leg of the front was vulnerable, that France might concentrate too much power in Alsace-Lorraine, and if they attacked the German defenses there, they could open up a giant wound that would threaten all of Germany. Von Moltke’s timidity had ripped the very heart out of the German strategy. What should have been the great unstoppable thrust through Belgium was weakened by the shifting of German troops down toward Verdun. Ludendorff had been stunned by the changes von Moltke had made, and outraged by the results they produced. The German invasion had been thwarted, the astonishing successes of August 1914 blunted by the lack of power necessary to drive the attacks directly into Paris. When the French obliged von Moltke by attacking through Alsace-Lorraine, von Moltke had felt justified in his decision. But Ludendorff knew that had the Germans continued their push from the north, Paris would have fallen, and no matter what feeble attacks the French thought they could make, the war would have been over. The mistakes of 1914 infuriated Ludendorff still, the weak-hearted generals who had cost Germany its greatest triumph. When Falkenhayn replaced von Moltke, there had been a renewed spirit throughout the army, hope that the early disasters of leadership would not be repeated. Now, as Ludendorff made his way through the impregnable German defenses, he felt the same fury toward Falkenhayn as he had always felt toward von Moltke. Verdun had been another catastrophic mistake, the Germans launching an attack right into the strength of the French defense. There had been no great breakthrough, no real advantage at all, not even the symbolic capture of the worthless fortress itself. Falkenhayn’s gamble had cost the German army as much manpower as they had bled from the French. And they were virtually in the same strategic position ten months before. Ludendorff thought of the efficient young lieutenant, the honesty in the man’s words. You are correct, young man, the enemy is not beaten. For all the planning, all the strategy, the loss of men and matériel, the ridiculous attempt to capture Verdun was simply another mistake. A bad decision by an incompetent commander. But this time there is a difference. This time, I can do something about it.
NEAR METZ, GERMANY—NOVEMBER 24, 1916
The train rolled northward, past brown fields and dense patches of forest. War had not come to this part of Lorraine, the fields cleared of their crops, the bounty that had fed the German troops who manned the great barrier to the west. Ludendorff knew little about this part of Europe, had been taught that Lorraine was simply another part of Germany, a notion that had produced wars with the French for generations. He gazed at the farmhouses, saw the architecture, the perfectly sculptured gardens, even the people, sturdy farmers preparing their land and homes for the new winter. It was all so clean, so . . . German. With Germany’s overwhelming victory in the Franco-Prussian War, this disputed land had become a part of Germany again, and Ludendorff had been taught that no one heard protest from the people here. Of course not, he thought. They know the French ways better than anyone, and they will fight to keep their borders. It is all they ask of us, to defend them from French invasion. Not . . . he shook his head. Not to capture French fortresses.
The train had a specially designed car, only two small windows, a row of chairs arranged around a long table. Against one wall were maps, a wireless station, and a small telegraph machine. The next car was the private quarters for the commanders and their staffs, but Ludendorff did not spend any more time in his room than what he required for sleep. The cars were attached to a train that carried no other passengers, was used more for supplies, or moving key personnel from one part of the war to another.
Ludendorff sat beside one of the windows, tempered his impatience by writing notes. They were for himself alone, an exercise to keep himself occupied while he waited for von Hindenburg to return. The old man