internationally minded, it was the event not only of the year but of the decade,”73 and that, as such, the fact it was held in an avowedly neutral state (the Netherlands) must not escape our attention. Furthermore, the decision to house the Permanent Court of Arbitration in the city and to erect a building to house it, namely the Peace Palace, linked neutrality and peace in positive ways. It also suggested that even small neutrals (like the Netherlands) could make important contributions to the international environment and the promotion of peace.74 Importantly, the neutrality clauses of the First Hague Peace Con- ference quickly proved inadequate to deal with the challenges of a series of new wars, particularly the Anglo-Boer War of 1899–1901 and the Russo-Japanese War of 1904–1905. John Coogan identifi es the Boer War and the Russo-Japanese Wars as the key events that shift ed British perceptions of the worthiness of promoting neutral rights.75 While I do not disagree about the relevance of these two wars in solidifying

71 Rescript of the Russian Emperor, Tsar Nicholas II, 24 August 1898, available at: “Th e Avalon Project. Documents in Law, History and Diplomacy,” http://avalon.law .yale.edu/19th_century/hag99-01.asp (Accessed November 2008). 72 J. J. Sheehan, Where Have All the Soldiers Gone? Th e Transformation of Modern Europe (Boston: Houghton Miffl in, 2008), pp. 25–26. 73 Best, “Peace conferences,” p. 621. 74 For the importance of the peace conferences to the Netherlands see: H. te Velde, “Van grondwet tot grondwet. Oefenen met parlement, partij en schaalvergroting,” in Land van kleine gebaren. Een politieke geschiedenis van Nederland 1780–1990, ed. R. Aerts, H. de Liagre Böhl, P. de Rooy and H. te Velde (Nijmegen: SUN, 1999), pp. 167–169. 75 Coogan, End of Neutrality. 48 m. m. abbenhuis

Britain’s commitment to neutrality, I would nuance Coogan’s thesis by suggesting that Britain’s position on neutrality from 1899 on had been shift ing ever since the Crimean War in subtle and not so subtle ways. Furthermore, Britain was not the only great power to take a more assertive stand on neutrality from 1899 onwards. Germany was an important neutral during the Anglo-Boer War. Britain (as a belligerent) faced challenges from many neutrals during the confl ict, but particularly from Germany shipping contraband and soldiers to neutral African ports and then transporting these by rail to the land-locked Transvaal.76 Where Britain struggled to decide how much emphasis to place on its belligerent rights and thereby refusing neutral rights it might possibly need in the future, Germany advocated a strong stand on neutral rights, particularly in rejecting the concept of continuous voyage.77 In the end, Britain suspended its practice of search ing and visiting neutral ships in the Red Sea because of the problem with determining the fi nal port of destination for their cargo.78 Signifi cantly, Germany became a voice for neutral rights during this war. As German Chancellor, Count von Bülow, proclaimed in the German Reichstag in 1900: Proposals have repeatedly been made to regulate by way of international agreements the disputed points of international law with regard to maritime warfare. Attempts at a settlement have so far invariably failed, owing to the obstacles created by the divergent views of the diff erent Powers. An endeavour was even made to include this question in the deliberations of the Peace Conference at the Hague [in 1899]. Th e sole result was that the Conference gave expression to the wish that an attempt should be made by means of subsequent international Conferences to regulate, on the one hand, the rights and duties of neutrals, and on the other, the question of private property at sea. Th e German Empire would not withhold its concurrence and support if a prospect were to arise of defi ning, more distinctly than heretofore, in conjunction with other Powers, the lines for an international settlement of the disputed points of maritime law. For the moment, however, … maritime law is still in a liquid, elastic, and

76 For details: ‘Correspondence respecting the Action of Her Majesty’s Naval Authorities with regard to certain Foreign Vessels’ March 1900, in: PRO, Records of the Admiralty, Naval Forces, Royal Marines, Coastguard, and related bodies. Records of the Navy Board and the Board of Admiralty. Admiralty: Record Offi ce: Cases. War - Rights and Duties of Neutral Powers, 1908–1909, Reference ADM 116/1073. 77 Marquess of Salisbury, Foreign Offi ce, to Sir F. Lascelles, British Ambassador in Berlin, 10 January 1900, in PRO ADM 116/1073. 78 Marquess of Salisbury, Foreign Offi ce, to Sir F. Lascelles, British Ambassador in Berlin, 9 January 1900, in PRO ADM 116/1073. european hopes for neutrality before 1914 49

imperfect state…. in other words, in the domain of maritime law, the standard of might has as yet been by no means superseded by the standard of right.79 Perhaps the most signifi cant confl ict to bring out the imperfect state of maritime and neutrality law at the turn of the century was the Russo- Japanese War. In many ways, neutrality determined the logistics of the war (as it had in the Spanish-American War as well), as the number of ports Russia could call at to coal and supply its naval fl eet was limited.80 When Russia’s attempts to coal at neutral ports were repeatedly thwarted (except by their ‘neutral’ ally, France),81 Russia used its full belligerent rights to impede neutral shipping to and from Japan. It sank neutral ships, declared food absolute contraband, and impeded trade where it could by holding up ships as long as possible, all amidst an environment of international outrage from small and large neutrals alike.82 Neutral shipowners, sailors, international merchants and trading companies begged their governments to protect them and their livelihoods.83 Aft er Russia declared foodstuff s as absolute contraband, sailors refused to man neutral merchant ships for fear of being captured

79 Count von Bülow, speech to Reichstag, 19 January 1900, as reported and translated in PRO ADM 116/1073. 80 For coaling in the Spanish-American War see: PRO, Records created and inherited by the Foreign Offi ce. General Correspondence from Political and Other Departments. Foreign Offi ce and predecessor: Political and Other Departments: General Correspondence before 1906, Spain (formerly incorporating Spanish America). War between United States and Spain. Observance of Neutrality. vol. 4, 1898 June 23-July, Reference FO72/2096. For coaling concerns in the Russo-Japanese War see: PRO, Records created and inherited by the Foreign Offi ce. Foreign Offi ce: Confi dential Print. Foreign Offi ce: Confi dential Print (Numerical Series). JAPAN & RUSSIA: Further Corres. Questions relating to Coaling, Neutrality, and c. Part 2, July to Sept. 1904, Reference FO 881/8433; PRO, Records created and inherited by the Foreign Offi ce. Foreign Offi ce: Confi dential Print. Foreign Offi ce: Confi dential Print (Numerical Series). DENMARK: Corres. Neutrality of Denmark and Russian Fleet in Danish Waters, Reference FO881/8325. 81 Maxey, “Neutral Rights and Duties,” p. 58. 82 Correspondence between Netherlands and Japanese authorities, 1904–1905, in NA 2.05.03 nr 513; and Correspondence between British and Russian and Japanese authorities, 1904–1905, in PRO FO 881/8433. 83 For examples, see: Russia and Japan. Part IV. Further Correspondence Respecting Questions Relating to Coaling, Neutrality &c. April 1905 – January 1906. Foreign Offi ce, April 1906, in PRO, Records created and inherited by the Foreign Offi ce. Foreign Offi ce: Confi dential Print. Foreign Offi ce: Confi dential Print Russia and Soviet Union. Russia and Japan. Questions relating to Coaling, Neutrality and c. Further Correspond- ence Part IV, 1905 Apr.-1906 Jan., Reference FO 418/36; Records in NA 2.05.3 nr 512, including accounts of other neutrals’ predicaments. 50 m. m. abbenhuis as a ‘prize’, which had the consequence that the crew was captured as well and would not be paid.84 Historians can read the experiences of neutrals in the Russo-Japanese War in two seemingly contradictory ways. On the one hand, the war witnessed a concerted push by several states to achieve greater clarity on the rules and regulations pertaining to neutrality. Th e desire to stabilise maritime law and to reform belligerent rights was also foundational to the Second Hague Peace Conference.85 Th ey refl ect a real attempt to remove the unpredictability of wartime for non-belligerents. On the other hand, astute observers at the time would also have seen that even careful attempts at protecting neutrality and peaceable trade could be overridden by the demands and actions of determined warring states. Th e two concepts were closely linked: without the instability surrounding neutrality in the Russo-Japanese War and Anglo- Boer War the push to codify the rules that applied to neutrality more clearly would not have existed either. Th e point is, of course, that neutrality was deemed important enough by enough states to warrant codifi cation.

Attempting to Neutralise Scandinavia

While the wars of the turn of the century brought international attention to the laws of neutrality, the avowed neutrals in Scandinavia attempted to get the great powers to recognise and guarantee their permanent neutrality. As voluntary neutrals, the Scandinavian states had served a useful role in the European balance of power. With Norway’s split from Sweden in 1905, however, the issue of how to protect the security of this north European area became a concern.86 Denmark, Norway, and Sweden all hoped that the great powers would do for

84 Foreign Offi ce, Further Correspondence respecting the Questions Relation to Coaling, Neutrality and c. Part III. Russia and Japan. October 1904 to March 1905, in PRO, Records created and inherited by the Foreign Offi ce. Foreign Offi ce: Confi dential Print. Foreign Offi ce: Confi dential Print (Numerical Series). JAPAN and RUSSIA: Further Corres. Questions relating to Coaling, Neutrality, and c. Part 3, Oct 1904 to Mar 1905, Reference FO 881/8512. 85 Coogan, End of Neutrality, pp. 52–55. 86 For more: P. Luntinen, “Neutrality in Northern Europe before the First World War,” in Nevakivi, pp. 107–114; and P. Salmon, “ ‘Between the sea power and the land power’: Scandinavia and the coming of the First World War,” Transactions of the Royal Historical Society, 6th ser., 3 (1993): pp. 23–49. european hopes for neutrality before 1914 51 them what they had done for Belgium and Switzerland decades earlier, namely to guarantee their neutrality and thereby enhance their security. Th ey believed it would be a mutually attractive solution for the great powers as well, bringing stability back to the Baltic region. Th e possible permanent neutralisation of Scandinavia was, however, not a priority for the great powers in the early 1900s. Th ey feared such a move might exacerbate, instead of alleviate, tensions in Europe and actually risk war.87 Concerns over other neutralised regions certainly played a part. For example, the neutralisation of Luxembourg in 1867 had antagonised the strained relationships between France and Prussia particularly. Th e neutralisation of the Black Sea in 1856 saw Russia campaign for years to overturn the decision.88 Th e unwillingness of Austria and Russia to openly support the continued neutrality of Belgium during the Franco-Prussian War, despite concerted eff orts by Great Britain for them to do so, also signalled the diffi culties associated with outsiders guaranteeing neutrality.89 Th at the Scandinavians promoted the issue of permanent neutrality at this time is nevertheless important and signals several things. Firstly, it indicates that small neutral states were aware of their role in European aff airs. When Denmark’s bid for neutralisation was rejected, it still pushed for its territorial waters (connecting the Baltic and North Sea, a key thoroughfare for Germany and Russia) to be neutralised. It could foresee a wartime future in which its neutrality would be seriously endangered by the abuse of its territorial waters. Th is was precisely the reason why it opened its waterways to belligerent warships during the Russo-Japanese War and let non-Danish colliers coal the Russian fl eet that passed through them.90 It is also the reason why Norway pushed for some external protection of its territorial integrity in 1907, at which stage Russia, Britain, France and Germany signed a treaty agreeing to protect Norway as long as it did not cede territory to another state.91 Th e attempted neutralisation of Scandinavia also intimates that neutrality remained a valid option even in an increasingly tense world (or maybe because of the increasing tensions). Th e peace potential of neutrality is clearly fl agged here, namely the idea that war could be avoided

87 Salmon, “ ‘Between sea power,’ ” p. 24. 88 Mosse, “Crimean System,” pp. 165–166. 89 For more see: PRO FO 123/140. 90 PRO FO 881/8325. 91 Riste, Neutral Ally, p. 30. 52 m. m. abbenhuis through the deft application of neutrality. Th e Scandinavian governments were not only aware that tensions between them could imperil the general peace of Europe, they also sought alternatives to war to stabilise relationships between themselves. As Patrick Salmon reminds us, their ability to settle intra-Scandinavian issues peacefully and through compromise in the pre-1914 era off ers historians a lovely counter to the other hot spot of small state tension and strife of the time, namely in the Balkans.92

From Peace to War, 1907–1914

In 1907, the Second Hague Peace Conference was held. While historians oft en present the conference, much like its predecessor, as “little more than a footnote en route to the 1914–18 war,”93 at the time it was a major international event. It was also an event in which real progress was made to formalise neutrality in international law. While many discussions at this conference, including about compulsory arbitration, disarmament, exempting private property from capture by belligerents, and defi nitions of contraband, bogged down in debate and arguments, ‘honest spade work’ was undertaken on the conventions relating to neutrality, the peaceful settlement of disputes, and rules regulating war on land and at sea (also including neutrality).94 Many of the ensuing regulations in Conventions V and XIII can be related directly back to common neutrality experiences in recent confl icts, including: regulations relating to the internment of belligerent soldiers and care of POWs in neutral countries; the decision that neutral governments cannot be held responsible for the actions of their citizens although they must take care to make their citizens aware of neutrality, monitor their behaviour, and prevent them from breaching neutrality; rules relating to the use of neutral telegraphs and telecommunication lines; and agreement that neutrals must mobilise and defend their sovereign territory both on land and at sea from neutrality violations by belligerents and their own citizens.95

92 Salmon, “ ‘Between sea power,’ ” p. 41. 93 Nigel J. Brailey, “Sir Ernest Satow and the 1907 Second Hague Peace Conference,” Diplomacy and Statecraft 13, no. 2 (June 2002): p. 201. 94 T. E. Holland, “Th e Hague Conference of 1907,” Law Quarterly Review 76 (1908): p. 78. 95 See: Conventions V and XIII of the Second Hague Peace Conference; A. S. de Bustamente, “Th e Hague Convention Concerning the Rights and Duties of Neutral european hopes for neutrality before 1914 53

Despite much of the rhetoric about the Second Hague Peace Conference being focussed on mediation and peace, the neutrality conventions remain two of its most enduring elements. As the historian, Nicholas Tracy, also holds, they were “by far the most important of the conventions.”96 Th ey suggested that there was an expectation that right could supersede might. Cuba’s representative at the conference, Antonio S. de Bustamente, explained this at the time as follows: Neutrality today does not depend upon the interest of the belligerents, nor upon their military exigencies, but upon the pacifi c interests of the universal community, constantly becoming more exacting, and upon the right of noncombatant states to maintain their natural prerogatives in spite of the confl ict.97 From his experiences at Th e Hague, de Bustamente also maintained that: To be neutral is to-day the right of all nations, not derived from the consent of the belligerents but rather imposed upon them absolutely. War is an abnormal condition, occurs at increasingly greater intervals, and is becoming shorter and shorter in duration.98 He would be proven wrong within a decade, but the sentiment was genuine and not his alone. One of the most important of all the outcomes of the Second Hague Peace Conference was the decision to hold the London Conference of 1909 to discuss the possibility of defi ning contraband. I agree with Olav Riste that the London Declaration was momentous in that it was achieved at all, given that contraband was one of the most divisive issues between belligerents and neutrals since time immemorial.99 From the perspective of neutrality history, the Declaration refl ects a highpoint, yet it is usually set up, with good reason, in the history of the First World War as a disappointment or as an unworkable agreement, since by the middle of the war years all the belligerents had as good as jettisoned the Declaration. Still, this should not take away from the experience in 1909 that fundamental progress had been made on sta- bilising the rules of war and neutrality at sea. At the very least, merchants

Powers and Persons in Land Warfare,” American Journal of International Law 95 (1908): pp. 98–99; and Tracy, Sea Power, p. 122. 96 Tracy, Sea Power, p. 122. 97 Bustamente, “Th e Hague Convention,” p. 96. 98 Ibid., p. 95. 99 Riste, Neutral Ally, p. 24. 54 m. m. abbenhuis and shipowners around Europe were ecstatic that their wartime futures may just have been made safer. From 1909 on, of course, European aff airs became increasingly strained. As the relationships between the great powers soured, Europe’s permanent and voluntary neutrals became wary of a potential continental war. Like their larger and stronger neighbours, they increased their military expenditure, upped their naval construction pro- grammes, augmented the size of their armed forces, and pinned their hopes on being able to protect their non-belligerency.100

Conclusion

In the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, neutrality was not just a foreign policy option for the small and weak in Europe. Rather, it was a dynamic, debated, and pragmatic option for many European nations. Neutrality performed a key role in the European diplomatic system, which was in many ways wedded to the idea that peace was a useful way to protect the security and prosperity of all Europeans. In an age of decentralised warfare, neutrality off ered only advantages. It helped to keep wars limited by reducing the number of belligerents and protected non-belligerents from undue harm. In doing these two things, neutrality also helped to sustain a period of relative calm in European aff airs. In this way, neutrality was a key component of the international system defi ned by the European great powers. Precisely because neutrality was relevant to small and large states alike, it off ered a sense of security to permanent and voluntary neutrals that their non-belligerency had every chance of being safeguarded in a future great power confl ict. Th is expectation only heightened with the adoption, acceptance, and promotion of neutral rights in international law by the more powerful states, themselves occasional neutrals. While the legal framework surrounding neutrality was not without its loopholes, problems, and concerns, and it was inevitable that confl ict would arise about interpreting the rules (as was the case with all international law), by 1914, there was enough common ground and a much greater degree of expectation attached to neutrality than ever before. More research certainly needs to be undertaken to explain the position of large states – Germany, Britain, Austria-Hungary, Russia, and

100 Ibid., p. 32. european hopes for neutrality before 1914 55

France – on neutrality in the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. But when considering the dream of neutrality from the perspective of small states, they faced the First World War with their eyes wide open and a century of precedent to support them. Th ey confi dently held that they had the right not to go to war, a right held up by the large powers around them and a set of regulations (imperfect as they were) that would help to protect them from the impact a future war might have on their security, their sovereignty, their independence, and the well- being of their citizens. Th ey would be proven wrong, but it would be a mistake to label them as naïve. Most of the world misunderstood what the consequences would be if the world’s most industrialised states went to war with each other. Th e experiences of neutrals in the First World War may suggest that nineteenth-century neutrality proved too good to be true in the age of total war, but between 1815 and 1914 neutrality was not a dream of the weak and naïve but a useful and strong position for many European states, small and large alike.

CHAPTER THREE

NEUTRAL TONES. THE NETHERLANDS AND SWITZERLAND AND THEIR INTERPRETATIONS OF NEUTRALITY 1914–1918

P. Moeyes

By the end of the nineteenth century most of the parts for the major European tragedy that was to go into production in the summer of 1914 had been cast. Th e leading roles were reserved for the major powers, which had already started rehearsals by busily devising war plans and building up their armies and navies in preparation, while most of Europe’s smaller nations were to feature merely as the ‘attendant lords’ or neutral onlookers. Th e Napoleonic wars had changed the nature of warfare. Th e rise of the nation-states meant that the military potential of each state had become the decisive factor, and that in turn meant that size was important. Smaller nations simply could not compete with the major powers when it came to manpower, military expenditure and arms production. And so there emerged a general consensus: a neutral status off ered the best solution for the smaller European nations as it excused them both from taking part in the crippling arms race and from having to choose sides in any future confl ict between two or more major powers. Th e major powers actively encouraged a neutral status for smaller nations. Switzerland’s neutrality was guaranteed by the leading nations at the Vienna Congress in 1815, Belgium was proclaimed a neutral nation aft er its separation from the Netherlands in 1831, Luxemburg followed in 1867, and by that time the Netherlands and the Scandinavian countries had of their own accord come to the conclusion that adopting a policy of strict neutrality was the best safeguard for preserving their sovereignty. Generally speaking these small states opted for an armed neutrality, to indicate that they would defend themselves against any aggressor violating their neutrality. From a military point of view the major powers had no objections. It made neutral countries into useful buff er states, which could be expected at least to delay an enemy 58 p. moeyes approach and thus reduce the danger of a surprise attack by one great power on another. Th is did not mean, however, that there was also a general consensus on what small state neutrality exactly entailed. Neither the smaller nations themselves nor the major powers that in some cases acted as the guarantors of their neutrality made any determined eff orts to draw up clear defi nitions of the position, rights and obligations of a neutral nation in times of peace and war. Although a few basic principles of neutrality were agreed on during the second Hague Peace Conference in 1907 it was largely left to the smaller nations themselves to formulate their own concepts of neutrality. As a consequence, two countries that presented themselves as ‘strictly neutral’ could in fact have widely dif- fering interpretations as to what strict neutrality exactly meant. A closer look at Dutch and Swiss neutrality before and during the First World War will illustrate this discrepancy; and to account for these dif- ferences this essay will explore the origins and nature of the neutral status of both these small nations, and conclude that they were in fact two fundamentally diff erent types of neutrality.

Swiss Neutrality Before 1914

Switzerland’s long, uninterrupted tradition of neutrality, maintained throughout both the First and Second World Wars, and its close association with the Red Cross have made the country for the casual observer into the very epitome of the neutral state. But a closer look reveals that the Swiss have had a much more troubled relationship with their neutrality, which goes right back to its inception at the Vienna Congress in 1815. In March 1815 Switzerland constitutional neutrality was offi cially proclaimed and guaranteed by the signatories: Austria, Spain, France, Great-Britain, Portugal, Prussia, Russia and Sweden. Two months later the treaty was ratifi ed at a special meeting of the Swiss legislative and executive council, the Tagsatzung, which specifi cally recorded its gratitude to the signatories for recognizing and guaranteeing this newly acquired, perpetual neutral status. But on the international stage Switzerland did not present this neutral status in a particularly consistent way. When in 1866 a confl ict between Prussia and Austria seemed imminent, Switzerland did not issue a proclamation of neutrality, the interpretations of neutrality 1914–1918 59

Federal Council1 motivating its decision by arguing that this was not necessary: Swiss neutrality was a given. However, four years later, when the Franco-Prussian War broke out, the then Federal Council did issue a proclamation of neutrality. More important were the doubts that began to emerge about Switzer- land’s neutral status. Had the Swiss, by accepting a guaranteed and perpetual neutrality, not surrendered a part of their sovereignty? In other words: could the Swiss still give up their neutrality if that was felt to be in the country’s interest, without the consent of the guarantors? Among a number of leading politicians and soldiers there was a growing conviction that the guaranteed neutrality might be a great help for the country’s security, but that it was potentially an even greater hindrance in that the guarantors’ infl uence might severely restrict a sovereign nation’s political and military room for manoeuvre. For one thing it would seem to put an end to any chances to expand Swiss territory, and quite a few political and military leaders had ambitions in exactly this direction. Aft er the Prussian victory of 1871 the Swiss government had hoped to share in the spoils by annexing the southern part of Alsace in what they euphemistically called a ‘border adjustment’. But the German Reichskanzler Bismarck quashed all their hopes by curtly telling a hopeful Swiss representative that territorial expansion was not the business of a neutral state.2 Th is setback had not entirely killed off Swiss territorial aspirations though. In 1907 the then head of the Military Department, Ludwig Forrer, responded to a report on possible war scenarios by the Chief of the General Staff Th eophil Sprecher by agreeing that in a future Franco-German armed confl ict, a French violation of Swiss neutrality was a distinct possibility. In that case, he added, Switzerland should, aft er a French defeat, make an all- out eff ort to acquire territories to the south and north-west of Geneva in compensation.3

1 Th e Federal Council was Switzerland’s executive power. Each of its seven members headed one of the government departments. Members were chosen for a fi xed period; annual switches between departments were not unusual, though there were few during the war years. 2 M. Mittler, Der Weg zum Ersten Weltkrieg: Wie neutral war die Schweiz? (Zürich: Verlag Neue Zürcher Zeitung, 2003), pp. 152–155. 3 “Ludwig Forrer to T. von Sprecher, 22 January 1907, Dokumentnr. 163,” in Diplo- matische Dokumente der Schweiz, vol. 5, p. 362. Forrer (1845–1921) was a member of the Federal Council from December 1902 until December 1917. 60 p. moeyes

Forrer’s ambitions were based on a re-interpretation of Swiss neutrality. In the latter quarter of the nineteenth century many leading Swiss politicians, soldiers and lawyers began to argue that the adoption of a state of perpetual neutrality had in no way been imposed by the major European powers, but had in fact been an autonomous policy making decision. For that reason Switzerland was perfectly entitled to give up its neutral status if that at any given moment was considered to be in the interest of the country. Typical are the views of a young lawyer, Felix Calonder (1863–1952), who would become a member of the Federal Council during the Great War. In 1890 he published his dissertation on the subject of international law and Swiss neutrality. His conclusion was that Swiss neutrality should be presented in a diff erent light: it was not based on international law, so Switzerland had no obligations towards their guarantors. Instead Swiss neutrality was an expression of the unique character of the state and the will of its people. He also claimed that neutral states only had rights and duties in times of war, not in times of peace, and that therefore Swiss neutrality should not be presented as ‘perpetual’ but as ‘regular’; for only in wartime was Switzerland a neutral state.4 Th is did not mean, however, that any steps were taken to rescind the 1815-treaty. Th e matter was never even discussed with any of the signatories. Instead a rather ambiguous ‘best of both worlds’-attitude emerged in which the Swiss authorities relied on the treaty and its guarantors as a safety net. It is clearly expressed in the comments that Ludwig Forrer as head of the Federal Council added in May 1912 to a draft proposal for instructions to military commanders. First he stated that Switzerland was indeed a neutral power, but that this had been entirely her own decision, which could therefore be reversed at any given moment; her active participation in a war between neighbouring states was neither a theoretical nor a practical impossibility, even though it was to be expected that the traditional policy of neutrality would continue to be the country’s best option, also in the long term. He then added that this did not mean that the validity of the 1815 guarantees should be openly rejected: For even though we tend to be of the opinion that our neutrality is entirely based on our own decision, and that there are no international

4 Cf. D. Sprecher, Generalstabchef Th eophil Sprecher von Bernegg: eine kritische Biographie (Zürich: Verlag Neue Zürcher Zeitung, 2003), p. 106. interpretations of neutrality 1914–1918 61

agreements that compel us to acknowledge this neutrality as a servitude imposed on our federal state, so we cannot deny that there are circumstances thinkable, in which our country’s interest could verge to the other extreme: that we would want to appeal to our neutrality being guaranteed by the signatories to the treaty of 20 November 1815.5 Th e tacit consensus reached among Swiss political and military leaders was that the country’s neutrality should be regarded as a useful tool that could always be resorted to, but that in no way imposed restrictions on their territorial aspirations and political and military room for manoeuvre. Th is ambiguous attitude towards the country’s neutral status was refl ected in the close and distinctly un-neutral foreign contacts maintained by some Swiss political and military leaders. When Chief- of-Staff Pfyff er attended the French army manoeuvres in 1889, he discussed the threat that the Triple Alliance (Germany, Austria-Hungary and Italy) posed for their countries with the French war minister. He also revealed to him his detailed plans for an attack on Milan should Italy violate Swiss neutrality. Meanwhile, the head of the Military Department, Bernhard Hammer, conducted a private foreign policy with Berlin for three years (1887–1890), without informing his fellow members in the Federal Council.6 Pfyff er’s contacts with the French War minister indicate that the Swiss military was equally doubtful about the security that neutrality off ered. In 1890 a senior staff offi cer, lieutenant-colonel Weber, wrote a report for the Federal Council in which he warned that Switzerland should not have too many illusions about its safety if a major European confl ict were to break out. Th e country was entirely surrounded by four major powers, and a future war between these nations would involve huge armies and require such massive troop movements that there was little chance that the sanctity of a ‘neutral island’ would be respected. Switzerland’s position was made even more vulnerable by the newly constructed international railway lines; belligerent nations would be seriously tempted to make use of these ideal lines of communication.7

5 “Ludwig Forrer to Arthur Hoff mann, 2 May 1912, Dokumentnr. 319,” in Diplomatische Dokumente der Schweiz, vol. 5, pp. 690–691. 6 Cf. M. Mittler, Der Weg zum Ersten Weltkrieg, pp. 261–265. 7 “Memo lieutenant-colonel E. Weber, November 1890, Dokumentnr. 36,” in: Diplo- matische Dokumente der Schweiz, vol. 4, p. 68. E. Weber is probably a misprint for R. (Robert) Weber (1849–1931), who commanded the Army Engineers 1901–1924. 62 p. moeyes

Th e message was clear: Switzerland could not expect to maintain its neutrality by hiding behind the 1815 treaty and international agreements. It needed to be backed by a credible military deterrent. Some military thinkers went so far as to propagate the advantages of a military alliance, but this was countered with the argument that by aligning itself with one or more major powers a small state always jeopardized its sovereignty. A serious investment in the national defences was therefore felt to be a much safer option. Swiss neutrality stood a better chance to be respected by the belligerents if they regarded the Swiss army as a force to be reckoned with. In May 1909 the head of the Military Department sent a confi dential report to his colleagues in the Council in which he emphasized that the respect that belligerent nations would show for Swiss neutrality in a future war depended entirely on how impressed they would be by the Swiss army, its armoury and equipment.8 On the eve of the Great War Switzerland was therefore a small state that was acutely aware of its own vulnerability. Its neutrality was a mixed blessing it would be silly to put too much faith in, if only because one could not rely on the nearly one hundred year old promises of the surrounding major powers.9 In 1906 Emil Frey, a soldier-politician who had headed the Military Department 1890–1897, contrib uted an essay on Neutrality to the Handwörterbuch der Schweizerischen Volkswirtschaft , Socialpolitik und Verwaltung [Dictionary of Swiss Econ- omy, Social Policies and Administration]. His summing up illustrates the sceptical attitude that prevailed. He reiterated that the 1815-treaty did not mean that Switzerland had a legal obligation to remain per- petually neutral. He then welcomed a change of mood he claimed to have observed in the Swiss people, namely that they were cured of what he called “their erroneous belief that the guarantors of Swiss neutrality off ered a considerable amount of protection against enemy attacks.” He rounded off his contribution with a forceful reality-check: Th e major powers were not genuinely interested in Swiss neutrality; the simple truth was that if the violation of a neutral state was at any given time in

8 “Eduard Müller (1848–1919) to the Bundesrat, 12 May 1909, Dokumentnr. 254,” in Diplomatische Dokumente der Schweiz, vol. 5, p. 564. Müller was a member of the Federal Council 1895–1919. During the war years he headed the Justice and Police Department. 9 Italy was a special worry, as the country, founded in 1861, was not one of the 1815 signatories and had no historical obligations towards Switzerland. interpretations of neutrality 1914–1918 63 the interest of a warring nation, then that neutral state would be violated.10 Eight years later Belgium was to experience the validity of this observation.

Dutch Neutrality Before 1914

Dutch political and military leaders had no such qualms about their country’s neutrality. If there had been a widespread dissatisfaction, the neutral status could simply have been discarded. Dutch neutrality had not been imposed by foreign powers, it was not based on an international treaty nor was it backed by major power guarantees; the Dutch themselves had decided that for them neutrality was the best foreign policy and they had stepped up their defence eff orts to show the world that they intended to stay independent, aloof and determined to defend their nation’s sovereignty. Switzerland prided itself on a long tradition of neutrality, dating back to even before 1815. Th e Dutch had adopted a neutral status shortly aft er the separation from Belgium had become defi nite in 1839, but it was not until aft er the Franco-German war of 1870–1871 that they began to proclaim their neutrality on the international stage. Th e Prussian off ensive spirit had manifested itself in the wars with Denmark (1864) and Austria (1866), and aft er an equally quick defeat of France in 1871 the Dutch suddenly found themselves with a military-minded, Prussian-dominated German superpower on their eastern doorstep. Unlike Switzerland, which had always had powerful neighbours, this was a new experience for the Dutch. Th eir response was swift . Th e Dutch harboured no dreams about expanding their territory in Europe and therefore neutrality was a perfectly acceptable solution. But it would have to be a political neutrality, not a permanent, guaranteed one, as the Dutch Foreign Minister made clear in parliament in December 1906: Th e neutralization of Switzerland, Belgium, and Luxemburg was eff ected by treaty. If we measure the advantages of neutralization side by side with the disadvantages, I believe the latter will be the weightier. [….] Even if

10 Quoted in D. Sprecher, Generalstabchef Th eophil Sprecher von Bernegg, p. 112. Before his political career, Emil Frey (1838–1922) had fought for the Union in the American Civil War, rising to the rank of major. From 1897 to 1921, he was director of the International Telegraph Union. 64 p. moeyes

we allow that, without great counteracting infl uences, a guaranteed neutrality may be possible for us, even then there remains the great disadvantage mentioned by the honourable members, that we should forfeit our entire liberty of action. I consider that neutralization cannot agree with a policy which, besides being modest, must also be independent.11 So the Dutch were as wary of a guaranteed neutrality as the Swiss were. However, as Dutch neutrality was to be an independent policy, not adopted at the instigation of any of the European major powers, it was essential for the Netherlands to establish itself as a reliable, non- threatening neutral state. When the Second Peace Conference (1907) made a fi rst serious attempt at codifying the rights and obligations of a neutral state, it was agreed that a neutral nation only needed to act as such in times of war (in accordance with the Swiss view). But this overlooked the important aspect of credibility. War plans were devised in times of peace, and therefore it was in peacetime that a nation needed to establish its neutral credentials. And whereas Switzerland was widely accepted as a neutral nation, Holland was not. Th e Dutch therefore used the last quarter of the nineteenth century to gain international recognition as a neutral nation. In 1874 they started the construction of the ‘Stelling van Amsterdam’, a major defence system consisting of forty-two fortresses circling the nation’s capital, far away from any land borders, and thus clearly expressing the country’s non-aggressive intentions. In 1899 and 1907 Holland hosted the two Peace Conferences, and won international recognition when Th e Hague was chosen as the seat for the Permanent Court of Arbi- tration in 1899.12 Further welcome evidence for its recognition as a neutral state came in 1903, when Andrew Carnegie agreed to fund the money for the construction of the Peace Palace, that would house the Court of Arbitration and was opened a year before the outbreak of the Great War, in August 1913.

11 Foreign Minister D. A. W. Tets van Goudriaan in parliament, as reported in the British envoy’s “Report on the Netherlands 1906,” in Bescheiden betreff ende de Buitenlandse Politiek van Nederland, ed. C. Smit, RGP, vol. 128: buitenlandse bronnen 1899–1914 (‘s Gravenhage: Martinus Nijhoff , 1968), p. 247. 12 Switzerland was bitterly disappointed not to be chosen. In a letter to his representative at the Peace Conference, Federal Council leader Eduard Müller blamed this diplomatic defeat on the Italian anarchist Luigi Lucheni (1873–1910), who had killed the Austrian Empress Elisabeth in Geneva in September 1898. See E. Müller to A. Künzli, 17 June 1899, Dokumentnr. 317,” in Diplomatische Dokumente der Schweiz, vol. 4, p. 697. interpretations of neutrality 1914–1918 65

In Swiss military circles a violation of the country’s neutrality was always considered a realistic danger; France and especially Italy were regarded with a fair amount of suspicion, but this threat was also an opportunity: it had led to silent dreams about an ultimate expansion of Swiss territory. Th e Dutch cherished no dreams about potential gains; on the contrary, their sleep was disturbed by the fear of loss. A small country like the Netherlands lacked the political and military power to suffi ciently protect its colonial possessions, in particular the jewel in its crown, the Dutch East-Indies. In stark contrast to the neutrality policy, which was isolatory in nature (on the basis that not walking on the stage of international politics was the best guarantee for not treading on anybody’s toes), Holland had adopted an economic ‘open-door policy’ for its colonies, as that was felt to off er the best guarantees against a foreign assault.13 So although Holland seemed to adopt two diff erent policies at home and abroad, they were actually two means to the same end: the preservation of the status quo. Dutch belief in their neutrality rested on three pillars: the country’s geo-strategic position, the army and international law. It was thought that Holland’s geographical position was strategically so important that no major power would tolerate the country’s military occupation or even political domination by one of their rivals. Th e Dutch army was supposed to act as an extra deterrent, but it was also there to allay any foreign suspicions about the neutral status being chosen as a conven- iently cheap option. Defence expenditure was intended to show that Holland was willing to make considerable (fi nancial) sacrifi ces when it came to the protection of its independence. When the government of the day presented a new coastal defence-bill in 1910, it stressed the point that putting up a token resistance was not an option. In that case Holland could not expect to be treated with any sympathy or consideration when a peace settlement was negotiated aft er the war.14 And any Dutch government realized only too well that if it wanted to hang on to its colonial empire it needed all the sympathy and consideration it could get. Holland considered the existing balance of power in Asia (where Britain was the dominant presence) of vital importance, for as a small

13 K. van Dijk, Th e Netherlands Indies and the Great War 1914–1918 (Leiden: KITLV Press, 2007), p. 17. 14 N. Japikse, Staatkundige Geschiedenis van Nederland 1887–1917 (Leiden: Sijthoff , 1918), p. 349. 66 p. moeyes country it lacked the money and resources to build up and maintain an adequate military force in the area. In spite of regular budget increases, Dutch defence expenditure still only met the demands of the motherland. No Dutch government could expect to get parliamentary consent for massive defence investments in the colonies. And so, whereas the Dutch army had grown by 1914 to a strength of nearly 200,000 troops, the Dutch East-Indies, fi ft y times the size of Holland, was defended by no more than a small fl eet and an army of some 30,000 poorly trained and equipped troops. Th is is why the Dutch were so reluctant to antagonize the British: Holland profi ted from the status quo that the British military presence maintained. Th is also explains why the Dutch were so keen to promote international law: it should safeguard legally what they themselves could not secure militarily and politically.

Neutrality: Ideal and Reality

In order to maintain absolute and strict neutrality a small nation would have to be completely independent and self-suffi cient. As the First World War was to show, this was a practical impossibility in war time: although all belligerent nations offi cially declared that they would ‘respect’ Swiss and Dutch neutrality, they in fact tried to infl uence these neutral nations by applying various degrees of economic, military, political and cultural pressure. No matter how studiously neutral nations had tried to avoid close military and political contacts before the war, their very proximity to the battle grounds meant that they featured in the war plans that their neighbours had devised. Neutral countries (the countries whose neutrality was respected, that is) became a sort of no- man’s-land, in which the belligerents fought a silent battle for infl u- ence, domination and control. Britain’s economic blockade of Germany could only be successful if it was not obstructed by Germany’s neutral neighbours. Aft er August 1914 the Dutch were stunned to fi nd that international agreements, one of the mainstays of their neutrality policy, were reinterpreted and ignored to suit the needs of the British blockade strategy. Even more worrying of course had been the German invasion of neutral Belgium, a blatant violation of small state neutrality. German academics had later attempted to justify this by claiming that the 1907 Hague treaty was not valid as not all belligerents (to wit: Serbia and Montenegro) had ratifi ed the agreement, which made the Dutch international-law expert A. A. H. Struycken wonder to what extent it was fair to talk interpretations of neutrality 1914–1918 67 about one war: what was the relevance of the non-ratifi cation by two Balkan states for the German violation of neutral Belgium?15 Relatively speaking the eff ects of the belligerents’ might-is-right policy seem to have been felt more harshly in Holland than in Switzerland. In their neutrality proclamation of 4 August 1914 the Dutch government had opted for a ‘strict neutrality’, which was intended to preclude uncertainties and misunderstandings. In this the Dutch went beyond the obligations as prescribed by the international conventions. Whenever possible, the Dutch government resorted to absolute prohibition (e.g. in the non-admission of belligerent warships to Dutch ports), as it was thought that such clear black-and-white regulations would avoid the possibility of misunderstanding or misinter- pretation by any of the belligerents. Th e underlying idea may also have been that by being stricter than the international laws on neutrality stipulated, Holland would earn the respect and appreciation of the belligerents. If this were so, it turned out to be a mistaken belief. For Britain and Germany the importance of neutral Holland lay in the role it played in their respective war strategies. Th at is why during the fi rst year of the war the Dutch mainly clashed with the British: they were striving hard to incorporate Holland in their economic blockade of Germany. Th e Dutch had to come to terms with the fact that war tended to make all laboriously negotiated international agreements into so many easily dispensable luxuries. Although they continued to claim a moral high ground by maintaining that they strove for the preservation of international agreements, it did not really get them anywhere.16 Th e Swiss outlook, by contrast, was much more pragmatic: Swit- zerland opted for ‘fl exible neutrality’ which appeared better suited for the rough-and-tumble of international diplomacy in wartime. Th e Swiss had one important advantage: whereas Britain was in sole control when it came to dealing with Holland, in Swiss matters it had to cooperate with France and Italy. Th e allied blockade policy proved diffi cult

15 A. A. H. Struycken, “Zijn de resultaten van de Tweede Vredesconferentie bindend oorlogsrecht?” Van Onzen Tijd 14, no. 52 (1913–1914): p. 821. See altracaso I. Tames, Oorlog voor Onze Gedachten: oorlog, neutraliteit en identiteit in het Nederlandse publieke debat 1914–1918 (Hilversum: Verloren, 2006), pp. 36–41. 16 In the fi rst years of the war the Dutch government hoped that the United States would intervene on behalf of the neutral states. But America refused to be drawn. As I have written elsewhere: one of the lessons of the Great War was that neutral states have no allies, which further increased their vulnerability. See my Buiten Schot: Nederland tijdens de Eerste Wereldoorlog 1914–1918 (Amsterdam: De Arbeiderspers, 2001), p. 12. 68 p. moeyes to coordinate and this worked to the advantage of the Swiss. Th is fact may also help to explain why the Swiss government appears to have been more robust in their negotiations with the Entente forces; an attitude which was defi nitely strengthened by their realization that they possessed some bargaining tools which they were not afraid to use. Th is is nicely illustrated by the two trade organisations that were set up under British guidance. Neutral countries were allowed the free import of goods, but as part of its blockade policy Britain imposed ever severer trade restrictions to make sure the neutrals did not export at least some of these goods to Germany (oft en illegally and at enormous profi ts). Th e Dutch government said that it could not agree to those restrictions, because as a neutral country it could not abide by the regulations of one belligerent that were aimed at harming another. However, the British had the power to stop virtually all overseas trade, including that with the Dutch East-Indies, and this struck fear in the hearts of the Dutch business world. Adopting an approach it was to use more oft en during the war years, the Dutch government backed out and delegated responsibility for overseas trade to a private trade organisation, the Nederlandsche Overzee Trust Maatschappij (NOT), which was set up in the autumn of 1914 in consultation with the British commercial attaché, Sir Francis Oppenheimer. Th e NOT was willing to cooperate with the British to an extent that a neutral government could not (e.g. by guaranteeing that imported goods would be used for home consumption only), and the British thus acquired a fi rm measure of control over Dutch overseas trade. Following his successful mission in Holland, Oppenheimer was sent to Switzerland in April 1915 to negotiate the setting up of a similar trust company, the Société Suisse de Surveillance Economique (SSS). However, Oppenheimer found that there things did not run as smoothly as in Holland, with the Swiss government being the main stumbling block. He discovered that Britain’s grip was not as tight as it had to cooperate with France and Italy and Switzerland continued to benefi t from the lack of unity in the allies’ approach (Italy being the weakest link). But in addition the Swiss had a strong bargaining point in their own arms industry, which, as Oppenheimer discovered, the Federal Council was not afraid to use: Th e Swiss Government maintained that it was in no way bound by the guarantees given by the Trust [the SSS]. Th e Allies categorically objected interpretations of neutrality 1914–1918 69

to this offi cial Swiss interpretation and threatened a serious reduction in the agreed rations. Aft er prolonged negotiations in which both sides alternately brought pressures to bear (there were valuable commodities of Swiss origin which the Allies needed, e.g. munitions, foodstuff s, etc.), the Allies while not admitting the principle, agreed to a limited exchange [with the Central Powers] by the Swiss Government of imported allied goods, provided each case was individually notifi ed and sanctioned.17 Th e Swiss government won an important concession because it realized full well that its ‘valuable commodities’ gave Switzerland a strong bargaining point. Th e Dutch did export food stuff s to Britain, but they did not have a sizeable arms industry that produced huge amounts of ammunition and such sophisticated weaponry as the Oerlikon 20 mm autocannon, all of which the belligerents were keen to acquire. Th e Dutch authorities never risked a similar confrontation with the British, as the Dutch ship-owner Ernst Heldring (1854–1931) recorded regret- fully in his memoirs towards the end of 1916: Our role in the war has not been [….] particularly dignifi ed. Our frantic attempts to preserve our neutrality could have been combined with more manliness and we would thus have achieved more for ourselves. At present Switzerland is economically speaking in a much better position than we are (Swiss industry is permitted to supply Germany with certain goods, even though it uses raw materials supplied via Entente nations). We have not achieved a similar advantage for our own industry and both the Allies and the Central Powers are better disposed towards them than towards us, because it resisted economic restrictions from both sides. It too had to give in, but it achieved more.18 Heldring clearly believed that in comparison with the Dutch the Swiss had won more sympathy by being less cooperative. Top priority for the Dutch government was the preservation of the country’s neutrality. In internal aff airs it tried to keep as tight a control as possible, but under (admittedly all too oft en undue) foreign pressure it usually went out of its way not to antagonize the belligerents, even if this meant compromising Dutch sovereignty. Britain seems to have cleverly exploited Dutch fears for retaliations against its international shipping and colonies. By leaving the NOT (nominally) in charge of

17 Sir F. Oppenheimer, Stranger Within (London: Faber, 1960), p. 262. 18 Ernst Heldring, Herinneringen en Dagboek, vol. 1 (Groningen: Wolters-Noordhoff , 1970), pp. 202–203. 70 p. moeyes

Dutch import, the Dutch government had allowed the British to encroach upon Dutch sovereignty: their infl uence over the NOT gave them a considerable amount of control over Dutch overseas trade. In allied circles the news must have spread that the Dutch were not caus- ing any major problems for the British blockade policy, for in April 1916 the Dutch envoy in Bern described a slightly embarrassing incident in a dispatch to the Dutch Foreign Minister. He had run into the French military attaché who had greeted him amicably by observing that he felt he could speak freely as he was addressing “a representative of a nation that could almost be considered to be one of the Allies”. “I decided it was best not to reply to this ‘pleasantry’,” the envoy reported with a keen sense of patriotic duty.19 Th e Swiss too considered the preservation of their neutrality an absolute priority, but in spite of their neutrality they felt as little compelled to play it by the established international rules as the belligerents did. Th e economic interests of the country were more important than an over-zealous display of textbook neutrality. It is interesting to see that the Dutch government decided to maintain its mobilized army at full strength throughout the war – as if to show the belligerents its willingness to make huge sacrifi ces (even though most of the time an immediate threat of war was non-existent); the Swiss army command ordered a sizable demobilisation in November 1914 the moment the immediate war danger at its borders had receded. In addition, the Swiss government appears to have been more resistant to what it felt to be foreign interference with Swiss sovereignty. It fought back with whatever (economic) means it had at its disposal, as the negotiations around the SSS show. A last signifi cant diff erence between Dutch and Swiss neutrality during the Great War is the amount of government control of the army. For the Dutch government the military defence of the country was an integral, subordinate part of its neutrality policy. When the interests of its neutrality policy clashed with what the commander-in-chief considered necessary for the military defence of the country, the neutrality policy prevailed. And however reluctantly, the Commander- in-Chief, General C. J. Snijders, abided by the instructions he was given.

19 “Jhr. F. G. van Panhuys to Foreign Minister J. Loudon, 10 April 1916,” in Bescheiden betreff ende de Buitenlandse Politiek van Nederland 1914–1917, ed. C. Smit, RGP, vol. 109 (‘s Gravenhage: Martinus Nijhoff , 1962), p. 543. interpretations of neutrality 1914–1918 71

In sharp contrast, the Swiss army command was given an amount of freedom that at times could easily have jeopardized the country’s reputation as a reliable neutral state. Like his Dutch counterpart, General Ulrich Wille had received clear instructions when he was appointed commander-in-chief on 4 August 1914. Article 1 of these Instructions pour le général ordered him to observe the strictest impartiality towards all belligerents and to abstain from actions that would favour one above another. However, the way in which Swiss and Dutch army command adhered to these guidelines varied considerably. Two incidents in the early months of 1916 will serve to illustrate these points.

Switzerland: the Colonels-Aff air

One of the unique problems that the Swiss government had to deal with during the Great War years was the erupting rivalry between the two biggest cultural groups: some sixty per cent of the population was German-speaking (the Schweizdeutscher), whereas in the western part of the country some twenty percent was French-speaking. Within the Swiss federal structure this cultural diversity caused few if any major problems in peacetime, but the First World War brought out cultural sympathies which threatened to divide the country in opposing camps. Th at the Swiss population was not strictly neutral was hardly surprising, nor that their sympathies did not all go in the same direction. It was to be expected that the German-speaking Swiss felt closer to Germany and/or Austria-Hungary, whereas the French-speakers supported the French cause. Holland knew no such linguistic diversity, yet its population was equally divided between supporters of the Entente and Central forces. No, the problems were caused by the 60%–20% numerical inequality. Not only was this refl ected in the Federal Council (where in 1914 four of the seven members were German-speaking and only one French- speaking20), but also in the army command. Th roughout the war, the two top jobs in the army were held by German-speaking offi cers.

20 Of the two remaining members one spoke Italian, whereas Felix Calonder (1863– 1952) was the Council’s only Romansh speaker ever. Romansh, a Rhato-Romance language, is the fourth offi cial language in Switzerland, with considerably fewer than 100,000 native speakers. 72 p. moeyes

Commander-in-chief was General Ulrich Wille (1848–1925), a great believer in the Prussian military system who spoke no French and was by marriage related to the Bismarck family – and for all these reasons heartily disliked by the French-speaking Swiss. His Chief-of-Staff , Th e- ophil Sprecher von Bernegg (1850–1927), was an aristocratic polyglot, who spoke German, French, Italian (the languages spoken in Switzer- land) as well as English and Portuguese, and was therefore much more acceptable in West-Switzerland, although his sympathies for Austria- Hungary (a cousin was a general in the Austrian army) were frowned upon. Th e vast majority of staff offi cers were also German-speaking, which fed the suspicion (especially in West-Switzerland) that the Swiss top brass was distinctly pro-German. Aft er the war Max Huber (1874– 1960), a renowned Swiss jurist who during the war served as a legal adviser to the military, wrote in his memoirs that he was astounded by the Federal Council’s careless attitude towards the make-up of the army’s high command: “[I]t was a virtually incomprehensible – only explainable by the fact that a majority of the Council held similar views – error by the political leadership in the country that it made no eff orts to establish a fairer representation of the French-speaking Swiss.”21 In January 1916 this suspicion was apparently borne out by the Obersten-Aff äre, the Colonels-aff air.22 It emerged that two senior staff offi cers, both heading a section in the Swiss intelligence service, had for some time been passing on information about French and Russian troop movements to the German and Austrian military attachés. When informed about this General Wille had quietly moved both offi cers to command posts outside the general staff in the hope that he would be able to hush up the aff air. He could not. Th e news was published in the French-speaking cantons and caused a public outcry. Senior offi cers had committed acts that were pro-German and un-neutral (if not downright treacherous), and the commander-in-chief had done no more that to kick them upstairs (almost literally in one case in that

21 M. Huber, Denkwürdigkeiten 1907–1924, ed. P. Vogelsanger (Zürich: Orell Füssli Verlag, 1974), p. 66. 22 For full accounts of the aff air, see H. R. Fuhrer, “Die Oberstenaff äre,” in General Ulrich Wille: Vorbild den einen – Feindbild den anderen, ed. H. R. Fuhrer and P. M. Strässle (Zürich: Verlag Neue Zürcher Zeitung, 2003), pp. 359–408; and D. Sprecher, Generalstabchef Th eophil Sprecher von Bernegg, pp. 380–406. interpretations of neutrality 1914–1918 73 the offi cer in question was made commander of a mountain brigade). Th is lenient response was considered totally inadequate. On 11 January a delegation from West-Switzerland voiced their complaints to the head of the Military Department, Camille Decoppet (1862–1925), the only French-speaking member of the Federal Council. Decoppet realized that the matter would not simply go away. It then transpired that only three members of the Council were aware of the incident. Th ey had approved the measures taken by General Wille without considering it necessary to consult their colleagues. When these were belatedly informed later that day, they refused to go along with the general’s lenient solution. Instead the Council commissioned a report on the incident which concluded that the matter could not be hushed up as foreign representatives were aware of what had happened. It was then decided that the case would have to be heard by a military court. On the morning of Tuesday 29 February Chief-of-Staff Th eophil Sprecher arrived at the military courthouse in Zurich to give his witness statement. He loyally stood up for his subordinates, but in doing so he showed a surprisingly sceptical attitude towards the state of Swiss neutrality. He acknowledged that the passing on of information had been wrong, but the offi cers had done it with the best of intentions and in the interest of the country; they expected to receive valuable information in return. Of course in doing so they had contravened their instructions regarding neutral behaviour, but, according to Sprecher that was not something one should get too upset about. He observed that as a neutral state Switzerland had certain rights, but these rights were restricted or ignored whenever it suited the belligerents. In addition a neutral state also had a number of obligations, but these too were not always taken seriously. As an example he mentioned the export of arms, munitions and war material. According to the government’s neutrality instructions this was prohibited, yet everybody knew that it had been taking place on a large scale. For Sprecher the conclusion was obvious: “Th erefore I believe, as on the one hand we have to accept that our rights as a neutral are violated and restricted whenever it suits the belligerents, we also need not be too obsequious and strict in the observation of our duties.”23

23 “Witness statement by Chief-of-Staff Von Sprecher, 29 February 1916, Doku- mentnr. 177,” in Diplomatische Dokumente der Schweiz, vol. 6, p. 332. 74 p. moeyes

For several reasons this is a remarkable statement. Th e Swiss chief- of-Staff freely admits that: • Two of his senior offi cers were in close contact with military representatives of Germany and Austria, in eff ect assisting the Central Powers in their war against the Allies. • As far as trading with belligerent nations is concerned, Switzerland had regularly failed to fulfi l its obligations as a neutral state. • He basically considered all this is perfectly justifi ed and acceptable. At least as remarkable is the fact that the government allowed him, in his offi cial capacity, to make such highly controversial – and potentially damaging – comments.24 Ultimately, the whole incident seemed to have been no more than a storm in a teacup. Th e court found the two offi cers not guilty of treason (they had not passed on Swiss military secrets to their foreign contacts), nor was Chief-of-Staff Sprecher relieved of his duties. Th e Federal Council told parliament that Sprecher had arguably spoken ‘unwisely’, but that that in itself was no reason for the Council to withdraw its confi dence in him.25 It was not revealed that behind the scenes Sprecher’s dismissal had been considered, but that it was decided that his departure would either do nothing to pacify the French- speaking Swiss (as they were aft er Commander-in-Chief General Wille’s scalp), or – if General Wille were to resign in sympathy with his chief-of-staff – that it would deprive the Swiss army of its two commanders at one fell swoop, which would destabilize the country even more seriously.26 What the ‘Obersten-aff air’ brought to public notice, however, was the irresponsibly careless attitude towards neutrality that existed in the top echelons of the army and the lack of supervision by the Swiss government. In September 1915 General Wille had reminded Sprecher that they had to tread carefully: “As far as politics is concerned we need

24 Th e court proceedings were followed in the Dutch press. A summary in the Nieuwe Rotterdamsche Courant reported colonel Sprecher as saying that if it was in the interest of the country intelligence offi cers had the right to ignore the government’s neutrality instructions. At the beginning of the war the Dutch government had urged the press not to discuss neutrality issues, and so it is regrettable but not surprising that no follow-up articles appeared comparing and exploring the Swiss and Dutch situations. Cf. Nieuwe Rotterdamsche Courant, March 2, 1916, Ochtendblad A. 25 Cf. D. Sprecher, Generalstabchef Th eophil Sprecher von Bernegg, p. 406. 26 Cf. H. R. Fuhrer, “Die Oberstenaff äre,” in General Ulrich Wille, ed. H. R. Fuhrer and P. M. Strässle, pp. 388–390. interpretations of neutrality 1914–1918 75 to make sure that our thoughts and actions always coincide with the views and desires of the Federal Council. Only then do we have the right completely to reject any interference in our own fi eld, the conduct of the war.”27 Th e reason for sending this reminder had been another serious breach of the neutrality regulations: one of the offi cers who would later feature in the Obersten-aff air had asked the Federal Council permission for a visit to Austria, and when this had been refused he had gone of his own accord. When this was discovered, Sprecher backed his subordinate by saying that he had authorized the visit, and Wille had left it at that. Th e clear divide that Wille assumed to exist between neutral politics and the conduct of war was of course a fallacy. As the Dutch government recognized only too clearly, it was imperative that the actions of a neutral state’s army would stay closely in step with its government’s policies. Th at is why the Dutch government maintained a tight control over its Commander-in-Chief. What is so striking in the Swiss situation is that the Federal Council in general and the Military Department in particular continued to allow its army commanders a remarkable amount of freedom, even aft er that freedom had been repeatedly abused. Th e Federal Council apparently did not regard the guardian- ship of Switzerland’s reputation as a neutral country as one of its primary duties.

Th e Netherlands: the March 1916 Alarm

On Th ursday 30 March 1916 the Dutch envoy in Berlin was summoned to the Foreign Offi ce where he was told that the German government had been reliably informed that the British were preparing an amphibious attack on Belgium, and that it was highly likely that the coast of south-west Holland would be part of the landing area. A sizeable fl eet was being amassed in the Th ames and Humber estuaries. Th e Dutch envoy was assured of the German government’s intentions to respect Dutch neutrality, but he also needed to understand that Germany would take all military measures it considered necessary for the protection of its positions in Belgium. Th e envoy informed his minister in Th e Hague forthwith and later that aft ernoon an emergency meeting was convened between the Dutch

27 Wille to Sprecher, 29 September 1915. Quoted in Ibid., p. 400. 76 p. moeyes ministers of foreign aff airs, war and navy, and the commander-in-chief. Th e two ministers heading military departments and the commander- in-chief tended to dismiss the veracity of the German report. Britain’s recent attempt at an amphibious landing at Gallipoli had been a painful disaster and Dutch intelligence sources in Britain, usually well informed about fl eet movements, had reported no special activities of any kind. But the foreign minister pointed out that that was hardly the issue. Th e German message was clear: if the Dutch government took no action the Germans might use that as an excuse to violate Dutch neutrality (as they had done with Belgian neutrality in August 1914). He therefore insisted that some form of military action be taken. At a cabinet meeting that evening it was decided to cancel all military leave – a very unpopular move, as it was shortly before Easter and the bored and dis- contented mobilised troops were eagerly looking forward to spending some time at home. On 4 April the prime-minister made a statement in parliament in which he vaguely referred to “increasing dangers” and said that he could not disclose the exact reasons for the measure, but that it had been taken in the interest of the country. He then reiterated Holland’s unwavering determination to maintain strict neutrality. A newspaper editorial commenting on the statement was spot-on when it observed that the prime minister had been addressing the belligerents rather than his own people.28 Th e irony is that when the prime-minister made his statement in the House the crisis itself had already blown over. On 2 April the Dutch envoy was told by the German Foreign Minister that the invasion report had turned out not to be as reliable as had initially been thought, but that he was very pleased with the Dutch government’s prompt response. It reduced the whole incident to that of a fi re drill, but the intriguing question it raised was: who was ultimately in charge? Th e point is that the Dutch government had felt compelled to act on an unsubstantiated German rumour, a rumour neither the Dutch government nor the military really believed in. What had clinched the argument was that the Dutch authorities decided that they could not aff ord to take the risk of antagonizing the Germans. And so a neutral, sovereign nation had jumped when its neighbour had told it to jump. A far-reaching military measure was taken for no other reason than to pacify a worried neighbouring state.

28 Nieuwe Rotterdamsche Courant, April 5, 1916, Avondblad C. interpretations of neutrality 1914–1918 77

How genuine these worries were is also extremely doubtful; for it was only two days aft er the Dutch envoy was fi rst informed that the whole story was withdrawn and never heard of again. Th e suspicion seems justifi ed that the whole incident was no more than a public relations exercise, intended to put an end to the anti-German mood in Holland. In March many anti-British sentiments had been expressed in the press, following the stopping and searching of Dutch steamboats on the high seas and the confi scation of the mail they carried. But then, in the night of 16 March 1916 the Tubantia, a brand new Dutch passenger liner, was torpedoed off the coast of Holland. Germany initially denied all responsibility, but witnesses had seen the torpedo approaching and remaining fragments found on inspection of the wreckage proved it to have been of German manufacture. On 17 March the German envoy in Th e Hague, Richard von Kühlmann, reported to Berlin that regrettably public opinion in Holland had switched to viru- lently anti-German, for which he blamed the indiscriminate actions of the U-boat captains: “Th ese incidents only play into the hands of our enemy.”29 Spreading the rumour of a possible British invasion may well have been no more than a propaganda counter attack. If so, it makes the Dutch dependence even more striking, for it shows how both government and army command could be made to assist in a relatively unimportant German public relations aff air. Th e matter did not end there, for even though the Germans had indicated the end of the crisis on 2 April, the Dutch government decided that such a serious measure as the cancellation of all military leave could not be countermanded within a few days. As the Minister of War wrote in his memoirs, there was no plausible reason to explain such a move: Parliament would undoubtedly want to know more. It would want to know what had happened to the “increasing dangers, to which our country was exposed.” And we could not reply that the measure had been taken for diplomatic reasons, and was not based on a military necessity.30 And so a very unpopular and disruptive measure was maintained over the Easter holidays, although it was clear to all in the know that neither

29 “Von Kühlmann to German Chancellor Bethmann Hollweg, 17 March 1916,” in Bescheiden betreff ende de Buitenlandse Politiek van Nederland 1914–1917, ed. C. Smit, RGP, vol. 137 (‘s Gravenhage: Martinus Nijhoff , 1971), p. 52. 30 N. Bosboom, In Moeilijke Omstandigheden (Gorinchem: Noorduyn, 1933), p. 268. 78 p. moeyes the national interest nor the country’s security were in any way at stake. Th e incident nearly had serious consequences when thousands of disgruntled troops went AWOL over the Easter weekend; when the commander-in-chief tried to reinstate discipline by meting out heavy punishments he was prevented from doing so by the government.31 Th e ‘March 1916 alarm’ shows how the Dutch government lived in constant fear of upsetting one of the belligerents. A violation of its neutrality was a constant and realistic possibility, so that calling a belligerent’s bluff was not an option. Military considerations were completely subordinate to the requirements of the government’s neutrality policy. When the Commander-in-Chief General Snijders asked if the government would accept German assistance if the British were indeed to land on the Dutch coast, the prime-minister simply refused to consider the question: the possibility of military alliances would only be enter- tained when the invasion had become a reality. Th e ‘conduct of war’, which the Swiss Commander-in-Chief General Wille considered his prerogative, was not the exclusive domain of his Dutch counterpart. On the contrary: battle preparations were made virtually impossible, not only because he was refused the possibility of exploring military cooperation with foreign troops, but also because the government insisted that the ‘neutral’ deployment of the army be maintained, with the eastern, western and southern borders defended by one division each, and the fourth (and last) kept in reserve. When faced with the choice between the requirements of its neutrality policy and those for a proper military defence of the country the government chose unreservedly for its neutrality. In January 1917 General Snijders would raise this issue again. Referring to an interview with General Wille in a French newspaper, in which he had said that the Swiss army was determined to sacrifi ce all for the honour of the fatherland, and would fi ght “in close cooperation with the opponent of whoever were to attack Switzerland,” Snijders asked the government if it intended to adopt a similar strategy (i.e. did it intend to accept foreign military assistance in case of an enemy attack). Th e government refused to be drawn: although it understood and appreciated the general’s concerns it was felt that there were too many disadvantages attached to giving detailed instructions for any eventuality that might arise. Th e general was not impressed – “they are

31 See P. Moeyes, Buiten Schot, p. 141. interpretations of neutrality 1914–1918 79 not going to seek shelter until they are soaked to the skin,” he commented wryly.32

Two Versions of Neutrality

Until the end of the war, the Dutch government continued to ban any offi cial military contacts with the belligerents. Th e Swiss adopted a decidedly less isolationist approach; the unoffi cial contacts that the Colonels-aff air had brought to light, were placed on an offi cial footing. When the failure of the Verdun off ensive made a German victory less likely, the Federal Council decided to hedge its bets, and in the spring of 1917 it authorized talks between the Swiss army command and a French military delegation to explore the possibilities of a military alliance in the event of a German invasion of Switzerland. Again this illustrates a fundamental diff erence between the Swiss and Dutch concepts of neutrality. From a Dutch perspective, the Swiss approach would have been totally unacceptable. Th e risks were simply too big: exposure could fatally damage one’s credibility as a neutral state. Aft er their occupation of neutral Belgium, the Germans had published Belgian diplomatic documents, in an attempt to show that before the war the Belgian government had been engaged in establishing a military alliance with the Entente. How easy such a propaganda-campaign would become if there indeed had been such contacts! Th is extremely careful and isolationist Dutch approach is the main diff erence between the Dutch and Swiss interpretations of neutrality. For the Swiss the idea of taking initiatives in the fi eld of international diplomacy was not completely anathema; even when they had been repeatedly bitten, they still did not shy away from new diplomatic adventures – and their doing so clearly suggests that they had but a limited understanding of the dangers and intricacies of foreign diplomacy. Th e Grimm-aff air in the spring of 1917 was to show the world how remarkably insensitive and incompetent Swiss foreign policy could be. In May 1917 a socialist Member of Parliament, Robert Grimm, trav- elled to Russia. At the time Russia was in the throes of a fi rst revolution

32 For a full account of this ongoing discussion between general and government see P. Moeyes, De Sterke Arm, de Zachte Hand: het Nederlandse leger en de neutraliteitspolitiek 1839–1939 (Amsterdam: De Arbeiderspers, 2006), chap. 5 and 6. 80 p. moeyes and Grimm began to mediate between Russian and German representatives, in an attempt to broker a separate peace between the two countries. Th is independent action was unoffi cially supported by the head of the Political Department (responsible for foreign aff airs), Arthur Hoff mann, who was indulging in some independent action of his own by encouraging Grimm’s peacemaking eff orts without informing his colleagues in the Federal Council. A telegram he sent to the Swiss embassy in St. Petersburg containing information for Grimm was leaked to the French and aft er its publication in a Swedish newspaper Swiss neutrality was heavily compromised. Hoff mann defended his action by claiming that he had acted in the interest of Switzerland, and there is no need to doubt his honesty.33 Th e point is that as the Swiss foreign minister he showed a woeful ignorance of the wider international implications of a separate peace between Russia and Germany. As later events were to show, such a peace would free up many German divisions and their transfer to the western front could have a direct bearing on the outcome of the war. Switzerland would thus have actively contributed to a development that would have seriously weakened the position of the Entente forces. Hoff mann had to resign and was replaced by a French-speaking liberal from Geneva, Gustave Ador (1845–1928). Th e choice was signifi - cant for several reasons: in west-Switzerland Ador’s appointment was celebrated as an enormous victory over the German-speaking majority: “buildings were bedecked with fl ags, cannon thundered, and cathedral bells were told,” an American newspaper reported.34 But Ador’s appointment was not only intended to please the French-speaking Swiss. At least as important was to restore faith in Switzerland’s reputation as a neutral state abroad. Signifi cantly, Gustave Ador had been president of the International Red Cross Committee since 1910. To shore up Switzerland’s neutral credentials it was a shrewd move to appoint some- body who was so closely associated with an institution whose neutrality and humanity were beyond question. Ador did what was expected of him: in his fi rst speech he stated emphatically that he was determined to observe ‘the strictest neutrality’. Th e Germans did not welcome his appointment, fearing a pro-Entente switch in Swiss foreign

33 See his resignation letter to the President of the Federal Council, Edmund Schulthess, 18 June 1917, Dokumentnr. 322, in Diplomatische Dokumente der Schweiz, vol. 6, p. 569. 34 New York Times, June 27, 1917. interpretations of neutrality 1914–1918 81 policy, but president Schulthess pacifi ed them by his promise that the inexperienced Ador would be supervised by three of his colleagues in the Federal Council.35 W. H. de Beaufort, a former Dutch foreign minister, was surprised to read about the Grimm-aff air. He remembered Hoff mann as ‘extremely competent’ and attributed his serious faux pas to a general mood of being worn down by the war: “For nearly three years people have witnessed all the atrocities and horrors of this war, they want to see it ended and are willing to do anything to bring this about, disregarding duties and propriety.”36 During his time in offi ce (1897–1901), De Beaufort had been one of the staunchest advocates of Dutch neutrality. His foreign policy motto had been “to maintain friendly relations with all, but alliances with none,” and this had remained the lynchpin of Dutch neutrality policy ever since. From his point of view an action like Hoff mann’s was utterly unthinkable: “Neutrals can enforce peace when they are very powerful, but at present the neutrals are not.”37 But as we have seen, his was a peculiarly Dutch point of view; the Swiss did not necessarily associate neutrality with a self-sought, splendid (and, as the war showed, largely illusory) isolation. When the armistice was signed in November 1918, both Holland and Switzerland had survived the war as neutral states. Both had had to deal with a considerable amount of foreign pressure and both had struggled with the consequences of being a small neutral state in the immediate vicinity of the war zones. Belligerent nations did not abide by the rules, if only because neutral nations in the immediate vicinity of belligerent nations could not be overlooked in modern, total-war strategies. For small neutral nations this problem was even bigger, because powerful belligerents were not afraid to use bully-boy tactics whenever it suited their needs. Neutral nations could only put up eff ective resistance if they had true political and military power, so that it was in the interest of the belligerent not to antagonize such a potentially powerful adversary (e.g. the United States), or if the neutral nation possessed (military) products that the belligerents could not aff ord to lose.

35 Mittler, Der Weg zum Ersten Weltkrieg, p. 830. 36 “Diary of W. H. de Beaufort, 24 June 1917,” in Dagboeken en Aantekeningen van Willem Hendrik de Beaufort 1874–1918, ed. J. P. de Valk & M. van Faassen (‘s Gravenhage: Instituut voor Nederlandsche Geschiedenis, 1993), p. 921. 37 Ibid., p. 921. Th e ‘at present’ is a reference to the United States, who had relin- quished their neutrality in April 1917. 82 p. moeyes

In these respects, the Netherlands found itself in a weak position. As a small nation with large colonial possessions, it was convinced that it only stood to lose in an international war that might well lead to a new balance of power – and the nearest belligerents, Great-Britain and Germany, were fully aware of this. Th e Dutch decision to leave their options open by choosing for political neutrality eff ectively limited their room for manoeuvre in wartime. Political neutrality could so easily be doubted or questioned that the Dutch authorities needed to be, act and look neutral at all time. In the years leading up to the war, the Netherlands had tried to shape neutrality into a legal construct, which would have given both neutrals and belligerents clear guidelines as to their respective rights and obligations. But the war proved that neutrality was all about politics and diplomacy, and could not be reduced to a theoretical legal construct that in war-time could be applied in practice. Looking back on the war years in 1918, the Dutch jurist J. van Hamel concluded that Holland had hoped that the Hague treaties on the rights and obligations of neutrals would have preserved the country from pressure by the belligerents. But that had proved to be a vain hope: “It became extremely obvious, that such agreements are in eff ect political in nature, not legal. Our neutrality too proved to be not a clearly defi ned legal status but a political situation, which could not be maintained automatically and formalistically.”38 Aft er the Second World War (in which he lost two sons) his views on the Dutch neutrality policy were to become even bleaker: “Neutrality was presented as a holy duty, as if it were the sav- iour of international law. Th is was a typical consequence of the concept of neutrality if regarded as a doctrine and not as what she really is: a form of opportunism, of use in a given situation, but a point of view that if necessary needs to make way for other viewpoints.”39 Th e Swiss were much more ready to accept that neutrality and opportunism went hand in hand. Neutrality was a means to and end, the end being the protection of Swiss sovereignty. As Emil Frey had pointed out in 1906, recognition of Switzerland’s neutral status by the

38 J. A. van Hamel, Nederland tusschen de Mogendheden: de hoofdtrekken van het buitenlandsch beleid en de diplomatieke geschiedenis van ons vaderland sinds deszelfs onafh ankelijk volksbestaan onderzocht (Amsterdam: Holkema en Warendorf, 1918), pp. 395–396. 39 J. A. van Hamel, De Vaste Koers: diplomatieke geschiedenis van ons vaderland (Amsterdam: Elsevier, 1946), p. 124. interpretations of neutrality 1914–1918 83 major powers did not really amount to much. Ultimately it would be the necessities of the war that would decide Switzerland’s fate. Th at is why he maintained that, as a sovereign state, Switzerland could and should form alliances if that was the best way to secure the country’s sovereignty.40 In 1912 Arthur Hoff mann, then head of the Military Department, warned the Federal Council that in a future war Switzerland might well end up completely surrounded by belligerents and that that would almost automatically lead to a relinquishing of the neutral status: Th e political situation will as a matter of course make it necessary, aft er not too long a time aft er the commencement of hostilities, for Switzerland to begin to make overtures to one of the belligerents. Switzerland at war with all four neighbouring states is unthinkable and Switzerland as a neutral island amidst the turmoil of a major European war is unlikely to the highest degree.41 Swiss political leaders were willing to contemplate a Switzerland aft er neutrality, aligning itself with one (or more) of the belligerents. Th eir Dutch counterparts always shied away from a vision of Holland at war: beyond neutrality lay a bleak and uncertain future that simply did not bear thinking about. For the Swiss neutrality was but one of the weapons in their armoury (albeit a very important one), for the Dutch it was their only hope of success. Th e explanation for this fundamental diff erence in the Swiss and Dutch attitudes towards neutrality lies in its status. Dutch neutrality was no more than a political neutrality. Because it was in no way supported by international treaties or legal documents it only existed as long as Dutch governments continued to behave as a neutral power. Th at is why the Dutch government felt compelled to play by the rules even though the opponents did not do so and there was no referee to punish misconduct. Swiss neutrality went much deeper, and for that very reason it was much more taken for granted, especially by the Swiss themselves. Not only was it legalized and guaranteed in international treaties, it was also presented as an integral part of Swiss culture. First and foremost, therefore, Swiss neutrality was a cultural neutrality, a neutrality that had a long tradition which was recognized across Europe

40 Cf. D. Sprecher, Generalstabchef Th eophil Sprecher von Bernegg, p. 113. 41 “Arthur Hoff mann to Bundesrat, 23 October 1912, Dokumentnr. 337,” in Diplomatische Dokumente der Schweiz, band 5, p. 725. 84 p. moeyes and beyond, but whose unique characteristic was that it was felt to refl ect and express the nation’s identity. To be Swiss was synonymous with being neutral.42 Th at explains the apparent carelessness with which the Swiss authorities indulged in un-neutral actions during the war years: there was a tacit belief that fundamentally Swiss neutrality could not be questioned. Political and military leaders never regarded themselves purely as the representatives or guardians of the nation’s neutrality. Th eir primary task was to act in the interest of the country and they did not feel they had to operate within the constraints of their obligations as a neutral. A breach in neutral behaviour was always regarded as an isolated incident involving one or more individuals, but it could not damage or destroy the inviolable link between the Swiss federal republic and its age-old neutrality. Because of their close proximity to the war zones, the pressure put upon them by the belligerents and their own interests which they sought to protect in these extraordinary and threatening circumstances, the small neutral nations Holland and Switzerland experienced the Great War as an intricate balancing act. To that extent they were like tight-rope walkers, but the essential diff erence was that for the Dutch government neutrality was the tight-rope itself: one wrong move, a loss of balance, and Holland would tumble down into the horrors and destruction of a world war. For the Swiss neutrality was the safety net they could always fall back on: in the secure knowledge that it was there, they were less fearful and more robustly independent in fi nding their way to the other side.

42 Th e claim that the tradition of Swiss neutrality predates 1815 is open to question, but whether it is based on myth rather than historical fact is of no consequence in referring to Swiss neutrality as a cultural neutrality. For even if it is largely based on myth, then that myth is the product of Swiss culture. And the fact is then that the myth persists to this very day. CHAPTER FOUR

FALL K. GERMAN OFFENSIVE PLANS AGAINST THE NETHERLANDS 1916–1918

W. Klinkert

Th e Netherlands at the time of the First World War off ers an inviting case-study of a small country’s freedom of movement in the close proximity of large, warring states. Important research into this has already been done, particularly in studies by Marc Frey,1 Hubert van Tuyll2 and Maartje Abbenhuis.3 Th ey have made it clear, on the one hand, that the Entente and Central Powers had an interest in Dutch neutrality for economic as well as military reasons, and, on the other, that Dutch politicians, military leaders and entrepreneurs were in constant contact with those making government policy or those infl uencing it in the belligerent states, to defend Dutch interests and to steer a middle course between the contradictory and increasingly exacting demands of the warring states as the war progressed. Th e most powerful weapons the Netherlands could dispose of were of an economic nature and making it clear in word and deed that no party was favoured above the other. Any pretence of one of the belligerents to take preventive action against the Netherlands had to be taken away. Little has current research so far elaborated on the military interpretation of the Dutch policy of neutrality. Did the Dutch military eff ort– there were more than 200,000 troops at the ready for a period of four years – play any role of signifi cance? Could the Dutch Government use this military element to make its policy of neutrality stronger and more credible? Did the Dutch army constitute a factor in the belligerents’ considerations concerning their policy towards the Netherlands? In other words, did the military eff ort of a small state really matter?

1 M. Frey, Der Erste Weltkrieg und die Niederlände (Berlin: Akademie Verlag, 1998). 2 H. van Tuyll, Th e Netherlands and World War I (Leiden: Brill, 2001). 3 M. M. Abbenhuis, Th e Art of Staying Neutral (Amsterdam: Amsterdam University Press, 2006). 86 w. klinkert

To answer these questions, it may serve as a fi rst step to have a closer look at German off ensive plans, referred to as Fall K4 since October 1916, in relation with the matter of controlling the Scheldt waterway, the access route to the port of Antwerp, which ran across Dutch neutral territory. It was indeed the south-westerly part of Dutch national territory, the province of Zealand with Flushing as its most important harbour, which became increasingly vital as a benchmark for the trustworthi- ness of Dutch neutrality in the course of the war years. In the eyes of the Dutch military command Zealand was an eccentric area of the country, and as such did not qualify for sustained defence. Field army units were not even located there, as they could be considered lost in the event of an attack on that province. Th is loss was unacceptable for the Dutch military command, because an intact fi eld army was necessary for a persistent defence of Fortress Holland. On the other hand, the eccentric location of this province, the proximity of German U-boat bases on the Flemish coast, and the access route to Antwerp, made it a possible casus belli. It was exactly this province where the maintenance of Dutch neutrality had to be credible and where British as well as German operational plans were focussed in case one of the belligerents would deem a preventive attack necessary. Did the Dutch military eff ort play any role of signifi cance in this decision-making? What weighing of interests did the belligerents make? For the Germans neutral Zealand meant that they could not make use of the waterway to Antwerp, but this disadvantage balanced the advantage of fl ank protection of the Flemish coastal defences and submarine bases, as well as for the lines of communication with the western front. As long as the German army did not have to take action on Dutch soil, it saved troops necessary for the vital fronts. For the British there was, on the one hand, the importance of possessing Zealand to enable them to attack the Germans from behind and, on the other, to tighten their grip on the North Sea.5 But these advantages to the

4 German operational plans against neutral states were indicated with a letter: Fall J against Denmark, Fall N against Norway, Fall S against Sweden etc. 5 British initiatives for carrying out a landing on the Dutch coast before the Germans violated Dutch national territory are scarce and appeared never to have been politically or militarily expedient. British War Secretary Kitchener tabled the idea on 29-30 March 1915 at an Allied meeting at Marshal Joff re’s HQ. Churchill propagated it the same year. (cf. Th e Memoirs of Raymond Poincaré, vol. 4, (London), p. 72; G. French, Th e Life of Field-Marshal Sir John French (London: Cassell, 1931), p. 290; and M. Gilbert, german offensive plans against the netherlands 87

belligerents were overshadowed by an even greater advantage: Zea- land fi rmly controlled by the neutral Dutch themselves. A violation of Dutch neutrality would draw the Netherlands into the war and for both parties that would be at the expense of their main eff ort on the western front in France. Moreover, Dutch neutrality was of signifi cant economic importance to Great Britain, and perhaps even more, to Germany. On the one hand, Dutch political and military policy-makers realized the possible British and German advantages of possessing Zealand and, on the other, the weighty argument that the British and the Germans did not grant each other the possession of Zealand. In this situation forceful Dutch protection of its neutrality could contribute to diminishing the chance of a preventive attack by one of the belligerents. Th e two warring sides watched Dutch activities in the area with suspicion and, therefore, the Netherlands profi ted from showing resolve in making preparations for its defence, and to a certain degree, from making these activities transparent. Th us, the Netherlands gained trust and in doing so lessened the chance that one of the belligerents would resort to preventive military action. In the mobilisation years the Dutch High Command invested much more in funds and troops in Zealand than in any other area outside Fortress Holland. Zealand is therefore a good example of how a small state with its restricted freedom of movement, had to be active in an environment with many uncertain factors to continuously convince the belligerents that the continuation of its neutrality was the best option for all parties concerned. A small state can achieve this by way of military means and active diplomacy, as the example of Zealand shows. Th e situation of Zealand cannot be disconnected from larger issues concerning the position of the Netherlands during the Great War, the economic interests of the Netherlands already referred to being the most important one. Another issue is the unrestricted U-boat war, which constituted such an essential element of the entire German war eff ort.6

Winston Churchill, vol. 3, Th e Challenge of War: 1914–1916 (Boston: Houghton Miffl in,1971), pp. 244–246, 252, 373–379. 6 See e.g. Kuhlmann to Bethmann Hollweg, 15 September 1916, Bundesmilitärarchiv Freiburg (MA) inv. nr. RM 5–4863; and J. den Hertog, Cort van der Linden (Amsterdam: Boom, 2007), pp. 459–460. 88 w. klinkert

Historiography has so far paid little attention to German military planning against the Netherlands. More attention has been devoted to the plans against the Scandinavian countries.7 In 1920, German plans against Zealand were focussed on for a short period of time, as a result of Belgian newspaper articles,8 but it was not until 2003, when Marc Karau published his doctoral thesis about the Marine Korps,9 that Fall K made its modest appearance in historiography. Karau put Fall K within the broader framework of the German defence of the Flemish coast, but the Dutch side of the matter, as well as the broader framework in which German operational preparation must be viewed, was largely neglected. It was in particular these aspects that rendered Fall K important for the role the Netherlands played in the First World War. German military planning around the Scheldt and the Dutch response to it, viewed within the framework of German naval strategy, yielded a case which could illustrate the practical application of the Netherlands’ armed neutrality and the eff ect of its defence measures. Shortly before the First World War, Zealand had already attracted international military-strategic attention. In 1910–11 the Dutch Gov- ernment had decided to build a fortress near Flushing to add force to the country’s neutrality at the Scheldt. Seldom had a Dutch military investment drawn so much international attention as when this plan was made public. It made it clear to everyone how sensitive Flushing, the Dutch coast, and the waterway to Antwerp – the Belgian reduite national – were to the international world. In an uncommonly fi erce

7 M. H. Clemmesen, Orkanøjets kant – Danmark og Norge i skredet mod total krig 1915–18 (Copenhagen: forthcoming); G. Gross, “German Plans to occupy Denmark, Case J, 1916–1918” (paper for the May 2007 Round-Table Conference Th e Danish Straits and German Naval Power in Copenhagen, unpublished, 2007); K. E. Haug, Falls Norwegen auf die Seite unserer Feinde tritt: det tysk-norske forhold fra sommeren 1916 til utgangen av 1917 (University of Trondheim, 1994); V. Sjøqvist, Erik Scavenius (Copenhagen: Gyldendal, 1973); C. Paulin, “Veje til strategisk kontrol over Danmark – Tyske planer for et præventivt angreb på Danmark 1916–18,” Danish Historical Journal (Copenhagen, forthcoming); W. Hubatsch, Weserübung (Göttingen: Musterschmidt, 1969), pp. 11–12; O. Riste, Th e Neutral Ally (London: Allen and Unwin, 1965); P. Salmon, Scandinavia and the Great Powers (London: Cambridge University Press, 1997), pp. 154–159; and M. Clemmesen, Th e Danish Armed Forces 1909–1918 (Copenhagen: Danish Defence College, 2007). 8 Militaire Spectator 88 (1920): pp. 398–404; and W. F. G. Snijders, De wereldoorlog op het Duitsche westfront, (Amsterdam: Maatschappij voor Goede en Goedkoope Lectuur, 1922), pp. 88–89. 9 M. D. Karau, Wielding the Dagger: Th e Marine Korps Flandern and the German War Eff ort, 1914–1918 (London: Praeger, 2003). Th e fi rst publication on the Korps was by E. E. Schulze, Das Marinekorps in Flandern 1914–1918 (Berlin: Mittler, 1923). german offensive plans against the netherlands 89 press campaign the French blamed the Netherlands for unilaterally meeting German wishes in this way. Th e British alleged they had no intention to violate Dutch neutrality. Th e authoritative British military analyst Charles Repington (1858–1925) wrote in the Times of December 1910 that a British attack on the Dutch coast was “improbable, unprof- itable and uninviting.” Dutch terrain characteristics, the diffi culty of navigating the North Sea coast, and the fact that Flushing and Den Helder had become too small for large British warships, certainly played a role in this. However, only shortly aft erwards the same newspaper reported that the fortress near Flushing could be considered “a pistol aimed at England, a slap in the face of Belgium, and a derogation from the Dutch system of concentrated defence.” Th e Belgians kept remarkably quiet, accepting that the Netherlands had every right to this form of protection of its neutrality. Th e building of the fortress started in 1913 and, when war broke out, only the foundation had been laid. Due to the international commotion the Dutch General Staff was forced to believe that Zealand, although situated outside Fortress Holland, was the object of keen international military interest. In spite of that, before 1914 Zealand did not feature prominently in the planning of the Dutch Commander-in-Chief, General Cornelis Jacobus Snijders (1852–1939). Th e intended stationing of troops was limited: it had to be just suffi cient to show the Dutch resolve to maintain its neutrality with force, without aff ecting the strength of the fi eld army. Th e fortress at Flushing and the navy had to do the rest.10

1914: Fortifi ed Positions Take Shape

Th e course of the war in 1914 had the unfortunate result for the German navy that only the Flemish coast between Knokke and Nieuport had fallen into their hands. With the possession of only the ports of Zeebrugge and Ostend they did not have an ideal operating base from which actions could be undertaken against England. German vessels remained, as it were, pinned down in the North Sea and both ports were relatively small and vulnerable. On the initiative of Alfred von Tirpitz (1849–1930), the navy quartered the Marine Korps,11 under the

10 W. Klinkert, Het vaderland verdedigd (Th e Hague: Sectie Militaire Geschiedenis, 1992), pp. 424–460. 11 Karau, Wielding the Dagger, pp. 7–20 and pp. 141–142. 90 w. klinkert command of Admiral Ludwig von Schröder (1854–1933),12 on the Flemish coast. As early as August 1914, Tirpitz declared himself an advocate of the annexation of the Belgian coast, which he remained throughout the war: “In Flandern liegt meiner Uberzeugung nach die Entscheidung des Weltkrieges und diejenige der Zukunft des Deutschtums.”13 Th is was certainly true as long as Germany did not possess bases with direct access to the oceans.14 In November 1914 German naval command decide to fortify the Flemish coast and build U-boat bases, which would make it possible to attack the British coast and shipping in the southern North Sea.15 It became clear in the fi rst few months of the war that Kleinkrieg would become the norm for naval battles. In October the British formed their Dover Patrol, a naval unit that was to secure the sea connections with France and prevent German passage through the Straits of Dover. In addition, the British Royal Navy declared the North Sea a warzone in December 1914.16 While the large battle fl eets stayed in port, the North Sea became the arena for the actions against German U-boats, which has had already left a surprising memento by sinking three British cruisers off the Dutch coast on 22 September 1914. In January 1915 a confrontation between cruisers took place at the Doggers Bank. Other actions by the Germans were laying mines, bombarding British coastal towns, and fl ying the fi rst air reconnaissance fl ights. But that was not all. German dissatisfaction with the way the battle at sea was developing led to an escalation, which increased the importance of the bases on the Flemish coast. Th e fortifi cation of the Flemish coast became a large-scale project, eventually turning the coastline between the Dutch frontier at Knokke- Heist and the front at Nieuport into a continuous line of heavy coastal batteries and machine-gun posts. In the course of 1915 the fi rst heavy batteries were ready for use. Th e fi rst heavy British barrages on the Flemish coast also took place that same year, without much eff ect.17

12 Ibid., pp. 11–13. 13 C. A. Gemzell, Organization, Confl ict and Innovation (Lund: Esselte Studium, 1973), p. 244; and about the German annexation of Belgium, see Hertog, Cort van der Linden, pp. 469–472, and S. de Schaepdrijver, De Groote Oorlog, (n.p.: Olympus, 1999), p. 126ff . 14 Gemzell, Organization, Confl ict and Innovation, p. 159 and pp. 139–140. 15 Karau, Wielding the Dagger, pp. 28–35 and pp. 48–52. 16 P. G. Halpern, A Naval History of World War I (Annapolis: Naval Institute Press, 1994), p. 47; and Gemzell, Organization, Confl ict and Innovation, p. 143. 17 E. Lambrecht, Voor hen geen zeemansgraf (Kortrijk: Groeninghe, 2007), p. 152. german offensive plans against the netherlands 91

In the summer of 1915 the Flemish coast had become so strong, according to Schröder, that a British landing was improbable.18 He would repeat the same view time and again in the years to follow.19 On 1 November 1914 the Germans hermetically sealed the Dutch frontier. All traffi c between Flanders and the Netherlands was forbid- den. Early 1915 the German army put up barbed wire obstacles at the frontier, which later that year were transformed into an electrical barri- cade along the border between Zealand and Flanders and further, behind which the German army built machinegun posts and other obstacles. On the Dutch side the mobilisation went according to plan and for Zealand this meant: removing buoyage, placing mine-barriers in the waterways, installing ordnance on the coast, and anchoring naval vessels in the Scheldt. Th e intended small land force went to its mobilisation destination. Despite the fact that the main eff ort of the Dutch Army lay in North- Brabant, the fi rst few months were also tense moments for Zealand, certainly during the German siege of Antwerp in October. Aft er the fall of Antwerp the situation stabilised. Th e reception of Belgian refugees and the struggle against ever increasing smuggling in Zeeuws-Vlaanderen were of major importance. In the fi rst few months of the war Flushing was allocated additional ordnance and the ancient Fort Bath, near Antwerp, regained its military role. Th e situation in Flanders and the smuggling necessitated the quartering of additional troops in Zeeuws-Vlaanderen. German mines in the Wielingen waterway and, shortly aft erwards, the placement of German guns on the Flemish coast strengthened the Dutch conviction that, if a British landing was to be expected, it would be on the northern coast of Walcheren. During the years of mobilisation this coastal area grew into

18 W. Gladisch, Der Krieg in der Nordsee, vol. 6, Von Juni 1916 bis Frühjahr 1917 (Berlin: Mittler, 1937), p. 194. 19 See Von Schröder’s memo about coastal defence of 6 June 1917 and his Denkschrift über die Kämpfverhältnisse and der fl andrische Küste of 31 October 1917, both in the Army Museum of Brussels, Archive QGT Défence de la Côte, inv. nrs. 3 and 6. Th e Dutch intelligence service [de Nederlandse Inlichtingen dienst] GS III, deemed such a landing unlikely: Van Terwisga to Snijders, 4 August 1917, on the basis of an intelligence report of 19 July 1917, Nationaal Archief Den Haag (NA), archive General Staff (GS) inv. nr. 447. Korvettenkapitän E. E. Schulze, 1. Admiralstabsoffi zier with the Marine Korps was of the same opinion and thought a British amphibious assault on the Dutch coast for political and military reasons unlikely. See Schulze, Marinekorps in Flandern, p. 8. In fact in none of the Britsh attack plans against the Flanders coast made in 1916–1918, the use of Dutch territory was mentioned. See A. Wiest Ostende and Zeebrugge: Th e critical Importance of the Belgian coast for Britain in WW I University of Illinois Chicago, 1990. 92 w. klinkert one of the most heavily defended parts of the Dutch North Sea coast outside the fortifi ed seaports.20 1914 also saw the placement of artillery batteries along the Western Zeeuws-Vlaamse coast. Th e fortifi cation of this coastline would continue during the entire mobilisation period, just like in Walcheren. Possible scenarios, other than the one pertaining to Walcheren, were becoming very visible for the Dutch high command in the early mobilisation months too. Th e German army could break out from the direction of Antwerp into South-Beveland and take Flushing. To prevent this, gun positions and mine obstacles were placed on the south side of South-Beveland. Moreover, in Walcheren and South-Beveland three positions were built to counteract a German attack over land from the east. In addition to the presence of naval vessels at Flushing, the Navy gathered a small fl eet in the Oosterscheldt to be able to give support from the river to forces fi ghting on dry land and to prevent enemy landings in South-Beveland and Walcheren.21

1915: Tension Rises

In February 1915 the Germans declared British merchant vessels targets of war, which implied that neutral vessels would also risk being fi red at as neutral fl ags were regularly abused. Kleinkrieg, which had not produced a decisive success, was superseded by Handelskrieg, in which bases on the Flemish coast were to play a key-role.22 Th is phase in German naval warfare became notorious for the torpedo attack on the Lusitania on 7 May 1915, but German actions also victimized Dutch merchant vessels.23 Both in the Netherlands and in Germany the intensifi ed U-boat activity gave rise to speculations about British landings on the Flemish or Dutch coast.24 In this period the Marine Korps started to make plans,

20 Colenbrander to Snijders, 17 June 1915, NA, Archive of position of the mouth of the Meuse River, inv. nr. 175. 21 June 1915, NA, Archive of position at Hollands Diep, inv. nr. 205. 22 Halpern, Naval History, pp. 287–303. 23 Hertog, Cort van der Linden pp. 454–455; and Frey, Erste Weltkrieg, pp. 75–76. Th is caused moments of political tension, but it was clear to all parties that the continuation of Dutch neutrality was the most attractive option. 24 M. Znaniecki, “1914–18.info,” http://www.1914-18.info/erster-weltkrieg.php?u =17&info=Home. german offensive plans against the netherlands 93 if action in Zealand would prove necessary. In September Schröder presented his fi rst analysis of possible British actions in Zealand and the German counter-measures. Th is was one of the foundations of the later plan known as Fall K. Schröder was little impressed by Dutch defence preparations and considered it possible for the British to land 50,000 men on Walcheren within twelve hours. If the Dutch would oppose the British with all means, he suspected British action would take place in the Oosterscheldt. In both cases he considered it of the utmost importance that the Marine Korps acted swift ly and advanced to the Scheldt.25 Th e German Army deployed in Flanders also formulated a plan of conduct in case the war would expand to Zealand. In March 1915 the German Commander-in-Chief, Erich von Falkenhayn (1861–1922), reported to Generaloberst Albrecht von Wurttemberg (1865–1939), Com mander of 4. Armee: “eine Allerhöchste Willensmeinung dahin- gehend, dasz Holland sich selbst voraussichtlich kräft ig gegen einen englischen Einfall wehren würde, und das Deutschland peinlichst jedem Neutralitätsbruche aus dem Wege gehen müsse. Die Einfahrt englischer Schiff e in die Schelde sei zunächst kein Anlasz zu Grenzüber- schreitungen.” Only at the express order of the C-in-C was the Dutch border to be crossed, “dasz aber sämtlich hierzu bestimmten Truppen26 sich bei einer englischen Landung sofort dicht an der Grenze zu ver- sammeln hätten.”27 Th e German Handelskrieg and the escalation of the confrontations at the North Sea made the Dutch High Command decide in April 1915 to put more coherence into the defence of Zealand. Single-headed naval command was introduced for the islands in the Zealand and South-Holland provinces. Moreover, from the spring of 1915 onwards troop numbers in Zealand were gradually increased. Cyclists did reconnaissance along the coast and more ordnance was placed in the dunes of Walcheren, a process that continued all through 1916.28 In 1915 approximately 10,000 troops were quartered in Zealand,29 which grew

25 Karau, Wielding the Dagger pp. 110–11; and Lambrecht, Voor hen geen zeemansgraf, p. 42. 26 Th is concerned 4. Ersatz-Division under the command of General Hugo von Werder (1852–1936). 27 M. Znaniecki, “1914–18.info,” http://www.1914-18.info/erster-weltkrieg.php?u =17&info=Home. 28 Hecking Colenbrander to Snijders, 25 October 1915 and Smit to Snijders, 17 October 1916, NA, GS, inv. nr. 222. 29 NA, GS, inv. nr. 786 and inv. nr. 248. In September 1915 the number had risen to 11,900 soldiers. 94 w. klinkert to 12,000 in 1916.30 In October that same year their total number was 15,000. From the contents of a memorandum of April-May 1915 it appears that General Van Terwisga31 was convinced that neither the Entente nor from Germany posed a direct danger, because for both countries Dutch neutrality had more advantages than disadvantages and because both states badly needed their troops at the front.32 Dutch preparations were mainly directed against a British amphibious landing in the northern part of Walcheren and the push of the Entente army into North-Brabant. Th e advance through Zealand could go via South-Beveland, but also via Th olen, aft er the poorly defended Oosterscheldt had fallen into the hands of the Entente. Th is was the scenario of the fi rst major army exercise in this area in May 1915. According to Van Terwisga this exercise gave a proper signal to the belligerents that the Netherlands took its neutral status seriously.33 Learning experiences from the exercise and later reconnaissance led to the decision to build a defence line in western North-Brabant to seriously slow down any further advance of the enemy in easterly direction. Th e Dutch fi eld army would not engage in a major battle there, but aft er gaining time fall back in northerly direction, across the Hollands Diep, towards Fortress Holland. Field army units would on no account enter Zealand.34 Th e construction of this West-Brabant fortifi cation started in November 1915.35 Th e surprise appearance of British naval squadrons off the Walcheren coast, on 25 September as well as on 3 October 1915, emphasized the immediacy of building this position. On top of that, there was the landing of the Entente at Th essaloniki in neutral Greece on 5 October.36 Th e parallel was obvious: the Entente was prepared to carry out an amphibious landing in a neutral state. General Snijders did not only take actions of the Entente into account. He also made it clear at the installation of Naval Command

30 Survey of troop strength on 31 January 1916, NA, GS, inv. nr. 410. 31 Commander of III Division in North Brabant and from late 1915 commanding offi cer of the fi eld army. 32 Memo Van Terwisga of 2 May 1915, NA, GS, inv. nr. 338. 33 Buhlman to Snijders, 18 May 1915, NA, GS, inv. nr. 301. 34 Snijders to Buhlman, 11 November 1915, NA, archief hoofdkwartier veldleger, inv. nr. 311. 35 Van Terwisga to Snijders, April 1918: survey of the building of the position Western North-Brabant 1914–1918, NA, GS, inv. nr. 447. 36 Van Terwisga to Snijders, who pointed at the danger of a landing by the Entente in Zealand, NA, GS, inv. nr. 296. german offensive plans against the netherlands 95

Zealand that Flushing was a desirable object for the Germans as well. German possession would prevent British conquest of the town and its port. He also emphasized that Zeeuws-Vlaanderen would not be defended: in the event of an enemy attack the troops stationed there would withdraw across the Scheldt aft er destroying the infrastructure. Th e other possibility was a German attack from the direction of Antwerp by way of North-Brabant and the Kreekrak to South-Beveland. Fort Bath would have to withstand such an attack. Th e German advance across South-Beveland to Walcheren had to be delayed at the Kreekrak, on the Canal through South-Beveland – the Zanddijk position between Wemeldinge and Hansweert – and on the western side of the Sloe from Fort Rammekens to Arnemuiden.37 Th ese defences were intended to withstand an enemy advancing from the east. In November 1915 General Snijders reported for the fi rst time the placement of artillery on the south bank of South-Beveland, at Borssele and Baarland. He considered German amphibious operations in the hazardous waters of the Scheldt, the third German option, less likely than a land operation.38 Nevertheless, late 1915 by far the most attention went to a landing by the Entente at Walcheren. In September 1915 the Chief of the German Naval Staff , Admiral Henning von Holtzendorff (1853–1919) put an end to the Handelskrieg. From then on German maritime actions would be restricted to enemy military targets. Th e Handelskrieg had yielded too little result and the admiral feared that neutral states would join the Entente. Th e Imperial Chancellor, Th eobald von Bethmann Hollweg (1856–1921), as well as Falkenhayn, wanted to have suffi cient numbers of troops available for operations in the Balkans and could at that time ill-aff ord the enmity of the neutral states, such as the Netherlands and the United States.39 Th e frustration felt by the Flemish U-Bootfl ottille was enormous when it was given permission only to attack enemy cargo-ships between Dunkirk and Le Havre. But the turnabout was only temporary. Th e German point of view hardened, in the navy as well as in the army. Von Holzendorff himself was more and more convinced by the end of 1915 that unrestricted U-boat warfare was necessary and found a kindred spirit in Falkenhayn, who wished to see the war concluded, preferably

37 Snijders to Hecking Colenbrander, 31 March 1915, NA, GS, inv. nr. 222. 38 Snijders 13 November 1915, NA, GS, inv. nr. 222 Snijders to Colenbrander, 15 October 1915, inv. nr 296. 39 Halpern, Naval History, p. 302. 96 w. klinkert in 1916, with a German victory. Th is again underpinned the importance of the Flemish coast for Germany, because, in the eyes of Falkenhayn, the unrestricted U-boat war was the only way to defeat England.40 Besides, early 1916 Reinhard Scheer (1863–1928) succeeded Hugo von Pohl (1855–1916) as Chef der Hochseefl otte. Scheer was of a more aggressive nature. A coalition started to emerge preparing the way for the second unrestricted U-boat war, but that road would prove to be long. In the meantime German and Dutch positions around Zealand were beginning to take shape, both in planning and in actual construction. Th e advocates of announcing unrestricted U-boat warfare were facing opposition from Bethmann Hollweg, who did not wish to see the neutral states take the side of the Entente in the war,41 and from the kaiser’s close circle. Th is opposition could initially predominate, but this would not be lasting. For the position of the Netherlands this internal German strife about the use of the U-boat was especially important.

1916: Operationsentwurf Fall K Takes Form

Th e possibility of stationing larger U-Boote on the Flemish coast from February 1916 onwards, and the permission of Naval Command for a limited off ensive in the southern North Sea, had grave consequences for the Netherlands: two notorious torpedo attacks on large Dutch vessels. Shortly aft er that, on 30 March, the message was received via the Dutch envoy in Berlin about an imminent British attack on Zealand. Th e Dutch Government had no tangible clues for this, but because of the tension caused by the resumption of the German U-boat off ensive, the Government took immediate action by declaring the military state of alert as of 31 March. Th e military signal the Netherlands sent by cancelling all leave was clear. Th e troops in Zealand were reinforced by one battalion. It was the fi rst time that supposed British action was brought into the open so

40 W. Bihl, Deutsche Quellen zur Geschichte des Ersten Weltkrieges (Darmstadt: Wissenschaft liche Buchgesellschaft , 1991), p. 179; and H. Affl erbach, Kaiser Wilhelm II als Oberster Kriegsherr im Ersten Weltkrieg (München: Oldenbourg, 2005), p. 356. 41 “Bethmann Hollweg to Zimmermann, 19 February 1916,” in Bihl, Deutsche Quellen zur Geschichte, pp. 181–182. german offensive plans against the netherlands 97 emphatically. In Dutch historiography this has come to be known as the alerte. On 2 April the Dutch Government realized that it was false alarm, but the Cabinet waited just a bit longer before lift ing the state of alert. It was an important signal to the belligerents that, if need be, the Netherlands was prepared to take up arms to defend its neutrality. Th e origin of the rumour about the intended British action may well lie with the German political leadership itself, who wanted to prove the serious and trustworthy nature of Dutch neutrality to the army and naval advocates of unrestricted U-boat warfare. Th ey did not want to take the risk that German behaviour would drive the Netherlands, with its massive anti-German sentiments because of the torpedo attacks, into the arms of the Entente.42 Th e period of alertness demonstrated that there was a close connection between the issues of the U-boat war and Dutch neutrality. In any case, it was cause for Schröder to pay more attention to possible military action in the Netherlands from Flanders.43 Th e storm momentar- ily died down when the German navy, again, was given the order to put a halt to the off ensive in the North Sea. In the fi rst half of 1916 the build-up of the German fl eet on the Flemish coast steadily progressed,44 also on the instigation of von Schröder. Besides, Naval Command regularly stationed units from North-German ports in Flanders for a certain duration. Th e increased emphasis on the Flemish bases was entirely in line with the preparations for a new, more aggressive, phase in the U-boat war.45 At the same time, the British intensifi ed their bombardments of German coastal batteries and employed as many means as were necessary to maintain shipping between London and the Netherlands.46 In early 1916 not only were German activities stepped up in the fi eld of U-Boote, but also regarding coastal defences. In April 1916 the army put together a new Hamburg-based command called Küstenverteidigung, fi rst under Generaloberst Ludwig von Falkenhausen (1844–1936), who was succeeded aft er three months by Josias von Heeringen (1850– 1926). Th is command would, among other tasks, be occupied with the

42 Hertog, Cort van der Linden, pp. 477–478; and K. D. Erdmann, ed., Kurt Riezler (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck and Ruprecht, 1972), p. 346. 43 Karau, Wielding the Dagger, p. 109. 44 Gladisch, Krieg in der Nordsee, p. 192ff . 45 Karau, Wielding the Dagger, p. 71. 46 Gladisch, Krieg in der Nordsee, pp. 209 and 212. 98 w. klinkert draft ing of coastal defence plans concerning North-German ports, as well as Flanders. At the end of summer, when the defeat at Verdun began to take shape, the discussion about the U-boat war began to resurface. Th ere was yet another factor. In August Rumania had chosen the side of the Entente and declared war on Austria-Hungary. In September the Central Powers had invaded Rumania and conquered aft er a swift campaign almost the entire country by the end of the year. Th is unexpected operation made the new OHL formed by Paul von Hindenburg (1847– 1934) and Erich Ludendorff (1865–1937), appointed as from 29 August, hesitate to immediately declare the unrestricted U-boat war, which initially they had avidly advocated, and which Holtzendorff , Scheer, and his Chief-of-Staff Adolf von Trotha (1868-1940)47 had continuously insisted on.48 Von Trotha emphasized the necessity of getting Denmark and Norway under control and to draw the Netherlands into the German sphere of infl uence. On the one hand, in August-September 1916, all the more because of the appointment of the new OHL, the planning for possible invasions of the Netherlands and Denmark started to take shape, but, on the other hand, the Rumanian campaign, and the political resistance against the unrestricted U-boat operations to prevent the Neutrals from joining the Entente, had a modifying infl uence. Th is state of aff airs dominated the meeting of the German military and political leadership, held at the Grosses Hauptquartier on 19 September. Up for discussion was the operational planning for possible attacks on the Netherlands and Denmark in support of the maritime strategy. Th e conclusion was that too few troops were available in the short term. Admiral Georg Alexander von Müller (1854–1940), Chief of the Naval Cabinet and opponent of the unrestricted U-boat war, reported aft er this meeting that Holtzendorff had informed the Emperor that Ludendorff did not want to step up the U-boat war yet. Th at would only be opportune, if Denmark and the Netherlands were making war preparations or when units became available, which would be the case in October at the earliest moment.49 On 2 October 1916 the Chef des

47 Gemzell, Organization, Confl ict and Innovation, pp. 421–423. 48 Gladisch, Krieg in der Nordsee, p. 134. 49 Gemzell, Organization, Confl ict and Innovation, pp. 163–164, 213–214 and 165. german offensive plans against the netherlands 99 kaiserlichen Militärkabinetts Moriz von Lyncker (1853–1932), a trusted and close associate of the Kaiser’s, wrote that the U-boat war had to be avoided because all the Neutrals would then turn against Germany.50 In a risk analysis made in August, which had come into the possession of Bethmann Holwegs’ chief-advisor, Kurt Riezler (1882–1955), mention was made of the Netherlands as being “für uns wichstigstes Bezugsland and militärisch stärkster benachbarter Staat,” which above all preferred to stay neutral.51 Th e temporary absence of strategic decisions at the highest German level did not preclude that steps were taken by the German navy to intensify activities at sea and, simultaneously, lay the basis for Fall K. In October 1916 von Holzendorff took the fi rst step into the direction of re-opening the trade war, the Handelskrieg, which was also the wish of the Flemish U Boote commander. Holtzendorff did not agree with the fear that the Neutrals would choose the side of the opponent. He wanted to make it manifestly clear to the Neutrals that Germany was prepared to make a concerted eff ort to break Britain.52 What plans were on the German drawing boards in September 1916? Th e planners recognized possible British action in Zealand, on the Flemish coast, or directly against the Northern German ports of Emden and Wilhelmshaven. Particularly in early 1916, British action near the Flemish coast was so vehement, that the German army command believed a landing was afoot, and was considering diverting troops from the Somme front.53 Th e German planners presumed that the British would want to have at their disposal bases on the Dutch coast and would want to mount aerial operations over Germany from Dutch territory. German operations would be aimed at preventing the establishment of a British foothold on Dutch soil, or, as that would probably be too far-fetched, at delaying it. Gaining time in this way would enable the Germans to carry out aerial raids on the major cities and ports in the Netherlands, and on railway junctions and bridges vital for Dutch troop transports.

50 Affl erbach, Kaiser Wilhelm II, pp. 114 and 438. 51 Erdmann, Kurt Riezler, pp. 493–494; and Karl Boy-Ed (1872–1930) to Chief of the Naval Staff , 28 August 1916. 52 B. Stegemann, Die Deutsche Marine politik (London: Ian Allen, 1969), pp. 41 and 58–60; and Karau, Wielding the Dagger, p. 81. 53 Karau, Wielding the Dagger, pp. 77 and 90–92. 100 w. klinkert

Th ere are four remarkable aspects to these intentions. First, the fl at- tering German estimation of the strength of the Dutch army,54 thought to be a somewhat over-estimated 300,000. A total of 100,000 were considered to belong to the fi eld army, which was fairly precise.55 Th e problem fi ghting this army in inundated polders was not underestimated, maybe infl uenced by experiences in Flanders. Th e second aspect is the dominant role of a particularly large aerial operation by the German naval air force launched from the Frisian Islands of Borkum and Norderney and from Flanders. It could be that the Germans were thus trying to compensate for the shortage of available ground troops.56 Apart from a list of targets, a more detailed plan was as yet lacking. Th ird, there was the explicit assumption that the Netherlands would not fi ght on the German side. Th e fourth aspect is the large amount of attention paid to the defence of Wilhelmshaven and the protection of the Rhine on the German-Dutch frontier. All parts were elaborated in the following months, with the forth aspect losing importance. Under the name of Kriegsfall B the Oberkommando der Küsten- verteidigung discussed the defence both of Wilhelmshaven – certainly when the British could operate from Dutch waters – and of the Rhine. On October 1916 von Schröder received the assignment to devise a plan of operations within this framework, should the British invasion come to pass. On 26 October 1916, together with the attack on Den- mark, this plan was the subject of discussion in the Navy Staff with respect to the question of a possible war with the Netherlands as soon as the unrestricted U-boat war was declared.57 Th e more detailed contents of Fall K, as the plan was called from 31 October on, initially focussed more on the defence of Wilhelms- haven and the quartering of troops in North-West Germany. With the coming of the new year and the end of the war in Rumania Flanders was increas ingly given more priority than the reinforcement of

54 Von Heeringen remarked, however, that he did not value the off ensive power of the Dutch army very highly [wohl nicht hoch zu bewerten], MA, inv. nr. RM 5–4453. 55 A German informant active in the Netherlands reported on 26 September 1916 that troop numbers in Zealand were 10,000, MA, inv. nr. RM 5–4863. 56 Naval Staff to Kapitän zur See Friedrich von Bülow, 3 September 1916, (MA), inv. nr. RM 5–6631. Th e planes involved would probable be from the 2. Seefl ieger Abteilung (HQ in Wilhelmshaven, Kommandeur der Flieger der Hochseestreitkräft e). 57 Affl erbach, Kaiser Wilhelm II, pp. 877–78 from the diary of Hans Georg von Plessen (1841–1929). german offensive plans against the netherlands 101

Wilhelmshaven and the defence of North-West Germany against British action.58 Von Holtzendorff pointed out that the quick victory in Rumania gave a signal to the neutrals what to expect if they would choose for war against Germany. He deemed it now even more unlikely that the Netherlands, which had nothing to gain by war anyway, would oppose the German U-Boat campaign by choosing for the Entente.59 In the same months when the operational plans against the Nether- lands were fi rst developed and approved and the restricted U-boat campaign was resumed, the decision was made to construct the eighty- kilometre-long Holland Stellung. Th e building of this line of fortifi cations directly to the south of the Dutch frontier served to protect the Flemish coastal bases against a British landing in westerly Zeeuws-Vlaanderen. Th e length of the position and the connection with the Antwerp fortifi cations at Zwijndrecht turned it into an extended line of protection against any military operation coming from Dutch territory.60

1917: Unrestricted U-boat War

Aft er the successful ending of the Rumanian campaign the proponents of the declaration of the unrestricted U-boat war received much support. If the small neutral states chose for the Entente side, there would be suffi cient troops to realize the plans devised in the autumn of 1916. In the meantime 105 U-Boote were operational, of which 23 in Flanders61 and that number would grow even further in the following months. On 11 January 191762 the decisive meeting of the highest German political and military authorities took place. Th ey decided to declare

58 Th is concerned 251., 252. and 253. Infanterie Division. 59 Memo from the Navy Staff 30 January 1917, 37–38, MA, inv. nr. RM 110. 60 About the Hollandstellung; R. Gils, Vesting Antwerpen, Bunkers en Bunkerstellingen 1914–1945 (Erpe: De Krijger, n.d.) 14; E. Biermann, “Deutsche Grenzsicherungen gegenüber Holland im Weltkriege,” Vierteljahresheft e für Pioniere 2 (1937) pp. 104–107; G. Willems, “De Holland-stelling 1914–1918 in Groot-Assenede,”De Twee Ambachten 14, no. 1 (2006): pp. 36–45; and Army Museum of Brussels, archief QGT Défence de la côte, inv. nrs. 2 and 3. 61 Halpern, Naval History, p. 338–39. 62 In that month the German High Command determined that in the event of a landing on the Flemish coast the operational command in Flanders would fall under the commander 4. Armee. Several times that month Von Holzendorff warned against British landings, possibly also in the Netherlands. Karau, Wielding the Dagger, pp. 94 and 124. Generalmajor Emil Ilse, chief of Staff of the 4. Armee in February assembled topographical maps of Holland, especially Zealand. 102 w. klinkert the unrestricted submarine war as from 1 February, with all the inherent risks for neutral shipping.63 Consequently, there was growing tension, also near the Dutch coast. Already on 15 December 1916 a German reconnaissance aircraft had fi red at a Dutch submarine.64 On 14 January 1917 the Germans again laid new mines in the Wielingen against a possible enemy attack and nine days later a confrontation at sea took place between German torpedo-boats and British destroyers 15 nautical miles to the west of Schouwen. Would the importance of Dutch neutrality continue to balance the escalation undeniably caused by the unrestricted U-boat war? At any rate, the Dutch authorities were greatly concerned and tried in January to establish contact with German key-fi gures. Entrepeneur Anton Kröller (1862–1941), who had important relations in Germany and enjoyed a great deal of trust there, spoke with Ludendorff . Th e Dutch PM Pieter Cort van der Linden (1846–1937) conferred with Ministerialdirektor at the Auswärtige Amt Johannes Kriege (1859– 1937), who had close personal ties with Ludendorff . Th e latter toyed with the idea of a preventive attack and demanded that the Netherlands put a stop to all shipping with the Entente. Th is came down to economic suicide. Th e Dutch Government sent word, using Kröller as an intermediary, that it could promise not to choose the side of the Entente. Th e Dutch Government made it clear that in the event of a British attack it would not wait for German support, but immediately resort to its own forceful defence. Ludendorff needed these assurances in order to cancel his plans of attack for the time being.65 Tension had not yet disappeared altogether. In the course of February German irritation with the Netherlands grew again. Th e Netherlands desired German cooperation in making undisturbed Dutch shipping in the North Sea possible again, and to allow them to leave British ports safely. Th at tension increased when on 22 February Ludendorff issued the order to torpedo Dutch vessels and the Netherlands, for its part, interned two German U-Boote that had run aground on the Dutch coast (UB 30 on 23 February and UB 6 on 12 March). Th e German response was the cancellation of the free channel in the North Sea.66 Also, pleas for establishing control over the Netherlands with military

63 Frey, Erste Weltkrieg, p. 90. 64 Gladisch, Krieg in der Nordsee, p. 218. 65 Hertog, Cort van der Linden, pp. 574–577. 66 Ibid., p. 584; and Stegemann, Deutsche Marine politik, p. 78. german offensive plans against the netherlands 103 means were becoming more forceful.67 Th e Naval Attaché, Korvettenka- pitän Erich von Müller (1877–193.),68 for instance, pleaded for a military solution, whereas Scheer urged for paralyzing the trade between the Netherlands and England by way of a Flottenvorstosz,69 and Ludendorff had doubts about the Dutch ability to withstand a British attack. He proposed the German occupation of Zealand, while the neutrality of other parts of the Netherlands would remain intact. In these nervous weeks Kriege again conferred with Cort van der Linden, who now gave full support to German aid in the event of a British attack, which would naturally be vigorously opposed by the Dutch. But even that was not suffi cient this time. Only when Queen Wilhelmina wrote to Kaiser Wilhelm did the skies clear: on 7 April the Oberste Kriegsherr declared that Holland “ist in Ruhe zu lassen.”70 Another German anxiety did become reality, though. On 6 April 1917 the United States declared war on Germany. It was indeed cause for concern for the OHL, that not any more Neutrals would choose the side of the Entente, which would jeopardize trade and food deliveries in particular. Th ere was also the fear that the Entente would confi scate neutral vessels.71 But if the OHL would resort to using military means, then that would sooner be against Denmark and Norway than against the Netherlands. Th is planning is known as Fall N. It is remarkable how this plan for the conquest of Norway resembles Fall K. N also comprised measures at sea against the British fl eet and trade, air raids against crucial landmarks and the cutting of underwater telegraph cables. Other similarities were the reactive nature – the plan would only become eff ective aft er British actions on the Norwegian coast – and the absence of major off ensive land operations.72 In the meantime there was, within the framework of the third battle of Ypres, certainly rumour of British plans for an amphibious action against the Flemish coast. Operation Hush, the landing of more than

67 Hertog, Cort van der Linden, pp. 590–591. 68 Until the outbreak of war he was attaché in London, and since June 1915 in Th e Hague. He was an advocate of a hard line policy and was prepared to draw the Netherlands into the war. 69 Stegemann, Deutsche Marine politik, pp. 108–109. Due to the lack of aerial reconnaissance it was cancelled. 70 Hertog, Cort van der Linden, pp. 595–596. 71 Stegemann, Deutsche Marine politik, pp. 82–83. 72 Ibid., p. 85. In the Spring of 1917 the war against Denmark had been prepared. Von Holtzendorff drew up operational guidelines for Fall N as from 1 April 1917. Th e Kaiser’s approval followed on 7 April. 104 w. klinkert

13,000 troops at Middelkerke, was meant to support the break-out from the Ypres Salient. Th e failure to break out meant the cancellation of this operation.

1917 Fall K: the Planning of the Attack on the Netherlands

Fall K distinguished between the situation of not yet being at war with the Netherlands and the situation that war had broken out. In the one situation it was essential to make British amphibious operations as diffi cult as possible using all aerial and maritime means available. Moreover, the telegraph cables were to be cut. In case war with the Netherlands had actually started, the plan, just like its earlier version of September 1916, made provisions for large-scale air raids on industrial and military targets, major cities and on railway junctions and bridges. Th e belief of being able to paralyse all traffi c in this way was still very strong. To these actions the Germans added the capture of Delfzijl – with the view on Emden – and mining the sea routes. Th e fortifi cation of Wilhelmshaven was also part of the plan. Th is planning was now combined with the tactical-operational planning in Flanders of 4. Armee. For that purpose, Gruppe Ghent73 and Gruppe Antwerp were formed in April 1917, when Ludendorff threatened with preventive attacks.74 Th e former was tasked to guard the Dutch frontier and, if necessary, to occupy Zeeuws-Vlaanderen and South-Beveland, and the latter to act against Th olen and South-Beveland. Th e planning for these attacks at the tactical level took place in the Spring and the Summer of 1917 and took a while because too few naval offi cers could be involved in the planning and because there was a lack of detailed information about the mine obstacles in the waters of Zealand, about the disembar- kation possibilities on the south side of South-Beveland, and about the Dutch tactical plans. Th e German planners soon made up for that defi ciency.

73 Sometimes named Gruppe K. Th e Gruppe was placed under the 14. Reserve Korps (Generalleutnant Otto von Moser, 1860–1931) 74 Units belonging to this Gruppe in May 1917 were amongst others: 2. Kavallerie Division, 23. Reserve Division, 204. Infanterie Division and 2. Garde Reserve-Division From the autumn of 1917 these units were also employed in the Flandern Stellung around Ypres. Already in January 1917 these units, except the Garde Division, were mentioned on German maps indicating an attack on Zealand. See: J. de Smet, “Fall K,” Revue belge des livres, documents & archives de la guerre 1914–1918 4, no. 2 (December 1927–March 1928): pp. 164–165. In July 1917 the border with Holland was guarded by the 79. Reserve Division. german offensive plans against the netherlands 105

In the summer of 1917 the OdK took the initiative to actively search for information75 to which data were added that had been assembled through Marine Korps sources. Apart from actively collecting information, it was also supplied by agents in the Netherlands, Germans as well as Dutchmen. Essential information also came from von Müller, the German Naval Attaché in Th e Hague. He reported, for instance, the absence of fi xed mine-obstacles in the Oosterscheldt,76 the location of the best landing-zones, and that in South-Beveland only a few small infantry units were stationed. A map with the dislocation of the Dutch troops had been enclosed.77 Th is information was supplemented at the Nachrichtenstelle in Antwerp and the Meldesammelstelle Nord in Wesel, where all espionage messages from the Netherlands were collected and forwarded to the authorities concerned. On 27 and 31 May and on 1 June 1917 information about the Dutch intentions regarding Zealand was received via those channels. A Dutch Lieutenant of the Reserves, who had been stationed in Zealand, reported that the Sloe position was strong and that Zeeuws-Vlaanderen would not be defended. He did not believe in a fi rm Dutch stand on the coast.78 In the same way, German High Command came into possession of a detailed description of the position at Fort Bath and of gun positions and building activities in the dunes of Walcheren.79 Also on the basis of such information the German High Command made two analyses of the Dutch army. Th e tone was not negative and the analysts did not doubt about the sincere wish to stay neutral above all and in both documents Zealand was given a prominent place. Th e size of the troops in Zealand, called Detachement Smit,80 was estimated at thirteen battalions, which was fairly accurate. If the British were to carry out a landing, then, according to the analysis, it could be expected in the Oosterscheldt, for instance, on the north coast of South-Beveland. Technically speaking, that would be easier than a landing in Zeeuws-Vlaanderen. Th e diffi culty to deploy from there pleaded against a British attack in South-Beveland, as the German army would be able to isolate this island. In case of a landing on the

75 18 July 1917 and to the Naval Staff 24 July 1917, MA, inv. nr. RM 5–4863. 76 Von Müller to Naval Staff , 15 August 1917, MA, inv. nr. RM 5–4863. 77 Von Müller, 3 September 1917, MA, inv. nr. RM 5–4863. 78 27 May 1917, MA, inv. nr. RM 5–4863. 79 28 and 31 May and 1 June 1917, MA, inv. nr. RM 5–4863. 80 Th e commander of Zealand was Willem Christiaan Jan Smit (1860–1940). 106 w. klinkert coast of Zeeuws-Vlaanderen, Dutch artillery would neither be very eff ective, nor would the small, isolated Dutch troops be able to achieve much. Th e conclusion was, therefore, that if the British would assault the relatively weakly-defended mouth of the Scheldt, they would send a small force into the Oosterscheldt to clear Wal- cheren and South-Beveland and land their main force in Zeeuws- Vlaanderen, via the Scheldt. At least, provided that the objective was to cut off German communications with the Western front. Taking everything into consideration the analyst concluded “dasz Holland seine militärischen Kräft e stärken will” and that it will oppose the Entente as well as Germany “mit alle Kräft e,” which made a British landing less likely.81 In August 1917 the German Naval Command came into possession of important documents that had been translated literally: Smit’s defence plan and orders for Dutch naval vessels with instructions for how to act in various scenarios. Smit’s document not only revealed the location of units stationed at Walcheren, but also emphasized the necessity of off ensive action as soon as a landing was taking place and gave an accurate description of the fortifi cation of the position at Sloe. Th e latter document described the procedures in case an enemy fl eet suddenly appeared at the mouth of the Scheldt River in broad daylight or at night.82 On 21 September a message came in, sent by an informant employed at the German consulate in Rotterdam, who had visited South-Beveland and had given a meticulous description of the south coast with all the tactically relevant information. He also indicated the possibilities to move inland from the coast. Colourful situational sketches accompanied the report. Von Müller also had the report in his possession, which he also forwarded to Naval Command.83 Likewise, that same month the German navy received a translated Dutch survey of the numbers of mines laid in all channels.84 It is a fair assumption that on the basis of these data tactical plans were made by the armies in Flanders, although these plans have never been recovered.

81 Mitteilungen Nr. 1 über “Die militärische Lage Hollands,” by the Abteilung Fremde Heere of the General Staff , August 1917, MA, inv. nr. RM 5–4863. 82 MA, inv. nr. RM 5–4563. 83 MA, inv. nr. RM 5–4864. 84 September 1917, the same survey for 15 October 1917, MA, inv. nr. RM 5–4864. german offensive plans against the netherlands 107

November 1917: a Pseudo-Alerte?

Around 1 November reports were received by German intelligence channels that Dutch troop reinforcements in Zealand were all of a sudden gaining momentum. Von Müller thought he happened to have heard in Th e Hague that the Dutch Navy and General Staff were taking measures, whereas he had no evidence of concrete preparations for a British attack. Informants, Dutch offi cers among them, reported troop concentrations in Walcheren, which had not yet been put in a state of high alert though, and extra naval vessels in the mouth of the Scheldt.85 On 3 November, aft er a continuous fl ow of reports, Naval Command informed the Grosses Hauptquartier the Dutch army was reinforcing Walcheren with torpedoboats, machine-guns, infantry units, ordnance and airplanes.86 Tension continued when the Germans noticed visits of the supreme commander, the war secretary and the chief of the Naval Staff to Walcheren and South-Beveland. Rumours about possi - ble British actions were beginning to go round. An Agentmeldung of 5 November contained the explanation that the Dutch were afraid that the fi ghting in Flanders would spread to their territory. Th e Dutch Naval Command informed von Müller that, although there was no immediate British threat, vigilance was continuously necessary. Late October the German army in Flanders had been alerted to possible British actions. Von Müller was given the assurance by the Dutch Government that any landing would be fi rmly opposed and that troop reinforcement in Zealand should be a relief to Germany.87 Th e Grosses Hauptquartier confi rmed troop reinforcement in Walcheren, but also reported that the Dutch attaché in London had stated there were no discernable British preparations.88 Th e level of detail of the information about the Dutch army was very high. A message received by the German consulate in Maastricht was remarkable in that it came from a man, whose brother served as a lieutenant at Vrouwenpolder (Walcheren). Th e informant reported that on 4 November the coastal batteries at Walcheren had opened fi re and that for some time troops in the area had been on full alert in the dunes. Dutch soldiers had heard from their offi cers that a British landing

85 MA, inv. nr. RM 5–4864. 86 MA, inv. nr. RM 5–4021. 87 5 November 1917, MA, inv. nr. RM 5–4864. 88 8 November 1917, MA, inv. nr. RM 5–4864. 108 w. klinkert could be expected. Th e informant gave detailed information on the calibre of the guns of the coastal batteries, the unit numbers of the troops stationed at Walcheren and South-Beveland, and reported on the delivery of barbed wire, trench shields and hand-grenades. He also revealed that the soldiers had orders to immediately beat off a landing on the beach.89 German concern in the fi rst week of November 1917 was striking. In no other period did reports about possible military measures in Zealand have such urgency. Th e Entente, on the other hand, showed far less concern in this. It is true that the French attaché reported troop movements – he reported the transfer of 20,000 men to North-Brabant and Zealand, 5,000 of whom were sent to Walcheren – and General Snijders’ visit to Walcheren, but he could not see this in any other light than that it was the Dutch reaction to rumours about a British landing.90 British sources bear no evidence to this. What were the Dutch assumptions at that time? In fact, they had not really changed over the years: there was to be no fi ghting in Zeeuws- Vlaanderen and Walcheren should have the most emphasis without putting fi eld army units at risk. Th e fi eld army would engage the British only when they had reached the Western North-Brabant position.91 In South-Beveland the positions were ready to withstand a German attack through Woensdrecht and Kreekrak. Th e most likely location for a British landing was the northern coast of Walcheren, whose defensive strength had increased in the course of the years.92 In the Spring of 1917 Smit believed that a landing could be “held up for a suffi cient period of time,”93 his principal operational preparation being the placing of mine obstacles and the rapid movement of units from South- Beveland and Zeeuws-Vlaanderen, and if need be, even from North- Brabant, to Walcheren. In the dunes barbed-wire obstacles were placed, shelters built, and telephone connections between battery positions installed. Troops had been trained to counter enemy forces that had just landed and their position had been changed to enable them to be

89 14 November 1917, MA, inv. nr. RM 5–4864. 90 Report of the military attaché 10 November 1917, Service Historique de l’Armée de Terre, Vincennes, inv. nr. 7 N 1178. 91 NA, GS, inv. nr. 449. Especially from August to October 1917 much attention was given to the fortifi cation of this line. 92 NA, GS, inv. nr. 786. 93 Smit to Snijders, 27 April 1917, NA, GS, inv. nr. 222. german offensive plans against the netherlands 109 on the landing site as quickly as possible.94 Almost all military preparation in Zealand concentrated on Walcheren, because its possession was considered essential by the two warring parties. Th e reports the Germans had at their disposal in November were accurate on many points. Around 1 November there had been close personal contact between Smit and Snijders, during which, however, no mention was made of an acute threat. Smit, on 30 October, only spoke of tension, possibly in connection with the third battle of Ypres, but sources do not shed light on this. He made the request to Snijders at that time to provide modern equipment for the troops and invited him for a visit to Walcheren, especially in view of the installation of the line in the dunes of Northern Walcheren and the position at Sloe, to which Smit had paid considerable attention for a couple of months. Th ey also discussed the relocation of the howitzer battery and the movement of more troops to Walcheren.95 Snijders went on inspection to Walcheren on 3 November, where he ordered the building of more troop accommodation in the dunes to the north of Oostkapelle. Smit, emphasizing the shortage of anti-aircraft artillery and material needed by the engineers, believed in the success of infantry and artillery action on the beach.96 In view of the defence of Zealand, Snijders brought up the instruction of the Government about possible Allied action again. He mentioned to Smit the continued absence of guidelines. In order not to lose time in the event of an emergency, he ordered Smit to resolutely defend Walcheren and the mouth of the Scheldt and not to resist an unasked for German intervention. Smit was not to consider the Germans as offi cial allies of the Dutch, but was told by Snijders not to oppose them. In this way Snijders circumvented the problem that the politicians would not give him clear instructions in advance which side to join. Th e absence of this kind of instructions could lead – in the worst case – to the Dutch army fi ghting both invaders. At the same time the Dutch Commander-in-Chief reiterated that Zeeuws-Vlaanderen was not defended, and Schouwen only to a limited extent. In the event of an attack in the Oosterscheldt resistance would start in Th olen and at the

94 Smit to Snijders, 29 June 1917, NA, GS, inv. nr. 222. 95 Smit to Snijders, 31 October 1917, NA, GS, inv. nr. 222 and report about 1918 by Smit, inv. nr. 861. 96 Smit to Snijders, 4 November 1917, NA, GS, inv. nr. 222 and Snijders to De Jonge, 8 November 1917. 110 w. klinkert

West-Brabant position. A German attack on South-Beveland was to be stalled as much as possible.97 It is hard to lay a direct link between the tension of November 1917 and the British invasion plans. Apart from plan Hush, which was cancelled, Scheme S98 in London was ready to be activated. It entailed limited action in the Scheldt, which was particularly advocated by Admiral David Beatty (1871–1936), the aggressive Commander-in Chief of the Grand Fleet. Beatty expressed himself on various occasions in favour of an action to capture Walcheren. He received little support, which declined even further when British intelligence sources reported in November that the Dutch had in the meantime stationed 10,000 men in Walcheren, and a total of 23,000 all across Zealand.99 Th e War Cabinet shelved Scheme S in December, but it was not forgotten yet. Scheme S covered the landing of twenty vessels together with the seaplane carrier HMS Vindex, two aircraft squadrons and a land component consisting of a special brigade of almost 5,000 troops. Beside the aircraft and the troops the amphibious force comprised 104 four- wheel motorized vehicles, 690 horses and 1,170 bicycles. Th e objective was to build air bases in Walcheren and protect them, and to fend off German attacks in Walcheren and South-Beveland. Th e British vessels were to anchor at Veere and Middelburg, where the necessary quays and warehouses had already been selected in advance. Th e Scheme was still up-to-date in February 1918, when the offi cer in command enquired about the vulnerability of HMS Vindex to air attacks and about the soil conditions in Walcheren in connection with the construction of the airfi elds. Only in August 1918 was the plan put aside. Th e starting point had always been that at the moment of its execution the Netherlands would be fi ghting side-by-side with the British as their ally. Th e War Offi ce shared that belief. Th e British were also following another track: at the turn of the year 1917–1918 the British representative in Th e Hague informally contacted the Dutch army leadership. Th e British proposed to deliver arms to support the Dutch defence of Zealand aft er a German attack. Th is

97 Snijders to Smit, 5 December 1917, NA, GS, inv. nr. 4. 98 Draft scheme for combined naval and military operations in the Scheldt 6 November 1917, National Archives London, inv. nr. Adm. 116/1628; Frey, Erste Weltkrieg, p. 278; and D. Sanders, “Th e Netherlands in British Strategic Planning,” (thesis, University of London, 1975). 99 “Memo to Snijders 29 May 1918,” in Bescheiden, ed. C. Smit, RGP, vol. 116 (‘s Gravenhage: Nijhoff ), pp. 544–545. german offensive plans against the netherlands 111 proposal was favourably received by the Dutch General Staff , which started to draw up long lists of requirements. Initially the initiative stagnated, but at the time of the massive German Spring off ensive in France, the British renewed their off er, now with the idea of contributing to the retention of Fortress Holland. Th e War Offi ce deemed a landing in Walcheren in April 1918 too hazardous in connection with the proximity of German artillery. It then concentrated on Fortress Holland. Exchange of military data took place almost simultaneously also with Germany, but then specifi cally about coastal defence. In November 1917 the German High Command invited Dutch offi cers to visit the coastal defences at Ösel.100 Th ese Russian batteries on the Baltic Sea coast had fallen into German hands shortly before that. Two months later an invitation for a visit to the Flemish coastal batteries followed. Th ere the Germans appeared to discuss technical details so openly, so that Dutch engineers made plans for two new, large coastal batteries in Walcheren on the basis of what they had heard. Th e building of the two batteries had not yet started when the war came to an end; nevertheless, much had been learnt from the German example.101 Th e German coastal defences in Flanders had assumed very impressive proportions in 1918, with 220 guns, the heaviest of which was 38 centimetres,102 and concrete machine-gun positions. 4. Armee units had been trained to react rapidly to landings on the coast.103 Late 1917 and early 1918 Zealand received a lot of attention from the Entente and Germany, because of the war in Flanders and the unrestricted U-boat war. Rumour could more easily lead to action than previously and all belligerents watched Dutch military preparations suspiciously. Why German apprehension reached such a high level in early November 1917 is hard to assess. Th e fi nal phase of the third battle of Ypres, it is true, took place not far from the Dutch frontier and the possibility of British action via the Flemish or Dutch coast was in everyone’s mind, but neither the Dutch nor the Germans had concrete indications for that. It seems that German concern had been inspired by information coming from the Netherlands. All in all, it appears that

100 Present day Saarema (Estonia). 101 J. R. Verbeek, Kustversterkingen 1900–1940 (Haarlem: Schuyt & Co, 1989), pp. 57–73 102 In comparison, the heaviest Dutch coastal ordnance in Zealand was of 15 cm calibre. At Flushing there were two 21 cm guns. 103 Lambrecht, Voor hen geen zeemansgraf, p. 155. 112 w. klinkert the Dutch military leadership, on the basis of rumours, wanted to get the message across that, just as in March 1916, it was prepared for anything. But the situation was far more dangerous than in 1916: operational plans were now available, on the British as well as on the German side, and General Snijders recognized, now more than ever, the crucial weakness, in his perception, of the military preservation of neutrality. Th at weakness was the absence, in advance, of strategic guidance from the Dutch Government on how to act in the face of the (imminent) violation of its neutrality. In Snijders’ eyes the Government unnecessarily weakened the already limited Dutch military strength. Th e irritation the Commander-in-Chief had already felt about this since 1915 would fi nally escalate in the Spring of 1918. As opposed to the reluctance of the Government to choose sides earlier than was absolutely necessary, there was the phenomenon of the transparency of the Dutch defences. Th ere was an exchange of information via military channels, meant to inspire confi dence in the belligerents so they would not launch a preventive attack. Negotiations with the British and visits to German fortifi cations on the coast showed, on the one hand, the success of the transparency, and, on the other, the keen interest both parties took in the continuation of Dutch neutrality and the avoidance of preventive military action. Th e Dutch wish to stay neutral in all possible circumstances, repeated time and again by politicians and military leaders, and confi rmed by military measures, was another successful Dutch strategy.

1918: Endspiel

March – April 1918 were the most agonizing months for the Dutch Government and army leadership. Whatever had been looming over the Netherlands happened on March 20. Th en the Allies comman- deered Dutch vessels, at anchor in their harbours, for troop transport. Ludendorff interpreted this as a Dutch action one-sidedly favouring the Allies, therefore being a violation of its neutrality. He immediately demanded Dutch concessions. Th e Netherlands had to allow the Germans to use its territory for military transports, which was unacceptable for both the Dutch and the British Governments. Th ese were weeks of great anxiety, aggravated by Snijders’ opinion that, as long as the Government did not give him indications as to how he should concentrate the limited Dutch military assets in the event of a violation of german offensive plans against the netherlands 113 its territory, the country would not be able to cope with a possible German attack. Th e matter evolved into a serious internal political- military crisis, which came on top of the already threatening international situation. Late March the crisis came to an end aft er tense negotiations and concessions from all sides. Meanwhile Ludendorff was fully occupied with his major off ensive in France and had no troops available for action the Netherlands. Moreover, he was convinced that the Netherlands had real intentions to stay neutral and would not join the Entente of its own accord.104 In the following weeks British actions would be limited to attacking Ostend and Zeebrugge on 11–12 April and the famous raid on Zeebrugge on 23 April.105 Th e British respected Dutch neutrality. General Snijders only survived this hectic period because of the Queen’s personal support. In the months of March to May 1918 the Dutch army leadership increased the number of troops in Zealand and westerly Brabant. In Zealand the number rose to over 20,000, which was double the number of 1914. Still, there were no fi eld army units among these troops. Th e defence lines in South-Beveland were further fortifi ed.106 German interest in the Dutch army had largely increased again in this period. Despite everything, the conviction remained that the preservation of its neutrality was the all-defi ning Dutch starting point. Once again, the quality of the intelligence was excellent.107 On the side of the Entente the Supreme War Council discussed the Dutch position in April and May. A continuation of Dutch neutrality was considered to be of the highest importance by the Council. In April the military delegates saw only the German occupation of the Dutch coast as a casus belli. Th e only military support the Netherlands could get, if it managed to withstand a German attack at the Nieuwe Hollandse Waterlinie, were British aerial attacks on German cities, carried out from the Western Dutch provinces. In May the Council took the position that secret negotiations with the Netherlands were

104 Hertog, Cort van der Linden, pp. 644–652 en Frey, Erste Weltkrieg, pp. 266–267. 105 Th is led to the re-establishment of the Gruppe Ghent (April – June 1918) commanded by the 19. Armeekorps (General Adolf von Carlowitz, 1858–1928) and consisting of 115. Infanterie Division, 11. Bayerische Infanterie Division and 17. Reserve Division billeted in Bruges, Lokeren and Antwerp. R. Tournès and H. Berthemet, La bataille des Flandres (Paris: Lavauzelle, 1925), pp. 211, 213, 224, 261–62, 266 and 273. 106 Report over 1918 by Smit, NA, GS, inv. nr. 861. 107 Analysis Fremde Heere, 10 April and 15 May MA, inv. nr. RM 5–4864. 114 w. klinkert desirable to deny the Dutch coast, Zealand in particular, to the Germans.108 Immediately aft er these weeks of tension talks with Dutch offi cers started in London about the manner in which the cooperation with the Entente could be eff ectuated, should the Germans attack.109 Th is was well in accordance with Snijders’ analysis that essentially this threat should be taken most seriously. In his strategic observations of 13 June and 10 July 1918 he had worked out a German attack through South- Beveland. Th e fi eld exercise of IV Division of July 1918 entailed a German breakthrough at the Scheldt to give the U-boats more space. In this scenario the Dutch army would off er resistance while awaiting the arrival of the British army.110 In Snijders’ analysis from the Summer of 1918 a German attack on the Netherlands was more likely than a British eff ort, which meant that Zealand, Flushing in particular, was at risk because the Germans could break out from the direction of Antwerp, or from North-Brabant and the Scheldt. Th e Dutch military attaché in London was very open about the organization of the defence of Zealand. Early August he reported the presence of 20,000 troops in Walcheren, but that 6,000 of them were on leave. He also discussed the various ways in which South-Beveland could be defended. Th e reason for his openness was the optimal coordination between British and Dutch troops. At the suggestion of War Cabinet member Jan Smuts (1870–1950), this led in October to the decision to deploy British maritime and land forces for support, if Germany attacked the Netherlands. Smuts especially underlined the importance of the Netherlands for providing airbases to bomb the Ruhr area. Eventually, at a very slow rate, deliveries were made, but not to the extent the Dutch Government desired. Contacts between the Dutch military attaché and the British Government yielded important information about the British ideas to Snijders, who thus learnt that primary British interest now was Fortress Holland. Th e idea of collective planning, in case the Netherlands would be at war, was also discussed. Th e discussion did not go beyond being the phase of exploring and gauging; it never had the status of formal diplomatic consultation.111

108 Minutes Supreme War Council 25 April, 30 April and 18 May 1918, NA London, inv. nr. Cab 25/121. 109 Bescheiden, ed. C. Smit, RGP, vol. 116, (‘s-Gravenhage: Nijhoff ), pp. 525–26. 110 8 July 1918, NA, GS, inv. nr. 712. 111 Sanders, “British Strategic Planning,” passim. german offensive plans against the netherlands 115

Conclusion

To maintain neutrality in a dangerous environment meant continuous vigilance and perseverance for the Dutch political and military elite, but also steering a middle course and, eventually, showing the willingness to make concessions. Th e latter to the extent that none of the belligerent parties would ever feel put at a disadvantage unilaterally, which would only be possible at the political and economic level by staying well-informed and maintaining the appropriate international networks. Th e military continuance of neutrality was a refl ection of this. Th e Dutch military policy-makers in Th e Hague were constantly in contact with the military and naval attachés of Germany, Great-Britain and France. Th e information exchange taking place at this level was meant to convince the belligerents that the Netherlands would remain entirely neutral at all times, which may be considered a mission accomplished successfully. In order to achieve this, the Dutch military leadership gave the belligerents an insight, in general terms, into Dutch defence preparations. What it virtually came down to was radiating credibility. Th e Dutch General Staff must have felt encouraged by the idea that, in principle, for both the Central Powers and the Entente, the advantages of uninterrupted Dutch neutrality would outweigh the disadvantages. On the other hand, Dutch policymakers were completely in the dark about the belligerents’ operational planning. Th ey were on the other hand well-aware of strategic diff erences in perception within the German leadership, which they made use of by way of the diplomatic channels. A certain transparency of the Dutch defensive preparations was therefore favourable to the continuance of Dutch neutrality. In the course of the war this transparency increased more and more. On invitation Dutch offi cers could visit the frontline – although not witness the actual fi ghting - and in 1918 agreements were made with the British about military support. Th ese forms of transparency went through the offi cial military and political channels. Th ere was even a third variant, which went beyond that, and that was the tactical-operational information about the Dutch armed forces obtained on the basis of espionage or from informants. Th e German example illustrates how far this went and how accurate and to-the- point this information was. Th e French military attaché sometimes also sent very detailed information to Paris about the dislocation of units, the armament of fortifi cations 116 w. klinkert and the condition of the Dutch terrain. Th e question remains how well-acquainted the Dutch General Staff was with the belligerents’ knowledge. Th e fact that espionage occurred was widely known, but it is doubtful whether the extent in which it took place and its quality were fully realized. In any case, none of the belligerents seemed to have believed that the Netherlands could easily be overrun. On the other hand, it is true that Dutch secrecy could be eff ective. Little to nothing was known abroad about the exercise scenarios of Dutch units, nor were the belligerents aware of the details of the Dutch development of modern weapons. To the Dutch High Command it was clear, therefore, that the warring parties knew Dutch military measures, or indeed their non- existence, and that they were of some consequence in their decision-making. So, to General Snijders it was essential that the Netherlands, unlike other small neutral states, did not demobilize and that speed was a vital factor in Dutch military actions. Th erefore, Snijders was persistently opposing both demobilization, with reasonable success, and the political view about neutrality, that, even in times of crisis, in no way should military preparation be aimed at possibly joining either of the two parties. Th is struggle, which particularly came to a head in the Spring of 1918, was lost by the Supreme Commander and ultimately led to his dismissal in November. In his arguments to the Government that military preparations by the Netherlands were conditional for any chance of success, he made hardly any reference, or none at all, to the international ‘transparency’. Much of this information probably never went beyond the military leadership, but it had certainly supported Snijders’ argumentation. As tension around the Netherlands was mounting, and the long-term preservation of its neutrality proving increasingly diffi - cult, the political application of the military possibilities might have given the Netherlands some additional lee-way. Th e end of the war made this question a mere academic one. Fall K may be considered an element in Germany’s contingency planning vis-à-vis neutral neighbouring states. Where the Netherlands was concerned, the German leadership realized that its neutrality was in Germany’s favour, but in the OHL’s va-banque approach this argument might just as well evaporate. Th at this did not happen was the consequence of the German estimation of British actions. Only in the event of a British attack on the Netherlands, or a very real threat of such an attack, was the German military and political leadership willing german offensive plans against the netherlands 117 to sacrifi ce the advantages of Dutch neutrality. Th e signifi cance of Dutch military measures lay in the infl uence they had on the German strategic discussion. Unmistakably, Dutch military measures had a warning function, which was registered by the belligerents. As long as they had reason to believe that their antagonist was not granted any benefi ts and could count on resistance and presumably a Dutch preference for the opposing camp, the continuation of the status quo would be most advantageous for all concerned. Claiming that whatever the Dutch might have done militarily would always have been futile appears to be too much of an over-simplifi cation. In the process of gauging each other politically and militarily that Germany and Britain were engaged in, the Dutch military eff ort was indeed a factor, perhaps of marginal importance, but certainly present and used in the deliberations of the belligerent parties. Fall K principally derived its military relevance from Zealand. Due to the proximity of the bases on the Flemish coast and the access Zealand gave to the southern North Sea, in principle this area held all the elements for a British-German confrontation. All the parties involved, in their quest for hard facts, were continually kept alert by rumours, a ‘game’ in which the Dutch political and military elite wholeheartedly participated. By using military signals, sharing information and approaching the belligerents’ essential decision-makers, they showed that upholding the credibility of its armed neutrality was an arduous, but necessary activity. Zealand provides the perfect military case of the way in which neutrality was given shape.

CHAPTER FIVE

GERMAN WAR PLANS AGAINST DENMARK 1916–1918

C. Paulin

Th e neutrality of Denmark contradicts the spirit of neutrality […] It must also be stated that in the struggle for survival among large nations, a small state simply cannot be accorded the right to neutralize the power of a fl eet, schooled over years of hard work, in favour of the [other] side…1 Lt. Commander Wolfgang Wegener, July 1915

Th e First World War was a defi ning event in the 20th century involving almost all states on the European continent. Yet a handful of neutral countries managed to stay out of this global confl ict. As the quotation above suggests it was not self-evident that their neutrality would be respected. It seems obvious that small states like Denmark were dependent on relations with the great powers to remain neutral (which they still are). Additionally the respect for neutrality in the latter part of the First World War was declining. As the war developed more and more into total war, a growing number of violations indicated that the whole concept of impartial neutrality no longer applied. Th us, the small neutral states increasingly had to defi ne their own neutrality.2 Late summer 1916 the Imperial German navy initiated detailed operational contingency planning against Denmark, the Netherlands and, in 1917, Norway. Retrospectively it is notable that, although these countries succeeded in remaining neutral during the First World War, they were all overrun by the Germans twenty-two years later. Considering that the German threat to these countries was indeed real and not just hypothetical, it is all the more surprising that this has been realised only to a very small extent by historical scholars.3

1 W. We g e n e r, Th e Naval Strategy of the World War, trans. H. H. Herwig (Annapolis: Naval Institute Press, 1989). 2 See N. Ørvik, Th e Decline of Neutrality 1914–1941 (Oslo: Cass, 1971). 3 Th e German war plans against Denmark has been referred to in: V. Sjøqvist, Erik Scavenius (Copenhagen: Gyldendal, 1973); C.-A. Gemzell, Organization, Confl ict, 120 c. paulin

In Danish historiography research of the First World War has mostly concentrated on the economic relations with the belligerents. Th us, the German plans of attack are barely mentioned in the major works on contemporary Danish history. Th ere has been a tendency to focus on the mining crisis of 1914 as the tensest period of Danish-German relations, and, not surprisingly, the war of 1914–1918 has been overshadowed by the German attack and subsequent occupation in the Second World War. My purpose here is two-fold: fi rstly I will try to uncover wie es eigentlich gewesen regarding the planning and the German-Danish foreign policy relations and, secondly, I will try to indicate why the plans did not materialize. Historical analysis oft en runs the risk of getting deterministic because it is now known what happened, yet it can be equally interesting to investigate what did not happen. Th e following is the preliminary result of my research into the German war plans against Denmark,4 and I am currently fi nishing my master thesis at the University of Copenhagen.5

Preparation – Early Plans 1892

A preventive attack on Denmark was not a novel idea to the Germans. As early as 1892 the German Admiral Alfred von Tirpitz aired the idea to the Kaiser. Due to her naval build-up Germany was emerging as a challenger to British naval supremacy; yet it only had two naval bases: Wilhelmshaven and Kiel. With the completion of the Kaiser Wilhelm Kanal (now the Kiel Kanal) in 1895 the German navy could move fast between the two bases, and this connection would eventually draw Denmark into Germany’s strategic considerations. In a future war against Britain it was suspected that the Royal Navy would establish a

and Innovation: A Study of German Naval Strategic Planning, 1888–1940 (Stockholm: Esselte Studium, 1973); C. Due-Nielsen, “Denmark and the First World War,” Scandinavian Journal of History 10, no. 1 (1985): pp. 1–18; and P. Salmon, Scandinavia and the great powers 1890–1940 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1997). However, the only special study on the subject is a paper by G. Gross, “German Plans to occupy Denmark, “Case J” 1916–1918” (2007). 4 C. Paulin, “Veje til strategisk kontrol over Danmark Tyske planer for et præventivt angreb på Danmark 1916–18,” Historisk Tidsskrift (forthcoming). 5 C. Paulin, Denmark and the Northern Neutrals in German Strategic Th inking during the First World War: a Comparative Study of German War Plans Against Denmark, Norway and Holland (University of Copenhagen, forthcoming). german war plans against denmark 1916–1918 121 blockade against Wilhelmshaven, but with a preventive attack on Denmark Germany could obtain free passage through the Belts, thus achieving operational freedom in Kattegat, Skagerrak and, possibly, the North Sea. In the late 1880s the Danish government had voted for the extension of the existing fortresses at Copenhagen, and in Berlin this was seen as directed against Germany and as a result German confi dence in Danish neutrality subsequently declined.6 Th e result was extensive German war planning against Denmark with the fi rst detailed plan of operations emerging in 1898. Initially, there were prospects for the German army of two army corps attacking Denmark. However, as the Schlieff enplan materialized, the German army grew more and more reluctant. It was eventually realised that all available troops were required for the campaign against France and Russia, and as the army won the Kaiser’s support in this matter, operational planning against Denmark was consequently suspended in 1905.7

1916 – Operational Planning is Resumed

“Das Aufrollen der dänischen Frage ist eine der wichtigsten Fragen dieses Krieges. Dänemark muss in unseren Händen sein, wie ist dies zu erreichen?”8 Apart from the mining crisis in August 1914 the Danish-German relations remained stable and peaceful during the fi rst two years of the war. Yet in August 1916 the Germans resumed their war planning against neutral Denmark. Th is was not caused by any change in Danish- German relations, but was due to developments far away from Denmark. First of all, the German military situation had deteriorated on all fronts in the late summer f 1916: the army was suff ering heavy losses at the Somme, the attack on Verdun had come to a standstill and on the

6 M. H. Clemmesen, “Dansk forsvar under tysk dominans,” 2008: p. 18, http://www .clemmesen.org/articles/Dansk_forsvar_under_tysk_dominans.pdf. 7 For more information about the early planning see: Gemzell, Organization, Confl ict, and Innovation; M. H. Clemmesen, Kanten af orkanens øje (to be published 2009–10); I. N. Lambi, Th e Navy and German Power Politics, 1862–1914 (Boston: Allen and Unwin, 1984); and M. Salewski, “Weserübung 1905?” in Die Deutschen und die See, ed., J. Elvert and S. Lippert (Stuttgart: Steiner, 1998). 8 Besprechung in Admiralstab über Fall J, 15 November 1916, Danish National Archives (DNA), PG 77203, p. 151ff . 122 c. paulin eastern front the Brusilov off ensive had cast the Germans into the defensive. However, the most important reason for drawing up contingency plans against Denmark was Romania’s entry in the war on the Entente side. Th is was a lesson to the Germans of what could be expected from opportunistic neutral countries. On the eve of the resumption of unrestricted submarine warfare the German leaders was unsure how the remaining neighbouring neutrals would react. In addition to this, Britain could be compelled to take counter- measures eventually involving operations on neutral territory. So, when the German leaders decided to postpone the resumption of unrestricted submarine warfare in the late summer of 1916, the fear of intervention from Denmark and Holland was an important reason.9 Germany did not at the time have additional military personnel to defend its borders against these small states because of the pressure on the other fronts. Th us, German planning of an attack on Denmark, codename ‘Case J’, was a defensive plan at fi rst initiated in the fear that Denmark would join the Entente, either voluntarily or by force, thereby opening a new front against the German Empire.10 Even though Denmark could initiate an attack on Germany by itself, this was regarded highly unlikely. Th e aim in the operational planning was, therefore, to counter an intrusion into Danish waters by the Royal Navy and, secondly (and less likely), a British landing in Jutland. Two scenarios were taken into consideration: • Case J/I: when it was known that the British were preparing operations on Danish territory, meaning that the Germans had time to react with a preventive attack to counter this. • Case J/II: in which the Royal Navy appeared unexpectedly in Danish waters. Th is would force the Germans into the defensive.11 In other words in was a matter of intelligence about British intentions that decided the German reaction.

9 See D. Stevenson, 1914–1918: Th e History of the First World War (London: Allen Lane, 2004), p. 260; H. P. van Tuyll van Serooskerken, Th e Netherlands and World War I: Espionage, Diplomacy and Survival (Leiden: Brill, 2001), p. 197ff . 10 From a German point of view the Danes even had a reasonable motivation in the prospect of retrieving the lost territories from the defeat in 1864. 11 Holtzendorff to Hochseestreitkräft e, 2 September 1916, DNA, PG 77555, p. 3ff . german war plans against denmark 1916–1918 123

Th e navy was primarily responsible for the planning against Denmark, and on 2 September a staff offi cer from the Admiral’s Staff 12 had drawn up an elaborate memorandum called Operationsziele Dänemark,13 which turned out to be the basis for all future operational planning. According to this memo a naval operation against Denmark should have four main objectives: – to prevent British support to Denmark – to annihilate the Danish navy – to support land operations – to destroy military installations Th ese were to be achieved by mining-operations, fi rst of all in the Kattegat with a big mine barrage from Skagen to Paternoster at Marstrand on the Swedish coast. Submarines were intended to protect the barrage, and special mining submarines were to lay mines at the entrance of Esbjerg harbour. It was not considered feasible to reduce the Copenhagen Fortress aft er the enlargement, which had been completed at the outbreak of war. Instead, a bombardment of Copenhagen in order to tie up the Danish army inside the fortress was prepared involving the biggest battleships of the German navy (the Bayern- class). Th e Danish capital should also be bombed from the air by airships and seaplanes. It was primarily a strategic terror bombardment, like the British one in 1807 (inasmuch that technology did allow precise tactical bombing). Th e Germans presumed that threatening with an air and sea-bombardment of Copenhagen and issuing a fi ve-hour ultimatum, would put pressure on the Danish Government and would ultimately compel them to surrender. However, the sea-bombardment of Copenhagen was abandoned in the fi nal plan of operations (unless it could be achieved by total surprise) because of fear of the fortresses14 – later on in 1917 Zealand was entirely written off as an objective. Th e German navy did not want to expose the big and expensive ships to the batteries of Copenhagen

12 Fregattenkapitän Wilhelm Bruns, chief of the admiral’s staff ’s eastern operational theater. He later draft ed similar memoranda about Norway and Sweden. 13 Welche Operationsziele sind für die Deutsche Flotte gegeben, wenn Dänemark auf Seiten unseren Gegner tritt? DNA, PG 77555, p. 29ff . 14 Ergebnis der Besprechung beim Ostseebefehlshaber Kiel Schloss, 30 October 1916, DNA, PG 77555, p. 99. 124 c. paulin

Fortress. Th is is indeed interesting, because it runs contrary to the traditional liberal radical historical tradition in Denmark that the country was too small and useless to defend.15 Initially, the German army did not want to contribute troops to an attack. Instead they recommended the building of a defensive line of fortifi cations in Schleswig, called Sicherungsstellung Nord,16 to withstand a combined British-Danish invasion. Hence, the German navy had to rely on low risk navy-only operations, yet advance in southern Jutland to the Kolding-Fredericia line by marine troops might be accomplished under favourable conditions.

Bureaucratic Quarrels

Controversies and quarrels in the German bureaucracy over the Danish question proved to be a recurrent theme in the planning. Th e navy wanted the army to contribute troops. From their point of view the operation could not be carried through without army assistance. Certain admirals in the navy, spearheaded by the Chief of the Baltic Fleet, the Kaiser’s brother and a real hawk on the Danish question, Prince Heinrich of Prussia, thought Denmark to be as important for the navy as Belgium was to the army.17 General Field Marshal Hindenburg had at the beginning of September 1916 emphasized that the army could not waste any manpower to a new northern front – the Germans were very strained on both fronts in 1916. Yet Prince Heinrich, who had been one of the driving forces in the planning against Denmark, did not believe the navy alone could impose its will on Denmark. He thought that all means had to be employed in order to prevent British occupation of the country: “[wir] müssen mit aller Energie versuchen, selbst in

15 E.g. C. Bjørn and C. Due-Nielsen, Dansk Udenrigspolitisk Historie, vol. 3, Fra Helstat til Nationalstat (Copenhagen: Gyldendal, 2003); S. Mørch, ed., Gyldendals Danmarkshistorie, vol. 6–7 (Copenhagen: Gyldendal, 1988–89); O. Olsen, ed., Gyldendal og Politikens Danmarkshistorie, vol. 11–12 (Copenhagen: Gyldendal, 1988–91); and T. Fink, Fem foredrag om dansk udenrigspolitik eft er 1864 (Århus: Århus Univer- sitetsforlaget, 1958). 16 Refer to the homepage Sten Boye Poulsen, “Sicherungsstellung Nord,” http:// www.stenboye.dk/stelnord/ about the fortifi cations. 17 Prince Heinrich to Admiral’s Staff , 5 September 1916, DNA, PG 77202, pp. 62–63. german war plans against denmark 1916–1918 125

Dänemark politisch und militärisch zu herrschen, gegebenenfalls unter Einschränkung an anderer Stelle.” 18 Th e German plan rested on the premise that the British would actively support Denmark militarily, and it was accordingly supposed that it would require massive forces to attack the country – thus the Prince’s criticism of the army’s attitude is understandable. From an army point of view, however, it seemed quite logic to stick to a defensive posture in the prepared fortifi cations in northern Schleswig. In 1916 it was clear to Ludendorff , as well as to many others, that the war would be decided on land at one of the main fronts. Denmark and the Netherlands were only ‘potential problems’, and were thus a low priority when it came to allocation of scarce troop resources.19 For the time being the army had to concentrate all available forces to consolidate the frontline in Flanders.20 For the navy this passive standpoint was a bitter pill to swallow, and disagreements surfaced internally. One of the issues was the focus of attack: how far should the operation go – should the position be extended to the islands? A number of admirals (especially from the Baltic Fleet) desired the occupation of the entire Jutland as well as Funen, and the reasoning seems to have been: when attacking why not take the biggest possible share of the cake? (Th e island of Bornholm was also considered valuable for submarine warfare). All these requests were, however, fl atly rejected by the Chief of the Admiral’s Staff , Admiral von Holtzendorff , as Luxusgedanken.21 Another matter of discussion was the allocation of the fl eet: should the High Seas Fleet remain undivided and should it be situated in the North Sea or the Kattegat? And, what about the chain of command: who should be in charge of the operation, the army or the navy? Th e army thought it absurd that a land operation should be commanded by a sailor, but from a navy point of view this was arrogant because the army did not want to contribute any troops. Th e navy would be

18 Prince Heinrich to Admiral’s Staff , 5 September 1916, DNA, PG 77202, pp. 62–63. (my italics). 19 E. Ludendorff , Meine Kriegserinnerungen 1914–1918 (Berlin: Mittler, 1919), p. 190. 20 Besprechung im Admiralstab über Fall J und K…, 12 January 1917, DNA PG 77204, p. 84ff . 21 Besprechung im Admiralstab über Fall J, 15 November 1916, DNA, PG 77203, p. 151ff . 126 c. paulin carrying the bulk of the operation and it should consequently be led by a naval offi cer.22 Th e disagreements over the Danish question that emerged in 1916– 17 were probably just one example of the rivalry between the two services. Maybe the army was embittered over what they perceived to be an unnecessary waste of resources for the naval build-up. While the German army was carrying the bulk of the fi ghting on the main fronts, the proud German High Seas Fleet remained passive in its bases, too weak to go out and fi ght the Royal Navy.23 Parts of navy, however, wanted to contribute more to the German war eff ort, and so there was a basic confl ict of interests between the two services regarding the Danish question.

Summer 1917 – the Army Provides the Troops

In May 1917 the German army for the fi rst time agreed to support ‘Case J’ with troops. Th e navy was, of course, happy about this development, and the plans of operations were promptly expanded to include occupation of the whole of Jutland and possibly Funen. Th ere were several reasons for this change. In the summer of 1917 the German overall military situation had changed for the better. Russia was in turmoil, and the war on the eastern front was coming to an end. Earlier in the year the Germans had launched the unrestricted submarine war, which led to the American entry into the war. Th is was a blow to the northern neutrals. Th ey had now lost an important supporter of neutrality and a lot of bargaining- power thus making it potentially ‘cheaper’ for the Germans to violate their neutrality.24 Another reason the change op German operational plans was the circulation of rumours about a possible British landing in Norway in May. Th is led to German operational planning against Norway,

22 Besprechung im Grossen Hauptquartier, 19 September 1916, DNA, PG 77141, p. 10; Niederschrift über die Sitzung vom 27 September beim O.d.K. [Coastal Defence], DNA, PG 77141, p. 19–21; and Prins Heinrich to Admiral’s Staff , 28 September 1916, DNA, PG 77555, pp. 54–58. 23 At least aft er the semi-failure of the battle of Jutland in May 1916 where the Germans truly sank more British ships, but eventually had to leave the British in possession of the fi eld while fl eeing back to base. 24 Cf. the Germans had lost a lot of prestige internationally by violating Belgian neutrality in the beginning of the war. german war plans against denmark 1916–1918 127

‘Case N’, which was an operation that implied the implementation of ‘Case J’. Norwegian historians have argued that German fears of a chain reaction25 ultimately leading to the invasion of Northern Germany were the reason that the two cases were connected. However, they seem to underestimate the logistical importance of bases in Denmark. For the Germans Northern Jutland constituted a logistically important defensive as well as off ensive base area, from which they could carry out operations against Norway and the North Sea, which became agoniz- ingly clear in April 1940.26 Shift ing from these structural explanations to the actor level, a third reason that the army now conceded to the demands of the navy has been put forward by Carl-Axel Gemzell. He has referred to the internal power struggle among the army leadership, personifi ed in the Hindenburg-Ludendorff -duumvirate, and the political leadership under Bethmann Hollweg. According to these arguments Ludendorff should have consented to the wishes of the navy in order to get their support in the struggle with Hollweg, thus expanding his powerbase.27 Whether the Quartermaster-General was really interested in an attack in Scandinavia is hard to tell, yet it seems plausible that the discussion was used in the power struggle of the summer of 1917 eventually leading to the downfall of Hollweg.

Pénétration pacifi que – the Role of the German Foreign Ministry

While the German navy was in a rather aggressive mind towards Denmark, the German Foreign Ministry had a good relationship with the Danish Government. Th e Danish Liberal Radical cabinet had prac- ticed a policy of accommodation towards the Germans. Th us, the German ambassador in Copenhagen, Ulrich Graf Brockdorff -Rantzau had obtained a good level of understanding with the Danish Foreign Minister Erik Scavenius during the fi rst years of the war. Basically the aims of the German military and diplomacy were the same regarding the Danish question: consolidating German infl uence and control over

25 In which Norway was the fi rst domino, followed by Denmark. 26 K. E. Haug, “ ‘Falls Norwegen auf die Seite unserer Feinde tritt’: Det tysk-norske forhold fra sommeren 1916 til utgangen av 1917” (Universitetet i Trondheim, 1994), p. 89 and p. 122; and R. Berg, Norge på egen hånd 1905–1920, vol. 2 of Norsk utenrikspolitikks historie (Oslo: Universitetsforlaget, 1995), p. 228. 27 Gemzell, Organization, Confl ict, and Innovation, p. 214ff . 128 c. paulin

Denmark. Th ey did not, however, agree on the means with which they hoped to achieve this. While the German navy aspired to physical control over the country, the Foreign Ministry believed that Denmark could be pushed entirely into the German sphere of infl uence by peaceful, yet aggressive, diplomacy including a combination of cooperation and threats. Th e Ministry strongly opposed a preventive attack on Denmark, which they feared would set off another propaganda failure like the invasion of Belgium. Th e navy was nervous about the anti-German propaganda in Denmark, as well as the Danish government’s ability to preserve neutrality and, as the navy grew ever more distrustful of Danish intentions, acute diffi culties arose for the German diplomacy. In the summer of 1917, when a revised plan of operations for ‘Case J’ was being prepared, the Foreign Ministry suggested an alteration of the German ultimatum that was to be presented to the Danish Government. Th is set off a state of crisis between the Ministry and the navy. In essence, it was a dispute about whether an attack should (or could) be commenced based solely on intelligence reports. Th e Foreign Ministry did not approve of an attack exclusively based on unconfi rmed intelligence, and this led them to propose that the ultimatum should be handed over to the Danes only aft er it had been confi rmed that Britain had violated Danish neutrality.28 Th e main argument for this was that it would be in the British interest to fabricate rumours about an upcoming British off ensive, thereby provoking the Germans to strike fi rst, thus appearing in international opinion as the violator of neutral rights (– again).29 Th e proposal was rejected outright by the navy as unacceptable from a military point of view.30 While their main objective was to prevent British occupation of Denmark, Ludendorff supported those admirals who stressed the paramount importance of forestalling a British attack. However, as Ludendorff put it, this did not imply a threat to Denmark as an independent state. He wanted to guarantee that Denmark would remain independent aft er the war – yet presumably under heavy German dominance.

28 Rantzau to Auswärtiges Amt, 28 May 1917, DNA, PG 77205, p. 50f. 29 Vorschläge des Auswärtigen Amtes für die an Dänemark im Falle englischer Neutralitätsverletzungen zu richtenden Ultimaten, May 1917, RA, PG 77205, p. 50f. 30 Stellungnahme zu den Vorschlägen des A. A. für die an Dänemark zu richtenden 3 Ultimaten, 8 June 1917, DNA, PG 77205, p. 49. german war plans against denmark 1916–1918 129

Rantzau was very disappointed that the military was willing to jeopardize the confi dence that he had laboriously built up, and in June he directly accused the navy of trying to incite a break between the two countries. Aft er the crisis Rantzau wrote in frustration: “Ich übernehme aber nicht die Verantwortung für die Folgen, die unvermeidlich eintreten müssten, wenn wir die Neutralität Dänemarks verletzen. Und hier im Lande würde […] ein Ultimatum auf Grund von Nach- richten […] ein derartiger Schritt als Ueberfall und beabsichtigter Bruch der Neutralität Dänemarks betrachtet werden.”31 Th e crisis eventually passes unsolved, because the ultimatum was shelved as rumours about a British off ensive disappeared. Nevertheless, the crisis displayed two incompatible views: a political and a military one. If the navy had to await confi rmation of a British attack they would most likely be reduced to fi ghting the defensive Case J/II and, more important, they would probably have to give up their dream of bases in Denmark. Th us, it ultimately showed that the navy saw Case J/II as an undesirable emergency situation; in the end it was better to be safe than sorry. In the winter of 1917–18 tensions once again mounted between the Foreign Ministry and the German navy. During the fi rst years of the war Rantzau had come to an informal agreement with the Danish Foreign Ministry that they would pass on all available naval intelligence about belligerent movements in Danish waters, i.e. about the Royal Navy.32 On 2 November 1917 a British force raided the Kattegat sinking a German light cruiser and a number of trawlers. How could it be that the Germans had not been warned in advance? Apparently, the German intelligence system in Copenhagen had failed. Com- munication about the British force had been delayed eighteen hours. Th e German navy considered the matter an example of Danish dis- loyalty, and warned that it could be necessary to revise the operational plans, so attack could be initiated based on unconfi rmed intelligence reports.33 Rantzau, who had not even been in Copenhagen that day, argued that the navy had to blame itself rather than the Foreign Ministry, or worse, the Danish Government. In addition, the ambassador pointed

31 Rantzau: Geheime Aufzeichnung, 11 June 1917, DNA, AA. Pk. 87, p. E031954. 32 Rantzau-report, 8 November 1915, DNA, AA. Pk. 375/13, p. E278421ff .; see also DNA, UM 7.G.31. 33 Holtzendorff to Zimmermann, 22. December 1917, DNA, AA. Pk. 88, p. 032004. 130 c. paulin out that he had undertaken the task of reporting British intrusions and attempts of invasion, but not necessarily smaller operations in international waters.34 Th e British sweep in Kattegat showed again the diff erence of opinion between the German navy and the Foreign Ministry. While the fi rst was suspicious of Denmark and did not want the decision to attack to be dependent on Danish intelligence, the latter found an attack wholly unnecessary. In the later part of the war there was a real danger, according to the Foreign Ministry, that Denmark could be attacked for the wrong reasons because of a lack of information, bad intelligence or misapprehension. Th erefore, cross-checking the navy’s fortuitous intelligence was of vital importance, and the German ambassador in Copenhagen fought a hard struggle with the navy, never allowing them to get their much wanted pretext for an attack. During the war Rantzau had practised a policy of peaceful penetration of Denmark and was certainly right in his argumentation that the country was already under de facto German control. With secret diplomacy and exploitation of the Danish policy of accommodation he succeeded in: – making an agreement with Scavenius that secret Danish naval intelligence would be passed on to the Germans. – vetoing the Danish King in 1916 when he wanted a change of cabinet. 35 – getting a promise from Scavenius that the Germans could use the Danish Kattegat-islands in case of intrusion in Danish or Norwe- gian waters by the Royal Navy. (Th is shows that the Danish Foreign Minister was clearly unaware of the premises of “Case J” and of the fact that the operation would be mounted regardless).36 – replacing of the Danish Chief of Military Intelligence and the Chief of General Staff with pro-Germans.37

34 Rantzau to Hertling, 9 January 1918, DNA, AA. Pk. 88, p. E032008 ff . 35 Rantzau, memorandum about the meeting with the Danish King, 29 August 1916, DNA, AA. Pk. 87, p. E031731ff . 36 Rantzau, Geheime Aufzeichnung, 15 July 1917, DNA, Nachlass Brockdorff - Rantzau, p. H232922ff . 37 “… und bat den Minister direkt, im dänischen Generalstab ‘eine Reinigung vor- zunehmen,” Rantzau to Hertling, 25 April 1918, DNA, AA. Pk. 91/8, p. E055098ff . german war plans against denmark 1916–1918 131

– establishing a counterespionage offi ce in Copenhagen with Danish acceptance.38 Th is was serious meddling with internal Danish aff airs and a clear example of German political infl uence on the Radical Liberal Government. With the surrender of sovereignty on important issues the view of Denmark as an impartial neutral may need to be adjusted to that of a German client state. In Denmark all this was, of course kept secret for many years.

Spring 1918 – Activist Attack

In March 1918 the German plan of operations was revised. An attack was no longer premised on a Danish or British threat, but could be initiated at Germany’s own initiative. Th ere were several reasons for this change of opinion regarding the Danish question. A young Fregattenkapitän, Wolfgang Wegener, had advocated in a number of essays in 1915 the concept of Kleinkrieg as an alternative to the prevailing Tirpitzean strategy of Grosskrieg.39 Th e latter aimed at locking up the enemy main fl eet and engaging it in a big Entscheidungsschlacht. Th is called for a joint fl eet of big capital ships, namely the Imperial German High Seas Fleet. Conversely, Kleinkrieg implied that the navy disrupt enemy commerce with small-scale pin- prick operations carried out by smaller vessels like submarines and torpedo boats. Th is, however, required advanced bases close to the important sea routes, which brings Denmark into the picture. Th e more radical admirals in the German Navy had long pushed for this shift . Th ey thought Denmark to be as strategically important as Flan- ders and found that Germany needed naval bases in a fl anking position of the North Sea in order to fi ght the Royal Navy eff ectively. Th e military situation had improved signifi cantly at the beginning of 1918 with the German victory on the eastern front. Th e army, now free to concentrate on the western front, launched their fi nal eff ort in March to bring the war to an end, the ‘Operation Michael’. It is noteworthy

38 Rantzau to Bethmann Hollweg, 9 October 1915, DNA, AA Pk. 105/14, p. E291229ff . 39 See Wegener, Naval Strategy. 132 c. paulin that the revision of the premises of ‘Case J’ happened simultaneously with the big off ensive. Even though the battle of Jutland in 1916 had not changed the balance of power, and the distant British naval blockade continued, the maritime situation altered in 1917–18. Aft er the defeat of Russia the Baltic was considered a mare clausum teutonicum, a closed German sea.40 Th is meant a growing interest in the acquirement of bases in Scandinavia, thereby binding these states closer to Germany aft er the war. Th is development is manifested in an analysis by the naval attaché for the Nordic countries, dated 20th December 1918 and entitled Deutschland und Skandinavien: “Die Ostsee blieb in deutscher Hand, und diese Tatsache wird nach Friedensschluss in unserem vermehrten Einfl uß auf die Uferstaaten ihren Ausdruck fi nden […] Dänemark bil- det dabei die erste, fast schon erreichte Etappe.”41 Th is shift in naval doctrine coincided with changes in personnel in the German bureaucracy. In the navy the moderate Admiral Holtzendorff was replaced by the former Chief of the High Seas Fleet and now Kleinkrieg-supporter, Reinhard Scheer. In the civil administration the Foreign Ministry was gradually outmanoeuvred, beginning with the downfall of Hollweg in summer 1917 and leading to the quasi military dictatorship of Hindenburg and Ludendorff . Th us, the supporters of Danish neutrality and peaceful cooperation were severely weakened. Finally, in order to escape the deadlock on the western front, in this period there was a trend towards escalation into total warfare, which led to a rising number of neutrality violations. Hence it seemed more and more obvious that the neutrality of small states would not be respected in the global struggle for survival among the great powers, which were now to a greater extent “going all in”.

Conclusion – the Attack that Never Came?

What can be concluded on the basis of this research? First of all, there seems to be a positive correlation between German military fortunes and the ‘Case J’-planning. Th e contingency planning arose from

40 Th e Baltic Fleet had consequently been disbanded. 41 Deutschland und Skandinavien, Marineattaché für die nordischen Reiche, Reinhold von Fischer-Lossainen, 20 December 1917, DNA, AA. Pk. 88, p. E03200ff . german war plans against denmark 1916–1918 133

German fears of neutral reactions to the submarine war at a time when the Germany military situation seemed bleak. As the situation improved in 1917–18 and American entry in the war reduced moral diplomatic constraints, the planning took on a more off ensive character. Finally, as the ‘Michael’-off ensive failed, the preventive attack on Denmark became unfeasible. A valuable spin-off from this research has been the discovery that the deterring eff ect of the Copenhagen Fortress’ caused the Germans to abandon their planned naval bombardment of the capital. Th us even a small neutral country’s defence could be of some value. Internal quarrels between the military and civil administration, as well as between the army and navy, can be regarded as a driving force in the planning – the change in naval strategy illustrated this. Yet the lack of unity also constrained the war planning: what would have happened if all branches in the German bureaucracy had agreed on a preventive attack? At diff erent levels of analysis there were several reasons why the attack on Denmark never came about. Firstly, at the structural level no great power achieved absolute preponderance over the other in Scandinavia, it can therefore arguably be suggested that the balance of power prevented the attack. In addition the two sides had a constant lack of information about each other’s intentions which led to misper- ceptions about the other’s strength. Yet it must be admitted that this lack of information could also have facilitated an attack. Secondly, at the actor level skilful diplomacy on both sides seems to have played an important role. It seems that Rantzau eventually succeeded in convincing German military planners of Denmark’s loyalty and of the fact that he had the situation under control. His secret diplomatic deliberations with Scavenius and his role in constraining the military on intelligence matters were of great importance. Finally, perhaps the most important reason is to be found at the state level, as Germany lacked the resources to bring off an attack. Initially the army could not spare any troops and, given the navy’s low capacity, the attack seemed far away. Later on, as the operational plans were revised in a more off ensive and activist direction just awaiting the go- ahead signal, the great off ensive on the western front petered out and turned into a struggle of defence, leaving no additional personnel available for a preventive attack on Denmark. Th e Chief of Staff in the Imperial High Seas Fleet, Rear-Admiral Adolf von Trotha, concluded in a memorandum in April 1917: “Wenn 134 c. paulin wir unsere Kraft selbstbewusst tragen, so kann Dänemark gar nicht anders, als in unsere Interessengruppe eintreten […] Hätten wir noch die militärischen Kräft e frei, so müsste die Frage auf disem Flügel sofort gelöst werden… Können wir diese Aufgabe jetzt nicht mehr lösen, so liegt hierin eine der wichtigsten Aufgaben diplomatischer Friedensarbeit für Deutschlands Zukunft .” 42 He proved to be right in that Germany would be dealing with the Danish question in the near future – yet operation Weserübung Süd could hardly be characterized as diplomatischer Friedensarbeit.

42 A. von Trotha: “Welche Stellung an der See braucht Deutschland für seine nationale Entwicklung?” quoted in Gemzell, Organization, Confl ict, and Innovation, p. 226. CHAPTER SIX

THE DEVELOPMENT OF THE AIR DEFENCE OF COPENHAGEN1

M. H. Clemmesen

Th e Military and Political Framework

Military history and experience was considered highly relevant both by politicians and the professional military in Europe at the beginning of the last century. National war histories were published and used by General Staff s as an important source for gaining a deeper understanding of the geographical and other conditions for defence. Past achievements and risks could and were used to gain public support for the armed forces. In Denmark the spring and summer of 1914 was a period of com- memoration of its defeat by Prussia in 1864. Th e experience of fi ghting the Germans alone had made it clear to the Danish Army and its supporters that any extended resistance of Danish short-service conscripts against a German army would have to be based on fortifi cations. Th e natural place to be developed into a fortress was Copenhagen. Th e city on the eastern side of the main island of Zealand was far away from the exposed land border. Successful defence of the capital had once before, in 1669, ensured the survival of Denmark and gained time for other states, then mainly the Netherlands, to come to the country’s assistance. With navies stronger than that of our enemy, they would gain control of the waters, the ‘moat’ around Zealand, forcing the enemy to withdraw. Th e experience of 1807 had underlined the vulnerability of Copen- hagen to a landing and bombardment. Th e popular and political will to

1 Th e subject has never before been covered by historical research and literature. Th erefore my paper has been based entirely on own research to be published as the article “Mod den nye trussel: Opbygningen af Københavns luft forsvar 1915–1918” in the book Mod fornyelsen af Københavns Forsvar 1915–18. It is an English language summary of the article. Th is is a temporary version. 136 m. h. clemmesen resist had only lasted a couple of days under bombardment before it became necessary to give in to the British demands to hand over the navy. To the conservative and liberal groupings behind the defence laws of 1909 it was important to meet the risk of a repetition of 1807 by modernising the coastal forts protecting Copenhagen against naval bombardment and by ensuring that the army would have enough units in Zealand to mobilise a neutrality guard force strong enough to protect against another landing. However, conclusions drawn from the analysis of national military history varied. Th e Social-Liberal Party [Det radikale Venstre] found that the 1807 events had only proven how illogical and risky it was for small, neutral states to have signifi cant armed forces. Denmark had only been invaded because the British needed to ensure that the Danish Navy would not be used against them by their French enemy, and the capital was bombed because our equally illogical and anachronistic honour had ruled out handing over the ships without a fi ght. To the Social-Liberals 1864 had proven that Denmark could and should not be defended against the armed forces of any major power. Th e result of trying would be a basically irrational and useless exposure to the killing and destruction of war. Th us, the only sensible response to a great power invasion or ultimatum was to protest and adapt to reality, endeavour- ing to ensure by other means that the nation would survive. In 1913 the Social-Liberals formed a government that stayed in power until the spring of 1920. Being a minority government it accepted that it had to follow the defence laws to the letter. When war unexpectedly came, the government also understood that it was important to signal domestic political unity behind the will to guard neutrality from the belligerents, even if this meant an otherwise wasteful use of money and young men’s time. All infl uential politicians understood and accepted that Danish foreign policy had to compensate for the combined eff ects of the territorial dispute with Germany over North Schleswig with its Danish population and the close and dominating German military and naval presence. Special attention had to be paid to any voiced or self-evident German military requirements. When Germany requested Danish mining of the Great Belt ‘against both sides’, it was carried out in spite of being widely considered a breach of strict neutrality. However, the parties behind the defence laws considered it as essential that the country and its neutrality were defended against any violation or attack, including one from Germany. the development of the air defence of copenhagen 137

A New Th reat Emerging: 1912–1915

In March 1909 the German navy purchased its fi rst Zeppelin airship, and two years later the general designated Danish army commander- in-chief (a post that included that of commander of Copenhagen Fortress), Lieutenant-General Gørtz, asked his artillery commander, General Holm, to consider the implications of the new threat. Holm underlined in his reply of May 1911 that specialist ‘anti-balloon’ cannon had become aff ordable. In June the liberal PM and Defence Minister Klaus Berntsen, tasked the Army Technical Corps to coordinate inves- tigating the market with the artillery commander. Th e Corps sent a representative to Germany the same autumn. His fi nal report was ready in March 1912. Th e gunners and the technicians agreed that the best choice would be a pivot-mounted 65 mm cannon that could both be used from fortress positions and from the back of an automobile. During the meetings of the Danish Cabinet ministers and armed forces leaders in November 1912, when the First Balkan War threatened to develop into international confl ict, the General Staff made a list of urgent requirements to prepare the army for the neutrality guard and defence. Th at list included 6–8 ‘anti-balloon’ cannon. Th e costs of the air defence pieces were to be spread evenly over the years 1913–18. Th e Navy Staff made its requirement clear to the Navy Ministry in May 1913. Both the Naval Yard in central Copenhagen and the navy’s largest units, the Coastal Defence Ships, needed ‘Balloon pieces’ [Ballonskyts] as soon as conditions allowed. However, nothing was actually done to procure the pieces before August 1914. It is unclear if the change to a Social-Liberal government in 1913 meant delay; however, any contract with a factory in one of the belligerent countries was most likely to have been cancelled anyway at the start of the war. Th e challenge from aircraft violating Danish air space was discussed between the Defence Minister and the leaders of the armed services on 4th August 1914, the day before Britain entered the war. Th e subject covered was the possibility of formally forbidding belligerent use of Danish air space. Th e army leadership failed to convince the navy commander and the War and Navy Ministries to ban the use and transit. Th e opponents of a ban argued that with the current aviation technology all violations would be German (and the eff ects of a ban thus one-sided) and that it would be impossible to control anyway. Th e fi rst argument was especially important to the navy commander, Vice- Admiral Kofoed-Hansen, who had just been completely convinced 138 m. h. clemmesen that Germany accepted that a Danish defended neutrality was in its own best interest, and the Danish defence stance and behaviour as a neutral should reinforce that line as far as national honour permitted. Nothing should be done that could irritate the Germans and bring the risk of escalation. Early December 1914 General Holm repeated the requirement for ‘anti-balloon’ cannon for Copenhagen Fortress, and the threat of bombardment from German airships was underlined by the escalating German Navy airship attacks against allied cities from early 1915. On 16th February 1915 the two navy airships that had carried out the fi rst raids on British cities – L.3 and L.4 – crashed on the south- western coast of Jutland. Th e surviving crew members were interned, and the commanding general for Western Denmark, Lieutenant- General Tuxen, asked for directives for how to react to the increasing number of violations of his air space. In April 1915 the Ministry of Law, Prime Minister Zahle, proposed a ban on all foreign use of the air space over Danish territory and territorial waters. Th e only exception was fl ights over the international straits. Zahle’s position which was perfectly logical from an international legal point of view, thereaft er made it very diffi cult for opponents to resist a ban. However, the Vice-Admiral still argued against a ban by underlining that it would not only require Denmark to protest, when violations were deliberate, but also, when they happened as a result of an accident or incorrect navigation. Th e Admiral only changed his mind in the late summer and autumn of 1915, when the German navy followed the brutal destruction of the stranded British submarine E.13 with repeated and clearly deliberate violations of the airspace over Copenhagen Fortress by airships and seaplanes. However, it was only on 4th May 1916 that Defence Minister Munch issued his instruction to the army and navy in his capacity as both war and navy minister. It banned foreign use of Danish air space; however, normally a violation should only be reported without any other reaction. Th e report should include information whether the violation was deliberate or most likely the result of bad weather or mistaken navigation. Violating airplanes should only be fi red at when fl ying over permanent fortress works, fi eld fortifi cations or the naval mine barriers, and only if the violating fl ight was clearly undamaged. Even then, the fi rst response should only be a warning shot. Th e emphasis that the airplane or airship should be undamaged is probably the result of German criticism of Dutch involvement in the loss of Zeppelin L–19. the development of the air defence of copenhagen 139

Th e Early Development of Copenhagen Air Defence

As mentioned already, the reinforcement and move forward of the Copenhagen sea fortifi cations, authorised by the 1909 defence laws, was meant to ensure defence against still longer range naval bombardment artillery. When the war started construction was ongoing, and was fi nished in 1916. Th e building of a new forward defence line in the woods north of the capital in the winter 1914–15 was motivated by the same logic of keeping enemy siege artillery away from the city centre, as was the construction of the Tune Position across the Køge Bight- Roskilde Inlet isthmus southeast of Copenhagen that started one year later. Th e Tune fi eld fortifi cation was motivated by the quick destruction of the fortress of Antwerp, an event that underlined the threat of a new type of artillery bombardment. With the focus on the bombardment risk, it was natural that the Danish defence leadership should have an acute feeling of vulnerability to the new air threat, particularly as the more likely aggressor, Germany, spent 1916 proving its inclination and capabilities in raids against London. Th e attacks on the British capital were described by the well- connected hussar offi cer Count Moltke, who worked as de facto military attaché at the Danish Embassy. It was no simple matter for Denmark to develop a defence against a new threat. Th e size of the regular cadre of offi cers and non- commissioned offi cer was strictly limited by the defence laws. Th e Defence Minister was unwilling to adjust for fact that the small number was meant to either train the peace time units or supply the key cadre for the mobilisation army for what was expected to be a short campaign. Th e Social-Liberal minister used the letter of the law to deny any increase of the professional military cadre, irrespective of the soundness of the arguments used. Th e number of gunners was further limited by the decision to abolish the Land Fortress with its Fortress Artillery Regiment by 1922, and by the secondment of young offi cers to army aviation, an organisation not foreseen in the Army Law. Th e Danish Army Technical Corps workshops and the Navy Yard could fi nish, assemble and reconfi gure artillery pieces and their mountings. However, neither they nor the civilian Danish industry could produce modern artillery. Th ey would order the main parts abroad, from 1909 onwards normally at Sweden’s Bofors, inspect the quality at the factory and have the parts sent to Denmark for assembly in the state 140 m. h. clemmesen workshops. Th is is how the new 75 mm and 120 mm Danish designed pieces for the new coastal forts were produced. Th e artillery commander, General Holm, suggested in a letter of January 1915 to General Gørtz that an attempt should be made to buy anti-balloon guns in the U.S.A. Th e total requirement would be 20–25 pieces of 65–70 mm calibre with a pivot mounting for the back of a truck. In the letter he also informed the army Commander-in-Chief that the technical corps was considering a proposal to reconstruct the obsolescent 47 mm coastal anti-torpedo boat cannon for use in the anti-airship role. On 10th February 1915 Holm underlined that the deployment of these 47 mm guns should not only be limited to the coastal forts. Th e Copenhagen city garrison, the land fortress, and the fi eld army around the capital should also have access to some of these guns. A detailed study should prepare a decision about the placing of the cannon, searchlights and light machine guns in the fortress area and in the city – in towers. Information should be gathered about the organisation of the air defence elsewhere, e.g. in London and Paris. Holm’s recommendation triggered the development of the army part in the fi rst Copenhagen air defence. Th e initiative now moved to Major-General Lembcke, the Copen- hagen city garrison commander. During the previous fi ve years the tough and energetic general had been trying in vain to gain an important command. Initially he proposed that the army Commander in Chief, General Gørtz, should concentrate on commanding the army, leaving Lembcke in command of Copenhagen Fortress. Gørtz, however, had been unwilling to delegate what he perceived to be his core responsibility. Delegation would also mean something rather unthinkable in the Danish army at the time, namely that other more senior major generals, including those in the prestigious ‘scientifi c arms’ of artillery and engineers, should assist or even be subordinated to an infantry general of the same rank. Lembcke was eager to take responsibility for the new project. On 25th March he sent his proposal for an air defence to Gørtz. Th e defence against airplanes should consist of fi ft een double light machine gun posts placed on high buildings in diff erent parts of the city. He suggested that the posts should be manned by members of some Copenhagen volunteer corps. Th ereby he reduced the requirement to have regular manpower transferred to build the new defence organisation. the development of the air defence of copenhagen 141

One week later the Army Technical Corps helped him by underlining that use of light machine guns would not only be good for morale, but would also be eff ective against the slow and low-fl ying airplanes of the time. Th e reconstructed 47 mm cannon would be eff ective against the hydrogen-fi lled airships with its incendiary rounds. Counting from the date the technical corps got the green light to start, the thirty- eight pieces could be reconstructed in three months time. On 7th April Gørtz gave the artillery General and Lembcke the task to develop a plan for the air defence of the capital. General Holm and coordinated with Lembcke, had an outline requirement ready on 16th July. Th e capital needed a combination of artillery air defence and what we would now call fi ghter aircraft defence. Th e General estimated a requirement for twenty fi ve airplanes, organised in four squadrons. Th e air defence guns of the land side of city should be placed in pairs in the periphery of the urbanised area to minimise damage from fall- ing rounds. Th e guns should - if possible - be mounted on automobiles. Holm had identifi ed nine city periphery double gun positions. Forward artillery air defence would be established by placing double gun positions on parts of the land fortress. Th e sea side should be defended with double gun on the coastal works. Th e inner defence would consist of air defence cannon on the forts and batteries covering the harbour; the outer defence would be created by double gun positions on the forward coastal and sea forts. Th e total requirement for air defence, ‘anti-balloon’ guns, was seventy-six; however, as an interim solution Holm proposed the distribution of the 47 mm guns now being reconstructed. Nine of these should be placed with one piece in the identifi ed positions in the city land side periphery. Most of the remaining guns should be placed on the coastal works covering the harbour. A few should be placed on forward coastal and sea forts and inland fortress works. Th e artillery defence should be supplemented with a low-level air defence of fourteen light double machine-gun positions on buildings in the city. Each gun position should have a modern optical range- fi nder and searchlights should be placed for night air defence. One week aft er Holm had sent the outline plan, the War Ministry authorised the production of one hundred sets of air defence pivot mountings for light machine guns. In August the army distributed temporary guidelines for the use of light machine-guns and massed rifl e fi re against airplanes. 142 m. h. clemmesen

On 2nd August Lembcke had his proposal ready for the organisation of air defence of the fortress city. He made clear that he should have undivided responsibility for all parts of the city’s air defences, both the fi ghter aircraft and the gun crews of the proposed city air defence stations. A central command post – the ‘Central Station’ – should be established with two offi cers and seven non-commissioned offi cers to lead the air defence. Th e cannon, searchlights, range-fi nders and tele- phones should be manned by conscripts of a new ‘Air Defence Company’ [Luft forsvarskompagni]. Th e machine gun posts should be manned by the volunteer ‘Copen- hagen Rifl emen’s Association Light Machine Gun Corps’ [København Skytteforenings Rekylkorps]. Lembcke does not seem to have coordinated his proposal with the artillery General that had to delegate the cadre and conscripts from his Fortress or Coastal Artillery Regiments. One thing is concept development, another volunteering the resources for the resulting organisation. Th e Technical Corps was also unhappy, having expected to be consulted. Early December 1915 the corps director [Generaltøjmesteren] expressed disagreement with Holm’s charac- terisation of the 47 mm cannon as a primitive expedient. At the same time it informed Gørtz that it was developing an air defence pivot mounting for the new 75 mm L/30 quick-fi ring cannon, one of the new Danish designed coastal pieces. A new suitable range fi nder was purchased from Germany. Experiments were taking place with a new Danish-constructed 150 cm searchlight.

Th e Independent Navy Air Defence

While the army was making the fi nal calculations to prepare for the deployment of a basic air defence structure, the navy was able to demonstrate its fi rst ‘anti-balloon’ cannon to the king on 9th December 1915, when the monarch visited the coastal artillery ship Peter Skram. A powerful, long (L/55) 75 mm cannon had been placed in an air defence mounting on to op the forward main turret. Four of the same type of cannon were later placed in the air defence stations established to defend the Naval Yard. All the major vessels – coastal artillery ships and cruisers – would later be equipped with 75 mm or 57 mm air defence guns. Th e navy felt no urgent need to co-ordinate with the army, even if the Navy Yard, which was also its only base, was situated in the centre the development of the air defence of copenhagen 143 of the city, just behind the army’s inner ring of coastal forts and with Lembcke’s fortress city as its southerly and westerly neighbour. To some extent, however, the intricate command arrangement for the navy’s integration into Copenhagen’s defence took care of the problem. One of the navy’s two rear admirals, the Commander of the ‘Copenhagen Seaward Defences’ [Den fl ydende Defension] was a subordinate of Gørtz’ in the general’s capacity of fortress commander. Th e Seawards Defences commander, Rear Admiral Evers, had tactical control (through the regimental commander) of both the forts and batteries in and near Copenhagen of the army’s Coastal Artillery Regiment and the small old navy vessels that were deployed every night to picket stations at telephone buoys in a half-circle around Copenhagen in the Sound. In his use of the ships, Evers was a subordinate of the commanding admiral. Th e Rear Admiral was thus, in principle, responsible for all practical liaison and coordination between the army and navy in relation to Copenhagen’s defences, a task eased by the fact that his command post was next to the command post of the army Coastal Artillery Regiment in the harbour of ‘Lynetten’ Coastal Fort. However, Evers task became close to impossible when Gørtz and Kofoed-Hansen chose to implement in diff erent ways the defence minister’s instructions of 4th May 1916 for reactions to violations of the air space. Kofoed-Hansen had now accepted that Denmark had to react. However, he instructed his units and Rear Admiral Evers to react only by reporting to navy HQ and await orders before responding. Gørtz simply ordered his subordinates to act according to the Ministry’s instruction, thus using their own judgement and common sense in the application. Th e coastal forts thus had been delegated authority from the army commander, but had orders from their navy tactical commander only to report. Th e two armed services never reached agreement, as the army considered it impractical of the General Staff to control units all over the country. Even before the minister issued his instruction, the control situation had become even more complex, as the Navy Yard had started to deploy its battery of four powerful 75 mm air defence cannon with its own searchlight section on platforms dispersed inside the base perimeter. Th e yard director, the other Rear Admiral, who was directly subordinate to the Navy Minister, not to Kofoed-Hansen, appointed one of his own yard subordinates as base air defence commander with control of the air defence artillery of the base and on ships in the yard. Th e Navy Ministry had authorised the establishment of this independent air 144 m. h. clemmesen defence structure on 1st April 1916. In the autumn each of the four gun stations received a range-fi nder with a 1½ metre base and was thus superior to the new army range-fi nders. Kofoed-Hansen realised at once that it would be potentially problematic to have an independent air defence organisation within his fi eld of responsibility, and on 8th May 1916 he asked the Ministry to subordinate the Navy Yard air defence to him, so he could delegate tactical control to Evers, who already controlled the developing air defence in the coastal forts. Ten days later the Navy Ministry gave him control of the yard air defence with the authority to decide when to open fi re in defence of neutrality. Th e Ministry, however, rejected the idea of delegation to Evers, probably because of a lack of confi dence in the Rear Admiral’s independent judgement.

Th e Air Defence Plans Realised in 1916

Th e realisation of the plans for the diff erent parts done by the army in the air defence took place at the same time, in the spring of 1916, as the cannon and light machine gun mountings became available. Th e placing of the modifi ed 47 mm cannon and light air defence machine guns on the coastal forts presented few problems, as it was only a matter for existing units to absorb new equipment and retrain available personnel. General Lembcke’s problem was far more complex. Th e easy part was the low level defence against airplanes, where he had the volunteer rifl emen and junior leaders to man the structure. When he had received the required number of light machine guns with pivot mountings, he only had to construct the air defence positions on roofs of buildings all over the city to be in business. Th e creation of the air defence artillery ‘Air Defence Company’ with the ‘Central Station’ presented more problems, despite the urgency that all involved attached to the creation of a basic air defence structure during these spring months. Of the nine 47 mm gun positions in the city periphery, eight were ready on 19th April 1916. Th e remaining one missing could only be established on top of a water tower when mobilisation started. On the same day the rooft op machine-gun positions were reported ready. Lembcke had proposed that the personnel for the Air Defence Com- pany should come from the Fortress Artillery Regiment and be accommodated in one of its barracks. Th e involved artillery commander the development of the air defence of copenhagen 145 rejected the idea and suggested that at least part of the soldiers should be infantry. Th e fortress artillery were already under heavy pressure because of detachments to the Tune Position artillery. General Holm proposed that the fortress artillery should only fi nd one third of the personnel and the coastal artillery the remaining two thirds. Th e air defence company accommodation should be spread to the Copenhagen Citadel and two of the harbour forts. Th e guarding of the nine 47 mm gun positions should be shared by the company with diff erent infantry units in the neighbourhood. Even before General Holm made his rather complex proposal, Lembcke had asked to have a specifi c former regular offi cer appointed as Commander of the company and thus the practical leader of the project and commander of the air defence ‘Central Station’. Holm’s staff accepted albeit under protest. In early June Lembcke rejected Holm’s proposal as unpractical. Th e personnel should come from two sources only: the volunteer corps and the coastal artillery. Th e conscripts should be quartered in one place only: the Citadel [Kastellet]. Any decision about the guarding of the gun stations would have to await the actual establishment of the air defence company. Lembcke thereaft er named the coastal artillery offi cer that the Coastal Artillery Regiment was ‘suggested’ to appoint as second-in-command of the company.

Expansion Based on New Equipment?

Any further development depended on the acquisition of additional suitable equipment. It was considered futile to hope to purchase high quality air defence weapons from the belligerents, and the armed forces had to make do with what could be produced in the country or be purchased from its neutral neighbour Sweden. A Danish company, ‘Nielsen and Winther,’ was building a small fi ghter aircraft , the Type Aa, of which the army bought six. However, it was very diffi cult to get the required powerful and stable engines. Th e Swedish ‘Th ulin A’ engine of the Type Aa was neither powerful nor particularly stable. Further development was also hampered by the Social-Liberal government’s highly critical attitude to any expansion of Danish private arms production. All arms production was basically objectionable and a private company’s wish to produce and sell its pro- d ucts to get higher profi t might undermine neutrality. Th e government 146 m. h. clemmesen had enough trouble with the ‘Dansk Rekyl-Riff el Syndikat’ producing light machine gun in that respect. It was easier to control the production of the gun workshops of the Danish army arsenal that had developed a more suitable air defence gun than the 47 mm, whose small calibre limited it to incendiary rounds for use against airships. No eff ective time-fused shrapnel shell could be developed that would also have made the gun eff ective against airplanes. However, in March 1916 the War Ministry had notifi ed the army that it had approved the Army Technical Corps’ proposal for the Danish designed 75 mm L/30 coastal cannon for air defence that had been tested during the winter. With its larger calibre is could fi re an eff ective shrapnel shell. Two of the guns were already under production and would be placed in diff erent positions of the coastal battery at Mosede on the Køge Bay coast in the autumn. On 15th April the Ministry approved the production of fi ve 75 mm air defence guns and on 14 August followed approval of fi ve more. Th e Technical Corps had already ordered additional parts for its coastal and air defence gun production from Swedish Bofors. Th e parts for the air defence pivot mounting were produced by the large Danish private shipbuilder Burmeister and Wain. Before making decisions about the use of the new weapons, General Holm asked the Army Technical Corps aft er the Ministry had authorised the second batch of fi ve guns what the total number would be. On the basis of the fi nal status report made by the corps about the production of the new Danish quick-fi ring position artillery from December 1916, General Holm concluded that the number of 75 mm air defence cannon would reach a total of twenty-two the following year, if the Ministry approved the production of fi nished gun parts already in the corps workshops or arriving from Bofors in the spring of 1917. In its report the Corps recommended the army to ask the War Ministry for the production of even more of these guns, in both air defence and coastal defence mountings. Th e latter should restore fi eld artillery, misused as fortress artillery to its proper role. Th e army did as requested. On 17th February 1917 it asked for the production of the eight pieces that needed ministerial approval according to the Technical Corps November status report. Two weeks aft er that the War Ministry gave authorization to produce three of these. Decision about the last fi ve might follow later. the development of the air defence of copenhagen 147

However, what the army leadership understood to be the production of last ones of the twenty-two pieces, the Ministry had chosen to understand as a repeated request for the production up to a maximum of ten, where the army already had the two in Mosede. Th e technical corps must have understood that the Ministry had de facto cancelled the original 1916 production permission; however, it did not inform the army, which proceeded with its preparations on the basis of the November 1916 Corps status report. Lembcke not only prepared the active air defence. In September 1916 he received funds for ten air-pressure sirens for warning the Copenhagen population about an imminent air raid and he developed black-out regulations.

Th e Plan for Reinforced Artillery Defence

In March 1917 a working group was established by the General Staff with representatives from the involved subordinate headquarters to develop a proposal for the organisation of the complete air defence structure. Th e General Staff representative was Lieutenant Colonel Schouboe, a no-nonsense general staff and artillery offi cer, who had played a key role in all army developments during the previous decade. He had previously supported Lembcke against Holm in the former general’s emphasis on simple, workable solutions. In July 1917 General Holm retired, and Major General Knudsen, the former Coastal Artillery Regiment commander, took over as artillery general. During the autumn Knudsen developed a comprehensive plan for the use of all the new 75 mm air defence cannon and for the necessary redeployment of the 47 mm pieces that were being replaced by the heavier pieces. In early November 1917, Knudsen forwarded his proposal. As already decided by Holm, the 75 mm pieces arriving fi rst should replace the 47 mm guns on the coastal defence works in Copenhagen Harbour. Otherwise, the increased number of guns (in his plan a 47 mm + 75 mm total of close to sixty pieces) would be placed in two plus a quarter rings around Copenhagen with most of the new 75 mm in the outer ring. Th e inner ring would include the guns on the harbour defence works as well as Lembcke’s gun stations in the city periphery. Th e outer ring would have 75 mm guns distributed over the forward land fortress, the artifi cial island forts, the island of Saltholm to the east and 148 m. h. clemmesen the coastal works on the southern parts of the island of Amager to the south. Th e combination of air defence weapons covering the Tune Position would create an additional forward defence to the southeast.

Lembcke Ordered to Coordinate and Command

Gørtz had been pressed to retire late summer 1917. His immediate replacement as commanding general was Lieutenant General Tuxen, previously commanding the army in Jutland-Funen. Until the end of 1917 no single person was responsible for the air defence of Copenhagen. Lembcke commanded his air defence company and volunteers with their guns along the western city periphery. Th e air defence weapons on the coastal defence works were under the command of Coastal Artillery Regiment commander in Lynetten, who had to follow partly contradictory army and navy directives. Th e armament of the Land Fortress was under the command of the three ‘Fortress Front’ commanders. On 21st December this Gordian knot was cut. Tuxen decided that from 1st January 1918 Lembcke would be responsible for both the passive and active air defence of Copenhagen. Tuxen apparently liked and trusted his forceful subordinate. In relation to the passive air defence provided by the artillery he would cooperate directly with the Navy Yard director. In the active air defence, done by fi ghter aircraft he would work directly with the army air service. All air defence artillery within the fortress area, and possibly extended fortress area, would be subordinated to Lembcke in relation to training and employment in air defence. He should issue all relevant regulations for air defence and conduct air defence exercises. Lembcke would be accountable to the commanding general for all air defence matters who would command the garrison commander staff , the air defence company and one offi cer appointed by each of the four fortress fronts. Th e powerful coastal defence regiment tried to counter the directive with the argument that no gun was used exclusively for air defence, but Lembcke used his new power as air defence czar to ignore the protest, and during the spring he reorganised the air defence system completely into ten groups of only air defence guns in an part of the fortress area, no matter to which unit or organisation the gun belonged. He thereaft er asked the fortress fronts to fi nd most of the necessary group commanders. General Knudsen protested, and a compromise the development of the air defence of copenhagen 149 was reached. However, late July Lembcke requested an increase of the manpower that would triple the air defence company by bringing it to a total strength of close to 500. Th e volunteer corps now added 340 to that number.

Development Stopped and Frozen in Spring-Summer 1918

Th e planned expansion never took place in full. Th e production of the ten extra 75 mm air defence cannon in the army workshops, authorised in 1916, never took place for reasons unknown. It is more than likely that the freeze was part of a deliberate eff ort by the government during the winter of 1916–17 and spring of 1917, when it realised that Germany had started invasion planning against Denmark. From that time Defence Minister Munch vetoed all proposals for new fi eld fortifi cations “in order to avoid alerting public opinion in Berlin.” He also intensifi ed the campaign to reduce the size of a standing army guarding neutrality to a level that minimised its ability to fi ght without the formal mobilisation decision which was a government prerogative. During the period the Minister used a general freeze on new equipment to coerce the army leadership into accepting force reductions. Th e interesting point is that the army leadership was apparently never formally informed of the production freeze, which makes it likely that it was part of a general coercion policy, trying to make Gørtz to give in and accept reductions. When the army followed the Army Technical Corps advice on 17th February 1917 for the production of 8 additional air defence cannon, it still thought that it requested a production of guns in addition to the 14 already produced or in production. When the Ministry authorised the initial production of 3 out of 8, it was actually only authorising the production of three out of fi ve pieces already approved in April 1916. As mentioned the Army Technical Corps which must have been aware of the situation did not inform the army leadership. General Knudsen proceeded with the practical preparation for the placement of all the expected 22 guns. During the preparation detailed reconnaissance was carried out and followed by tasking the Corps of Engineers with building the concrete gun platforms in the selected positions. On 20th September 1917 the Technical Corps asked the Ministry for permission to produce the last 5 of the 8 guns requested by the 150 m. h. clemmesen army in February. It received permission, but only aft er three months, on 17 December 1917, aft er it had succeeded in making the army to reduce its forces guarding neutrality, and aft er it had replaced Gørtz and his chief of the General Staff with generals less willing to resist Social-Liberal policy. Th e result of the freeze and following slow response was that the total number of 75 mm air defence guns became 10 rather than 22, and that the last 8 produced arrived in their prepared positions about a year later than the army had expected. Only three of the 47 mm guns meant to be replaced by the new cannon were made available for forward deployment in the Tune and Roskilde Inlet coastal positions. Th e director of the Army Technical Corps tried once more to get permission to produce 75 more mm air defence cannon. During 1918 the government sought to reduce the risk of social upheaval by maintaining or increasing the number of workers employed by the state, also in the Army Technical Corps workshops. On 7th August 1918 the director listed the steps needed to ensure employment in the diff erent specialist workshops. As the gun workshops were running out of work for the army and navy, the director suggested that the corps got permission to order parts for then more air defence cannon from the suppliers. Th is time the Minister only needed two weeks to reply. On 15th August he authorised the employment projects elsewhere in the Corps, but he could not ‘at the time’ take any decision about ordering the air defence gun parts. Th e only improvement accepted by the Defence Ministry during 1918 were cheap improvisations meant to enhance the use of ordinary fi eld guns and light machine guns in an air defence mode. During the year all artillery units received a little cash for the production of trans- portable wooden platforms that would be used as pivots when the 75 mm fi eld cannon was used with shrapnel rounds against low fl ying aircraft . In a similar way the diff erent light machine gun units received funds to produce wooden pivot mountings to supplement the available standard issue air defence gun mountings. Where ministerial policy had hindered the establishment of layered air defence of Copenhagen, the high initial priority given to the central air defence positions meant that the defence of the harbour area and the approaches to that area from the south was close to the planned strength in spring 1918. Th is was signifi cant in the light of the development of German bombardment planning against Denmark from early 1917 onwards. Th e planning took place within the framework of the the development of the air defence of copenhagen 151 war plan to occupy Jutland in order to be able to wage war against enemy forces based in southern Norway.

Th e Th reat from Mid-1917

During their initial planning against Denmark in the autumn of 1916 the German navy had realised that the Danish mine fi eld in Køge Bay and the new coastal forts on the south coast of the island of Amager made it too risky for their modern battleships to conduct a naval bombardment of Copenhagen. Th e air threat against Denmark meant to coerce its government and army into using Jutland and some islands as forward defences and off ensive air and U-boat base area would have to come from the German navy airship and seaplane forces. In a crisis preceding open hostilities airships on the way to and from the Skagerrak and Kattegat would cruise over Copenhagen to undermine the will of people and politicians. If the Danes remained unconvinced of the need to give in, a bombardment would start from the airship force supplemented by planes from the seaplane mother ship in the Køge Bay. However, from early summer 1917, German operations against Denmark were no longer seen as more or less independent. From then onwards, Denmark was only a secondary objective, a premise and plat- form for operations against Norway and its neighbouring allies. Th is also applied to German Navy airship and seaplane forces. Th e seaplane forces concentrated on preparing operations from sea plane stations on Samsø, Læsø and in the Lim Fiord. Any necessary operations against Copenhagen would still have to come from the airships and the small force of seaplane fi ghters and a couple of light reconnaissance bombers based in Køge Bay. Th e only likely additional available force was the heavy sea plane Friedrichhafen bomber squadron that was, in anticipa- tion, redeployed from its station in Kurland to Flensburg in case of operations against Norway and Denmark. Th us, any air operations against Copenhagen were likely to be mainly conducted by naval airships and supplemented by a handful of seaplanes. Th eir main target would not have been a soft one. In the main target area they would be met by a concentration of up to twelve 75 mm cannon assigned to air defence together with the most powerful and accurate twenty-two 47 mm cannon only with anti-airship capability. Th e limited number of raiding airplanes would also be met be a very 152 m. h. clemmesen high concentration of machine-gun fi re as well as 75 mm fi eld and coastal artillery fi ring time-fused shrapnel shells. On the other hand, the small Danish 2nd Fighter squadron with its maximum of six small Type Aa fi ghters would be no match for the Albatross-fi ghters from Køge Bay. With the diff erent army and navy interpretations of the standing orders, it is most likely that the army part of the air defence, especially the 47 mm guns on Lembcke’s stations, would have opened fi re on the airships cruising over Copenhagen prior to the delivery of the prepared ultimatum or during the period that it was being considered. It remains an open question if the situation then would have escalated beyond control before the Danish government had accepted the already-known German demands. CHAPTER SEVEN

THE DEBATE ON DENMARK’S DEFENCE 1900–1940

K. Galster

Th is paper endeavours to appraise Danish democracy’s ability to formulate adequate defence policies in the period 1900–40. Th e point of departure will be the state’s key aims viz. Denmark’s survival and integrity, as they were fundamental requirements for its eff ective foreign and defence policies. As, according to Carl von Clausewitz, defence is a central item in the political toolbox, the state’s primary objective becomes the raison d’être of its defence policy.1 In the study of foreign policy the so-called Realist School sees this cognition as the basis of their analysis. Th us, for the purpose of this paper the notion ‘realist policy’ pertains to foreign and defence policies heeding this. National defence policy, however, resting as much on the defence debate as on strategic realities, is to a large extent a product of domestic factors, of which many are extraneous.2 Closely in line with the realist foreign policy, this paper will use the expression ‘classic logic’ as a designation of the nexus between realist foreign policy and defence. Classic defence logic, then, has to do with realist appreciation of looming threats vis-à-vis the weighing of resources needs of armed defence and those of other sectors. Coherent defence policy refl ects the important challenges to national security. It rests on the realistic understanding of international conditions and is adapted to available resources in terms of manpower, funds, raw

1 C. von Clausewitz, Vom Kriege, vol. 1, Uber die Natur des Krieges (Hamburg: Rowohlt, 1963), chap. 2: “Fragen wir zuerst nach dem Ziel, worauf der ganze Krieg gerichtet werden muß, um für den politischen Zweck das recte Mittel zu sein, so werden wir dasselbe ebenso veränderlich fi nden, als der politische Zweck und die Eigentümlichen Verhältnisse des Krieges es sind.” 2 British political scientist Barry Buzan has it that, “they distort, impede, and con- fuse the process by which the state deals with threats and by implication they result in less rational, less eff ective, and possibly even counterproductive policies.” B. Buzan, People, States and Fear: An Agenda for International Security Studies in the Post-Cold War Era, 2nd ed. (Harrow: Pearson Longman, 1991), pp. 355–356. 154 k. galster

materials, and industrial output. Optimum balance of these requirements is hard to achieve and, within as well as without the academic world, it is oft en presumed that reconciling these ends is especially diffi cult for democracies because peacetime democratic governments do not have defence as their primary, let alone only concern. Th eoretically, democracies are governed by the interests of the voters, who are assumed to be preoccupied with domestic concerns, largely dispas- sionate to the wider world, overtly averse to economic sacrifi ce, and mired in political or religious ideologies. In reality, democratically elected governments oft en rule unchal- lenged between elections, thus having a relatively free hand in allocat- ing resources and using the military instrument to buttress their policies. However, frequently the democratic decision-making process is burdened by sociological factors such as the relationship between the ruling elite and the armed forces, the social composition of the population in general, political traditions, and hidden agendas of party politics. In the study of foreign policy the logical opposite of the realist way of thinking is the idealist one. Th is will have to be seen as including foreign and defence political approaches, which shift the focus away from the basic objectives of state survival and integrity. While in an international relations universe the classic defence policy logic follows a track parallel to that of the Realist School of, inter alii, Hans Morgenthau, the idealist view emphasises the non-provocative aspect allowing low-budget defensive measures. Th e ‘idealist label’ indicates that various ideal purposes do have important roles to play. In a defence policy context ideal aims are oft en of a pacifi st inclination, and pacifi st idealism has been one of the most signifi cant elements of the defence policy debate in the twentieth century. Conversely, it is mostly realist arguments which are being used when it comes to procuring and employing arms. Nevertheless, realism and defence friendliness do not necessarily coincide, nor do pacifi sm and defence negativism. While it is possible to imagine realistic scenarios where armed defence does not benefi t state security, idealist arguments that certain wars are worth fi ghting abound. Such arguments may include patriotism, commitment to human rights, peace enforcement, toppling of dictatorships etc. Foreign policy – be it realist or idealist – remains closely linked with defence issues. British political scientist Barry Buzan points out that “because policy has a powerful impact on security problems, as illustrated by the feedback eff ects of arms racing and trade wars, the the debate on denmark’s defence 1900–1940 155 policy-making process itself becomes a major factor in the overall character of the security problem.”3 Th us, domestic concerns like national security, expectations of voter reaction, party ideologies, professional infl uence, and various group interests all become parts of this conundrum. Th is paper endeavours to throw light on the relationship between defence policy and democratic debate, and it will focus on the political impact of the latter. Th is focus is chosen, because the debate is where democratic policy is conceived and where standpoints struggle for supremacy. Th e Danish defence debate is a promising fi eld of investigation as governance – since 1901 performed under government responsibility to Parliament – is based either on coalitions or on support from parliamentary groups securing case by case approval of government initiatives. In a democracy defence policy is conceived within a framework of government, Parliament, and armed defence. On the one hand, the forces are part of the state’s executive power and are directly controlled by the government. On the other, they are totally dependent on funds and personnel granted by Parliament. Parliament will exploit the power thus acquired with a view to infl uencing almost all aspects of defence – its organisation, its doctrine, its employment. Since parliamentary politics are the province of political parties, this entails public debate, which materialises in public speeches, media, publishing, etc. Moreover, as the armed forces are complex and technologically sophisticated parts of the state apparatus, defence policy requires expertise, which is found, primarily, amongst the offi cers. Th us, the offi cers are part of the policy-making process in three ways, viz. as a group of experts with a range of diff erent fi elds of expertise, as an interest group or a medley of groups with partially confl icting interests, and as a hierarchically organised instrument in the hands of the government to which they owe professional loyalty.

Th e Debate on Defence Policy 1901–09

At the turn of the century pervasive animosity against the Germans leads to a perception of being menaced from the south. Th us, the general public as well as many politicians and military professionals ignore

3 Buzan, People, States and Fear, p. 329. 156 k. galster that defence against any possible aggressor is a precondition for genuine neutrality. However, amongst leading intellectuals, who are well aware of the political and popular currents in Germany, there is the sensation that a biased anti-German stance might be a monumental mistake, as between the Danes and their southern neighbours there is a lot of common ground – commercially, culturally, and historically. Th is view is shared by politicians from the radical wing of the Liberals, as well as by some naval offi cers, although their strategic conclusions are diverse. Th e defence agendas promoted in the years 1901–09 imply three major parameters: patriotism, social development and pacifi sm. Th e right wing and most of the liberal groups, as well as the professionals, subscribe to the fi rst one with varying degrees of affi nity to the second, and they disagree internally as to fi xed or mobile defences. While the radical Liberals, forming the Social Liberal Party in 1905, have societal change on top of their agenda, for their individual reasons they also promote an outright pacifi st, anti-military approach. Th e Social Democrat agenda is based on the desire for a democratic society defended by just and classless armed forces. Disbanding the standing army is manifest in their political programme although not particularly prominent in their rhetoric. One of the motives behind the Social Democrats’ demands is a belief that the services owe their allegiance primarily to the king and the propertied classes as opposed to the people. Th e establishment of the Defence Commission in early 1902 was followed by years of constitutional struggle, during which the security issue was exploited as a means used for party ends. Th e Commission representing the Government and both Houses was tasked with providing an overview of the strategic situation, naval and military organisations, personnel and equipment. Further, the Commission was to present a proposal for the future organisation of national defence to fi t the country’s obligations as a neutral power and its economic capacity. However, the commission did not submit its report until 1908. It seems pertinent to assume that two important reasons for the extended duration of the Defence Commission’s work were the main stream Liberals’ wish to avoid a too rapid departure from their traditional policy, and the rift in 1905 amongst the liberal groups on defence issues. More- over, the governing Liberals wished to share with as many others as possible the responsibility for costly defensive measures in general, and for fortifi cations, in particular. the debate on denmark’s defence 1900–1940 157

It has been suggested that PM Johan Henrik Deuntzer (1845–1918) saw the Defence Commission as an adequate vehicle for re-installing defence policy in its rightful place as a pillar of state politics.4 Th is, one may assume, is a logical consequence of the fact that in spite of opposition to government defence initiatives, and especially to the forts, which was a political choice irrelevant to defence, main stream Liberals of the late 19th century were as patriotic as anybody else, and in the early 20th century they wish to discard the anti-militarist image of bygone years. Th e members of the Defence Commission refl ected a cross section of the Danish political landscape at the time and diff erences of opinion were obvious, not in the least because a vast majority of politicians in the Commons, and probably of the electorate as well, wanted to utilise industrial and economic surplus for the benefi t of societal development rather than defence. While funds mattered relatively less to the limited public activity before 1900, the ambitious development pro- grammes of the early 1900s required robust funding. Th e newly found system of government responsibility rested on budgetary considerations, and various sectors of society competed for attention. Th us, economy mattered as much to politicians as military hardware and personnel numbers do to the offi cers, but the former had to weigh the various fund consumers’ needs carefully against each other. However, not only economic considerations, but the simple necessity to familiar- ise themselves with complicated strategic and technological realities of the day prohibited any quick decisions by committee members. Danish historian Camilla Christensen intimates that the work in the Defence Commission was procrastinated, because politicians genuinely wished to acquire knowledge from the professionals, associated members, and from the Ministry for Foreign Aff airs.5 As many of them had been active in defence policy for many years, this may be seen as an indication that they wanted to demonstrate that the defence debate under the ancien regime was not to be acknowledged as a serious political endeavour, but merely as a sideshow instrumental to purposes totally unre- lated to the defence of the country. Th e Defence Commission concluded its work in 1908 aft er ninety- four meetings. Its report included four recommendations from the

4 C. Christensen, “Dansk Forsvarspolitik 1902–1909: De danske politikers forsvar- sopfattelse og trusselvurderinger” (thesis, Københavns Universitet, 2004), p. 24. 5 Ibid., p. 62. 158 k. galster members and two comments from the military and naval advisors. Th e recommendations were made by the liberal factions – Liberal Reformists and Moderate Liberals – by Right and the Free Conservatives, and by Social Democrat and the Social Liberal members. Th e liberal factions, constituting the majority of the Commission members, recommended that since neutrality should in their view pro- hibit exploitation of Danish sovereign territory by any bellicose entity, defence must not be limited to one minor part of the country. However, defensive measures should not necessarily be evenly distributed. Th is, they claimed, excluded any thought of disarmament, and they believed that defence against an enemy engaged in major combat elsewhere, was realistic as long as it was strong enough to force the aggressor to set aside considerable forces to secure his objective. Copenhagen had to be defended by the navy, the coastal defence, and by mobile army formations. Conversely, landward fortifi cation around the capital was not necessary. Th e recommendation by the largest minority – Right and the Free Conservatives – assumed that Denmark risked armed confrontation only in the case of major confl ict engaging the potential aggressor on other fronts as well. Th is would provide the Danish defence with a ‘relative improvement’ of the force ratio. Th is group did not believe that an enemy would try to secure dominance of the Great Belt by direct action against key coastal terrain. An attack would be directed against the basis of the Danish forces, viz. Copenhagen. Th us, the better the defence of the capital, the more secure Danish neutrality, and in this context landward fortifi cations are sine qua non. Th e Social Democrat minority believed that armed defence was impossible because Denmark no longer possessed naval supremacy in its own waters, and it recommended that Denmark declared itself permanently neutral and disarmed. Moreover, it believed that because of the success of the social democrat parties in ‘all nations of culture, in particular in Germany’ aggression against a neutral small power would not be tolerated. In the minority’s perspective, this was the only credible guarantee for Danish neutrality. Th roughout the work of the Commission the radical Liberal members’ views on Danish neutrality diff ered from those of most mainstream politicians, which was one of the causes of the rift in the Liberal Party in 1905. Mainstream politicians generally agree that, under the provisions of international law, a country invoking neutrality is obliged to defend the debate on denmark’s defence 1900–1940 159 itself with adequate and credible military means. In 1907 the Social Liberal Peter Munch quoted his own closing remarks of a ‘Hague Conventions address’ of the previous year in Det ny Aarhundrede : Th e theories promoted by the military enthusiast groups of the ‘Defence Commission’ in support of their views hold no inkling of a basis for assessing the rights and obligations of neutral states as laid down in the Conventions. According to these, each individual state is free to choose how much or how little military it wants.6 Th e Social Liberal anti-militarist attitude, thus manifested, was to become the party’s hallmark for many years to come, and as late as the early twenty-fi rst century the public debate echoed that Dr. Peter Munch and his Social Liberal views have had a long lasting infl uence on the defence debate.7 Th e majority recommendation of the Commission’s report lays out the basic assumptions that Danish foreign policy was a peaceful one, that the assertion of sovereignty demands genuine defensive means, and that the idea that neutrality and disarmament are two faces of the same coin is invalid.8 Th e latter cognition appears from a letter by the Ministry of Foreign Aff airs explaining that in “preservation of its neutrality a state is permitted and is required to take measures to prevent and, if necessary, reject violation of its neutrality.”9 Later the ministry added that there were two conditions for being accepted as a truly neutral state, viz.: “that the defence is organised in a way serving defensive purposes only, and that it is strong enough – considering the capacity of the country – to perform an active and eff ective defence against violations of its neutrality.”10

6 P. Munch, “Danmark og Haagkonferencen,” Det ny Aarhundrede, vol. 6, no. 2 (1907): pp. 476–478. 7 M. Clemmesen, “En opgave for de radikale,” [A Task for the Social Liberals] Berlingske Tidende, September 16, 2005. Clemmesen opined that the [pacifi st] security and defence political attitudes of Peter Munch (vide infra, Chapter 3) of the fi rst half of the twentieth century, had had eff ects on politicians’ views on defence issues even as late as the early 1990s. 8 Forsvarskommissionen af 1902, Betænkning afgivet af Forsvarskommissionen af 1902 til Regering og Rigsdag (Copenhagen: Parliament, 1908), p. 9. 9 Letter to the Defence Commission of 1902 by the Ministry of Foreign Aff airs of 4 July 1902, Forsvarskommissionen af 1902, Betænkning afgivet af Forsvarskommis- sionen af 1902 til Regering og Rigsdag (Copenhagen: Parliament, 1908), p. 9. 10 Letter to the Defence Commission of 1902 by the Ministry of Foreign Aff airs of 24 June 1903, Forsvarskommissionen af 1902, Betænkning afgivet af Forsvarskommis- sionen af 1902 til Regering og Rigsdag (Copenhagen: Parliament, 1908), p. 10. 160 k. galster

Because the Great Belt constituted the only versatile thoroughfare for men of war, including capital ships, the Belt shores on Zealand and Funen were such regions of risk. Moreover, the consequences would be more severe in the case of a violation of Denmark’s neutrality by an attack against Zealand, where the capital lies, than on any other part of the country. Th us, the Commission identifi ed a list of priorities with Zealand at the top, then Funen, the islands and territorial waters off the coast of Jutland and, fi nally, the border with Germany.11 Th e recommendations established as tasks of the navy to include defence of the territorial waters to the extent they might be of strategic importance to operations in the Baltic, rejection of sea-borne assaults, support of the army’s concentration, deployment and anti-invasion combat, seaward defence of Copenhagen in support of the coastal forts, and preservation of the sea lines of communication between the country’s regions. Th e Commission found heavy battle ships of the ‘Dreadnaught’ class unaff ordable for the Danish Treasury and recommended four so-called coastal defence ships as the backbone of the navy. Additionally, mines, torpedoes and submarines were regarded as weapons of great importance and utility to the country.12 Th e Copenhagen seaward fortifi cations, the Commission found, would serve as a defensive measure against naval bombardment of the capital as well as a refuge for the navy and an element in the coastal protection. Th e ‘open city concept’ was dismissed as unrealistic as long as total disarmament did not happen. Th is attitude was vindicated by the fact that, though open cities were protected under the Hague Convention for land warfare of 1899, no such provision had been made in the similar convention on naval warfare. Th us, the Committee majority recommended construction of one new island fort and a number of coastal batteries plus reinforcement of existing citadels with modern ordnance. Further, it was suggested that a number of minor forts in other parts of Zealand and surrounding islands be constructed with a view to supporting and protecting the planned minefi elds.13 Th e Commission recommended an increase of ca. 3,000 conscripts per annum, primarily to be trained as infantry-men, while reducing

11 Forsvarskommissionen af 1902, Betænkning afgivet af Forsvarskommissionen af 1902 til Regering og Rigsdag (Copenhagen: Parliament, 1908), pp. 12–13. 12 Forsvarskommissionen af 1902, Betænkning afgivet af Forsvarskommissionen af 1902 til Regering og Rigsdag (Copenhagen: Parliament, 1908), p. 17. 13 Ibid., p. 22. the debate on denmark’s defence 1900–1940 161 the cavalry from fi ve to three regiments to save funds. Moreover, the recommendation included reorganisation of the army in two separate corps, i.e. one east and one west, the former being considerably stronger than the latter.14 Being the decade of Anglo-German arms race and rising international tension, the early twentieth century witnessed defence debates in Denmark spanning the gap between pacifi st resignation and patriotic resolve. Th e public debate featured preferences ranging from fi nding the funds required for eff ective defensive measures to accepting total subordination to a greater power. In Tilskueren in 1904, an article by G. D. Helland expanded on these options: either credible defence forces or affi liation with or protectorate under the German or British Empires.15 Helland suggested that if Denmark chose for disarmament, minor naval and military neutrality guards would be all that was still needed. Th is view was that of an individual citizen and a rare occurrence in the public debate, but to some extent however limited similar views could be found in the political creeds of various parties. Th e formation in 1905 of the radical faction of the Liberals as the Social Liberal Party paved the way for more explicit, detailed and principled argumentation employed against armed defence in general and the fortifi cation of Copenhagen in particular. In an article in Det ny Aarhundrede [the New Century] on the ‘futility of the fortifi cation of Copenhagen,’ Peter Munch condemned the fortifi cation as an inadequate response to a number of likely political and strategic scenarios. Th e result of his analysis was diff erent from that of most of his contem- poraries in the professional military class, but in this case the logic of

14 Forsvarskommissionen af 1902, Betænkning afgivet af Forsvarskommissionen af 1902 til Regering og Rigsdag (Copenhagen: Parliament, 1908), pp. 13–16. 15 G. D. Helland, “Dansk Politik og Militærvæsen,” [Danish Politics and Military] Tilskueren, 1904, pp. 695–702. “Denmark must think coolly in military matters. She has no right to expect to be exempt from the fate of any small state – that of dependence on great power balances – which is presently stable but might be undermined more or less over night. Power remains the fi nal arbiter. Th us, Denmark has got but two options, viz.: full disarmament or armed forces commensurate with her geographical, national, economic, and man-power conditions; the present ‘intermediate’ position is an extravaganza of political stupidity. If one assumes that the economic capacity is insuffi cient for an eff ective armed defence, full disarmament must be the consequence including abolition of conscription, dismantling of fortresses, sale of equipment and pensioning off of military and naval personnel. Th is would entail neutralisation and require merely the provision of border and coastal guards. As a sovereign state at the mercy of great powers, Denmark would have to seek affi liation with or protectorate under the German or British Empires, most naturally the latter.” 162 k. galster his argumentation lay in the realm of strategy – not pacifi sm. His assertion was that this stronghold, though only half fi nished, was already obsolete and that, moreover, it would prove impossible to man it quickly enough to make it eff ective. He predicted that the Germans would conquer it in the early stages of a European war, and he believed that, even if they did not, resistance would be meaningless as British support was unlikely.16 However, he did not address the central question of what would happen if the country’s military forces were suffi - ciently convincing that aggression would be so costly that it would not be worth the eff ort. Strong pacifi st and anti-fortifi cation views were characteristic of the early twentieth century Social Liberals, and some Liberal Members of Parliament shared their attitude. As has been addressed above, the Liberal party had split at various occasions and had, from time immemorial, been divided over the defence issue. While in the nineteenth century the Liberal party had used the defence issue as a lever for forcing through government responsibility to the Commons, since assuming power most of the party had grown increasingly positive towards the armed forces. Apparently, being keen patriots the Liberals realised that ‘defence’ had been misused, and they wished to give the issue its proper place in politics. However, government offi ce now required them to care for other provinces of society as well, and it seems obvious that they had to balance carefully to make economic means meet the various ends in a reasonable and responsible manner. Th us, the governing Liberals were placed in a diffi cult position having to live up to their aspirations of developing a modern welfare state and, at the same time, strike a delicate balance in defence matters requiring considerable funds for armaments and fortifi cations. In this position they were vulnerable to attacks from the Social Liberals, who employed arguments which were not too far from viewpoints formerly held by the Liberals themselves. In an article in Højskolebladet in 1909, Social Liberal MP C. T. Zahle related, apparently supporting Munch’s view on military obligations pursuant to neutrality status, that he had asked the Foreign Secretary, Earl C. W. Ahlefeldt-Laurvig, if he was correct in assuming that from no European power has any pressure or request been made with respect

16 P. Munch, articles in Det ny Aarhundrede 2, no. 2 (1904): p. 48 and in Det ny Aarhundrede 5, no. 2 (1907): pp. 754ff ., in T. Kaarsted, Hvad skal det nytte (Aarhus: Søren Lunds Forlag, 1958), p. 27. the debate on denmark’s defence 1900–1940 163 to the way that Denmark should execute its defence.17 Th e Foreign Secretary replied that Zahle’s view was correct, but that this did not prevent him, in his ministerial capacity, from refusing to accept a defence plan, which took no heed of securing the capital against surprise attack from sea or over land.18 Th e democratisation aspect of defence receives increased attention aft er the inception of the new system of parliamentary governance. Th ere are two faces to that coin. While on the one hand the obligation to king and country incumbent upon all male citizens materialised, on the other human rights appeared. As to the former, conscription was one method, but more oft en than not the forces did not need and could not accommodate all members of every single class of male youth. Th us, a militia system implying military training for all, but of strictly limited duration, was popular with the Social Democrats and some Liberals and independent debaters. An article in Tilskueren, 1907, suggested that a militia might create a new, more just, and truer basis for future defence.”19 Along the same lines, in 1908 the Defence Commission’s recommendation suggested reintroduction of universal obligation for all able-bodied young men to serve with the colours. Th is would secure training to the full of the country’s defensive capacity and get close to creating ‘a nation in arms’. Although, by then the militia idea had lost much of its attraction and its ‘territorial principle’ had many adherents. Th e notion, harking back to Nicolo Michiavelli, implies that the more closely attached to the area to be defended, the more devoted the soldiers will be to the cause they are called upon to fi ght for. Th us, favouring the territorial concept for defence a minority in the Commission stated its dissent with respect to strengthening the eastern army corps by planning to shift two regiments from west to east – soldiers must serve where they belong.20 Moreover, in his pamphlet Forsvarsbetragtninger appearing in 1908, General Bahnson hints that as a complement of the army a

17 Carl Th eodor Zahle, (1866–1946). Politician, Liberal, later Social Liberal, prime minister 1909–10 and 1913–20. 18 C. T. Zahle, “Forsvarssagen,”[Th e Defence Cause] Højskolebladet, 1909: p. 354–356. 19 E. Henrichsen, “Militæret og Partierne,” [the military and the parties] Tilskueren, 1907: p. 80. 20 Defence Commission of 1902, Betænkning afgivet af Forsvarskommissionen, pp. 14–15. 164 k. galster revised militia notion, including the civilian Rifl e Clubs, might merit consideration. Bahnson claims that in the early twentieth century renewed public interest in defence matters had materialised and had to be harnessed for the general good of preservation of national independence.21 As to the latter face of the democratisation coin, it shows a need for creating dignifi ed conditions for all concerned regardless of social station and military rank. Many Liberals and Socials saw the offi cer corps as the epitome of the class conscious society, which they endeavoured to eliminate. Th e hierarchy needed soft ening up, and the living conditions had to be improved considerably. It is likely that many politicians of liberal and ‘social’ leanings imagined themselves in the light of their situation as conscripts a few years previously and that they must have felt a strong urge to assert the right of their younger brethren to assume the same offi ces and privileges as those held by the old elite. To the Social Democrats a prominent feature of the democratisation issue was the improvement of conditions and status of the non-commissioned offi cers. Th ey wanted to rid the military hierarchy of social barriers between offi cers and NCOs.22 Th ey wanted a democratic society defended by just and classless armed forces. Conscription might help democratise the services, they believed, and in the defence debate of the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries that view attracted pervasive approval. In 1919 the government tabled the bill on establishing a defence commission to look into the responsibilities and the organisations of navy and army. Parliament wanted the Commission to conceive “a comprehensive plan for the navy’s and the army’s future organisations paying special attention to making these organisations fi t with Denmark’s position among the states.”23 Th e government wished to

21 J. J. Bahnson, Forsvarsbetragtninger (1908). 22 Betænkning afgivet af Forsvarskommissionen af, p. 16. One obvious result was a recommendation by the Defence Commission that henceforth the rank of second- lieutenant be abolished the jobs should be taken over by colour sergeants. Further, those wanting an offi cer’s career would have to serve one and a half year with the rank of a sergeant prior to their entry into naval or military academies. In this way the Commission aimed at avoiding that senior non-commissioned offi cers be subordinated to inexperienced and immature subalterns. 23 Rigsdagstidende, Forhandlingerne i Landstinget i Rigsdagens 71de ordentlige Samling, 1918–19, Annex C, Column 335–338. “Forslag til Lov om Nedsættelse af en Kommission til Undersøgelse og Overvvejelse af Hærens og Flaadens Fremtidige Ordning. [Bill on setting up a commission of investigation and deliberation on the Future Organisations of army and navy].” the debate on denmark’s defence 1900–1940 165 fi nd out to what extent the services were up to modern standards as opposed to how much of their equipment and doctrinal foundation had been made obsolete by technological, operational and organisational innovations during and aft er the war.24 Th e Secretary for Defence, Peter Munch, declared that the established order, harking back to the defence laws of 1909, was obsolete and had to be replaced.25 Most politicians agreed that change was due, as the Conservative MP E. G. Piper observed, it is obvious that all the measures taken in Denmark in this fi eld had to be of a defensive nature; and the permanent fortifi cations, the coastal defence, and – in particular – the acquisition of submarines and a rather substantial mine equipment all contributed to supporting the mobile defence, of which we had so little, this chapter of History now seems to be over.26 Th us, although, the Conservatives were strongly against cutbacks in the armed forces as a matter of principle, even they seemed to acknowledge that the war years’ strong military and naval organisations of could not be kept unchanged indefi nitely. Th e law on the Commission was adopted on 12 February 1920, but unlike the Commission of 1902–8, there was very little that the members could agree upon. Th e representatives clung to their individual parties’ standpoints. Th e Social Democrats demanded disarmament, and the Social Liberals wanted to reduce the forces to mere surveillance units. While the Liberals realised the need for spending cuts, the Conservatives wanted to keep the forces as close to the 1909 defence law levels as possible. However, in the end they agreed to vote for the Liberals’ slightly tighter proposal. Th us, bills on new organisations of the navy and the army were based on the proposals made in the Commission by Liberal Secretary for Defence Klaus Berntsen. He was amongst the defence-friendly members of the Liberals, and it seems likely that one reason for the Conservatives to support his proposal might be fear that if no support was given other, less defence positive liberal MPs might gain infl uence, making the outcome even less clement to the forces. In 1922, new

24 Th e Secretary for Defence, Dr. Peter Munch, in his presentation of the Bill to the Landsting, 31 January 1919, Rigsdagstidende, Forhandlingerne paa Landstinget, Rigsdagens 71de ordentlige Samling, 1918–19, Columns 897–918. 25 Ibid., Columns 897–899. 26 Ibid., Columns 902–04. 166 k. galster defence laws were adopted by Parliament, receiving Royal Assent the same year.27 Although from the beginning the defence budget was insuffi cient with respect to the organisations and weaponry set out by the laws, and during this period many and diverse arguments were employed to vindicate further budgetary cuts, this legislation remained in force for the next ten years. Change was due, but agreement on what to change and how to do it was not easily achieved. It is obvious that what was irrelevant or too costly at the time, such as mounted troops and land fortifi cations near Copenhagen, must go. Naval Captain Hjalmar Rechnitzer, Head of a Department at the Admiralty and later to become its permanent undersecretary, saw the need for radical change. In his mind – and as presented in his defence scheme published eleven years hence – resources ought to be redirected. In the light of the advent of air power, fortifi ed cities were ridiculous monstrosities, at least in the eyes of Rechnitzer and his war-time superior, the Secretary for Defence, Peter Munch, who fi nds that “the whole idea of sea and land fortifi cations around Copenhagen is a pivotal point in the existing system. But this system, I should think, we will all agree to abandon … the preservation of the Capital as a fortifi ed city is hopeless.”28 Up to a point, the Conservative- Liberal opposition agreed: the developments of artillery ranges and precision as well as that of the aeroplane made costly and constraining fortifi cations around cities even more vulnerable than before and, hence, counterproductive. Th e Liberal MP Jørgen Pedersen noticed that “if artillery pieces like those employed against Paris were to bombard Copenhagen…. If aeroplanes were used to the extent and in the way they have been scourging London and Paris … then Copenhagen will be very ill off .” 29 However, regardless of the motives this Social Liberal attitude heralded an intensifying inclination towards military cutbacks. In the early post-war years, and subsequent to the presentation of American President Wilson’s agenda, the public mood was clearly for leaving international disputes to compulsory arbitration and focusing

27 Lovtidende, 1920, vol. A: p. 90. 28 [Th e Secretary for Defence, Dr. Peter Munch’s in his reply to speakers in the debate in the Landstinget, 31 January 1919]. Rigsdagstidende, Forhandlingerne paa Landstinget, Rigsdagens 71de ordentlige Samling, 1918–19, Column 908. 29 [Jørgen Pedersen, Liberals, response to the Secretary for Defence in the debate in the Landstinget, 31 January 1919] Rigsdagstidende, Forhandlingerne paa Landstinget, Rigsdagens 71de ordentlige Samling, 1918–19, Column 913. the debate on denmark’s defence 1900–1940 167 attention on peace and prosperity. In this perspective the wish for general disarmament is understandable. On 31 January 1919, the Social Democrat MP Harald Jensen declared in Parliament, that “the Social Democrats have always been in favour of disarmament and the resolution of international disputes by arbitration … [and] of stopping new naval ship-building and the manufacture of ordnance.”30 Deprived of government offi ce in 1920, the Social Liberals abandoned pragmatism, where defence issues were concerned. From then on they followed their traditional pacifi st course leading towards increasingly vehement calls for disarmament. As indicated above, the economic conditions in the post war years entailed constraints on public expenses, and in 1924 Peter Munch, arguing for a bill on reduction of the armed forces’ budgets, asserted that “military expenditures should not be exempt from the general demand for cuts in state expenses …”31 Th e bill, object of his comment, proposed reduced annual conscription for the armed services, cancellation of the training, an end to modernisation of fi eld artillery, and restraints on the naval cruises and exercises. Th is bill challenged the whole raison d’être of the defence as it had been perceived until then, and was rejected by Parliament. Although, in the early post-war years, many were averse to anything military, numerous politicians, as well as the majority of the professionals, believed that defeatism would not solve the survival problem of a European small-state. Although the ‘Socials’ shared a common anti-military past, these parties developed in diff erent directions as the inter-war years progressed. In the 1920s, it appeared that the scepticism of the two parties was of a diff erent nature. While the Social Liberals sincerely believed that the existence of armed forces was harmful to the country’s survival, the Social Democrats merely wanted to save funds, democratise the forces, provide equal opportunities to all serving personnel, and secure their loyalty towards the people’s elected representatives. Over the years this attitude slowly pushed the Social Democrats out of the anti-militarists’ camp towards an increasingly defence positive stance. A similar development happened more quickly in neighbouring Sweden.

30 Debate in the Landstinget, 31 January 1919 (Harald Jensen, Social Democrat), ibid, 1918–19, Columns 904–905. 31 Rigsdagstidnede, Forhandlingerne i Folketinget i Rigsdagens 75de ordentlige Samling, 1922–23, Volume II, Column 4255–58. Bill was not adopted. 168 k. galster

At a meeting in Copenhagen, as early as the summer of 1921, the Swedish Social Democrat Hjalmar Branting infused the Danish debate with the observation that, It goes without saying that a small-state cannot indefi nitely keep at bay a great power, which wants to and is being allowed by other powers to crush it, but it is far from being without importance whether it chooses to resist…. Th e position in the eyes of the world that hard oppressed Belgium possesses is very much better than it would have been had she acquiesced and let injustice [during World War I] happen unopposed.32 At that time, the Danish Social Democrats did not share the opinion of their Swedish fellow-partisan, but from the late 1920s onwards they started adopting a pragmatic and slightly more patriotic stance. Although, in the early twenties, the Liberals displayed remnants of their pre-1900 defence-sceptical line of approach, from the change of governments in April 1924, when the Social Democrat Th orvald Stauning took offi ce as Prime Minister, their attitudes increasingly adapted to the general political split between those wanting to preserve the inherited social order and those desiring change. By then, the Liberals had come to represent the establishment, because, aft er all, they themselves had been the builders of early twentieth century Danish society and its democratic institutions. Hence, the political stage split into two distinct arenas: right and left , with Conservatives and Liberals on the former side, and the ‘Socials’ on the latter. From a professional point of view, reticence with respect to ‘cashing in the peace dividend’ – as it came to be known many years hence – seemed appropriate. Th ere were obvious reasons to reject any idea of exposing the country militarily and thereby placing it at the mercy of a possible aggressor. In an article in the Danish Artillery Journal of 1924, it was observed that the reason why Germany had not confronted Denmark with an ultimatum on 1 August 1914 was that Denmark was comparatively well-prepared and, on 5 August, Germany had but one option if it would not want to face the prospect of time-consuming mine sweeping and having to engage the Danish navy before being able to threaten Copenhagen. Th at option was to ask if Denmark would herself mine the Baltic Approaches and defend them throughout the

32 H. Branting quoted in “Afrustningsforslaget,” [Th e Disarmament Bill] Dansk Artilleri-Tidsskrift 11 (reprint, 1924): pp. 3–4. the debate on denmark’s defence 1900–1940 169 confl ict.33 Th is concept would have been unrealistic had Denmark not been able to establish a credible defence of its neutrality in general and the minefi elds in particular. Admiral Rechnitzer made the observation in his memoirs that during the inter-war years Denmark was Germany’s sphere of interest. Th e only realistic course open to Denmark was one of declared neutrality with the pledge to a continued guarantee of the inviolability of the Danish Straits in the case of armed confl ict between Germany and other great powers.34 Because of credible defensive capabilities such a course proved successful during the First World War, but ironically – because of the combined desire to save money and to avoid appearing a menace to Germany – this option did not exist in the Second World War, when due to lack of military and naval capabilities, Denmark was a liability to rather than a guarantor of Germany’s northern fl ank.35 Although it seemed to be obviously logical that neutrality had to be credibly defended to fulfi l its intent, attempts to erode the forces’ credibility were made by Social Democrat and Social Liberal politicians during the 1920s and 30s for at least two reasons. Firstly, principled pacifi sm had it that the existence of armed forces implied a danger in itself and, secondly since the aim of the League of Nations was general disarmament, Denmark ought to give a good example and disarm. While politicians, and probably most ordinary citizens as well, saw no looming threat during the 1920s, professional experts did. One intervention was indicative of a threat scenario generally accepted amongst armed forces offi cers. In an article in Danish Naval Journal in 1925 Naval Captain Louis Dornonville de la Cour confronted the ‘what will be the use of it’ philosophy. Excluding armed aggression by any member state of the League of Nations, he observed that, nonetheless, the risk of hostile action against Danish territory did exist. It would materialise if a major foreign power claimed that self-defence needs necessitated its presence on Danish territory. Invariably, such action

33 Mines might be put in place during the day of 5 August, and the Danish submarines would have constituted a considerable threat to German surface vessel approaching Copenhagen. “Afrustningsforslaget,” Dansk Artilleri-Tidsskrift (reprint, 1924): pp. 16–17. 34 H. Rechnitzer, Admiral Rechnitzers maritime og politiske erindringer 1905–40, ed. H. C. Bjerg (Copenhagen: Gyldendal, 2003), pp. 12–13. 35 Ibid., pp. 21–22. 170 k. galster would aim at dominating Danish waters and coastal territory with a view to obtaining or prohibiting passage through the Danish Straits – the Baltic Approaches.36 It is remarkable that, at a time when most Danes believe that no menace was looming anywhere, professionals tried to warn, and that the threat scenario was both logically obvious and universal. Th is warning was based on the geographical fact that the Danish Straits, or Baltic Approaches, would be needed as a naval and commercial thoroughfare by any belligerent in Central Europe, or at least he had to prevent his opponent from using them. Th is scenario is practically the same as the one of pre-war years as well as the one dominating strategic discussion during the Cold War. Th us, Captain de la Cour’s point was a valid one. It was shared by many of his fellow offi c- ers in the army as well as in the navy, but few of them went public and even fewer were listened to. In the interwar years offi cers had no high reputation and the general public did not want to hear about wars and military matters, and many politicians sincerely believed, or found it conducive to their political aims to pretend that they did, that World War I had indeed been the last armed confl ict in Europe. Th e main thread of the Social Liberal perception of defence policy was that modern man regulates security and inter-state relations through international treaties. Military forces, thus, was a need of the past. Th us, in his pamphlet Hvad betyder Locarno-Aft alerne? [What do the Locarno Agreements Imply], published in 1926, Peter Munch asserted that the Treaties had regulated the relationship between, on the one hand Belgium and France and, on the other, Germany and had made a considerable step towards a similar arrangement of the Germany-Poland-Czechoslovakia issue.37 Moreover, he claimed that Th e agreements expedite the disarmament laid out in Article Eight of the Covenant…. In the Pact of the Rhine the fi ve powers involved guarantee the borders between Germany and Belgium and between Germany and France and the territorial status quo as set out in the Treaty of Versailles of 28 June 1919 and the respectful observance of Articles forty-two and

36 Legal experts have challenged this notion, claiming that neither the Hague Convention xiii, Art. 25 nor the Covenant of the League of Nations vindicates that states should be under obligation to defend their neutrality with military means. H. Wehberg, “Folkeforbundet og ensidig Afrustning,” Nordisk Tidsskrift for international Ret 2 (1931): pp. 34–35. 37 P. R. Munch, Hvad betyder Locarno-Aft alerne? [What does the Locarno Agreement Say?] (Copenhagen: Chr. Erichsen, 1926), p. 3. the debate on denmark’s defence 1900–1940 171

forty-three of the aforementioned Treaty concerning the demilitarised zone.38 Having left his realist past as a war-time Secretary for Defence behind him, Munch openly advocated pacifi st ideas. He did so by principle, because since, in his view, the League of Nations supplemented by other international treaties were the guarantors of peace on the continent, disarmament was an obligation and it was the logical thing to do. However, he seemed to selectively exclude inconvenient facts from his argumentation. For instance, the obligation of guarantee set out by the provisions of the Locarno Agreements were conditional on the League of Nations Council’s unanimous agreement, and military assistance was off ered only under the proviso that the guarantor declared that a true reason for enforcement of the guarantees was present. Hence, it appears that Munch chose to believe in the suffi ciency of the League of Nations’ security guarantees, though he admitted that in reality these were conditional on the great powers’ willingness to enforce them. One of the few professional interventions on the debate was made by Captain of the General Staff , Ebbe Gørtz, in a lengthy commentary in the Danish Military Journal in early 1927. His debate contribution is typical of those of military and naval professionals, and it diff ers from the broader ideological arguments used by politicians by being concrete and practical in its approach. Like de la Cour, Gørtz expected no armed aggression by any of the League of Nations’ member states. He drew attention to the possibility that hostilities against Danish territory might well materialise in the guise of ‘self-defence needs’ by a power claiming to feel threatened. Invariably, such an action must aim at dominating Danish waters and littoral ground with a view to obtaining or prohibiting passage through the Danish Straits.39 Gørtz believed that successful resistance was possible and aff ordable.40 Consequently, enemy forces trickling ashore or across the land border over two to three days might be successfully engaged by Danish formations taking up their positions within the fi rst twenty-four hours of the hostilities. Th at, of course, presupposed that forces were available at short notice,

38 Ibid, pp. 5–7. 39 E. Gørtz, “Det kan nytte?” Militært Tidsskrift 56: pp. 17–28. Captain was the equivalent of the British and American rank of “major,” which was absent from Danish military terminology from the late 19th to mid 20th centuries. Captain Ebbe Gørtz (1886–1976) was later to become Lieutenant-General Gørtz and c-in-c army. 40 Ibid. 172 k. galster in suffi cient numbers, and adequately equipped. Politicians, therefore, were well advised not to cut too deeply into defence budgets.41 While public reactions to Gørtz’s rather intricate strategic and operative analysis were scarce, his appreciation of Denmark’s situation was backed by a number of personalities of the political elite, but. Acquiring and maintaining the tools to dissuade aggression was a realistic ambition requiring much less funds than those needed for waging war. Th e debate on the ‘disarmament bill’ clearly indicates a limit to what was palatable to Liberals and Conservatives. Although, on and off , the ‘Socials’ commanded a majority in the Commons, the bill was rejected by the Landsting dominated by Liberals and Conservatives.42 When the ‘disarmament bill’ was tabled by the outgoing administration prior to the change of governments in December 1926, this was done in the assumption that Denmark was free to choose how to defend its neutrality and take on the burden of international actions pursuant to the Covenant of the League of Nations. As time progressed, ideological issues increasingly infl uenced the debate. Th e ‘neutrality guard’ discussion – begun by the Social Democrats’ bill in 1926 and kept alive for years – was central in this respect. In reality, the bill on naval and military ‘neutrality guards’ was a plan for disarmament and it was argued that, until then, in no country apart from Panama had a government dared to deprive itself of its ‘military insurance’, and that no insurance policy had ever been given for free. Th e Conservatives demanding credible defence insisted that the concept of ‘naval and military neutrality guards’ to perform surveillance and intelligence gathering along the border and in territorial waters was a misnomer. In their view, and in that of the Liberals, the state’s armed services were indeed defence forces, which had to be given reasonable resources to maintain a sensible preparedness, suffi cient armaments and adequate personnel capability. Although Denmark might not be capable of defending itself against aggression

41 E. Gørtz, “Det kan nytte?” Militært Tidsskrift 56: pp. 17–28. 42 Bill on conversion of navy and army to form naval and military neutrality guards §1, navy and army is recreated to form a naval neutrality guard and a military neutrality guard fulfi lling the tasks of monitoring Danish neutrality and honouring the obligations pursuant to Danish membership of the League of Nations … i.a. monitoring Danish territorial waters and frontiers. §2, Existing fortifi cation is to be decommissioned … §3, National service cf. law of 8 June 1912 is rescinded. Rigsdagstidnede (1926–27), Oversigt over Forhandlingerne i Landstinget i Rigsdagens 79de ordentlige Samling, 1926–27, Tillæg A, Columns 2681–2700. the debate on denmark’s defence 1900–1940 173 of a great power, incursions by ‘irregular forces’ and similar fallout from unrest in neighbouring countries needed credible dissuasion by means of military might. Ideology indeed played a role in the defence debate of the late 1920s, as disarmament proponents tended to portray opponents as militarists, while these chose to see themselves as patriots taking heed of the problems of the real world. In Conservative and Liberal eyes it was unpatriotic “to disarm, to the extent that some political parties seem to prefer, will be tantamount to placing the Kingdom of Denmark at a par with Panama and Luxembourg.”43 However, not only politicians discussed treaty obligations. A legal view is given in an article in Nordisk Tidsskrift for international Ret [Nordic Journal for International Law] by Professor Hans Wehberg, who points out that the development during the twenties was pointing away from Article sixteen towards Articles eleven and fi ft een.44 Hence, Denmark, as well as any other member state, will have to provide forces when called upon to do so. Th us, along with the advent of civilian ‘professional defence policy experts’, the Schwerpunkt of the argumentation slides away from the fi scal aspect towards a more principled one concerning international treaty obligations. While the economic crisis and the swelling support for Nazi and Fascist ideologies characterised the turn of the decade internationally, Danish political rhetoric, to some extent refl ecting the public debate, still focused on public saving and the need to adapt the forces’ budgets to tightening economic conditions.

43 MP Dr. L. J. Moltesen, Liberals, on the Proposal for a decision by Parliament of 30 March 1930, by MP Christmas Møller, Rigsdagstidende, Forhandlinger i Folketinget, 82de ordentlige Samling, 1929–30, Column 6645. 44 “Th e importance of preventive action in accordance with articles eleven and fi f- teen cannot be overrated.” Documents de la Commission préparatoire de la Conférence du Disarmament, Série III, p. 108 quoted in Wehberg, “Folkeforbundet og ensidig Afrustning,” Nordisk Tidsskrift for international Ret 2 (1931): p. 22. Covenant of the League of Nations, Article 11: Any war or threat of war, whether immediately aff ecting any of the Members of the League or not, is hereby declared a matter of concern to the whole League, and the League shall take any action that may be deemed wise and eff ectual to safeguard the peace of nations. In case any such emergency should arise the Secretary General shall on the request of any Member of the League forthwith sum- mon a meeting of the Council. Covenant of the League of Nations, Article 15: If there should arise between Members of the League any dispute likely to lead to a rupture, which is not submitted to arbitration or judicial settlement in accordance with Article 13, the Members of the League agree that they will submit the matter to the Council. Any party to the dispute may eff ect such submission by giving notice of the existence of the dispute to the Secretary General, who will make all necessary arrangements for a full investigation and consideration thereof. 174 k. galster

Taking offi ce in 1929, the ‘Socials’ endeavour to re-launch their ‘disarmament campaign’ and the ideological fervour of all parties came to the fore. It appears that in the early part of this phase many a Social Democrat shared the view expressed in 1931 by MP C. F. Sørensen that “when human disputes are to be solved by violent means, the ordinary citizen is averse to personal participation … and war is tantamount to murder … we have tried to instil in the population an inclination against this sinister military.”45 Th us, practically the Social Democrats were on the same track as the Social Liberals, though the pacifi st views of the latter, rather than ideology, seemed to be rooted in considerations on the futility of defence and the notion that armed forces per se posed a danger to the nation. Th e Social Democrats were no longer fully committed to abolition of the standing army, but they gave top priority to development of the welfare state at the expense of defence, and many of them employed arguments rooted in their anti-military past. When on 20 March 1931 the Social Democrat Secretary for Defence, Mr. Laust Rasmussen tabled a new ‘disarmament bill’, the political debate shift ed. Th e bill proposed that “the army and the navy be transformed into military and naval neutrality guards, whose tasks will be to monitor the land borders and the territorial waters…. Conscription will be abolished….”46 Th e Social Democrats asserted that the Liberals are cultivating ‘their personal militarist inclination’ rather than caring about the interests of the electorate, and that Liberals as well as Conservatives were unjustly taking advantage of their slight majority position in the Upper Chamber to block the ‘disarmament bill’ already approved by the Commons. Th e previous ‘disarmament bill’ had not been adopted because, though the ‘reductionists’ formed a majority in the Commons, this was not the case in the Landsting. In 1931, this

45 Bill on conversion of navy and army to form naval and military neutrality guards, fi rst reading in Parliament (the Landsting), 20 March 1931. Rigsdagstidende, Forhandlingerne i Landstinget i Rigsdagens 83de ordentlige Samling, 1930–31, Column 1255. MP C. F. Sørensen’s notion that war equals murder was reused aft er World War II by the Social Democrat Hartvig Frisch, who claimed that the resistance movement’s liquidations of informers were not – as commonly accepted – acts of war, but outright murder (P. Ø. Knudsen, Eft er Drabet [Copenhagen: Gyldendal, 1998], pp. 130–132). 46 Bill on conversion of navy and army to form naval and military neutrality guards; fi rst reading in Parliament (the Landsting), 20 March 1931, Rigsdagstidende, Forhandlingerne i Landstinget i Rigsdagens 83de ordentlige Samling, 1930–31, Col- umns 1244–1245. the debate on denmark’s defence 1900–1940 175

reality was unchanged, and as the result was given beforehand, it merits some curiosity whether this time the bill was tabled as a mere dem- onstration to draw public attention to the weaknesses of the bi-cameral system rather than as a genuine eff ort to see it through. Th e ‘disarmament bill’ foundered in 1931, but renewed political eff orts were made by the ‘Socials’ to restrain armed defence of the country. Not surprisingly, these endeavours were met with apprehension, not least from the professional quarter. Because most army offi cers were reluctant to choose sides in the political struggle, and as naval offi cers tried to keep the debate within the offi cer corps to maintain monolithic unity outwardly, the reaction from the offi cer corps was muted. Moreover, though some political parties were more sympathetic to the armed forces’ expertise than others, professional views exercised limited sway. Nonetheless, in 1931, the Permanent Undersecretary for the navy, Hjalmar Rechnitzer went public with his ideas on how to create a cheaper defence based primarily on the navy and in 1932 the chief of the General Staff , Major- General W. N. Prior, expressed his rather pessimistic attitude to the upcoming defence legislation. Hjalmar Rechnitzer published his views in a series of articles in the daily, Morgenbladet [the Morning Paper]. Unlike most other professionals, for many years Rechnitzer had been privy to the political horse-trading in the decision-making processes. He was pessimistic, but he found that even within the bounds of limited funds a decent ‘neutrality defence’, though not general dissuasion or prevention of great power aggression, might be realistic.47 He proposed cuts and reorganisation, which in his perspective would mitigate the damage foreseen as a consequence of obvious parliamentary attempts to disarm or at least severely curtail the armed forces. Rechnitzer, in the diffi cult position of being a regular offi cer, a professional naval man, a ministerial employee, and naval adviser to the secretary for defence, was subsequently severely criticised by politicians and fellow-offi cers alike – by the former for forestalling political debate, and by the latter for selling out. In the spring of 1932, the newly-appointed chief of the General Staff , Major-General W. N. Prior, in an article in Danish Military Journal

47 H. Rechnitzer, “Admiral Rechnitzers Forsvarsplan,” Morgenbladet, February 22–26, 1931. 176 k. galster expressed his rather pessimistic view of the consequences of the upcoming defence legislation. While he prophesied that the army would be rendered inadequate for the simultaneous defence of Jutland and Zealand, he foresaw some success in the event of isolated sea-landing operations against Zealand or incursion by irregular troops across the border with Germany. Moreover, he pointed out that when international trouble was astir the timely formation of a protection force would be crucial.48 Professional interventions like these are rare expert inputs to democratic debate, and although politicians do not generally appreciate such intrusion into their province, the parliamentary struggle bears witness to some infl uence on the resulting defence policy. Th e Liberals and, in particular the Conservatives, looked with apprehension at the consequences of downsizing the forces, as pointed out by the offi cers, and they employed some of their arguments in the endeavour to have the disarmament bill rejected. However, being rather too close to the ‘disarmament concept’, Rechnitzer’s ideas were not seen as conducive to Liberal and Conservative eff orts. Nevertheless, they acquiesced with reality. A realist, funds-related, quid pro quo approach was adopted by all major parties but the Conservatives. Th is was a Liberal legislative initiative, implying cuts – less severe than the government’s but still in excess of ten percent of the defence budgets – and tabled under the euphemistic name of ‘reorganisation’.49 Apparently, this was an attempt to fi nance limited modernisation by further slimming the armed forces’ structure, but it seems fair to see it as an acknowledgement that through the current democratic debate it had become clear to politicians that there would be no voter support for carrying on with the 1922 defence laws unchanged. In the late thirties, the Social Democrat journal for theory and critique, Socialisten [the Socialist], published a lecture by Captain E. R. Wibolt dealing with the reasons for democratic inadequacies when confronted with dictators. He asserts that apparently many a democrat believes that ‘right’ is enough while strength and determination

48 W. N. Prior, “Hærloven af 1932 set i Belysning af Forsvarets almindelige Formål,” [Th e Army Law of 1932 seen in the Light of the General Purpose of the Armed Forces] Militært Tidsskrift 61: pp. 164–173. 49 Forslag til Lov om Hærens Ordning, [Bill on the organisation of the army] Rigsdagstidnede, Forhandlingerne i Landstinget i Rigsdagens 84de ordentlige Samling, 1931–32, Columns 1458–1459. the debate on denmark’s defence 1900–1940 177 matter little. He suggests that the reason why it had to take four years of terrible losses to bring the Great War to a conclusion acceptable to the Entente is that the democracies had not been prepared and did not demonstrate, in a timely manner, which immense forces democratic societies might eventually generate to confront the aggressor.50 Wibolt observes that democracies are powerless when confronted with faits accomplis, “because many of them are not strong enough – not strong enough in the sense that they do not possess enough arms, but also due to the fact that they are not suffi ciently self-sacrifi cing, courageous, and wise … to realise that [the disarmament] has led to common misery.”51 Wibolt’s ideas, which are probably pervasive with large segments of society, emphasise that democracy is frail if it is not realised by all and sundry that it must be defended by democratic forces backed by strong popular resolve. Th is fi ts hand in glove with the Social Democrats’ wishes for democratic change within the forces, amongst which ad justment of the offi cer corps’ attitudes fi gure prominently. Th e Social Democrats suspect that the offi cers – for reasons of tradition and ideology – might not be as committed to democratic values as might be expected of servants of a democratic society, and they want to put this right to make sure that their loyalty be with the elected authorities and nowhere else.52 Th e wish to commit the offi cers more fully to democratic principles increased along with the upsurge of Fascist movements and aggressive- ness throughout the 1930s. In Wibolt’s view, the popular notion, pervasive in the inter-war years, of the armed forces as somewhat outdated institutions is harmful to national cohesion and prospects of survival. Disapproval is no remedy and he impresses on his audience that It is understandable if aft er a generation of hard core political propaganda the labourers regard the offi cer as an empty-headed operetta character and the offi cer corps as an upper-class institution intent only on stabbing democracy in the back. But the workers will have to understand that it is but natural that the offi cers look more kindly to those holding their eff orts in some esteem, than those who do not.53 He further asserts that there is a domestic dimension, as well as the external one, to the obligation of keeping an armed defensive capability,

50 Wibolt, “Hæren og Demokratiet,” Socialisten 34, no. 6: p. 218. 51 Ibid., pp. 217–218. 52 J. A. Bertzow, “Forsvarsvæsenets demokratisering,” Socialisten 35, no. 3: p. 107. 53 Ibid., p. 224. 178 k. galster viz. ability for democracy to assert itself and as a manifestation of soli- darity and common goals. “Th is is not militarism: it is self-defence.” Quoting the Social Democrat MP Hans Hedtoft -Hansen he adds, “An army, recruited through common conscription becomes a versatile expression of the people and, being under parliamentary control, it has nothing to do with militarism – it is such an army of today, which is required of any democratic state.”54 Th e last few years of the 1920s and the 1930s were times of collapse of the Wilsonian concept, general European unrest, authoritarian trends, and of concern to those preoccupied with national defence matters. Although the bills on disarmament were rejected, other proposals for defence ‘rationalisation’ were tabled, and professionals found ample reason for apprehension. However, this development also shows that ideological considerations were giving way to the realist weighing of society’s needs against the funds available.

Democracy and the Realist Approach – Some Conclusions

While the Danish foreign policy in the fi rst decade of the twentieth century was indeed solidly based on realist appreciations of foreign aff airs, it remains a matter of opinion whether the policy of the 1920s may be characterised similarly. With hindsight it does not look that way, but taking into consideration the peaceful development in Germany in the early and mid twenties, the various international treaties, and the general approval of the League of Nations concept it appears that Denmark actually adapted to the international milieu and to the European trend towards reconciliation. Th e pre-World War I period was one of growth and stability, but the post-war era was primarily a time of change. Th e war experiences made by the combating entities, the technological, organisational and doctrinal developments of armed forces, as well as the new political situation in Europe all point in the direction of reassessment and innovation. Th us, in the immediate aft ermath of the war the Defence Commission of 1920 was established to take stock and fi nd out what and how much would be needed to furnish a modern and adequate defensive organisation. However, on almost any issue disagreement existed amongst

54 Bertzow, “Forsvarsvæsenets demokratisering,” pp. 221–222. the debate on denmark’s defence 1900–1940 179 the four big parties represented in the Commission, and the debate in the 1920s quickly turned into a political struggle over how to inter- pret the international milieu and which strategic consequences to draw. Th e ‘Socials’ chose to believe in the League of Nations, but they did not agree that Denmark’s contribution to actions undertaken by that organisation must include military might. Conversely, the Conservatives and the Liberals wished to make sure that Danish neutrality was credibly defended and that the country contributed actively to the League’s possible military actions. As, in 1926, the Social Democrats tabled a bill on transformation of the armed forces into mere surveillance institutions, disarmament became a highly controversial issue. Although this bill did not get the Upper Chamber’s approval it was reintroduced in the early 1930s, again meeting with refusal, and this set the agenda right up to the German occupation in 1940. In 1932, the Liberals introduced compromise legislation going a long way to accommodate the ‘Socials’ as far as the military and naval budgets were concerned. While at the political level the Conservatives were dismissive, few professionals expressed their apprehension directly, and in the public sphere there was no unequivo- cal agreement on the matter. In the debate of the inter war years some issues remained from pre-war discussions. Denmark’s geo-strategic situation was unchanged, i.e. Germany was where it used to be, and the Baltic Approaches and their shores were still likely to become key contested areas in great power confl icts involving one or more Baltic powers. While these – together with the ever present discussion on force goals and budgets – were abiding elements of the debate throughout the period, some others were less constant. Th e Copenhagen fortifi cations, scheduled to be decommissioned in 1922, were briefl y debated, but then lost relevance. Moreover, the militia concept, which had popped up in the debate now and then since the 1870s, did not attract any serious attention in inter-war years. New issues assumed prominence as a consequence of the post-war quest for peace and prosperity. Th e reconstruction of society and the increased emphasis on welfare measures put economy into the focus of political canvassing. Th e League of Nations and international treaties provided arguments for adjusting the foreign and security policy ambitions, and since the general fl ux in worldwide market conditions left perceptible ripples in Danish economy, budget discussions grew in importance over this period. 180 k. galster

In the early 1920s, the defence policy was shaped on the basis of political discussions in Parliament and, to some extent, in the Defence Commission. However, in subsequent years the debate centred on Parliament alone and degenerated into a struggle between the pacifi st Social Liberals, the slightly more realist Social Democrats, and the defence positive Liberal and Conservative parties. Obviously, other concerns than those of strict relevance to security infl uenced the defence policy debate and decision-making, and over the years the latter became increasingly prone to being governed by the funds available rather than by tasks derived from realistic threat appreciations. Moreover, the foreign and defence policies shaped during the 1920s assumed a deterministic quality constraining the room for manoeuvre in the 1930s. Th e Social Liberals’ pacifi st stance entailed a disinclination to accept that the collective security concept and international treaties and accords signed by Denmark should necessitate a credible and real defence of the country’s neutrality, as well as the capability to support possible League of Nations action, should such need arise. Th e party’s ideology was an anti-militarist one, and they regarded the armed services as harmful to their designs on developing civic society and as a waste of resources. Moreover, they estimated that armed defence, a priori, was hopeless and possibly even dangerous as it may attract unnecessary attention by a would-be belligerent. From the Social Democrats’ point of view, the power, infl uence and status they sought must be achieved at the expense of conservative political forces, whose raison d’être was the preservation of the society of a bygone era with all its inherent economic and social inequalities. Traditionally, so they believed, army and navy were there to preserve exactly that. Th e Liberals, being the de facto creators of pre-war quasi-democratic society, had a positive stance on defence matters; and the Conservatives, appreciating that a safe and prosperous society requires peace and security, were by any measure the champions of strong defence. Th us, with some approximation it may be stated that one side of Parliament claimed to serve King, country, international obligations and traditional Danish values. Th e other big parliamentary group, similarly, worked openly for peaceful co-existence with neighbouring countries on the basis of the League of Nations’ principles but with minimum emphasis on armed assertion. Implicitly, it transpired that resources taken from the armed forces served the twin purposes of allowing the debate on denmark’s defence 1900–1940 181 improvements in social welfare, education and health care, and depriv- ing the habitually conservative defence proponents, including, but certainly not limited to, the offi cer corps, of some of their infl uence. In the beginning, foreign policy – including threat evaluation, international treaty obligations, and geo-strategic realities – dominated the defence debate, while towards the end, economic constraints were allowed totally to eclipse more pertinent considerations. Th e decisions made and the trend initiated in the 1920s took on the character of per- petuation, which contributed to impairing the entire defence policy irreparably. For that reason the defence debate and defence policy aft er 1932 were inescapably locked in their tracks as it is feared that any attempt to repair the damage might be construed as an act of provocative rearmament. Th us, the post-1932 defence debate set the scene for the upcoming war, but through its outcome it also heralded a new era of alliance defence and public determination not to let defencelessness recur.

CHAPTER EIGHT

SMALL NATIONS UNDER THE GUN. EUROPE 1914–1940

W. Mu r r ay

In the fi ft h century B.C. the greatest strategic historian of war recorded a conversation between Athenian negotiators and those of the island city state of Melos. Th e Athenians clearly stated their harsh position in warning the Melians that they should not resist the massively superior power of the great Athenian Empire: Th en we on our side will use no fi ne phrases saying, for example, that we have a right to our empire because we defeated the Persians or that we have come against you now because of the injuries that you have done us – a great mass of words that no one would believe. And we ask you on your side not to imagine that you will infl uence us by saying that you, though a colony of Sparta, have not joined Sparta in the war, or that you have never done us any harm. Instead we recommend that you should try to get what is possible for you to get, taking into consideration what we both really do think; since you know as well as we do that, when these matters are discussed by practical people, the standard of justice depends on the equality of power to compel and that in fact the strong do what they have the power to do and the weak accept what they have to expect.1 Later in the dialogue the Melians suggest that the Athenians should treat them according to the standards of fair play, so that should Athens fall, it would receive lenient treatment. Again the Athenians brutally reply that even were their empire to fall, the Sparta would treat them diff erently than they would treat the Melians should they resist. And that is precisely what happened: Th e Melians resisted and the Athenians crushed them, destroying the polis and selling those who survived into slavery. Twelve years later the Athenian Empire fell. But despite the cries for revenge from much of Greece, the Spartans refused to meet out the same fate to the Athenians. Sparta needed Athens as a counterweight to the growing power of Th ebes and Corinth.

1 Th ucydides, History of the Peloponnesian War, trans. R. Warner (London: Penguin, 1954), p. 492. 184 w. murray

And so in much the same fashion the fate of the small and great states in the period between 1914 and 1945 refl ected the dark wisdom that Th ucydides laid out in the fi ft h century B.C. Germany’s behavior in the two world wars was abominable by the laws and rules that the Europeans had established in the late nineteenth century. Yet aft er the fi rst, the victorious powers failed to lay out a suffi ciently rigorous treaty to prevent a resurrection of German power, partially due to how the war ended, but also because to Germany was essential to economic well-being of Europe.2 Aft er the second great war, the Western powers again resurrected the German state despite the heinous crimes committed by the Wehrmacht and various instruments of the Nazi State, this time as a bulwark against the threat that the Soviets represented. Meanwhile, to take one example among many, the poor Poles, having stood fast against Nazi aggression, found themselves delivered lock, stock, and barrel into the hands of Stalin’s vicious tyranny by the victorious Western Powers. Quite simply on the great stage of world politics, the United States and its Western allies were not going to risk a global confl ict over the fate of Poland. And so the echo of Th ucydides: “the strong do what they have the power to do and the weak accept what they have to expect.” Th is contribution then aims to suggest some of the aspects of the sorry history that befell some of smaller powers during the darkest period of European history. Th ere is unfortunately Th ucydides’ dark picture, but one can perhaps hope that we live in better time, when the standards of human and state behavior rise to a higher level. Never- theless, there is again Th ucydides’ warning to those who do live in better times about what happens when wars occur: Th en, with the ordinary conventions of civilized life thrown into confusion, human nature, always ready to off end even where laws exist, showed itself proudly in its true colours, as something incapable of controlling passion, insubordinate to the idea of justice, the enemy to anything superior to itself…3

2 For a discussion of the failure of the Treaty of Versailles to meet out a suffi ciently rigorous peace to keep the Germans down see W. Murray, “Th e Flawed Peace, Th e Treaty of Versailles,” in Th e Making of Peace, Rulers, States, and the Aft ermath of War (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2009). 3 W. Murray, “Th e Flawed Peace,” p. 245. small nations under the gun. europe 1914–1940 185

Small Nations and the First World War

Th e opening shot that then rapidly escalated into the catastrophe of the First World came from the pistol of a teenage terrorist, equipped, trained, and supported by senior offi cials of the Serbian government. In retrospect, the Austro-Hungarian Empire had every right to demand a higher standard of behavior from the Serbian government. But in fact the Austrians and the Germans used the assassination to create a disastrous European crisis that brought on World War I, a confl ict which was in the end to destroy the fi rst period of globalization. As a result of the Hapsburg declaration of war on Serbia, Russia mobilized, followed almost immediately by the Germans, who then proceeded to invade France. Th e ‘so-called’ Schlieff en Plan was the only planning alternative available to the Germans, and that involved the invasion of Belgium as well as northern France. Th e rubric under which the Germans acted in terms of their invasion of not only France, but Belgium and Luxembourg as well was that of ‘military necessity’.4 Th us, to ease their deployment problems against a well-defended French frontier the Germans brutally violated Belgium, the neutrality of which they had guaranteed by treaty to respect. Th e German Chancellor Th eobald von Bethmann-Hollweg then added fuel to the fi re by referring to that treaty as ‘a scrap of paper’ and describing the invasion of Belgium as a ‘political necessity’.5 Holland escaped a fate similar to that of Belgium, because the chief of the German General Staff , Helmuth von Moltke, decided that it might be useful to keep the Dutch neutral to act as a window through which Germany could evade a blockade. Of course, had Belgium been located on some far off Continent, the British would not have lift ed a fi nger. But Britain had involved herself in major wars since the sixteenth century precisely because control of the Low Countries by a hostile power represented an unacceptable threat from the British perspective to the national security. Th us, the Germans should not have been surprised by the British reaction to their invasion of Belgium.

4 Th e most thorough discussion of the assumptions underlying this German concept as well as that nation’s approach to war is in I. V. Hull, Absolute Destruction, Military Culture and the Practices of War in Imperial Germany (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 2005), pp. 123–130. 5 Sir L. Woodward, Great Britain and the War of 1914–1918 (Boston: Beacon Press, 1967), p. 24. 186 w. murray

It was, however, the German behavior right from the fi rst that should catch our attention. Over the course of August and September 1914, German troops, with the active encouragement of the superior offi cers, carried out a series of atrocities that can only appall us standing as we do at the start of the twenty-fi rst century. By the time that the front- lines had begun to stabilize at the beginning of October 1914, German troops had executed more than 6,000 Belgian, French, and Luxembourg civilians. Th ese executions were carried out in haste and on the basis of entirely faulty claims of guerrilla [francs-tireurs] attacks on German troops.6 But the Germans were hardly through with Belgium and Luxembourg (as well as the areas on northern France that they occupied). Over the course of the confl ict, “Belgium faced stringent military administration, far-reaching economic exploitation, forced labor, and deportation” – all at the hands of the German occupiers.7 Only the massive eff orts of American relief agencies prevented the outbreak of widespread starvation. Much of the treatment of Belgium refl ected German outrage at what they regarded as the outrageous behavior of the Belgians in trying to defend themselves. Yet, one should not believe that somehow smaller powers are imbued with higher standards of behavior in the international arena than the great powers which dominate the international landscape. Some of the smaller powers acted in an appalling manner. Some, like the Turks, delightedly jumped into the international catastrophe and then during their participation in the war carried out appalling atrocities. Th e Turks, with some considerable support from the Germans, managed to introduce genocide into the twentieth century.8 Th e Italians, the Bulgarians, and the Rumanians on their part circled the confl agration like jackals, trying their best to seize territories that belonged to others. In the end they suff ered along with the populations of the great powers the tragedy of war in the modern world.9 Th e war ended without a clear resolution of its most signifi cant cause and problem, namely that of Germany. Th e German collapse in

6 An outstanding discussion of these atrocities is contained in John Horne and Alan Kramer, German Atrocities 1914, A History of Denial (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2001). 7 Hull, Absolute Destruction, p. 230. 8 Ibid., pp. 263–291. 9 For an outstanding one volume history of the First World War in virtually all of its aspects, see, D. Stevenson, Cataclysm, Th e First World War as Political Tragedy (New York: Basic Books, 2004). small nations under the gun. europe 1914–1940 187

1918 refl ected a number of factors: the general military defeat of its armed forces on the western front by October 1918, the collapse of its allies in the Middle East and in southeastern Europe, and revolution at home. Nevertheless, in long-range terms Germany emerged from the smash up of 1918 in a more powerful position than she had held in 1914.10 At the beginning of World War I, three great powers bordered the Reich. In 1919, only one great power, a debilitated, exhausted France had a border with Germany. Moreover, Germany’s industrial plant and capabilities had suff ered little during the course of the confl ict. Th us, no matter how the victorious powers carved up Europe in the war’s aft ermath, the harsh reality was that Germany was at sometime in the future going to resume its position as the dominant power on the Continent. As Ferdinand Foch, Marshal of France, concluded upon the signing of the Versailles Treaty: “Th is is not peace; it is an armistice for twenty years.”11 Foch later added even more prophetically: “Th e next time, remember, the Germans will make no mistakes. Th ey will break through northern France and seize the Channel ports as a base of operations against England.”12

Th e Aft ermath of War

Th e statesmen at Versailles had little maneuver room to carve out an acceptable peace.13 In fact, how the war ended had a far greater infl u- ence on the collapse of peace in the 1930s than did the diplomatic and political decisions made at Versailles by the victors. Th e stunning collapse of the Central Powers resulted in the reality that Allied armies occupied little of the territory on which their statesmen thought they were going to draw the new European boundaries. Th us, local events

10 In this respect, see the brilliant article by G. Weinberg, “Th e Defeat of Germany in 1918 and the European Balance of Power,” Central European History 2, no. 3 (1969). 11 Quoted in A. Adamthwaite, France and the Coming of the Second World War, 1938–1939 (London: Frank Cass, 1977), p. 17. 12 Quoted in M. MacMillan, Paris 1919: Six Months that Changed the World (New York: Random House, 2001), p. 459. 13 For a discussion of the diffi culties that the peacemakers at Versailles confronted See W. Murray, “Versailles: Th e Peace without a Chance,” in Th e Making of Peace, Rulers, States, and the Aft ermath of War (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2009). 188 w. murray and the indigenous populations were going to have a considerable, if not decisive, say in how Europe’s new frontiers would be drawn. Adding to the diffi culties was the fact that the American President, Woodrow Wilson, had introduced the concept of national self-determination into the equation of peace making. We obviously, do not have room to discuss all the diffi culties that emerged not just at Versailles, but as a result of the war’s fallout. Th e most obvious was the creation of a whole host of new small nations which had not existed before the war. Th e Baltic States, Poland, Czechoslovakia, Yugoslavia, Hungary, and Austria now appeared on the new maps of Europe. Unfortunately, there was little to unite them and a great deal in terms of past history to drive them apart. Moreover, the splintering of the Austro-Hungarian Empire, and to a lesser extent the Russian Empire, removed the economic ties that had created considerable prosperity throughout Central and Eastern Europe. Each one of these new states immediately erected trade barriers, which added to the considerable economic dislocations that World War I had caused. Second, given the intermixing of populations through the centuries of migrations and wars that mark European history, the idea of self-determination that would create a unifi ed nation state was a non-starter. Every one of the new nations as well as those that had existed before the war were going to have substantial, unhappy minori- ties. In eff ect, by their very creation these new states had swallowed a poison pill – one which made it virtually impossible to create any coherent resistance to the growing threat the Th ird Reich represented in the 1930s. Th ird, there was an inherent confl ict between self determination and strategic necessity. Th e clearest example of this reality was Czecho- slovakia. To protect itself, the new state required reasonably defensible borders, which meant that the Sudetenland areas had to be incorporated into the Czech state. But those areas were inhabited by German speakers, who, under the infl uence of German propaganda aft er Hitler had come to power, had no desire to be a part of Czechoslovakia, but rather to become part of the new German republic. In this case, as with the Polish Corridor, the victors decided to come down on the side of strategic necessity – decisions that Hitler would throw in their faces in the late 1930s. Fourth, three of the small states that now emerged were profoundly dissatisfi ed with the outcome of the war. Th e Italians, who had mas- queraded as a great power before the war, had expected far more in small nations under the gun. europe 1914–1940 189 return for the extraordinarily heavy sacrifi ces they had made on the Allied side. Benito Mussolini’s seizure of power in 1922 only served to underline how profound Italian unhappiness was; in the 1920s the dic- tator was able to do little to disturb the neighborhood despite his best eff orts, but the arrival of Adolf Hitler in power in Germany opened wide vistas for the Italians to disturb the peace of Europe – and other parts of the globe.14 Beyond the Italians, the Hungarians with the loss of Transylvania and the Bulgarians with the territorial losses their defeat had entailed remained troublesome players in Balkan politics.15 Finally, we should note that the independence of the new as well as greater degree of independence by the older states had come about largely as a result of the collapse of great power infl uence throughout the borderlands between Russia and Germany. For the 1920s, the hostile attitude that both Weimar Germany and the Soviet Union exhibited toward the Versailles Treaty did not matter a great deal, because neither state possessed the military or political power to challenge the settlement directly, although both tried: the Germans with their various Freikorps in the Baltic and along the frontier with Poland; the Soviets with their invasion of Poland in 1920.16 But the writing was on the wall: once Germany and Russia regained their position as great power, both were going to be in a position to threaten the security and continued independence of what the Germans so contemptuously termed ‘season states’. As General Hans von Seeckt, commander-in-chief of the German Army in the early 1920s enunci- ated the long-range goal for the Reichswehr he was in the process of creating: “[We] will take back everything that we have lost… [and Poland] must and will disappear, through its own internal weakness and through Russia, with our help.” Unfortunately, Seeckt’s attitude was not just that of the German military, but refl ected that of all too much of the German public, which largely swallowed the nonsense of the Dolchstosslegend – that the German Army had stood unbroken and

14 For a brilliant reconstruction of the political, cultural, social, and intellectual factors that brought Mussolini to power and infl uenced his strategic and political aims see McG. Knox, To the Th reshold of Power, 1922/33: Origins and Dynamics of the Fascist and National Socialist Dictatorships, vol. 1 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2007). 15 Th e Bulgarians had suff ered defeat not only in the Great War, but in the Balkan Wars that had preceded the outbreak of a general European confl ict. 16 And in terms of the Red Army’s invasion of Poland, it is worth noting that the Czechs not only made no eff ort to help the Poles, but blocked the movement of French military aid on its way to Warsaw. 190 w. murray undefeated on the Western Front only to be stabbed in the back by the Jews and the Communists.17

Th e Unraveling of Versailles and the Small Powers

With the withdrawal of the United States from its international responsibilities as a great power in 1920, the maintenance of the status quo and the treaty fell to the British and the French. Th e former as we will see later in this essay quickly fell away from supporting the provisions that established a reasonable facsimile for stability in Eastern Europe and the French were left to attempt to maintain the peace. Th at alone was to pose a death threat to the treaty’s long-term maintenance. France was in no position to dominate Germany, no matter to what degree the shackles of the treaty provisions prevented a resurgence of the German military. Winston Churchill best captured the desperate mood in the French nation in the aft ermath of the First World War: Worn down, doubly decimated, but undisputed masters of the hour, the French nation peered into the future in thankful wonder and haunting dread. Where then was that SECURITY without which all that had been gained seemed valueless, and life itself, even amid the rejoicings of victory, was almost unendurable? Th e mortal need was Security…18 For that security the French looked to the small nations of Eastern Europe to form a counterweight to the power of Germany. Assiduous support and some common interests allowed the French to create bilat- eral alliances with Czechoslovakia and Poland and tie Rumania, Yugoslavia, and Czechoslovakia into the alliance system known as the Little Entente. Th e diffi culty was that neither Poland nor Czechoslovakia were willing to cooperate, even when Germany posed an increasingly greater danger in the mid-1930s. As for the Little Entente, that alliance almost exclusively focused on a revival of Hungary, hardly a signifi cant threat to the overall stability of even Eastern Europe. Nevertheless, all of this diplomacy seemed to work throughout the 1920s, but there were two major weaknesses in the French conception of European security. Th e whole edifi ce of French alliance security

17 For an excellent discussion of the “stab-in-the-back legend,” see Knox, To the Th reshold of Power, pp. 198–200. 18 W. Churchill, Th e Second World War, vol. 1, Th e Gathering Storm (Boston: Cassell, 1948), p. 6. small nations under the gun. europe 1914–1940 191 rested on the assumption that should Germany again instigate another war for hegemony, her army would move against France fi rst. Th us, the great eff ort to build the Maginot Line from 1930 onwards. But what if the Germans moved strategically and militarily against France’s allies in the east? Th e whole doctrine and preparation of the French Army in fact was defensive in a strategic sense; in no fashion was it prepared to take off ensive action against the Germans.19 As de Gaulle indicated in August 1938 when Leon Blum asked what the army would do, were the Germans to attack Czechoslovakia: It’s quite simple… Depending on the actual circumstances, we will recall the ‘disponibles’ or mobilize the reserves. Th en looking through the loopholes of our fortifi cations, we will passively witness the enslavement of Europe.20 Th e second great weakness lay in the fact that the Ruhr crisis had made it crystal clear that France could not act without the support of the British. Here there was indeed a major problem, because the British interpreted events through a very diff erent prism, one which in retrospect entirely distorted the realities of what was happening on the continent. Th ere were a number of reasons why this was so. Th e fi rst and most obvious was the fact that the First World War had deeply shocked a British society, which had not participated in a major ground war that impacted on the upper and middle classes in its history.21 Th at in turn led to the appearance beginning in the late 1920s of a wave of anti-war literature, which had a profound aff ect on how the British, including the nation’s leaders, interpreted the sacrifi ces the nation had made in the First World War. Unfortunately, the British drew the disastrous conclusion – disastrous especially in the 1930s – that there was no cause, no issue that was worth sacrifi cing the British youth in defense of.

19 For the development of French doctrine during the interwar years see R. Doughty, Th e Seeds of Disaster: Th e Development of French Army Doctrine, 1919–1939 (Hamden: Archon Books, 1985). 20 Quoted in P.-M. de la Gorce, Th e French Army (New York: G. Braziller, 1963), p. 270. 21 As the British military pundit Basil Liddlell Hart tirelessly pointed out in the 1920s and 1930s, Britain had fought its war by means of its sea power and the projec- tion of relatively small armies that consisted of the dregs of society led by the nobility. Unfortunately, what he entirely missed was the fact that the British ‘way of war’ had no relevance to the strategic situation that arose with the appearance of German power on the continent at the beginning of the twentieth century. 192 w. murray

Aggravating such sentiments was the impact of the skillful campaign the German Foreign Offi ce waged to obfuscate and obscure Germany’s responsibility for the outbreak of the First World War as well as the atrocities committed by German armies during the course of that confl ict.22 Th at eff ort persuaded many in Britain that the war had been a great mistake, and that all the major powers had been equally at fault for its outbreak. Th e most obvious manifestation of that campaign’s pernicious eff ects was the infamous resolution of the Oxford Union: “Resolved: that this House refuses to fi ght for King or country.” 23 But in fact such attitudes reached far more deeply – into the consciousness and perceptions of British leaders throughout the 1930s. As the British ambassador to Berlin, Sir Neville Henderson, commented to the Foreign Secretary Lord Halifax in a letter in August 1938: Personally I just sit and pray for one thing, namely that Lord Runciman will live up to the role of an impartial British liberal statesman. I cannot believe that he will allow himself to be infl uenced by ancient history or arguments about strategic frontiers and economics in preference to high moral principles.24

Th e Darkest Time: Th e Small Powers in the 1930s

Th us, the French had a weak reed to back them up in maintaining the Versailles settlement and the security of the smaller powers. Adolf Hitler’s arrival in power as Chancellor in Germany changed the entire game. Th roughout his eff orts to undermine the Weimar Republic and establish a dictatorship based on an ideology of race, Hitler had never disguised his intentions. He certainly made crystal clear to Germany’s military leaders within a week of assuming power that he had no intention of following a policy aimed at restoring German territory lost in 1919, but rather his intention was to overthrow entirely a European world order that had existed for centuries.25 In retrospect Hitler played a masterful hand throughout the early years of his regime. He managed

22 In this regard see especially H. H. Herwig, “Clio Deceived, Patriotic Self- Censorship in Germany aft er the Great War,” International Security 12, no. 2 (Fall 1987). 23 Churchill, Th e Gathering Storm, p. 85. 24 Letter from Henderson to Halifax, Documents of British Foreign Policy, 3rd Ser., vol. 2, doc. 590, 6.8.38. 25 Th e conversation between Hitler and Germany’s military leaders is recounted in “Aufzeichnung Liebmann,” Vierteljahrsheft e für Zeitgeschichte 2, no. 4 (October 1954). small nations under the gun. europe 1914–1940 193 to persuade most of Europe’s leaders of his peaceful intentions, while at the same time embarking on a massive build up of Germany’s armed forces.26 Th e reaction of the smaller European power to the appearance of the Nazi regime was anything but coherent. For the most part they proved entirely unwilling to cooperate with each other against the growing danger. Some, like Poland, the leaders of which signed a Non Aggression Pact with Hitler in 1934, took the path of attempting to reach accommodation with the new German regime. Others like Czechoslovakia attempted to work with the French and the Soviets. Others like the Hungarians looked to work with the Italians and the Germans in overthrowing the existing European order. Some buried their head in the sand and hoped for the best – the Norwegians being the prime example.27 Yet, whatever the reaction of the smaller powers to the increasingly aggressive policies being pursued by Nazi Germany and Fascist Italy, there was in the end little they could until the major European powers, France, Britain, and the Soviet Union were willing to provide support for some kind of stand. Th e Soviets, although at times in the mid-1930s they pretended to want to participate in an anti-Fascist front, had no desire to put themselves seriously at risk. In fact, with his paranoia reaching new levels, Stalin was far more afraid of the internal enemies, and the ferocious purges of the Soviet Union’s military forces that began in May 1937 underline how little he was concerned with the threat of Nazi Germany. Eduard Beneš and the other Czech leaders seem to have counted on Soviet help; the Poles had no illusions on that score. But for most of the Europe’s smaller powers, it was to France and Britain that they looked. Again the tawdry history of the 1930s is

26 For a discussion of the interplay between Hitler’s strategy, the German military buildup, and the crises of 1938 and 1939, see W. Murray, Th e Change in the European Balance of Power, 1938–1939: Th e Path to Ruin (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1984); and for German economic diffi culties in preparing for war, see the ground breaking work by the Oxford historian A. Tooze, Th e Wages of Destruction, Th e Making and Breaking of the Nazi War Economy (London: Allen Lane, 2008). 27 In their case their politicians seem to have drawn the conclusion that the fact that since a Norway well-prepared to defend herself during the 1914–1918 confl ict had not been attacked, she need not take any serious preparation to defend herself, should a second great European war break out, For a thorough discussion of Norwegian defense policy in the fi rst half of the twentieth century, see D. Th ompson, “From Neutrality to NATO: Th e Norwegian Armed Forces and Defense Policy, 1905–1955” (Ohio State Dissertation, 1996). 194 w. murray undoubtedly well known, so let me hit only a number of the highlights. First there is a tendency in all too many histories of the 1930s to see a neat progression from the Manchurian crisis of 1931, to the Abyssinian crisis of 1936, to the outbreak of the Spanish Civil War, to the Anschluss, the Munich crisis, and fi nally to the end of peace in the tragic events in 1939. To those living at the time there was no such clear progression. Th e events in East Asia in 1931 exercised virtually no infl uence over European perception except for a very few. For most in Europe and the United States, Manchuria and China were at the far corners of the world. Quite simply, with the steadily worsening depression, politicians and the molders of opinion had little time for what seemed of little importance to their world, while military leaders saw no possible way to defend Manchuria against the Japanese.28 Th e Abyssinian crisis was another matter. In Britain, the one power that was in a position to bring the Mussolini’s adventure to an abrupt halt, the contest was between realists who were more worried about the impact of the crisis on the European balance of power,29 and the ideal- ists, who were fi ercely determined to stop Italian aggression. Th e great diffi culty was that the latter also fervently belied that the Italian aggression could be stopped without any recourse to war.30 Adding to the unwillingness of the British government to take action was a series of dismal strategic evaluations by the British chiefs of staff , who cast their evaluation of the strategic situation largely in terms of a desire to shock their government into taking a more realistic view of rearmament. Th ey pictured the Italian military as representing a fi rst- rate threat, capable of dealing out substantial damage not only to British interests, but to British military forces as well. In the end, everyone lost: Th e chiefs of staff got no reasonable increase in defense spending; the British government and the League refused to take the kind of

28 For the most careful and impartial examination of these events in East Asia and their impact on the world of diplomacy and strategy, see Christopher Th orne, Th e Limits of Foreign Policy: Th e West, Th e League, and the Far Eastern Crisis of 1931–1933 (New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 1972) and Christopher Th orne, Allies of a Kind: Th e United States, Britain, and the War against Japan, 1941–1945 (New York: Oxford University Press, 1978). 29 Th e French on their part desperately wanted to line up the Italians as a partner in the anti-German coalition, an aim that had no hope of realization. 30 In this regard it is worth noting that the Labour Party, which trumpeted its opposition to Fascist and Nazi aggression, opposed every single one of the defense appropriations that that the British government put forth. small nations under the gun. europe 1914–1940 195 sanctions that would have stopped the Italians; and Mussolini moved smartly into Hitler’s camp. Spain was another matter, because its civil war was so ideologically charged. Th e result was major interventions in ferocious civil war by the Italians and Germans on one side and the Soviets on the other. Th e Germans had no interest in seeing a quick victory for Franco. As Hitler made clear in November 1937 the war provided a wonderful smoke screen, which distracted the other major powers from the Th ird Reich’s growing military power.31 Churchill, of course, had been warning exactly of that terrible danger from 1934 on, but virtually everyone in British politics regarded him as a brilliant, but fl awed individual, whose time and understanding of the international environment were now passé.

Th e Darkest Years

Th e Germans moved in 1938. Th e discussions at the Reich’s Chancellory in November 1937 pointed the way, but none, including Hitler, thought that the fi rst move would come so quickly. In the midst of the most serious and only real civil-military crisis in the history of the Th ird Reich, the Fritsch-Blomberg crisis,32 Hitler manufactured a crisis with Austria and then used the confrontation to topple the government of Kurt Schusnigg. Th e resulting occupation of Austria by German troops was greeted with huge enthusiasm by the bulk of the Austrian population, the Jews and Social Democrats not withstanding. Th e reaction of the powers was tepid at best. Th ere may have been some long faces in Italy, but Mussolini and his henchmen put their best face to cloak the fact that the Germans were now on the Brenner. Th e Czechs were of course appalled, because it put their state in the utmost hazard, surrounded as it was on three sides. But it was the reaction of the French and the British that alarmed small powers of Eastern Europe the most. Th e French reacted as they

31 See his comments at the infamous meeting recorded by his military aid, Colonel Hossbach: Niederschrift über die Besprechung in der Reichskanzlerei am 5. November 1937 von 16, 15–20, 30 Uhr, 10.11.37, ADAP, Series D, I, doc. 19. 32 Th e crisis began with the fi ring of Field Marshal Werner von Blomberg because of his marriage to a woman with a dubious background, but then Hitler fi red the much respected commander of the army, Colonel General Werner von Fritsch, on a trumpt up charge of homosexuality, the shoddy evidence manufactured by the SS. 196 w. murray had during the Rhineland crisis of March 1936, when Hitler had remil- itarized the left bank of the Rhine, thereby strategically ending whatever small hope there might have been for a French reaction to German aggression in Eastern Europe. Th e government fell, and no French politician was willing to take the reigns of power until it was clear that nothing could be done. Th e British reaction with few exceptions was almost completely blasé. Chamberlain decried the German actions in occupying Austria to the cabinet “as a typical illustration of power politics” that would only make further appeasement more diffi cult.33 Underlying both French and British reaction, however, was the desperate fear that the Germans might strike against the Czechs in the near future. Such an action would then require the French to go to war with the Germans in response, and the British government would then soon fi nd itself forced to support the French. Reinforcing the desire of political leadership of the Western Powers were military estimates in France as well as in Britain that painted the strategic situation in the darkest possible colors, the British estimate made even more hopeless by the terms of reference Chamberlain and the appeasers passed along to them.34 Britain chose a two-fold policy, trying to keep Hitler at bay by diplomatic means, on the one hand, while rearming, on the other. Britain strengthened its air-defence and its army, which was ready to send an expeditionary force to the continent by 1940. It needed time to face another war on the continent. Th us, the course was set. We do not have time to set out the dismal events that marked the trail to Munich. A few general remarks will do. Up to the German attack on Poland the British could not bring themselves to recognize the nature of Hitler’s regime, despite the most appalling behavior on the part of the Führer and declare war on Germany.35 Th ey could not believe that the Germans intended war and, thus hoped, that one could reach a reasonable compromise with the dictators over the issues that threatened to disturb the European peace. Th e French for their part recognized that the Germans represented a great threat, but still enveloped by the horrors of the last war, could not bring themselves to stand against Hitler. Moreover, their senior

33 Meeting of the Cabinet, 12.3.38., PRO CAB 23/.92, Cab 12 (38), pp. 349–350. 34 For a discussion of the strategic estimates in the two countries drawn up in March 1938 see W. Murray, Th e Change in the European Balance of Power, 1939–1939: Th e Path to Ruin (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1984), pp. 156–166. 35 Hitler’s complete rejection of the surrender terms that Chamberlain brought to Godesberg is the clearest example of the extraordinarily bad behavior the Germans exhibited. small nations under the gun. europe 1914–1940 197 military, as did those of the British government, continuously painted the strategic possibilities of a war between France in Germany in the most dismal colors. In fact, Europe came within a matter of to a war over the Sudeten question despite the desperate eff orts of the appeasers to buy the Germans off and avoid war, because Hitler desperately desired to smash the Czechs and could not bring himself to believe that a major European war would result. Th e surrender at Munich was a strategic, political, economic, and military disaster of the fi rst order.36 For the smaller powers of Europe, at least for the short term, the writing was on the wall. Th e Czechs were now completely defenseless, their territory booty for the Poles and Hungarians as well as the Germans. Many hastened to Berlin to make their peace with the Th ird Reich. A British business- man reported the mood in Eastern Europe to the Foreign Offi ce in the following terms: My chief impression was one of impending change and fears. Fear: individual, racial, national and economic. Munich has withdrawn the lynchpin which held Eastern Europe together and the fragments are preparing to resort themselves.… everyone is apprehensive as to how this process will aff ect him individually.… Everywhere there is a pathetic hope in the breasts of these ignorant people that England will somehow save them from the fate which she did nothing to avert from Czechoslovakia.37 Th e German occupation of rump Czechoslovakia in March 1939 fi nally pushed the Western Powers to take a stand against further Nazi aggression. Unlike the Czechs in 1938, the Poles were not going to knuckle under to German demands. Th us, unwillingly, but under intense pressure from public opinion, Neville Chamberlain, provided a guarantee to the Poles with his French allies even less willing. With a second great crisis exploding in Europe in a year, the question was what would Stalin and the Soviet Union do. In retrospect, it was inevitable the Soviets would deal with the Germans, if Hitler were willing. Th e Führer could off er Stalin two things that the Western Powers could not: fi rst, the ability to remain on the sidelines as the second great European war broke out and second, immense territorial booty. Th e moral parameters of the agreement are suggested by Stalin’s toast at a meeting with Ribbentrop, “to Heinrich Himmler, the man who has brought order to Germany.”

36 For the strategic and military results, see Murray, Th e Change in the European Balance of Power, chap. 7. 37 Nigel Law to Sargent, 29.11.38, PRO FO 371/21676, C 14810/132/18. 198 w. murray

World War II and the Smaller Powers

Perhaps, the only legitimate criticism that one can make of Chamberlain’s policy in summer 1939 was both its general lack of realism toward the Soviet Union and a continued failure to understand until the last moment that there was no choice but either surrender or war with Nazi Germany. Still, this author has a certain moral sympathy with Chamberlain’s distaste for a policy of pursuing an alliance with Stalin. As one British MP suggested during the summer: “Th ere really must be something wrong with a country where everyone is shot.” Th e Poles were the fi rst to suff er the results of the Nazi-Soviet-Non- Aggression Pact, but not the last. In strategic terms, the pact underlined that the newly won independence of the Eastern European nations had very much depended on the collapse of Russian and German power at the end of the First World War. But now both powers were back with a vengeance. Almost immediately aft er the destruction of Poland, Stalin moved against the Baltic states and then Finland. Th e former had no military possibility of resisting the Soviets and so they made the fi rst step to surrendering their independence. Th e Finns, however, aided by appalling weather, Soviet incompetence, and their geography were able to maintain their independence – a maintenance they were able to repeat at the end of the second Finnish-Soviet confl ict. If, the Nazi-Soviet-Non-Aggression Pact represented the second great disaster aft er Munich to befall the small powers of Europe, the collapse of Western Europe before the Nazi onslaught in spring 1940 was a catastrophe for the entire European Continent. Th e immediate result was the enslavement of a number of the smaller nations of Western Europe. Denmark’s only choice was surrender. Th e Norwegians might have stopped the German invaders had they been as well prepared as in the 1914–1918 period, but unlike the Finns they had mini- mized their defensive preparations during the 1930s and paid the price in the belief that World War I had proven they did not need strong defenses to maintain their neutrality. Belgium and Holland both col- lapsed in rapid order as German forces surged into northern France. Both would suff er under the increasingly tyrannical regime that Hitler and his henchman imposed on them. But the fallout from the events in Western Europe aff ected the rest on the continent as well. Th e Soviets moved quickly to seal their territorial claims, this time while completing the niceties of their occupation of Lithuania, Latvia, and Estonia, they grabbed Bukovenia and small nations under the gun. europe 1914–1940 199

Bessarabia.38 While the Rumanians had to pay the price of its two northern provinces to the Soviets, they had to pay the even larger price of Transylvania to the rapacious Hungarians. And then the Germans moved into Rumania with several divisions of advisers. And fi nally in response to Hitler’s occupation of Rumania, Mussolini invaded Greece in October 1940.39 Within a year, Hitler’s invasion of the Soviet Union would begin the great ideological war between Communism and Nazism with a level of barbarity not seen since the Middle Ages. Few of Europe’s smaller nation’s remained outside the hurricane which swept across the continent. Sweden and Switzerland would remain untouched, but only because their neutrality was to Nazi Germany’s advantage. Both provided the Nazis with substantial economic and industrial aid. Franco had tried to join the Axis assault on civilization in summer 1940, but the Germans had displayed little interest because of their feeling that they had won the war. By fall 1940 when Hitler displayed greater interest, Franco’s advisers had fi nally managed to persuade the dicta- tor of the catastrophic eff ect that a British blockade would have on the Spanish people, economy, and eventually his regime’s stability.40 Portugal, of course, was to far away to matter and would eventually fi nd itself pulled into the Anglo-American sphere of interest. For the other small powers there was no escape from the disaster. Whether one opposed Nazi Germany or cooperated with the Th ird Reich the results were equally dismal. Two decisions in 1941 sealed the fate of Europe’s smaller powers: Th e fi rst was Operation Barbarossa, which in the short term completed German domination of eastern Europe with all the savagery that that entailed. Nevertheless, the invasion of the Soviet Union entailed complex problems, dealing with time and space as well as logistics and intelligence, that were quite simply beyond the ability of the German way of war to solve.

38 Th e impact of this Soviet move alarmed the Germans, particularly because it threatened the Rumanian oil fi elds. Nevertheless, Hitler’s move on the Soviet Union in June 1941 was the result almost entirely of his ideological Weltanschauung – in which the vast lands of the Soviet Union played a major role. 39 For the sorry course of Mussolini’s foreign and strategic policy, see McGr. Knox, Mussolini Unleashed: Fascist Italy’s Last War (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1983) 40 Paul Preston, Franco: a Biography (Londen: Fontana Press, 1995). 200 w. murray

But to make matters worse for the Nazis, Hitler egregiously declared war on the United States, which insured the defeat of Nazi Germany, no matter how ferocious the resistance of the Wehrmacht and the Luft waff e might prove.41 Th e entrance of the United States into the European War at long last would eventually result in the liberation of the small states of Western Europe and Scandinavia from the harsh lash of the Nazis. How harsh is suggested by the fact that the strategic bombers of Eighth Air Force and Bomber Command had as their last mission the airlift ing of massive food supplies to the starving Dutch. Th e fate of the Eastern European countries was harsher still. Aft er the Nazis had fi nished devastating the economies and moral standards of the neighbors, it would be the turn of the Soviets. Th e none too tender mercies of the Red Army fell on the civilian populations of those who had refused to cooperate with the Nazis as well as on those who had cooperated. Ethnic cleansing on a scale never seen before in European history engulfed the borderlands between Germany and Russia as well as on the populations of the Balkans. Ironically, the Poles, for whom the British and French had declared war in defense of the right of a small nation to exist in September 1939, would suff er the greatest. And they would then suff er forty-fi ve years of communist tyranny in place of the Nazi tyranny that had dismally marked their history.

Conclusion

In the end we are brought back to the words spoken by the Athenians to the Melians: “the standard of justice depends on the equality of power to compel and that in fact the strong do what they have the power to do and the weak accept what they have to expect.” As Th ucydides would be the fi rst to admit those words apply only in the dark times of war, and in peace, luckily for us all the constraints of civilization and law hold men to a higher standard. But in times of war such standards quickly disappear, and mankind, its organizations, and necessity as the strong perceive it drive the course of events.

41 For a general discussion of the strategic framework of 1941 see W. Murray and A. R. Millett, “Diversions in the Mediterranean and Balkans, 1940–1941,” in A War to Be Won: Fighting the Second World War (Cambridge: Belknap Press of Harvard University Press, 2000), chap. 5. CHAPTER NINE

THE GERMAN ARMY IN THE INTERWAR YEARS

M. Strohn

For the military historian the inter-war years are probably one of the most fascinating periods of the twentieth century, despite the fact that it was a comparatively peaceful time for most of the European powers. Th e lessons of the First World War and the occurrence of new weapons, such as the tank, had to be incorporated into military thought and doctrine. Accordingly, the inter-war period was a time of intense and heated debate for all the armed forces in Europe and the US. Historiography of the German army in this period has very much concentrated on the development of the so-called ‘Blitzkrieg’ as a prerequisite for the German successes in the fi rst half of the Second World War. 1 However, the view that a ‘Blitzkrieg’ concept had been lurking in the minds of the German military and that it only took Hitler and rearmament to turn these ideas into practice reduces the inter-war period to a mere time of transition. It obscures the fact that only a few years before the outbreak of the Second World War the total German armed forces consisted of an army of 100,000 men and a navy of 15,000 men, and that the Versailles Treaty had degraded Germany to a third- rate military power. Th is small army would not be strong enough to repel an invader, and, accordingly, for the Reichswehr and the Wehrmacht in the early stages of its existence, the core business was to fi nd an answer to the question of how the fatherland could be defended against superior enemies. At the same time there is no doubt that the status of small power never was seen as anything more than a temporary situation, which was not to aff ect the nation’s identity and fundamental strategy.

1 Exemplary for this view is the view of Robert O’Neill, the later Chichele Professor of War at Oxford University, who stated that when it came to doctrine and training of the German army in the inter-war period, there was “one thing that makes this story worth telling…: the Blitzkrieg”; see R. J. O’Neill, “Doctrine and Training in the German Army 1919–1939,” in Th e Th eory and Practice of War: Essays Presented to Captain B. H. Liddell Hart, ed. M. Howard (London: Cassell, 1965), pp. 143–166, here p. 143. 202 m. strohn

On 11 November 1918, the Germans surrendered and the First World War came to an end. Th e months between this date and the signing of the peace treaty on 28 June 1919 were turbulent times for Germany. Th e British blockade was still being upheld, and in the west the enemies stood ready to march into the Reich. In the east, Germany was threatened by Polish uprisings, and the terms of the treaty, handed to the German delegation at Versailles on 7 May 1919, caused conster- nation among practically all social and political groups in Germany. Especially the so-called ‘war guilt clause’ 231, which stated that Germany had to accept sole responsibility for the war, caused an outcry in Germany. Hans von Seeckt, the general staff representative in Versailles and later Chef der Heeresleitung, stated in a letter to his wife that his worst expectations had been met.2 Militarily, the treaty degraded Germany to a third-rank power, not only inferior to the strong Entente powers, but also to Poland and Czechoslovakia. Conscription was abolished and the army was restricted to 100,000 men organised in seven infantry and three cavalry divisions.3 Th e divisions’ armaments were limited, and the army was not allowed to sustain a tank force or to make use of heavy artillery. Th e heaviest artillery piece permitted was the 10.5 cm howitzer, of which each infantry division was allowed to keep twelve; that is eighty- four in total for the entire army. Moreover, the treaty prohibited poi- sonous or other gases. Th e general staff was abolished, as were the military academies and schools. In the west, the left bank of the Rhine was occupied by Entente troops with the French occupation force alone consisting of some 90,000 men. Moreover, a disarmed zone had to be created stretching fi ft y kilometres to the east of the Rhine. Within this zone, all fortifi cations had to be dismantled and no German troops were to be deployed in this area. To oversee the execution of the treaty’s

2 Quoted in Friedrich von Rabenau, Seeckt, vol. 2, Aus seinem Leben 1918–1936 (Leipzig, 1940), p. 168. Seeckt held the German foreign minister Ulrich Count Brockdorff -Rantzau responsible for this. He accused him of conceding on the military issues in order to get concessions in other fi elds; see Hans Meier-Welcker, Seeckt (Frankfurt: Bernard und Graefe Wehrwesen, 1967), pp. 221–222; and Rabenau, vol. 2, pp. 161–181. 3 A good overview of the military restrictions and especially the structure and the equipment of the Reichswehr can be obtained from Ernst Willi Hansen, “Militärgeschichte der Weimarer Republik 1919 bis 1933,” in Grundkurs deutsche Militärgeschichte, vol. 2, Das Zeitalter der Weltkriege 1914 bis 1945:Völker in Waff en, ed. Karl-Volker Neugebauer (Munich: Oldenbourg, 2007), pp. 174–186. the german army in the interwar years 203 clauses, the Inter-Allied Commission of Control was established, which was allowed to move freely within Germany.4 Because of the harshness of the terms, the German government hesitated to sign the treaty, and the military explored the options that were available to Germany if the treaty was rejected. A number of meetings were held, most of them under the leadership of General Groener, who had taken over as fi rst quartermaster-general from Erich Ludendorff shortly before the end of the First World War. One of these meetings was held in Kolberg on 19 and 20 May 1919; it outlines the problems that the German army would be facing for most of the inter-war period, and, therefore, it deserves a closer look.5 Groener gave a speech on the current political, economic and military situations, and he elaborated on the consequences Germany would be facing if it decided to reject the treaty. In this case, Groener was convinced that the Entente would renew hostilities, and he saw two possible ways in which the Germans could react to this. First, they could allow the enemy to march into Germany and adopt passive resistance. Th is approach was dismissed, because Groener did not believe that the internal economic and political situation in Germany would allow its successful conduct. Moreover, Groener thought that the German population would not support another armed confl ict and that its attitude would have negative eff ects on the soldiers’ morale and discipline and would thus hamper the conduct of operations. Second, the Germans could take up arms again. Groener deemed it essential that Germany would enter this new confl ict ‘with a clean record’ to avoid new debates about the responsibility for the war. If Germany failed to establish the case that the Entente powers and their immoderate demands were responsible for the outbreak of open hostilities, the world would unite again and utter the demand Germaniam esse delendam. Groener was highly sceptical whether the German government would succeed in convincing the world community of its case, and he did not expect any support from other nations for Germany. Accordingly, he regarded the restoration of economic

4 For Germany’s disarmament and the Inter-Allied Commission of Control, see R. J. Shuster, German Disarmament Aft er World War I: Th e Diplomacy of International Arms Inspection 1920–1931 (Munich: Oldenbourg, 2006). 5 Vortrag des Ersten Generalquartiermeisters über die Lage, gehalten im Gr. H. Qu. Am 19, 20. Mai 1919, Kurt von Schleicher papers, Bundesarchiv-Militärarchiv (BA-MA) N 42/12, folio 31–49. 204 m. strohn power and political stability as necessary fi rst steps for the resurrection of the German state and the possibility to wage a successful war against powerful enemies, but he could not see either of these as immediately likely in Germany. Th e only possible solution to accelerate this process that Groener saw was an alliance with Bolshevik Russia, both political and military. However, its prospects were miserable, since such a pact would deter other possible sympathisers. Moreover, Groener argued that the quality of the Soviet army was poor and that the gains of military co-operation would be marginal. Worst of all, such a coalition could only have some impact if the German government decided to introduce Bolshevism in Germany, and, of course, this ‘suicide’ was out of the question.6 Th e encirclement of Germany by the potential enemies France, Belgium, Poland, Czechoslovakia and the Soviet Union meant that in the case of a major war the German forces could not be fully concentrated in the most likely Schwerpunkt of operation, i.e. the eastern front against Poland. Large quantities would have to be deployed on the western front or the coast, trying to delay the Entente’s advance into Germany and preventing the enemy from occupying the Ruhr area, Germany’s industrial heartland, as long as possible. Moreover, troops would be needed to crush possible uprisings and to keep order in the hinterland. Considering all these factors, Groener estimated that a fi ghting force of about 700,000 to one million soldiers would be the minimum to put up a successful resistance against the invading enemies, although only around 350,000 men were immediately available. Even more worrying than the relatively small number of soldiers was the question of supplying the army. In the initial phase of a new confl ict, this would not be a pressing problem, since enough material was still available from the First World War. In the long run, however, supply would become the Achilles heel of the army. Th e armament factories of the Ruhr area and Upper Silesia would be in the centre of the battlefi elds and would be either occupied by the enemy or destroyed during the fi ghting, so that stocks would eventually be exhausted. Having elaborated on these factors, Groener now turned to the conduct of operations. In the west, he anticipated that the Entente would fi rst seek to occupy the area between the rivers Weser and Rhine, especially the Ruhr area with the armament factories and the coalmines

6 Schleicher papers, BA-MA N 42/12, folio 37a. the german army in the interwar years 205 vital for the Germans, before invading south Germany in a second operation. Th e next push would then aim for Berlin, and Groener was convinced that occupying the German capital was the real aim of the French.7 Hand in hand with this direct push towards Berlin, Groener anticipated probable operations on the fl anks; one that would lead through Bavaria and Bohemia against the industrial areas of Upper Silesia, and the other one exploiting the inadequate coastal defences in the area of Danzig to land troops for a campaign in northern Germany. Groener was convinced that these operations would be a walkover [militärischer Spaziergang] for the Entente. Th erefore, he reckoned that 25 to 30 divisions would be suffi cient for the push towards Berlin, while 10 to 12 divisions would be used in the southern fl ank attack and three to four in the north. Th is general off ensive in the west would be supported by simultaneous invasions from the east and the south-east. Overall, Groener anticipated that the German army would have to face an invasion force of 750,000 French, Polish and Czech soldiers; 75 per cent of the troops available to the enemies and about twice as many as the Germans could put in the fi eld. In Groener’s eyes, the comparison of forces left only two options for the Germans.8 First, taking the strategic defensive on the western front and launching a pre-emptive attack against Poland. A concentric attack on Warsaw seemed to be most promising and Groener was confi dent that a tactical or even operational success was possible against the Polish forces. However, it was clear that the Entente, especially France, would not accept an alteration of the situation in the east. Th e second course of action outlined by Groener acknowledged this fact and he elaborated on the formation of hedgehog positions, defending the river Oder in central Germany against invaders from the west, and the frontiers of 1914 in the east. Both deployments would be vulnerable from the fl anks, and the enemy could also lead an attack through Upper Silesia, threatening the industrial area that was deemed vital to the supply of the German forces, especially aft er the loss of the Ruhr area in the west. Th is would inevitably occur if the German army decided to withdraw to the river Oder. Conducting a purely defensive campaign

7 Th is view had also been expressed on 11 May 1919 in a memorandum Maßnahmen für den Fall eines Einmarsches der Entente in das unbesetzte Deutschland; see Wilhelm Groener papers, BA-MA N 46/131, folio 200–203. 8 Schleicher papers, BA-MA N 42/12, folio 42. 206 m. strohn could therefore not be a solution for the German army, and the fi rst option might therefore off er the better prospect of an at least temporary success. Groener’s talk shows the dilemma that the Germans were facing and which infl uenced their military planning during the entire inter-war period. Owing to the Entente’s military power possible tactical and operational success in the east would be ruined by strategic defeat in the west. Whatever gains could be made in the east, the fate of Germany would be decided at the Rhine, not the Vistula. If there had been any doubts about the strategic situation, the occupation of the Ruhr in 1923 made clear to everyone that military action was not a viable option against the French army. In 1922, Germany had fallen behind with the payment of reparations, and, as a consequence, French and Belgian troops occupied the industrial heartland of Germany in January 1923. Th e Reichswehr was in no position to prevent this and it had to accept that it was too weak to put up any resistance to the French and Belgian troops. As a result of the events, the Truppenamt, which had been created as a substitute for the abolished general staff , prepared two studies which dealt with possible German reactions and an enlargement of the army to meet the French forces in battle.9 Th ese studies carried the code names Sommerarbeit [Summer Work] and Winterarbeit [Winter Work], respectively. Winterarbeit dealt with the creation of a Notheer [emergency army] on the basis of the available weapons and material. Th e units should be set up one aft er the other in the diff erent military districts, as long as weapons and material were available. Th e Truppenamt reckoned that the army might fi nally comprise eighteen infantry and three cavalry divisions which would be supported and reinforced by weak reserves and the border guards. Th e Truppenamt came to the conclusion that this army would not be in a position to conduct a ‘serious war’ [ernsthaft er Krieg], but it would be able to ‘solve easy tasks, limited in time and space.’10 While Winterarbeit elaborated on the ad hoc emergency army, Sommerarbeit focused on the mobilisation of a large army that would

9 For an elaboration on the two studies, see Donald Shearer, Notes on Early Mobilization Planning: 1921–1926, BA-MA MSG 2/2168. 10 Vortragsnotizen für die Besprechung mit den Chefs der Wehrkreiskommandos am 14. Mai 1923, BA-MA RH 8/v. 911, p. 8. the german army in the interwar years 207 stand a chance against a strong and well equipped enemy.11 To be able to achieve some strategic success against the invader, the Truppenamt reckoned that thirty-fi ve infantry divisions and three cavalry divisions were needed which would be reinforced by border guards and some air defence units. Th e obvious problem for such a force was the acquisition of the necessary weapons and materiel.12 Th is problem was increased by the demand that these units be formed in the military districts simultaneously. Otherwise, the enemy would have the opportunity to defeat the army while it was still being reinforced.13 If the German army managed to build up a strong army under these prerequisites, the Truppenamt was confi dent that the forces ‘stood a good chance against a strong enemy.’14 On 1 June 1923, the Truppenamt’s army offi ce T1 drew up a statement on the chances for Sommerarbeit.15 It was reckoned that one million soldiers were needed to meet the manpower demands. Th is fi gure included the fi eld army, border guard units and replacements. In the crucial fi rst four weeks of the campaign, it was anticipated that the army had to rely on volunteers; only aft er this period would draft ed soldiers be sent to the units. Calculating the number of reserves, the study showed that, at fi rst glance, this pool was available until 1927. However, not enough specialists could be draft ed to cope with the increased demands of modern war. As a conclusion, the study stated that, with the means at hand, Sommerarbeit could not be carried out and that Germany was not able to defend itself. Accordingly, the plans for Sommerarbeit were regarded as unachievable; and so the establishment of the Winterarbeit’s emergency army became the primary aim of the Reichswehr.16

11 Vortragsnotizen für die Besprechung mit den Chefs der Wehrkreiskommandos am 14. Mai 1923, BA-MA RH 8/v. 911, pp. 10–12. 12 On 23 April 1925, the Truppenamt made clear that these aspirations were illusionary. Even if Germany was able to purchase the needed material before a military confl ict, it would be impossible to supply the army with the needed reinforcements in the course of the war; see BA-MA RH 12–1/25, folio 126–128. 13 On the problem of the mobilisation phase, see the Truppenamt’s comment from 23 November 1923, in BA-MA RH 12–1/26, folio 127–129. 14 Vortragsnotizen für die Besprechung mit den Chefs der Wehrkreiskommandos am 14. Mai 1923, BA-MA RH 8/ v. 911, pp. 11–12. 15 Die personelle Mobilmachungsvorbereitung im Rahmen eines Rüstungsprogramms, RH 12–1/25, folio 41–46. 16 On 19 May 1927, the Truppenamt ordered the offi ces of the Reichswehr ministry to take stock on all matters of mobilisation. Th e arms offi ce [Waff enamt] worked out 208 m. strohn

Th is evaluation and the reality of the Ruhr occupation showed that it was unlikely that Germany could build up a force strong enough to face the enemy in open battle, and some offi cers within the Reichswehr ministry started to develop new ideas about the conduct of a future war. Th e ‘young Turks’, as Michael Geyer named this avant-garde group,17 pushed for the adoption of some sort of guerrilla warfare doctrine by the German army, since they recognised this as the most suitable method for a weakly armed nation to oppose a stronger one. Th e most prominent advocate of this approach was Oberstleutnant Joachim von Stülpnagel. His views on the so-called Volkskrieg or peoples’ war are well represented in the study entitled Gedanken über den Krieg der Zukunft [Th oughts on the Future War], which he delivered to offi cers of the Reichswehr ministry in February 1924.18 He predicted

a programme for the acquisition and maintenance of the A-Heer (Aufstellungsheer or set-up army) of twenty-one divisions, as outlined in the Winterarbeit of 1923. Th e aim was to secure the armed forces’ demands for the most important goods for a period of fi ve months; see Die Entwicklung der Dienststelle für Wehrwirtschaft im Waff enamt 1924–1933, BA-MA RH 8/v. 1516, folio 501–502. Although the Waff enamt started placing orders with private industry even before the planning for the armament programme had ended, it soon became obvious that the demands for an army of twenty- one divisions could not be met. Th erefore, the Truppenamt reduced the number of divisions of the A-Heer in February 1928 from twenty-one to sixteen divisions. Th e calculations for the necessary supply should even be based on the assumption of a fi f- teen division army; see Truppenamt. betr. Rüstungsprogramm, 2 February 1928, BA-MA RH 8/v. 892. Although the ‘positive development’ of the preparations allowed a revision of the reduction in June 1928, the concept of a 16 division army (Notstandsheer) remained in place until 1930; see Rüstungsprogramm vom 6.6.1928, BA-MA RH 8/ v. 892. With the second rearmament programme of 1930, the Reichswehr returned to the A-Heer of twenty-one divisions; see Michael Geyer, “Das zweite Rüstungsprogramm, 1930–1934,” in Militärgeschichtliche Mitteilungen 17 (1975): pp. 125–172. 17 M. Geyer, “German Strategy in the Age of Machine Warfare, 1914–1945,” in Makers of Modern Strategy from Machiavelli to the Nuclear Age, ed. P. Paret (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1986) (henceforth quoted as Geyer, “German Strategy”), p. 560. 18 Stülpnagel papers, BA-MA N 5/10, folio 1–48. An extract of the document can be found in Das Krisenjahr 1923: Militär und Innenpolitik 1922–1924, ed. H. Hürten, in Militär und Politik, vol. 4 of Quellen zur Geschichte des Parlamentarismus und der politischen Parteien, 2nd ser., ed. E. Matthias and H. Meier-Welcker. Th e essay is regarded as one of the core documents of the Reichswehr’s war planning. It is therefore not astonishing that it has received its share of attention from historians. See M. Geyer, Aufrüstung oder Sicherheit: Die Reichswehr in der Krise der Machtpoltik 1924–1936, (Wiesbaden: Steiner, 1980) (henceforth quoted as Geyer, Aufrüstung), pp. 81–82; Geyer, “German Strategy,” pp. 557–558; W. Mulligan, Th e Creation of the Modern Army: General Walther Reinhardt and the Weimar Republic, 1914–1930 (Oxford: Berghahn, 2005), pp. 217–218; W. Deist, “Die Reichswehr und der Krieg der Zukunft ,” Militärgeschichtliche Mitteilungen 45 (1989), pp. 85–87; and J. Corum, Th e Roots of the german army in the interwar years 209 that in the next war Germany would not be able to prevent a French invasion of the western parts of Germany – as the occupation of the Ruhr had shown. When the enemy advanced into Germany, the population should rise and attack, weaken and distract the enemy forces by adopting guerrilla tactics. Traditional war with a clearly defi ned theatre of operation or front line was no longer the norm, but the ‘fi ght in extended areas’ [Flächenkrieg in tiefsten Räumen]. Th e rebellion was legitimised by the argument that war is an act of violence and therefore not bound by any agreements or treaties, which try to check brutality and cruelty in wartime. Stülpnagel acknowledged that this would lead to reprisals, but he was willing to accept these as a necessity of war, because the basic principle for this kind of warfare rested on the belief that the traditional boundaries between soldiers and civilians had broken down during the First World War.19 Volkskrieg was an important part of Stülpnagel’s concept, but he was realistic enough to see that the peoples’ war alone could not bring about a decision. In Schlieff en’s tradition, Stülpnagel demanded that the fi nal blow had to be delivered in the culminating battle, although he realised that with the army at hand this was illusionary. Th is second step was crucial to Stülpnagel and he argued that “Volkskrieg alone will never bring about a decision.”20 Accordingly, he stated that “Today and in the foreseeable future, the acceptance of a war [Annahme des Krieges] is only a heroic gesture.”21 Th is statement resembled Clausewitz’s ideas on a war against the French aft er 1806, and it is not astonishing that

Blitzkrieg: Hans von Seeckt and German Military Reform (Lawrence: University Press of Kansas, 1992), pp. 62–66. Stülpnagel wrote extensively on the future war and on 5 March 1925, he gave another talk on it; see Wechselbeziehungen zwischen Land-, See-, und Luft kriegführung: Ein Beitrag zum Problem des Zukunft krieges, Stülpnagel papers, BA-MA, N 5/11, folio 2–28. 19 In a draft of the fi nal discussion of a war game, Stülpnagel stated that “We can show no consideration for the population if the outcome of the war depends on it. In the war of the future, death behind the front has to be valued like death at the front [Der Tod hinter der Front muss im Zukunft skrieg gleich dem an der Front gewertet werden],” Joachim von Stülpnagel papers, BA-MA N 5/10, folio 29. Stülpnagel was not the only supporter of this idea. For instance, the former Generalleutnant Max Schwarte regarded the abolition of the civil population’s protection by international law as one of the logical consequences of the increasing range of aeroplanes. Th is ‘sacred dogma’ belonged in ‘the box of medieval diplomats’; see M. Schwarte, Der Krieg der Zukunft (Leipzig: Reclam, 1931), p. 34. 20 Stülpnagel papers, BA-MA N 5/10, folio 17. Th is second phase has been widely overlooked by historians, who tend to concentrate on the phenomenon of Volkskrieg. 21 Stülpnagel papers, N 5/10, folio 45. 210 m. strohn

Stülpnagel referred to the situation in which Prussia had found itself aft er the defeats at Jena and Auerstedt. However, Stülpnagel argued that there was a crucial diff erence between 1806/1813 and 1923. Th e political situation in 1813 had favoured the Prussians, while it was clear that there were no powerful allies in sight in 1923. Stülpnagel elaborated on a renewed Prussian/German – British alliance, but he was realistic enough to realise that such an alliance was not on the horizon.22 In contrast to Clausewitz, Stülpnagel therefore argued against a new war against France. He realised that a war could “be forced upon us,” but Germany should not start a war against France unless the political situation had changed in Germany’s favour and the army had rearmed.23 Naturally, Stülpnagel was not the only one to recognise the general weakness of the German army. For instance, Groener saw the limitations of the army very clearly and he developed a distinct view on the use of the military forces. On 16 April 1930, in his role as defence minister,24 he issued the directive Tasks of the Wehrmacht, which clearly shows his realistic view of the German army’s strength and capabilities.25 Because the army would not be able to defeat a major enemy in battle, he argued that “a responsible German government” might

22 Stülpnagel papers, N 5/10, folio 8. 23 Stülpnagel papers, N 5/10, folio 45. Adolf Hitler, on the other hand, followed Clausewitz’s arguments more closely. Hitler stated that the Ruhr crisis had off ered the chance to end ‘the eternal shame’ which the Versailles Treaty had imposed on the Germans. Hitler believed it was better to ‘…accept the horror of the moment than to endure the endless horror any longer (lieber den Schrecken des Augenblicks auf sich zu nehmen als den endlosen Schrecken weiter zu ertragen)’; see A. Hitler, Mein Kampf: Zwei Bände in einem Band (Munich: Franz Eher Verlag, 1925), p. 769. 24 Otto Gessler, Groener’s predecessor as defence minister, had resigned on 4 January 1928. Th e offi ce had exhausted him and from late 1927 onwards, he had had to face increasing political pressure; see on this, H. Möllers, Reichswehrminister Otto Geßler: Eine Studie zu “unpolitischer” Militärpolitik in der Weimarer Republik (Frankfurt: Lang, 1998), pp. 340–352. 25 Die Aufgaben der Wehrmacht, BA-MA RM 20/997, folio 9–15. Th e directive is oft en used as a proof of Groener’s determination to exercise both his political and military functions as defence minister. For an interpretation of the directive, see “Th e Rearmament of the Wehrmacht,” W. Deist, in Germany and the Second World War, vol. 4, Th e Build-up of German Aggression, ed. Militärgeschichtliches Forschungsamt (Oxford: Clarendon, 1990), pp. 386–391; G. Post, Th e Civil-Military Fabric of Weimar Foreign Policy (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1973), pp. 197–201; and M. Geyer, Aufrüstung, pp. 213–216. On Groener’s view on civil-military relations and their infl uence on military planning, see J. Hürter, Wilhelm Groener: Reichswehrminis- ter am Ende der Weimarer Republik (1928–1932) (Munich: Oldenbourg, 1993), pp. 91–110. the german army in the interwar years 211

“under certain circumstances decide to off er no military resistance” to an attack by a foreign power. Th e Reichswehr was only to be used in case of internal disturbances (the so-called Case Pieck26), precisely defi ned situations requiring urgent emergency action, or favourable international situations. Emergency action was justifi ed if attacks by units of a foreign state, were they regular (Case Pilsudski27) or irregular (Case Korfanty28) troops, threatened to create a fait accompli. Th e Reichswehr should be used against enemy regular units only if the deployment off ered some prospect of success. Th is would be the case if the attacking state was “heavily occupied elsewhere militarily,” or if resistance could result in “the intervention of other powers or international authorities.” Interestingly, Groener also pointed out that he was willing to use the army off ensively (“use of the Wehrmacht, even if we are not immediately attacked”). Th e most likely scenario for this was if Germany could join a coalition of forces. Although Groener mentioned this possibility, his further elaborations on the deployment of the army show that he did not believe in such a scenario in the near future. If Germany went to war, he argued, the army could only rely on the currently existing Reichswehr. He also mentioned the reinforced fi eld army of twenty-one divisions, but he made clear that the current supply situation did not allow the build-up of this force. On 3 February 1933, only a few days aft er his appointment to chancellor, Hitler revealed his political aims to some selected members of the Reichswehr. In his elaborations, Hitler made clear that war was unavoidable in the long run, because he aimed at “the conquest of living space in the east and the ruthless germanisation [Germanisierung].”29 Despite the disclosure of Hitler’s intentions, actual military planning and the envisaged tactical and operational conduct of a possible war did not change instantly, because the Reichswehr was not yet in a state to fulfi l these demands. Before changes could be made to the use of the

26 Wilhelm Pieck (1876–1960) was a founding member of the German communist party KPD and a member of the Reichstag from 1928 to 1933. He spent the Second World War in exile, fi rst in Paris and then in Moscow. Aft er the war Pieck became the fi rst and only Staatspräsident [state president] of the German Democratic Republic. 27 Jozef Pilsudski (1867–1935) was the supreme commander of the Polish forces and the leading politician of the newly created Polish state aft er the First World War. 28 Wojciech Korfanty (1973–1939), Polish nationalist and politicians. He was one of the driving forces behind the Polish insurgency in Upper Silesia aft er the First World War. 29 See the notes of Generalleutnant Liebmann, in BA-MA MSG 1/1688. 212 m. strohn army on the tactical and operational levels of war the Reichswehr had to increase in size, so that it would be able to conduct off ensive operations successfully against numerically strong enemies. As a fi rst step towards full rearmament, the decision was taken in December 1933 to enlarge the army to 300,000 men in twenty-one divisions.30 Th e build-up of this force would need time, and, in the meantime, the military situation would not change unless a favourable political constellation could be created. A fi rst step towards this was achieved with the signing of the non-aggression treaty with Poland on 26 January 1934.31 Th is came as a big political surprise, because the question of the eastern territories lost aft er the First World War had been of high importance in the Weimar Republic. However, the military remained aware of a Polish threat, possibly because of the increased pressure the Polish government had put on Germany in order to sign the treaty. Accordingly, military planning for a war against Poland did not stop once the treaty had been signed.32 Th e manpower shortage was eased with the introduction of conscription on 16 March 1936, and, as a consequence, the strength of the peace-time army was to be increased to 36 divisions.33 Already a few days earlier, on 7 March 1936, the Rhineland had been remilitarised, and this was of considerable importance for the future planning of the Wehrmacht.34 Additional resources had become available, especially the manpower pool for the envisaged increases to the armed forces.

30 Denkschrift des Truppenamtes in der Heeresleitung über den Aufb au des künft igen Friedensheeres, in BA-MA RH 15/34. For the context of the memorandum, see H.-J. Rautenberg, “Drei Dokumente zur Planung eines 300,000-Mann-Friedensheeres aus dem Dezember 1933,” in Militärgeschichtliche Mitteilungen 22 (1977): pp. 103–139; and M. Geyer, “Das Zweite Rüstungsprogramm (1930–1934),” in Militärgeschichtliche Mitteilungen 17 (1975): pp. 125–172. 31 On the non-aggression treaty, see M. Salewski, “Die bewaff nete Macht im Dritten Reich 1933–1939,” in Handbuch zur deutschen Militärgeschichte, vol. 4, Wehrmacht und Nationalsozialismus 1933–1945, (Munich: Bernard und Graefe, 1983), pp. 128–132. Th e treaty’s text can be found in H. Michaelis and E. Schraepler, eds., Ursachen und Folgen: Vom deutschen Zusammenbruch 1918 und 1945 bis zur staatlichen Neuord- nung Deutschlands in der Gegenwart; Eine Urkunden- und Dokumentensammlung zur Zeitgeschichte, vol. 10, Das Dritte Reich: Die Errichtung des Führerstaates; Die Abwendung von dem System der kollektiven Sicherheit (Berlin: Wendler, n.d.), pp. 107–108. 32 See the Weisung für die Kampff ührung im Westen and Weisung für die Kampff ührung im Osten, BA-MA RH 2/25, folio 81–95 issued on 20 April 1934. 33 On the introduction of conscription, see R. Absolon, Die Wehrmacht im Dritten Reich, vol. 3, 3. August 1934 bis 4. Februar 1938 (Boppard: Boldt, 1975), pp. 22–32. 34 See, on this, Salewski, “bewaff nete Macht,” pp. 164–166. the german army in the interwar years 213

Moreover, the line of defence could be moved westwards; in a possible confl ict, the Rhine could now be defended and the fore-fi eld could be extended to the borders of the Reich.35 Th e ongoing rearmament of the Reichswehr and the Wehrmacht en abled the military leadership to start planning for a coming war more realistically.36 With the extension of the duration of military service to two years, the Wehrmacht was able to increase its strength to 520,000 men by the end of 1936.37 Th e Wehrmacht now comprised thirty-six infantry and three tank divisions, which were, however, not at full strength.38 While the nominal strength of an infantry division was 14,300, the real average strength was in the region of 10,000,39 and, accordingly, the army was considerably smaller than it appeared on paper. Despite these insuffi ciencies, Hitler demanded in 1936 that the

35 Th e order for deployment in the west from 14 November 1936 stated that “the overall situation still demands the operational defence in the west. Having delayed the enemy’s advance to the Rhine, the next task of Army Group West will be to hold the mighty barrier presented by the Rhine”; see Aufmarschanweisung für die Westgrenze, BA-MA RH 19 – III/8, folio 20–42, here folio 26. Th e improved situation was also pointed out by the British army which argued on 27 July 1935 that “Once Germany has reoccupied and fortifi ed the Rhineland, it is doubtful whether France, with her wasting man-power, would risk a land invasion of Germany. Th e French air threat to the Ruhr would be balanced by the German air threat to Paris and the French industrial regions”; see Notes on probable military results of a war between Germany and the anti-German bloc (France, Russia, Italy, Czechoslovakia); Th e National Archives (TNA) WO 190/344, folio 2. 36 O. Groehler, “Die Wehrmachtsstudie 1936/37,” Revue Internationale d’Histoire Militaire 71 (1989): pp. 209–210; M. Messerschmidt, “Die Wehrmacht in der Kriegsvorbereitung,” in Th e Road to War: Essays in Honour of Professor Vehviläinen, ed. S. Hietanen (Tampere: Tampere Univerity, 1993), pp. 97–115; and K.-J. Müller, “Militärpolitische Konzeptionen des deutschen Generalstabes 1938,” in Machtbe- wußtsein in Deutschland am Vorabend des Zweiten Weltkrieges, ed. F. Knipping and K. J. Müller (Paderborn: Schöningh, 1984), pp. 167–168. 37 For the enlargement during this period see, H. Schottelius and G.-A. Caspar “Die Organisation des Heeres 1933–1939,” in Handbuch zur deutschen Militärgeschichte, vol. 4, Wehrmacht und Nationalsozialismus, 1933–1945 (Munich: Bernard und Graefe, 1983), pp. 299–307. 38 Beck had argued for a gradual enlargement of the army. Only if enough personnel and material for new units was available should these be formed. Hitler and parts of the Organisation Offi ce of the Truppenamt had argued for cadre units that would be fi lled up whenever possible, because this allowed for organisational advantages; see K.-V. Neugebauer, “Vom eigenständigen Machtfaktor zum Instrument Hitlers: Militärgeschichte im “Dritten Reich” 1933 bis 1939,” in Grundkurs deutsche Militärgeschichte, vol. 2, Das Zeitalter der Weltkriege 1914 bis 1945: Völker in Waff en, ed. idem (Munich: Oldenbourg, 2007), p. 262; and K.-J. Müller, Generaloberst Ludwig Beck: Eine biographie (Paderborn: Schöningh, 2007), p. 207. 39 Schottelius and Caspar, “Organisation des Heeres,” p. 307. 214 m. strohn rearmament should be accelerated. Accordingly, the Oberkommando des Heeres [supreme command of the army or OKH] reckoned with a peace-time army of 830,000 men from October 1936 onwards.40 Even more signifi cant was the planned increase of the war-time army; it was now anticipated that the army would consist of 102 divisions with over 4.6 million men. Th is intention presented the Wehrmacht with a number of signifi cant problems. Interestingly, these problems were mentioned in the OKH’s plans, but solutions to them could not be found. For instance, the OKH was aware of the fact that the increased enlargement would create an actual defi cit of 72,600 offi cers. To alleviate this problem, “extraordinary measures” had to be taken, but nobody knew what these might be and it was merely stated that this “question is currently being dealt with” by the OKH.41 Th e increasing number of problems and uncertainties concerning the further enlargement of the army and matters of mobilisation had to be tested against the realities of war. Th us, the Reichskriegsministerium decided in the autumn of 1936 that a study on the conduct of a possible war had to be carried out.42 To ensure secrecy, it was restricted to the military districts III (Berlin) and IV (Dresden). Th e initial setting assumed a threat from France, Czechoslovakia and the Soviet Union. Th e support treaties between the French, the Soviets and the Czechs led Germany to anticipate that it would have to conduct a war on several fronts. As the weakest opponent, the CSR seemed to be the right

40 On 12 October 1936, the OKH issued a new rearmament plan; see BA-MA RH 15/70, folio 189–202. 41 Th ese diffi culties did not go unnoticed by foreign authorities. On 30 November 1938, the British Military Attaché in Berlin, Colonel Mason MacFarlane, reported that the Wehrmacht was facing severe diffi culties; see TNA CAB 21/949, folio 157–160. Th e main problem, as he saw it, was the rapid expansion of the German army, which did not leave enough time to train offi cers and NCOs suffi ciently. “Th e army,” Mason MacFarlane stated, “has continually been asked to run before it should, in theory, have been able to walk.” However, the military attaché was convinced that the German army would overcome these diffi culties. “…the German army will be passing through its last period of real diffi culty, during which war would take it at a very considerable disadvantage, in the winter of 1939–40.” Aft er that winter, the army would have reached its full strength and the following months could be used to improve the soldiers’ training. From that period onwards, the size of the wartime army would depend on the rate of armament production rather than on the level of training. For a thorough discussion of the rearmament problems, see Deist, pp. 373–540; and B. Kroener, ‘Der starke Mann im Heimatkriegsgebiet’: Generaloberst Friedrich Fromm; Eine Biographie (Paderborn: Schöningh, 2005), pp. 225–582. 42 Oberkommando des Heeres. Generalstab des Heeres. Oqu I/2, Abt Nr. 1627/36. Berlin, den 9.11.36, in BA-MA RH 2/1054, folio 4. the german army in the interwar years 215 enemy for a German off ensive, while Germany would remain on the defensive in the other theatres. Accordingly, the majority of the German forces, twenty-two infantry and three tank divisions, was supposed to face the enemy in a decisive battle in Bohemia. Th e western front would be secured by eight divisions, while three divisions were to be deployed against Poland.43 Th e study shows clearly that the OKH did not believe that the German army alone would be strong enough to defeat the Czechs decisively, even if only weak forces were sent to the other theatres of war in the west and the east. Th e situation was serious; the demands of the Wehrmacht could not be met. Th e army had calculated that it required 77,000 offi cers; only 28,000 were available at the time. Th e situation was more favourable with regard to other ranks, but even here the strength was 13 per cent short of its establishment. Th irty- seven divisions of the fi eld army were not fully equipped, and the OKH reckoned that the army would run out of supplies aft er one month. It was anticipated that the reserve divisions could not be fully equipped with rifl es and, even worse, some units would have to hand their weapons over to the fi eld army.44 It was therefore reassuring that Blomberg, the war minister, stated in the ‘Instructions for the Standardised War Preparations of the Wehrmacht’ of June 1937 that “Th e general political situation allows the assumption that Germany does not have to expect an attack from any side.”45 Germany, Blomberg argued, was not interested in waging war either, but the Wehrmacht had to be prepared to oppose every surprise attack and to exploit a favourable political situation militarily. In the instruction, Blomberg paid special attention to the two most probable scenarios. Both dealt with a war on two fronts, but whereas Case Red put the emphasis on the western theatre of war, Case Green anticipated a Schwerpunkt in the south-east, i.e. against Czechoslovakia. In Case Red, it was expected that France would be the main enemy. Th e question of whether Belgium would enter the war, and on whose side, remained unresolved. In the east, it was anticipated that the Soviet Union and the CSR were hostile, while the neutrality of Poland and

43 For the deployment of the units and the envisaged operations, see BA-MA RH 2/1054, folio 162–172. 44 BA-MA RH 2/1054, folio 155. 45 Weisung für die einheitliche Kriegsvorbereitung der Wehrmacht (gültig vom 1.7. 1937 bis voraussichtlich 30.9.1938), Bundesarchiv Berlin (BArch), 99 US 8/53924, folio 5–29, here folio 8. 216 m. strohn

Lithuania were taken for granted. Th e instruction anticipated that the French forces would launch a surprise attack on western Germany. Accordingly, the bulk of the German forces had to deploy to face the enemy’s advance in the west, while the east would be secured with as few forces as possible, mainly the border guards and a number of reserve (Landwehr) divisions. Again, the aim was to slow down the French advance west of the Rhine and to bring it to a halt on the river Rhine and the Black Forest. Similar to earlier plans of the Truppenamt and the OKH, respectively, this scenario was based on a defensive conduct of war on the operational level. Case Green, on the other hand, was based on the idea of an ‘off ensive defence’.46 Blomberg stated that “To prevent an imminent attack of a superior enemy coalition, the war in the east can com- mence with a German surprise operation against Czechoslovakia.”47 Again, Blomberg anticipated that Poland and Lithuania would remain neutral, whereas Austria, Italy and Yugoslavia would adopt favourable neutrality. Moreover, it was expected that Hungary would sooner or later declare war on the CSR. Most important was Britain’s neutrality. Th is was regarded as an “indispensable prerequisite for Case Green.”48 Th e aim of the operation would be a “strategic invasion of Czechoslovakia, which quickly brings down its fortifi cations and which destroys its [the Czech] army during its mobilisation. Th e military prerequisite for this invasion is thorough training and the ability to use the tank units.”49 It was hoped that the destruction of the Czech army and the occupation of Bohemia and Moravia would bring about the collapse of Czechoslovakia and a Slovakian secession. Th e Germans would then be able to re-deploy and face the enemy in the west with the bulk of the army. Moreover, an occupation of Bohemia and Moravia would deny the Soviet air force the strategic bases for its air raids against the Reich. To achieve such a quick, decisive victory the overwhelming majority of the army’s forces had to be concentrated in the southeast of the Reich, and possibly also in Austria. Th e forces in the west had to be reduced to the absolute minimum. In the initial phase of Case Green, the forces in the western theatre only had to ensure that the Ruhr area was not occupied by the enemy, and that the French did not succeed in cutting the Reich into two parts with a major off ensive.

46 BArch 99 US 8/53924, folio 19–23. 47 BArch 99 US 8/53924, folio 19. 48 BArch 99 US 8/53924, folio 20. 49 BArch 99 US 8/53924, folio 22. the german army in the interwar years 217

Just a little over four months aft er Blomberg had stated in the ‘Instructions for the Standardised War Preparations of the Wehrmacht’ that Germany did not have to fear an invasion from any side, and that Germany was not interested in waging war either, those assumptions were overthrown by Hitler. On 5 November 1937, he gave a talk to the commanders-in-chief of the three services in the Reich chancellery. Also present were War Minister Blomberg, Foreign Minister Konstantin Freiherr von Neurath and Hitler’s military adjutant, Oberst Friedrich Hoßbach.50 Although the meeting was originally designed to resolve the quarrels over the distribution of raw material among the diff erent services, Hitler soon launched into a two-hour long monologue on Germany’s need to expand by use of force within the following few years. Although Hitler had already outlined his ideas for gaining living space in 1933, it was on 5 November 1937 that the commanders-in- chief of the three services of the Wehrmacht were explicitly told for the fi rst time of Hitler’s thoughts on the possible timing and circumstances of German expansion to the east.51 From this date onwards it was obvious that in Hitler’s view the Wehrmacht was not primarily a means for the defence of Germany, but that it had to be used off ensively to gain Lebensraum for the German people.52 Despite the concerns raised by the military about Hitler’s plans for expansion, which had led to Ludwig Beck’s resignation as chief of the general staff on 21 August 1938, his successor, Generalleutnant Franz Halder, presented the OKH’s plan of deployment against Czechoslovakia to Hitler at the end of August 1938.53 Two further meetings with Hitler

50 Trial of the Major War Criminals before the International Military Tribunal (henceforth quoted as IMT), vol. 25, (Nuremberg: International Military Tribunal, 1947–49), pp. 402–413. Th e report of this meeting has become known as the ‘Hoßbach Protocol’. No arrangements had been made for minutes to be taken, so that Hoßbach’s protocol, which was drawn up fi ve days aft er the meeting, has become the main source of this meeting; see I. Kershaw, Hitler, vol. 2, 1936–1945: Nemesis (London: Allen Lane, 2000), pp. 46–51. On the document, see W. Bußmann, “Zur Entstehung und Überlieferung der ‘Hoßbach-Niederschrift ’,” Vierteljahresheft e für Zeitgeschichte 16 (1968): pp. 373– 384; and J. Wright and P. Staff ord, “Hitler, Britain, and the Hoßbach Memorandum,” Militärgeschichtliche Mitteilungen 42 (1987): pp. 77–123. 51 Kershaw, Hitler, pp. 47–48. Also, see on this Wright and Staff ord, “Hoßbach Memorandum,” pp. 82–84. 52 Salewski, “bewaff nete Macht,” p. 157. 53 On 21 August 1938, Ludwig Beck had resigned as the chief of the general staff , aft er he had realised that he had not convinced Hitler that a war against Czechoslovakia would eventually result in the ‘fi nis Germaniae’ as he had made clear in a note on 16 July 1938; see Ludwig Beck papers, N 28/4–55, p. 1. 218 m. strohn on 3 September and 10 September, respectively, resulted in minor changes to the envisaged deployment against Czechoslovakia, and the fi nal version of this plan remained the German plan of deployment during the crisis of the following months, and it would have been implemented if war had broken out over the fate of Czechoslovakia.54 Th e development of Case Green shows the changes in German military thought towards the end of the inter-war period and the rebirth of the off ensive at the operational level. However, there were still a number of uncertain ties, especially concerning the defence of the Reich in the west. Th e Aufmarschanweisung Verteidigung West [order of deployment for the defence of the west], which was issued on 1 March 1939 and which remained in force until the outbreak of the Second World War, paid special attention to this situation.55 Th e quick change from operational defence to a more off ensive approach was facilitated by the understanding of the defence, which had its roots in Clausewitz’s defi nition of the term. For the German army, defence at the tactical and operational levels was not meant to be the inactive awaiting of the enemy’s blows. When fi ghting defensively, it was still imperative that off ensive actions were carried out in order to retain the initiative on the battlefi eld. For the greater part of the period, the Reichswehr and the Wehrmacht accepted that the army would have to act defensively at the strategic and operational levels. Tactically, however, the Germans were determined to gain the initiative and to deliver off ensive blows, even if they realised that eventually the army would have to submit to the enemies’ superiority. Only the combination of defence and off ence off ered a path to victory, as General Friedrich von Boetticher made clear aft er the Second World War when he argued that “Great generals and theorists have been discussing the question whether defensive or off ensive is the stronger form of warfare. Th e question put in this way is wrong. Th e point is that the enemy’s fi ghting power and will- power have to be broken. Th e highest goal ever to be striven for but seldom attainable is the annihilation of the enemy. To achieve this goal, retreat, postponement of a decision, delaying action or defense may

54 On the two meetings, see IMT, vol. 25, pp. 462–469. Hitler’s objections and the fact that he overrode Brauchitsch’s and Halder’s view show that the general staff had been degraded to a means for carrying out Hitler’s will. 55 Th e order can be found in BA-MA RH 19 – III/72, folio 6–12. Th e consequent explicit orders for 5 Army and VI Corps can be obtained from BA-MA RH 19 – III/82, folio 3–12. the german army in the interwar years 219

be necessary. A fi nal decision can never be brought about by anything but the thrust into the heart of the enemy.”56 However, for most of the inter-war period, the Germans were not strong enough to deliver such a deadly thrust, and they were well aware of this fact. Hitler’s assumption of power and the following rearmament did not change this perception. Even in 1939, the generals were sceptical of the army’s ability to fi ght and win a two-front war. Because of the Allied reluctance to launch a major off ensive into Germany this was not tested in 1939, but it took a further fi ve and a half years and millions of casualties to prove right people like Groener and Stülpnagel and their pessimistic views about the chances of winning a major European – or even global – war.

56 See Friedrich von Boetticher’s article “Th e Art of War: Principles of the German General Staff in the light of our time,” which he wrote for the US Army Historical Division; see Friedrich von Boetticher papers, BA-MA N 323/153. For a general overview of the history programme, see J. A. Wood, “Captive Historians, Captivated Audience: Th e German Military History Programme, 1945–1961,” Th e Journal of Military History 69, no. 1 (January 2005): pp. 123–147.

CHAPTER TEN

BETWEEN PASSÉISME AND MODERNISATION? THE CASE OF THE BELGIAN FORTIFICATION SYSTEM 1926–1940

J. Vaesen

Introduction

“An old knight mounted on a vast and ponderous war horse, encased in the thickest of armour against a young upstart, less heavily armoured, mounted on a lighter, more manoeuvrable charger, and relying for victory upon a lance sharpened and hardened by a new process.”1 Th is was the widespread post war image of the situation of the Allied and German armed forces at the beginning of the Second World War and it is still very much alive in Belgium today. Th e issue of the preparation of the Belgian army was already subject to debate in the inter war period itself, certainly when international tensions rose again in the 1930s. Some authors used the French word passéisme in order to describe the situation of the Belgian armed forces. Th e term refers to the supposed past-oriented thinking of (political and military) policy makers, who (allegedly) took only their experience during the First World War into account. Th ough more recently scholars have nuanced both the excessive emphasis on the new processes on German side2 and the supposed lack of innovation and/or preparation on Allied side,3 Belgian military historians have only to a limited extent picked up the innovations in military historiography abroad.4

1 R. H. Barry, “Military Balance. Western Europe, May 1940,” in History of the Second World War, vol. 1, no. 7, 3–6 (1966), p. 171. 2 Cf. J. P. Harris, “Debate. Th e Myth of Blitzkrieg,” War in History 2, no. 3 (1995); R. L. Dinardo, “German Armour Doctrine: Correcting the Myths,” War in History 3, no. 4 (1996): pp. 384–397; and K. H. Frieser, Le mythe de la guerre éclair (Paris: Belin 2003). 3 Cf. B. Bond and M. Alexander, “Liddell Hart and De Gaulle: the Doctrines of Limited Liability and Mobile Defense,” in Makers of Modern Strategy, ed. P. Paret (Oxford: Clarendon, 1986), pp. 598–623; E. Kiesling, “If it ain’t broke, don’t fi x it: French Military Doctrine between the World Wars,” War in History 3, no. 2 (1996): pp. 208–223. 4 J. Vaesen, “ ‘De sa tour d’ivoire vers la cité?’: De Belgische hedendaagse militaire historiografi e sinds 1970,” in De tuin van heden: Dertig jaar geschiedschrijving over 222 j. vaesen

How can we assess the issue of (lack of) modernisation of the Belgian army in the inter-war period? Th e vast and ponderous war horse with its thick armour in the quotation above refers to the fortifi cation system. Just as France with its Maginot line, Belgium had established an impressive shield in order to protect the nation from a (German) assault in the inter-war period. It was even the fi rst “weapon” within the Belgian army to receive the fi rst wave of modernisation investments aft er the establishment of a study committee in 1926.5 Moreover, this issue was a crucial aspect of the Belgian political debate, leading to fi erce disputes and confl icts and even to the fall of the Government Jaspar II in 1931. Th erefore, the fortifi cation system provides a fi ne example of the preparation of the Belgian armed forces in the inter-war period on the one hand, and of the relationship with the broader political debates, on the other. I will analyse the modernisation of the defensive system not by describing the forts and bunkers as such. Central to this study, rather are the actors and their opinions, the goals, the means and the limitations regarding the establishment of the system. Daniel Marc Segesser concluded correctly that the continuing disputes over specifi c issues prevented a coherent Belgian military discourse.6 Using the case of the fortifi cation system I will analyse the impact of the many foci of power, the areas of tension within the Belgian society and their relevance for the decision-making process as well as the military options taken.7 In short, the exogenous and endogenous actors and factors that infl uenced the establishment of the so-called ‘permanent het hedendaagse België, ed. G. Vanthemsche et al. (Brussels: VUBPress, 2007), pp. 457–497. 5 G. Provoost, Vlaanderen en het militair-politiek beleid in België tussen de twee wereldoorlogen (Louvain: Davidsfonds, 1977), pp. 384–399. 6 D. M. Segesser, “Landesverteidigung im Schatten des totalen Krieges: Das belgische Offi zierskorps und die Sicherung der territorialen Integrität des Landes,” in An der Schwelle zum Totalen Krieg: Die militärische Debatte über den Krieg der Zukunft , 1919–1939, ed. S. Förster (Paderborn: Ferdinand Schöningh Verlag, 2002), p. 279. 7 I drew partly upon the research I performed for my MA thesis, which was published by the Royal Army Museum (Brussels). See J. Vaesen, Tussen Scylla en Charbydis: De Belgische militaire politiek en de economische crisis, 1930–1936 (Brussels: Royal Army Museum, 2004). I used documents from the following archives: State Archives Belgium – Brussels (Proceedings of the meetings of the national Government; Personal Papers of Charles de Broqueville); Archives of the Royal Palace – Brussels (archives of the secretary of the King); Royal Army Museum – Brussels (Papers of the Defence department, papers of the British military attaché in Brussels; Russian archives); Centre for historical documentation on the armed forces – Brussels (personal papers Brabant and de Lannoy); Archives of the Department of Foreign Aff airs – Brussels; Centre for historical research and documentation on war and contemporary society SOMA- CEGES – Brussels. the belgian fortification system 1926–1940 223 defences’ will be examined. I will argue that the options taken are not merely the result of the military orientation(s) as such, but refl ect the deeply divided Belgian society as well. Th is implies not only the impact of political and sociolinguistic strives, but of local and regional varia- bles as well. How could these diff erences of opinion be accommodated? Last but not least, it involves a number of oft en neglected thresholds that had to be taken before a military option could be executed. What about the fi nancial means of the Belgian State in the selected period, the impact of the ‘Great Depression’, the economic structure of the country and the public opinion?

Who is in Charge of the Army? Th e Belgian Military Decision Making Process and the Choice for the Trunk or the Limbs

Concerning the Belgian military policy during the inter-war period one cannot ignore the role of the king, the most infl uential among a whole range of actors. Article 68 of the Belgian Constitution stated that the king was the supreme commander of the Belgian army and until 1940 the monarchs succeeded in intervening in the military policy personally or via personal military advisers. Th e latter were seen by their opponents as an ‘occult force’ acting with no responsibility whatsoever.8 Besides, the Crown appointed some key military decision- makers as well, such as the minister of war (defence from 1920 onwards), the chief of Staff [chef de cabinet] of the minister of defence and the chief of the General Staff . Th is does not mean that the king was almighty in the fi eld of military policy. Of course, he had to deal with the political parties and their diverging opinions regarding the Belgian defence. Th e adjustment of the Belgian Constitution immediately aft er the First World War introduced for good the system of Governmental coalitions. Since 1918 not a single political party had gained an absolute majority any longer, apart from a few exceptions.9 For the cabinet formation this meant in practice an alternation between two of the three ‘traditional parties’ – Catholics, Liberals, Socialists – though in some cases a tripartite Government of ‘national union’ was established. Besides, Belgium

8 V. Werner, Le ministre et le ministère de la défense nationale (Brussels: Novedi, 1964), p. 43. 9 T. Luykx, Politieke geschiedenis van België van 1789 tot heden (Brussels: Elsevier, 1964), pp. 312–314. 224 j. vaesen was and still is a culturally divided society, where three types of political and societal cleavages (related to socio-economic, religious-cultural and socio-linguistic/regional strife)10 implied serious tensions and challenges, though some coping mechanisms were developed (cf. the pacifi cation or consociational democracy).11 Th is means more specifi - cally that a system of accommodation, confl ict prevention and resolution was installed, characterized for example by the elaboration of compromises. Below it will be seen how these political and societal discrepancies infl uenced the military decision making process as well. Finally, the crisis of the Belgian parliamentary regime12 and the rising international tensions in the 1930s cannot be omitted as a factor, either. Another feature of the Belgian decision-making process in the interwar period is the appointment of ‘civilians’ as ministers of Defence, an offi ce which until 1912 had usually been attributed to a ‘technician’, an offi cer appointed by the king. So, in the selected period several politicians held this offi ce, though their personal infl uence depended upon factors such as their political weight and the duration of their mandate. Albert Devèze fi gured among the most prominent Liberal politicians in the inter-war period and his passage at the Defence department at two occasions (from November 1920 till March 1924 and from December 1932 until June 1936) can be regarded as essential for some key decisions and crucial options (cf. infra).13 In the inter war period some offi cers were appointed to this offi ce as well, certainly when unpopular or delicate decisions had to be made.14 With the exception of Henri Denis in the period from 1936 to1940, the ‘military’ ministers of Defence lasted only two years (1925–1926).

10 Th e country is divided between a Flemish speaking northern part (Flanders), dominated by the Catholic party, and a French speaking southern part (Wallonia), dominated by the Socialist party. Th e capital of Belgium, Brussels, which had a liberal majority, became frenchifi ed. Besides the linguistic-regional strife, disputes arose about socio-economic issues (the mainly agrarian Flanders vs. the industrialised Wallonia) and clerical vs. anticlerical theses. 11 See A. Lijphart, ed., Confl ict and Coexistence in Belgium: the Dynamics of a Culturally Divided Society (Berkeley: Institute of International Studies, 1981); and E. Witte et al., Political History of Belgium from 1830 onwards (Brussels: VUBPress, 2000). 12 See C. H. Hojer, Le régime parlementaire belge de 1918 à 1940 (Uppsala: Almqvist och Wiksells, 1969). 13 D. M. Segesser, “Landesverteidigung,” p. 280. 14 V. Werner, Défense nationale, pp. 33–34. the belgian fortification system 1926–1940 225

Finally, there is the Belgian offi cer corps. Far too oft en studies refer to the army as a monolith actor. At the moment we know very little though about the background of these offi cers in the selected period.15 It is clear, however, that nominations for key administration posts as well as the overall military options produced confl icts within the Belgian offi cer corps. As such, consensus about military policy was absent both within the offi cer corps and political circles.16 Th ese offi c- ers intervened in public debates as well, sometimes anonymously or via a pseudonym. Th e resulting confl icts could be intense and in a certain period they were even labelled as querelles des généraux or ‘quarrels of the generals’.17 Apart from the antimilitarist ideas – ventilated both within the traditional political parties and by other formations18 –, one can argue that there were at least three main factions active in the decision-making process, each with very contrasting ideas regarding the reinforcement of Belgium’s military position. A characteristic feature of each of these groups is their composition: they consisted of a mix of political and military decision makers and opinion makers. Initially a strife emerged due to the theses defended by two groups, a debate that is well represented by the metaphor of the trunk and the limbs. Th e fi rst group pleaded for a close (military) cooperation with France. A signifi cant part of the Belgian elite was Francophile and the 1918 victory had given France much esteem. A military alliance with the southern Great Power would imply a great benefi t for Belgium as well, since it was clear that the Belgian army alone would not be strong enough to hold off unlimitedly a German invasion at the eastern border.19 Not surprising, a military agreement with France was signed in 1920,20 though Belgium also tried to obtain a similar support from Great Britain. Under the mandate of Henri Maglinse as chief of General Staff (1919–1926) the contacts with the French General Staff were

15 See D. M. Segesser, “Landesverteidigung,” regarding the military concepts and ideas, debated in the military journals. 16 D. M. Segesser, “Landesverteidigung,” p. 322. 17 Vaesen, J., Tussen Scylla en Charybdis, p. 84. 18 Cf. F. Lehouck, Het anti-militarisme in België, 1830–1914 (Antwerpen: Standaard Uitgeverij, 1958). 19 J. Vanwelkenhuyzen, Les gâchis des années 30, 1933–1937 (Bruxelles: Racine, 2007), p. 58; and J. Vaesen, Tussen Scylla en Charybdis, pp. 54–55. 20 Th is agreement made a contradictory reading possible though. Th e French put forward a maximalist interpretation, while Belgium had chosen for a minimalist use. G. Provoost, Militair-politiek beleid, vol. 1, pp. 111–115. 226 j. vaesen

considered to be excellent.21 Th e defence at the Belgian eastern border was deemed crucial by this fi rst group. Undoubtedly, the devastations during the First World War and the cruelties by German soldiers were of great infl uence. Chief of the General Staff Maglinse, therefore, propagated some concepts which can be regarded as being in line with the French military doctrine, such as the use of ‘prepared battlefi elds’ (cf. the French concept of the front continu; see below). Related options were defended by politicians as well, such as the infl uential Liberal politician Albert Devèze. In short, they promoted a border defence. When Henri Maglinse resigned as chief of the General Staff (in order to protest against the reduction of the military service) in 1926 the option of the border defence was propagated, among others, by general Hellebaut. Th is faction (which I will call the Devèze-group) could draw upon public support in certain parts of Wallonia, since the Walloon Provinces of Liège, Luxembourg and Namur were among the most exposed in case of a German assault (see below). In terms of the metaphor mentioned above, this would imply defending the limbs: the invader (always Germany in the discourse) had to be checked at the frontier. Th e second faction gained momentum when Emile Galet, the former military advisor of King Albert I, was appointed Chief of the General Staff in 1926. Apart from his personal infl uence with the king, Emile Galet had been able to forge the hearts and minds of numerous offi cers as a professor at the Ecole de Guerre. Th erefore, the ‘Galet-school’ dominated the General Staff , while the Devèze-group recruited military supporters elsewhere.22 Th e Galet adherents were not adepts of the border defence option, on the contrary. Galet propagated two other paradigms: the ‘defence in depth’ and the ‘law of the proportion of forces’. Supported by King Albert I, Galet estimated the border defence to be a static choice. Th is second group thus favoured a small and mobile professional army, well-trained and well-equipped. Th e army had to use the natural obstacles of the country (a series of deployments based upon the three big rivers, thus creating a defence in depth) in combination with some fortifi cations and had to ensure an international connection via the ports

21 B. Chaix, En mai 1940, fallait-il entrer en Belgique? (Paris: Economica, 2000), p. 18. 22 V. Werner, Défense nationale, pp. 44–47. the belgian fortification system 1926–1940 227 of Antwerp, Ostend and Zeebruges. So, instead of trying to contain an invader at the border (the limbs), the plan provided in the defence of the trunk and thus at ensuring the survival of the Belgian armed forces. So, the ‘Law of the proportion of forces’ had to prevent the total annihilation of the army and had to ensure the very existence of the Belgian State. Th erefore, the army only had to engage in battle if it matched the opposing forces. Th e opposing of one nation to a Great Power was considered to be vain and even absurd. In the view of Galet, foreign assistance was wanted from Great Britain rather than France.23 Th ese theses were supported by politicians such as Charles de Broqueville, a heavy- weight member of the Catholic Party and prime minister and minister of Defence at several occasions. Th e appointment of Galet to the offi ce of chief of General Staff (1926–1932) immediately changed the attitude of this institution, which became more distrustful towards French military policy and the French General Staff .24 Despite the rivalling ideas of both groups, in some cases the same analysis was made, though diverging solutions were proposed: aft er the catastrophe of 1914–1918, which had ruined the nation, Belgian leaders were obsessed with avoiding an invasion in the future.25 Several leading political and military policy-makers uttered doubts whether the French and British troops would arrive in time and in strength in order to assist the Belgian army facing a German invasion at the border. So, to absorb the fi rst German assault the Belgian army itself had to be suffi cient in strength, without relying on a possible assistance by other Powers. Moreover, we will see below how the politics of accommodation and pacifi cation enhanced the establishment of compromises, thus integrating elements of both theses. Furthermore, some decision-makers can be regarded as compromise fi gures. So, Henri Denis, the Minister of Defence from June 1936 until 1940, was a former

23 Emile Galet referred to the benefi ts of the neutrality statute (imposed and guaranteed by the Great Powers) though and stressed at the same time the advantages of further guarantees regarding the integrity of the Belgian territory via international agreements. Chief of the General Staff Emile Galet, Commission mixte 1928, chargée d’étudier les mesures de reorganisation militaire que requiert la défense eff ective du Territoire. Compte rendu des Travaux (further cited as Commission mixte 1928) (Brussels : Imprimerie du Moniteur belge, 1928), p. 13; J. Vaesen, Tussen Scylla en Charybdis, p. 55; and J. Vanwelkenhuyzen, Les gâchis des années 30, p. 60. 24 B. Chaix, En mai 1940, p. 19. 25 D. M. Segesser, “Landesverteidigung,” p. 319. 228 j. vaesen cooperator of Emile Galet, but a partisan of the liberal ideology as well.26 Th ere was also a third group of decision-makers, though they only gained importance from the mid-1930s onwards. Th is faction (related to the Galet school) favoured an ‘exclusive and integral’ Belgian foreign and military policy. It had already been initialised by King Albert I and the Belgian Foreign Department in 1930, but was put at the forefront with the accession of King Leopold III. Th e option for an independent Belgian foreign policy, with obvious eff ects on the military options, departed from the assumption that only strict neutrality would lead to the avoidance of an invasion.27 Th e breakthrough of this thesis had several causes: (the perceived) insuffi cient guarantees from the Allied Powers regarding assistance to Belgium and the delay regarding the fortifi cation of the French northern frontier (demanded by Belgium in order to make a German passage through the country less attractive) as exogenous factors, and the prevention of a breakdown of the nation (neutrality in order to rally the rivalling factions under one fl ag), the negative electoral results for the traditional political parties in the 1936 elections and the sceptical attitude of the Belgian haute fi nance towards the French Front Populaire as endogenous factors.28 In 1936 the French-Belgian Military Agreement of 1920 was revoked and the return to neutrality became a fact. It is clear, though, that not all key military decision makers supported this switch unconditionally, notably Chief of the General Staff Edouard Van den Bergen (1935– 1940) (supported by Albert Devèze) or Minister of Defence Henri Denis, who uttered reservations. So, in the immediate pre-war years foreign military observers noticed a “sharp division of opinion” between the minister of defence and the chief of the General Staff on the one hand and the king, his entourage and the Belgian Government, on the other.29 Th e switch to neutrality did not imply that all contacts between

26 J. Vaesen, Tussen Scylla en Charybdis, p. 124. 27 J. Velaers and H. Van Goethem, Leopold III: De koning, het land, de oorlog (Tielt: Lannoo, 1994), pp. 58–59; and J. Vaesen, Tussen Scylla en Charybdis, pp. 126–127. 28 Telegram from Sir R. Clive, d. d. May 4 1939, Royal Army Museum Brussels, series 80–4, archives of the British military attaché; D. O. Kieft , Belgium’s Return to Neutrality: An Essay in the Frustration of Small Power Diplomacy (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1972), p. 44; J. Vaesen, Tussen Scylla en Charybdis, p. 130; and P. H. Spaak, Combats inachevés: De l’Indépendance à l’Alliance (Paris: Fayard, 1969), p. 41. 29 Report regarding the staff conversations with Belgium, d. d. April 18 1939, Royal Army Museum Brussels, archives of the British military attaché in Brussels. the belgian fortification system 1926–1940 229 the Belgian and French and British armies were cut off . Th e exchange of information continued, but the Belgian Government countered formal Staff contacts in order to prevent Germany becoming aware of these contacts.30

Political Attitudes, Priorities, Constraints and Other Th resholds: the Modernisation of the Fortifi cation System (1926–1940)

What were the results of the clash between the rivalling options of the groups just described and what other thresholds were important as well? Using the case of the fortifi cation system the political attitudes, priorities, limitations and constraints involved, will be described. Brian Bond and Martin Alexander pointed out earlier that one must take into account the restrictions related to “… the knowledge and the diffi culties of the options available” as well in order to understand the military doctrines and the modernisation of the armies.31 In many ways the establishment of a modern(ised) defensive shield – called the couverture or ‘cover’ – was considered to be crucial. Th erefore, it is not surprising that the fi rst modernisation programme of the Belgian army focussed on the fortifi cation system. It had to ensure the mobilisation of the fi eld army and the war preparation of the nation. Obviously, the war of attrition in 1914–1918 had sharpened the idea about the so-called ‘mobilisation of the nation’ (total war).32 Besides, in the views of Belgian high-ranking offi cers, such as Emile Galet, forts were necessary in order to counter the ‘extremely dangerous’ situation of the country, which could not rely on an eccentric geographical position vis-à-vis the Great Powers nor on a rough or unfavourable terrain for mass army movements (like the Swiss mountains or the Dutch inundations).33

30 Report regarding “Staff conversations with Belgium”, April 18 1939, Royal Army Museum Brussels, series 80–3, archives of the British military attaché in Brussels. See also M. Alexander, “In lieu of alliance: Th e French General Staff ’s Secret Co- operation with Neutral Belgium, 1936–1940,” Journal of Strategic Studies 14 (1991): pp. 413–427. 31 B. Bond and M. Alexander, “Th e doctrines,” p. 623. 32 See regarding France: T. Imlay, “Preparing for Total War. Th e Conseil supérieur de la Défense nationale and France’s Industrial and Economic Preparations for War aft er 1918,” War in History 15, no. 1 (2008): p. 43–71. 33 Chief of the General Staff Emile Galet, Commission mixte 1928, pp. 12–13. 230 j. vaesen

It is interesting to observe what strategic assumptions infl uenced the military options. At the beginning of the fi rst modernisation programme in 1926, the Belgian General Staff took three types of aggression into account: irruption (penetration), attaque brusquée (sudden knock-out assault) and attaque massive (massive assault, using a signifi cant proportion or even the full strength of the enemy army). Th e fi rst type drew upon the increased motorisation and mechanisation of forces, implying the possibility of a swift penetration by motorised or mobile (partly armoured) infantry units - using tanks, armoured vehicles, coaches and even bicycles -, supported by mechanised artillery and bombers. For the second type of invasion the battle of Liège in August 1914 had proven to be a fact book example. Using its already mobilised forces, the enemy could launch a swift assault and create a breakthrough before the whole army was mobilised.34 Th e fact that the Belgian army took these two types of invasion, based upon a motorised and thus highly mobile invasion force, into account, and thereby explicitly referring to German studies, negates the image of Belgian decision- makers not being aware of the German plans and innovations.35 Th e Belgian General Staff focussed on the fi rst two types of assault since it expected that the launching of a massif German assault would require a certain time span, while in the meantime the Allied Powers could advance into Belgium. Due to its strategic relevance for the Great Powers, Belgium expected Allied assistance anyhow.36 In 1926 a study commission was established in order to review the state of the contemporary fortifi cation system: could the old pre-World War I forts be used in a future war? Could they cover the mobilisation of the fi eld army and block a highly mobile assault? Th e timing of this assessment was purposeful. By 1926, the equipment of the Belgian army was considered to be out-dated (e.g. the Mauser rifl e went back

34 Not all Belgian decision-makers estimated this type of invasion probable. While Chief of the General Staff Emile Galet referred to the experience of the battle of Liège in August 1914, his opponent General Hellebaut and senator de Brouckère thought a recurrence of this type of invasion not very likely. For Chief of the General Staff Emile Galet the likelihood of an attaque brusquée diminished with the level of initial force produced by the mobilised Belgian army. Chief of the General Staff Emile Galet, Commission mixte 1928, pp. 266–267. 35 Belgian military decision-makers agreed on the probability of such an assault but disagreed on other things, such as the delay involved. Chief of the General Staff Emile Galet, Commission mixte 1928, pp. 267–268. 36 See R. Van Overstraeten, Dans l’Étau: Au service de la Belgique (Paris: Plon, 1960). the belgian fortification system 1926–1940 231 to 1899), of poor quality or quantitatively insuffi cient.37 Th e cost of the fi rst instalment of the modernisation programme was calculated at some 500 million Belgian francs, 725% of the investment level in 1928. Not without reason the Belgian General Staff labelled the situation in the mid-1920s as critical.38

Th e Galet System: Forts in Support of a Small, but Professional Field Army

Above it has been shown that Emile Galet and his supporters came to power in 1926, when the former military advisor to King Albert I was appointed chief of the General Staff . Th e modernisation of the Belgian army was submitted to study groups, starting with the forts. Was the establishment of a fortifi cation system not an anachronism in an era of mechanised warfare? First of all, it is worth noting that the Galet school was in favour of the use of forts in support of the fi eld army. As such, the old Brialmont forts, named aft er their creator and dating from the second half of the 19th century and the beginning of the 20th century, at Liège, Namur and Antwerp, were to be rearmed and adapted only to a limited extent. Most of the old Brialmont forts were rearmed indeed, thereby focussing initially on the sites at Liège (8 out of 12 forts) and Namur (7 out of 9 forts) (see below regarding Antwerp), but with an important restriction in mind: their cost price. Th is even implied, for example, that some members of the 1926 fortifi cation commission proposed only the re-use of the old 57 mm guns, dating from the late 19th century, in order to avoid booming costs. In order to justify the technical transformation of the old forts the Belgian General Staff also tried to reinterpret the military campaign of 1914, using some highly disputable fi gures in doing so.39 Th us, the operation and resistance of these forts in the First World War were exaggerated. Th e Galet group was well aware of the fl aws of the old Brialmont forts and of the limitations related to their modernisation. Th at does not mean that foreign ideas regarding fortifi cations were not followed up or integrated. Th e basic concept of the newly constructed Eben-Emael fort (developed in

37 Chief of the General Staff Emile Galet, Commission mixte 1928, p. 16. 38 Chief of the General Staff Emile Galet, Commission mixte 1928, p. 16. 39 See E. Tollen, La défense des frontières (Brussels: Cercle d’études politiques, 1932), p. 46; and J. Vaesen, Tussen Scylla en Charybdis, p. 57. 232 j. vaesen

1927 in order to secure a breach in the Liège fortifi ed position), for example, combines elements of the Belgian Brialmont tradition, on the one hand, and the French ‘ouvrage’-system and the German ‘Festen’- principle on the other.40 Besides, some adjustments or enlargements were foreseen. Th e limited modernisation of the Brialmont forts was therefore sound. Within the Galet plan the fortifi cations functioned only in order to secure the mobilisation of the fi eld army, as bridge- heads situated near the ‘natural obstacles’, and in support of the operations by the fi eld army. Subsequently, they received clearly a subordinate role vis-à-vis the fi eld army, thus leaving fi nancial room for investments in bulk of the army at a later stage, on the one hand, and taking the anti-militarist tendencies (favouring restrictions on the Defence budget) into account, on the other. With this approach Chief of the General Staff Galet was also more fl exible than his predecessor, Henri Maglinse, who opposed the reduction of the army capacity in the fi rst half of the 1920s.41 Th e Galet fortifi cation plan thus comprised Liège as a fortifi ed outpost in the east (blocking a penetration by mobile forces), two fortifi ed positions at Antwerp (in the north) and Namur (in the south) to be connected during mobilisation by fi eld defences in order to shield the core of the country, and, fi nally, a last stronghold in the west behind the Escaut/Schelde-river (Antwerp-Ghent-Ostend). Besides the modernisation of the existing permanent defensive system, the Chief of the General Staff foresaw the construction of a limited number of new works. Th is included the construction of the above-mentioned gigantic fort at Eben-Emael, in order to block the Maastricht-gap, and the establishment of a new bridgehead at Ghent (consisting of four new forts and a series of bunkers). Besides, special bunkers were to be constructed at bridges and crucial crossroads, thus preventing a swift penetrating action from enemy mobile forces. Th e army also made use of the Albert Canal, constructed from the late 1920s onwards,42 and other ‘natural’ obstacles. Finally, a new réduit national or ‘national base’ for the fi eld army had to be established

40 Th e operations regarding the defence of and assault on fortifi cations abroad were discussed. See e.g. the handbook on fortifi cations by the Military School: R. Deguent and G. Goethals, Guerre de sieges (Brussels: Military School, 1921). 41 D. M. Segesser, “Landesverteidigung,” p. 272. 42 See L. De Vos, F. Decat and D. Van Duyse, “De militaire functie van het Albertkanaal,” Bijdragen van het Navorsings- en Studiecentrum voor de geschiedenis van de Tweede Wereldoorlog, no. 13 (1990): pp. 5–58. the belgian fortification system 1926–1940 233 behind the Escaut/Schelde river. Far more wide-ranging than the Antwerp stronghold of 1914 it included the new Ghent bridgehead as well as the ports of Ostend and Zeebruges in order to secure overseas supplies. Th e elaboration and execution of the Galet-fortifi cation plan faced several challenges: the fi nancial resources of the State; the public opinion; political opposition; the economic crisis; the domestic economic structure and the available military technology. Th us a fi rst factor with impact on the decision making process is the fi nancial variable.43 It has already been indicated that the cost price was an important factor. How much money was available for the Belgian military policy? Besides the political will, the relationship with the economic situation is of course important. Th e 1926 economic crisis had forced the Government to reduce the size of the army, though Chief of the General Staff Galet estimated it would not endanger the value of the Belgian defence system as such (cf. his option for a small, but professional force).44 Besides, new opportunities arose at the end of the 1920s when some heavy war debts would be paid off .45 Initially, the Galet fortifi cation plan was estimated at 600 million BEF or 56% of the 1929 Defence budget. Th e Belgian Government decided to ask 175 million BEF, soon raised to 300 million BEF. It is interesting to observe that in the course of the 1930s several proposals by private French fi rms – indirectly linked with the French Government – were presented at the Belgian Ministry of Defence in order to support the costs of some defensive works on the Belgian eastern frontier.46 In short, the Belgian Government had made a serious amount available for the upgrading of the permanent defensive system.

43 See also P. Clement, Government consumption and investment in Belgium, 1830– 1940 (Louvain: Leuven University Press and Koninklijke Vlaamse Academie van België voor Wetenschappen en Kunsten, 2000). 44 Th is reorganisation cannot entirely be regarded in terms of reduction, though. In 1928 the cavalry corps was reinforced, now consisting of two divisions, while later specifi c units such as the Chasseurs Ardennais and the Border Regiment were created. L. Vandeweyer and M. Van den Wijngaert, “Van neutraliteit tot Atlantische en Europese gebondenheid,” in België, een land in crisis; 1913–1950, ed. M. Van den Wijngaert et al. (Antwerpen: Standaard Uitgeverij, 2006), p. 40. 45 Proceedings of the meeting of the National Government, December 9, 1927, p. 19, State Archives Belgium. 46 J. Vaesen, Tussen Scylla en Charybdis, p. 100. Th e same was true regarding the air defence: according to Raoul Van Overstraeten British investors proposed to help Belgium in order to obtain 500 airplanes in 1938. R. Van Overstraeten, Dans l’Étau, p. 97. 234 j. vaesen

Second, public opinion had to be persuaded (cf. the anti-militarist tendencies and the era of pacifi sm since the Locarno agreement) of the utility and even necessity of a serious fi nancial investment in order to reinforce the army in general and the fortifi cation system in particular. Th erefore a new committee – the so-called Commission militaire mixte or mixed military committee (consisting of MPs and offi cers) – was established in 1928 in order to “prepare the public opinion” for this matter and to communicate the gravity of the situation to the population.47 Th is sensitivity to the public opinion diff ers from the past, as shown by the case of the Antwerp fortifi ed position in the 19th century. In the 1850s the Ministry of War was unable to explain the necessity of the modernisation of the Antwerp fortifi cations, thus giving way to local upheaval.48 In the inter-war period the Belgian army command did not only face local protests, related to specifi c cities, but some broader movements as well, especially in the Walloon region. Th us, several groups – ‘Leagues’ – demanding the extra fortifi cation of the south-eastern border were active. Th ough protesters (supported by opinion makers) succeeded in appealing to some segments of the public, their direct infl uence on the decision-making process was limited.49 On the other hand, some policy-makers drew upon their support in order to justify certain options (see below). When Minister of Defence Charles de Broqueville, supported by King Albert I and Chief of the General Staff Galet, submitted the Galet-plan regarding the modernisation of the fortifi cation system in Parliament at the beginning of 1931 (worth 300 million BEF), he met with political opposition. Th e fi ercest protests came from the Antwerp Catholics and the (Walloon) Liberals, opposing to the modernisation of the Antwerp forts and claiming the supplementary defence of the south-eastern border area, respectively. Both groups were supported by parts of the public opinion. Th e protest and pressure did not only involve local actions, especially from big cities like Antwerp and Ghent (opposing the restrictions the extension of their local fortifi cation system would imply). Th e Galet plan also threatened to reinforce one of

47 Proceedings of the meeting of the National Government, December 9, 1927, p. 18, Minister of Justice Janson, State Archives Belgium. 48 F. Lehouck, Het anti-militarisme in België, p. 255; and L. Wils, Het ontstaan van de meetingpartij te Antwerpen en haar invloed op de Belgische politiek (Antwerpen: Nederlandse boekhandel, 1963). 49 W. Wegnez, “La défense de la Belgique à la frontière: L’avis d’une population men- acée,” Revue belge d’histoire contemporaine 3, no. 3–4 (1972): p. 269. the belgian fortification system 1926–1940 235 the crucial rift s in the Belgian political and societal system: the sociolinguistic/regional tensions. By its (Walloon) adversaries the Galet- plan was considered to be ‘Flemish’ since it did not or insuffi ciently provide in the fortifi cation of a large part of eastern Wallonia. Besides the use of the Liège fortifi ed position as an outpost, Galet had chosen to defend the trunk. So some pressure groups criticized certain Government coalitions entirely made up of politicians from Brussels and Flanders.50 Th ey emphasised the need for a specifi c defence of the Walloon provinces, thus rallying the above-mentioned border defence option. Th e following ‘verbal war’ in Parliament between competing factions even led to the fall of the Government Jaspar II in 1931. A compromise was searched for and found. In order to appease the local Antwerp upheaval the rearmament of the Antwerp forts was (temporarily) postponed. On the other hand, to counter the alleged ‘sacrifi ce’ of three Walloon provinces, additional fortifi cations were to be constructed to the east of Liège and in the Ardennes, while a specifi c unit for their defence – the so-called Chasseurs Ardennais – was established. Only aft er a subsequent series of amendments and a reduction of the cost price to 210 million BEF was the Galet-plan adopted in Parliament in June 1931.51 What about the ‘Great Depression’, a conceivable fourth impact factor? Th is economic crisis hit Belgium from the middle of 1930 onwards, so just before the military modernisation was submitted to Parliament. Did this aff ect the expenditure regarding the modernisation of the army, and, if so, to what extent? It is clear that the ministry of Defence could not avoid the repercussions of the fi nancial strains on the State budget due to the economic crisis. King Albert I therefore intervened personally in order to promote budget cuts. According to the offi cial version the army had “to be fi tted within the capabilities of the country.”52 Th is interference did not bring the whole modernisation programme of the army in jeopardy, though. Some projects were considered to be vital for the security of the country. Budget cuts were then realised mainly through the reduction of the army size, wages, expenses

50 J. Vanwelkenhuyzen, Les gâchis des années 30, p. 62; and D. O. Kieft , Belgium’s return to neutrality, p. 41. 51 G. Provoost, militair-politiek beleid, vol. 2, p. 19 and further; and J. Vaesen, Tussen Scylla en Charybdis, pp. 80–81. 52 E. Gilbert, L’armée dans la Nation. L’entre-deux-guerres en Belgique (Brussels: Wellens, 1945,) p. 47; and J. Vaesen, Tussen Scylla en Charybdis, pp. 173–174. 236 j. vaesen and institutions such as military hospitals and schools. More specifi - cally regarding the fortifi cation system this meant that some investments could be postponed (which could also occur in a ‘natural’ way due to problems with the contractors), though most projects continued. Th e modernisation of the forts was even used in the offi cial discourse of the State as a measure to counter unemployment. In any case, it implied that the investments continued in these times of fi nancial austerity.53 A fi ft h possible threshold is the economic structure of the country. Did the Belgian economic system infl uence the options regarding the military modernisation? Th e Belgian fi rms mainly produced semi- fi nished products, thus focussing to a large extent on export. Th e main components of the economic system consisted of heavy industries such as steel and concrete plants, glass and iron factories and coal mines. Th is implied of course that at least the construction of new forts and bunkers or the adaptation of older works could be assigned to Belgian fi rms. Th e case of fort Eben-Emael and certainly that of several bunkers in the north-eastern part of the country, indicate on the other hand that a certain lack of know-how and expertise occurred.54 What about the equipment of the forts? Several Belgian weapon factories, mainly situated in the Liège area, delivered the battle equipment of the inter-war period fortifi cations.55 Th e best performing plant was without doubt the Royal Gun Factory – Fonderie Royale des Canons (a Belgian State fi rm) at Liège, which produced medium and heavy arms, such as excellent anti-tank weapons and artillery pieces. On the other hand, it is clear as well that the Belgian state and private weapon factories were unable to cope with all the demands of the Belgian army, both in a quantitative and in a qualitative sense.56 Besides, in some cases the production cost by Belgian fi rms was estimated to be up to 20% higher compared with those by plants abroad. Consequently, a public debate regarding the possible nationalisation of the Belgian weapon industry arose in 1935. Th e main argument was the reduction of the cost price of modernisation of the army and thus the security of the nation.57

53 J. Vaesen, Tussen Scylla en Charybdis, p. 155, 164 and 218. 54 J. Vaesen, Tussen Scylla en Charybdis, p. 194. 55 Unlike the pre World War I situation when Belgium depended on foreign fi rms. 56 Note regarding the technical valour of our army … by the Inspector-general of the artillery, [1936] s.d., Royal Army Museum Brussels, Russian archives, box 5448. 57 J. Vaesen, Tussen Scylla en Charybdis, p. 168, 192 and 203. the belgian fortification system 1926–1940 237

Th e issue was even more hampered by the fact that purchases abroad were not always possible. Th e supply problem of Belgian fi rms regarding specifi c military demands and the international rearmament race infl uenced some of the military options as well, as was illustrated by the motorisation of the cavalry corps. Belgian fi rms were unable to supply infantry transport trucks – so motorbikes were chosen instead – while other types of engines were diffi cult to purchase abroad or showed several other problems.58 Innovation in military technology is an important variable as well. Th e development of a new 120 mm fi eld gun (of which an under-cupola version was eventually placed in two Liège forts) provides a fi ne example of the time span involved: the design was initiated in 1924 but the gun could only be produced by 1932.59 Eugenia Kiesling estimated that it took in general ten years before a new weapon was developed, produced and introduced with the troops.60 W. H. McNeill argues also that such a progress in technology implied disadvantages as well: in certain domains newly produced technology risked being outdated very soon.61 Besides a continuous modernisation of the military technology for the whole army was fi nancially unrealistic for the Belgian State.62 Th erefore, it is not surprising that especially the equipment of the modernised Brialmont/Galet-forts at Liège, Namur and Antwerp consisted of a combination of both new and up-graded old material. According to the General Staff , some 50% of the artillery pieces had survived the German 1914 siege and, moreover, the Belgian army could count on German material which had been obtained as war booty. Aft er an up- grade by the Royal Gun Factory these weapons could be used in the old forts and this solution was considered to be both ‘economic’ and ‘satisfactory’.63

58 See T. Vanhassel, “All the king’s men and all the king’s horses: De motorisering van de Belgische cavalerie in de jaren ‘30,” (master’s thesis, VUB, 2008), p. 118. Th e relationship between the domestic economic structure of the country and the military options taken merits a more profound and thorough academic study. 59 J. Vaesen, Tussen Scylla en Charybdis, p. 198. 60 E. Kiesling, “French Military doctrine,” p. 214. 61 W. H. McNeill, Th e Pursuit of Power: Technology, Armed Force and Society since AD 1000 (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1982), pp. 350–351. 62 Only the follow-up of the technological progress was already estimated at some 100 million BEF per year. 63 ‘Organisation défensive du pays’, s.d., s.a., Royal Army Museum, Budgets 1930 (2); and Report of the Defence Commission, 1930, nr. 62, p. 8, Parliamentary Documents of the Belgian Senate. 238 j. vaesen

Th is assessment was thus fully in line with the Galet-fortifi cation plan: the modernisation of the old forts occurred only for the benefi t of the fi eld army. Th is supporting job had to be realised through a minimal investment – both in terms of fi nancial and human means –, which only had to ensure the execution of limited tasks. Th erefore, the forts were only to be re-established where they could perform a function within the strategic and operational defence plans.64 Due to the above- mentioned political opposition and public protests, the initial focus lay upon the Liège and Namur forts for which modernisation labour started at the end of the 1920s, even before the Galet fortifi cation plan was approved in Parliament.

Th e Devèze-Hellebaut Option: the Establishment of a ‘Wall’ at the Eastern Border

With the appointment of the Liberal MP Albert Devèze as Minister of Defence in December 1932, the option for the border defence took momentum. Th is faction drew partly upon the ideas propagated by Chief of General Staff Henri Maglinse in the fi rst half of the 1920s: the elaboration of champs de bataille, war zones, the fi rst of which had to be established near the eastern frontier. Following the case of the French fortifi cation system (thereby referring to Verdun) and the Belgian experience during the battles at the Yser river in 1914–1918, this implied the construction of bunkers, trenches and other defensive measures. Th ese constructions were considered to be much cheaper than the renovation of existing forts (60 bunkers to the price of 1fort).65 Gaps between the battlefi elds had to canalise an invading army towards a certain position, where the Belgian fi eld army would be waiting. Minister of Defence Albert Devèze also defended the option of con- structing new forts, notably on the plateau to the east of Liège. In the meantime the fortifi cation committee had concluded that fi ve new

64 See also R. Deguent, “La fortifi cation dans la défense du pays,” Bulletin belge des sciences militaires,” 1926, no. 7: pp. 651–666. 65 See several articles of Henri Maglinse in La Belgique Militaire, 1937. Raoul Van Overstraeten, the military advisor to King Leopold III, did not favour the frequent construction of bunkers, given their dispersal and the eff ects on tactical instruction, discipline and morale. R. Van Overstraeten, Albert Ier-Léopold III. Vingt ans de politique militaire belge, 1920–1940 (Bruges: Desclée de Brouwer, 1949), p. 170. the belgian fortification system 1926–1940 239 forts (of which three were eventually built) were vital for the (eastern) border defence, along with the construction of various bunkers in several lines. Th e idea was the construction of some kind of border wall, the so-called Mur Devèze or Devèze Wall, according to the above- mentioned plans of the champ de bataille and the French system of the Maginot-line. Moreover, the basic concept of these new Devèze-forts contrasted to a great extent with the modernised Brialmont/Galet- forts. Th e former were to be used in order to block an invasion and thus to contain the German assault at the frontier: their armour was much thicker (able to withstand bombardments from 420mm up to 520mm shells depending on the type of fort, which contrasts with the 280mm protection for the Brialmont/Galet-forts) and their armament was much more modern than the re-armed Brialmont/Galet-forts (which included mainly upgraded old material).66 Of course, such investments implied huge costs. Th ese initiatives could count on much support in the Walloon provinces, though, and had an important psy- chological impact as well: they were tangible realisations that showed both the nation (with impact on domestic politics) and foreign Powers that Belgium was advancing in protecting the country from a new catastrophe.67 It is obvious that France (or at least some French factions) favoured these investments, since they would imply the extension of the Maginot line to the north.68 Financial restrictions due to the economic crisis infl uenced the options of the Defence department as well: the 1933 Defence budget was labelled the “budget of misery.” Th is forced the decision-makers to make choices between the several projects and resulted in confl icts between the rivalling factions described earlier. One of the best examples is the clash between Chief of General Staff Prudent Nuyten (1932–1934), an advocate of the Galet-doctrine, and Minister of Defence Albert Devèze in 1934. In order to realise the necessary budget

66 Th e case of fort Eben-Emael is very interesting since it seems to combine both elements: its armour was only able to withstand 280mm shells, so fi tting in the restricted rearmament concepts of the Galet plan, but the most modern armament was put in place, as was the case in the later constructed Devèze forts. Moreover, Eben-Emael functioned as some kind of try-out place for the later constructed Devèze forts since a lot of construction and technological expertise had been lost by the end of the 1920s. 67 See Miles [P. Nothomb], “La défense du Pays et les projets du Gouvernement,” Le Flambeau 14, 1931, vol. 1. 68 R. Van Overstraeten, Albert Ier-Léopold III, p. 89 and 96. 240 j. vaesen cuts Nuyten strived for the abandonment of the new forts and bunkers to the east of Liège,69 promoted by Albert Devèze, since he preferred investments in the fi eld army. Obviously, the liberal leader was dissatisfi ed with the initiative of the chief of General Staff and Prudent Nuyten was forced to step down, despite support of the King.70 Th e compromise fi gure General Adolphe Cumont was appointed as chief of the General Staff , but soon reached the age of retirement. Albert Devèze then succeeded in promoting Edouard van den Bergen, a supporter of the French orientation. Van den Bergen maintained his mandate until the beginning of 1940, when a confl ict with Minister of Defence Henri Denis regarding the partition of competences provoked his resignation.71 In 1934 Albert Devèze succeeded in obtaining from Parliament 759 million BEF (78% of the 1933 Defence budget) for the modernisation of the Belgian army. Th e majority of this budget was intended for the fi eld army, but some 234 million BEF was attributed to the reinforcement of the fortifi cation system (the bulk of which was directed towards the Liège area and the border defence). With these initiatives Albert Devèze gained much popularity in the Walloon region. Some projects of the Galet plan were continued as well, though. Under Devèze new bunkers were constructed alongside the Albert Canal, while some of the older Brialmont forts around Antwerp, originally postponed in 1931, were modernised and turned into infantry support sites. Besides, with this huge budget Devèze could block some criticism on his massive fortifi cation plan on the eastern frontier, since the investment program included an intensive modernisation of the fi eld army as well. On top of this, the Minister of Defence decided in 1933 to allocate the defence of the Ardennes region to a mechanised unit (the Chasseurs Ardennais mentioned above) rather than extend the bunker lines.72

69 Earlier, in 1932, the Belgian General Staff had used the economic crisis in order to postpone the enlargement of the Liege fortifi ed position, obtained by the Devèze- group during the 1931–1932 Parliamentary debates. Instead Galet and his colleague Prudent Nuyten focussed upon the completion of the modernisation of the Brialmont forts, the construction of the new fort at Eben-Emael and the establishment of specifi c (but limited) bunkers in the border area. J. Vaesen, Tussen Scylla en Charybdis, p. 188. 70 J. Vaesen, Tussen Scylla en Charybdis, pp. 87–88. He was called to active duty again though in the winter of 1939–1940. 71 Letter from Blake on February 10, 1940, Royal Army Museum Brussels, series 80–4, archives of the British military attaché in Brussels. 72 J. Vaesen, Tussen Scylla en Charybdis, p. 91. the belgian fortification system 1926–1940 241

Th e Devèze plan was a real threat to the Galet plan, though, since a formidable extension of the fortifi cation system was proposed, putting less emphasis on a mobile and professional fi eld army. Th e border defence – running from Antwerp in the north to Arlon in the southeast – measured no less than 300 km. Moreover, several areas included multiple defensive positions. Th e Liège fortifi ed place, for example, thus received no less than six alert and defensive lines, consisting of four new forts, eight modernised forts, 384 bunkers, anti-tank obstacles, observation posts, command posts, an underground telephone network, etc. Th e fortifi cation of the border region was of course not an isolated issue. It had important strategic, tactical and operational repercussions as well. Where the Galet plan provided a minimal input in the fortifi cations and a small, but professional fi eld army, the establishment of an eastern border wall necessitated a much larger force. General Hellebaut calculated that some 18 infantry divisions – “a human chain” – were necessary in order to control Belgium’s eastern frontier. With the above-mentioned input in the 1934 Defence budget Albert Devèze secured the enlargement of the Belgian army as well. Besides the existing units, six extra infantry divisions were to be created thereby leading to a three-fold split up: six ‘active’ divisions, six divisions of ‘fi rst reserve’ and six divisions of ‘second reserve’. Th is turned the Belgian army into a (relatively) important numerical force: between 600,000 and 650,000 men (or ca. 8% of the population) were mobilised during the phoney war.73 Leading military decision-makers, such as the military advisor to King Leopold III, stressed that the value of the new established units was limited, though, and that their existence was only due to a press campaign.74 Moreover, the border wall would imply the deployment of the fi eld army near the eastern frontier.75 Th is contrasted, then, with the Galet paradigm regarding the in depth defence and the proportion of forces, engaging a battle only when the opposing armed forces were matched by the own army. Besides, this deployment

73 Another 150,000 men were draft ed in May 1940. 74 R. Van Overstraeten, Albert Ier-Léopold III, p. 198. 75 Th e deployment of the fi eld army, directly related to the fortifi cation system, was already an issue in the Belgian military policy before the First World War. Did the fi eld army have to cover the Liège fortifi ed position or did it have to be deployed more to the centre of the country? In the inter-war period some of the offi cers involved even threatened with a lawsuit against their rivals. J. Vaesen, Tussen Scylla en Charybdis, p. 184. 242 j. vaesen was related to the options of the Allied troops, since all Belgian decision-makers made it clear that the Belgian army could not for ever pin down an invading German army on its own. Were the Allied forces prepared to move towards the Belgian eastern frontier? Th erefore, it is not surprising that Belgium tried to attain the deployment of Allied troops in the Liège area and on the Albert Canal.76

Th e Return to Neutrality: Towards a Hybrid System?

Albert Devèze left offi ce in 1936, aft er which the Galet group gained some control again. Th is implied, for example, some investments for the Réduit national or ‘Army Base’ and the Ghent bridgehead. Th is program had suff ered a serious delay, due to the focus on the fortifi cation of the Belgian eastern border, on the one hand, and some interaction problems between the Departments of Defence and Public Works regarding the execution of the constructions, on the other. So a series of bunkers, antitank obstacles and fi eld fortifi cations were constructed around Ghent while some limited defences were built around the sea ports of Ostend and Zeebruges as well. As such, the ‘Army Base’ was gradually developed. By 1940 it contained several ammunition dumps, livestock, petrol tanks, etc.77 On the other hand, some options chosen by Albert Devèze were cancelled. Th is was not only the case with some specifi c bunkers; other projects were discontinued as well, freed available credits being used for investments in the fi eld army. Th us, consistent with the Galet plan, the full motorisation of the Belgian cavalry corps (estimated at some 40 million BEF) was fi nanced with the dis- continuance of the envisaged Devèze fort at Sougnée-Remouchamps in the Liège area. Th is cavalry corps was given the task to take part into the couverture/cover operation as well as to form a mobile unit in order to close possible breaches in the defence line.78 Not all of the Devèze- constructions were dismissed though. Th e execution of most of the

76 Th e common French-British operational planning occurred only in 1939. Th e French high command produced several plans of which the Dyle plan, with an advance towards the centre of Belgium, was eventually adopted. B. Chaix, En mai 1940, p. 60 and further. See R. Van Overstraeten, Dans l’Étau, p. 129 and B. Chaix, En mai 1940, regarding the French operational plans. 77 L. de Vos and F. Decat, Mei 1940: Van Albertkanaal tot Leie (Kapellen: Pelckmans, 1990), p. 33. 78 J. Vaesen, Tussen Scylla en Charybdis, p. 210. the belgian fortification system 1926–1940 243 border defence projects continued and the majority was kept in use. So a hybrid system was adopted, using elements of both theses put forward by the competing fractions. Th e fi rst defence line was thus situated on the Albert Canal and the Meuse river, near the eastern border. Th is limited retreat from the frontier was compensated for by the maintenance of some advanced warning and alert posts as well as by the intensifi ed installation of a system of demolitions of roads and railways.79 As mentioned before, 1936 was also the year of the revocation of the French-Belgian military agreement and the return to neutrality. According to military advisor to the King Raoul Van Overstraeten, this implied very few strategic repercussions, given the fact that the contacts between the Belgian and French General Staff had proven to be of limited value. Bruno Chaix, on the other hand, stressed the importance of these contacts, despite the cooling down of the relations and their irregularity because the information exchange continued and did not prevent an effi cient operational co-operation.80 Th e fortifi cation system underwent a symbolic readjustment, though. In 1938 it was decided to construct some bunkers to the south of Brussels (the line Ninove-Halle-Waterloo) in order to soft en biting criticism of the unilateral orientation of the Belgian fortifi cations (towards Germany). Moreover, some key decision-makers such as the King’s military advisor Raoul Van Overstraeten, were sceptical about the policy of the French Government and were keen on protecting the capital of the country from a southern assault as well.81 Th ese constructions fell short of the system developed towards the east, though. More than a serious defensive position they were used in the public discussion in order to persuade (internal) opponents of the Belgian military policy – segments of the Flemish public were very sceptical about the French orientation of the Devèze group – and at the same time as a (symbolic) sign towards the French decision-makers. According to leading Belgian

79 Annual report 1937, p. 83, Royal Army museum Brussels, series 80–3, archives of the British military attaché in Brussels. 80 R. Van Overstraeten, Albert Ier-Léopold III, p. 254 and Chaix, B., En mai 1940, p. 19. 81 R. Van Overstraeten, Dans l’Étau, p. 84. Other measures were taken in the same sense, such as the orientation of some infantry units towards the south at the beginning of the mobilisation or the establishment of a (southern) Border Regiment, using elements of the Gendarmerie. F. Balace, “Quelle armée pour la Belgique?” in Jours de Guerre: Les dix-huit jours, ed. F. Balace (Bruxelles, Crédit Communal, 1991), p. 56. 244 j. vaesen decision-makers, this warning was necessary since it kept the possibility of a French advance on Germany through Belgium into account, certainly given the French system of alliances with other powers (such as Poland). Th erefore, the Belgian General Staff had prepared a (limited) defensive scheme in case of such a French assault.82 Th is situation continued until the beginning of 1939. Faced with the refusal of the French High Command to advance in strength on the Albert Canal-Meuse defence line,83 held by the Belgian troops at the eastern border, the Belgian army changed its deployment. As such, more emphasis was placed at defending the core (again), which in eff ect put a revised version of the Galet plan back on the table. Th is meant that the Albert Canal-Meuse line only had to delay a German assault, thus buying time for the French and British forces to move towards the Antwerp-Namur defence line to the east of Brussels (called the Dyle plan). At this so-called K.W. line (called aft er the two munici- palities at its extremities: Koningshooikt and Wavre) the German army had to be stopped. To that end, a system of antitank obstacles defended by bunkers had to be established.84 A ‘steel wall’ was thus foreseen in order to block the expected German motorised and mechanised assault and the 1939 and 1940 Defence budgets included almost 4,000 million BEF of so-called special investments, a part of which was attributed to the K.W. line. In May 1940 signifi cant progress was made at the K.W. Line, though some fl aws remained such as the link-up between this position and the Namur fortifi ed area. Th e establishment of the K.W. line also proves that serious attention was paid to the advance in mechanised warfare. From the beginning of the modernisation program in 1926 the defence schemes of the Belgian army command had been based on blocking a swift , motorized German assault. In 1934 the discussion on mechanised warfare (including the review of options

82 Report from Clive to Eden, February 1, 1938, Royal Army Museum Brussels, series 80–3, archives of the British military attaché in Brussels. See also R. Boijen, “De Belgische militair-buitenlandse politiek gezien door een Britse bril. Briefwisseling tussen de Britse ambassade en het Foreign Offi ce,” Cahiers belges d’histoire militaire, 2001, no. 1: pp. 35–134; and D. O. Kieft , Belgium’s return to neutrality, p. 12. 83 See B. Chaix, En mai 1940, p. 297. In the French opinion, the Belgians black- mailed the French and British decision-makers because Belgium wanted to be ‘guaranteed’ without ‘guaranteeing’ herself. In other words, Belgium did not want to get involved in the Allied policy but excepted assistance in case of a German assault anyway. Besides, Belgian decision-makers set several conditions. B. Chaix, En mai 1940, p. 298. 84 R. Van Overstraeten, Dans l’Etau, p. 66 and below and p. 135 and below. the belgian fortification system 1926–1940 245 taken in France, Great Britain and Germany) and the required response took momentum in the Belgian military journals.85 In order to remedy this danger the Belgian decision makers opted not for tanks but for the defensive variant. Th is implied the development of eff ective anti tank guns – which were positioned in bunkers, in the fi eld or on wheels – as well as anti-tank obstacles. Th is option is not only related to the thresholds mentioned earlier, such as the supply problems by Belgian fi rms, but to the public as well which had to be rallied under the fl ag of neutrality. ‘Defensive’ weapons such as the anti-tank guns were used, therefore, rather than tanks, which were labelled in the offi cial discourse as ‘off ensive’ engines.86

Th e Outcome of the Modernisation of the Belgian Fortifi cation System

By 1940 Belgium had established three defence lines apart from the alert positions and outposts near the border: a hold-up line situated at the Albert Canal and the Meuse river; a defence line running from the Antwerp fortifi ed position in the north to the Namur fortifi ed position (via the K.W. line), protecting the core of the country, and, fi nally, a stronghold running from Antwerp over the Ghent bridgehead towards the ports of Zeebruges and Ostend. So a hybrid fortifi ed system had been developed. Th e main features of the initial Galet-plan were maintained and executed but the advocates of the ‘border defence’ managed to introduce several amendments, which in practice implied the extra fortifi cation (via new forts and bunkers) of the Liège and Ardennes area as well as the eastern part of Limburg. Th e adjustment of the initial Galet plan was not only due to the political and public protests described above. Since 1931 the Devèze program regarding the border defence had secretely been supported and developed by the Committee

85 D. M. Segesser, “Landesverteidigung,” pp. 294–295. 86 J. Vaesen, Tussen Scylla en Charybdis, p. 205. Th e evolution of the tank weapon was followed up. At the beginning of the 1930s several Powers (such as France) had not decided yet which type they would bring into production. Moreover, French experiments showed that anti-tank weapons were both cheaper and more eff ective than tanks. E. Kiesling, “French Military Doctrine,” pp. 218–219. In 1932 Belgium kept in mind as well that armament restrictions could be enforced via the League of Nations. Belgium eventually purchased some engines but focused mainly on ‘tankdestroyers’ such as the T13. 246 j. vaesen of Defence, chaired by the King. By using the ideas of Albert Devèze and his popularity among the population in the Walloon region (resulting from his border defence initiatives) Albert I and Leopold III were able to increase both the numbers and the eff ectiveness of the army.87 Th e border defence ‘concession’ towards the Devèze group had thus enabled or facilitated the modernisation of the fi eld army (see the ‘package deal’ regarding the modernisation of the army in 1934 mentioned above). Besides, Belgium was not the only Power that established new permanent defences or modernised existing ones in the inter-war period.88 Th ough there was much debate on the utility of the bunker-lines, some Belgian and foreign military actors were impressed with the result. So in 1934 the British military attaché in Brussels stated as follows, “A very great progress has been made with the defences of the eastern frontier … and if held with determination they should prove a formidable barrier against invasion.”89 Did the modernisation of the fortifi cation system prevent the reinforcement of the fi eld army? Th is issue had already been subject to debate before 1914, when the size of the fort garrisons was considered to be in ‘disbalance’ with the fi eld army. It is clear that a huge fi nancial eff ort was made in the inter-war period: from 1928 until 1936 the up- grade of the Brialmont forts and the execution of the Devèze border defence programme had necessitated at least 627 million BEF, according to offi cial declarations,90 while later on another input of at least 206 million BEF was achieved. Moreover, the ultimate fi nancial input was actually much higher.91 Th is amount contrasts hugely with the initial credits asked for by chief of General Staff Galet (an increase of 278% vis-à-vis the 1930 budget), although the severe economic crisis and the unemployment rates were used in order to justify these investments.

87 Letter from the British embassy in Brussels to Anthony Eden, September 2, 1937, Royal Army Museum Brussels, series nr. 80–3, archives of the British military attaché in Brussels. 88 Th is was even the case for Germany. Despite the image of a fully mechanised force, due to the Blitzkrieg, the German army produced permanent defences as well. See also R. L. Dinardo, “German armour doctrine” regarding the mechanisation of the German forces. 89 Annual Report by the British military attaché in Brussels 1934, p. 42, Royal Army Museum Brussels, series 80–3. 90 J. Vaesen, Tussen Scylla en Charybdis, p. 195. 91 F. Balace, “Quelle armée pour la Belgique,” p. 51. the belgian fortification system 1926–1940 247

Th e expenditure regarding the fortifi cations was not necessarily at the expense of the fi eld army, though: the army command succeeded in obtaining the necessary budget for its modernisation as well. Th e system of permanent defences also had to be manned. We have seen above that this, together with the border defence option, had provoked the enlargement of the army in 1934. We know very little though about the non-technological aspects92 of the Belgian military policy: what about the training, motivations and activities of the fort garrisons?93 It is clear, however, that the progress in technology could not always compensate for the fl aws in the ‘human investment’ in the Belgian army in the inter-war period. As Eugenia Kiesling pointed out: new technology does not automatically imply a better army.94 On several occasions the Belgian army faced so-called ‘subversive actions’ in the barracks, while antimilitarist tendencies continued to undermine the military organisation. Besides, some soldiers were dissatisfi ed with their deployment on the eastern border, certainly those originating from the western part of the country. Th ere were some other challenges for the military organisation as well, with repercussions on the fort garrisons: during a signifi cant part of the selected period a lack of suffi cient well-skilled offi cers and NCOs was obvious, which was not without eff ect on morale, training and discipline of the troops.95 Furthermore, tensions related to the language strife reinforced this issue, although the Belgian army tried to develop some counter- measures.96 It is clear that these factors infl uenced the preparation of the armed forces as well.

Conclusion

In the inter-war period Belgium found itself in an uncomfortable position: squeezed between the Western European Great Powers and with

92 See the hardware-soft ware debate. J. Black, Rethinking military history (London: Routledge, 2006). 93 See H. Strachan, “Training, Morale and Modern War,” Journal of Contemporary History 41, no. 2 (2006): pp. 211–227; and A. Corvisier, La guerre: Essais historiques (Paris: Perrin, 2005) 429 p. 94 E. Kiesling, “French Military doctrine,” p. 223. 95 See J. Vaesen, Tussen Scylla en Charybdis, p. 181, 227 and 230. In 1940 the vast majority of the offi cers and NCOs consisted of reserves. Th is was also the case for the fort garrisons. See F. Balace, “Quelle armée pour la Belgique” 96 See R. Boijen, De taalwetgeving in het Belgisch leger, 1830–1940 (Brussels: Royal Army Museum, 1992). 248 j. vaesen of a terrain suitable for mass army movements, Belgium feared becoming the battleground of a next confl ict. Th e events of 1914–1918, which had ruined the nation, were always kept in mind in this. How could this problem be remedied? Several rivalling ideas and options were put on the table, leading to fi erce controversies and debates. Competing groups, each consisting of both political and military policy-makers as well as opinion-makers, were the leading actors in these confl icts. Th e tensions were intense, consensus absent and therefore there was no question of a specifi c, Belgian synthesis of the military doctrines that were propagated abroad.97 On several occasions in the inter-war period, the theses of each of these factions gained momentum, although this does not imply that the competing options were then totally dismissed. Th e Belgian fortifi cation system provides a good example of the development and execution of these (rivalling) defence plans. Th e modernisation of the Belgian army started in 1926 with a review of the old Brialmont forts, leading to a modernisation plan by Chief of the General Staff Emile Galet. His ‘defence in depth’ strategy – using the forts and the natural obstacles in support of a small, but professional, fi eld army – faced opposition from the advocates of the border defence, who wanted to block a German invasion at the eastern border, thus favouring an extensive permanent defensive system. Moreover, the initial fortifi cation plan of the Belgian Government faced local political opposition and public protest, temporarily successful in the case of Antwerp and Ghent. Last but not least, Belgian military policy was also intertwined with the general rift s that divided the Belgian political system. Th e opinions of politicians, decision-makers and opinion-makers in the north and the south of the country diff ered to a large extent. Th e sociolinguistic/regional strife therefore was imported in the debates regarding the modernisation and extension of the fortifi cation system. Would the defence in depth strategy of Emile Galet not imply the sacrifi ce of three Walloon provinces to a German invader? It is clear that these political constraints, drawing upon support from the (regional) public opinion, infl uenced some military options, not least of which were the permanent defences. Apart from the many foci of power and the numerous actors involved in the decision making process, the political attitudes and practices involved also infl uenced the options. Consequently, the Belgian

97 D. M. Segesser, “Landesverteidigung,” p. 322. the belgian fortification system 1926–1940 249

military policy in general and the fortifi cation system in specifi c was a combination of compromises between and amendments on competing plans, which generated a hybrid military system. Th e least that can be concluded was that pragmatism characterized the Belgian political- military decision-making process. Furthermore, it is clear that without these compromises, progress in the enlargement or modernisation of the army could not take place. Finally, the military options abroad and especially the (perception of the) possible military assistance from France and Great Britain infl u- enced the Belgian defence plans as well. Th e return to neutrality (1936) provoked a minor adjustment of the Belgian fortifi cation system in 1938, in order to reduce somehow the unilateral orientation of the permanent defences towards Germany. A major change occurred at the beginning of 1939, though, when it became clear that the Allied forces would not move towards the Albert Canal-Meuse defence line in the east of the country. As a result, a new defence line was created in the centre of the country. It has been argued that there were other thresholds as well, such as the fi nancial means. Despite the fi nancial restrictions of the Belgian State budget the army command and the political decision makers involved succeeded in obtaining special investment budgets in order to modernise specifi c parts of the army, starting with the fortifi cations. Th e Great Depression had forced the Defence Department to establish budget cuts, but these were mainly realised by downsizing the volume of the army, wages and expenses and supporting services. Most of the expenditure regarding the fortifi cations therefore continued, although this issue provoked confl icts between the competing groups of decision-makers mentioned earlier. Th is implies that the economic setback did not break the modernisation of the Belgian defence system. Technological innovations abroad were followed up and to some extent integrated in the Belgian defence system. Consistent with the limited goals of the permanent defences in the Galet plan, the old modernised forts received mainly upgraded weapons. Th is contrasts with the extensive works of the border defence, which clearly had a diff erent purpose. Anyhow, the Belgian military decision-makers were mesmer- ized by countering a German motorised and mechanised assault. Apart from the use of forts, specifi c bunkers and demolitions to roads and railways, this implied the use of anti-tank weapons and anti-tank obstacles, which were integrated in the defence lines. Th e choice for these 250 j. vaesen

‘defensive’ weapon systems rather than their ‘off ensive’ counterparts (tanks) is not only related to the capabilities of the Belgian industry – which could not meet all of the demands by the army command – and the purchasing problems abroad. Also it fi tted in the neutrality statute that Belgium had reverted to in 1936. In short, the rift s that divided the Belgian society in general and the political system in particular were imported in the Belgian military policy. Th erefore the hybrid system that was developed fi tted within the pragmatic search for compromises, which characterised the Belgian political attitudes and practices. Th e thresholds involved were numerous, though. Despite these restrictions the political and military decision-makers in the inter-war period were able to pursue the modernisation of the armed forces and of the fortifi cation system: the outcome was far from perfect and not free of fl aws, but the Belgian army was certainly more than an old knight. CHAPTER ELEVEN

GIVE US BACK OUR FIELD ARMY! THE DUTCH ARMY LEADERSHIP AND THE OPERATIONAL PLANNING DURING THE INTERWAR YEARS

H. Amersfoort

Th e Netherlands did not take part in World War I. At the outbreak of the confl ict the country mobilized its armed forces and declared itself neutral. Th is armed neutrality came under threat several times, but on balance the belligerents on the West front kept the Netherlands out of the war. Th is, however, does not mean that the Great War passed the Netherlands by, on the contrary. Th e more scientifi c research into the four mobilization years and the years in between the two world wars is becoming available, the more it is beginning to emerge how important this war has been for the military position of the Netherlands within Europe. It is customary to see World War II as the turning point in the development of the Dutch defence policy. Aft er all, this war put an end to the defence of the country as a national concept and marked the transition to allied warfare. Aft er 1945 the country did not revert to its pre- war neutrality, but even in peacetime joined an alliance, NATO. Moreover, a short time later the Netherlands lost its most important colony, the Netherlands East-Indies. From then on, the Dutch defence eff ort was directed at the Russian threat in Europe and in the Atlantic Ocean. Th is view, however, is somewhat misleading. Th e accession to NATO in 1949 solved a problem that had come into existence thirty years before at the end of World War I, when the Dutch defence problem had become unsolvable. Even as early as that, a strictly national concept of territorial defence was without a future. Even as early as that, the principle of neutrality was technically bankrupt for military reasons. Moreover, as for the colonies, even as early as that, it should have been clear that the Dutch position in Asia did not so much rest on its own military might, but on British endorsement and protection. Th ere was, however, no practically feasible alternative in Europe, and this made it 252 h. amersfoort impossible for the military leadership to adequately adapt the security policy to this new reality. Th is insight leads to the conclusion that the real turning point with regard to the problem of the Dutch territorial defence lay directly aft er World War I and was a direct result of it. Th e impasse in the Dutch defence policy that emerged in 1918 could only be broken by World War II and in the period following it. Th is was caused by the fact that Europe was then wresting itself free from the old German-French antithesis, and, under the leadership by the United States, was closing ranks against a new enemy, farther afi eld, the Soviet Union and its sat- ellites in the Warsaw Pact. Th is conclusion makes the interwar years a fascinating and important period for military-historical research. Aft er all, it implies that the development of the political and military strategy in the nineteen- twenties and thirties was troubled by serious contradictions and, as a consequence, was under constant pressure. Th is prompts the questions in how far the Dutch army leadership were aware of this pressure, whether they fathomed the problem completely and in what way they tried to solve it. What military strategy did they favour and which army model did they envisage to realise this strategy? How realistic was this strategy and how adequate was the army model? Did the Dutch army leadership succeeded in gaining political support for their wishes and plans? It is these questions which I attempt to answer in the following.

Geo-strategy and Strategy

Let us fi rst consider the strategic position of the Netherlands in Europe. Why had the outcome of World War I changed it so fundamentally?1 Since the proclamation of the German Empire in January 1871 the Netherlands had found itself wedged in between the three great powers

1 For a more elaborate discussion of this see: H. Amersfoort, “Een harmonisch leger voor Nederland. Oorlogsbeeld, strategie en operationele planning van het Nederlandse leger in het Interbellum” (Inaugural lecture, Breda, 2007), p. 11ff . For the Dutch strategic policy in the latter half of the nineteenth century and the early decades of the twentieth century see also: W. Bevaart, De Nederlandse defensie (1839–1874), Bijdragen van de Sectie Militaire Geschiedenis, vol. 22 (Th e Hague: Sectie Militaire Geschiedenis, 1993); W. Klinkert, Het vaderland verdedigd, Bijdragen van de Sectie Militaire Geschiedenis, vol. 21 (Th e Hague: Sectie Militaire Geschiedenis, 1992); R. P. F. Bijkerk, “Nederlands defensiebeleid in de jaren ’20: Het bestaande beeld nader bezien,” Mili- taire Spectator 164 (1995): pp. 90–96; R. P. F. Bijkerk, “Actueel militair verleden?,” dutch army leadership and the operational planning 253 in Western Europe: the united Germany, with which it shared its entire eastern border, France, Germany’s greatest rival and, fi nally, Great Britain. In these circumstances the Dutch security policy was based on two pillars, the European balance of power and military deterrence of the Dutch armed forces, in particular, the army. Th is followed naturally from the geo-political position of the Netherlands. Not only was the country surrounded by the three large powers mentioned above, it also commanded the mouths of three great rivers, the Rhine, the Meuse and the Scheldt, i.e. three important communication lines between the sea and the European hinterland. Conquering the Netherlands would bring France, Germany or Great Britain great advantages vis-à-vis the other two. But, it was precisely because of this reason that none would allow the other two to do this. Should one of them attack the Netherlands, the country could always and immediately rely on military support of another large power. Th is did not require any formal alliances concluded in peacetime. Under these circumstances the policy of non-interference and neutrality pursued by the Dutch government was an obvious and rational choice. An attempt to conquer the Netherlands would most likely lead to a general European confl ict, in which the country would never be left to fend for itself. Conversely, when somewhere else in Western Europe a general confl ict were to break out, the country would stay out of it, or if were attacked, would depend on allies for help. Th us, the Dutch position was quite similar to that of Belgium, albeit that this country ran greater risks than the Netherlands of becoming involved in a general European confl ict due to the fact that it shared borders with both France and Germany.2

Maatschappij en Krijgsmacht 17 (December 1995): pp. 19–24; R. P. F. Bijkerk, “W. F. Pop (1859–1931),” in Kopstukken uit de Krijgsmacht. Nederlandse vlag-en opperoffi - cieren 1815–1955, ed. G. Teitler and W. Klinkert (Amsterdam: De Bataafsche Leeuw, 1997), pp. 282–299; R. van Diepen, Voor Volkenbond en Vrede. Nederland en het streven naar een nieuwe wereldorde 1919–1946 (Amsterdam: Bakker, 1999); H. W. von der Dunk, “Neutralisme en defensie: het dilemma in de jaren dertig;” in Tussen crisis en oorlog. Maatschappij en krijgsmacht in de jaren ’30. ed. G. Teitler (Dieren: De Bataafsche Leeuw, 1984) 5–23; M. M. Abbenhuis, Th e Art of Staying Neutral: Th e Netherlands in the First World War, 1914–1918 (Amsterdam: Amsterdam University Press, 2006), pp. 23–37; R. Schuursma, Vergeefs onzijdig. Nederlands neutraliteit 1919–1940 (Utrecht: Matrijs, 2005), pp. 19–21; and C. B. Wels, Aloofness and Neutrality. Studies on Dutch Foreign Relations and Policy-making Institutions (Utrecht: HES, 1982). 2 Th is was also noticed abroad. See, for instance, A. Martel, ed., Maréchal Foch, Des Principes de la guerre (Paris, Imprimerie Nationale 1996), p. 112. 254 h. amersfoort

Another diff erence was that Belgian neutrality had been guaranteed by the great powers. Th e Netherlands could even have opted for a symbolic defence eff ort. A small country, it would never be able to hold its own against a neighbouring large power, and always be able to rely on allied support. In case of war, it would have to capitulate aft er a brief token resistance. Th is would be a painful experience within the Dutch strategic culture. But, it could be asked, would a stronger defence bring any advantages at all? Aft er all, in any thinkable scenario the fate of the Netherlands would in the last instance not depend on its own strength, but on the outcome of the struggle between the great powers. Under such circumstances the Dutch defence only mattered to a modest extent. Th is implied that the security policy was structurally fl awed, in the sense that a reliable standard for what could be considered an adequate defence eff ort was lacking. Left ist political parties, such as left -liberals, social democrats and more radically left ist parties would point this out in their opposition to the proposals for higher defence budgets. But the army leadership, as well as the right parties, have always rejected the option of a symbolic defence. Th e neutrality should be an armed one. Th e strength of a defence of one’s own, in particular an army, had to be an extra deterrent against the neighbouring large powers attacking the country or involving it in a large-scale European confl ict. Should this deterrence fail, the Netherlands needed an army that would be able to hold out against one of the large powers on its own for some time, pending allied support. Subsequently, the army could make a valuable contribution to an allied war against the aggressor. Th is prospect would also encourage allies to come to the help of the Netherlands sooner and give the country a stronger position in the peace talks aft er the confl ict had ended. Th ese considerations also had a self-reinforcing eff ect. By opting for armed neutrality, the country forced itself to take territorial defence seriously. As a small country the Netherlands, should it be drawn into a war, must be militarily strong enough to survive an initial assault and not be defeated and conquered. It lacked the capacity of a large power to recuperate aft er an initial defeat by bringing up reinforcements from the depth and counter-attack. In the Netherlands this logic has always outweighed the option of the symbolic resistance. Incidentally, for other countries this option was not imaginary, given the course of events in Denmark during the German assault on 9 April 1940. Why such an option was not dutch army leadership and the operational planning 255 acceptable to the political-military leadership is not so easy to tell. Probably the best answer is that it did not fi t in with the dominant military culture in general, which had been modelled in all sorts of aspects on the example of the great powers since 1870, and in particular on the Prusso-German military paradigm. Th e Dutch political-military establishment had a clear preference for identifying itself with the continental concept of war, embodied by the great von Moltke and the wars Prussia and later Germany waged under his leadership.3 Furthermore, a token resistance would have been in incongruous with the position of medium-large power that the Netherlands attributed to itself, based on its colonial possessions in Asia and its stewardship of the deltas of the three great rivers.

Aft er World War I

At fi rst sight, World War I seemed to prove the pursued strategic policy right. Armed neutrality had worked. Th e Netherlands had eventually managed to overcome all crises that might have led to a British or German attack by communicating political and military signals at the right moment. Th e belligerents had shown themselves to be receptive to them as they themselves had had to make diffi cult assessments of the advantages and disadvantages of respecting Dutch neutrality. Under these circumstances the mobilized armed forces had constituted an adequate deterrence. From 1919 onwards, however, the Dutch General Staff fully realized that these circumstances would probably not recur in the future. World War I had developed into a protracted war of attrition, during which massiveness of men and materiel, the introduction of new technologies and the capacity of the war industry had become the decisive factors of success. Th e impact of warfare on society had grown accordingly. Military stamina had become increasingly intertwined with the fi nancial strength of the society and the will power of the population to hold out. Th is was to be the trend for the future. A new war would have the same character as the orgy of massive industrial violence that had only just come to an end.

3 Klinkert, Vaderland verdedigd, passim; W. Klinkert, “Van Waterloo tot Uruzgan: Nederland een militaire natie?” (Inaugural lecture, 2008); and Amersfoort, “Een harmonisch leger voor Nederland,” pp. 16–20. 256 h. amersfoort

But what chance would a tiny country with a small population and territory and little strategic depth stand in such a confl ict? How would a small country be able to keep up with the developments that had been started in the past war? And how would a large army, equipped with state-of-the-art technology, be fi nanced? Th e budget was under pressure now that the high costs of past mobilization in fact necessitated economies of government expenditure. How diffi cult it was to follow the trends is demonstrated, amongst others, by the ponderous political decision making on the revision of the system of conscription and the new army organization that this ensued. True, the uneasy compromise of 1922 on this issue did bring the Netherlands a large army, but one that would be far from suitable to fi ght a modern war. It had all the characteristics of a militia army and relied heavily on reserve offi cers for its command and control. Th e 1922 Conscription Act allowed a mobilisable army of around 250.000 men to be formed. Th is would bring the Field Army back to its pre-war strength of 72 infantry battalions. Th is strength was built up out of a large number of relatively small annual draft s, namely fi ft een draft s to fi ll the war establishment, with another fi ve draft s from the oldest trained draft s to form a reserve. A maximum of 19,500 conscripts would be called up for active service each year. Th is small draft kept the burden of conscription on the population to a minimum and was less expensive as it required fewer instructors and a smaller infrastructure. Purely from a military point of view, it would have been better to opt for a smaller number of larger annual draft s. Th e advantages would have been the fact that the army which was mobilised would have been “younger” and therefore more fl exible. In the circumstances of the 1920s, however, the possibility to reduce the personal and fi nancial burden of military service was decisive. Th e law also prescribed the duration of the initial term of service. Since 1901, it had been twelve months for some conscripts and eight-and-a-half for others. For a number of arms and branches, including the infantry, it was now reduced to just fi ve-and-a-half months. Incidentally, until 1936 it was possible to shorten the initial term of service by four months by means of the ‘preliminary exercise’, a training programme on a voluntary basis in the soldiers own free time. Th e short duration of the initial term of service was compensated by the introduction of refresher training exercises. Th e law stated that their maximum duration was to be 40 days and that they were to take place within six years aft er the initial term. When various refresher training exercises were shortened or dutch army leadership and the operational planning 257 even cancelled completely, as a result of cutbacks, it meant a further weakening of the level of training. Th e 1922 Conscription Act separated the peacetime establishment from the wartime establishment. Unlike the situation before 1914, when mobilisation meant bringing the standing units up to war strength, those units would now be formed from scratch in the event of mobilisation. In peace time there were no standing troops and the army was fi rst and foremost a training organization. Th e system also made it diffi cult to exercise with large units.4 A fi ghting army would thus only emerge during the general mobilization and would fi nd it hard to bring to bear the level of training and mental toughness required on the modern battlefi eld. Moreover, it would prove hard to keep up with technological developments in the fi eld of equipment and armament of the armed forces. Th e costs were high and the Netherlands did not have any defence industry worth mentioning. If the army were to have to fi ght for a longer period of time, it would have to appeal to the war industries of its allies for the supply of the bulk of its materiel. As we shall see below the 1922 reform gave rise to considerable tension between the real capabilities of the Field Army in the event of war and operational planning and preparation for war within the General Staff during the 1920s and 1930s. So, the armed character of the neutrality had deteriorated. Th e other pillar supporting this neutrality had fared little better. Th e defeat of the German Empire and the Treaty of Versailles disrupted the power balance in Europe. Germany had fallen away as a large power and France dominated the continent. For the time being, a war-weary Great Britain could not be enticed to venture any military interventions across the Channel. Of course, there was the League of Nations now. But the Dutch General Staff did not expect this organization to play a meaningful role in the Dutch security. Th e Netherlands joined mainly for a negative reason, viz. the fear of ending up in political isolation if it did not join. Besides, collective security obligations were at loggerheads with neutrality.5 Furthermore, since the early twenties the Dutch General Staff had been taking into account the possibility that

4 H. Amersfoort and P. H. Kamphuis, eds. May 1940: Th e Battle for the Netherlands (Leiden/Boston: Brill Publishers, 2010) 47–48. 5 R. van Diepen, Voor Volkenbond en vrede: Nederland en het streven naar een nieuwe wereldorde, 1919–1946 (Amsterdam: Bakker, 1999). 258 h. amersfoort

Germany would reject the military constraints of the Versailles Treaty in the foreseeable future. German military impotence was unnatural and would not stand the test of time. Germany would once again demand its place in Europe and that might lead to a new war. Th is would restore the balance of power in Europe, but when Germany indeed threw off the Versailles yoke in 1933 and began a process of rearmament, something had changed, and a restored balance of power did no longer guarantee that the Netherlands would be able to stay out of a general European confl ict. In fact, the Dutch General Staff reckoned exclusively with the opposite: the certainty that a repetition of the fortunate course of aff airs in 1914 was out of the question and that the certainty that the Netherlands would be involved in the next war. Th e General Staff even seriously took into account the possibility that the next European war would break out on Dutch territory, of all places; an expectation founded on an analysis of the military policies of both France and Belgium.

Th e Military Geography of the Netherlands

In order to comprehend this analysis a brief elaboration on the military geography of the Netherlands and its consequences for the defence of country’s defence is necessary. Th e country lies on the edge of the continent and borders on the North Sea in the north and west. In the south it borders on Belgium and in the east on Germany. Th e size of the territory is small. Th e largest distance from east to west is about 160 kilometres, as the crow fl ies, and from north to south it is approximately 250 kilometres. Furthermore, the country’s irregular form is one of its striking features. An old sea arm, the Zuyderzee, penetrates deep into the country. It was closed off from the sea between 1927 and 1932 by the construction of the Afsluitdijk, and has since been designated IJsselmeer. In the extreme south-west of the country lie the islands of the Zeeland-Holland delta and in the extreme south-east lies Limburg, a narrow stretch of land along the river Meuse, which connects the old fortifi ed city of Maastricht with the rest of the country. Its position there separates Belgium from Germany. Furthermore, the country is divided into two parts by the river basins of the great rivers Rhine, Waal and Meuse and their estuaries Hollands Diep and Haringvliet. Part of the country lies below sea level, in particular, most of the area of the Zeeland-Holland islands and the entire west of the country, dutch army leadership and the operational planning 259 that is, west of the line across Utrecht between the river area and IJsselmeer. Also areas in the north of the country lie below sea level. Moreover, most of the land in the river area lies below the average level of the rivers. Th e rest of the country, the areas south of the large rives and east of Utrecht, lies above sea level. Th ese are mostly high dry sandy soil, with the exception of the Peel, a long-drawn swampy area in the east of the province of Noord-Brabant. Th e heart of the country lies in the west, enclosed by the imaginary line Amsterdam-Utrecht-Rotterdam-Th e Hague. During the interwar years some forty per cent of the population lived in this area with its concentration of major commercial and industrial centres and the most important ports of Rotterdam and Amsterdam. Th e latter city was also the capital. Th e site of government was and still is in Th e Hague. Utrecht was a major road, waterway and railway junction. Since the middle of the nineteenth century the Netherlands had followed a strategy of concentrated defence, which implied that only the heart of the country would be defended to the last man. Since the 1880s this had been designated as the Fortress Holland. Since 1922 its western front had been formed by the coast, and the southern front by Waal, Hollands Diep and Haringvliet. Th e northern front incorporated the fortifi cations of Amsterdam, and was formed by IJsselmeer, and, since the construction of the Afsluitdijk, the fortifi cations of Korn- werderzand, on its easternmost extremity. Th e eastern front of the Fortress Holland consisted of a line of fortresses and inundations in the province of Utrecht: the Nieuwe Hollandse Waterlinie. As said above, inside the Fortress Holland the fortifi cations of Amsterdam were located, a circular position surrounding the capital and a last refuge for the Dutch army against an enemy superiority. In case of an attack from the south, for instance, by Belgium of France, the river area formed a strong barrier, providing a good defence. For an aggressor from the east, so Germany, the river area formed a strategic boundary, forcing him to attack the Fortress Holland either from the north or south of the great rivers. Th e river area itself was unsuitable for an advance from the east with a considerable force because it off ered too little room for manoeuvre. From the south and north of the large rivers the approaches over the high sandy soils were good. Th e Dutch defence used natural barriers there. To the north of the rivers they were the river IJssel, the Gelderse Vallei and the eastern edge of the Dutch polder area, where the Nieuwe Waterlinie had been constructed. South of the large rivers the river Meuse constituted a fi rst 260 h. amersfoort line of defence, behind which lay a marshy area, the Peel, which also off ered good opportunities for defence. Th e most direct and obvious axis of advance for an attack from the east ran north of the large rivers, and, as the Waterlinie showed, it was this direction of attack that the Dutch defence was concentrated on. Th erefore, an attack from the east south of the great rivers would make good progress initially, but in order to penetrate the Fortress Holland the aggressor would still have to cross the river area sooner or later, and the farther west he would advance, the more diffi cult it would become.

Th e Field Army

Th e above shows that the Netherlands followed a defensive strategy and that the defence made use of prepared lines and positions on natural barriers. Apart from that, however, the Netherlands also employed a mobile operational body, the Field Army, whose importance had steadily increased from the closing decades of the nineteenth century. With this Field Army the Netherlands tried to keep up with developments abroad that pointed at an increasingly more mobile, dynamic and off ensive concept of warfare, in which victory was achieved in a decisive battle that culminated in an envelopment of the enemy’s mobile main force. Th is concept could be deduced from the Prussian and German campaigns, respectively, against Denmark (1864), Austria (1866) and France (1870). Th e task attributed to a Dutch fi eld army by the minister of war and the General Staff was a modest one, at fi rst. In case of a German attack directed at conquering the Netherlands the fi eld army was to carry a defence north of the great rivers, which before long would be followed by a withdrawal behind the Nieuwe Hollandse Waterlinie. Th ere, it would join the rest of the armed forces, the fortress troops, which had been manning this line from the onset. But in early 1889 the then Minister of War J. W. Bergansius dropped a bombshell by proposing a strong mobile force, which, “as an independent body, as a completely organized instrument of the general,” can not only carry out defensive and delaying mobile operations, but also choose the strategic off ensive.6 In these off ensive operations the Field Army might

6 Klinkert, Het vaderland verdedigd, pp. 133–174, 194–201. Th e quotation on p. 196. dutch army leadership and the operational planning 261 have to operate south of the great rivers and even beyond the country’s borders. With this, also operations in the context of an alliance, for instance, with Belgium or France, became a possibility. It would provide the Netherlands with an operational instrument allowing it to play an international role and infl uence the European balance of power. Th is, however, was at loggerheads with the policy of non-interference and neutrality, and it was too extreme for many. But the genie had been let out of the bottle. By the end of the century the General Staff did no longer reckon with the possibility that Germany would be out for a complete conquest of the Netherlands. Th e threat had come to be much rather a violation of the neutrality in a situation in which Germany, in an armed confl ict with France, would make use of Dutch territory. Aft er the Franco-Prussian war of 1870–1870 and the German unifi cation it was not unthinkable that a future war between France and Germany would be fought at least partially on Belgian soil. With relations between France and Great Britain improving, this could also mean that Great Britain would interfere in a confl ict on the continent. Th is had consequences for the Netherlands which were diffi cult to foresee. Th e British might want to land in Zeeland, or Antwerp via the river Scheldt. Not only German but also British, French and/or Belgian troops might operate near or across the Dutch borders. As the location of a violation of Dutch neutrality could not be predicted, the army leadership would have to react fl exibly, that is, with a fi eld army. Th us, the commander- in-chief would be able to commit this force, in a mobile fashion or temporarily bound to defensive lines on the natural barriers, as circumstances dictated. Th at is why the fi eld army should incorporate the latest intakes and best trained troops. A political decision would have to be reached whether the Dutch army would operate on its own or in an alliance, possibly even under an allied commander. But, wherever or in whatever fashion the fi eld army was to operate, in all manoeuvres its commander would have to ensure he kept his rearward lines with the Fortress Holland, the last refuge for the Field Army in all circumstances, open at all times. What is more, the defence of the Waterlinie would not be feasible without the Field Army.

Th e Th reat aft er World War I

As was said above, aft er World War I the Dutch General Staff did not expect to keep the country out of the next Franco-German war. Besides, 262 h. amersfoort the General Staff assumed that such a war would take place in the near future. Already in the early 1920s exercise scenarios of the General Staff were based on the assumption that Germany would throw off the constraining conditions of the Versailles Treaty and that the ensuing political crisis would lead to war. Th e only opponent the Dutch General Staff still reckoned with in the Interwar years was Germany. Relations with its southern neighbour were tense in the early 1920s, but the General Staff did not expect a war with Belgium aft er that. Th e chance of war and a German violation of the Dutch neutrality strongly increased aft er 1933. Immediately aft er Hitler’s appointment as chancellor, the dismantlement of the democratic system of the Weimar republic, Germany’s secession from the League of Nations and the failure of the Disarmament Conference in Geneva, the General Staff assumed that Germany would soon embark on a full re-armament programme. According to the classic neutrality doctrine, this should have been a favourable development, as it ended the Germany’s artifi - cial position as a small power. Aft er all, this would redress the balance of power in Europe, so drastically disturbed by the Versailles Treaty. But it was not as simple as all that anymore. First of all, on the initiative of the Minister of Defence André Maginot, France had begun to build an impressive series of heavy artillery forts along its border with Germany in 1930, the Maginot Line. On 31 May of that year Belgium followed suit with the offi cial launch of the construction works of the Albert Canal between Liege and Antwerp, which was to come in use in July 1939. From the start casemates were integrated in the construction of the canal, which greatly enhanced its potential as a formidable barrier. Th e strong artillery fort near Eben Emael closed the gap between Liege and Maastricht. At the same time the Belgian army increased the value as a barrier of the Ardennes by building casemates near bridges and narrow passages on the east-west routes through this area and by reinforcing the Arlon position. Th e same objective was served by the establishment in March 1934 of a special infantry unit for the defensive and delaying battle in this area, the Ardennes Chasseurs regiment, designated division from 1936 onwards.7 Th us, France as well as Belgium was reinforcing its border defences, and this had consequences for the Dutch provinces of Noord-Brabant

7 See the contribution of J. Vaesen on the Belgian fortifi cation system, elsewhere in this volume. dutch army leadership and the operational planning 263 and Limburg. It was here that a German off ensive would meet with the least resistance and, according to military logic, the main eff ort of a German off ensive would naturally be drawn to this area. Th e Dutch border defences did not come down to much. True, the construction of the Peel-Raam defences in the east of Noord-Brabant commenced in 1934, but these were in fact intended as a compensation for the ever- increasing traffi c ability of the Peel swamp as a result of reclamations. Besides, they were nothing compared to the French and Belgian forts. For Limburg the situation was even more diffi cult. Th is stretched- out area without any depth was vulnerable to violations of neutrality and indefensible at the same time. It was for this reason that the Netherlands, in response to Belgian claims to Limburg during the 1919 conference of Paris, had not been willing to grant anything more than that it would consider a violation of Limburg territory by a foreign power as a casus belli.8 According to the Dutch analysis, this development increased the chance that the main eff ort of a future German off ensive against France would come to lie on the extreme right fl ank. Th e German off ensive would try to outfl ank the Franco-Belgian border defences in the north.9 Th e provinces of Limburg and Noord-Brabant would, in any case during the opening phase of the war, become the main operational theatre of the next general European confl ict.10 It was precisely this threat which had increasingly become the focus of attention of the Dutch General Staff since the early 1920s. In all likelihood the Dutch Field

8 A. Vandenbosch, Dutch Foreign Policy since 1815. A Study in Small Power Politics (Th e Hague: Nijhoff , 1959), pp. 247–266; and P. Moeyes, De sterke arm, de zachte hand: Het Nederlandse leger en de neutralitieitspolitiek, 1839–1939 (Amsterdam: De Arbeider- spers, 2006), pp. 324–334. 9 Around 1890 a comparable eff ect had already been attributed to the reinforcement of the Belgian Meuse defences as a result of the construction works on the fortifi cations near Liege and Namur, however, without attaching such far-reaching consequences as aft er 1933. Klinkert, Het vaderland verdedigd, pp. 240–243. 10 Also the Army Commission, an advisory and investigative body at the disposal of the minister of Defence, established by Royal Decree of 12 December 1910, no. 56, composed of (former) Members of Parliament and supported by (former) servicemen, saw this coming. In November 1933 they intended to learn Seyff ardt’s opinion on this, but he and Minister of Defence mr. dr. L. N. Deckers declined to give it, pleading state secret. Th e Army Commission posed the following question: “will the area between Maasbracht and Nijmegen the future area of advance in Western Europe and will the next German-French battlefi eld be the Peel area in Noord-Brabant and Limburg?” Army Commission to CGS, 20 October 1933, no. 1016. NA GS 31. For the composition of the Army Commission see Staatsalmanak voor het Koninkrijk der Nederlanden, 1934 (Den Haag, 1933), p. 507. 264 h. amersfoort

Army would fi ght on the side of France and its allies in the coming war. From a military-technical perspective, the General Staff had in fact shelved the neutrality policy. Also, in case of a French or Franco-Belgian preventive war against Germany the Netherlands would become involved in the armed confl ict in an early stage. Such an off ensive would be directed at a re- occupation of the Rhineland, and the occupation of the Ruhr area. Th is, too, would go the quickest through Limburg and Noord-Brabant. True, the Rhineland was still demilitarized in 1936 and the Westwall on its southern edge would not be built until 1938, but a French off ensive from Lorraine into the Rhineland would go through the narrow Rhine valley; a risky aff air because of the lack of manoeuvre space there. An advance through the mountainous Saarland and Eiff el was an equally unattractive option. An off ensive through Belgium, an ally of France in 1936, was the more obvious choice.11 Such an operation would also constitute a violation of neutrality in Noord-Brabant and Limburg. Th e conclusion was that neither the European balance of power nor the armed neutrality would deliver the Netherlands from becoming involved in a general European confl ict, at least the opening stages of which would take place on its territory.12 A repetition of the fortuitous course of events in 1914 was not to be expected, at least not in the views of the military top. Th e above-mentioned developments brought along major consequences for the operational planning, for which, an anomaly, in the Netherlands two authorities were responsible, viz. the chief of the General Staff and the commander of the Field Army. In the Dutch relations they were on an equal footing in times of peace and both directly accountable to the minister of Defence.

11 Compare the draft for a lecture that never delivered for the Vereeniging ter Beoefening van de Krijgswetenschap by captain of the General Staff T. H. Schol. Schol submitted the draft for approval to Reijnders, who forbade him to give the lecture as he thought it inadmissible that “an offi cer of the General staff , who may be supposed to be fully or partially acquainted with the intentions regarding the matter, would give a lecture in public, or at least in a society to which the press had access, on the manner in which the defence of our country is conducted.” CGS to Schol, 1 August 1934, no. 87P.-NA GS 32. Schol did not let Reijnders walk all over him and published the part in which he analyzed the changes in the threat for the Netherlands in De Telegraaf daily paper. 12 Commander of the Field Army (CV) to minister of Defence (MinDef), 28 January 1935, no. 51P.-Nationaal Archief (NA) Archives of the General Staff (General Headquarters) 1914–1940 (GS) 32. dutch army leadership and the operational planning 265

Already from the early nineteen-twenties strategic-operational plann ing had been directed at an operation of the Dutch fi eld army south of the great rivers. Th e army leadership had not lost the possibility of a direct attack on the heart of the country north of the rivers out of sight, but the planning now concentrated on the threat in the south. Th ere the fi eld army was not to conduct position warfare, as was the case in the Waterlinie, but mobile warfare, defensive and, if need be, off ensive. Moreover, that battle would always be fought in an alliance. Worrying about the insuffi cient combat strength of the fi eld army, Major General I. H. Reijnders, chief of the General Staff since 1 May 1934, was even tempted to think that little less than peace in Europe depended on the deterrence of the fi eld army in Noord-Brabant and Limburg.13 Lieutenant General W. Röell, Esq., the commander of the Field Army, had spoken words to the same eff ect the previous year.14 Based on the post-World War I threat analysis, the army leadership were convinced the Netherlands could not go without a credible fi eld army. Th e next European war would break out on Dutch territory, and with the absence of an adequate border defence, and in the words of the commander of the Field Army, Lieutenant General W. Röel, the best remedy against it was, “a strong, well-trained and well-equipped operative organ,” that is to say, a modern fi eld army.15 On the one hand, this view was an obvious consequence of the nature and location the German threat, but, on the other, it was a remarkable standpoint. Aft er all, the army leadership knew that, as a consequence of the army system of 1922, the army would have a preponderant militia character, a fact which would be a hindrance to conducting a mobile war with a modern, well-trained fi eld army. Th e question, therefore, is how this contradiction between nature and capability of the army, on the one hand, and operational planning, on the other, can be explained. Aft er all, this question in fact epitomizes the problem the Netherlands was facing aft er World War I: how to keep up with the developments in

13 Aft er having explained that the most important task of the Field Army lay south of the great rivers and its combat strength therefore should be signifi cantly increased, he told Deckers, “If we act thus, in my view we will work in the most forceful manner towards maintaining peace in our continent.” CGS to MinDef, 21 February 1935, no. 1P NA GS 32. Italics in the original. 14 Röell mentioned, “the location of the Netherlands in the delta of the great western European rivers, bringing along a great responsibility for Europes peace and security.” CV to CS, 1 February 1933 no. 78P.- NA GS 31. Once more in CV to MinDef, 29 March 1934, no. 349G.-NA GS 32. 15 CV to MinDef, 29 March 1934, no. 349G.- NA GS 32. 266 h. amersfoort modern, total warfare as a small nation. Th e answer to this question can be found in the operational planning during the Interwar years.

Th e Strategic Assault and the Field Army

In the mid-nineteen-thirties the Dutch army leadership found that the Germans were forming motorized and mechanized units, which could open an off ensive against the Netherlands, spearheading the main force still equipped in the classic fashion. Th e fast columns constituted a major threat as the peace strength of the German army off ered the possibility of undertaking such off ensive actions without any prior mobilization, so directly from the barracks. Th e lack of strategic depth of the Dutch territory, its good road network and the absence of standing troops in times of peace only increased that threat. Th e problem of the ‘strategic assault’, or the attaque brusquée was to dominate the discussion on the Field Army in the mid-1930s. Th e chief of the General Staff , Reijnders, and the commander of the Field Army, Röell, however, held diff erent views on the exact nature, objectives and location of such a strategic assault. Reijnders distinguished three possibilities.16 Th e fi rst he called a “strategic assault over land with a limited objective.” Th is was an independent undertaking to capture certain important objectives, such as water crossings or a certain area. Th e second possibility was a “strategic assault over land in a grander fashion as an introduction to a subsequent main attack.” In this case fast-moving troops would, for instance, attempt to capture crossings of the Meuse River and overwhelm the Peel, as far as the bridges across the Zuid-Willemsvaart, paving the way for operations of the main force in the direction of Flanders. Th e subsequent operation of the German main force, however, could also be directed at capturing the entirety of the Netherlands south of the

16 CGS to MinDef, 21 February 1935, no. 1P.- NA GS 32. See also Reijnders’ notes in MinDef to CGS, 2 January 1935 no. 20.- NA GS 32. Further: CGS to MinDef, 27 April 1935, no. 51P.- NA GS 32. Of further importance is the analysis of the head of the Hogere Krijgsschool (HKS), Colonel of the General Staff J. T. Alting von Geusau, Esq., based on the exercises and assignments of students and discussions with lecturers of his institute. Head HKS to CGS, 21 January 1935, no.3.- NA GS 32; and L. de Jong, Het Koninkrijk der Nederlanden in de Tweede Wereldoorlog, scientifi c edition, vol. 1, Voorspel (Den Haag: SDU-uitgeverij, 1969), pp. 587–593. dutch army leadership and the operational planning 267 great rivers. A fi nal possibility that Reijnders took into account was a “strategic assault with air forces.” In this scenario the German Luft waff e would take out the Dutch air force on its airfi elds, while simultaneous air raids on political and military headquarters would disrupt command and control. Th e mobilization and concentration of the Dutch army would be paralyzed by air raids against mobilization centres and on bridges and the railway network. Th e destruction of ammunition factories and industrial areas would undermine the sustainability of the armed forces. All this would completely neutralize the Netherlands militarily. Unopposed, the German army would be able to make use of the Dutch territory for its operations against Belgium and France and for an aerial warfare against England. Reijnders saw only one remedy for all these possibilities, viz. reinforcing and modernizing the fi eld army. Its state of its readiness, training and armament would have to be improved to such an extent that the fi eld army was able to defend the threatened locations permanently already in times of peace and react immediately from its barracks. Under its cover the general mobilization could take place, at least in those areas that were still Dutch hands. Fully readied for war north of the great rivers, the fi eld army could then carry out counter-attacks against the German main force in Noord-Brabant and Limburg and its rearward lines. Röell fully agreed with Reijnders that the reinforcement and modernization of his fi eld army would be the only adequate response to the dangers of a strategic assault,17 but his views on the seriousness of the strategic assault were much more far-reaching.18 He deemed Germany capable of carrying out an unexpected attack on the Netherlands in the near future with some ten motorized divisions of the peace organization, without a preceding political crisis. While this attack was in progress, Germany would mobilize reserve units and employ them to

17 CV to MinDef, 28 January 1935, no. 51P.- NA GS 32. Th e only guarantee, he stated, against a strategic assault “can be provided by trained troops of the Field Army.” Italics in the original. 18 CV to MinDef, 12 April 1935, no. 230P.- NA GS 32. Literally Röell stated, “thus, in my view, the most advantageous line of conduct for Germany is to begin a great war by fi rst paralyzing the Netherlands with one blow in a magnifi cent attaque brusqée, and then to mobilize like the others, with the great advantage of fi lling up the ‘Vacuum Holland’ for its own strategic use.” See also CV to MinDef, 3 May 1935 no. 268P.- NA GS 32 and CV to MinDef, 20 August 1936, no. 425P.- NA GS 32. 268 h. amersfoort occupy the entire country. Subsequently, it would launch an off ensive against France with its fully mobilized main force. Th e assault on the Netherlands would take place over a broad front, north as well as south of the great rivers, with the main eff ort probably directed against Noord-Brabant. Th e off ensive would be supported by strong air forces, smothering any attempts at mobilizing the Dutch Field Army. In repelling such a strategic assault, time would be the critical factor. Th at is why Röell wanted to refrain from an immediate concentration of the Field Army. It would be better to have the various divisions take up ‘staging positions’ all over the entire territory, as had been done in 1914. Th e divisions could be formed quickly and would be able to react immediately. Aft er fending off the initial German assault, the divisions could take up their ‘strategic starting positions’ aft er a ‘strategic advance’, a phase which coincided with the concentration phase in the existing plans. Only there did Röell want to complete the time-consuming formation of the divisional groups, the later army corps with their army corps troops.19 All in all, Röell was much more decided than Reijnders. Th e commander of the Field Army wanted to gear the entire planning of mobilization and concentration to the worst possible case: the entire conquering of the Netherlands without any prior warning and before the Field Army could mobilize. Reijnders did two things, now. On the one hand, he tried to hush up the emerging confl ict with Röell, while, on the other, he submitted the matter to H. Colijn, the anti-revolutionary ad interim Minister of Defence and Prime Minister since 2 September 1935.20 In doing so, Reijnders of course did his best to discredit Röell’s views, in particular, the postponement of the concentration and the formation of the division troops, which implied that Noord-Brabant and Limburg would be hardly defended for three days and would certainly fall into German hands. Should the German main eff ort lie north of the great rivers, then the Field Army would also be completely defeated there. Given the speed with which modern armies operated, the Netherlands could no longer aff ord such a long period of mobilization and concentration.21

19 CV to CGS, 30 August 1935, no. 908G.- NA GS 32. 20 CGS to CV, 24 January 1936, no. 236.- NA GS 32. 21 CGS to MinDef, 18 February 1936, no. 22P.- NA GS 32. dutch army leadership and the operational planning 269

Colijn’s Intervention

Colijn was none too happy about Reijnders’ and Röell’s quarrelling. Reijnders’ move was successful to the extent that the minister sided with him, but at the same time he lost the initiative when Colijn made the matter entirely his own. What also may have played a role in this is the growing urgency of the defence problem, with the German army having ostentatiously marched into the Rhineland on 7 March 1936. Th e fi rst line Colijn drew in the sand concerned the budget, with his rejection of an increase of the defence expenditure for the Netherlands. Th ere were other priorities: “For one, it should be borne in mind what is necessary for the defence of the Kingdom outside Europe.” He also refused to accept Röell’s assumption of the worst case as the basis for the planning. Th ere was ‘no remedy on earth’ against such an event. In any case, measures to prevent it were unaff ordable, given the balance of strength between the great Germany and the small Netherlands. But the most important thing was that Colijn viewed the matter from an entirely diff erent perspective. In his view it was not so much the surviving of the strategic assault as such that mattered, but what would follow, the allied conduct of the war. “My confi dence,” he explained, “in the usefulness of the army in the fi rst days aft er the mobilization order is not great. But however strange this may sound, I do not think this over-important. What matters for us is not so much what the army can achieve during and aft er the mobilization, but whether we have at our disposal a force that can be called an organized army at a later moment in time.” Referring to the army system of 1922, Colijn stated that, “a newly mobilized army is only an incoherent mass at fi rst.” […] “Th is means that we must not expose the main force of the army in the fi rst few weeks to undertakings which may lead to its total destruction. I deem it out of the question that we may have to fi ght a war against a great European power single-handedly. So, it will always be an allied war that we will be facing. In such a case the ally who gives us succour, is better served with an army intact, which is becoming more of an army every week, than with an army which would be defeated by enemy forces already during the fi rst days.”22 Th e diff erence is clear. Being soldiers, Reijnders and Röell based their planning on

22 MinDef to CGS, 15 June 1935, 2383.- NA GS 32. 270 h. amersfoort their opponent’s possible courses of action, and on this ground they requested their minister to modernize the weak fi eld army. In February 1935 Reijnders submitted an elaborate memorandum containing proposals to counter the shortcomings of the army.23 Th is led to the institution of a Defence Fund in early 1936, HFL thirty-one million of which were earmarked for the army. In this period Röell adopted an alarmist tone. As a politician, Colijn started from the resources that were available, he rejected operational options that were unaff ordable anyway and adapted the use of the Field Army to its existing quality. On the short term the Defence Fund would not be able to repair all the shortcomings of the Field Army. With respect to the questions where to concentrate the fi eld army aft er its mobilization Colijn also took a decision. Th ere was only one location where the fi eld army could train safely and sort out its unit formation in the fi rst few weeks aft er mobilization, and that was inside or near Fortress Holland. “From this latter point it follows that I would not deem right an initial concentration of the bulk of the Field Army in the southern provinces,” Colijn continued his argument.24 Instead, he designated the Gelderse Vallei with its Grebbe Line. If, as Reijnders and Röell expected, Noord-Brabant and Limburg became the fi rst battlefi elds of the coming war, the fi eld army had to stay out of the way there, and leave matters to the French army. Once the fi eld army was combat ready, it could cross the great rivers and get involved in the battle. But whether this happened, depended on the way the war had developed in the meantime. By this time the war had been going on for weeks and might have taken unexpected turns. Only then did the question of where the fi eld army should undertake its mobile operations become opportune. Colijn’s decision had far-reaching consequences. From November 1925 onwards, when Major General P. J. H. van der Palm became chief of the General staff , the staff had developed several possible concentrations, since 1928 designated with a colour, each matching a diff erent war threat. ‘Blue’, a concentration in the Grebbe Line against an enemy coming from the east, was one of them. From March 1936 onwards it

23 Th e investments in materiel for the Field Army related to for anti-aircraft guns, anti-armour guns, infantry guns and ammunition. Furthermore, the air forces were to be reinforced. 24 MinDef to CGS, 19 March 1936, no.- NA GS 32. dutch army leadership and the operational planning 271 was the only one for which the General Staff and the Field Army had been allowed to plan, and it was from this position, then, that the fi eld army would engage in battle in May 1940. Since the end of World War I the army leadership had developed an increasing preference for a concentration in the south of the country. So, this was thwarted by Colijn in 1936.

Th e Strategic Exercises of the General Staff

Colijn’s intervention did not mean that the General Staff lost its interest in the southern theatre of operations. At least, this can be concluded from the annual strategic exercises in the 1920s and 1930s that the chief of the General Staff held with key functionaries in his staff and his subordinate commanders. Th e exercises give a reliable impression of the operational thinking within the staff . Th ey are staff map exercises, held in Th e Hague and fi eld exercises without troops, the so-called staff exercise trips. Since 1931 the map exercises had been called ‘Oefening Landsverdediging’ [‘Exercise Country Defence’]. Ten map exercises and ten staff exercise trips of the General Staff have survived; so twenty in total, over a period from 1920 up to and including 1939.25 What can be concluded from this collection with respect to the strategic and operational thinking within the General Staff in the 1920s and 1930s? Th e fi rst conclusions to be drawn relate to what is entirely or almost entirely missing in the scenarios. Not a single exercise assumes a course of events like that of 1914, so a situation in which the deterrence of the Dutch army is successful and the Netherlands maintains its armed neutrality. Th is is a clean break with staff exercises of the pre-World War I period, in which this possibility did feature. All scenarios since 1920 assume that the country is drawn into an imminent war in an early stage. Usually, this is a general European confl ict between Germany and France and its allies, but in two occasions it is Belgium.

25 Th e exercises are in NA GS 1378, 1502, 1503, 1504, 1506, 1507, 1511, 1516, 1517, 1518, 1519, 1520, 1521, 1522. It is clear from the available information that not all documents pertaining to all the exercises have survived. Compare also K. J. C. M. van Loon, “ ‘Oefening Landsverdediging’ 31. An analysis of the strategic map exercise ‘Landsverdediging’ of the General Staff in 1931” (unpublished fi nal paper, Netherlands Defence Academy, Breda, 2007). 272 h. amersfoort

In almost all cases the Netherlands becomes involved in the war because of a violation of its neutrality by German or French units. In only two cases, attacks by Belgium, are the operations directed at the Netherlands itself. Depending on who the enemy is, the Dutch commander-in-chief makes contact with his French, British, Belgian or German counterpart to coordinate the operations. Th ese fi ndings concur with the conclusions presented above with regard to the weakening eff ect of the military deterrence and the European balance of power. Furthermore, the absence of the League of Nations in all this is striking. Only the staff exercise trip of 1920 has the army operate within the framework of a League of Nations army, but that is the fi rst and last time even the name even of the League comes up. Th is can be explained as a refl ection of the scepticism among the military leadership about the eff ectiveness of the League as a mediator. Another negative score relates to the coast. In only two exercises (the staff exercise trip of 1928 and the Country Defence of 1939) does it feature. Th at is the reason why the province of Zeeland is virtually absent in the exercises, as is the Royal Netherlands Navy. Th is is a contrast with the ample interest of the General Staff before and during World War I for this area. Aft er the establishment of a separate, permanent command for Fortress Holland, the coastal defence became a responsibility of this lower level of command.26 Aft er World War I the exercises of the General Staff were almost exclusively concentrated on a threat coming from the east. Not Zeeland, but another eccentric area became the focus of attention, viz. Limburg together with Noord- Brabant. Th is prompts the question of how the successive chiefs of the General Staff viewed Noord-Brabant as the fi rst battlefi eld of the next war. Th ey were divided on this. In eleven of the twenty exercises the fi eld army concentrates south of the great rivers, that is to say, in and behind the Peel. In eight cases it concentrates north of the rivers, behind the IJssel at fi rst, from 1937 onwards, aft er Colijn’s decision, in the Gelderse Vallei. In one instance, Country Defence 1931, the fi eld army deploys on both sides of the river, splitting its combat strength almost equally. What it also striking is that aft er Colijn’s choice for a concentration in

26 See, for instance, the memorandum of the chief of staff of Fortress Holland ‘Considerations on a strategic assault on our coast by Germany,’ 13 July 1937. Neder- lands Instituut voor Militaire Historie (NIMH) Collectie strijd op Nederlands Grond- gebied (SNG), box 440 I. Commander Fortress Holland to MinDef, 30 November 1938, no 241.- NIMH SNG, box 440 I. dutch army leadership and the operational planning 273 the Gelderse Vallei the General Staff wrote three more scenarios for Noord-Brabant. Th is points at the fact that the possibility of the fi eld army crossing the great rivers from north to south to engage in the battle proper was taken seriously by the staff . Exercise Country Defence 1938 even does this explicitly. So, there were eleven concentrations south and eight north of the rivers. With respect to the preponderant attention of the General Staff for concentrations north of the river in the year leading up to World War I, this constitutes a turn-around in Dutch strategic thinking. New, compared to the earlier period, was that now the bulk of the Field army was concentrated south of the great rivers, that is to say, behind the Peel Defences.27 Th is change dates back to as early as 1920, so long before the army leadership brought up the problem of Brabant in their discussion with the minister. And what about the strategic assault, Reijnders’ and Röell’s other source of concern? It is possible to draw a clear conclusion on this point. In the period between 1920 and 1939 the General Staff did not once exercise a strategic assault. All scenarios are based on an incre- mental increase of international tension, leading up to the mobilization of the armed forces of the great powers, with the Dutch general mobilization always taking place just before or simultaneously. In all scenarios the Netherlands has a combat-ready Field army at its disposal at the moment it becomes entangled in the hostilities. Th e General Staff never deemed the risk of a strategic assault important enough to devote an exercise to it, which is understandable for the nineteen-twenties because Germany was not a threat then. But it is also true for the mid-nineteen-thirties, when Reijnders brought the strategic assault up with his minister. Th is is an indication that Reijnders considered this risk a worst case, which could serve to convince the minister of the necessity of making more resources available (especially for border defence and the formation of standing peace time troops), rather than a realistic threat. Röell’s alarmist representation of the situation, in any case, was far off the mark in the light of the exercises of the General Staff .28 On Colijn it had, as was seen above, an unintended eff ect.

27 Before World War I the General Staff did see the importance of Noord-Brabant and Limburg, but this did not lead to the concentration of the Field Army south of the great rivers. See Klinkert, Het vaderland verdedigd, pp. 295–305. 28 Th e most important Dutch historian on World War II and the period running up to it, L. de Jong, considers the strategic assault a realistic possibility. He begins his 274 h. amersfoort

Summing up, it can be said that during the nineteen-twenties and thirties the chief of the General Staff and the commander of the fi eld army expected a new war in Europe, in which the Netherlands would irrevocably become involved because Noord-Brabant would be the fi rst battlefi eld. For participation in this confl ict they wanted a harmo- niously composed army aft er the example of the great powers, built around an operational body, a fi eld army, trained, armed and equipped for mobile warfare, off ensive as well as defensive; an army that would fi ght this mobile war in an alliance. Th is concept of war is exemplifi ed in the policy studies of the military leadership, their correspondence with the minister and the exercises of the General Staff . In the meantime, the question remains of how realistic this preparation really was. Was the Dutch army capable of operating in the fashion the strategic exercises assumed? Did the General Staff not exercise with the army it wished to have, rather than the army it really had? Th ese questions present themselves because the Interwar years immediately followed a period of four years during which the Dutch armed forces were on a war footing, the mobilization of 1914–1918, and because the Interwar years ended with a new mobilization, that of 1939–1940, and a fi ve-day war in May 1940. Is not the proof of the pudding in the eating? Th e mobilization of 1914–1918 yields a mixed, but ultimately negative impression. On the face of it the fi eld army seems to have lived up to its purpose. Th e Commander-in-Chief, General C. J. Snijders, used it in a dynamic manner by sending it all over the south of the country where the threat was the most serious at that moment. But in the meantime his concerns were growing. Th ese were operations on Dutch territory, without clashing with an enemy. In the views of his staff the Netherlands had had a narrow escape in the summer of 1914. If the war had spread across its borders, the fi eld army would not have been able to do anything meaningful about it. Not only armament and

discussion on it with the exercise led by the Head of the Hogere Krijgsschool, Colonel J. T. Alting van Geusau, Esq., in the winter of 1934–1935, which showed that the Netherlands would be defenceless against such an attack His further argument suggests that Reijnders wrongly underestimated this danger in not taking Röell’s warnings seriously enough. Th is representation of events does not suffi ciently take into account the unrealistic character of Röell’s predictions: a large-scale German attack to occupy the Netherlands, from the barracks and without any warning time. De Jong, Voorspel, pp. 587–601. dutch army leadership and the operational planning 275 equipment, but also profi ciency and unit formation were of such low quality that the fi eld army would have had no other option than to mass inside Fortress Holland.29 In the following months the situation improved somewhat. What was more important, however, was that the military-technical developments on the French battlefi elds went very quickly and the combat experience of the belligerents increased, which only widened the gap between the combat strength of the fi eld army and theirs. As the war dragged on, Snijders’ pessimism only grew. Should the fi eld army become engaged in combat, it would have to retreat behind the Waterlinie without fi ghting a decisive battle. Ostensibly, the fi eld army was a useful tool for military deterrence under varying circumstances; in reality, however, it was only suitable for position warfare. As late as during the mobilization of 1939–1940 the commander of the fi eld army, Lieutenant General J. J. G. baron van Voorst tot Voorst, pleaded for a mobile war from the positions in the Gelderse Vallei to the IJssel River or Noord-Brabant. Reijnders envisaged a defensive in a prepared position in the Gelderse Vallei, followed by a retreat on the Waterlinie and from there, unadulterated position warfare, and he had his way. With his operations plan he virtually distanced himself completely from the mobile warfare in his own staff exercises. His successor, General H. G. Winkelman, went even further. He refrained from any form of mobile action and decided on a position war in the Gelderse Vallei.30 Th e retreat of the Field Army on the Waterlinie in the night of 13 on 14 May 1940 was an improvisation. Strictly speaking, for these operations plans a fi eld army was not necessary; an army of well-trained fortress troops could have done the job. So, had the Dutch military leadership since the establishment of the fi eld army not been pursuing something of which the country was reluctant to bear the fi nancial and other burdens, forcing, as a consequence, the commanders-in-chief to adopt an operations plan that would also have been feasible without an operational body?

29 Compare Klinkert, Het vaderland verdedigd, pp. 335–343. 30 Amersfoort and Kamphuis, May 1940 pp. 64–86. During the general mobilization of late August 1939 the Government appointed Reijnders Commander-in-Chief of the Land and Naval Forces. As a consequence of a crisis of confi dence he tendered his resignation on 31 January 1940. Th e Government appointed Winkelman as his successor. Transfer of command took place on 6 February 1940. 276 h. amersfoort

Exercise Country Defence 1938

Interestingly enough, a General Staff exercise, Exercise Country Defence 1938, can help in fi nding the answer to this question.31 Th e exercise took place from 17 up to and including 19 March 1938 in the Rolzaal in the Binnenhof. It was led by Reijnders. Th e exercise, in which some forty-fi ve offi cers participated, featured the Blue as well as the Red parties. It was followed up by a staff exercise trip in mid-June.32 Th e general Staff wrote the scenario for the map exercise in the late winter of 1937–1938, in the middle of the international crisis around Austria, which would lead to the Anschluss on 12 March 1938. Country Defence 1938 assumed a war between France and Germany (the Red party) would begin with a German attack on the Netherlands (the Blue party) south of the great rivers, through the province of Noord-Brabant. France would respond by moving into Flanders, meeting the German advance. Th e Dutch commander-in-chief positioned the bulk of his fi eld army, three of the four divisional groups (army corps) and the Light Brigade, in Noord-Brabant behind the Peel-Raam Defences. Th e commander of the fi eld army positioned four divisions and the Light Brigade in the forward lines, keeping two divisions in reserve. Within the framework of the exercise Lieutenant Colonel M. W. L. van Alphen had been given the task to devise the operations plan of the Red First Army. Van Alphen presented an intelligent plan, by which he showed that he had been appointed head of the Hogere Krijgsschool eighteen months earlier for good reasons. Th e operations of Red would lead to the Dutch fi eld army being completely outmanoeuvred within a short period; better still, aft er good German custom, it would be eingekesselt in Noord-Brabant. Th e fi eld army would be defeated within a few days and be left with two options: surrender or be wiped out.33 In the subsequent discussion the exercise control staff concluded that Van Alphen’s assumptions were correct. Th e Red operation would be successful. Th e deputy head of the General Staff , Colonel J. Harberts, therefore wrote in the margin, “Th is prompts the extremely important

31 Exercise Landsverdediging 1938.- NA GS 1507 and 1508. 32 Stafoefeningreis 1938.- NA GS 1522. 33 Van Alphen’s plan does not state how much time Red’s operation takes. Th e scenario of the Staff exercise trip assumes that the Field Army is outmanoeuvred on day four. dutch army leadership and the operational planning 277 question for the defence of the Netherl[ands]: If the strength of the German army allows an eff ort such as assumed in the exercise, is it permissible to deploy the bulk of the Dutch army in Brabant in the manner it has been done now?”34 An “extremely important question,” not a word too many. Harberts could also have remarked that Van Alphen had blown away the foundations of some twenty years of strategic planning in one fell blow. For if the fi eld army had no business in Noord-Brabant, as Colijn, too, had already stipulated, it had to remain north of the great rivers, where it was of no use for the allied war eff ort with the Belgian and French armies. Colijn assumed that it would take weeks for the fi eld army to become useful in an operational sense. In view of the situation the fi eld army found itself in, this was an optimistic estimate. But even such a short period would allow the opponent to take many counter-measures. Th ere was a big chance that, due to a lack of manoeuvre space between the great rivers and the IJsselmeer, the fi eld army would have to resort rather quickly to position warfare, either in the Gelderse Vallei or in the Hollandse Waterlinie. Th e outcome of Country Defence 1938 confronted anyone who wished to see it with little less than the question about the raison d’être of the fi eld army.

Conclusion

Let us return to the question about what constituted the cohesive factor between the strategy, the operational planning and the concept of the fi eld army during the Interwar years. In the 1930s the Dutch fi eld army was the stake in a two-fold confl ict, pitting in both cases the army leadership and the minister of defence. Th e army leadership wanted the fi eld army to carry out a mobile defensive and off ensive in Noord- Brabant. In order to enable the fi eld army to do this, they demanded that it be reinforced and modernized. Th e minister, however, ordered a position warfare north of the great rivers in the Gelderse Vallei. In doing so, he adapted the fi eld army’s task to its existing operational capabilities. Th is confl ict found its origin in the Army System of 1922,

34 As for Red’s strength, it is interesting to see that the German attack on 10 May 1940 was executed by three army corps, so equal to the strength Van Alphen could command. Th e manner of deploying the Field Army in Noord-Brabant (in the Peel with a withdrawal on the Zuid-Willemsvaart and Wilhelminakanaal), is the customary one. It is similar to the course of events in other exercises. 278 h. amersfoort which had given the Netherlands a hybrid army; it was a militia, but organized like and with the task of a modern fi eld army. Th is hybrid army became a problem when in the early 1930s the international climate began to deteriorate. Th e army leadership exploited this situation to retrieve what they had lost through the 1922 Army System, viz. the possibility of a fully fl edged fi eld army suitable for mobile warfare. In 1936 the army leadership loyally obeyed the stipulations of Minister Colijn to position the fi eld army in the Gelderse Vallei in case of a war and to fi ght a position war there. But the operational thinking remained directed at mobile actions, preferably in Noord-Brabant. Only aft er the general mobilization in the early days of September 1939, when war was imminent, did the commander-in- chief become resigned to the real operational capabilities of the fi eld army. Th ere is really only one way to explain this attitude. Mobile warfare and the modern equipped and well-trained fi eld army represented values in themselves for the army leadership. Deriving this ideal from the example of the great powers in Europe, they yearned for an army that could participate on a more or less equal footing in the military campaigns conducted by these powers. In other words, the military leadership saw itself as a part of the dominant military culture in Europe as shaped by the great powers. Th is attitude stemmed from the closing decade of the 19th century, when the army leadership preferred to model themselves aft er the Prussian-German military paradigm and concept of warfare. Th is made the leadership unwilling and unable to see that the military culture of the great powers aft er World War I did no longer constitute a useful point of reference for a small country like the Netherlands. Th e increase of scale warfare had undergone between 1914 and 1918 had become impossible to emulate for a small country. Th e inability and unwillingness of the army leadership to face this has been harmful. As it was, the political leadership saw clearer how the face of war had changed since Word War I. By striving for a reinstitution of the fi eld army aft er the example of the great powers, the army leadership formed a hindrance to a harmonious political-military preparation of the war that was coming. Th is is a harsh judgment. In defence of the leadership it can be said that no Dutch operations plan and no Dutch army organization in itself would have been able to shield the country from the catastrophe that occurred in 1940. In all circumstances the fate of the Netherlands dutch army leadership and the operational planning 279 depended on the German and allied operations plans and on the outcome of the showdown between the two. Such was the position of a small power in times of total warfare. In essence the defence of the Netherlands had become a problem that the country was unable to solve on it own. It needed a second world war to break the stalemate. But that is a diff erent history.

CHAPTER TWELVE

NEUTRALITY GUARD OR PREPARATIONS FOR WAR? THE NORWEGIAN ARMED FORCES AND THE COMING OF THE SECOND WORLD WAR

T. Kristiansen

Introduction

Th roughout the inter-war years the Norwegian defence leadership grappled with a fundamental challenge, and in the latter part of the 1930s the situation became almost desperate. On the one hand, Norway needed a defence organization that could endure periods of protracted neutrality as the country’s fi rst line of defence in compliance with political guidelines and historical experience. Such an organization had proved imperative during the First World War. It meant a large establishment with lightly equipped army units covering a country approximately the size of Great Britain and with a scattered population of circa three million citizens, coastal artillery forts and controlled mine fi elds situated at the approaches to the major towns, aircraft for observation and interception and naval vessels and hired civilian patrol boats for the surveillance of the 2,600 kilometres of coastline. On the other hand, in accordance with the strategic understanding of the defence leadership, the country also needed modern units that could counter a limited great-power attack with the view of securing a naval base somewhere along the south-western coast, in the Narvik area or in the eastern part of Finnmark. Th is meant mobile, mechanized and concentrated forces at a relatively high level of readiness that at least had the capacity to delay or disrupt a great-power attack. Striking a balance between these contradictory needs constituted a formidable task for a defence community that was simultaneously severely underfunded and notoriously politically overambitious. It added to the challenge that the entire defence organization was still, in the latter part of the 1930s, struggling to cope with the major reforms of 1927 and 1933 that were far from being brought to a conclusion, as we will see below. Th e lack of political support in the implementation 282 t. kristiansen phase and the prevailing economic depression had resulted in an army and navy almost in a state of operational hibernation. Th e restructur- ing proved utterly unsuccessful when it came to establishing new capabilities. Acquisitions were almost non-existent, fi eld exercises came to a halt, and the education of both army and navy offi cers was dramatically reduced. Moreover, Norwegian conscripts had by far the shortest training period in Europe – forty-eight days at the nadir, a little less than a hundred days at the apex. With the benefi t of hindsight it might easily be claimed that it was impossible to combine the maintenance of a neutrality guard with a limited, modern war-fi ghting capacity given the political and economic circumstances of the inter-war period, and the geographical characteristics of the country. And, for a number of reasons, war fi ghting had to give way to other measures. Th e situation, however, changed in 1937. Th e government, with broad parliamentary support, then embarked upon a rearmament programme unprecedented since aft er the First World War. Money was poured into the ministry of defence to such an extent that the authorities were not able to fi nd suffi cient suppliers of military materiel and other war provisions. Th e Norwegian arms and munitions industry had a very limited capacity, with one factory for munitions and another one for small arms. In addition, both the army and the navy had their own licensed production of aircraft and the naval ship yard was capable of building small naval vessels. All production facilities were located in the central part of southern Norway. Th e primary suppliers of war materials were the great powers, and it goes without saying that there were strings attached to weapons deals in this pre-war period which could easily jeopardize the security policies of non-aligned countries. Th is posed an insurmountable problem for Norway, which tried to reassume a traditional neutral posture in cooperation with the Oslo states aft er it had become apparent that collective security under the League of Nations was in a spiralling process of deterioration. Th e government soon experienced what an overwhelming task it was to revitalize a dormant military system even though the overall framework and core institutions had been maintained during the dire years of economic depression and irreconcilable disagreement over defence policy. Regardless of this geyser of revenues, the result was that at the time of the German attack a considerable part of the appropriations were still unspent – and Norway still militarily exceptionally weak and ineffi cient. Th e main focus of this chapter is this rearmament period from 1937 to 1940. It might be asked whether there was a reasonable correlation norwegian armed forces and the coming of wwii 283 between the dominant threat perception and the utilisation of funds to raise the level of preparedness and to re-establish military capabilities. Another salient feature in Norwegian war preparations was the urgency attached to the building up of a wide array of war provisions and the improvement of civilian infrastructure that could buttress the armed forces. Th e reason was that several remote and scarcely populated parts of the coast – far from the central mobilization areas, garrisons and depots – were regarded as strategically exposed. Hence, timely preparations were vital both for a civil society and a defence establishment that could be paralyzed within a matter of weeks if imports were cur- tailed. Actually, these eff orts were the most successful part of the war preparations. Th is period falls into three distinctive phases from a Norwegian point of view. Th e fi rst comprised the years from 1937 through the Czechoslovakian crisis in 1938 to the outbreak of war in 1939, which was increasingly regarded as a pre-war period. Politically, legally, dip- lomatically and militarily the government did what it could to prepare for an anticipated great-power confrontation. Th e second phase lasted from September 1939 to the German attack on Denmark and Norway on 9 April 1940. Th is period began with the declarations of Scandinavian neutrality and was then followed by the management of an almost never-ending series of crises by the Norwegian foreign ministry and the neutrality guard – some of which led to the brink of war, most notable the Altmark incident in February 1940. Finally, the sixty-two- day campaign in Norway following the German attack, which ended with the fi ve-nation battle of Narvik in late May and the Norwegian government taking exile in Great Britain for the duration of the war, represents a third phase. Th e more specifi c issues that will be dealt with are fi rstly, the Norwegian security and defence traditions and their impact on the development in the 1930s. Secondly, the characteristics of the defence preparations that took place will be dealt with in order to establish to what extent the political and military authorities did take both war fi ghting and neutral duties into consideration during the fi rst phase. Th e operational performance of the neutrality guard was put to the test during the second phase and Norway’s war-fi ghting ability was revealed in the third phase. In what way can developments during this period inform us about the conditions under which a small and strategically vulnerable country like Norway could structure the military component of its security policy in the shadow of impending confl icts? 284 t. kristiansen

Norwegian Security and Defence: Historical Determinants and Impediments

Th e Norwegian security policy and defence organisation were en- meshed in historical traditions which severely limited the latitude of the army and navy leadership in the years leading up to the Second World War. Th inking about security and strategy was fi rst of all perme- ated by the fi rm conviction that the country’s peripheral location and distance from continental Europe in combination with the stormy capricious North Sea constituted – to quote Shakespeare – “a fortress built by Nature for itself/Against infection and the hand of war” (Richard II, act 2, scene 1) – a situation almost the opposite to that of most other small European countries. History itself seemed to confi rm this. Norway had not been attacked from the sea since the Middle Ages, and for the most part the land border cut through wilderness and almost uninhabited areas. Th ere had been no border confl icts between Norway and Sweden aft er 1814 and none with Russia aft er the Treaty of 1826 that settled the border in the far north. Th us, detachment and isolationism were generally assumed to constitute a viable security policy option. One eff ect of these perceptions was that it was widely believed that such a thing as cut-price military security was available to a country that barely registered on the international radar. Th e overall aim of every government in the inter-war years (regardless of party affi liation) was to remain non-aligned and non-belligerent – at almost any cost. Th e perceptions of detachment and isolation were reinforced by the fact that Norway had no serious controversies with the great powers, and the great powers themselves took little interest in Norwegian aff airs, at least until the period under scrutiny in this chapter.1 Hence, national security was never high on the political agenda before the latter part of the 1930s.2 On the contrary, the majority of politicians were downright indiff erent to strategic aff airs, which in turn produced par- liamentarians with inadequate knowledge and insuffi cient competence

1 P. Salmon, Scandinavia and the Great Powers 1890–1940 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1997), p. 349. 2 T. Kristiansen, Tysk trussel mot Norge? Forsvarsledelse, trusselvurderinger og mil- itære tiltak før 1940 (Bergen: Fagbokforlaget, 2008), p. 29, referring to O.-B. Fure, Norsk utenrikspolitikks historie, vol. 3, Mellomkrigstid 1920–1940 (Oslo: Universitetsforlaget, 1996). norwegian armed forces and the coming of wwii 285 in security issues. Moreover, in the years following the Armistice in 1918, Norwegian public debate was marked by popular anti-militarism and pacifi sm. By and large, the debate over the justifi cation for the need for a military defence came to an end in the mid-1930s as a result of growing international tension and the aggression of the totalitarian states. Th e Spanish Civil War dealt a paralyzing blow to Norwegian anti-militarism – notably in the labour movement. Th e tools with which the government sought to pursue this policy can be treated under two headings, peacetime policy, i.e. non-alignment, and wartime policy, i.e. neutrality. In peacetime the foreign ministry directed most of its eff orts and attention to activities such as negotiating arbitration treaties, promoting arms reduction and the development of international law and institutions. It participated ener- getically in the League of Nations, which was generally regarded as an arena in which small states could play a part in international aff airs – almost as a fulfi lment of long-standing Norwegian aspirations.3 Among the Liberals as well as the Conservatives and Labour (except during its passing fl irtation with Bolshevism in the wake of the Russian revolution) thinking about war and peace was deeply infl uenced by the conviction that international law and institutions, and the growth of trade and economic cooperation would prevent future wars. Th is is why the eff orts to change the code of conduct between states and to encourage commerce and social development were believed to be far more important for national security than military preparation. On the whole, this was a perception of international interaction quite similar to the thoughts put forward by people such as Jeremy Bentham in the late eighteenth and Richard Cobden in the nineteenth century. In particular among leading Liberals and Socialists there was a blatant rejection of military power as an instrument suitable for small states except for tasks such as surveillance, border control and the management of incidents. Th is was, moreover, the reason why the Labour party up to 1936 was in favour of dissolving the armed forces altogether and of establishing a gendarmerie and a coast guard as an alternative.4 To all intents and purposes the Liberals and the Socialists shared the fundamental understanding of their associates in other European countries, namely,

3 See O.-B. Fure, Mellomkrigstid for a survey of Norwegian foreign policy in the interwar period. 4 T. Kristiansen, Tysk trussel mot Norge? p. 53–58. 286 t. kristiansen that arms races were the cause and not the result of international confl icts. Th e issue of unquestioned non-alignment was also paramount. None of the governments in the inter-war years ever considered entering into any sort of alliance or defence cooperation with the great powers – the topic was in fact a political taboo. Even the limited military cooperation with the Nordic countries (essentially in matters of intelligence exchange and coordination of air and maritime surveillance), which came into existence in the latter part of the 1930s, was highly controversial.5 Th e peacetime policy of detachment was also shored up by strict non-interference in issues that were irrelevant to national interests and a policy of minimal commitments towards countries that could jeopardize Norwegian interests. It was generally dreaded by both politicians, civil servants and offi cers that cooperation with more exposed and vulnerable small countries could result in Norway being dragged into confl icts in which it had no stakes. Such considerations lay at the core of the arguments among the opponents to membership of the League of Nations in 1920. Th e military leadership was among the nay-sayers. All in all, Norway cut a fl ustered fi gure, propounding the enthusiastic rhetoric of internationalism and peace, on one hand while, demonstrating a tendency to shy away from engage- ments that carried a price tag, on the other. Moreover, there was growing division in public opinion over the vir- tue of neutrality – not to mention continued disarmament. Th is debate was set off in earnest during the Spanish Civil War. In particular young representatives of the left and the labour movement, argued that it was both politically naive and morally wrong not to fi ght actively against fascism (preferably as part of the Soviet-inspired popular front), which had entered into a phase of escalating aggression and expansion. A similar debate was stirred up when the Soviet Union attacked neighbouring Finland in November 1939, this time by representatives of the right. But the government and parliament did not waver. Norway did not offi cially interfere in the confl icts of the 1930s, except for taking part in the sanctions imposed on Japan and Italy by the League of Nations in the wake of the invasions of Manchuria and Abyssinia. Even participation in the international voluntary units in Spain and Finland

5 S. G. Holtsmark and T. Kristiansen, “En nordisk illusjon: Norge og militært samarbeid i nord 1918–1940,” Defence Studies 6 (1991). norwegian armed forces and the coming of wwii 287 was prohibited for anyone in the Norwegian armed forces, be they commissioned offi cer, reservists or conscripts (which the majority of the male population was until the age of forty-fi ve), and any activity that could endanger the policy of non-alignment and future neutrality was offi cially denounced. Some of the great western powers therefore accused Norway for conducting a policy of peace and internationalism that rang hollow. Th ey claimed the country did not stand up to the attacks on liberal and democratic values by the totalitarian states, while at the same time claiming the moral high ground and acting as a free rider. Norwegian peacetime policy, however, was considered to be a precondition of, and a preparation for, the wartime policy, namely neutrality as laid down in international law. But that did not mean that there was no fall-back position or unspoken assumption underlying the considerations of the political authorities. Since the country gained full independence in 1905 Britain had been regarded as Norway’s ultimate guarantor should neutrality fail. Both in Norway itself and among the other European states it was generally held that Norway was within the British sphere of infl uence and that Britain for strategic reasons would defend Norway’s integrity out of self-interest. Th is dimension of Norwegian security policy is known as the implicit British guarantee in Norwegian historiography.6 Th e Italian attack on Abyssinia in 1935 and the German remilitari- zation of the Rhineland in 1936 brought about a fundamental shift in the focus of the Oslo states – of which Norway was one of the founding members – from economic to security issues.7 Th is had a profound eff ect on Norwegian security policy. Th e coordinated eff orts to slacken the sanctions regime of the League was regarded as crucial by the governments since it would be almost impossible to do this on an individual basis. Th e Oslo states aimed at a revival of the pre-League stance of non-alignment and neutrality. Th e question was discussed for the fi rst time in Copenhagen in April 1936. Th ere was a follow-up

6 See e.g. O. Riste, Norway’s Foreign Relations: A History (Oslo: Universitetsforlaget, 2001). 7 Th e Oslo Agreement of 1930 between Belgium, the Netherlands, Luxembourg, Denmark, Sweden and Norway came about to alleviate the eff ects of the great depression. Finland joined the group in 1933. Until 1936 economic issues dominated the cooperation. Aft er that the coordination of their security policies was given priority. For a survey of the Oslo states see G. van Roon, Small states in Years of Depression: the Oslo Alliance 1930–1940 (Assen: Van Gorcum, 1989). 288 t. kristiansen

conference in Geneva in June which resulted in a joint declaration of 1 July. It was stated that since the initial preconditions for their membership in the League no longer existed, the Oslo states would not regard themselves as unreservedly bound by the Covenant. Th is was declared offi cially in a communiqué in 1938 and marked a defi nite break with the idea of collective security under the League – aptly characterized by the Norwegian historian Nils Ørvik as “the fl ight from Geneva.”8 France and Great Britain ardently opposed this policy, which they considered to be pusillanimous and evasive. Neutrality was entirely undisputed in Norway and seen as the only viable option in war from 1905 until the German attack in 1940 – with the exception of course, that aft er joining the League in 1920 and until the communiqué of 1938 the government could be constrained by sanctions imposed on member states by the League. Notwithstanding this unanimity over policy, a heated argument took place within in the higher echelons of politics and within the defence community in the latter part of the 1930s over the legal and military implications of neutrality. Th e subtleties of the debate on neutrality and the League of Nations – of which there was abundance – will not be discussed but the discussion will be restricted to those issues with a bearing on the military aspects of neutrality, issues that lay at the core of the security debate in the late 1930s. As mentioned above, the Norwegian defence community carried a heavy load of historical traditions that represented an impediment to a reasonable adjustment to new operational needs in the inter-war period. Apart from economic constraints, these historical traditions to a large extent hampered the development of a relevant organization in the army, the navy and the air forces. Th e army was by far the senior service in Norway. It was founded as a national institution in 1628 and several characteristics came into being from the outset. Firstly, it truly was a territorial army that covered the whole of southern Norway. Close ties between the regiments and the local communities were established. In many respects the army increasingly came to refl ect the relatively egalitarian social structure and the attitudes of Norwegian society with its rather weak aristocracy compared to the numerous independent farmers. Actually, the

8 N. Ørvik, Sikkerhetspolitikken 1920–1939: Fra forhistorien til 9. april 1940, vol. 1, Solidaritet eller nøytralitet? part 3 (Oslo: Tanum, 1960). norwegian armed forces and the coming of wwii 289

traditional warring class – the aristocracy – was abolished by the Norwegian parliament in 1821. Secondly, aft er the end of the Great Nordic War in 1721 (which fi nally created an equilibrium in Scandinavia) the army had very little war experience except for a limited number of skirmishes in 1808 and 1814. Th e offi cer corps was integrated into the ruling elite, but the warrior ethos and traditions gradually eroded. Norwegians increasingly turned away from bellicos- ity. At the time of the German attack in 1940 126 years had elapsed since the army last fi red a shot in anger. Th irdly, it may be added that the combination of budgetary constraints and a no-threat situation resulted in short military service and no standing army in the real sense. Th e army experienced a period of considerable growth from the late nineteenth century until the end of the First World War. During these years the entire country was included in the military organization. At the turn of the century, national service was fi nally introduced in the three northernmost counties, and a military organization was eventually established, though this was indeed a slow take-off . Th us, conscription was fi nally made comprehensive even though the principle had been laid down in the constitution of 1814. Aft er the dissolution of the Swedish-Norwegian union in 1905, the leadership, the regimental structure and the mobilization system of the army, was organized in accordance with regular principles. Th at was not the case during the union when the number of units of the line was held to a minimum and the reserve units were increased in order to reduce the king’s control over the army. Th e new organization plan, which passed parliament in 1909, was generally regarded by the offi cers as ideally adapted to the economy, the security requirements and demographic distribution. Th e operational standards, infrastructure and materiel were also improved signifi cantly up to 1918. Th e army grew remarkably large in numbers compared to the size of the population and the industrial output of the country. To maintain such a large army was possible because the best part of it was infantry with short periods of training, and the conscripts were only rudimenta- rily equipped. Moreover, there was also a large number of reserve units (the Norwegian version of the Landwehr) that were not equipped and trained in peacetime. But the army suff ered from a severe shortage of capabilities such as artillery and cavalry, as well as signal, train, engineers and other special troops. In accordance with military ideals inspired by the Swiss and the early American system, Norway did not 290 t. kristiansen establish a standing army and thus had no large garrisons. Th e units had only simple drilling grounds with very basic accommodation facilities scattered around in the districts. All in all, these traits made the Norwegian army appear more like a militia than a regular army. Or perhaps it should rather be labelled as a hybrid or an educational army. Th e reason is that the offi cers received traditional education and training, the set-up and procedures of the organization and the war planning were traditional, but there were almost no long-service NCOs or men. Th e army entered the inter-war period with considerable self-confi - dence, and the offi cers were convinced that the future was bright, since the safeguarding of neutrality had depended on the armed forces during the war. But things almost immediately took a dramatic turn. It was soon realized that the post-war economy was not at all able to carry the burden of the defence organization that had been developed under the extraordinary circumstances of the war. Th us, shortly aft er the process of demobilization had been brought to an end, political support for the armed forces evaporated. And there were no fundamental diff erences between the political parties, with the exception of the Socialists, of course, who propounded unilateral disarmament. Like many other countries, Norway experienced a few years of severe political unrest in the wake of the Great War and military issues and expenses were at the centre of the debate. Lack of funding then became the Achilles heel of the militia-based army. Th e general staff was left with no alternative to spending the dwindling budget on keeping up the cadres and paying both serving and redundant offi cers in accordance with legally binding arrangements. Th is led to a dramatic reduction in education, training, fi eld exercises and acquisitions at a time when the armies of Europe wished to focus on adjusting their inventory and doctrines to the lessons learned from the war. As in most other western democracies, the adjustment process was cut short in Norway. Instead, as mentioned, the country was left with an army in a state of operational hibernation. At the same time, the army leadership realized that the armed forces needed to be modernized, mechanized and motorized in order to develop capabilities needed in modern war. But the funding was so insuffi cient that such processes rarely got off the ground. Due to these circumstances the army was relegated to an extremely low level of readiness as the inter-war years wore on. Th e major reforms of the army were initiated with the dual inten - tion of both reducing costs and establishing an organization more in norwegian armed forces and the coming of wwii 291

harmony with post-war strategic and economic realities. Th e parliamentary defence commission of 1920 was charged with putting forward proposals on how to organize the armed forces on the basis of the experiences from the war and according to the needs that fl owed from the post-war states system. Th e defence commission reports were succeeded by a reform plan that parliament passed in 1927, but it was cancelled shortly aft erwards, following a new dramatic downturn in the economy. An even more austere organization plan was then draft ed and accepted by parliament in 1933, though accompanied by widespread protests and accusations of being a fatally short-sighted disarmament programme. For the army the result was that the overall structure laid down in the organization plan of 1909 was maintained but a considerable number of battalions were given reserve status and not equipped or trained in peace. Th e proposition that passed parliament in 1933 reduced the number of infantry battalions that should be ready for mobilization from fi ft y-fi ve to sixteen. Th e ambition was to create the leeway needed for modernization by giving priority to acquisitions and exercises for a core of units on a higher level of readiness than the reserve. It was regarded as imperative that the army be able to mobilize a neutrality guard immediately aft er the outbreak of war in order to comply with neutral duties as laid down in international law. Th e military planners envisaged that it would take six years of normal budgets to carry the reform through. But no such budgets materialized in the initial phase which started in 1934, and as a consequence the deterioration continued. Th is avenue of approach caused serious unrest and resistance within the army. Th e traditionalists maintained that Norwegian geography and security predicaments required an organization that covered the whole of the territory and capable of enduring protracted neutrality service. Th at would not be the case any longer. Th ey accused the politicians of ignoring the need for long-term planning in the army and claimed that it was a pipe-dream to believe that a small country with a miniscule arms industry could regenerate military power at short notice. But, what really outraged the army leadership was the tendency to strengthen the navy and air forces at the expense of the army. Th is was justifi ed by the fact that the coast and territorial waters were considered to be far more exposed to infringements during a European war than the land border. However, the situation for the navy was similarly gloomy. Th e British naval attaché in Oslo reported in 1936 that “[p]romotion is extremely 292 t. kristiansen slow, material is largely out of date, money is very scarce,” and those words were no exaggeration.9 Not only was Norway by all standards a small state, it is also geographically located on the extreme northern periphery of Europe, extending from fi ft y-seven to seventy-one degrees northern latitude. Th e coast fl anked the debouches to the North Atlantic for Germany and Russia, and Norwegian territorial waters off ered protected passage for belligerents. Nevertheless, the navy was defi nitely the junior service. Although it had experienced its heydays of ‘navalism’, which lasted for a decade from the mid-1890s, and during which a large number of vessels – even four armoured artillery ships – were commissioned, the navy was still in an embryonic state. Th e support facilities that were necessary for operations along the whole length of the coast had not yet been fully developed. In the period leading up to the First World War the navy was almost exclusively prepared for action in the Oslo Fjord and Skagerrak. Th is changed in the last couple of years before and during the war with the establishment of a few new stations and naval commands. But the development still posed a serious challenge. Furthermore, as the junior service, there was almost no fat to burn in the organization. Unlike the army, the navy could save little money by reducing the total organization, which at the outset was inadequate. Th e Norwegian navy also had its special features. Except for the four armoured artillery ships of some 4,000 tonnes commissioned in 1897 and 1900, it consisted mostly of small vessels only capable of grey- water operations. Th ere were a large number of both outdated and modern boats – forty-three torpedo and eleven gun boats. Th e old vessels could still serve as fl oating gun batteries to enfi lade mine fi elds or to protect the entrances to coastal towns and the shipping lanes, or even as auxiliaries. Five submarines were commissioned before the First World War and another six were launched during the 1920s. Th e Norwegian submarines were of German construction. In addition, there were six mine layers and mine sweepers. Th e six submarines that were launched 1922–1929 and three mine layers that were launched 1916–1918 were all part of a construction plan initiated in 1915. No other war ships were commissioned before 1936, except for an ocean going mine layer and three patrol vessels for the fi shery guard. In 1936 the fi rst of a series of six anti-submarine destroyers was launched.

9 Annual Report on Norway 1936, TNA, FO 371, 21087, p. 23. norwegian armed forces and the coming of wwii 293

Th e contracting of these vessels followed a heated debate in the navy over whether or not Norway should build destroyers or modern armoured artillery ships. Th e supporters of artillery ships argued that it was necessary to have such vessels for escort and protection of the exposed parts of the coast that were not covered by coastal forts, notably on the south-west coast between Kristiansand and Bergen. Th e supporters of destroyers – among them the Commanding Admiral – argued that they were indispensable since it was German submarine operations and British counter-measures that had brought Norway on the brink of war in 1917, and forced the country into the role of a ‘neutral ally’ of the western powers.10 Th e most signifi cant feature of the fl eet in 1918 was that it was to a large extent run down aft er more than four years of active service, and that it was in desperate need of maintenance and modernization. It was realized by the navy in the late nineteenth century that torpedoes and mines off ered a unique opportunity for a small country to acquire effi cient and aff ordable sea power for littoral operations, in particular for sea denial. Torpedoes and mines appeared almost tailor- made for the Norwegian coastal topography. In the inter-war years such weapons had by far become the most important weaponry in the navy and also a vital part of the inventory of the coastal forts. Th e coastal artillery, working operationally together with the fl eet made up a force-multiplying system which represented an almost impenetrable barrier when fully mobilized. Th e potential of coastal defences can be illustrated by the fact that the Oscarsborg fortress sank the modern heavy cruiser Blücher on 9 April 1940, even though it was only partly mobilized by reservists, and the Royal Navy calculated a possible loss of three battleships in order to penetrate the fortress at the entrance of the Trondheim Fjord during the campaign of 1940. Th e system was, however, totally dependent on timely decisions concerning provisions, training and mobilization. Another salient characteristic of the Norwegian navy (as well as the army) was that it was basically a mobilization and educational force with none of the vessels under permanent command. Th ey were normally equipped only for a few months during the summer season – except, of course, for the fi shery protection guard. In addition to the

10 O. Riste, Th e Neutral Ally: Norway’s Relations with the Belligerent Powers in the First World War (Oslo: Universitetsforlaget, 1965). 294 t. kristiansen persistent lack of offi cers it posed an almost insurmountable problem for the naval planners that a large number of the reservists served as seamen or offi cers in the merchant fl eet and consequently were not available at short notice. Th is challenge had surfaced during the First World War but grew out of control during the inter-war period due to lack of maintenance of the elaborate sea defence system that had worked successfully in 1914–1918. Th is was extremely problematic for the planning of a long-haul neutrality guard. In order to strengthen the level of readiness the new destroyers and submarines were put under permanent command from 1937 and both education and training were intensifi ed. Th e navy had developed a fairly sophisticated doctrine for the neutrality guard. Th e small naval vessels and a large number of hired civilian patrol boats were used to guard the most exposed parts of the coast. Th e vessels were mostly stationed in remote coastal villages. Th e neutrality guard was also heavily dependent on a tight network of observation posts served by the navy and civilian communications facilities along the coast. Th ere was, moreover, a close cooperation with civilian agencies, such as local police authorities, the customs service, the pilot service, and lighthouse keepers for surveillance and reporting. When the total sea defence and observational system was mustered at the outbreak of the First World War it proved to be surprisingly eff ective. Both the naval and civilian elements were mobilized in the matter of one week, and they were tested by the belligerents within a few days. Such an intricate system needed to be maintained and improved in peacetime if it was to function in war. Th at was not at all the case in the inter-war years. Th e neutrality guard, which was mobilized in September 1939, was incomparable in size and eff ectiveness to that of the First World War. It could therefore not operate in accordance with the same guidelines. Th e operational doctrine of the neutrality guard was simple but demanding in August 1914. Hence, the total naval force was mobilized immediately in order to demonstrate the government’s intentions and capability. It was fi rmly believed that the neutrality guard would be tested shortly aft er the outbreak of war by the belligerents because of the strategic importance attached to Norwegian territorial waters, in particular the south-west coast. Th e Royal Navy actually did put the neutrality guard to the test in August 1914, and its performance was regarded as suffi cient in terms of situation awareness and ability to respond to infringements. Step by step the neutrality guard could be norwegian armed forces and the coming of wwii 295 put on a lower level of alert in accordance with the evolving needs and lessons learned. Th e authorities thought it might be detrimental to national interests to step up the neutrality guard during incidents or a crisis. Lack of material, personnel and preparations had seriously undermined this doctrine during the interwar years, which was one of the reasons why the neutrality guard experienced the period from September 1939 to April 1940 as traumatic.11 Th e years of economic austerity aft er 1918 hit the navy like a full force gale. Th e commanding admiral was left with no other alternative than to reduce training, exercises and the education of offi cers. Furthermore, the building of war ships almost came to a halt, and there were vastly insuffi cient funds for maintenance and modernization of the existing fl eet. Th is was dramatic for a fl eet that to a large extent was run down aft er four years of continuous service under rough conditions during the First World War. Th e net result was that the navy became largely obsolete and ill-prepared in the 1920s, and this explains why the rearmament programme gave few immediate results. Both the army and the navy had their own air arms which had been established shortly before the First World War. Although nothing substantial was achieved during the fi rst years, both air forces witnessed a considerable growth during the war due to assistance from Britain and France, wishing to improve the effi ciency of the neutrality guard aft er Germany had declared unrestricted U-boat war in 1917. In the Norwegian armed forces aircraft were primarily used for observation and surveillance. Th e development of the air forces almost came to a halt in the early part of the inter-war period due to a lack of funds and internal disagreement in the defence community over the lines along which air forces should develop. Th e air force question was considered by a parliamentary commission in 1937. Th e report proposed a joint air force consisting of fi ghter squadrons, bomber squadrons, torpedo aircraft , maritime surveillance, and air defence units. It was also suggested that the civilian air defence measures be placed under the new service. Th e underlying assumption was that the air force had become exceedingly important for the country and therefore needed to be strengthened considerably. Th e plans met with heavy resistance both from politicians and the navy. One general objection was that the plans were over-ambitious in

11 R. Hobson and T. Kristiansen, Norsk forsvarshistorie 1905–1940, vol. 3, Nøytralitet, total krig og politisk splittelse (Bergen: Eide forlag, 2001). 296 t. kristiansen relation to the budgetary constraints under which the defence community was operating. But the navy dreaded a separate air force since that would place the operational command of vital capabilities, such as maritime surveillance and the torpedo aircraft squadron, outside the navy itself. It was decided to start a process with the long-term ambition of establishing a joint air force, but the fi rst stage was restricted to placing the army air arm, the air defence regiment and the civilian air defence under the same command. Th e navy air arm remained under naval command. Moreover, the idea of developing bomber squadrons fell fl at due to political resistance and lack of money. By and large the air forces suff ered from a dramatic discrepancy between the offi cial organization plan and the actual appropriations and were basically only capable of surveillance, observation and courier service, except for the navy’s torpedo squadron, which was regarded as comparatively advanced. However, the airforces embarked on a building programme for airfi elds and stations for seaplanes which produced some results. Th is was regarded as a vital measure with the purpose of transferring the relatively small numbers of aircraft to all parts of the vast country during a crisis. Finally, a rather complex air warning system was established. In terms of the Skagerrak and Kattegat this was done in cooperation with Denmark and Sweden.12 All in all, the armed forces went through a harrowing period of deg- radation in the inter-war years. From being a keeper of national sym- bols, an executor of national rites, the self-styled guardian of national cohesion, and one of the main protagonists in the grand narrative of the Norwegian people, the armed forces were reduced to a simple and low-cost instrument with which the government could fulfi l its utterly modest hard security ambitions. And, above all, to revitalize such an organization in a matter of years was an overwhelming – if not impossible – task.

Preparations for Neutrality and War: Th e Chickens Come Home to Roost

Th e inherent duality in the responsibilities of the armed forces – neutrality and limited war – became increasingly diffi cult to tackle as

12 T. Kristiansen, Tysk trussel mot Norge? norwegian armed forces and the coming of wwii 297 the 1930s wore on. It was assumed by parliament that the defence reform of 1933 required six fi scal years from implementation in 1934 to be carried through. But the stipulated budgets – as laid out in the Royal Propositions – were not allocated the fi rst three years. One problem that the defence leadership encountered was therefore that the reform process was cut short at the outset, and thus created a lag. Hence, it was diffi cult to catch up when the alarm bell sounded in late 1936, even with the generous budgets that then followed, it was far beyond the country’s ability to revitalize the entire defence organization in a short-time perspective. It posed an additional problem that the defence organization was heavily dependent on civilian society for supplies, infrastructure and communications. However, these measures were not politically controversial and were therefore quite successful. Th e predicament of the army and navy leadership was to decide which military measures should be given priority based on threat assessments, neutral duties and political guidelines. Th is process became very painful and caused considerable strife both among politicians and within the defence community. It might be asked what lay at the heart of the debate on threat perceptions, strategy and military needs, so long as there was no substantial disagreement about the principles of non-alignment and neutrality. Th e simplest answer is the military obligations attached to neutral duties, the military consequences of Norway’s relations with the great powers and the signifi cance of Norwegian resources. Th e fundamental disagreement between the government and the defence leadership was, therefore, whether or not Norway should prepare solely for unintended breaches of neutrality or a limited great-power attack as well. Th e majority in the navy and the army regarded a limited attack as probable, whereas the government and infl uential representatives of the defence leadership rejected it. Despite having been a peaceful corner of Europe since 1814, why was Norway at all of interest from a great-power perspective? Th e answer is simple and may be summarized in two words: resources and geography. Th e Norwegian economy was to a large extent based on exports of raw materials and therefore dependent on free trade. It was also inextricably woven into the commercial systems of Germany and Great Britain. Th at, of course, made Norway increasingly vulnerable in the 1930s. Th e country was an exporter of vital raw materials – in particular for the munitions industry. In addition, it was one of the biggest exporters of fi sh to both Britain and Germany. Above all, Narvik 298 t. kristiansen in the far north was the transit harbour for iron ore from Sweden, which was vital to the German arms industry. However, the merchant navy – which in the interwar years was the fourth biggest in the world – was by far the most important source of foreign earnings. Th e Norwegian merchant navy was seen as a vital factor in western war eff orts in both world wars simply because of its considerable size, its versatile capacities, its competitiveness and its world-wide distribution. Th e salient feature of the Norwegian merchant navy was that to a large extent it served the trade system that encompassed the British Empire. Th is certainly had strong political, strategic and economic implications for Norway. Th e question of geography has already been mentioned, but it bears repeating that even remote Norway had a geostrategic signifi cance. Th e geographical predicaments of the region were aptly formulated by the German diplomatic agent in Oslo in 1938: “In Norwegen kreuzen sich drei große Kraft linien: Die deutsche, die russische und die eng- lische.”13 For Britain it was necessary to guard the Norwegian coast in order to shore up against a possible German break-out into the Atlantic through Norwegian territorial waters or by seizing a strongpoint on the south coast for forward naval operations. Actually, the First Sea Lord, Admiral Sir John Fisher, in a conversation with the Norwegian minister in London in 1907, was the only representative of the great powers who had stated plainly that the Royal Navy would not hesitate to seize a base in Kristiansand on the south coast as a defensive measure in case of war with Germany.14 Th is caused a political uproar which British offi cials had to dampen in the following weeks. Nevertheless, Norwegian politicians and offi cers were fi rmly convinced that there was a kernel of truth in Fisher’s words, and they related them to his notion of the fi ve strategic key points in the world, i.e. Dover, Suez, Singapore, the Cape and Gibraltar. Th e label Gibraltar remained attached to Norwegian strategic debate up to 1940. Offi cers and defence activists claimed that either the south coast or Narvik had become “the Gibraltar of Northern Europe.”15 Th is sensitive geographical position

13 O.-B. Fure, Mellomkrigstid, p. 239. 14 “Nansen to Løvland, 13 March 1907, Document 134,” in R. Omang, Norge og Stormaktene 1906–1914, vol.1, Kilder til Integritetstraktaten (Oslo: Gyldendal, 1957). 15 Commander in Chief of the Varanger batallion, Lt. Col. Edvard Os, in an interview with the newspaper Tidens Tegn, 14 March 1939. Th e Gibraltar analogy was applied for the fi rst time by the Conservative politician and lawyer Francis Hagerup in norwegian armed forces and the coming of wwii 299 represented an enormous challenge from 1900 to 1940, even though the majority of the politicians tended to disregard it aft er 1918. Traditionally, Norway’s relations with the great powers Germany, Russia and Great Britain have been very diverse. France, by the way, has never played an important role in Norwegian aff airs, except indirectly as an ally of one of the other great powers. Russia had never been politically, culturally or economically close to Norway, and, furthermore, there had been no open confl icts between the two countries. In a Scandinavian perspective the notion of a Russian menace was at fi rst a Swedish obsession originating in the nineteenth century. Th e threat perception was nurtured by the loss of Finland to Russia in 1809 and Russian territorial expansion over the last centuries. Th is perception of a Russian menace also had an impact on Norway from the 1890s but it did not become a strong defence policy motivation. Th e belief held by some politicians and parts of public opinion was that Russia was driven by “a force of nature” to reach for the Atlantic coast in order to secure access to ice-free ports. Evidence was never produced for this claim, since it was based on a general prediction. Aft er the revolution and the demise of Russia as a great power the country disappeared completely from offi cial threat assessments for many years. Even when the Soviet Union did become a factor in Norwegian strategic calculations, leading offi cers were still of the opinion that the country was essentially a status-quo power. Nevertheless, it was feared that Soviet defensive measures in the far north could aff ect the integrity of Norway, since the land and sea territories in the northeast under certain circumstances could be vital to Soviet defence and its access to the high seas – more or less along the lines that had been demonstrated during the First World War. Th e main reason why strategists had a relatively relaxed attitude towards the Soviet Union was fi rst of all its severe lack of off ensive military resources in the region. It seemed very unlikely that the Russians would divert forces from the central front, where the real challenges materialized, to the far north, where the threats were low and the gains would be small. In such a scenario the lines of communications and operations would become extremely vulnerable.16 Th is relaxed attitude changed dramatically aft er the Soviet

his diary entry of 29 January 1905 who used the phrase “Christiansand as the Nordic Gibraltar.” See also leading article “Th e new Gibraltar,” Tidens Tegn, 6 February 1937. 16 T. Kristiansen, Tysk trussel mot Norge? p. 294ff . 300 t. kristiansen attack on Finland in November 1939, and Norway had to mobilize a huge neutrality guard on the border between Finland and Norway. Th e case of Germany is more complicated. Broadly speaking, the relations between Germany and Norway had a long history and were intimate in areas such as culture, religion, trade, research, industry, and education, but detached at the political level. However, German auto- cratic traditions and political institutions had no infl uence on a democratic, liberal and egalitarian Norway. Th e offi cer corps constituted an exception in the sense that it was profoundly infl uenced by German traditions, as was the case in many other countries at the time. In the wake of the Nazi take-over in 1933, the relations between Norway and Germany became gradually strained for obvious political and ideological reasons. Th e relations between the two countries deteriorated aft er the Labour government took offi ce in 1935. At the same time it was generally assumed that Germany supported Norwegian neutrality, since it would benefi t from it in a confl ict with Britain. Th e specifi c case in point was the possibility of protected passage through Norwegian territorial waters that was provided in accordance with international law. But the question of innocent passage also represented a severe challenge for the army and navy leadership. Th ey feared the contingency of a limited attack on Norway if the British were to inter- cept German merchant vessels or warships in Norwegian territorial waters. Basically, this concern emanated from the experiences of the First World War. What exacerbated the issue in the 1930s, however, was their interpretation of Vice-Admiral Wolfgang Wegener’s book Die Seestrategie des Weltkrieges, published in 1929. A number of infl u- ential offi cers fi rmly believed that the German navy would seize a point d’appui in Denmark and Norway. Th e lesson learned from the First World War, according to Wegener, was that “Die Deutsche Bucht war, ist und bleibt der tote Winkel in einer toten See” and without improving its geographic position the German navy would have no value.17 Finally, Great Britain represented a contrast to Germany. On the one hand, religious, cultural and intellectual ties were weak even though there had been comparatively speaking close contact throughout history. With the exception of shipping, Germany, between the wars, had become an even more important trading partner for Norway than

17 T. Kristiansen, Tysk trussel mot Norge? p. 106–123 for an account of the reception of Wolfgang Wegener in Norway. norwegian armed forces and the coming of wwii 301

Britain.18 On the other hand, British political traditions, thought and institutions had become something of an ideal in Norway. And, most importantly, Britain had been regarded as the guarantor of Norwegian integrity since the dissolution of the union with Sweden in 1905. Th ere was an assumption that Britain had strong strategic interests attached to Norway and therefore provided an “implicit guarantee”.19 Yet Norway’s relations with Britain were not at all plain sailing. Two challenges loomed large. Firstly, the controversy over the extent of Norwegian territorial waters caused protracted political and diplomatic tension. Norway claimed a four-nautical mile sea limit to protect the fi sheries, while Britain only accepted a three-mile limit that followed the contour of the coast. Secondly, and most pressing, there was an assumption that Britain would not acknowledge Norwegian neutrality if it endangered vital British interests in a confl ict with Germany. Th is policy was actually communicated to the Norwegian government a few days before the German invasion on 9 April 1940.20 All in all there was a problematic side to Norway’s relations with Great Britain. While being generally regarded – rightly or wrongly – as the safeguard of liberalism and democracy, and even as the ultimate underwriter of Norwegian integrity, Britain was also regarded as the main challenge to its neutrality. But, in what way did all this infl uence the military planners? Th e views put forward by the most infl uential and knowledgeable offi cer, the Chief of the General Staff 1933–1938, Colonel Otto Ruge, may serve as a key to the military planning and the rearmament eff orts in the late 1930s. His clout was undisputed, even though he became an exceedingly controversial fi gure particularly within his own service, the army. Th e main reason was his argument that the Norwegian coast made up a front line in confl icts to which Germany, Great Britain and the Soviet Union were party – “we are in the line of fi re” was his apt and concise phrase.21 Consequently, priority had to be given to the air forces and the navy at the expense of the militia-like army. Some of the ideas he put forward were his own, while others represented a précis of conventional thinking among both army and navy offi cers since the turn

18 P. Salmon, Scandinavia and Great Powers. 19 O. Riste, Norway’s Foreign Relations. 20 T. Kristiansen, Tysk trussel mot Norge? p. 63. 21 “Summary of Otto Ruge’s lecture at the Norwegian Industrial Association’s Annual Meeting,” in Befalsbladet, no. 21 (1938): p. 165. 302 t. kristiansen of the century. However, in the 1920s and well into the 1930s this overall strategic predicament appeared to be a very remote contingency for Norway, since both Germany and Russia were relegated to second-rate status. In the latter part of the 1930s they recovered their strength, however, and the relations between the European great powers deteriorated. As a consequence, the traditional threat perceptions regained currency in the Norwegian defence community, whereas the politicians only reluctantly faced up to the security challenges this posed to Norway, and many of them blatantly rejected them. Th e starting point for Otto Ruge’s engagement with these matters was what he considered to be objective political, strategic and economic factors, as well as Norway’s experiences in the First World War. He did not at all dispute neutrality and the adherence to international law as the offi cial war policy. Still, he believed that history would ride roughshod over a country that was not able to shore up its neutrality by military means. Norwegian authorities had realised since the turn of the century that Norway was situated at an intersection between confl icting British, German and Russian interests. A belligerent that was able to control Norwegian territorial waters or establish a naval base on the Norwegian coast would be in a much better position to command the North Sea, the Norwegian Sea and the Danish narrows, and thus the sea lanes to the North Atlantic – or the “Tür zum Atlantik,” to quote Admiral Wegener. An economic blockade was a deadly weapon in the hands of the dominant sea power, and Norway would, by the force of geography, be a part of it. Ruge never envisaged that a small state could ever pit itself militarily against a great power or deter it from an attack. But, notwithstanding his recognition of this fundamental asymmetry, he fi rmly believed in the value of the Norwegian armed forces and his reasoning was simple. He maintained that the military strength of a small power could prove a decisive factor when the great powers made their cost-benefi t calculations prior to a hostile action. A power vacuum created by a disarmed country would make such considerations pointless, but by establishing a military threshold the great powers would be forced to consider the costs of an attack even on a small country relative to their wider commitments.22

22 T. Kristiansen, “ ‘Vi ligger i ildlinjen…’ Otto Ruge og Norges strategiske stilling i mellomkrigstiden,” in Motstrøms: Olav Riste og norsk internasjonal historieskrivning, ed. S. G. Holtsmark, H. Ø. Pharo and R. Tamnes (Oslo: Cappelen, 2003). norwegian armed forces and the coming of wwii 303

According to Ruge, Norway’s integrity and neutrality were jeopardized by the importance the great powers attached to its strategic position and resources. Th is led him to the conclusion that Norway ran the risk of being engaged in the opening phase of a great power confl ict. In particular, he believed that Germany posed the biggest threat since the experiences of the First World War had demonstrated its vulnerability to a British blockade. Th e scenario of the joint army-navy exercises that took place on the southwest coast from 1937 (devised by Ruge himself) actually envisaged a German attack.23 Colonel Ruge was reported by the German press attaché H. von Neuhaus in Oslo to have said that “man kan nicht wissen, ob die Flammen eines Krieges nach Norwegen herüberschlagen.”24 Ruge became notorious in diplomatic and political circles in the 1930s for his alarmism. He fi rmly believed that the next European war would hit Scandinavia as a full-force gale at an early stage and that it would come as a bolt from the blue. On this point Ruge was at odds with the government, the majority in parliament and the commanding admiral who likewise fi rmly believed that the overwhelming strength of the Royal Navy made such a scenario totally unrealistic. But in Ruge’s view, modern military technology and new operational concepts had made such a scenario far more likely than in 1914. In particular, he maintained that modern air power, and the introduction of amphibious, air- borne and joint operations, had exposed new areas of Norway to surprise attacks – areas that previously had been regarded as being well-protected by their remoteness and inaccessibility. Th is led Ruge to identify two main tasks for the armed forces: Firstly to establish an effi cient neutrality guard immediately aft er the outbreak of war. Secondly, to enable the neutrality guard to escalate action into war operations if a neutrality infringement turned out to be the beginning of an attack. And for such contingencies he needed modern and well-trained units capable of joint operations, not to mention effi cient maritime surveillance capabilities. Th e army and the navy faced a considerable challenge concerning deployment, since the most likely operational theatres on the coast were far from the central mobilization areas in eastern and central Norway. Th e long distances made timely

23 T. Kristiansen, Tysk trussel mot Norge? 24 Press attaché H. von Neuhaus to Auswärtiges Amt, Oslo 13 June 1939, Auswärtiges Amt, reports from the German Legation in Oslo (Deutsche Gesandtschaft ) 1919–1940. 304 t. kristiansen decisions paramount. In order to make more army and navy units ready for mobilization, the armed forces embarked on an ambitious training and appropriations programme. Th ese eff orts were successful to a certain extent. But, as it turned out, the political authorities had grossly underestimated how time-consuming it was to revitalize a militia-like and hibernating defence organization. In this sense the principles on which the defence organization was based proved utterly dysfunctional in the rearmament process of the 1930s. Th is leads to the question of the military duties of neutrals, which was by far the most problematical. It might perhaps be suggested that the historical successes of neutrality up to the Second World War had blinded Norwegian authorities to the problems attached to neutrality law, even though the First World War off ered some fairly obvious lessons. Th ere were two main strands of thinking about neutrality in Norway before the war, viz. that of ‘unconditional’ and ‘conditional’ neutrality. Th e salient approach among offi cers was that of ‘unconditional neutrality’ or traditional neutrality according to historical pre ce- dents and international law. It was based on the rights and duties of the neutrals as laid down in the Declaration of Paris, the Hague Conventions and the London Declaration. According to international law, a neutral state had the duty to execute control over the activities on its territory and to react against infringements. Impartiality was an essential duty. Th e other avenue of approach was that of ‘conditional neutrality.’ Not surprisingly, the foreign ministry was the main representative of this way of thinking. Th e core and essence of this approach was to comply with international law in a way that did not undermine the overall aims of Norwegian security policy. Th e ambiguities and openings for interpretations in the neutrality laws provided a leeway. Unconditional reactions to breaches of neutrality, on the other hand, could put the country in danger of being forced into actions that were contradictory to national interests. Th e main point for the Norwegian government was to reserve the right to choose its enemies. Th is approach was an expression of a subtlety in the government’s policy. Its fi rst option was neutrality, but if that fell short the fall-back position was to side with the western powers. Th e Norwegian government would therefore never take the risk of enforcing neutrality in a way that could bring it into armed confl ict with Great Britain and as a consequence on the side of Germany or the Soviet Union. It was, in fact, stated in the neutrality instructions to the navy that it should treat norwegian armed forces and the coming of wwii 305 the British with more lenience than other countries. In Norway this was a reasonable option, since the government had been informed that the British would not respect its neutrality under certain conditions. Th e British diplomatic agent in Norway had informed the foreign secretary in September 1939 that his government would regard a German attack on Norway as tantamount to an attack on Britain itself, and would therefore take all necessary steps, notwithstanding Norway’s stance.25 Th is approach to neutrality – Realpolitik disguised as neutrality or neutrality with a reservation – was made up in acknowledgement of the fact that the character of the great power confl ict that was developing had made traditional neutrality obsolete. What constituted a major defi ciency was the fact that the defence leadership was not informed about the British security guarantee and could therefore not take it into account in the military planning. For the defence leadership neutrality was not only a matter of guid- ing principles and declarational policy. First of all, they were preoccupied with defi ning the military obligations laid down in international law and the military measures to underpin it in practice. But this policy made the task almost impossible for the armed forces: A slightly pro- British neutrality guard – which was laid down in the instructions from the government – was a contradiction in terms. Th e result was a high degree of inconsistency and lack of resolution in the handling of many incidents. Th is, of course, created uncertainty and stoked the fi res in many cases. Th e government plainly refused to take an intended breach of neutrality into consideration in its communications with the defence establishment. Not even when the question was put directly to the foreign minister by the commanding admiral and the commanding general in a meeting of the Defence Council in 1936 did the defence leadership receive a clear answer to whether or not they should step up intervention in a neutrality violation to war operations.26 Th at, of course, had a fundamental infl uence on the defence leadership’s thinking about the military organisation and capacities. According to the government there was no need for a war-fi ghting capability – only the capacity for surveillance and the management of incidents. Th is

25 P. Salmon, Scandinavia and Great Powers, p. 45; and T. Kristiansen, Tysk trussel mot Norge? pp. 92–94. 26 T. Kristiansen, Tysk trussel mot Norge? p. 152. 306 t. kristiansen decision was not at all understood since neither the army nor the navy had been informed about how the government regarded the British.

Conclusions

What is the conclusion to all this? A few points can be identifi ed. It is fair to say that traditional neutrality was in the process of becoming an obsolete option for Norway in a great power confl ict like the one that was in the making in the 1930s. Th e military planners had come to realize this, and some of the cabinet members were arriving at a similar understanding. But there was little public debate over this predicament, which remained a tacit dimension in the security policy. Th e reason was that there were no politically accepted alternatives to neutrality. Another major defi ciency in Norwegian security policy was the lack of communication between the government and the defence leadership. Th is made it very diffi cult to coordinate the military and civilian components and resulted in a severe lack of consistency in the management of crises when the neutrality guard was mobilized in the beginning of September 1939. In hindsight, it is baffl ing to register that military measures were not regarded as the most important part of the preparations for war by the Norwegian political authorities, given the rising tension between Norway’s changing strategic position and the limitations of the country’s military capabilities. A variety of political, legal, diplomatic and economic measures were actually seen as more vital. When the change came in 1937 the authorities soon discovered that it was almost impossible to revitalize the dormant and militia-based defence structure on short notice. An endless list of measures was initiated in the army, the navy and the air forces. Some improvements were made and a lot more were being initiated. But these measures were not on a scale that could make a diff erence when the neutrality guard was mustered in September 1939 or during the campaign in 1940. All in all, one might claim that both parliament, the government and the defence leadership were in a state of suspended reality by hanging on to a massive defence organization for which there throughout the interwar years was vastly insuffi cient funding. Th e result was a paper tiger encountering one of fl esh-and-blood on 9 April 1940. CHAPTER THIRTEEN

THE DEVELOPMENT OF THE SWISS ARMY’S COMBAT METHODS AFTER THE FIRST WORLD WAR

M. M. Olsansky

“It is diffi cult for every author of Swiss fi eld manuals to free himself from foreign fi eld manuals. But it is clear, that they must be consulted because they contain vital experiences from the last war. Th e good is to be taken where it is provided.”1

1. Introduction

As is generally known, Switzerland’s armed forces did not actively participate in the power struggles of the First World War and were not directly confronted with the changes in warfare between 1914 and 1918.2 Nevertheless, aft er the end of the war, the Swiss military leadership was confronted with the question as to what future direction the national defence should take in the face of the bloody trench warfare, new combat methods and the adequate weapon systems from previous years. What conception of war should future considerations be based on? Also, how did the Swiss military leadership want to wage war? According to what combat methods should regiments and divisions of the Swiss armed forces be aligned to in the future? Th us, at the beginning of the interwar period, the Swiss Army was confronted with the same questions as the combat-proven armed forces of neighbouring countries. Apparently, an international period of military innovations and modernisation began. However, this period was marked by complexity and opacity, as stated by military historian W. Murray. Th e victory of German tank forces in 1940 tends to obstruct the view of military innovation in the interwar period. Examining the state of

1 Kommandant 6. Division: “Bericht über den Entwurf 1924 Allgemeine Vorschrift über Führung und Gefecht.” Dezember 1925, S. 3, BAr E 27, 7938: Felddienst 27. 2 Th e author thanks Jens Amrhein (Zurich) for his assistance to compose this article. 308 m. m. olsansky warfare at the end of the First World War, the future development into mechanized warfare was barely conceivable.3 In Swiss military historiography, the period between the World Wars is a research fi eld which has scarcely been studied.4 Only Hans Senn’s book from the series on the history of the General Staff gives an overview.5 Senn pursues the earlier mentioned question on future combat methods of the Swiss army in his book and criticises the Swiss military leadership during the interwar period, due to the fact that this period is said to be one of the poorest where military innovation and development is concerned. Additionally, Senn holds the alleged stagnation of the Swiss army aft er the First World War responsible for its defi cient readiness at the beginning of the Second World War.6 Furthermore, an essay by Giulia Brogini Künzi and Markus Pöhlmann is constitutive for this research, since it examines the discussion on warfare development within the Swiss offi cer corps during the interwar period by analyzing the military press.7 However, with this systematic, but limited selection of historical sources, the authors only pursue part of the discussion. Other relevant sources such as the General Staff ’s operation plans, the internal discussions of the military leadership, or the independently written records by higher offi cers, were not acknowledged. Additionally, because of the strong focus on military magazines, the relevance of the diff erent voices could not be discussed. Th is essay is, therefore, an addition and discusses the following question: How was the military knowledge of the First World War concerning combat methods imbedded in the independent publications by proper Swiss offi cers dealt with, and how was this knowledge

3 W. Murray, “Armored Warfare: Th e British, French and German Experiences,” in Military Innovation in the Interwar Period, ed. W. Murray, A. R. Millett (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1996), p. 7f. 4 In this context the author of the article points on his dissertation thesis “Kampfk onzeptionen und Identität: das schweizerische und österreichische Offi - zierkorps 1918–1938/39 im historischen Vergleich” (dissertation thesis, University of Zurich, assumedly to be published in 2010). 5 H. Senn, Der Schweizerische Generalstab, vol. 6, Erhaltung und Verstärkung der Verteidigungsbereitschaft zwischen den beiden Weltkriegen (Basel: Helbing und Lichtenhahn, 1991) 6 See: Senn, Erhaltung und Verstärkung der Verteidigungsbereitschaft zwischen den beiden Weltkriegen, p. 280. 7 G. Brogini Künzi and M. Pöhlmann, “David gegen Goliath? Das Schweizer Offi zierkorps im Schatten des Krieges,” in An der Schwelle zum Totalen Krieg. Die mil- itärische Debatte über den Krieg der Zukunft 1919–1939, ed. S. Förster (Paderborn: Schöningh, 2002), pp. 393–439. development of the swiss army’s combat methods 309

incorporated into the most important fi eld manual of the Swiss armed forces in the interwar period, the Felddienst 27? Th us, the focus of the article lies on the development of the combat methods of the Swiss army in the 1920s. Th is decade reveals to what extent the analysis of foreign combat experience entered into the gen- esis of the most important Swiss fi eld manual. Th is will primarily be examined by studying published records of senior offi cers, who were chiefs of the General Staff , or commanding offi cers respectively chiefs of staff of a major formation. Th erewith, the greater impact of senior offi cers on the formation of opinion can be accommodated. Th ese sources will be complemented by documents of the Eidgenössisches Militärdepartement [EMD, federal military department]. For this, the dossier of the fi eld manual Felddienst 27 and the protocols of the Landesverteidigungskommission [LVK, commission of national defence]8 will be analyzed.

2. Assessing the World War Experiences in the Immediate Post-War Period

Th e Swiss army was in a deep crisis aft er the end of the First World War. Apart from the loss of general prestige caused by grievances during the four-year border occupation and the problematic law enforcement by the military during the nation-wide general strike in 1918 and 1919, the army had to cope with massive budget cuts. While the left ist parties opposed national defence totally, the rightist parties were diso- riented.9 At the same time, the armament gap between Switzerland and the belligerent powers had increasingly widened in the course of the war. Th e fi rst post-war Chief of the General Staff , Oberstdivisionär [Major General] Emil Sonderegger, was aware of this problem as his memorandum to the commission of national defence in 1920 testifi es. In the introduction he states: “Never before in history has a war led to such profound novelties as the World War that lies behind us.”10

8 Members of the Landesverteidigungskommission were the defence minister, the commanding offi cers of the three army corps, the inspector of infantry and the chief of General Staff . See: H. Senn, Die Entwicklung der Führungsstruktur im Eidgenössischen Militärdepartement (Frauenfeld: Huber, 1982), p. 27f. 9 D. Heller, Eugen Bircher: Arzt, Militär, Politiker: Ein Beitrag zur Zeitgeschichte; Mit einem Vorwort von Hans Senn (Zürich: Verlag Neue Zürcher Zeitung, 1988), p. 97f. 10 Sonderegger, Betr. Heeresreform. 31.5.1920, S. 1, BAr E27, 4112: Beilagen LVK. 310 m. m. olsansky

Sonderegger saw the greatest challenge to the army’s future readiness for war in the huge fi nancial requirements for modern armament projects. Financialy, it was especially questionable whether a small nation such as Switzerland could match the surrounding super-powers at all. “Th e problem amounts to no less than the question: Can a small state such as ours procure the materials necessary for waging a war on its own?”11 A remarkable answer came from Cavalry Colonel Peter Sarasin, who blamed the compulsory military service for creating an oversized army. If the present army were upheld with the current budget, he wrote in the journal Allgemeine Schweizerische Militärzeitschrift (ASMZ) in 1921, then an oversized and defi ciently equipped army would be the result. Th e solution to the problem lay in the “combination of general compulsory military service with a reduced size of the army, so that our military budget is able to aff ord all the material a modern army needs […].”12 Intensifi ed concern among the offi cer corps of the Swiss army was triggered by the political situation in Europe, which was felt to be unstable. Th ere was concern about the political situation in Eastern Europe, which was thought to pose a threat to the West. For this reason, Sonderegger demanded in 1920 from the Minister of Defence to be got the army ready as soon as possible due to the current international situation.13 Concretely, the chief of the General Staff was concerned about the spreading of revolutionary riots from the neighbouring countries of Switzerland, particularly from Germany. In the worst case, this could lead to troubles along the border, as well as attempts at a domestic putsch.14 In this spirit, an operation plan study by Sonderegger of 1921 was based on the assumption of a threat of a violent overthrow in Germany.15 Sonderegger was not alone with his vision of a turbulent future: One of the most infl uential militia offi cers of the Swiss army, then Lieutenant-Colonel Eugen Bircher, expected in 1924 a European war in the upcoming ten to twenty years.16 From a military standpoint, the greatest threat perceived was a potential enemy marching through

11 Sonderegger, Betr. Heeresreform. 31.5.1920, S. 2, BAr E27, 4112: Beilagen LVK. 12 P. Sarasin, “Einige Gedanken zu den Ansichten der Landes-Verteidigung- skommission über eine Reorganisation der Armee,”Allgemeine Schweizerische Militärzeitschrift , 1921: p. 197. 13 Sonderegger an den Chef EMD, 5.8.1920, S. 1, BAr E27, 4112: Beilagen LVK. 14 Sonderegger an den Chef EMD, 5.8.1920, S. 6, BAr E27, 4112: Beilagen LVK. 15 See: Senn, zwischen den beiden Weltkriegen, p. 256. 16 Heller, Eugen Bircher, p. 99. development of the swiss army’s combat methods 311

Swiss territory, especially as a result of a potential confl ict between Italy and France, the two victorious powers whose relationship was gradually worsening in the 1920s.17 Furthermore, there were fears about the irridentist desires of newly fascist Italy on Swiss territories inhabited by Italian-speaking people.18 In other words, at the beginning of the 1920s, the Swiss military leadership was clearly aware of various threats. However, opinions widely diff ered as to what conclusions were to be drawn from what had happened in the First World War. Interestingly, the source material examined for this study shows that a profound scrutiny of the experiences of the World War followed late and only hesitantly. Th e fi rst to speak up was General Ulrich Wille, Commander in Chief of the Swiss armed forces during the First World War. In his report on wartime service, Wille lashed out against the, in his opinion, wrong conclusions drawn from the world war. He rejected an in-depth scrutiny of the changes in war technology and combat methods. He claimed the decisive factors for success in battle were not a matter of arms technology. “I am convinced that the single most decisive factor is manliness, pushed to the highest possible potency by discipline, from the highest leader down to the last drummer.” According to Wille, factors such as new weapons, increased fi re power or modern combat methods, were overestimated.19 Ignoring the bloody material battles at the western front, Wille stated: “Tactical behaviour is not determined by the power of the gun, but solely by the necessities of the moment.”20 However, with this interpretation of the form of future combat, Wille was caught up in the tradition of his own school of thought, which had already been developed at the turn of the century. As Rudolf Jaun notes in his habilitation thesis titled ‘Preussen vor Augen’, Wille considered the rise of the breech-loading rifl e an innovation that would shape the entire epoch. Technological improvements would not bring any further major changes to combat methods. Th e only principles he held high were those of unconfi ned leadership from the offi cers and absolute discipline from the soldiers.21 Moreover, like the other Chiefs of the General

17 See: Brogini Künzi and Pöhlmann, “Schweizer Offi zierskorps,” p. 397. 18 See: Senn, zwischen den beiden Weltkriegen, p. 254. 19 U. Wille, “Kriegslehren,” Allgemeine Schweizerische Militärzeitschrift , 1924, pp. 193–211. Here p. 194. 20 Wille, “Kriegslehren,” p. 202. 21 R. Jaun, Preussen vor Augen: Das schweizerische Offi zierskorps im militärischen und gesellschaft lichen Wandel des Fin de siècle (Zürich: Chronos-Verlag, 1999), p. 176f. 312 m. m. olsansky

Staff at the time, Wille relied on the fundamental assumption that in the case of war, he would relatively quickly receive reinforcements sent by the aggressor’s enemy. Th erefore, he thought that trench warfare should not be fought at all in the future. “You can leave that to times when in a long-standing trench war such conditions arise and when from somewhere else we receive heavy and long-range artillery, mortars, tanks and other such equipment.”22 Wille’s protégé Fritz Gertsch expressed similar views. He claimed in his paper from 1922 ‘Umrisse des Weltkrieges und wir’, that the lessons from the World War are no diff erent from the ones from the Franco-Prussian War of 1870/1871. According to Gertsch, readiness for war simply depended on the right education of the troops.23 However, as stated by David Rieder in his dissertation thesis, Gertsch’s infl uence among Swiss offi cers was already quite limited at this time.24 In retrospect, given his disregard for trench warfare and also for the importance of modern weapon systems, General Wille’s assessment of warfare aft er the First World War seems quite odd. Other high-ranking Swiss offi cers were perhaps equally puzzled by it, as there was no discussion of Wille’s provocative report.25 Maybe the report was simply hushed up. Meanwhile, some other high-ranking offi cers considered the changed conditions on the battlefi eld to be much more signifi cant. Th eophil Sprecher von Bernegg, for example, who was Chief of the General Staff during the World War, was deeply impressed by the dominance of the defence and stressed the importance of fortifi cations by referring to the defensive success of the French at Verdun and of the Austrians at the Isonzo-front.26 In a similar sense, Swiss-French Cavalry Colonel Guillaume Favre, who seems to have grasped the growing importance of aerial warfare27 and of the fi re power of modern weapons quite well, noted: “In modern battle, fi re power plays such a crucial role that you can’t think of a combat exercise of any kind claiming to

22 U. Wille, Bericht an die Bundesversammlung über den Aktivdienst 1914/18 (Zürich: Arnold Bopp, 1919), p. 60. 23 F. Gertsch, Umrisse des Weltkrieges und wir (Winterthur: Vogel, 1922), p. 39f. 24 D. Rieder, “Fritz Gertsch. Enfant terrible des schweizerischen Offi zierskorps: Eine militärische Biographie” (PhD diss., University of Zurich, Zurich 2008), pp. 281–287. 25 See: Brogini Künzi and Pöhlmann, “Schweizer Offi zierskorps,” p. 397f. 26 T. Sprecher von Bernegg, Fragen der schweizerischen Landesverteidigung nach den Erfahrungen in der Zeit des Weltkrieges: Vortrag (Zürich: Leemann, 1927), p. 29f. 27 G. Favre, Die Lehren der Kavallerie-Manöver 1922 (Bern, 1922), pp. 43–45. development of the swiss army’s combat methods 313 practise a real war scenario that does not consider and picture the eff ects of the enemy’s fi re power.”28 However, what Favre did not notice or perhaps deliberately ignored, was that because of the very fi re power he was talking about, along with the impact of modern weapon systems on the modern battlefi eld, the cavalry had lost its traditional role in war and would never again be able to reclaim it. Other voices warned of a fi xation on singular lessons of war. For this reason Sarasin declined to take the western front lessons as the only benchmark and to invest solely in the development of heavy artillery. If in a future war trench warfare of that dimension did not take place, then there would be a lack of other instruments.29 Also Eugene Bircher criticised how in Switzerland lessons of war by others were one-sided: “It looks like a specifi c Swiss feature has developed, to look for the lessons of war only at the winning belligerent.”30 He warned of an uncritical and undiff erentiated adoption of so-called ‘lessons learned’, particularly because of the lack of own combat experience.31 All in all, the eff ort of many of the offi cers who discussed modern warfare was aimed at modernising the infantry based on what had been learned in the war, thus enabling it to go on the off ensive. A possible way was shown by Hans Frey. Relying on a French fi eld manual of the immediate post-war period,32 he stated in 1920 in the Allgemeine Schweizerische Militärzeitschrift , how the infantry in France had been enforced with heavy equipment such as mortars, infantry cannon and the deployment of accompanying tanks.33 In a similar way, German ideas infl uenced Swiss offi cers’ thinking on warfare. Th e chief of the Heeresleitung der Reichswehr, Hans von Seeckt, exclaimed in the post- war period that “the salvation of the weak does not lie in defence, but in mobile attack.”34 Th erefore, the similar ideas of Eugen Bircher are explicable. As his biographer Daniel Heller wrote, Bircher visited

28 G. Favre, Die Lehren der Kavallerie-Manöver 1922 (Bern, 1922), p. 46f. 29 P. Sarasin, “Einige Gedanken zu den Ansichten der Landes-Verteidigung- skommission über eine Reorganisation der Armee,” Allgemeine Schweizerische Militärzeitschrift , 1921, p. 194. 30 E. Bircher, Gedanken zum Ausbau unseres Wehrwesens (Aarau, 1924), p. 41f. 31 Bircher, Gedanken, p. 44. 32 Th is article is mainly a translation of the fourth chapter of Marshall Pétain’s règle- ment “Instruction provisoire du 4 avril 1919 sur le combat off ensif des petites unités.” 33 H. Frey, Vom Infanteriekampf (ASMZ, 1920), p. 323–328; 336–339, here p. 323f. 34 Quoted in A. Ernst, Die Konzeption der schweizerischen Landesverteidigung 1815 bis 1966 (Frauenfeld: Huber, 1971), p. 49. 314 m. m. olsansky manoeuvres of the Reichswehr in 1922, 1924 and 1925.35 Accord- ingly, Bircher demanded in his paper Gedanken zum Ausbau unseres Wehrwesens a modern way of warfare which meant considerable enforcement of the infantry with machine guns, infantry cannon, camoufl age material and radio equipment. He also emphasized frequently that the value of the single soldier in combat had increased.36 But the already mentioned fi rst post-war Chief of the General Staff Emil Sonderegger, surely stood as the best example for the eff orts to give the army more off ensive competence. In a memorandum to the Landesverteidigungskommission (commission of national defence) he called for upgrading infantry equipment with automatic weapons and for an extension of the artillery.37 Earlier Sonderegger had also talked about Panzer and tanks. He realised that these were to play “a very important role in warfare.” However, he did not think tanks were absolutely indispensable: Brave, well-trained infantry heavily supported by artillery, storm an emplacement even without the help of an ‘assault vehicle’ […] Th us, when we equip our infantry with suffi cient artillery, we needn’t follow foreign armies into this expensive area. However, we must be able to defend ourselves against foreign assault vehicles, or else our defence won’t last long.38 Th e inspector of infantry de Loriol took the same line when he demanded heavy equipment like mortars or anti-tank weapons to strengthen his troops.39 Th e few voices mentioned here are quite representative for the majority of the senior members of the Swiss offi cer corps of the early 1920s. General Wille seemed to resemble all those who almost ignored the changes in warfare. In contrast, the wartime Chief of the General Staff Von Sprecher stressed the importance of defensive strength and of fortifi cations. However, the trend-setter seemed to be Von Sprecher’s successor Sonderegger. He promoted the idea of infantry again capable of going on the off ensive. Th is idea should have established itself in

35 Heller, Eugen Bircher, p. 95f. 36 See: E. Bircher, Gedanken zum Ausbau unseres Wehrwesens (Aarau, Aargauer Tagblatt 1924), p. 27–39. 37 Sonderegger, Betr. Heeresreform. 31.5.1920, S. 6., BAr E27, 4112: Beilagen LVK. 38 Sonderegger, Betr. Heeresreform. 31.5.1920, S. 14–15, BAr E27, 4112: Beilagen LVK. 39 Ausrüstung der Infanterie mit schweren Waff en. 16.2.1924, BAr E27, 4125: Beilagen LVK. development of the swiss army’s combat methods 315 the middle of the 1920s. Generally speaking, though, the assessment of the World War received only little attention among high-ranking offi cers.

3. Th e New Field Manual Felddienst 27

It took about fi ve years before the experiences of the World War were incorporated into a new Swiss fi eld manual, even though Sondergger already in 1921 as the new Chief of the General Staff aimed for a ‘general operative concept’.40 At the conference of the Landesverteidigungs- kommission (commission of national defence) on the 9–10 September 1923, Heinrich Roost, Sonderegger’s successor as chief of the General Staff , accentuated that the time had come to launch a new fi eld manual.41 Colonel Wille, son of the World War general, was elected to carry out this task.42 According to Senn, Wille junior had considered it his task “to liberate operational command from the rigid rules and forms of static warfare.”43 Already in 1924 Wille presented a fi rst draft , which he had also discussed with his father. Th e Felddienst became the fi rst Swiss fi eld manual to outline the concept of combined arms warfare. It remained the basis for all other army manuals, as well as for tactical courses and exercises until the beginning of the Second World War, when Swiss fi eld manuals were hastily changed.44 Th e long compilation of the Felddienst (four years) reveals the complexity of this task, even though the examined fi les do not give a total insight into the development. Roost described in a memorandum to the chief of the federal military department the diffi culties of adapting Swiss army regulations to the new way of warfare. Even though already during the war the army had tried to remain up-to-date: Already some years ago we tried to renew our fi eld manuals. Th is task needed a lot of time. For the belligerent armies this task was not easy, but for us as spectators this task was even harder. On the other hand, improvements do need more time to be tested in a militia system than in a standing army.45

40 Senn, Zwischen den beiden Weltkriegen, p. 277f. 41 Protokolle LVK 9./10.9.1923, S. 3, BAr E 27, 4057. 42 Protokolle LVK 13./14.1.1925, S. 20, BAr E 27, 4058. 43 Senn, Zwischen den beiden Weltkriegen, p. 165. 44 Senn, Zwischen den beiden Weltkriegen, p. 341. 45 Generalstabschef Roost an den Vorsteher EMD, 10.2.1927, S. 1, BAr E 27, 7938: Felddienst 27. 316 m. m. olsansky

Roost emphasized the importance of combined arms warfare, because in that way the infantry could only be successful: “Combat cannot be governed by numerous fi eld manuals, but has to follow only one, which is a regulation for the entire army and shows every weapon system its contribution to combat.”46 He additionally explained how the Felddienst regulated all relevant aspects of modern combat: It does not only […] contain the regulations on march, cantonment and security, but also the tactical fundamentals for the troops in a hierarchi- cal order and not only for the infantry, but also for all other branches.47 In the introduction, the author of the Felddienst 27 states: “Th e manual forms the uniform view in the armed forces. All offi cers must be trained and accustomed along the same lines.” But the Felddienst 27 only laid down very general rules about combat and the authors even went so far as to say: “For tactical actions in war rules cannot be laid out. Th e changing terrain makes each case diff erent.”48 Th is illustrates the tensions contained within the Felddienst. Th e author’s argumentation breathes the spirit of a disciple of general Wille, pointing out the necessity of completely unconfi ned leadership and refusing in-depth regulations. Th is led to a confl ict of goals with the axiom of a uniform view of combat and warfare. Th erefore, only a few operational fundamentals were stated. Th at is why Senn criticizes the vague guidelines of the Felddienst 27, which “does not contain any concept of a warlike confl ict on Swiss territory.”49 Roost also noticed in a letter to the chief of the federal military department: “Generally, the Felddienst does not want to displace the army’s own thinking process; it should not be used as a recipe book for looking up things. Th e included principles should only help as a basis for training operational control.”50 Th e few operational fundamentals give a rough directive of how to fi ght in what parts of the country: when fi ghting at the mountain borders, static war should be waged, because in this terrain there’s a chance to hold long fronts without risking a breakthrough. In the other regions,

46 Generalstabschef Roost an den Vorsteher EMD, 10.2.1927, S. 1f., BAr E 27, 7938: Felddienst 27. 47 Brief an den Bundesrat, 22.2.1927, BAr E 27, 7938: Felddienst 27. 48 Felddienst 27, p. 5. 49 Senn, Zwischen den beiden Weltkriegen, p. 177. 50 Generalstabschef Roost an den Vorsteher EMD, 10.2.1927, S. 4, BAr E 27, 7938: Felddienst 27. development of the swiss army’s combat methods 317 the army command should conduct mobile warfare with a maximum concentration of power: In the boarder areas and parts of the country where static warfare is rather unsuccessful, the army will wage mobile war. Also here the fi rst resistance will be a war of attrition and delaying battle in the border areas, which destroys the enemy’s operation plan and allows us to concentrate our troops in the parts of the front where strong forces should block or attack.51 To be superior over an enemy “our own command has to search for areas and positions, where the enemy’s main forces and predominant artillery, tanks and airplanes cannot be used or only belatedly.”52 Th e tactical principles were dealt with more thoroughly: according to the Felddienst, an attack should be conducted as a fl anking attack on enemy positions which have not been fortifi ed so far. Th e threat of an enemy’s superiority was downplayed: “Numbers are irrelevant to the determined attacker, and since it’s hard to get a clear view of our terrain, it benefi ts the one acting decisively, perhaps boldly.”53 Th e decision had to be found in the meeting engagement: “Chances of successful attack off ered by the meeting engagement and when the enemy is careless because of his achievements.” However, the options against an enemy who’s prepared for trench warfare are not described suffi ciently, especially given the Swiss army’s chronic weakness with respect to its artillery.54 Modern war technology e.g. the threat of enemy tanks was not considered that important: “Our terrain is to a large extent more or less safe against attacks by assault vehicles. If they attack, it is likely to happen in the midland. […] Th ey mostly appear in larger numbers. Individual tanks are innocuous and easily destroyable.”55 Th erefore, tanks could be opposed easily by making good use of the terrain, using, besides artillery, infantry cannon, mortars and machine guns.56 Th e primacy of manoeuvre warfare concludes the central importance of the meeting engagement. Th e exploitation of time is vital. Th erefore, gaps in the initial deployment of the enemy should be

51 Felddienst 27, S. 9. 52 Felddienst 27, S. 9. 53 Felddienst 27, S. 10. 54 Felddienst 27, S. 10. 55 Felddienst 27, S. 33. 56 Felddienst 27, S. 34. 318 m. m. olsansky exploited. According to the Felddienst, this is only possible if meticulous recon and appropriation can be neglected. Even being outnum- bered the meeting engagement should be sought aft er, because only in such a case an attack is considered possible.57 Th e chances in static warfare seemed slim, as the pictures of the Western Front lingered on: “In static warfare our army can only pursue a successful attack with foreign support or with limited achievements.” An exception was the war in the mountains.58 Th e fi eld manual required to “powerfully attack a front as large as possible” where outfl anking is possible.59 Apparently, the German tactic of raiding patrols had not been assimilated. Lastly, for the defence, the fi eld manual promoted an ‘elastic’ combat procedure: “Defence doesn’t lead to the enemy’s defeat. A defeat requires a combination of defence and off ence. Th us, defence is justifi ed whenever the aim is to bind the enemy’s forces and wear them down, and to gain time to achieve a decisive victory at some other location or time by means of an attack.”60 Th e tactical regulations were mostly approved by the Landesvertei- digungskommission [commission for national defence]. But there was considerable criticism of the operational level. In a memorandum Oberstdivisionär (Major General) Hans Frey, the commander of the Sixth Division, severely criticized the Felddienst 27 for only describing combat up to brigadelevel, but neglecting the division. Furthermore his other criticism was that for greater success, help by foreign armies was said to be necessary: From my point of view, it [the fi eld manual] does not serve morale well, if it points out the help of foreign armies needed to make up for our inad- equacy. Th ereby, morale is going to be outplayed by material. Th is kind of thinking is customary in politics but should not occur in a fi eld manual.61 Although he agreed with the “fresh spirit of enterprise,” his criticism went on: “To avoid is a certain arrogance, which could arise and create a wrong valuation of the enemy’s potential.” Th erewith, he commented

57 Felddienst 27, S. 146f. 58 Felddienst 27, S. 163. 59 Felddienst 27, S. 165. 60 Felddienst 27, S. 172. 61 Bericht über den Entwurf 1924 “Allgemeine Vorschrift über Führung und Gefecht.” Dezember 1925, S. 2, BAr E 27, 7938: Felddienst 27. development of the swiss army’s combat methods 319 on the fi eld manual’s general assumption, that a potential enemy could only make limited use of his predominant instruments such as heavy artillery on Swiss terrain.62

4. An Outlook into the 1930s and Final Conclusion

While surprising from today’s point of view, the off ensive direction of the Felddienst 27 (aft er all the most important fi eld manual of the Swiss armed forces of the interwar period) was approved by most of the senior Swiss offi cer corps at the time. Sonderegger, who in the meantime had resigned his position as chief of the General Staff , agreed with the author of the Felddienst and, aft er the manual was published in 1927, called vehemently for enabling the infantry to conduct ‘free operations’. As he stated in his memorandum of 1929 ‘Infanterie-Angriff und strategische Option’, the current predominance of the defensive made a “brisk accurate operative attack” practically unthinkable.63 He feared a decline of the art of warfare and stated: “A bottom of art of warfare, the art of war in a cul-de-sac!”64 Th e proportion between attacking and defending infantry had to be put into balance again. As a result of this, “the sage and audacious operation will be back again.”65 He affi liated himself with the mentioned desire concerning rearmament of the infantry with heavy weapons. Sonderegger, who worked in the late 1920s as a consultant for the Swiss defence industry, widened the idea of upgrading the individual fi ghter with semi-automatic weapons and boosting the infantry with assisting weapons, such as mortars and infantry cannon for anti-tank combat.66 Sonderegger subsumed the aims of his explanations at the end of his memorandum. Th ese, he said, were not just about helping the infantry to an advantage over the enemy, because “the fi nal goal ranks higher, namely to make the army capable of operating freely, striking quickly and decisively, raising the art of war from its current low level to a

62 Bericht über den Entwurf 1924 “Allgemeine Vorschrift über Führung und Gefecht.” Dezember 1925, S. 3, BAr E 27, 7938: Felddienst 27. 63 See: E. Sonderegger, Infanterie-Angriff und strategische Operation: Ausblicke und Vorschläge (Frauenfeld: Huber, 1929), pp. 5–11. See also R. Zeller, Emil Sonderegger: Vom Generalstabschef zum Frontenführer (Zürich: NZZ Verlag, 1999), p. 175. 64 Sonderegger, Infanterie-Angriff , p. 12. 65 Sonderegger, Infanterie-Angriff , p. 14f. 66 See: Sonderegger, Infanterie-Angriff , pp. 16–30. 320 m. m. olsansky higher one.” With the perspective for rapid victory the duration of war could be shortened. He legitimised these demands even with a moral claim: “Raising the art of war to this level, where quick and incisive decisions are possible, means serving mankind.”67 During the early 1930s, the infantry was indeed equipped more and more with machine guns, mortars and infantry cannon. Such reinforcements were meant to enable the infantry to conduct delaying battle.”68 At the same time, reform of the armed forces at least lengthened the training and reorganised the army structure. However, obtaining heavy armament such as assault tanks and planes, remained a matter of marginal discussion and little realisation.69 Th ese measures were completely inadequate to catch up with the armament level of neighbouring countries until the beginning of the Second World War. Th e problem goes back to the 1920s. Even though the development of warfare up to the maneuver warfare of the 1940s was almost unforeseeable at the time of the Felddienst 27, a more thorough and comprehensive assessment of the World War failed to take place. So, it was not just due to fi nancial restrictions given the limitations of being a small power, but also to a lack of imagination why senior Swiss offi cers never thought beyond war led by infantry. At the same time, wide-spread agreement about holding on to a scantily fi nanced mass army as well as a vision of an infantry capable of ‘free operation’ – a vision that was removed from reality and held just for the sake of it – contributed to the failure of thinking beyond these narrow limits.

67 Sonderegger, Infanterie-Angriff , p. 109. 68 See: Senn, zwischen den beiden Weltkriegen, pp. 281–286. 69 Brogini Künzi and Pöhlmann, “Schweizer Offi zierskorps,” p. 410f. CHAPTER FOURTEEN

STRATEGIC DILEMMAS OF A SMALL POWER WITH A COLONIAL EMPIRE. THE NETHERLANDS EAST INDIES 1936–1941

A. C. Tjepkema

Although the Netherlands had been able to uphold its neutrality during World War I, it had only been by a narrow margin. Prospects for escap- ing total war in a next round of war between the Great Powers seemed rather bleak. A complicating factor for the Dutch was the possession of their colonies in South-East Asia (an area almost the size of Europe) and in the Caribbean. Especially the important Asian possessions became more and more exposed to the strategic threat emanating from Japan. How could the Netherlands East Indies (NEI) counter such a threat? Th e colonial Royal Netherlands East Indies Army [Koninklijk Nederlands Indisch Leger or KNIL], a professional force consisting mainly of indigenous soldiers, had successfully suppressed regional uprisings in the past and, with the near completion of that task, was now aiming for conversion to a modern European style army. Th e Royal Netherlands Navy [Koninklijke Marine or KM] was an organization with global aspirations, with a limited role in the defence of the home country, but with an ambition to be the only strategic defender of the NEI. Although the KM devoted nearly all its energy to the East Indies, the KNIL associated its rival with homeland interests. It had been argued seriously in the twenties to split the Navy into a European and an Asian part, but that would have put the KM – being the senior service – in a subordinate position in both regions. Th e international political situation aft er World War I did not point in the direction of a next round of war. Th e tendency in the twenties was more towards reductions of armaments than towards organiza- tional changes, with post-war politicians being rather optimistic about the eff ectiveness of international treaties. Th is attitude was an obstacle for bringing about serious defence expenditures, a situation which ten years later was compounded by the need for budget reductions as a consequence of the worldwide depression that touched the Indies in 322 a. c. tjepkema particular. Th e question now was how to harmonize a credible strategic defence with a lower budget. Would modern technologies like bomber and torpedo aircraft , in combination with submarines, off er a solution or would it be wiser to fall back on more and larger cruisers as core capabilities of a harmonious fl eet? Th ough in the late thirties the fi nancial circumstances did not compel severe austerity anymore, the question did not lose its signifi cance. Th e objective of this research is to compare between these two options as potentially viable solutions for the strategic dilemma of the Netherlands for the NEI in the late interwar years. Secondly, it will be revealed to what extent the army and the navy were inclined to fi ght each other instead of making joint preparations for meeting the enemy under adverse conditions.

Part I

With the Anglo-Dutch Treaty of 1814, Great Britain returned the NEI to the newly established Kingdom of the Netherlands, a gesture not without meaning. Th e Kingdom would have to be strong enough to act as a countervailing power vis-à-vis its southern neighbour and therefore needed a sound economic colonial basis. Th at basis would provide for an internal policing force; defence of the NEI against external aggression was estimated improbable during the Pax Britannica. A remote possibility was that England or Russia would stage so-called coups de main against Batavia, the seat of government in West Java. Th e scenario of a coup de main was an invasion fl eet with an expeditionary force on board, most likely landing on the north shore of Western Java. Against that backdrop the KM presented itself as the sole strategic fi ghting force in 1892, on an equal footing with the KNIL in military importance. Unfortunately, the fl eet was based at Surabaya in Eastern Java. So, the KNIL proposed a base change to Tandjong Priok, close to the capital. Th e navy disagreed strongly with that proposal, the fi rst bone of contention between the services in a long row of inter-service skirmishes that would only end with their common defeat against Japan in 1942. By the end of the 19th century, international relations had changed fundamentally. Upcoming powers like Germany, Italy, and Japan began to contest the Pax Britannica. Th e United States had replaced Spain in the Philippines. Th e Russo-Japanese war (1904–1905) underlined the strategic vulnerability of the NEI and victorious Japan the netherlands east indies 1936–1941 323 was from now on perceived as the main potential enemy.1 In 1912 it was decided that the KM would have a strongly enlarged fl eet to counteract any hostile intent in the Indian waters. Th e enlargement would consist of eight battleships. Th e plan never materialized, due to the outbreak of World War I. Aft er the war, Th e Hague faced two, partially overlapping, sets of Great Powers, one in Europe, the other in the Pacifi c, the focus of this contribution. Japan was one of the victors of the war and eager to acquire new colonies in the Pacifi c. Since 1870, it had been apparent that London was suff ering from imperial overstretch. Th is had led to the Anglo-Japanese Alliance of 1902. Britain had drawn Japan into the war in order to compensate for its lack of naval assets in the Pacifi c. In 1919 London was still inclined to yield to Tokyo’s aspirations with respect to the former German colonies in the area.2 Th e strategic cooperation with Japan had raised suspicion, notably in Batavia, and some policy makers wondered if London, given its declining global reach, would not be attracted to off er parts of the NEI to Japan as a quid pro quo for strategic services in the western Pacifi c. Aft er the war Japan was ready to assume a more imperial role, for which an amelioration of its defence industries was vital. Th is would enable Tokyo to expand the army and the navy, the main instruments of an imperial policy, and exert its infl uence on the Asian continent and the Southwest Pacifi c, the Nanyo. Until 1935, when the system of international relations began to unravel, treaties off ered a certain degree of protection to smaller nations. Th e Hague had hesitated in joining initially, as the agreements stipulated the eventual use of force by the signatories against possible off enders, which might compromise the pure idea of neutrality, a breach with the past. Th e League of Nations was an initiative of President Wilson during the 1919 Paris Peace Conference. Th e Dutch government did not join the League wholeheartedly, though its accession coincided with the upcoming public pacifi sm and war-weariness. Th is treaty did not exclude common military action and implied no obligations for individual member states, either. Th e Fleet Conference

1 A.J. Veenendaal, “De handhaving der neutraliteit in Nederlands-Indië tijdens de Russisch-Japanse oorlog (1904–1905),” Marineblad, 1972: pp. 127–161. 2 Th e Anglo-Japanese Alliance ended in 1921, formally in 1923. 324 a. c. tjepkema of Washington (1922–1923) resulted in three treaties, to one of which Th e Netherlands was signatory, notably the Nine Powers Treaty3 that pledged respect to the sovereignty of China, but was not clear on the position of Manchuria. So, the concept of neutrality was not aff ected too much, but the call for disarmament was heard all the more so. Disarmament was at odds with Dutch armed neutrality, as the latter supposed a back-up with credible armed forces. Th e protection off ered by these agreements dwindled over time with the growing ambitions of Japan, Italy and Germany. Th e inter-war years were the last era of human exploration of the extremes of the Earth. Technology made the aircraft a suitable tool for opening up the hitherto undiscovered parts of the planet. Long-range civil fl ights established one record aft er another. Batavia could now be reached from Amsterdam in a couple of days. Militarily speaking, reach, speed and lift capability increased enormously, making aviation a sublime instrument for the delivery of munitions. Japan was building up two air forces, both in the army and in the navy, but for an expeditionary force the NEI was still remote. Besides, the archipelago had considerable strategic depth and Japan would fi nd Britain in Malaya and the US in the Philippines on its path. In the early thirties Japan occupied Manchuria; in 1937 it started a war against a weak and divided China. For the fulfi llment of further strategic ambitions the Japanese industries required raw materials, like oil, rubber, tin and bauxite, commodities that were available in abundance in the NEI. Th e Dutch position in the NEI was rather weak: only 200,000 Europeans and Indo-Europeans ruled over a country with almost 70 million indigenous people. Th e army was not suffi ciently manned and equipped to ward off an external enemy. Th at role was allocated to the navy, but this service lacked suffi cient deterrent capacities. So, alliances had to make the diff erence. Th e Americans in the neighbouring Philippines did not regard their possessions as vital. Besides, Washington wanted to uphold its own neutrality. If Th e Hague tied up with London openly, Tokyo would no longer deem Dutch neutrality credible. Th is might also harm the position of the motherland, as Berlin would certainly notice this. Yet, more than in Europe, some room for manoeuvre existed in South-East Asia. Britain and Australia

3 Th e signatories were Great Britain, the United States, France, Japan, Italy, Belgium, the Netherlands, Portugal and China. the netherlands east indies 1936–1941 325 did not have strong defences, but Singapore was being constructed as an impregnable fortress and secret discussions were not likely to be discovered by Tokyo. So, the best bet for Th e Hague was to side with London, but this had to be done carefully. Th e army and the navy had diff erent chains of command. Th e commander of the KNIL [Legercommandant or LC] reported to the governor-general (GG), who was the supreme commander-in-chief of both services and head of the government of the NEI. Th e GG, although having authority for policy matters in a wide sense, reported to the minister of Colonies, in whose ministry the 6th Bureau dealt with defence matters, for army and navy alike. Th e commander of the KM in NEI [Commandant Zeemacht or CZM] reported to the GG for operational matters, but for administrative matters he answered via the chief of the Naval Staff (CNS) to the Minister of Defence. Although the details diff ered almost from year to year, in general Defence would pay for naval investments, while Batavia would foot the bill for operating costs. Th e KNIL had little to do with the Koninklijke Landmacht [the Dutch militia army], apart from offi cers’ initial and career education and a few other areas. It maintained its own general staff in Bandung, which formed the nucleus of the NEI’s department of War. Th e KM possessed a small department of the Navy in Batavia and an operational staff in Surabaya, main port of the fl eet. While the tasks of both services were more or less clear (the army responsible for the internal and the navy for the external security), no exact division of these responsibilities was laid down until 1927. Th en, a committee formulated the basic principles (Grondslagen) for the defence of the NEI. Th e document did not aim to describe the option of a successful defence against a major power, but settled for violations of neutrality by foreign cruisers or raiding parties. Th e Treaty of Washington almost ruled out the arrival of battleships and allies would be compelled to support Batavia in case of an excessive breach of its sovereignty. Th e strength of the navy was fi xed to two cruisers, eight destroyers and twelve submarines, being its actual strength. As the materiel reserve was not included in these fi gures, the construction of half of that force: one cruiser, four destroyers and six submarines was necessary. In 1930, minister Deckers4 proposed a draft plan for

4 Dr. L.N. Deckers (1883–1978) was Minister of Defence (1929–1935) and Minister of Agriculture (1935–1937). 326 a. c. tjepkema

fi nancing these ships. Besides, he proposed the construction of two fl otilla leaders, a type in between a cruiser and a destroyer. Th e army’s exact organisation was not laid down; it was to maintain Dutch authority against internal uprisings and the neutrality of Java against foreign intruders, especially with respect to the ports of Surabaya and Tandjong Priok. Moreover, the defence of the oil refi neries of Tarakan and Balikpapan on the eastern coast of Borneo was allotted to the KNIL. Th e army deplored this overall arrangement which put it behind the navy in strategic defence matters. So, the KM was now offi cially trusted with the external defence of the archipelago and hence was adamantly opposed to any move towards reduction of its strategic supremacy. Its abortive plan of 1912 for eight battleships still brought up bad memories. Ten years later a draft bill for new cruisers had been voted down in Parliament by the lowest conceivable margin and since then the navy had been trying, with increasing resolve, to make up for these setbacks. Ideas from younger offi cers for altering course to a concept of guerre de course with a fl eet composed of smaller vessels (submarines, torpedoboats and destroyers) were rejected by the admirals. Since 1917 – the arrival of aircraft in the navy – attempts to allot off ensive roles to the air arm, the Marine Luchtvaart Dienst (MLD), equally had been denounced. Th e MLD was basically to limit itself to reconnaissance, bombardment being a secondary role. Th e KM suff ered a setback in February 1933 with a mutiny on board the armoured ship Zeven Provinciën. Th e mutiny found its origins in the third successive reduction of wages. Th e CZM decided to issue a sharp warning by sending a Dornier Wal to drop a 50kg bomb near the bow of the vessel, but accidentally the bomb hit the deck where the mutineers had gathered, killing 23 of them. Unintentionally, the eff ectiveness of horizontal bombing was underlined. Although the Militaire Luchtvaart (ML),5 the KNIL’s army aviation, was even smaller than the MLD until 1937, there were no doctrinal limits to its growth. Th e potential size of the army would practically restrict its deployment to the main island of Java, but detachments could be sent to outposts on the other islands as well, in particular to

5 Until 1939 the army aviation was called Luchtvaartafdeling (LA). From then on it was offi cially put on an equal footing with the other arms and called Wapen der Militaire Luchtvaart. the netherlands east indies 1936–1941 327

Borneo where strategic interests were at stake. Th is fi tted in nicely with the earlier police role in establishing Dutch sovereignty over the archipelago. Th e ML had as its main role reconnaissance and tactical assistance to deployed army units in general, but its potential in the long run was recognized as a viable alternative that could put the army line abreast with the navy. Th e KNIL might play this trump card only if it could incorporate a bomber fl eet that could cover the vastness of the archipelago. Th e acquisition of bombers might deter Japan, but would certainly antagonize the navy. Th e KNIL’s strength was somewhat over 30,000 volunteers, of whom two thirds were natives. Th e introduction of conscription for natives had been considered aft er the turn of the century, but the government had decided against it, fearing that obligations would entitle indigenous people to political rights. Th e debate on conscription re-merged without result in the thirties, when it was the only solution for achieving suffi cient manpower against an external enemy. Economic hard times had reduced the NEI’s national income by 50% between 1930 and 1935. Th e army paid its full part in the budget restrictions and received no money for new weapon systems. Since 1933 the second Colijn-cabinet had governed the country. Prime minister Colijn was a popular and authoritative personality6 in whose eyes good governance meant a balanced national budget, an ambition that implied severe government spending cuts in years of economic recession. Austerity was inescapable for the defence budget, too. In order to make responsible cutbacks in costs, a committee was established, led by A.W.F. Idenburg.7 Th e committee proposed a number of alternatives, the general tendency of which was a reduction in capabilities without disbanding the capacities. Axing the cruisers had already been considered in the early twenties, in which case the submarines would not only materially but also formally have been the main weapon system. Experts saw a harmonious fl eet with surface ships as its backbone as essential for maintaining neutrality. Th ey added that a shift of the centre of gravity to airpower would raise the question

6 H. Colijn (1869–1944) was a former KNIL-offi cer, Minister (1911–1913, 1923– 1925), Prime Minister (1925–1926, 1933–1939) and member of the board of directors of Royal Dutch Shell in London (1914–1922). 7 A.W.F. Idenburg (1861–1935) was a former KNIL offi cer, Minister (1902–1905, 1908–1909, 1918–1919) and GG of the NEI (1909–1916). He had draft ed the 1927 Grondslagen for NEI’s defence. 328 a. c. tjepkema of the establishment of a centralized air force. Idenburg however decided to include an option to concentrate on submarine and an enlarged air fl eet in his fi nal report and recommended follow-on analysis on a possible merger of the three national air services. Furthermore, he advised examining an additional cutback resulting from a principal shift of emphasis to stronger air forces. Idenburg’s advice was taken seriously. Th e Defence ministry was all for the foundation of a state airforce, following the British example of the Royal Air Force, but the navy and KNIL opposed the idea strongly. Th e KM understandably saw a merger as detrimental to the concept of an harmonious fl eet. Th e KNIL was afraid of gambling away its strategic trump card and pointed to ineffi ciencies inherent in the navy structure: serving back and forth from the NEI to the home country. Th ese ineffi ciencies would undoubtedly be part and parcel of a state airforce. Th at argument had been the main driver behind the idea to split the navy into a European and an Asian Fleet. It had been rejected in the twenties, why now create a second organisation suff ering from similar inadequacies? So, the defence minister was left out in the cold and the state airforce never took off . Th e option of enhanced airpower still held, however. In December 1934 Colijn established a committee chaired by J.B. Kan.8 Th e mission of the committee was to examine whether one of the alternatives presented by Idenburg would lead to fi nancial benefi t. Could a decreased number of surface ships and an increase in naval aviation bring about budget cuts while enhancing the strategic posture? Four naval offi cers joined the committee, among them captains Furstner9 and Ferwerda,10 the future CZM. Th e balance was achieved by four army offi cers, of whom Major-General M. Boerstra11 was the highest ranking. Boerstra was already aware of his next posting as LC and his room for manoeuvre, in the light of his professional relationship with the CZM, was limited, but his direct access to the minister was to prove useful. Th e youngest

8 J. B. Kan (1873–1947) was a former top civil servant and Minister (1926–1929). 9 J. T. Furstner (1887–1970) was director of the Naval War College before becoming CNS in 1935. In 1940 he became C-in-C KM, from 1941 Minister of the Navy simultaneously. 10 H. Ferwerda (1885–1942) had commanded naval air station Morokrembangan (near Surabaya), naval air station De Kooy (near Den Helder, Th e Netherlands) and became CZM (1935–1940). 11 M. Boerstra (1883–1953) was LC (1936–1940). He was the son-in-law of former GG and Minister of Foreign Aff airs A. C. D. de Graeff . the netherlands east indies 1936–1941 329 but most infl uential member was Captain Johan Zegers,12 a man of enormous intellectual power. He had published extensively on the use of military aviation and showed himself to be a shrewd participator.13 During the fi rst meeting Zegers proposed to take the comprehensive structure of the NEI’s armed forces into consideration. Despite naval protests the chairman gave his approval. Now, he went a step further, stating that the committee’s mission was indeed to explore the advantages of a reinforcement of maritime aviation versus a possible reduction in surface ships, but that the spirit of the assignment concerned all military aviation. Again, despite naval objections, this view carried the day. When the naval offi cers asked to substantiate his views, Zegers presented a thorough memorandum on the values of airpower during the next meeting. He then questioned the strategic importance of the two cruisers. As a cruiser needed at least fi ve months of maintenance every two years, it was apparent that only one could be counted upon in times of war. Th e deterrent weight of one cruiser could not produce any military-strategic advantage. An increase in the number of cruisers lay outside the scope of the committee. ML pilot L. C. A. van Dam argued in the same period that, in terms of comparative costs, for the price of one battle cruiser 384 bombers could be purchased. Th e canon of a ship would be 40 cm maximum, the impact of which was comparable to a 900kg bomb.14 So, the majority advised to disband the cruisers and concentrate all available resources on air-power, fi rst and foremost on landbased airpower, in concrete terms the acquisition of 108 so-called air cruisers15 for the ML, half of which were fi rst line aircraft . Th is meant that only half of that fl eet would be fully manned, equipped and operationally ready; the rest would be held in reserve. Naval aviation would take a hit: the number of fl ying boats would be reduced from seventy-two to fi ft y-four, again only half to be fi rst line. Moreover, the majority added

12 J. G. W. Zegers (1891–1951) was at the time the chief tactical instructor of the homeland Army Aviation (Luchtvaart Afdeling). 13 P. E. van Loo and A. C. Tjepkema, “De ontwikkeling van het Nederlandse lucht- wapen,” Militaire Spectator 177, no. 4 (2008): pp. 227–239. 14 L. C. A. van Dam, “Kanon of luchtbom,” Indisch Militair Tijdschrift , no. 2 (1935): pp. 207–218. 15 An air cruiser was a multi-engine bomber with (presumably) enough fi repower on all sides of the fuselage to counter the fi ghter threat. Besides, a patrolling air cruiser was able to loiter in a holding pattern for a long time, contrary to a fi ghter. In the second half of the thirties fi ghters gained fi repower and airspeed, making them better fi t for bomber escort. Henceforth, the air cruiser gave way to the escorted bomber. 330 a. c. tjepkema insult to injury by using the term ‘air cruiser’ instead of bomber, as air cruisers could be considered substitutes of the so ardently desired real cruisers. Th e fi nancial benefi t of the proposal was very modest: only DFL 225,000, while the expense of DFL ten million for airfi eld construction in the outer areas was not accounted for. Th e outcomes of the Kan-committee deserve further examination. Colijn took a dim view of the navy, which was only exacerbated by the mutiny on the Zeven Provinciën two years before. Ostensibly maintaining objectivity, at times he did not hesitate to have a sly dig at the navy. He meddled secretly with the outcome of the committee by providing Boerstra with Admiral Richmond’s books.16 Th is is interesting, as Sir Herbert Richmond was the black sheep of the Royal Navy at the time.17 Being gift ed with a sharp analytical mind, Richmond argued time and again that the acquisition of capital ships should not be a goal in itself or in the competition with other navies. Political-strategic considerations should be formulated upfront, leading to the conceptuali- zation of military-strategic objectives and the resulting translation into military capacities. In naval matters, this process would point in the direction of cruisers of 15,000 tonnes at the utmost, equipped with all the artillery a navy might need under adverse circumstances.18 Th is reasoning would not only achieve a much improved presence in the Far East, but also save a lot of money. Colijn had an extensive network in London and was aware of the discussions on British defence matters. By giving Boerstra these books, he intended to provide him with the ammunition for attacking the naval members of the Kan-committee. Th e composition of the committee resulting in a dominant position of the chair on the outcome, was perhaps questionable. Th ree army, three navy and three neutrals would have given a much better balance. Now the writing on the wall was favoring aviation, the KM had to reconsider its position. Again, the KM saw its aviation as an auxiliary arm with a reconnaissance role. Th e fl ying boats had a good range, carried machine guns and could drop bombs, but being heavier and less

16 Colijn archives, Nederlands Documentatiecentrum voor Protestantisme, Amsterdam, box 117. Boerstra’s thank you note of 28 December 1934 mentions ‘the work’ of Admiral Richmond. 17 Sir Herbert Richmond (1871–1946) was a well-known author of several books on naval history and policy, like Economy and Naval Security (London: Ernest Benn 1931) and Seapower in the Modern World (London: Bell, 1934). 18 B. D. Hunt, Sailor-scholar: Admiral Sir Herbert Richmond, 1871–1946 (Waterloo: Wilfred Laurier University Press, 1982), pp. 143–145. the netherlands east indies 1936–1941 331 manoeuvrable than landbased aircraft , their off ensive eff ectiveness was limited. Th e fl oat-planes had more inherent operational drawbacks. Th e later Rear-Admiral Karel Doorman,19 an experienced operational pilot, once said: “an aircraft sitting on deck loaded with fuel is a potential fi re hazard, while it is useless with empty tanks.” So, the MLD could only make a strategic diff erence in reconnaissance. Naval pilot M. Vethake had proven that landbased aircraft were far more eff ective than their seabased equivalents,20 but landbased aviation would require airfi elds and the involvement of the KNIL, an anathema. Against the complicated position of the KM, the KNIL enjoyed the comfort of a simple goal: the creation of a bomber fl eet that would give it the lead in strategic defence. What were the eff ects on the framework of the Grondslagen of 1927? Th is document was now losing its importance and with that the KM was about to lose its advantage of having its combat power detailed in a government document. While the majority advised to limit the KM to 12 destroyers, 18 submarines and 54 large seaplanes, the naval minority in the committee decided to draft its own report, based on the fl eet plan of 1930: three cruisers, 12 destroyers, 18 submarines and 72 fl ying boats. Th e minority counter-attacked by advising to increase the number of seaplanes from 72 to 96. When the two reports were published, Minister Deckers was still in charge of Defence. He gave the majority report a critical reception, as the committee had in his view overstepped its mandate by advising to expand the ML, though its mission had been to examine the KM’s composition. Th e Ministry of Colonies, as always biased towards the KNIL, emphasized that the cruiser-destroyer-submarine combination was much too slow for eff ective operations against enemy intruders. Th e fl eet was compelled to retro-action, aft er the events had occurred, a situation ruled out by the Grondslagen which wanted to show the world immediate action. A desirable proactive attitude could only be brought about by a bomber fl eet which had the additional advantage of entering service much faster than new surface ships.

19 K. W. F. M. Doorman (1889–1942) was one of the fi rst KM-pilots and survived more than 30 emergency landings. End February 1942 he was tasked to command the ABDACOM Combined Striking Force that would confront the Japanese fl eet in the Java Sea. 20 M. Vethake, “Aan welke eischen moet een zeebommenwerper voor Nederlands- Indië voldoen?” Luchtmacht 4 (1935): pp. 143–160. 332 a. c. tjepkema

Th e reactions from Batavia were equally divided and when they arrived in Th e Hague, the second Cabinet-Colijn had been replaced by the third one. Colijn now had three portfolios: Prime Minister, Minister of Colonies and Minister of Defence, albeit ad interim. So, now all defence fi les passed through his desk, but he was more than previously obliged to strike a balance between the diverging interests. Being a Realpolitiker, he decided not to go along with the radical recommendation to scrap the cruisers. As Minister of Defence he judged this solution to be one step too far and reproached the majority for under- estimating the problem of reconnaissance in the high seas, while blam- ing the minority for being blind to the agility of landbased aircraft . Aft er reception of the reports from Batavia, Colijn contacted his London network for advice.21 Th e result was a compromise: the KM would remain responsible for the long distance reconnaissance, but the follow-on attacks on enemy combat and transport fl eets would be carried out by the KNIL. Th is compromise underlined the KM’s composition in the Grondslagen and in the 1930 fl eet plan. Naval aviation would be limited to 60 fl ying boats however and army aviation would be tasked to start with the construction of airfi elds in the eastern part of the archipelago. His main decision in his capacity as Minister of Colonies was the order of the fi rst batch of nine American bombers of the B-10 type.22 Th e total number would eventually reach 118. What were the military implications of the decision to acquire a bomber fl eet? From now on the army and the navy were obliged to seek a better cooperation. Where they had been living in splendid isolation in the past, the decision to use bombers as the mainstay for the strategic defence implied a certain commitment to jointness. In 1936 Colijn deemed one wing of 36 aircraft suitable for the defence of Java, the main island. Realizing that an enemy fl eet might abuse the spreading out of the scarce naval elements by concentrating on a weak spot in the outer areas, he only saw a mass bomber counter attack as an eff ective response. Contingencies of that kind could be countered by expanding the bomber fl eet from one group to two, so that the outer areas could

21 Post-war report by A. de Booy, naval attaché in London, on his assistance of Dr. Colijn during the latter’s visit to London in July 1936. Colijn proposed to buy a mix of British land- and seabased aircraft , but did not receive a positive reply. Boxes Correspondentie Kon. Marine in WO II, NIMH, fi le De Booy. 22 Th e B-10 was called Glenn Martin WH-139 in the NEI, even later when the more powerful WH-166 version arrived. the netherlands east indies 1936–1941 333 now be covered. Th is would necessitate deep cooperation between the two services even more. No strong attempts were made in that fi eld. Whereas the army was jubilant, the navy was angry. Th e anger was channeled into attacks on the army’s plans to construct airfi elds in the outer regions. Th ose plans implied indeed some risk that the enemy might use these fi elds in due course for its own forward deployment. Th e army could only argue that the position of some fi elds would be shrouded in secrecy, that preparations for emergency destruction would be part of the plans, that they would have a bare minimum of facilities and that they would be situated in barren terrain, some distance from the coast. Paradoxically, defensive arguments were being used for the full operational employment of an off ensive weapon system. Th e KNIL could have pointed more emphatically at the upcoming civil air connections that had already resulted in the construction of airfi elds throughout the NEI.23 Now, Admiral Ferwerda, in 1936 appearing on the scene as CZM, faced a united front of the LC, the Minister of defence and the Minister of colonies. Having lost the debate on the airfi elds, he chose a new line of attack, notably the subject of Surabaya’s air defence. Th e unit of fi ghters dedicated for that task was converting to B-10 and no replacement was foreseen.24 Th e army was responsible for the land defence and Ferwerda felt that Boerstra would give Surabaya a low priority. He insisted that fi ghter aircraft were essential for defence of the naval base. It was clear that the army was too busy with the implementation of the bomber plan for the time being and had not given fi ghter requirement a high priority. Short-sighted arguments insisted that the bombers/air cruisers needed no escort, as they were capable of defending themselves.25 In this reasoning, two groups of B-10 constituted enough deterrence and their operational readiness had yet to be developed to its full extent. Boerstra pointed at the defence of the archipelago as a whole, of which Surabaya would benefi t. In a comprehensive strategy, the fl eet would be better defended by bombers with suffi cient reach than by fi ghters defending just the Surabaya region. Ferwerda was not

23 Th e number of airfi elds in the NEI would reach thirty-two, of which seventeen in Java. 24 Th e Curtiss P-6 Hawk was a biplane and obsolete. Its planned replacement in 1935, the Fokker D-XXI, was cancelled when the scales tipped to bombers. A reinforced AAA battalion had been sent to fi ll the gap. From January 1941 on the fi ghter defence was restored to one squadron. 25 Th e B-10 was equipped with only three 7.7 mm machine guns. 334 a. c. tjepkema an easy match: he then asked for operational command in case the bombers would operate outside the Java airspace. Th is logical proposal was turned down by Colonies, under the pretext that the bombers were not interoperable with the fl eet, or with naval aviation.26 In the early twenties the KM had been forced to accept the submarines as its main weapon system. Upto that time naval offi cers had hoped for battle cruisers, if not for battle ships. Cruisers like Java and Sumatra, built in 1925 and 1926, reminded them of the old powerful artillery ships and they were cherished as the centre pieces of the KM. Th e fl eet plan-Deckers of 1930 added one more cruiser to the central capacity: De Ruyter was commissioned in 1936. Chances for more cruisers seemed remote from now on, as the navy’s role, so well assured in the Grondslagen, was now under debate. Th e KM now felt frustration: where the 1927-‘Grondslagen’ had the advantage of listing all naval capabilities for the NEI’s defence explicitly, they now set bounds to expansion. Frustration oft en entails short-sightedness: the document of 1927 focused on breaches of NEI’s neutrality (coups de main and the like), while in nine years time the Japanese threat had gained signifi cant momentum. It gradually dawned that the Japanese were aiming at the NEI as the ultimate prize in their Asiatic quest for expansion. In fact, the Grondslagen now had become a millstone around the KM’s neck. Th e KNIL, on the other hand, was not limited to its current role, as the unexpected addition of a bomber fl eet had proved. Perhaps the employment of a strike air force did not correspond with the letter, but certainly with the spirit of the Grondslagen. Th e new defence posture certainly would enhance the credibility of the NEI’s strategic defence. It was Ferwerda’s priority to improve the fl eet’s capacities. Notably the shortage and shortcomings of the cruisers had to be addressed.27 If he succeeded in that respect, the overreliance on submarines might be diminished and their eff ectiveness enhanced. Submarines without cruiser escort could act as lone wolves, but would be more eff ective if controlled from capable ships. More cruisers would furthermore aug- ment the security of commercial shipping, a vital interest for the NEI. Ferwerda suggested in 1938 that six cruisers in total would make a

26 G. Teitler, “Het KNIL en de Indische defensie,” in De val van Nederlands-Indië, ed. G. Teitler (Dieren: De Bataafsche Leeuw, 1982), pp. 51–55. 27 G. Teitler, De strijd om de slagkruisers 1938–1940 (Dieren: De Bataafsche Leeuw, 1984). Th is part follows his research. the netherlands east indies 1936–1941 335 credible strategic capacity, adding that no naval expert would disagree. Th is appeared to be a misjudgment, as the CNS, Vice-Admiral Furstner, openly backed a press campaign in the wake of ‘Munich’ by submitting a memorandum for building battleships to Minister of Defence Van Dijk,28 who rejected the proposal, however. Furstner did not feel inhibited by his Minister’s rejection and shift ed back from battle ships to battle cruisers, the diff erence being that it would be more diffi cult to obtain sea dominance with the latter cate- gory. With more and better ships, the KM would be capable of hitting the enemy hard on his lines of communication, eff ectuating unfavourable conditions for a possible occupation. Furstner reasoned that the enemy would need at least four convoys in order to conquer the strategic areas of the archipelago and that four battle cruisers would provide suffi cient deterrence. Most Japanese heavy cruisers would not be able to match the Dutch projected battlecruisers. Th e possession of one or two ships of that kind could make an enormous strategic diff erence. Th e CNS advised Minister Van Dijk to order one battle cruiser for 1940 to start with. A lot of arguments ran counter to Furstner’s ambition. Could one battle cruiser really make a diff erence? Would one ship suffi ce, given its periodic maintenance? Would it not be wiser to build more normal cruisers? Th e Minister was inclined to go along with the plan and asked the navy to examine its ramifi cations. Th e future battle cruiser would possess an armament of nine canons 28 cm guns and have a maximum speed of 32 knots. It would have a complement of 1,050. In his memorandum to the Cabinet, Van Dijk discussed the maritime-strategic situation extensively. Th e NEI would not be able to count on British or American support for some time, if the colony came under threat. Given the lack of allied support, the KM would have to face the enemy with greater force. Th e Minister considered the eventual augmentation of three battle cruisers to the present fl eet suffi cient for achieving that goal. Th ree such ships would guarantee the continuous availability of two, compelling the enemy to build up strategic dominance in all areas where he might plan vulnerable convoys on their way to the objectives. He would have to encircle the battle cruisers at great speed with ships at least equally capable, whereas the

28 J.J.C. van Dijk (1871–1954) was Minister of War (1921–1925), Minister of the Navy a.i. (1921–1922) and Minister of Defence (1937–1939). 336 a. c. tjepkema absence of battle cruisers would entice Japan to withhold its heavy ships and use them against potential allies. So, the possession of battle cruisers would imply the additional political-strategic advantage of paving the way for faster alliances. Van Dijk hoped that two of the three ships would be available in 1944; the third ship could then be built. Th e current fl eet would in principle be suffi cient for tactical support. For the concept, the naval staff had obtained the blueprints of the German Gneisenau, a proven concept which would shorten the preparations considerably. Th e Cabinet received the memorandum in April 1939 in a rather positive mood. Minister of Colonies Welter29 was asked to refrain from sending a copy to the NEI, as the motherland would not only pay for the investment but also for the running costs this time. Th is implied that the GG and the CZM would not be able to comment. Welter supported Van Dijk by pointing at Japan’s fast advance in the South-East Pacifi c: the occupation of Hainan and the Spratleys had taken its armed forces to a distance of 400 miles from the NEI. Welter further underlined that the NEI’s resources would allow almost any expenditure in the long run. A fi rm stand on the colonial possessions would raise trust in the Dutch economy. Furstner’s plan encountered the most fl ak from friendly fi re. Ferwerda had always been in favour of six cruisers, as many as possible of the A-type, for which he had gained the GG’s and Welter’s support. Th is was the very reason why Van Dijk did not want to send a copy of his memorandum to Batavia. Ferwerda’s counter-arguments were more of a practical than of a principled nature. Firstly, the battle cruisers were perhaps a match for the older Japanese battleships of the Kongo class, but these ships would be replaced by more modern and heavier types. Secondly, the battle cruisers would have to use Surabaya, a port with shallow entrances that had to be adapted to the new ships. Th irdly, it remained to be seen if the Gneisenau blueprints would shorten the construction time. Many modifi cations had already been planned to fi t the ships for tropical conditions. Fourthly, he doubted strongly that these complicated ships could be delivered before the outbreak of the war. A much simpler design would be available much faster, with the implied advantages of budget and personnel. Finally, Ferwerda feared

29 C.J.I.M. Welter (1880–1972) was Minister of Colonies (1925–1926 and 1937–1941). the netherlands east indies 1936–1941 337 that the project would undo his intended increase of the destroyers (from eight to twenty-four) and the submarines (from twelve to twenty-four). Being frustrated about the disregard for the NEI’s government, Ferwerda decided to write an unoffi cial memorandum for the Minister of Colonies and a group of interested naval offi cers, in which the admiral voiced his dissatisfaction with his exclusion from the decision- making. He stated that the system of collective security had been dead and buried for years, ‘Munich’ was just its formal announcement. He reproached Furstner and his deputy, Rear-Admiral Helfrich,30 for holding him back in 1936 when he had argued for the construction of more cruisers. With the international situation unchanged, suddenly only battle cruisers seemed the available option. Ferwerda wondered why a battle cruiser was given prevalence over an aircraft carrier. More than ever it was necessary to change the system of service back and forth: the expensive system that allowed naval personnel to spend half of their active service lives in the Netherlands. Conscription might be a solution, provided that it comprised at least thirty months for minimum eff ectiveness, a period too long for the approval of most politicians. Th e so-called battle cruisers were not suitable for obtaining sea dominance. All the reasons behind his previously proposed six cruisers still applied. Moreover, Ferwerda questioned the construction period of four years and predicted that the fi rst heavy cruiser would arrive in 1946. He suggested scaling the tonnage back to 16,000 tonnes with 24cm guns. It did not make sense to focus on the Kongo class and start an arms race with Tokyo. Even, if A-class cruisers were not feasible, a fl eet of 6 B-cruisers, 24 destroyers, 24–32 submarines and around one hundred large seaplanes constituted a considerable deterrent.31 Had the new doctrine been launched to make life miserable for the KNIL? Although not favouring the bombers, Ferwerda reasoned that it did make no sense to thwart that force. On the contrary, cooperation with the ML had to be intensifi ed.32

30 C. E. L. Helfrich (1886–1962) was director of the Naval War College at the time before becoming CZM in 1939. In 1942 he evacuated to Ceylon where he became C-in-C armed forces in the Far East. 31 Battle cruisers had a tonnage of around 27,000, A-cruisers of around 15,000 and B-cruisers (the current fl eet) of around 7,000. Battleships were in the order of 45,000 tonnes. 32 Th e summary of Teitler’s Slagkruisers ends here. 338 a. c. tjepkema

Admittedly, joint exercises had been held since 1934, when the MLD had trained the ML-pilots in ship recognition, navigation, orientation and bombardment of moving targets, all in the framework of coastal defence. In 1937 two newly formed B-10 squadrons were tasked against KM ships. In 1938 this exercise was cancelled due to shift ed ML priorities. In June 1938, admiral Ferwerda began to write irritated letters to the GG, doubting the wisdom of a third bomber group acquisition. Th e coincidence of these two events, the cancellation and the letters, reached Air Vice-Marshal Tedder’s ears in March 1939, who informed the Dutch envoy in London of his concern.33 A similar concern regarding the lack of cooperation between the Australian navy and air force had been noticed by the Dutch Consul-General in Sydney, who observed an analogy with the situation in the NEI.34 From 1940 onward, jointness improved. In April, the ML took over the reconnaissance fl ights over the western part of the Java Sea. Aft er the occupation of the motherland, the ML started patrolling the Tarakan and Balikpapan areas, so that the Fokker T-IV seaplanes could be made available for training at Morokrembangan. Helfrich even requested the ML in March 1941 to shadow the German battle cruiser Admiral Scheer south of Java and prevent her from reaching Japan via Timor. Th e ultimate form of cooperation was achieved when Lieutenant General Berenschot35 and Vice-Admiral Helfrich decided to place the bombers under command of the KM if they had to operate jointly in time of war.36 Th ese steps could not hide a lack of thorough interoperability, however.

Part II

With the advantage of hindsight it is possible to make up the balance on the preparations for war undertaken by the KNIL and the KM. To start off with the KNIL: the ground forces were rather well organized and had gone through the transformation from police army to modern conventional force. Th e core problem was that the NEI could never

33 NIMH, correspondence boxes Kon. Marine in WO II, fi le De Booy. 34 Nationaal Archief, 2.10.36.51, fi les 522 (S18) and 530 (R35). 35 Lieutenant-General G.J. Berenschot (1887–1941) was Boerstra’s successor as LC. He died in an air crash in October 1941 and was succeeded by H. ter Poorten. 36 C. R. Patist, “De luchtoorlog bij en boven Nederlands-Indië (12),” Stabelan 9 (31 August 1982). the netherlands east indies 1936–1941 339 muster enough combat power to withstand the Japanese army outside Java, without implicating the Indonesians in the national defence. Th e underlying reason for rejecting such a radical proposal lay in the understandable lackluster attitude of the indigenous political parties, who saw the defence of the NEI foremost as a Dutch aff air. While the native civil servants were generally inclined to support the defence measures taken by Batavia, the government hesitated educating young Indonesians for offi cer responsibilities, let alone introducing national service. Nevertheless, from mid-1940 onwards the ML started training qualifi ed Indonesians for technical and even for fl ying positions. A major concession was belatedly made in March 1941, when the service chiefs urged the GG to a change of course: depending on the loyalty of the local population from now on by organizing an indigenous militia. Concessions to the military-operational qualities of the army had been made by allowing many valuable offi cers and NCOs to transfer to the ML, the personnel strength of which increased from 2,000 to 5,000 in a few years. According to Lieutenant General Ter Poorten this had signifi cantly aff ected the leadership in the infantry regiments.37 Other than that, the army command had hardly any alternatives to the course it took aft er the end of the budget reductions in 1936. Apart from investing in aviation, considerable improvements in armament had been achieved, though a lot of equipment was still lacking and eff orts to set up industries in Java aft er the occupation of the motherland were only partially successful. However, the army never achieved a balance between basic training, full-scale exercises and the need for airfi eld support. Th e bomber got fi rst priority and this option had been fully exploited: the total number of purchased aircraft as advised by the Kan-committee (108) plus ten for peacetime attrition. Th e B-10 was a modern aircraft , but the rapid obsolescence of 1936 technology was reason enough to buy a replacement of 162 B-25s in 1941. Th e ML was to expand from three small squadrons in 1936 to seven bomber, four fi ghter and two reconnaissance squadrons in 1941. As an organization, the ML had expanded under pressure and in December 1941 the last reorganization plan had only been implemented halfway. Th e B-10 fl eet in the beginning was facing many accidents, due to an

37 Lieutenant-General H. ter Poorten (1887–1968) was an artillery offi cer and the fi rst pilot of the KNIL. As LC he signed the order of capitulation on 8 March 1942. See Verslag van mijn beleid als Legercommandant (Th e Hague, 1947), p. 7. 340 a. c. tjepkema initial lack of expertise, inadequate training aircraft and a wide-spread ‘can-do’ mentality. When the war broke out, the operational fl eet num- bered eighty-fi ve plus ten for training.38 Th at number was not good enough for mass attacks; standard formations had earlier been limited to three to fi ve aircraft .39 Th ere were other shortcomings, such as light armament, insuffi cient gunnery and bombing practice with heavy loads, underdeveloped tactics, a lack of interoperability with the MLD, communications and logistics. Nevertheless, the operational value of the bombers was considerable. Th e KNIL had given little thought to the development of battlefi eld air support. Dive bombers had been ordered late in the day, but no concept of operations existed yet. Fighters for a long time had been seen as partially useful, the drawbacks lying in the lack of warning time, their limited operational range and, most importantly, the low speed surplus in comparison with bombers. Th e last factor was much diminished when huge improvements in design led to fi ghters like the Spitfi re and the Mitsubishi Zero. Th e KNIL introduced fi ghters from 1939 on, albeit in considerable numbers: • 92 Brewster Buff alo 339-D (66 delivered), • 24 Curtiss-Wright CW-21B Interceptor, • 20 Curtiss H75A-7 Hawk. Th e fi rst two types were able to match the best Japanese types in quality, but not in quantity.40 Ferwerda was the only admiral in command who understood military aviation thoroughly.41 Although he preferred to use the naval air assets in a reconnaissance role, he was not blind to the qualities of carriers and their implied strike capabilities. Th e KNIL, in a mirrored perception, saw carriers as extremely vulnerable to bombers, at least in the waters of the archipelago, where shorebased bombers could operate from nearby. Shipbased bombers would always be inferior in range and payload due to heavy construction demands, like robust landing gears.

38 P.C. Boer, De luchtstrijd rond Borneo (Houten: Van Holkema and Warendorf, 1987), pp. 15–19. Th e August 1940 plan provided for twenty-six squadrons. 39 Exceptions were made during the war: in January 1942 the Japanese transport fl eet was attacked a few times with twelve aircraft . 40 P.C. Boer, Het verlies van Java, een kwestie van Air Power (Amsterdam: De Bataafsche Leeuw, 2006), pp. 83–84. 41 An exception could be made for Rear-Admiral K.W.F.M. Doorman. the netherlands east indies 1936–1941 341

It was deemed unlikely that an enemy would employ carriers in our waters; the thought of building one’s own did not cross the army offi c- ers’ mind, with one exception. C.C. Küpfer correctly observed that a carrier would have enormous advantages vis-à-vis the battle ship, notably in early warning and out-of-sight bombing. Th erefore, a modern fl eet would have to possess a core of carriers.42 It took some time before this thinking became wide-spread in the navy. Aft er the occupation of the Netherlands the battle cruiser plan had to be mothballed. In October 1940 CZM Helfrich submitted to GG Van Starkenborgh43 a new plan to acquire forty-eight large seaplanes, i.e. bomber or torpedo aircraft . Furstner added to this plan the three original battle cruisers, two heavy cruisers and two aircraft carriers.44 A month later Helfrich replied that aircraft carriers would be unnecessary and costly,45 but aft er Pearl Harbor he saw the light and made a strong stand for carriers in a letter to Furstner.46 In October 1941 the KM had fi nally recognized the superiority of landbased aircraft by ordering eighty Douglas DB-7B/C light bombers.47 What were the operational chances for so-called horizontal bombers against ships? Since the end of World War I many tests had been held. If the targets were stationary and unable to defend themselves, bombers were able to hit them in general. Th e hardest targets were battle ships with powerful AAA and reinforced decks. It was estimated that such ships would need fi ft een hits with 800kg bombs. Nine V-formations of three bombers each, dropping from 3,000 to 4,000m would have 10% chance of achieving this; intensive training could raise this result up to 70%. For carriers 500kg bombs would suffi ce. Dive bombers would have chances of between 50 and 60%, when coming down from 4,000 to 600 m.48 In 1938/39 the offi cial ML-bombing doctrine was

42 C.C. Küpfer, Vliegtuigmoederschepen (Luchtvaart, 1930), p. 1164. 43 A.W.L. Tjarda van Starkenborgh Stachouwer was GG from 1936 to 1942. 44 G. Teitler, Slagkruisers, pp. 62–65. 45 Helfrich to Furstner, NIMH, correspondentie Kon. Marine in WO II, box 2, letters 14 October, 13 November 1940 and 23 July 1941. 46 Helfrich to Furstner, Nationaal Archief, Th e Hague, 2. 12. 44 inv. nr. 2, January 1942. In 1943 the KM got hold of two Merchant Aircraft Carriers. 47 G. Casius and T. Postma, 40 jaar luchtvaart in Indië (Alkmaar: De Alk, 1976), p. 56. Th e Douglas DB-7C is also known as Boston and as A-20. Th e offi cial Dutch historian L. de Jong mistakes the Boston for a torpedo aircraft (Het Koninkrijk der Nederlanden in de Tweede Wereldoorlog, vol. 11A/I/2nd, pp. 614–615). 48 C. R. Patist, “De luchtoorlog bij en boven Nederlands-Indië (23),” Stabelan 11, (15 February 1985). 342 a. c. tjepkema established: a V-formation of three bombers loaded with 6 × 500kg or 9 × 300kg bombs would attack a ship in a shallow dive from 5,000 to 4,000 m., aided by a modern Goerz sight. Tests proved that chances of at least one hit were 80% against a 10,000 tonnes ship when stationary and 40% when manoeuvering.49 Th e defeat of Repulse and Prince of Wales on 10 December 1941 was spectacular, as they were both equipped with capable defences and accompanied by four destroyers, but enjoyed no air cover. Th e Japanese used thirty-four horizontal bombers and fi ft y-one torpedo bombers for an attack in two waves. Th e two battleships were sunk by two bombs out of twenty three dropped from 3,500 m (9%) and eleven torpedoes out of forty nine launched from 600 m (22%).50 It is hard to compare theory and wartime practice, as the attack parameters would diff er from case to case, but the B-10’s chances against the heavily defended Japanese transport fl eet were partially confi rmed by the results in the battle for Borneo: of the seventy-nine ships sixteen (20%) were hit by B-10’s, of which six sunk.51 Th e best attack option however was not available: saturation of the ship’s defences from above, while the torpedo aircraft launched their most dangerous attack from aside. Before examining the torpedo option, dive bombing will be considered fi rst. Dive bombing might have been a realistic alternative to horizontal bombing. A diff erentiation has to be made here between steep glide bombing, i.e. at an angle of between twenty and sixty degrees, and true dive bombing at angles of sixty degrees and more. Although the distinction is somewhat blurred, the general assumption was that the former role could be performed with normal aircraft , but that for the latter more rugged constructions were needed. ML-pilot Van Dam stated that steep glide bombing with standard aircraft would imply a number of drawbacks: the aircraft would have to withstand heavy G-forces and the payload would have to be small.52 Of the special dive bombing designs the famous Ju-87 Stuka stands out. Th is type, however, had a limited range and was only fi t for air support of land forces.

49 P. C. Boer, Borneo, pp. 43–45. Th e pre-war tests with this outcome held in wartime. 50 P. Th ompson, Th e Battle for Singapore (London: Portrait, 2005), pp. 204–210 and C.R. Patist, Stabelan 12, no. 1 (15 August 1985). 51 P. C. Boer, Borneo, pp. 232, 233. KM submarines together with US Navy destroyers hit another thirteen ships, of which six were sunk. 52 L. C. A. van Dam, “Het werpen van bommen uit vliegtuigen,” IMT, no. 6 (1939): pp. 503–517. the netherlands east indies 1936–1941 343

Th e RAF had not contemplated acquiring such a type: “In the view of the Air Staff , the dive-bomber is an effi cient weapon only when: (a) it operates with a high degree of air superiority or without fi ghter opposition, and (b) it is not opposed by a heavy scale of light anti-aircraft defence at the target.” However, in 1941 – long aft er the spectacular Stuka successes in Poland – Churchill’s insistence won the day when two existing American types, the Vultee Vengeance and the Brewster Bermuda, were ordered in quantity.53 Th e Netherlands Purchasing Committee in New York also ordered 217 Bermudas, but this order was canceled because of engine shortages.54 For the defence of the NEI – supposing the ML had been able to accommodate this number – it was a blessing in disguise, as the Bermuda, also ordered by France and the US Navy, proved a failure and never fought during the war. Th e most successful dive bomber was the Navy’s Douglas Dauntless that sank four Japanese aircraft carriers and a heavy cruiser during the Battle of Midway. Th at type was optimized for naval warfare, possessed good range, limited dive speed (250 kts) and was equipped with a modern bomb sight.55 Dive bombing required extensive training and was considered dangerous. Th e US Army “half-heartedly toyed with their version of the Dauntless, the A-24 Banshee, using a few operationally in the Dutch East Indies…”56 So, we can conclude that the dive bomber concept in a naval environment was not mature before the outbreak of the war in the Pacifi c and that only the US Navy possessed a version that could have been useful against convoys. In the land environment the Stuka successes were short-lived, as events in the Soviet Union later proved. While the KNIL had belatedly ordered the wrong type, the KM was indiff erent. Could the development of air-launched torpedoes conceivably have been exploited by the army?57 Th e answer can be projected against the lack of success that the KM encountered during trials in the thirties. Ferwerda discussed the matter in 1933 and observed that the MLD did

53 P. C. Smith, Th e History of Dive Bombing (Barnsley: Pen and Sword, 2007), p. 115. Th e Fleet Air Arm operated the Blackburn Skua already against naval targets. 54 P. C. Boer, Borneo, pp. 49–50. Contracts during 1940 and 1941 were closed for 1,123 aircraft , of which 310 were timely delivered in the NEI. Th e number included eighty-fi ve training aircraft and thirty-six fl ying boats for the MLD. 55 Smith, Dive bombing, pp. 39–40, 220–221. 56 Ibid., p. 147. Operational employment took place in February 1942. 57 H.T. Bussemaker, “De geloofwaardigheid van de Indische Defensie, 1935–1941,” Militaire Spectator 154, no. 4 (1985): p. 172. 344 a. c. tjepkema not yet master horizontal bombing, let alone that she would be capable of torpedo bombing. Th e latter technique required low and slow fl ying on a constant heading till close to the target, taking a diffi cult to estimate lead-angle into account. Night attacks might be tempting, but targets fi rst had to be found. In European waters, cloud decks oft en off ered good cover, but these circumstances seldom existed in the NEI.58 MLD-pilot W. van Prooijen pointed at the lack of practical knowledge in torpedo bombing, compared with horizontal bombing. Th e torpedo was a complex device and, contrary to air bombs, redundant launching was impossible. On the other hand, the torpedo had a better chance of hitting the target, being more deadly under the water line. Th e aircraft had to be a slow fl ying sea skimmer and launch at short distance (from 800m to 2kms). Th is resulted in a run of seventy- fi ve seconds, while the aircraft was exposed to shipborne AAA. In contrast, bombing from 2km altitude required only twenty-one seconds exposure time.59 As early as in 1926 navy offi cer J.S.C. Olivier had identifi ed the torpedo launched by naval aircraft as promising60 MLD-pilot W.H. Tetenburg, underlined the value of the torpedo in 1931. He wanted to launch within a distance of 1 km, if need be at 200m.61 He was not the only one with the idea of combining the operational qualities of torpedoes with those of aviation. He may have been inspired by the US Navy pilot L.C. Ramsey who made a very optimistic plea for using torpedoes instead of bombs earlier that year.62 KM torpedo-expert J. C. Mohrmann judges, that MLD-pilots hesitated in carrying out torpedo-tests for a long time, as they were seen as risky.63 Indeed, trials with a modifi ed Fokker C-V in 1931 and 1932 failed to deliver results. Th e Fokker T-IV seabomber had provisions for a torpedo between the legs of its gear, but it took a long time before the KM had the knowledge required for the application of the techniques.

58 H. Ferwerda, “Torpedobewapening voor vliegtuigen,” Marineblad, 1933: pp. 320–324. 59 W. van Prooijen, “Bom of torpedo?” Marineblad, 1933: p. 600. 60 J. S. C. Olivier, Mededelingen op luchtvaartgebied, torpedo of bom? (Dutch Naval War School, 1926). 61 W.H. Tetenburg, “Torpedo-aanvallen met vliegtuigen,” Marineblad, 1931: pp. 179–182. 62 L. C. Ramsey, “Bombing versus torpedo planes,” US Naval Institute Proceedings, 1931: pp. 1509–1515. 63 J. C. Mohrmann (retired captain), in interview with the author, September 25, 2006. It would take the navy until 1953 before torpedoes could be profi ciently airlaunched. Marine-torpedodienst 1875–2000 (Amsterdam: De Bataafsche Leeuw, 2000). the netherlands east indies 1936–1941 345

Finally, it was decided that the homeland coastal defence would exploit air launched torpedoes before using them in the NEI. Between 1936 and 1939 the KM did some trials with fl oat-planes near Amsterdam, for which a Fokker T-VIII-W was used. Th e doctrine foresaw in using mist screens in the Indian waters as a compensation for the lack of clouds. Th ose trials produced relatively favourable results, when the torpedoes were launched at 120kts, possibly from a distance of 2km, at an angle of fi ft y to sixty degrees, at two sides of the target. Th e tests were successful enough to allow operational continuation and by the end of 1939 the KM decided to order twelve torpedo-planes for the NEI. As oft en in this era: too little, too late.64 What kind of problems were encountered when launching torpedoes from the air? Firstly, the torpedo had to be dropped not too low (chance of ricocheting), not too high (it would dive to the bottom), while the aircraft was fl own steadily. Th e torpedo would always oscil- late and settle down to its intended depth setting only aft er 300m. Secondly, the ideal range of 1,000 yards was extremely diffi cult to gauge over water; the tendency being to drop out of range. Th irdly, though usable sights were not hard to come by, many factors were to be taken into account: ship’s speed, own speed, torpedo’s speed, height and range from the ship and angle of attack. Th e sight would give the correct solution, but was upset when the ship would take evasive action. Only few pilots in World War II were capable of determining a correct lead- angle on the bow, most tended to rely on aiming intuitively.65 It is thus doubtful, given the complexities of the KM doctrine and the launching distance, that operational use would have led to good results. It must be added that navies developed the torpedo in total secrecy, compelling a neutral country to steer its own course. In 1941 Helfrich also revised his opinion on the torpedo bombers. Th e navy had an operational requirement, he wrote, provided that once and for all every off ensive action over sea would be a role of the KM.66 He complained that Ter Poorten saw bomber deployment over sea only as a way to reinforce territorial defence, in the framework of the prepared cooperation with the RAF. Exposing his own confusion, he

64 N. Geldhof, “De MLD en torpedo,” Avia 35, no. 2 (1976): pp. 43–45 and no. 4: pp. 115–119. Also “De MLD en de vliegtuigtorpedo,” in De vliegtuigen van 320 Squadron (Maarssen: Geromy, 2006), pp. 14–17. 65 R. Barker, Th e Ship-busters (London: Chatto and Windus, 1957), pp. 74–77. 66 Helfrich to Furstner, Nationaal Archief, 2. 12. 44, inv. nr. 1, 2 July 1941. 346 a. c. tjepkema

wondered how the RAF was able to operate torpedo bombers at Singapore. How immature the development of KM’s torpedo capacity was, is demonstrated in a report by KM lieutenant-commander Guilonard of a visit to Eglin airfi eld (USA).67 Eglin was tasked with the operational training of B-25 and B-26 crews in torpedo attacks. Pilots qualifi ed for this training only aft er 500 hrs total and 100 hrs on type and could obtain their rating in at least fi ft een days. One of the main problems was adjusting the sight continuously on the enemy’s course and speed, which was the reason why most pilots preferred to launch ‘fi ghter-wise’. One instructor had participated in the Battle of Midway with a formation of fi ft y-seven carrier and landbased torpedo aircraft , making a run on the Japanese fl eet, synchronized with formations of horizontal and dive bombers. Although the damage infl icted on the enemy was considerable, just seven aircraft had returned in one piece. Th e enemy, being fully aware of the vulnerability of the carriers, had positioned the battleships on the outside. Th e plan had been to have the horizontal bombers lure the attention of their AAA, while the dive bombers were attacking the carriers. Finally, the torpedo aircraft were to hit the carriers below the water line. It is out of the question that either service in the NEI could have gained such a degree of synchronized sophistica- tion before the war.

Part III: Assessment

What went wrong in warding off a Japanese off ensive and maintaining the NEI neutral end 1941? Politically, it is clear that the large archipelago could not eff ectively be defended by the limited forces Batavia had at its disposal. If the government had extended political rights in exchange for military obligations to the indigenous population at an early stage, the question of manpower could have been solved. But that was not nearly enough. Aft er a long period of stagnation and fi nancial restraint, it was not feasible to build up harmonious armed forces within fi ve years. Th e remaining gap could not be fi lled by allies. By the end of 1941, the UK was fi ghting for its existence; the US was recover- ing from a recent heavy blow; their highest priority was not in the

67 H. Guilonard, Verslag vliegtuig-torpedozaken no 3; bezoek aan Eglin fi eld, 8 November 1942. NIMH, correspondentie Koninklijke Marine in WO II, box 2. the netherlands east indies 1936–1941 347

Western Pacifi c. Th e hastily created ABDA-alliance came into being late 1941, suff ered from negative synergy and could never credibly deter Japan. Neutrality and alliances do not make a happy couple, but they do have in common that both benefi t from a back-up by strong armed forces. Remarkably, the NEI’s armed forces could stand a comparison with those of the allies, which underlines the weakness of ABDA once more. Th e role of Colijn is a remarkable one. His strong political leadership was supported by experience in the NEI, vision on the specifi c roles of weapon systems and decisiveness in creating bureaucratic break- throughs. On the downside, his conservative attitude and insistence on budget cuts until 1935 made credible preparations for war with Japan unnecessarily diffi cult. Th e Grondslagen of 1927 created a false sense of security and added to the irrefutability of the KM doctrine in two respects: the dominance of heavy cruisers and the limited role of aviation. Th e KNIL, on the other hand, was initially disappointed with its rather vague position in the Grondslagen. Later on this appeared to be a blessing in disguise, as a much more fl exible doctrine could now be developed. Th e Idenburg and Kan committees were meant to deal with diffi cult budget issues, but coincidentally laid the groundwork for crea- tive solutions in airpower. Th e rivalry between KM and KNIL was not the main factor in the defeat of the NEI, but a sound cooperation could have produced better conditions for facing a strong enemy. Th e military expertise of the GG as the CinC of naval, land and air forces fell short from what a strong central leadership could have off ered. Given the relative autonomy of Batavia, especially aft er the creation of a government in exile, separate responsibilities for political and military command should have been provided for, following the example of the homeland and in accordance with Clausewitz’s teachings. Th e lack of such an arrangement could have prevented continuous frictions between the armed services. Instead, a comprehensive logical strategic plan could have provided in joint contingency plans, intensive training and the development of common resources. Th ese are important conclusions given the already overstretched personal, material and fi nancial means of the NEI. Regarding the question ‘bombers or cruisers’, it was clear that bombers could react much faster against an incoming transport fl eet than cruisers. When the B-10 entered operational service it was still a modern aircraft . Its operational life span was short, however, and in 1941 replacement by the much more capable B-25 had already been planned. 348 a. c. tjepkema

Th ough the B-10s stood the test of war, mass deployment and support by other weapon systems than fi ghters might have brought about better results. Weapon systems are usually complementary, so the greater the variety, the better their eff ectiveness. More and heavier cruisers certainly could have played an important role in the defence of the archipelago, but given the lead time in construction, the admirals should have focused on weapon systems with a shorter introduction horizon. Moreover, they failed to strike a balance between tonnage and numbers. Th e belated decision to build battle cruisers was unbalanced and inspired by tunnel vision. From a military-strategic perspective, the tragedy of the NEI’s defence in the late thirties was that the KM was too late and the KNIL too early for the demands of the times. In retrospect, all the technological developments of the thirties lay, at least theoretically, within reach of both services. Th e KNIL went to extremes in introducing the horizontal bomber, was late in the acquisition of fi ghters and could have paved the way for the dive bomber earlier. All its eggs had been put in the basket of the ML, somewhat to the detriment of the ground forces. Fast expansion, airfi eld construction and a small training basis made the bomber fl eet less eff ective than it could have been. On the positive side, the credibility of the Dutch armed forces in ABDA greatly benefi ted from the ability to send three squadrons bombers and one squadron fi ghters to the aid of Singapore in December 1941. ML’s operational success was scarce but suffi cient to impress friend and foe. Th e lasting infl uence of the bomber fl eet came about in Australia when a second generation of bombers was commissioned. Th e KM was hampered by its doctrine that kept aviation at arm’s length. With the exceptions of the torpedo bomber and the dive bomber, the navy embraced all the aviation options in the course of the war. Landbased aircraft , an anathema until 1941, became an important contribution to allied warfare. Even two carriers, albeit merchant aircraft carriers with limited capabilities, were acquired. Apart from the bombers, the submarines played a major role in the defence of the NEI and later on in the war. It is interesting to note that in 1920, naval offi cer Post Uiterweer had argued for a central role of the aircraft and submarines combination. If Java were the objective of a transport fl eet, the submarines could be deployed aft er and with reconnaissance and coordination from the air.68 Th is is not much diff erent

68 P. Post Uiterweer, “De onderzeeboot, het vliegtuig en de verdediging van Nederlands-Indië,” Marineblad, 1920: pp. 533–548. the netherlands east indies 1936–1941 349 from the KNIL aviation doctrine that wanted the bombers to exploit the most vulnerable moments of an enemy, notably when he attempted to land troops on shore. Th e convoys in open sea were less likely targets, although not excluded. Even Helfrich would eventually recognize the value of both weapon systems. In 1942 he wrote a letter to General A. P. Wavell, c-in-c India, in which he highly praised the operational accomplishments of the Dutch submarines and army bombers around 23 December, 1941.69 Unfortunately, interservice rivalry had prevented a synchronized play of the only two trump cards the armed forces of the NEI possessed.

69 Helfrich, letter to Wavell, 27 September 1942, Nationaal Archief, 2. 12. 44 inv. nr. 34.

BIBLIOGRAPHY

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NAME INDEX

Abbenhuis, M.M., 5–6, 27–5, 85 and Biermann, E., 101 fn. 60 fn. 3, 253 fn. 1 Bihl, W., 96 fns. 40–1 Absolon, R., 212 fn. 33 Bijkerk, R.P.F., 252 fn. 1 Adamthwaite, A., 187 fn. 11 Bircher, E., 309 fn. 9, 310 and fn. 16, 313 Ador, G., 80–1 and fns. 30–1, 314 and fns. 35–6 Affl erbach, H., 96 fn. 40, 99 fn. 50, Bismarck, O. von, 59, 72 100 fn. 57 Bjørn, C., 124 fn. 15 Agius, C., 28 fn. 4, 30 and fns. 13–4, Black, J., 4 fn. 5, 30 fn. 12, 247 fn. 92 35 fn. 31 Blomberg, W. von, 195 fn. 32, 215–7 Ahlefeldt-Laurvig, C.W., 162 Boer, P.C., 40, 51, 340 fns. 38, 342 fns. Albert I, King, 226, 228, 231, 234–5, 246 49, 343 fn 54 Alexander, M., 98, 221 fn. 3, 229 and Boerstra, M., 328 and fn. 11, 330 and fns 30–1 fn. 16, 333, 338 fn. 35 Alphen, M.W.L. van, 276 and fn. 33, Böethius, M.P., 30 fn. 15 277 and fn. 34 Boetticher, F. von, 218–9 fn. 56 Alting von Geusau, J.T., 266 fn. 16 Boijen, R., 244 fn. 82, 247 fn. 96 Amersfoort, H., 1–25, 251–79 Bond, B., 34 and fn. 29, 44 fn. 64, Amrhein, J., 307 fn. 2 221fn. 3, 229 and fn. 31 Andrén, N., 30 fn. 15 Booy, A. de, 332 fn. 21, 338 fn. 33 Atlas, J., 27 fn. 2 Bosboom, N., 77 fn. 30 Bourne, K., 30 fn. 12 Bahnson, J.J., 163–4 and fn. 21 Brailey, N.I., 52 fn. 93 Balace, F., 243 fn. 81, 246 fn. 91, Branting, H., 168 fn. 32 247 fn. 95 Brauchitsch, W. von, 218 Barker, R., 345 fn. 65 Bright, C., 30 and fn. 16, 31 and fn. 17 Barry, R.H., 153 fn. 2, 154, 221 fn. 1 Brockdorff -Rantzau, U. von, 127, Barton, H.A., 29 fn. 9, 36 fn. 39 130 fn. 362, 202 fn.2 Baxter, J.P., 42 fn. 56–9 Brogini Künzi, G., 308 fn. 7, 311 fn. 17, Beatty, D., 110 312 fn. 25, 320 fn. 69 Beaufort, W.H. de, 81 and fn. 36 Broqueville, C. de, 222 fn. 7, 227, 234 Beck, L., 213 fn. 38, 217 and fn. 53 Brouckère, de, 230 fn. 34 Beneš, E., 193 Bruns, W., 123 fn. 12 Bentham, J., 285 Bülow, Count von, 48, 49 fn. 79 Berenschot, G.J., 338 and fn. 35 Bülow, F. von, 100 fn. 56 Berg, R., 127 fn. 26 Bußmann, W., 217 fn. 50 Bergansius, W., 260 Bussemaker, H.T., 343 fn. 57 Bergen, E. van den, 228, 240 Bustamente, A.S., 52 fn. 95, 53 fn. 97 Bernegg, T. Sprecher von, 60 fn. 4, 63 fn. Buzan, B., 153 fn. 2, 154–5 fn. 3 10, 72 and fn. 22, 74 fn. 25, 83 fn. 40, 312 and fn. 26 Calonder, F., 60 fn. 20 Berntsen, K., 137, 165 Carlowitz, A. von, 113 fn. 105 Berthemet, H., 113 fn. 105 Carnegie, A., 64 Bertzow, J.A., 177 fn. 52, 178 fn. 54 Carter, A.C., 35 fn. 33 Best, G., 42 fn. 60, 44 fn. 64, 47 fn. 73 Casius, G., 341 fn. 47 Bethmann Hollweg, T. von, 77 fn. 29, Caspar, G.-A., 39, 213 fns. 37 87 fn. 6, 95–6 and fn. 41, 127, Chadwick, E., 24, 29 fn. 7, 32 and fns. 21, 131 fn. 38, 185 37 fns. 40, 41 fn. 54, 42, 42 fns. 59, 44 Bevaart, W., 252 fn. 1 fn. 64, 60 364 name index

Chaix, B., 226 fn. 21, 227 fn. 24, 242 fn. Elleman, B.E., 29 fn. 11 76, 243 and fn. 80, 244 fn. 83 Engerman, S.L., 29 fn. 11, 35 fn. 33, Chamberlain, M.E., 30 fn. 12, 196 and 42 fn. 56 fn. 35, 198 Erdmann, K.D., 97 fn. 42, 99 fn. 51 Chamberlain, N., 196 and fn. 35, 197–8 Ernst, A., 69 and fn. 18, 202 fn. 3, Christensen, C., 157 and fn. 4 313 fn. 34 Churchill, W., 87 fn. 5, 190 and fn. 18, Evers, A.F., 143–4 192 fn. 23, 195, 343 Eyffi nger, A., 32 fn. 23 Clausewitz, C. von, 28 and fn. 6, 153 and fn. 1, 209, 210 and fn. 23, 218, 347 Faassen, M. van, 81 fn. 36 Clement, P., 165, 233 fn. 43 Falkenhausen, L. von, 97 Clemmesen, M.H., 15 and fn. 20, Falkenhayn, E. von, 93, 95–6 16, 88 fn. 7, 121 fns. 6–7, 135–52, Favre, G., 312 and fn. 27, 313 and 159 fn. 7 fn. 28 Cobden, R., 285 Ferwerda, H., 328 and fn. 10, 333–4, Colijn, H., 268–73, 277–8, 327 and 336–8, 340, 343, 344 and fn. 58 fn. 6, 328, 330 and fn. 16, 332 and Fink, T., 124 fn. 15 fn. 21, 347 Fisher, J., 298 Coogan, J., 29 and fn. 11, 35 fn. 32, 38 Foch, F., 187, 253 fn. 2 and fns. 45–6, 47 and fn. 75, 48 Forrer, L., 59 fn. 3, 60, 61 fn. 5 and fn. 85 Franco, F., 5, 20, 33, 41–4, 46 fn. 69, 51, Corum, J., 208 fn. 18 59, 63, 195, 199 and fn. 40, 261, 263, Corvisier, A., 247 fn. 93 264, 312 Cour, Louis Dornonville de la, 169 Frey, E., 62, 63 fn. 10, 82, 92 fn. 23, 102 Craig, G.A., 29 fn. 10 fn. 63, 110 fn. 98, 113 fn. 104 Cumont, A., 240 Frey, H., 92 fn. 23, 102 fn. 63, 110 fn. 98, 113 fn. 104, 313 and fn. 33, 318 Dam, L.C.A. van, 329 and fn. 14, 342 Frey, M., 14 fn. 19, 85 and fn. 1, 92 fn. and fn. 52 23, 102 fn. 63, 110 fn. 98, 113 fn. 104 Davis, L.E., 29 fn. 11, 35 fn. 33, 42 fn. 56 Frieser, K.H., 221 Decat, F., 232 fn. 42, 242 fn. 77 Frisch, H., 174 fn. 45 Deckers, L.N., 263 fn. 10, 265 fn. 13, 325 Fritsch, W., 195 and fn. 32 and fn. 4 Fuhrer, H.R., 13 fn. 16, 72 fn. 22, Decoppet, C., 73 74 fn. 26, 196–7 Deguent, R., 232 fn. 40, 238 fn. 64 Fure, O.-B., 284 fn. 2, 285 fn. 3, Deist, W., 208 fn. 18, 210 fn. 25, 298 fn. 13 241 fn. 41 Furstner, J.T., 328–9, 335–7, 341 and Denis, H., 224, 227–8, 240 fns. 45–6, 345 and fn. 66 Deuntzer, J.H., 157 Devèze, A., 224, 226, 228, 238, 239 and Gabriel, J.M., 37 and fn. 42 fn. 66, 240 and fn. 69, 241–3, 245, 246 Galet, E., 226–7 and fn. 23, 228, 229 and Diepen, R. van, 253 fn. 1, 257 fn. 5 fn. 33, 230 fns. 34–5, 231 fns. 37–8, Dijk, J.J.C. van, 65 fn. 13, 335 and 232–5, 237–8, 239 and fn. 66, 240 and fn. 28, 336 fn. 69, 241–2, 244–6, 248–9 Dijk, K. van, 65 fn. 13, 336 Gaulle, C. de, 191, 221 fn. 3 Dinardo, R.L., 221 fn. 2, 246 fn. 88 Geldhof, N., 345 fn. 64 Doorman, K., 331 and fn. 19, 340 fn. 41 Gemzell, C.A., 16, 49, 90 fns. 13–4, 98 Doughty, R., 191 fn. 19 fn. 47, 119 fn. 3, 121 fn. 7, 127 and 27, Due-Nielsen, C., 120 fn. 3, 124 fn. 15 134 fn. 42 Dunk, H.W. von der, 253 fn. 1 Gertsch, F., 312 and fns. 23–4 Duyse, D. van, 232 fn. 42 Gessler, O., 210 fn. 24 Geyer, M., 30 and fn. 16, 31 and fn. 17, Elgström, O., 29 fn. 9 208 and fn. 16–8, 210 fn. 25, Elisabeth, Austrian Empress, 64 fn. 12 212 fn. 30 name index 365

Gilbert, E., 235 fn. 52 Hertog, J. den, 70, 87 fn. 6, 90 fn. 13, 92 Gilbert, M., 86 fn. 5 fn. 23, 97 fn. 42, 102 fn. 65, 103 fn. 67, Gils, R., 101 fn. 60 113 fn. 104 Gladisch, W., 46, 91 fn. 18, 97 fn. 44, 98 Herwig, H.H., 119 fn. 1, 192 fn. 22 fn. 48, 102 fn. 64 Hindenburg, P. von, 98, 124, Goethals, G., 232 fn. 40 127, 132 Goethem, H. van, 228 fn. 27 Hitler, A., 20, 53, 188–9, 192 and Gorce, P.-M. de la, 191 fn. 20 fn. 25, 193, 195 and fn. 32, 196–201, Gørtz, E., 137, 140–3, 148–50, 171 and 210 fn. 23, 211, 213 and 38, 217 fn. 39, 172 and fn. 41 and fns. 50–1 Graebner, N.A., 29 fn. 10, 37 fn. 42 Hobson, R., 29 fn. 10, 38 fn. 45, Graeff , A.C.D. de, 328 fn. 11 295 fn. 11 Griffi ths, D., 35 fn. 31, 36 fn. 39 Hoff mann, A., 61 fn. 58, 80–1, 83 Grimm, R., 79–81 and fn. 43 Groehler, O., 213 fn. 36 Hojer, C.H., 224 fn. 12 Groener, 203–4, 205 and fn. 7, 206, 210 Holland, T.E., 52 fn. 94 and fns. 24–5, 211, 219 Hollweg, B., 77 fn. 29, 87 fn. 6, Gross, G., ix, 1, 88 fn. 7, 120 fn. 3 95–6 and fn. 41, 127, 131 fn. 38, Grotius, 35 132, 185 Guedalla, P., 40 fn. 51 Holm, 137–8, 140–1, 145–7 Guilonard, H., 346 and fn. 67 Holtsmark, S.G., 286 fn. 5, 302 Guttman, E., 30 fn. 15 fn. 22 Holtzendorff , H. von, 95, 98–9, Hagerup, F., 298 fn. 15 101, 103 fn. 72, 122 fn. 11, 125, Halder, F., 217–8 fn. 54 129 fn. 33, 132 Halifax, 192 and fn. 24 see also Wood, Horne, J., 19 fn. 24, 186 fn. 6 E.F. Lindley Hoßlach, F., 217 and fns. 50–1 Halpern, P.G., 90 fn. 16, 92 fn. 22, Hubatsch, W., 88 fn. 7 95 fn. 39, 101 fn. 61 Huber, M., 72 fn. 21, 85, 309 fn. 8, 313 Hamel, J. van, 82 and fns. 38–9 fn. 34, 319 fn. 63 Hammer, B., 61 Hull, I.V., 185 fn. 4, 186 fn. 7 Hansen, E.W., 137, 143–4, 178, Hunt, B.D., 330 fn. 18 202 fn. 3 Hürten, H., 208 fn. 18 Harberts, J., 276–7 Hürter, J., 210 fn. 25 Harris, J.P., 221 fn. 2 Hattendorf, J.B., 35 fn. 33, 38 fn. 45, 41 Idenburg, A.W.F., 327 and fn. 7, fn. 55, 42 fn. 59 328, 347 Haug, K.E., 8 fn. 7, 127 fn. 26 Ilse, E., 101 fn. 62 Hedtoft -Hansen, H., 178 Imlay, T., 229 fn. 32 Heeringen, J. von, 97, 100 fn. 54 Heinl, R.D., Jr., 40 fn. 51 Japikse, N., 65 fn. 14 Heinrich of Prussia, Prince, 124 Jaun, R., 13 fn. 18, 311 and fn. 21 Heldring, Ernst, 69 and fn. 18 Jeff erson, T., 37 and fn. 40 Helfrich, C.E.L., 337 and fn. 30, 338, Jensen, H., 167 and fn. 30 341 and fns. 45–6, 345 fn. 66, 349 Jessup, P.C., 27 fn. 3, 31 fn. 20, 36 and fn. 69 and fn. 37 Helland, G.D., 161 and fn. 15 Joff re, J., 86 fn. 5 Hellebaut, J., 226, 230 fn. 34, Jong, L. de, 266 fn. 16, 273–4 fn. 28, 238, 241 341 fn. 47 Heller, D., 309 fn. 9, 310 fn. 16, 313–4 fn. 35 Kaarsted, T., 162 fn. 16 Helmreich, J.E., 39 fn. 49 Kamphuis, P.H., 257 fn. 4, Henderson, N., 192 and fn. 24 275 fn. 30 Henrichsen, E., 163 fn. 19 Kan, J.B., 328 and fn. 8 366 name index

Karau, M., 45, 88 and fn. 9, 89 fn. 11, 90 Maglinse, H., 225–6, 232, 238 and fn. 15, 93 fn. 25, 97 fns. 43, 99 fns. fn. 65 52–3, 101 fn. 62 Martel, A., 253 fn. 2 Kennedy, P., 4 and fn. 4, 8, 29 fn. 12 Maxey, E., 38 fn. 43, 44 Kershaw, I., 217 fns. 50–1 McNeill, W.H., 237 and fn. 61 Kieft , D.O., 228 fn. 28, 235 fn. 50, Meier-Welcker, H., 202 fn. 2, 208 fn. 18 244 fn. 82 Messerschmidt, M., 213 fn. 36 Kiesling, E., 221 fn. 3, 237 and fn. 60, Michaelis, H., 212 fn. 31 245 fn 86, 247 and fn. 94 Miles, 239 fn. 67 see also Nothomb, P. Klinkert, W., 1–25, 85–117, 252–3 Millet, A.R., 18 fn. 21, 200 fn. 41, fn. 1, 255 fn. 3, 260 fn. 6, 263 fn. 9, 308 fn. 3 273 fn. 27, 275 fn. 29 Mittler, M., 13 fn. 16, 59 fn. 2, 61 fn. 6, Knox, M., 189 fn. 14, 190 fn. 17, 81 fn. 35, 88 fn. 9, 91 fn. 18, 125 fn. 19 199 fn. 39 Moeyes, P., 57–84, 263 fn. 8 Knudsen, P.Ø., 147–9, 174 fn. 45 Mohrmann, J.C., 344 and fn. 63 Kofoed-Hansen, O.J., 137, 143–4 Möllers, H., 210 fn. 24 Korfanty, W., 211 and fn. 28 Moltesen, L.J., 173 fn. 43 Kramer, A., 186 fn. 6 Mørch, S., 124 fn. 15 Kriege, J., 102–3 Morgenthau, H.J., 5 fn. 6, 28 fn. 4, 154 Kristiansen, T., 29 fn. 11, 281–306 Morrell, G., 27 fn. 1 Kroener, B., 214 fn. 41 Moser, O. von, 104 fn. 73 Kröller, A., 102 Mosse, W.E., 39 fn. 48, 51 fn. 88 Kühlmann, R. von, 77 and fn. 29, Müller, E., 62 fn. 8, 64 fn. 12 87 fn. 6 Müller, E. von, 103 Küpfer, C.C., 341 and fn. 42 Müller, G.A. von, 98 Müller, K.-J., 213 fns. 36 and 38 Lambi, I.N., 121 fn. 7 Mulligan, W., 208 fn. 18 Lambrecht, E., 90 fn. 17, 93 fn. 25, Munch, P., 159 and fns. 6–7, 161–2 111 fn. 103 and fn. 16, 165 and fn. 24, 166 Lehouck, F., 225 fn. 18, 234 fn. 48 and fn. 28, 167, 170 Lembcke, 140–5, 147–9, 152 Murray, W., 183–200, 307–8 fn. 3 Leopold, King, III, 228 and fn. 27, 238 Mussolini, B., 189 and fn. 14, 194–5, fn. 65, 241, 246 199 and fn. 39 Liddle Hart, B., 191 fn. 21, 201 fn. 1, 221 fn. 3 Neff , S.C., 27 fn. 3, 29 fn. 7, 31 fn. 18, Lijphart, A., 224 fn. 11 35 fn. 33, 36 fn. 39, 39 fn. 48, Linden, P.C. van der, 70, 87 fn. 6, 90 fn. 41 fn. 54 13, 92 fn. 23, 97 fn. 42, 102 and fn. 65, Neugebauer, K.-V., 202 fn. 3, 213 fn. 38 103 and fns. 67, 113 fn. 104 Neurath, K.F. von, 217 Loo, P.E. van, 329 fn. 13 Nicholas, Tsar, II, 47 and fn. 71 Loon, K.J.C.M. van, 271 fn. 25 Norman, T., 29 fn. 9 Loriol, de, 314 Nothomb, P., 239 fn. 67 Lucheni, L., 64 fn. 12 Nuyten, P., 239–40 and fn. 69 Ludendorff , E., 98, 102–4, 112–3, 125 and fn. 19, 127–8, 132, 203 Ogley, R., 7–9 and fns. 8 and 11, Luntinen, P., 50 fn. 86 27 fn. 3, 29 fn. 7, 39 and fn. 48, Luykx, T., 223 fn. 9 40 fn. 49 Lyncker, M. von, 99 Olivier, J.S.C., 344 and fn. 60 Lyon, P., 28 fn. 4 Olsen, O., 124 fn. 15 O’Neill, R.J., 201 fn. 1 MacFarlane, M., 214 fn. 41 Oppenheimer, F., 68–9 and fn. 17 Machiavelli, N., 208 fn. 17 Ørvik, N., 7–9 and fns. 7 and 10, MacMillan, M., 187 fn. 12 27 fn. 3, 119 fn. 2, 288 and fn. 8 Maginot, A., 262 Os, E., 298 fn. 15 name index 367

Overstraeten, R. Van, 81, 84, 230 fn. 36, Rose, L. A., 30 fn. 12 233 fn. 46, 238 fn. 65, 239 fn. 68, Ruge, O., 301–3 and fns. 21 and 22 241–2 fns. 74 and 76, 243–4 and fns. 80 Salewski, M., 121 fn. 7, 212 fns. 31 and 34, 217 fn. 52 Paine, S.C.M., 29 fn. 11 Salmon, P., 31 fn. 19, 50–2 fns. 86, 87, 88 Palm, P.J.H. van der, 270 fn. 7, 92, 120 fn. 3, 284 fn. 1, 301 fn. Palmerston, 45 18, 305 fn. 25 Patist, C.R., 338 fn. 36, 341 fn. 48, Salmon, T.C., 28 fn. 4 342 fn. 50 Sanders, D., 110 fn. 98, 114 fn. 111 Paulin, C., 14–6, 88 fn. 7, 119–34 Sarasin, P., 310 and fn. 12, 313 and Pedersen, J., 166 and fn. 28 fn. 29 Perrin, G., 29 fn. 8, 40 fn. 50, 247 fn. 93 Sas, N. van, 37 and fn. 41 Pétain, P., 313 fn. 32 Scavenius, E., 88 fn. 7, 119 fn. 3, 127, Pfyff er, 61 130, 133 Pilsudski, J., 211 fn. 27 Schaepdrijver, S. de, 90 fn. 13 Pieck, W., 211 fn. 26 Scheer, R., 96, 98, 103, 132, 338 Piper, E.G., 165 Scheff er, D.J., 30 fn. 15 Pohl, H. von, 96 Schlieff en, A. von, 209 Pöhlmann, M., 308 and fn. 7, 311–2 Schol, T.H., 264 fn. 11 and fns. 17 and 25, 320 fn. 69 Schottelius, H., 213 fns. 37 and 39 Poorten, H. ter, 338–9 fn. 35, 345 Schraepler, E., 212 fn. 31 Pop, W.F., 253 fn. 1 Schröder, L. von, 90–1 and fns. 18, 93, Post, G., 210 fn. 25 97, 100 Postma, T., 341 fn. 47 Schulze, E.E., 88 fn. 9, 91 fn. 19 Poulsen, S.B., 124 fn. 16 Schuursma, R., 253 fn. 1 Preston, P., 199 fn. 40 Schwarte, M., 209 fn. 19 Prior, W.N., 175–6 fn. 48 Seeckt, H. von, 189, 202 and fn. 2, 209 Prooijen, W. van, 344 and fn. 59 fn. 18, 313 Provoost, G., 222 fn. 5, 225 fn. 20, Segesser, D.M., 15–6, 222 and fn. 6, 235 fn. 51 224–5 and fns. 13, 227 fn. 25, 232 fn. 41, 245 fn. 85, 248 fn. 97 Rabenau, F. von, 202 fn. 2 Senn, H., 6, 8–9, 15, 18, 43–4, 49, Ramsey, L.C., 344 and fn. 62 308–11 and fns. 5, 315–6 and Ranft , B., 41 fn. 54 fns. 40, 320 fn. 68 Rasmussen, L., 174 Seward, W.H., 42 and fn. 57 Rautenberg, H.-J., 212 fn. 30 Seyff ardt, H., 263 fn. 10 Rechnitzer, H., 166, 169 and fn. 34, Shakespeare, W., 284 175–6 and fn. 47 Shearer, D., 206 fn. 9 Reijnders, I.H., 264–70 and fns. 11 Sheehan, J.J., 47 and fn. 72 and 16, 273–6 and fns. 28 and 30 Shuster, R.J., 203 fn. 4 Repington, C., 89 Sjoqvist, V. see Sjøqvist, V. Ribbentrop, J. von, 197 Sjøqvist, V., 88 fn. 7, 119 fn. 3 Richmond, H., 330 and fns. 17 and 18 Smet, J. de, 104 Rieder, D., 312 and fn. 24 Smit, C., 64 fn. 11, 70 fn. 19, 77 fn. 29, Riste, O., 40–1 and fns. 53 and 55, 93 fn. 28, 106, 108–9 and fns. 93–6, 51 fn. 91, 53 and fn. 99, 88 fn. 7, 110 fns. 97 and 99, 113–4 fns. 287 fn. 6, 293 fn. 10, 301–2 fns. 19 106 and 109 and 22 Smit, W.C.J., 105 and fn. 80 Roberts, J.M., 32 and fn. 22 Smith, P.C., 343 fns. 53 and 55 Röell, W., 265–70 and fns. 14 and 18, Snijders, C.J., 28 and 33–8, 70, 78, 89, 273–4 and fn. 28 91–5 fns. 19–20, 99, 108–10 and fns. Roon, G. van, 287 fn. 7 93–7, 112–4, 116, 274–5 Roost, H., 50, 315–6 and fns. 45–6 Snijders, W.F.G., 88 fn. 8 368 name index

Sonderegger, E., 11, 13–4, 309–10 and Vandeweyer, L., 233 fn. 44 fns. 10, 314–5 and fns. 37–8, 319 Vanhassel, T., 237 fn. 58 and fns. 63–7 Vanwelkenhuyzen, J., 225 fn. 19, 227 fn. Sørensen, C.F., 174 and fn. 45 23, 235 fn. 50 Spaak, P.H., 228 fn. 28 Veenendaal, A.J., 323 fn. 1 Sprecher, D., 60 fn. 4, 63 fn. 10, 72 fn. 22, Velaers, J., 228 fn. 27 74 fn. 25, 83 fn. 40 Velde, H. te, 47 fn. 74 Sprecher, T., 59 and fn. 3, 60 fn. 4, 63 fn. Verbeek, J.R., 111 fn. 101 10, 72–4 and fns. 22–5, 83 fn. 40, Verzijl, J.H.W., 32 and fn. 21 312 and fn. 26 Vethake, M., 331 and fn. 20 Staff ord, P., 217 fns. 50–1 Voorst tot Voorst, J.J.G. van, 275 Stalin, J., 184, 193, 197–8 Vos, L. De, 232 fn. 42, 242 fn. 77 Stauning, T., 168 Stegemann, B., 69, 71, 99 fn. 52, 102–3 Washington, G., 37 fns. 66 Wavell, A.P., 349 and fn. 69 Stevenson, D., 122 fn. 9, 186 fn. 9 Weber, E., 61 and fn. 7 Strachan, H., 247 fn. 93 Weber, R. see Weber, E. Struycken, A.A.H., 66–7 and fn. 15 Wedgwood, C.V., 27 and fn. 2, 28 Stülpnagel, J. von, 208–10 and fns. Wegener, W., 119 and fn. 1, 131 and 18–23, 219 fn. 39, 300 and fn. 17, 302 Wegnez, W., 234 fn. 49 Tames, I., 2 fn. 2, 5 fn. 6, 11 fn. 14, Wehberg, H., 170 fn. 36, 173 and fn. 44 67 fn. 15 Weinberg, G., 187 and fn. 10 Tedder, A., 338 Wels, C.B., 11 fn. 15, 253 fn. 1 Teitler, G., 253 fn. 1, 334 fns. 26–7, 337 Welter, C.J.I.M., 336 and fn. 29 fn. 32, 341 fn. 44 Werder, H. von, 93 fn. 26 Terwisga, W.H. van, 35–6, 91 fn. 19, 94 Werner, V., 195 fn. 32, 223–4 fns. 8 and and fns. 32 14, 226 fn. 22 Tetenburg, W.H., 344 and fn. 61 Wheaton, H., 36 fn. 39 Th omas, D.H., 29 fn. 8, 37 and fn. 40 Wibolt, E.R., 176–7 and fn. 50 Th ompson, D., 193 fn. 27 Wijngaert, M. van den, 233 fn. 44 Th ompson, P., 342 fn. 50 Wilhelm, Kaiser, 96 fn. 40, 99 fn. 50, Th orne, C., 194 fn. 28 100 fn. 57, 103, 120 Th ucydides, 183–4 and fn. 1, 200 Wilhelmina, Queen, 103 Tirpitz, A. von, 89, 90, 120 Wille, U., 22, 26–7, 71–5 and Tjarda van Starkenborgh Stachouwer, fns. 22, 78, 311–2 and fns.19–20, A.W.L., 341 fn. 43 314–6 Tjepkema, A.C., 24, 321–49 Wille, U. jun., 315 Tollen, E., 231 fn. 39 Willems, G., 101 fn. 60, 105 fn. 80 Tooze, A., 193 fn. 26 William, Th e Silent, 27 and fn. 2 Tournès, R., 113 fn. 105 Wils, L., 234 fn. 48 Tracy, N., 27 fn. 3, 29 fn. 11, Wilson, W., 166, 188, 323 34 fns. 28 and 30, 36 fn. 38, Winkelman, H., 275 and fn. 30 41–2 fns. 55–6, 44–5 fns. 64–5, 53 and Witte, E., 224 fn. 11 fns. 95–6, 59 Wood, J.A., 219 fn. 56 Trotha, A. von, 98, 133–4 and fn. 42 Woodward, L., 185 fn. 5 Tuxen, A., 138, 148 Wright, J., 217 fns. 50–1 Tuyll van Serooskerken, H.P. van, Wright, Q., 31 and fn. 19 122 fn. 9 Wurttemberg, A. von, 93 Wylie, N., 5 fn. 6, 28 fn. 5 Uiterweer, P., 348 and fn. 68 Zahle, C.T., 138, 162–3 and fns. 17–8 Vaesen, J., 20, 22, 221–50, 262 fn. 7 Zegers, J.G.W., 329 and fn.12 Valk, J.P. de, 81 fn. 36 Zeller, R., 319 fn. 64 Vandenbosch, H., 263 fn. 8 Znaniecki, M., 92–3 fns. 24 and 27 GEOGRAPHICAL INDEX

Albert Canal, 232, 240, 242–5, 249, 262 Brabant, Noord-, see Brabant, North- Alsace, 59 Brabant, North-, 35, 91, 94 and fns. 31, Amager, 148, 151 95, 108, 114, 273, 277 Amsterdam, vii–ix, xi fn. 1, 13, 18 fn. 23, Bruges, 113 fn. 105, 238 fn. 65 21, 39, 67 fn. 16, 79 fn. 32, 82 fn. 38, Brussels, x, 7, 9, 11, 43 and fn. 62, 85 fn. 3, 87 fn. 6, 88 fn. 8, 252–3 fn. 1, 89, 91 fn. 19, 101 fn. 60, 221–2 fns. 257 fn. 5, 259, 263 fn. 8, 324, 330 fn. 4, 223 and fns. 8, 224 and fn. 10, 16, 340 fn. 40, 344 fn. 63, 345 227 fn. 23, 228 and fns. 28–9, 229 fn. Antwerp, 21, 86, 88, 91–2, 95, 101, 30, 231 fn. 39, 232 fn. 40, 235 and 104–5, 113 fn. 105, 114, 139, 227, fn. 52, 236 fn. 56, 240 fn. 71, 243 231–5, 237, 240–1, 244–5, 248, 261–2 and fn. 79, 244 and fn. 82, 246 and Ardennes, 21–2, 235, 240, 245, 262 fn. 87, 247 Arlon, 241, 262 Arnemuiden, 95 Cape, 298 Athens, 183 Caribbean, 321 Atlantic, 298 Chablais, 38 Atlantic coast, 299 Copenhagen, viii–x, 13, 16, 120–1, Atlantic, North, 292, 302 123, 127, 129–131, 133, 135–152, Atlantic Ocean, 22, 251 158, 160–1, 166, 168–9 fn. 33, Auerstedt, 210 179, 287 Corinth, 183 Baarland, 95 Balikpapan, 326, 338 Danish Straits, 88 fn. 7, 169–71 Balkans, 11 fn. 14, 52, 95, 200 and Danzig, 205 fn. 41 Delfzijl, 104 Baltic, vii, 51, 124–5, 132 fn. 40, 160, Den Helder, 89, 328 fn. 10 179, 188–9, 198 Doggers Bank, 90 Baltic Approaches, 168, 170, 179 Dover, 298 Baltic Sea, 51 Dover, Straits of, 90 Baltic Sea coast, 111 Dresden, 214 Bandung, 325 Dunkirk, 95 Batavia, 322–5, 332, 336, 339, 346, 347 Belt shores, 160 Eben Emael, 231–2, 236, 239 fn. 66, Belts, 121, 136, 158, 160 240 fn. 69, 262 Bergen, viii, 284 fn. 2, 293, 295 fn. 11 Eiff el, 264 Berlin, 14 fn. 19, 48 fn. 77–8, 61, 75, 77, Emden, 99, 104 85 fn. 1, 88 fn. 9, 91 fn. 18, 96, 121, Esbjerg, 123 125 fn. 19, 149, 192, 197, 205, 212 fn. 31, 214 and fns. 41–2, 215 fn. 45, 324 Faucignon, 38 Bern, 70, 312 fn. 27, 313 fn. 28 Finland, 198, 286–7 fn. 7, 299–300 Black Forest, 216 Finnmark, 281 Black Sea, 39 and fn. 48, 51 Flanders, 91 and fn. 19, 93, 97–8, Bohemia, 205, 215, 216 100–1and fn. 62, 104, 106–7, Borkum, 100 111, 125, 131, 224 and fn. 10, 235, Borneo, 51, 326, 327, 340 fn. 38, 342 and 266, 276 fns. 49, 343 fn. 54 Flensburg, 151 Bornholm, 125 Flushing, 86, 88–9, 91–2, 95, 111 fn. Borssele, 95 102, 114 370 geographical index

France, 16, 18, 22, 33, 36, 38, 43, 49, 51, Kolberg, 203 55, 58, 63, 65, 67–8, 87, 90, 111, 113, Kolding, 124 115, 121, 170, 185–7 and fn. 11, Koningshooikt, 244 190–1, 193, 196–8, 204–5, 210, 213 fn. Kornwerderzand, 259 35, 214–5, 222, 225, 227, 229 fn. 32, Kreekrak, 95, 108 239, 245 and fn. 86, 249, 253, 257–64, Kristiansand, 293, 298 267–8, 271, 276, 288, 295, 299, 311, Kurland, 151 313, 324 fn. 3, 343 Fredericia, 124 Læsø, 151 Friedrichhafen, 151 Le Havre, 95 Funen, 125–6, 148, 160 Liege, 226, 230 and fn. 34, 231–2, 235–8, 240 and fn. 69, 241 Gelderse Vallei, 259, 270, 272–3, 275, and fn. 75, 242, 245, 262, 277–8 263 fn. 9 Geneva, 19, 32, 42, 44, 59, 64 fn. 12, 80, Liège, see Liege 262, 288 Lim Fiord, 151 Ghent, 104, 113, 232–4, 242, 245, 248 Limburg, 14, 245, 258, 263 and fn.10, Gibraltar, 298–9 fn. 15 264–5, 267–8, 270, 272–3 fn. 27 Godesberg, 196 Lokeren, 113 fn. 105 Great Belt, 136, 158, 160 London, 2 fn. 1, 3 fn. 3, 4 fn. 4, 4 fn. 5, 7 Grebbe, 270 fn. 8, 8 and fns. 11, 12, 16, 19 fn. 24, 23 fn. 25, 27 fn. 3, 28 fn. 4, 29 fn. 11, Hainan, 336 30 fn. 12, 32 fn. 22, 33 fn. 25, 46 fn. Hamburg, 97 69, 53, 69 fn. 17, 86 fn. 5, 88 and fns. Hansweert, 95 7, 97, 99 fn. 52, 103 fn. 68, 107, 110 Haringvliet, 258–9 and fn. 98, 114 and fn. 108, 122 fn. 9, Holland, 21, 106 fn. 81, 113, 139–40, 166, 183 fn. 1, 187 fn. 11, 193 259–60, 277 fn. 26, 201 fn. 1, 217 fn. 50, 247 fn. 92, Hollands Diep, 92 fn. 21, 94, 258–9 298, 304, 323–5, 327 fn. 6, 330 and fn. Humber, estuaries, 75 17, 332 and fn. 21, 338, 342 fn. 50, 345 fn. 65, fn. 9 IJsselmeer, 258–9, 277 Lorraine, 264 Ionian Islands, 39 Luxembourg, 51, 173, 185–6, 226, 287 fn. 7 Java, 24, 326, 332, 333 fn. 23, 334, 348 Lynetten, 143, 148 Java, Eastern, 322 Java Sea, 331 fn. 19, 338–9 Maastricht, 107, 232, 258, 262 Java, West, 322 Malaya, 324 Java, Western, 322 Manchuria, 194, 286, 324 Jena, 210 Marstrand, 123 Jutland, 122, 124–6 and fn. 23, 127, 132, Melos, 183 138, 148, 151, 160, 176 Meuse, 21, 92 fn. 20, 243, 245, 253, 258–9, 263 fn. 9, 266 Kaiser Wilhelm Kanal, 120 Middelburg, 110 Kattegat, 14, 121, 123, 125, 129, 130, Middelkerke, 104 151, 296 Milan, 61 Kiel, 120, 123 fn. 14 Moravia, 216 Kiel Kanal. see Kaiser Wilhelm Kanal Morokrembangan, 328 fn. 10, 338 Knokke, see Knokke-Heist Moscow, 211 fn. 26 Knokke-Heist, 90 Mosede, 146–7 Køge Bay, 151–2 Munich, 25, 194, 196–8, 202 fn. 3, Køge Bay,-coast, 146 203 fn. 4, 210 and fns. 23, 212 Køge Bight (-Roskilde Inlet fn. 31, 213 and fns. 37–8, isthmus), 139 335, 337 geographical index 371

Namur, 226, 231–2, 237–8, 244–5, Ruhr, area, 20, 114, 191, 204–5, 216, 264 263 fn. 9 Rumania, 98, 100–1, 190, 199 Nanyo, see Pacifi c, Southwest Narvik, 281, 283, 297–8 Saarland, 264 New York, 2 fn. 1, 4–5 fn. 6, 10 fn. 13, 23 Saltholm, 147 fn. 25, 186 fn. 9, 187 fn. 12, 191 fn. 20, Samsø, 151 194 fn. 28, 343 Savoy, 38 Nieuport, 89, 90 Scandinavia, 3, 7, 10, 50–2 and fn. 86, 57, Norderney, 100 88 fn. 7, 121–20 fn.3, 127, 132–3, 200, North Sea, 22, 51, 86, 89, 90, 92–3, 283–4 fn. 1, 289–9, 96–7, 102, 117, 121, 125, 127, 131, 301 fn. 18, 303, 305 fn. 25 258, 284, 302 Schelde, see Scheldt Scheldt, 86, 88, 91, 93, 95, 106–7, Oder, 205, 208 fn. 18 109–10, 114, 253, 261 Oosterscheldt, 92–4, 105–6, 109 Schleswig, 124 Oostkapelle, 109 Schleswig, North, 125, 136 Ösel, 111 Schouwen, 102, 109 Oslo, 7, 7 fn. 7, 27 fn. 3, 40 fn. 53, 119 fn. Singapore, 298, 325, 342 fn. 50, 2, 127 fn. 26, 282, 284 fn. 2, 287 346, 348 and fn. 6, 288 and fn. 8, 291, 293 fn. Skagen, 123 10, 298 and fn. 14, 302 fn. 22, 303 and Skagerrak, 121, 151, 292, 296 fn. 24 Sloe, 95, 105–6, 109 Oslo, Fjord, 292 Somme, 99, 121 Ostend, 21, 89, 113, 227, 232–3, 242, 245 Sougnée-Remouchamps, 242 Sound, 143, 232, 269, 322, 347 Pacifi c, 39, 53, 56 fn. 42, 74, 76, 323, 343 South-Beveland, 92, 94–5, 104–8, 110, Pacifi c, Southeast, 336 113–4 Pacifi c, Southwest, 323 Spain, 33 and fn. 26, 49 fn. 80, 58, 195, Pacifi c, Western, 323, 347 286, 322 Paris, 3, 29 fn. 8, 32, 37, 38–41, 113 fn. Sparta, 183 105, 115, 140, 166, 187 fn. 12, 211 fn. Spratleys, 336 26, 213 fn. 35, 221 fn. 2, 226 fn. 21, St. Petersburg, 80 228 fn. 28, 230 fn. 36, 247 fn. 93, 253 Sudetenland, 188 fn. 2, 263, 304, 323 Suez, 298 Paternoster, 123 Suez Canal, 33 Peel, 259–60, 263 and fn. 10, 266, 272–3, Surabaya, 322, 325–6, 328 fn. 10, 276–7 fn. 34 333, 336 Philippines, 46, 322, 324 Sydney, 338 Poland, 18, 170, 184, 188–9 fn. 16, 190, 193, 196, 198, 202, 204–5, 212, 215–6, Tandjong Priok, 322, 326 244, 343 Tarakan, 326, 338 Polish Corridor, 188 Th ames, 75 Th e Hague, 29 fn. 7, 30 fn. 15, 33 fn. 27, Red Sea, 48 42 fn. 60, 43, 47, 48, 52 fn. 94, 53 and Rhine, 21, 100, 170, 196, 202, 204, fn. 97, 54 fn. 95, 64, 75, 77, 82, 89 fn. 206, 213 and fn. 35, 216, 253, 10, 103 fn. 68, 105, 107, 110, 115, 160, 258, 264 170, 252 fn. 1, 259, 263 fn. 8, 271, 304, Rhineland, 196, 212, 213 fn. 35, 264, 323–5, 332, 339 fn. 37, 341 fn. 46 269, 287 Th ebes, 183 Roskilde Inlet, 150 Th essaloniki, 94 Roskilde Inlet isthmus Th olen, 94, 104, 109 (Køge Bight-), 139 Timor, 338 Rotterdam, 106, 259 Tokyo, 323–5, 337 Ruhr, 191, 206, 208–10 fn. 23, 213 fn. 35 Transvaal, 48 372 geographical index

Transylvania, 189, 199 Weser, 204 Trondheim Fjord, 293 Wielingen, 91, 102 Wilhelminakanaal, 277 fn. 34 Upper Silesia, 204–5, 211 fn. 28 Wilhelmshaven, 99, 100 and fn. 56, 101, Utrecht, 259 104, 120–1 Woensdrecht, 108 Veere, 110 Verdun, 79, 98, 121, 238, 312 Yser, 238 Versailles, 20, 170, 184 fn. 2, 187–190 and fn. 13, 192, 201–2, 210 fn. 23, Zealand, vii, 86–9, 91, 93–4 and fn. 36, 257–8, 262 95–6, 99, 100 fn. 55, 101 fn. 62, 103–4 Vistula, 206 and fn. 74, 105 and fn. 80, 107–11 Vrouwenpolder, 107 and fn. 102, 113–4, 117, 123, 135–6, 160, 176 Waal, 21, 258–9 Zeebrugge, 21, 89, 91 fn. 19, 113 Walcheren, 91–5, 105–111, 114 Zeeland, see Zealand Wallonia, 224 fn. 10, 226, 235 Zeeuws-Vlaanderen, 91, 95, 101, Walloon region, see Wallonia 104–9 Warsaw, 3, 189 fn. 16, 205, 252 Zuid-Willemsvaart, 266, 277 fn. 34 Wavre, 244 Zuyderzee, 258 Wemeldinge, 95 Zwijndrecht, 101