R.F.C. H.Q. 1914-1918 [Illustrated Edition]

Maurice Baring

• Publisher: Tannenberg Publishing
• Year: 2015
• eBook ISBN: 9781786255235
• Topic: History
• Subtopic: British History
• Index: History

Includes Aerial Warfare During World War I Illustrations Pack with 115 maps, plans, and photos.
"Maurice Baring made an unlikely soldier but during the First World War, at the age of forty, he obtained a commission and became Private Secretary to Hugh Trenchard, Commander of the Royal Flying Corps in France, and, later on, creator of the Royal Air Force. Drawn from letters and diaries, Baring describes the momentous war years that forged the flying services. The embryo RAF was lucky to have such an observant and eloquent chronicler of its early years.
General Foch said 'There never was a Staff Officer in any country, in any century like Major Maurice Baring'.
When first published in 1920, it was hailed 'as one of the few war books that will survive'."-Print ed.

PART I. — 1914

CHAPTER I — “ALSO DOCH!“

May-August, 1914.

IN May, 1914, I was travelling in Russia with a Russian friend of mine. When we reached Warsaw station, where you not only used to change, but where the railway itself continued on a different gauge, my friend talked of the military and strategical causes of this change of gauge, of further railway changes that were contemplated, and from this the talk veered to the European situation.

We talked of the Entente, of the Balkan situation, of the Russian army, of the German army, of the policy of the German Government, and my friend developed at some length his views on the European situation, and as to what would happen in the immediate future in the Balkans and elsewhere.

At one moment I interrupted him and said: “But if you are right in your diagnosis of the situation a European war is inevitable.”

“I think there will be a European war,” my friend answered, “this year.”

Then we talked of other things. We parted company at Moscow. He went north, and I went south; and I did not give a thought to this conversation till some weeks later. I went to the country; and the European situation faded from my mind.

That was the first inkling of the possibility of an immediate war which appeared on the horizon of my consciousness.

I entirely forgot it during the whole of the month of June, which I spent in peaceful solitude in the centre of Russia, undisturbed and unvisited by any newspapers.

The second inkling I had of the possibility of war was at the Friedrichstrasse station at Berlin, where I arrived on June Both at six o’clock in the morning from Russia. I bought a newspaper, and there printed in black letters, isolated, and taking the whole front page, was the sinister news that the Archduke Ferdinand had been assassinated. I stayed at the Hotel Bristol and saw several acquaintances, Russians and others, and they all seemed to think the news was exceedingly serious, but when I arrived in London the whole population appeared to be thoughtless and gay, and rumours of war were forgotten. Nevertheless, every now and then one was reminded of the small cloud which refused to dissipate on the horizon. One was vaguely conscious that it was there.

In London the first startling thing I recollect was the Austrian Ultimatum to Serbia; I forget on which day that was published in London, but I remember placards in the Strand bearing the ominous headline “TO HELL WITH SERBIA.” and about the same time meeting a man in the street who said that somebody in the Foreign Office had told him that Austria did not mean business, and that there would be no war. I remember going to the Russian Embassy, where the impression was different.

My first idea was that the War might possibly be limited to the Balkan States. A Slav War, a War between Austria and the Balkan Principalities. It was difficult to see that Russia would not be dragged into this, but a Slav War of some kind seemed to be a certainty. Basing themselves on that hypothesis, or rather on what seemed to be that certainty, some friends of mine had the idea of organising a Red Cross Unit which should go to Serbia. We looked about for an available doctor to take charge of this Unit. On Tuesday, July 21st, I went to talk to a doctor who lived in Vincent Square, and proposed to him that he should take charge of this Unit. I have forgotten his name. He was not an Englishman. When I suggested to him that he should go to Serbia, he said he would gladly go to war on the Austrian side. “But,” I objected, “in a week’s time we shall be at war with Austria, because if Germany comes into the war Austria is bound to be on the same side as Germany.” “Perhaps,” he said, “you have special information?” I said I had no special information, but it seemed to me purely a matter of common sense. “Whether England is dragged into the War or not,” he answered, “depends entirely on Russia.”

The conversation lasted two hours, going round and round in a vicious circle, the doctor repeatedly saying he was willing to go to Austria but not to Serbia, and therefore it came to nothing, as I was equally convinced that, should a war come about, there would be no question of being on the Austrian side.

The next thing that I remember was that I determined to go to Russia. The difficulty was how to get there. The Empress Marie was in England, and was going home to St. Petersburg. I obtained leave to travel in her train. Her train was to start finally, after the journey had been put off once or twice, on Saturday, August 1st. In the meantime the political situation was obscure. Was England coming into the War or was she not? In this week of turmoil two occasions stand out with startling vividness in my mind. One was a ball given at the Savoy Restaurant, and one was an evening at the Russian Opera at Drury Lane. I cannot remember the date of either of these occasions, but both of them could be placed if one took the trouble to refer to the newspapers of the time. At the ball I had supper at the table at which, together with Lady Diana Manners and Claud Russell, there was a young German. I did not know then and I have never since ascertained his name. That evening in the newspapers there had been accounts of the excitement in Berlin of crowds shouting “Down with Serbia!” and “Hoch, England!” At our table Claud Russell asked the German (who seemed a pleasant young man) why the crowd in Berlin had shouted “Hoch, England!” The German said that he supposed the reason was that the people there thought that England would remain neutral during the war. I remember saying to him that the German people would have a rude shock of disappointment, as I felt certain that we should come in, but as a matter of fact I was being, from our point of view, a great deal too optimistic.

The night at the Russian Opera I imagine to have been Friday night July 14th, or possibly Monday July 20th. Chaliapin was singing. I went with some friends. We had a box. They had invited Mr. Lloyd George, who was anxious to hear this Russian music. Mr. Lloyd George arrived rather late, and a lady, who was sitting in the box next to ours, who was handsome and formidable and covered with jewels, made a demonstration of protest at the arrival of the Minister by standing up in the box, turning her chair round with her back to him and stamping it on the floor, and then sitting down, with a stiff, forbidding cast-iron, inflexible, uncompromising back to him.

On Friday night, July 31st, I dined at the Russian Embassy. Count Benckendorff took me aside after dinner and advised me not to go in the Empress’s train to Petrograd. I should arrive, he said, if we did not go into the war, at a moment of terrific disappointment and disillusion, and the situation might be unpleasant. He advised me not to risk this.

On Saturday morning (August 1st) there was, I remember, an atmosphere of great hopelessness about the situation. In the afternoon I went down to the North of England and remained there till Monday morning. On Monday morning I was much frightened by the tone of the press in the North of England. So far from there being any enthusiasm for the war, there seemed to be a strong and decided feeling against it. The question still seemed to be regarded as a lot of fuss about Serbia. Nobody seemed to realise the fundamental facts of the situation.

On the journey back there was a German woman in the restaurant car. She cried without stopping.

I arrived in London late on Monday evening. That afternoon Sir Edward Grey made his famous statement in the House of Commons which changed the whole situation. One began to breathe freely. England was not going to make, so one hoped, the great refusal.

The events of the next week are in my mind a crowded chaos, dark with the shadow of an intolerable nightmare.

I remember going to the House of Commons and hearing Mr. Asquith’s statement, and late in the night in St. James’ Street meeting someone who told me that we were at war with Germany.

He reminded me of Moltke saying, when the news of the final declaration of hostilities in 1870 was brought to him, “Also, doch.”

I went to bed with those words ringing in my ears, “Also, doch.” On Wednesday morning the news of the war was in the newspapers.

From that moment I was absorbed by the thought of how to get to the war. There were two possibilities, to go to Russia or to go out with the British Expeditionary Force; the second alternative, which was the more attractive was by far the more difficult.

I went to see Sir David Henderson at the War Office. He was then Director of Military Training, and a very old friend of mine. I had known him since 1897.

I told him I wanted to go to France as an interpreter. I said I knew seven modern languages, and he said he would send in my name officially stating that I knew four or five languages. He said he would do what he could, but he thought that if I were taken I would be employed in an office at home. I was convinced I could be of little use in an office, and I thought I could be of positive use at the front in France, as I could speak the language fluently, and knew the habits of the French.

General Henderson held out slender hopes, and he made me no empty promises, but he told me to hope for the best.

I remember walking past a post office one morning during this week in Southampton Street when somebody who was walking with me said: “They are putting up wire on the buildings against Zeppelins. The first night there is a south-east wind the Zeppelins will be over.”

There was an oppressive feeling of nightmare abroad. Everybody was discussing whether the war would be long or short. “Are the Germans mad?” someone said, “or have they invented some new powerful explosive which will destroy the world?” Most people seemed to think the war would be a short one. Some people said: “We ought to send no troops to France, but only help with the Navy.”

The question of Lord Kitchener’s return was being discussed everywhere.

I went to the City. A rumour was about, which proved to be untrue, that Germany had declared war on Italy. A man in the City said to me: “It would be very curious if Germany had to fight the whole world and won. It is the sort of thing that does happen in history.” This remark made me profoundly uneasy.

I remember an evening with the streets crowded with people, and a sullen roar that rose and fell every now and then from the crowds cheering the King outside Buckingham Palace.

A man, slightly intoxicated, in evening clothes, waving a flag, made a speech on the top of a taxi in Trafalgar Square. I met a few friends in the crowd outside Buckingham Palace. The crowd was cheering the King, and all this was like a sultry, oppressive dream. As day succeeded day I grew more and more doubtful as to my prospects of getting to France with the British Expeditionary Force, and my hopes were finally dashed by getting a letter from Sir David Henderson saying my name had been put on the waiting list. I thought of the Russian alternative, and someone advised me to go and see Sir Hanbury Williams, who was going to Russia.

I did this, and he said he was willing to take me to Russia. I told him I had already applied to Sir David Henderson, and that if Sir David were able and willing to take me I would go with him, otherwise I would gladly go to Russia.

And then, suddenly, on Saturday, August 8th, when I had given up all hopes of going to France, I got a note from General Henderson at 6 o’clock in the afternoon saying I was to go to France with him, and telling me to report at the War Office next morning.

It was too late to get any uniform, as the shops were shut; but I had already with some foresight ordered some khaki on which it was only necessary to put badges of rank in order to make it into a kind of uniform.

Early the next morning (Sunday, August 9th) I went to the War Office for orders. There I saw Major Salmond, Colonel MacDonough, and various other officers belonging to the Intelligence, and I signed a paper and was informed I was a Lieutenant in the Intelligence Corps attached to Headquarters R.F.C. They told me I must not communicate with the Press. I went to Downing Street to say good-bye. The news of a great battle in Alsace had been received, in which the casualties on either side were said to be between 13,000 and 15,000. The French were said to have gained the victory. This news was apparently believed.{1} Everybody was still discussing whether the war would be a long war or a short war. Most people seemed inclined to think it would be a short war.

My uniform was far from satisfactory. Six people endeavoured to put on my putties; none of them were entirely successful, except finally in the evening, Sir David Henderson. In the afternoon various people came to No. 32 Queen Anne’s Gate, where I was living. Among others Conrad Russell. He was in the Yeomanry, and was mobilised but was not going to France. He said it was unfair that he and Bron Lucas, who had been in the British Army for over seven years, should not be going to France whereas I, who had not been in the Army at all, was going off at once. “We are now,” he said, “both of us two little cog wheels in an enormous machine, and if scraps of dust get on to us we retard the working of the machine.” We talked of the Germans. “We must be careful of one thing,” I said. “Not to be made prisoners, for in that case the Germans will kick us on the head.”

“How can you,” he answered, “you, who know the Germans well and have lived in Germany, talk such rubbish?”

Major Salmond came to fetch me after dinner at 9 o’clock at 32 Queen Anne’s Gate, and we started in a motor to Farnborough. We slept in the Queen’s Hotel, in a billiard room which was full of officers.

CHAPTER II — FARNBOROUGH TO MAUBEUGE VIA “PORT B.”

August, 1914.

THE next morning I got up at half-past five, and went into a remote and secluded part of the country to put on my putties at my leisure. This, although a long operation, was not entirely successful as, when it was finished, they were so tightly bound I could scarcely walk, but I did not dare undo them again.

We had breakfast, and after breakfast Captain Long-croft arrived, and we three started off as an advance party to make arrangements for the arrival of the Flying Corps in France. But at the time I knew nothing. I did not know where we were going nor what we were going to do. I only knew we were bound for Port B., but even this was not referred to. I did not exactly know who these officers were. I knew that we were connected with the Flying Corps, and that was all. I did not know what the Flying Corps was or that there was a Flying Corps. Colonel Sykes came to see us off at Farnborough Station.

Salmond’s canvas bath was discarded from his ...

Table of contents

• Title page
• TABLE OF CONTENTS
• DEDICATION
• PART I. - 1914
• PART II. - 1915
• PART III - 1916
• PART IV - 1917
• PART V - 1918