To the Last Man - Jeff Shaara [360]
He looked now at the letters on his desk, copies of all the correspondence that had flowed back and forth between the Reichstag and Washington. So now we crawl to President Wilson like a child who seeks favors of the most gullible of our parents. We place our faith in this man because he is thought to vacillate, to be soft. And right now, soft is the only hope we have. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath. How ironic. The American president who sent his army across the ocean, the same army that has taken victory away from us . . . he is the man we believe to be the most forgiving. Months ago we spoke of peace, a quiet suggestion that the English and French could not ignore. But then, we were in a position of strength. The advantages were all ours. If not for the Americans, the French and English people would have forced their governments to seek some end to this war. But now, everything is different. A year ago, it was our enemies who needed the Americans. Now, it is us.
He had no energy for diplomacy, knew that the cables had gone both ways since the first suggestion of an armistice that the chancellor had put forth. Now the language begins, he thought, the posturing, the careful phrases, the perfect wording. We must not offer too much, show we are too eager, and they cannot offer us too much hope, or lead us down some path that will infuriate their allies. What hope is there anyway? Does anyone in Berlin believe that Clemenceau or Lloyd George will simply roll over like Wilson’s house pets and accept the terms the Americans find acceptable? No, that is a poor description. They are not house pets. They are two braying asses, spouting their diatribes, each one grabbing for his place in history, each one spitting and clawing at the other to see who can lay claim to the obliteration of the German people. They may not even listen to Wilson at all. When the history of this is written, no Englishman, no Frenchman will allow himself to admit that without the Americans, this war would be over. If Mr. Wilson’s army had never arrived, the kaiser would be turning the palace at Versailles into his summer residence.
He noticed the tea now, cradled the cup with a thick hand. Cold. He thought of calling the orderly, but had no strength even for that now. Enjoy your quiet moment, he thought. This evening is not likely to be so . . . calm.
BELLEVUE PALACE, BERLIN—OCTOBER 24, 1918
He and Ludendorff had been summoned to meet with Kaiser Wilhelm, word coming to the High Command of another cable from Woodrow Wilson. The long-distance discussion of the possibilities of an armistice had unfolded exactly as von Hindenburg had expected. It had been an exercise in precision, perfect clarity, no possibility of any vague pronouncement or misunderstanding that could suddenly erupt into a verbal sparring match that would toss away hope of the kind of peace that would benefit anyone.
He and Ludendorff arrived together at the kaiser’s palace, a show of unity that would at least offer a symbolic gesture that command of the army was still in the hands of the two men who had given the kaiser so much loyalty. The show was fragile at best, something von Hindenburg accepted with calm. He wasn