To the Last Man - Jeff Shaara [78]
As Ludendorff was led through the German defenses, he had walked deep underground on concrete floors, electric lights over his head. The air had been musty, stirred by the hum of exhaust fans, but there were none of the smells of the French works. As his guides led him to the safety of the rear, he moved past a labyrinth of sleeping quarters and supply rooms, observation posts set high up on concrete platforms, protected by massive concrete walls. It was exactly as it had been up north, his first tour of the German defenses at Flanders, and he had taken it for granted that what the German troops and engineers had constructed was the only kind of defense that provided for both the protection and the health of the men who occupied them. But the journey out through the battlegrounds had shocked him, reminding him of the same conditions he had seen in Flanders, a tour of captured British trenches as well. He had been appalled at the condition in the enemy’s works, was surprised to learn from intelligence that even in the enemy’s rearmost shelters, conditions were rarely any better. He had tried to find the logic in the stark contrast, could only believe it was the perfect illustration of the difference between generals who chose the offensive rather than the defensive style of war. Even when faced with the misery of a stalemate, the French and British generals had never intended to stay put, had engineered structures for their men that might last a week. In 1914, no one could predict that their armies would be forced to hold this ground for years instead of days. The reality of war had changed. The methods of the enemy’s generals had not.
From the beginning, when Germany had plotted the invasion through Belgium and northern France, the southern part of the front in Alsace-Lorraine was to be held in defense, manned by just enough German strength to discourage the French from making an assault of their own. The German trenches had been built as permanent structures, housing men who would maintain this part of the line for an indefinite period of time. But from what Ludendorff had just seen, the works now held by Krauss and his men, it was obvious that the French were still convinced their position was temporary. It was the first time Ludendorff felt some understanding of the way the French thought, the mind-set of their commanders, holding tightly to only one idea: attack. As he had made his way through the last stretch of captured trenches, the thoughts had rolled into his mind with perfect clarity. There can be only one explanation, that men like Joffre and Nivelle and Pétain consider themselves descendants of Napoleon. Perhaps it is no more than pride in that one glorious moment in their history, that somehow, France must always fight her wars as Napoleon would fight them, power on power, always moving forward. It was childlike in its simplicity, and he imagined generals saluting themselves under portraits of their great hero, pledging to carry on the traditions of their finest warrior. Never mind that Napoleon had eventually been beaten, both by the British and the Russians, the two armies who were now, ironically, French allies. But there was more stupidity. How could any army believe it could find success on the battlefield by using the tactics of such an antiquated era, the arms and methods of another century? No matter how carefully the French generals studied Napoleon’s tactics, there was one inescapable truth they had apparently overlooked: Napoleon did not have the machine gun.
But if the French had been alone in their blunders, the war would have ended quickly. Ludendorff knew that in 1914, the German commander, von Moltke, had deviated from the great plan that should have made quick work of this war. Von Moltke had been afraid that the southern