Sir Edward Grey's Debatable Culpability for the Great War

 

The lamps are going out all over Europe. We shall not see them lit again in our lifetime.

Sir Edward Grey

Sir Edward Grey

By John Lewis-Stempel 

Sir Edward Grey is known to everyone because of a single immortal quotation. On 3 August 1914, as foreign secretary, he looked out of the window of his office at dusk and observed the man lighting the gas lamps in St James's Park below and spoke those words to his chum, J.A. Spender. Grey was a countryman to his core.

Grey was always looking out of the window. He was a devout twitcher, and the waterfowl across in the park were one of his delights in London, which he hated. . . In his 11 years as foreign secretary (the longest anyone has held the office) he went abroad precisely once.

Everyone agreed, though, that Grey was charming, well mannered, and diffident, the very embodiment of the English gentleman. There's the rub. Was the great birdman of Westminster actually able to say boo to a goose?

There are historians who like to put Grey in the dock on the severest of all charges—he caused the murderous First World War by his lack of interest in his job. As foreign secretary of the world's super-power, for Heaven's sake! By his insularity and, above all, his failure to properly warn Berlin off the turf in July 1914 he was responsible for catastrophe. He was decent but amateurish and vapid, and so, in a huge test, he failed.

Another charge to be taken into consideration against the Right Honourable Edward Grey: When he did deign to diplomacy, he was the exact opposite of unworldly; he was Machiavellian and tied Britain in secret strings to France. These ended up as a noose around our necks. Few men have risen so languidly, or succeeded in so many disparate endeavours as Edward Grey. . .  [I]n his 50s, his physicians advised him to give up his job as foreign secretary and rest his eyes. He refused, believing his country needed him.

Did it? There is nothing novel in the accusation that Grey was an ineffectual foreign secretary. His colleague David Lloyd George devoted pages of his War Memoirs to damning Grey. But then, the Welsh politician gave over most of his war memoirs to trolling people. Nearly every malodorous myth about the Great War can be traced back to the literary septic tank that is Lloyd George's War Memoirs. . .

A Man of Many Parts
A highly respected ornithologist and naturalist, several of his books
 are still in print.  Earlier in his life, Grey was tennis champion
at Oxford and went on to win the British Championship five times.

For Grey, Britain was first, last, everything, though he would have peace, if peace could be had. In international dealings, at least, Grey was as true as his word. It is nigh on impossible to describe Grey the diplomat without delving into a lexicon of old-fashioned phrases. He wielded "a straight bat," he made British diplomacy a global brand for "fidelity."

For nearly a decade he kept the peace in Europe, almost single-handedly smoothing over major upsets caused by events in Africa in 1911 and the Balkans in 1912. Grey's tact and his obviously sincere desire for peace, contrasted with the bellicose arrogance of Berlin, turned up trumps in the Great War because they helped win America over. In other words, the winning team of UK, France, USA, and Russia was largely fashioned by one Sir Edward Grey. 

And so, to the main "crime" on the charge sheet against Edward Grey. In Lloyd George's words, "Had Grey warned Germany in time of the point at which Britain would declare war and wage it with her whole strength, the issue would have been different." There would have been no war. Did Grey bungle in summer 1914?

The accusation is a red herring. Germany had been told since 1911 by the British king, by War Secretary Haldane, and by Grey that if she attacked France, Britain would not stand idly by. In the end, France did not decide the issue, War or No. Everybody in Europe, from the lowliest English brickie to the emperor of Germany, knew in their hearts that Britain would honour her obligations to protect the independence of Belgium.

The tragedy of the First World War is that Berlin willfully ignored all evidence of British intent and bet the farm on the German Army being able to best France before Britain could meaningfully intervene. Some hope. There was good reason for Grey's softly, softly diplomacy in summer 1914. 

If he had rattled his saber against Germany he would have split the nation and been accused of warmongering by the peace party, which was led by. . . Lloyd George. Neither could one man have diverted the course of history. The tide this time was too strong.

One reason why Grey remains enigmatic is that there is, more's the pity, almost no one like him in modern British politics. His pursuit of ornithology and fishing were less diversions from duty, more tonics that enabled him to function. The hobbies, of course, gave him character; Grey is the exemplar of the politician with a hinterland. Grey, in profile, was absurdly birdlike; he had the nose of a hawk. . .

Yet he was, in his soul, an absolute dove. "I hate war," he declared in August 1914 (contrast that with the cheering that broke out in Prussian ministries on the declaration of hostilities). One taunt of Lloyd George's did hold water; Grey mistook "correctitude for rectitude."

The loathsome necessities of war were too much for him. When the conflict was declared, the light inside Edward Grey went out, and though he remained in office until 1916, he was increasingly a bewildered, ailing figure. A sightless white dove trapped in a long night. 

Editors Note:  Grey was was known for his dedication to strong relations with the U.S. During William Howard Taft's administration (1909–1912), this commitment helped foster a cooperative atmosphere between the two nations. This was much to Britain's advantage after war broke out. MH

Source: Excerpted from "Did Sir Edward Grey Provide the Spark for the Great War?" Sunday Express, May 2014

The Allies' First Victory: The Battle of Mt. Cer, 15–24 August 1914

Serbian Troops at Mt. Cer

At the outset of World War I, Serbia found itself facing the might of the Austro-Hungarian Empire, which sought to crush Serbia's independence and expand its own influence in the Balkans. On 12 August 1914, the Austro-Hungarian forces launched a large-scale offensive against Serbia, aiming to swiftly overrun the Serbian defenses and assert control over the region.

The invasion was commanded by Feldzeugmeister (Lieutenant General) Oskar Potiorek. Facing them was the Second Serbian Army under the command of the General (later Voyvoda, i.e., Field Marshal) Stepa Stepanović. General Stepanović was determined to resist. Despite being outnumbered and outgunned, his Serbian soldiers and irregular auxiliaries displayed remarkable courage and tactical skill throughout the battle. After the ten-day battle, they had delivered the first victory of the Great War for the Allies

Site of the Battle

The Battle of Mt. Cer, fought about 60 miles west of Belgrade near the town of Shabac, began on 15 August 1914, when the Austro-Hungarian forces crossed the Drina River and advanced toward Mt. Cer. The Serbian troops, entrenched in defensive positions along the hills overlooking the valley, unleashed a withering barrage of artillery fire and rifle volleys upon the advancing enemy. Over the course of several days of intense fighting, the Serbian soldiers repelled wave after wave of Austro-Hungarian assaults, inflicting heavy casualties on the enemy.

King Peter of Serbia Observes the Battle

Despite fierce resistance, the Austro-Hungarian advance stalled, and their forces were unable to break through the Serbian lines. On 20 August,  the Serbian Army launched a counteroffensive, driving the Austro-Hungarian forces back across the Drina River and inflicting a decisive defeat upon them. By 24 August, the Battle of Mt. Cer had ended in a resounding victory for Serbia.  

This battle was notable for two other events.  It saw the first aerial dogfight, when the pilots of Serbian and Austro-Hungarian reconnaissance aircraft engaged each other with small arms. More important, the invading Habsburg forces committed numerous atrocities, engaging in an orgy of looting, rape, murder, and mass extermination.

The Cer Memorial Ossuary

Militarily, the Battle of Mt. Cer was a costly engagement for both sides. Serbian casualties numbered around 3,000 killed and wounded, while the Austro-Hungarian losses exceeded 6,000 men. Despite the heavy toll, though, the Serbian victory at Mt. Cer bolstered the morale of the Allied powers and demonstrated Serbia's determination to resist foreign aggression, a fact that, unfortunately, seems to have been forgotten by the successor states of the former aggressors in the present day.

Sources: War History Online; BBC Global Politics magazine; The Lloyds Chronicle

Ten Interesting WWI Images I Found in the New York Public Library Digital Archives

The New York Public Library, 1919

As you may guess, since the New York Public Library has vast collections of stuff on just about every topic under the sun, it has a great collection of First World War material. I've drawn on NYPL regularly for material for Roads to the Great War. So recently, I decided to go poking around in their archives for some fresh images that I'd never seen before. Hope you enjoy what I've found. They can all be substantially enlarged by clicking on them.  MH

 

1. A Burberry Advertisement, Apparently Pre-Trench Coat

2. Christ with Cross vs. Trotsky

3. The King of Saxony, Hindenburg, and Ludendorff with the Army

"The French allies have a wagon full of defeated Germans and our
English brothers have a whole tub of beaten up Germans"
Russian oster by Kazimir Malevich

5.  Western Front Battle Map—Dated 25 September 1918

Range Finder Cigarette Card (Front and Back)

7. "The path of the Cossack through war-smitten Galicia"

8. Rake for tearing down barbed wire entanglements. Cigarette Card

9. American Donkey Train in Meuse-Argonne Battle

10.  A road song: Return from Carcassonne to Toulouse

Where Did General Pershing Get His Initial Division for the AEF?

When the U.S. Army began the conversion to brigade combat teams in 2004, it started to move cautiously away from the combined arms division, the Army’s building block for nearly 90 years. The first permanent divisions were created amid the crisis conditions of 1917, and the first among these new formations was the 1st Division, today’s 1st Infantry Division, the famous Big Red One.

Its formative experience preparing for combat on the Western Front in World War I challenged soldiers of that day in ways their counterparts of today might recognize—raw recruits manning a new organization; extreme personnel turbulence; unfamiliar technology; precarious relationships with allies; doctrinal uncertainty; harsh living and training conditions; and the prospect of imminent combat with a hardened and dangerous enemy. The organization they honed did more than break a path for the 42 divisions of the American Expeditionary Forces (AEF) that followed—it set the foundation for the modern, permanently organized, combined arms divisions that characterized the U.S. Army for the rest of the 20th century.

The idea of permanent divisions percolated throughout the U.S. Army for at least 20 years prior to 1917. The basic formation for more than a century had been the single-arm regiment. Temporary “divisions” had been formed in the Civil War and the Spanish-American War to consolidate commanders’ span of control and to combine infantry and field artillery.

While the major European powers organized divisions in the late 19th and early 20th centuries, the U.S. Army had no similar compelling need as it policed the western frontier and America’s new colonial holdings. Wartime divisions were codified in the 1905 Field Service Regulations (FSR), but the central argument for forming permanent divisions between 1900 and 1917 was for the unlikely contingency of continental defense against a major power.

From 1910, instability in Mexico provided opportunities to experiment with divisions. In 1911, the War Department assembled a provisional “maneuver division” of Regular and National Guard units in San Antonio, Texas. The assembly itself required nearly the entire period of the call-up, from March to August. The event provided relevant experience, leading to a more efficient mobilization of the 2d Division in Texas in 1913 and deployment of a brigade to Vera Cruz, Mexico, in 1914. Meanwhile, an Army War College study recommended reorganizing the Regular Army as a “mobile army” of divisions ready for immediate service. Moreover, the 1914 FSR called the division the basic organization for offensive operations.

16th Infantry Marching into Mexico, 1916

The FSR further defined a division in modern terms: “A self-contained unit made up of all necessary arms and services, and complete in itself with every requirement for independent action incident to its operations.” The War College plan, however, was never completely adopted or funded. The onset of World War I in Europe led to the National Defense Act of 1916, which expanded both the Regular Army and the National Guard and called for the organization of both into permanent tactical brigades and divisions. Events overtook this plan as well. In response to Pancho Villa’s raid on Columbus, New Mexico, in March 1916, 8th Brigade, 3d Division, commander BG John J. Pershing received orders to organize a force to apprehend Villa’s gang.

Pershing assembled the “Punitive Expedition,” a provisional division of two cavalry and one infantry brigades and, for the next year, conducted the first modern division operations in the Army’s history. Although ultimately unsuccessful, the expedition integrated radio and telephone communications, airplanes, and partly motorized logistics with ground maneuver and provided Pershing and others a taste of the complexities of 20th-century warfare.

While Pershing led his expedition through the wilds of northern Mexico, events in Europe brought the United States into World War I. Germany’s leaders decided to strangle Great Britain with unrestricted submarine warfare and, clumsily, to arrange a Mexican attack on the United States in the event of the latter’s entry on the Allied side. President Woodrow Wilson requested and received a Congressional declaration of war on 6 April 1917. Great Britain and France immediately pressed for the deployment of an American division.

It is hard to exaggerate the crisis of 1917 for the U.S. Army. Pershing’s expedition had only been withdrawn from Mexico in February, having consumed most of the quartermaster’s meager stocks. The four extant divisions were administrative groupings, not trained, deployable units. There were no plans for manpower or industrial mobilization, no stocks of weapons and munitions, and no plans for transporting a significant military force over contested seas.

General Pershing and His Key Staff Arrive in France, 13 June 1918

No American officers had ever served in anything like the European divisions then fighting on the Western and Eastern Fronts. America’s new allies themselves were in near desperate straits—the British Somme Offensive of 1916 had failed; the French “Nivelle Offensive” was failing; and Russia was in the throes of revolution. The British and French delegations dispatched to the United States, which included France’s hero of the Marne battles Marshal Joseph Joffre, implored the American government for immediate assistance.

The Europeans, however, did not like the War College plans for American divisions nor the timetable for organizing them. Led by Maj John McAuley Palmer, the War College planners posited a 28,000-man division of three brigades of three regiments of three battalions. Designed for continental defense, this division required nearly 20 miles of road space for movement and, in the Europeans’ view, lacked the integrated artillery, machine guns, and trench mortars necessary on the Western Front. Moreover, the War College plan called for raising and training such divisions in the United States before deploying them, a process that would delay the arrival of American troops in France to 1918 or even 1919.

The British in particular wanted instead the dispatch of American troops to the front as replacements for European formations, a prospect totally unacceptable to the Americans. Army Chief of Staff Gen Hugh L. Scott directed the planners to develop another division organization on the French model of two brigades of two infantry regiments that reflected the best advice of the British and French officers.

Meanwhile, recognizing the imperative of an American presence in France to bolster French morale, President Woodrow Wilson promised Joffre a division immediately. He directed Secretary of War Newton Baker and Gen Scott, who in turn ordered MG Pershing, now commander of the Army’s Southern Department, to select four infantry regiments and one artillery regiment for immediate “foreign service.”

A transport ship carrying soldiers of the First Expeditionary Division
enters the harbor of St. Nazaire, France, 27 June 1917

Unsurprisingly, Pershing, designated to command the expeditionary force, selected Regular Army regiments with excellent records on the Punitive Expedition or along the Mexican border: the 16th, 18th, 26th, and 28th Infantry Regiments and the 5th and 6th Field Artillery Regiments. Pershing would later be promoted to general in October 1917 and appointed commander of the AEF.

As the infantry regiments prepared in great haste for their movement to Hoboken, New Jersey, and shipment overseas, they filled their vacant ranks with many enthusiastic but untrained volunteer recruits and “emergency” officers selected from the Officer Training Camps springing up around the country.

The new division’s commanding general, BG William L. Sibert, and brigade commanders BG Robert L. Bullard and BG Omar Bundy, like their hastily selected staff, met their commands for the first time at the port of Hoboken, New Jersey. There, on 8 June 1917, War Department orders established the headquarters of the First Expeditionary Division.

According to newly appointed general staff officer Capt George C. Marshall, “…the staff of the division…met for the first time aboard the boat [ the Tenadores…where] most of us were informed of the organization prescribed for the division…We found that the infantry regiments had been increased about threefold in strength and contained organizations previously unheard of, which were to be armed with implements entirely new to us.”

BG William Silbert, Initial Commander of the First Division

Marshall’s confusion stemmed from the fact that the 1917 Provisional Tables of Organization for the First Division were only some two weeks old. Huddling with their French counterparts, Palmer’s team at the War College revised their organization of three brigades to a French model “square” organization of two brigades of two regiments. The basic division numbered about 14,000 troops, but the addition of artillery, machine guns, and trench mortars urged by the French, as well as an aviation unit, ample trains and special service troops brought the number up to about 24,000. Acting Chief of Staff Gen Tasker H. Bliss approved this organization only for the initial expeditionary force, recognizing that further changes may be desired by the AEF commander.

Bliss also knew that no more divisions would be deployed as hastily as the First; the War Department would need time to refine the organization of the follow-on divisions. Such refinement was indeed underway. While crossing the Atlantic, Pershing put his staff to work on organizing a one-million-man AEF. A similar effort was underway at the War Department, led by Col Chauncey Baker. The two efforts coordinated their conclusions in the General Organization Project, producing by August 1917 a plan for a 27,000-man division. However, the rationale for this division foreshadowed a doctrinal tension between the United States and the Europeans that continued throughout the war.

Whereas the French division organization was optimized for rotating forces in and out of trench works, the Americans wanted a robust division for sustained combat to force the enemy out of his trenches and into “open warfare.” The convoys carrying the First Expeditionary Division sailed from New York on 12 June 1917 and arrived largely without incident at St. Nazaire, France, between 26 and 30 June.

Company K, 28th Infantry Regiment, was the first organized unit to set foot on French soil. Billeted in a former prisoner-of-war camp dubbed Camp Number 1, and without motor transport or horses, the troops made daily marches of 18 miles to the ground designated for drill. Almost immediately, officers were levied to Pershing’s headquarters in Paris or for duty elsewhere in the AEF infrastructure.

16th Infantry in Paris, 4 July 1917

On 4 July, the 2d Battalion, 16th Infantry, paraded through Paris to the cheers of a war-weary public in need of good news, while the remainder of the division boarded trains for their first permanent encampment near Gondrecourt in Lorraine. On 6 July, the First Expeditionary Division was re-designated the 1st Division. The task that faced Sibert (promoted to major general on 27 June) and his officers upon arrival in their designated training area was daunting indeed.

They had to create, from the whole cloth of four infantry regiments manned mostly by untrained recruits, a combined-arms division in which none of them had experience, according to an uncertain doctrine, to perform missions never before undertaken, against a seasoned enemy. Moreover, they had to do it in a manner that could be presented as an example to all follow-on divisions and as a showcase of American military competence to European observers and enemy intelligence.

A Few Weeks after Paris, 16th Infantry in Bayonet Training at Gondrecourt

In a future posting, we will present the next section of Paul Herbert's article on the First Division in which he discusses how the "Fighting First" trained for battle on the Western Front.

Sources:  Excerpted from "America’s First Division 90 years ago," U.S. Army Historical Foundation

A Floatplane Reconnaissance Over Beersheba—April 1915

Nieuport N.16 aboard Rabenfels. Pilot is Lt. V Cintré and observer Captain R.E. Todd, 11/12 April 1915. (Credit : Association pour la Recherche de Documentation sur l’Histoire de l’Aéronautique Navale, ARDHAN)

By Ian M. Burns

Excerpted from Float Planes Over The Desert

In April 1915, a French naval floatplane launched from a converted British cargo ship attempted one of the war's most ambitious reconnaissance flights to date – a 55-kilometre journey inland from the Mediterranean coast to Beersheba, the staging point for the recent Turkish attack on the Suez Canal. Engine failure over hostile territory tested both pilot and observer to their limits.

The French naval aviation unit l'escadrille de Port-Saïd spent much of 1915 operating from two British seaplane carriers, HMS Rabenfels and HMS Aenne Rickmers. These were converted German cargo ships, requisitioned at the outbreak of war and fitted with cargo booms to hoist floatplanes in and out of the water. Their role was to extend the reach of British and French naval forces patrolling the eastern Mediterranean and Red Sea coasts, watching Turkish troop movements in Sinai and Palestine.

The ships' operational routine was similar across most cruises. A section of two Nieuport floatplanes would be hoisted aboard, along with pilots, observers, and four mechanics. The observers – usually British Army intelligence officers – prepared maps and charts, took notes during flights, and wrote the post-flight reports. The ship would sail to its station, often anchoring off landmarks like the mosque at El Arish to confirm position. Once conditions allowed, the floatplanes would be lowered into the sea, engines hand-cranked to life by observers crammed into tiny cockpits, and the machines would buzz across the waves attempting to gain enough speed to unstick from the surface.

Rabenfels at Port Said shortly after having been converted to a seaplane carrier. Canvas shelters for the Nieuport floatplanes are rigged on the forward and aft well decks.

On 7 April 1915, Rabenfels departed Port Said carrying Nieuports N.15 and N.16. Only one pilot was aboard: Lieutenant de vaisseau Alfred Louis Marie Cintré. The observers were Captain Todd and Second Lieutenant Paul. After arriving off El Arish the following morning, Rabenfels remained in the area for three days. Poor weather prevented flying until 10 April.

The morning flight by Cintré and Paul reached Beersheba, where they found a large camp capable of housing up to 7,000 men, including a hospital and what appeared to be an aircraft hangar. Their report prompted a bombing raid by the Egyptian Defence Royal Flying Corps six days later.

The following morning, 11 April, Cintré advised attempting a flight to Beersheba despite low coastal clouds. He and Paul departed at 08.50 in N.15, crossed the coast 15 minutes later, and followed the main road straight to Beersheba, arriving at 09.38 at 900 meters altitude. The garrison had shrunk considerably since the Suez Canal attack – Paul reported just 2,000 to 3,000 men and a few tents. They turned for home at 09.50.

Map of Beersheba after another reconnaissance flight in
 November 1915

When approximately 25 kilometers from the coast, an exhaust valve rod broke, blowing a hole in the engine cowling. Revolutions fell from normal to between 1,000 and 1,100, and the floatplane began losing altitude. As they neared the coast, Paul reported: 'A body of 30 men with Maxim gun apparently waiting for seaplane's return, as not noticed on outward journey. They did not hit us though they fired at us while within range, although at the time the plane was only at 200 meters.'

Cintré managed to land the damaged floatplane short of Rabenfels, which quickly steamed up and hoisted them aboard. Captain Todd, as senior observer, commented in his final report: 'One cannot but comment on the coolness and skill of the pilot Lieutenant de V Cintré. Indeed, on this his maiden voyage as a pilot, the only one on board, his flying has been admirable. This with his cheeriness, which is unfailing, made him a most desirable companion.'

Shortly before their return, Rabenfels had been joined by the French pre-dreadnought Saint Louis. That afternoon Cintré and Todd attempted to direct the ship's fire onto camps near Gaza using smoke signals – the floatplanes lacked wireless. Both available Nieuports suffered engine problems and could not gain sufficient height. A morning attempt on 12 April proved more successful. Cintré and Todd directed Saint Louis' 138.6mm broadside guns onto the Gaza camps. 'I was able to confirm the observations made during my reconnaissance,' Todd wrote. 'After the ship first fired, the camps swarmed with men scattering for cover in all directions. There could not have been less than 12,000 to 15,000.'

A Nieuport floatplane being towed away from the ship
prior to starting up

Rabenfels sailed for Port Said that evening, arriving just after dawn on 13 April. Cintré was subsequently awarded the Distinguished Service Cross for the Beersheba flight – one of several DSCs and Distinguished Service Medals earned by French naval aviators operating with the Royal Navy in 1915.

This article is adapted from Floatplanes Over The Desert by Ian M. Burns, available HERE from Little Gully Publishing, a small press specializing in Gallipoli and the First World War in the Middle East. Little Gully offers firsthand accounts, new histories, and quality reissues. 

"She Was Glorious"—The Pre-Sinking History of RMS Lusitania

First Class Dining, RMS Lusitania

Inception

The Liverpool-based shipping company Cunard ordered the R.M.S. Lusitania and its sister ship, the R.M.S. Mauretania, in 1902. Lusitania was built by the shipyard of John Brown & Co. in Scotland. For Cunard, the two ocean liners had a shared purpose: to restore Britain’s dominance in the transatlantic passenger travel industry by beating its German (and, to a lesser degree, American) competition. To build the Lusitania and Mauretania, Cunard secured a £2.6 million, low-interest subsidy from the British government (in today’s currency, that’s about £300 million). Cunard also received an annual operating subsidy of £75,000, or about £8.6 million today, for each ship, and a contract worth £68,000 each, or £7.8 million today, to transport mail. The ships were designed to accommodate 563 first-class, 464 second-class, and 1138 third-class passengers, plus 802 crew.

As another part of the loan arrangement, Cunard guaranteed that both ships would be able to cruise at a speed of at least 24.5 knots (about 28 mph). That would make the Lusitania and Mauretania faster than the speediest German liners, which could run just over 23 knots. To meet this challenge, Cunard installed four steam turbine engines, each with its own screw propeller, a first for ocean liners. The new technology in the Lusitania required “68 additional furnaces, six more boilers, 52,000 square feet of heating surface, and an increase of 30,000 horsepower.”

An Arrival in New York

The Very Best Accommodations

The ship was promoted as a "floating palace," featuring a two-story dining salon, a veranda café, a smoking room, electric lighting, and elevators. First class passengers enjoyed lavish suites. Each class of passenger accommodation featured dining rooms, smoking rooms, ladies’ lounges, nurseries, and other public spaces. They ranged in opulence from plush Georgian and Queen Anne styles in the first-class compartments to plain but comfortable in third class. The Lusitania was also the first ocean liner to have elevators, as well as a wireless telegraph, telephones, and electric lights.

Onboard dining included dozens of dishes at each seating for the most discerning Edwardian gastronomes. A luncheon menu from January 1908 suggested appetizers like potted shrimps, omelette aux tomates, lamb pot pie, and grilled sirloin steak or mutton chops. A variety of cold meats—Cumberland ham, roast beef, boiled ox tongue, boar’s head, and more—was served next. For dessert, guests could nibble on fancy pastry, compote of prunes and rice, cheeses, fruits, and nuts.

First Class Sleeping Accommodation 

Prewar Operations

On 7 September 1907, the Lusitania departed Liverpool on its maiden voyage enroute to New York with a stop in Queenstown (now Cobh), Ireland. “She presented an impressive picture as she left with her mighty funnels and brilliant illuminations,” the Manchester Courier and Lancashire General Advertiser reported. “Throughout the day there was a continuous stream of sightseers on board, and the departure was witnessed by about 200,000 people.” 

Cunard desperately wanted to win back the Blue Riband, an unofficial title for the fastest average time on a crossing of the Atlantic Ocean, from the German superliners. Bad weather prevented the Lusitania from reaching its top speed on the first try, but on the voyage from 6–10 October 1907, the ship reached an average speed of 23.99 knots, breaking the Germans' record. She soon became known as the "Greyhound of the Seas."

Lusitania's popularity would grow throughout her early service. The ship provided a combination of unmatched speed and reliability, an ever-growing reputation for safety, luxury, and comfort, and the gold star status for its passengers of having traveled on the world's most stylish and fastest ocean liner.

R.M.S. Lusitania would complete 101 round-trip voyages (202 crossings) between Liverpool and New York, between 1907 and 1915.

How the Ship Would Have Looked During the War

Wartime Service

Instead of being fully converted into a military vessel, Lusitania continued when war broke out to operate as a luxury passenger liner to maintain passenger, mail, and trade routes between Great Britain and the neutral United States. Sister ship Mauritania, meanwhile, did perform unambiguous military service as a transport vessel for Canadian troops and as a hospital ship. 

Nevertheless, the Lusitania was registered as an armed auxiliary cruiser with the British Admiralty, designed for quick conversion if needed. While never officially fitted with guns, she was modified with hidden cargo spaces for ammunition, additional compass platforms, cranes, and dark paint to mask her funnels

One major controversy broke out during her wartime operations. At times its captains ordered the American flag to be flown to deter submarine attacks. British diplomats, naturally, defended the practice, while their American counterparts strongly disagreed, as expressed in a 10 February 1915 memorandum:

Assuming that the foregoing reports are true, the Government of the United States, reserving for future consideration the legality and propriety of the deceptive use of the flag of a neutral power in any case for the purpose of avoiding capture, desires very respectfully to point out to His Britannic Majesty’s Government the serious consequences which may result to American vessels and American citizens if this practice is continued.

At some point, the Lusitania began carrying war contraband. While long denied, on its final voyage, Lusitania carried 4.2 million rounds of Remington .303 rifle ammunition, 18 cases of fuses, and 125 cases of shrapnel shells. Presumably, the last voyage was not the first occasion of this practice. Of course, the public was never made of aware of any of this activity.

Departing Lusitania Passengers of 1 May 1915
Most Likely Perished During the Sinking

The Passengers at Wartime

Early-war travel on Lusitania was not without excitement, although U-boats were not yet a consideration. When war broke out in Europe, Lusitania was under way for Europe. One voyager aboard later described arriving from America in the war zone: 

When we arrived off the Welsh coast at night we had a sterner omen of strife, for searchlights from the shore were constantly played on us. But there was no apparent anxiety among the passengers, since that was before the days of submarine ” frightfulness,” and we docked safely.

By 1915, however, the passengers were quite conscious of the U-boat danger. Californian Will Irwin was aboard a February 1915 eastbound trip.

The “state of war” begins, in fact, at the pier. This was no common sailing of an Atlantic liner, anyone could see that with half an eye. There was much excitement in the crowd which came to bid us goodbye, much emotion expressed and suppressed. Wives clung emotionally to their husbands; a few women, blinded by their tears, refused to wait to see us off, but ran away down the pier before the deckhands drew up the gangplank.

Journalist Charles Edward Russell described the passengers' mindset on an April 1915  crossing:

Nobody talks about submarines, battleships nor sunken vessels. By some secret psychology the whole subject is dropped. Also we bear ourselves with an elaborate unconcern. But one thing betrays us. At dinner there is some crash of machinery somewhere below, and half the company jump up breathless. Tension–we all feel it.

Multiple Warnings

Cunard and the passengers and crew of RMS Lusitania received multiple warnings regarding the danger of German submarine attacks before its departure on 1 May 1915, though the final attack in the Irish Sea would come without warning from the captain of U-20. Public warnings from the German Embassy in Washington D.C. were published in newspapers as early as 22 April. On the day the Lusitania departed New York, another notice was published in 50 American newspapers warning that vessels flying the British flag were liable to destruction and that travelers on these ships did so at their own risk reminding them that "vessels flying the flags of the Allies are liable to destruction in the war zone around the British Isles." 

When the Lusitania sailed on 1 May it had aboard 1,210 passengers. A number of the passengers received telegrams at the pier, signed by names unknown to them and presumed to be fictitious, advising them not to sail as the liner was to be torpedoed by submarines. Among the persons who received such a telegram was Alfred G. Vanderbilt. He destroyed the message without comment.  Overall, though, the Cunard office received only a typical number of last-minute cancellations.

The first six days of her last crossing were typically uneventful for the passengers. However, Captain William Turner received at least three specific warnings from the British Admiralty regarding submarine activity ahead in the area off the southern coast of Ireland.

Where the Last Voyage Would End

Then the World Changed

In the early afternoon of 7 May, able seaman Leslie Morton began his scheduled watch at 2 p.m. He later  told the BBC:

It was a beautiful day; the sea was like glass. And as we were going to be in Liverpool the next day, everybody felt very happy. We hadn’t paid a great deal of attention to the threats to sink her because we didn’t think it was possible. . . Ten past two, I saw a disturbance in the water, obviously the air coming up from a torpedo tube. And I saw two torpedoes running toward the ship, fired diagonally across the course. The 'Lucy' was making about 16 knots at the time. I reported them to the bridge with a megaphone, we had torpedoes coming on the starboard side. And by the time I had time to turn round and have another look, they hit her amidships between No. 2 and 3 funnels.

Last Photograph of the Lusitania

We have a number of articles on the sinking  of RMS Lusitania and the event's influence on America's march to war HERE. 

Sources for this article:  The Liverpool National Museum; Mental Floss, 3 May 2022; Office of the Historian, Department of State; Gare Maritime

Remembering Maj. (ret) J.H.G. Corrigan MBE, FRHistS, FRAS: Soldier, Historian, TV Star, Lecturer, and Battlefield Tour Leader

By James Patton

I've just learned that Gordon Corrigan passed away 26 February. Although we were personally acquainted, as I was with him on one of his tours, I was neither a friend nor a colleague. However, for convenience’s sake, I am going to take the liberty of herein calling him Gordon. 

Born in 1942, Gordon was educated first at the Royal School, Armagh, in Northern Ireland, and commissioned from Sandhurst in 1962. He then served in the British Army until 1998; most of his field service was with the 6th (Queen Elizabeth's Own) Gurkha Rifles. The Gurkhas took him to Hong Kong, Borneo, Berlin, Cyprus, Belize, and Belfast. Not an academically trained historian, he nevertheless published 11 excellent books about historical subjects, ranging from the years 1337 to 1945. 

The Soldier

Later, with his droll wit apparent, he wrote about how he became a historical writer. “I was well aware that working for a civilian would get me sacked in the first week, probably for telling the boss that he was incompetent or corrupt or both, so whatever I did I had to be self-employed. As there is not a great call for the skills of killing people and blowing things up in civilian life, at least not if one wishes to stay inside the law, I calculated that the only things that I knew a great deal about, and which might earn me a living, were horses and history. As working with horses is a recipe for going bust [he had been involved in horse racing in Hong Kong] … it had to be history. I thought I could write … and while I was still serving I sat down each evening and bashed out what became my first published book, Sepoys in the Trenches, about the Indian Corps on the Western Front…  It sold well for a niche market work, but there was no advance and it made me little money…” Sepoys did make some ripples in the pond of WWI literature, and he was able to sell his next work Wellington: A Military Life (2001), about Sir Arthur Wellesley, which began Gordon’s life-long interest in the duke. His big splash came next with Mud, Blood and Poppycock – Britain and the First World War (2003), which became a UK non-fiction  best seller, with 10,000 hard back sales and  90,000 in  paperback, still in print and also available in audio books and Kindle. Other works followed: Loos 1915: The Unwanted Battle (2005), Blood, Sweat and Arrogance (2006), The Second World War: A Military History (2010), A Great and Glorious Adventure: The Hundred Years War (2013), Waterloo: A New History (2014), Haig: Defeat into Victory (2015), England Expects: The Battle of Sluys (2016) and The Battle of Stalingrad (2022). 

Gordon's Bestseller, Still Available HERE

Quoting Gordon again: “I got into television purely by accident, when David Chandler, Britain’s leading Napoleonic scholar, had a stroke and recommended me as his replacement–have a dinner party and you can bore ten people, write a book and bore ten thousand, get on telly and bore millions. . . I enjoy TV and I do not find it difficult, and nor would anyone who has been a soldier and spent most of his life speaking on the hoof [one of his outstanding traits was his ability to go off-script], but fortunately the makers of TV films do think it is difficult and pay accordingly.” His television appearances included The Gurkhas (BBC 1995), Battlefield Detectives (History Channel 2003-6), Tanks! (PBS 2004), Great British Commanders (Syndicated—The Conqueror’s Series 2005 ) and Napoleon’s Waterloo (BBC 2015). He has 14 lectures available online, including a series on the current Russia-Ukraine War. Also in the online world, he ran a blog. He also delivered hundreds of in-person or Zoom lectures, in both the UK and the USA, as well as on Silver Sea Cruises and Golden Eagle Rail Journeys. 

The Battlefield Guide

Although over the years  I have reconnected with Gordon through his lectures for the Western Front Association and by following his blog, Foremost though, I will remember him because of my aforementioned tour. About tour leading, Gordon wrote “My  books have … earned me respectable amounts—but still not enough to keep a hunter [horse], a decent wine cellar and a wife, so other sources of income had to be found. Shortly after leaving the army I began to conduct battlefield tours: fairly modest ones at first, to the Western Front, Normandy, Waterloo and the like, but which repertoire expanded to include Slovenia (Lt Rommel’s hunt for the Pour Le Mérite), India (the Mutiny, the Mahratta and Mysore Wars), Pakistan, Nepal, North Africa, Tunisia and, of course, Spain and Portugal for the Peninsular War. Battlefield tours are hard work. There is not just the requirement to carry huge amounts of information in one’s head (I try to avoid using notes) but the constant questions and the need to be sociable in the evenings.” Among other operators, he was a stalwart tour leader for Holts and later The Cultural Experience. He led dozens of tours in France, Belgium, Germany, Italy, Slovenia, Holland, Spain, Portugal, India, Nepal, Pakistan, Egypt, Libya, Tunisia, and even the USA. As a tour leader, he was energetic, fascinating, and fun.

My most memorable Gordon Corrigan story is from my tour with him. Since he was a former jungle soldier, he was comfortable with topo maps. He found a track that would cut driving  time off of our trip, but after we had gone a few miles it started to narrow. Gordon was urging the driver onward, even appealing to his national pride, but after a few miles he refused to go farther. There was nothing for it; the bus would have to back out, and instead of saving time it was going to cost time—a lot of it. Gordon proposed continuing on foot. He  again consulted his map and sussed out a course that most of us could hike. The tour manager was tasked with calming the hysterical Italian bus driver, and it was set for the two groups to reunite at the CWGC Granezza cemetery. 

A Discovery on One of Gordon's Tours

So off we went, at a brisk pace, as befitting Gordon. Two events on that trek stand out. First, we found what appeared to be an un-detonated artillery shell that was mostly buried in the ground. We decided to leave it in situ. Then we saw a man-made depression that Gordon told us to avoid, as it was not a trench, but a “waste pit” (not his exact wording). We got a quick, off-the-cuff lecture on battlefront “waste” management. We rejoined the bus group as planned, and by accident found a monument to Lieut. Col. James M. Knox DSO(2) (1878–1918) and his 143rd (Warwicks) Brigade. It turned out, as it often seems on British tours, that said Lt. Col. Knox was a relative of a tour member, who had not known that this monument existed. 

Gordon rose to a respected position in the historian ranks: a Fellow of the Royal Historical Society, an Honorary Research Fellow of the Universities of Birmingham and Kent, and a Member of the British Commission for Military History. And, of course, there is his MBE.  I’ve  known only two MBEs in my lifetime.

The Historian

This is my favorite Gordon Corrigan quote, taken from his autobiographic statement: “Someone once said that he who fails to study history is doomed to repeat it. I prefer to compare history to map reading—how do you know where you are if you don’t know where you’ve been, and how do you know where you are going if you don’t know where you are?”

  Requiescat in pace, Gordon 

• Source of Quotes: https://gordoncorrigan.substack.com/p/ramblings-of-a-military-historian 
• Read about his funeral here: https://everesttimes.net/archives/63156  (pay no attention to the Gurkhali)