Hedworth Westerling would have said twenty to one if he had been asked
the odds against war when he was parting from Marta Galland in the hotel
reception-room. Before he reached home he would have changed them to ten
to one. A scare bulletin about the Bodlapoo affair compelling attention
as his car halted to let the traffic of a cross street pass, he bought a
newspaper thrust in at the car window that contained the answer of the
government of the Browns to a despatch of the Grays about the dispute
that had arisen in the distant African jungle. This he had already read
two days previously, by courtesy of the premier. It was moderate in
tone, as became a power that had three million soldiers against its
opponent's five; nevertheless, it firmly pointed out that the territory
of the Browns had been overtly invaded, on the pretext of securing a
deserter who had escaped across the line, by Gray colonial troops who
had raised the Gray flag in place of the Brown flag and remained
defiantly in occupation of the outpost they had taken.
As yet, the Browns had not attempted to repel the aggressor by arms for
fear of complications, but were relying on the Gray government to order
a withdrawal of the Gray force and the repudiation of a commander who
had been guilty of so grave an international affront. The surprising and
illuminating thing to Westerling was the inspired statement to the press
from the Gray Foreign Office, adroitly appealing to Gray chauvinism and
justifying the "intrepidity" of the Gray commander in response to
so-called "pin-pricking" exasperations.
At the door of his apartment, François, his valet and factotum, gave
Westerling a letter.
"Important, sir," said François.
Westerling knew by a glance that it was, for it was addressed and marked
"Personal" in the premier's own handwriting. A conference for ten that
evening was requested in a manner that left no doubt of its urgency.
"Let me see, do I dine at the Countess Zalinski's to-night?" asked
Westerling. Both François and his personal aide kept a list of his
appointments.
"Not to-night, sir. To-night you--" said François.
"Good!" thought Westerling. "No excuses will be necessary to Marie in
order to be at the premier's by ten."
Curiosity made him a little ahead of time, but he found the premier
awaiting him in his study, free from interruption or eavesdropping.
In the shadow of the table lamp the old premier looked his years. His
definite features were easy material for the caricaturist, who does not
deal in halftones. A near view of them was not attractive. They had the
largeness which impresses the gallery from the floor of a parliamentary
chamber, where delicate lines of sensibility and character lack the
quality which the actor supplies with his make-up. As is often the case
with elderly statesmen, his face seemed like that of the crowd done
boldly as a single face, while his shrewd eyes in a bed of crow's-feet,
when they lighted to their purpose in confidence, expressed his
understanding of the crowd and its thoughts and how it may be led.
From youth he had been in politics, ever a bold figure and a daring
player, but now beginning to feel the pressure of younger men's elbows.
Fonder even of power, which had become a habit, than in his twenties, he
saw it slipping from his grasp at an age when the 'downfall of his
government meant that he should never hold the reins again. He had been
called an ambitious demagogue and a makeshift opportunist by his
enemies, but the crowd liked him for his ready strategy, his genius for
appealing phrases, and for the gambler's virtue which hitherto had made
him a good loser.
"You saw our _communiqué_ to-night that went with the publication of the
Browns' despatch?" he remarked.
"Yes, and I was glad that I had been careful to send a spirited
commander to that region," Westerling replied.
"So you guess my intention, I see." The premier smiled. He picked up a
long, thin ivory paper-knife and softly patted the palm of his hand with
it. "We have had many discussions, you and I, Westerling," he said. "But
to-night I'm going to ask categorical questions. They may take us over
old ground, but they are the questions of the nation to the army."
"Certainly!" Westerling replied in his ready, confident manner.
"We hear a great deal about the precision and power of modern arms as
favoring the defensive," said the premier. "I have read somewhere that
it will enable the Browns to hold us back, despite our advantage of
numbers. Also, that they can completely man every part of their frontier
and that their ability to move their reserves rapidly, thanks to modern
facilities, makes a powerful flanking attack in surprise out of the
question."
"Some half-truths in that," answered Westerling. "One axiom, that must
hold good through all time, is that the aggressive which keeps at it
always wins. We take the aggressive. In the space where Napoleon
deployed a division, we deploy a battalion to-day. The precision and
power of modern arms require this. With such immense forces and
present-day tactics, the line of battle will practically cover the
length of the frontier. Along their range the Browns have a series of
fortresses commanding natural openings for our attack. These are almost
impregnable. But there are pregnable points between them. Here, our
method will be the same that the Japanese followed and that they learned
from European armies. We shall concentrate in masses and throw in wave
after wave of attack until we have gained the positions we desire. Once
we have a tenable foothold on the crest of the range the Brown army must
fall back and the rest will be a matter of skilful pursuit."
The premier, as he listened, rolled the paper-knife over and over,
regarding its polished sides, which were like Westerling's manner of
facile statement of a programme certain of fulfilment.
"We can win, then? We can go to their capital, or far enough to force a
great indemnity, the annexation of one of their provinces, perhaps, and
the taking over of their African colonies, which we can develop so much
better than they?"
Westerling took care to show none of the eagerness which had set his
pulses humming.
"To their capital!" he declared decisively. "Nothing less. For that I
have planned."
"And the cost in lives?"
"Five or six hundred thousand casualties, which means about a hundred
thousand killed."
"Ghastly! The population of a good-sized city!" exclaimed the premier.
"A small percentage out of five million soldiers; a smaller out of
eighty million population," Westerling returned.
"And how long do you think the war would last? How long the strain on
our finances, the suspense to the markets?"
"About a month. We shall go swiftly. The completeness of modern
preparation must make a war of to-day brief between two great powers. We
must win with a rush, giving the defenders no breathing spell, pouring
masses after masses upon the critical positions."
"How long will it take to mobilize?"
"Less than a week after the railroads are put entirely at our service,
with three preceding days of scattered movements," answered Westerling.
"Deliberate mobilizations are all right for a diplomatic threat that
creates a furore in the newspapers and a depression in the stock-market,
but which is not to be carried out. When you mean war, all speed and the
war fever at white heat."
"Therefore, there would be little time for the public to hoard money or
to provoke a panic. The government, knowing precisely what was before
it, could take severe preventive measures."
"But I may say that we should strike before mobilization is complete. A
day will be required to take the La Tir tangent and other outlying
positions. The 128th and other regiments who will do this work are
already at the front. They were chosen because they came from distant
provinces and we can count on their patriotic fervor for brilliant and
speedy action, with resulting general enthusiasm for the whole army,
which will be up in time for the assault on the Browns' permanent
defences."
"You would have made a good politician, Westerling," the premier
remarked, with a twitching uplift of the brows and a knowing gleam in
his shrewd old eyes.
"Thank you," replied Westerling, appearing flattered, though secretly
annoyed that any one should think that a chief of staff could care to
change places with any man in the world. Governments might come and go,
but the army was the rock in the midst of the play of minor forces, the
ultimate head of order and power. "A man who is able to lead in anything
must be something of a politician," he said suavely.
"Very true, indeed. Perhaps I had that partly in mind in making you
vice-chief of staff," responded the premier enjoyably. "You spoke of the
war fever at white heat," he went on, returning to his muttons, "and of
the army's enthusiasm for its work. There we come to the kernel in the
nut, eh?" he asked, as he prodded the paper-knife into the palm of his
hand.
"Drill, organization, discipline, and centralized authority and a
high-spirited aristocracy of officers are most important," said
Westerling. "But after that come morale and the psychology of the
soldier." There he shrugged slightly, in indication of a resentment at
the handicap of human nature in his work. "The business of a soldier is
to risk death in the way he is told. The keener he is for his cause the
better. An ideal soldier is he who does not think for himself, but
observes every detail of training and will not stop until halted by
orders or a bullet. Therefore we want the army hot with desire. The
officers of a company cannot force their men forward. Without
insubordination or mutiny the men may stop from lack of interest after
only a very small percentage of loss."
"Lack of interest!" mused the premier. But Westerling, preoccupied with
the literal exposition of his subject, did not catch the flash of
passing satire before the premier, his features growing hard and
challenging, spoke in another strain: "Then it all goes back to the
public--to that enormous body of humanity out there!" He swung the
paper-knife around with outstretched arm toward the walls of the room.
"To public opinion--as does everything else in this age--to the people!
I have seen them pressing close, about to remove me from power, and I
have started a diversion which made them forget the object of their
displeasure. I have thought them won one day, and the next I realized
that they were going against me. Thank Heaven for the brevity of their
memory, or we leaders would be hung high by our own inconsistencies! He
who leads sees which way they will go, rushes to the head of the
procession, discovers them to themselves and turns a corner and they
follow, thinking that they are going straight to the point. But always
they are there, never older, never younger, never tiring--there, smiling
or scowling or forgetting all about you, only to have a sudden fierce
reminder overnight to surprise you--and our masters, yours and mine! For
no man can stand against them when they say no or yes."
"You know the keys to play on, though," remarked Westerling with a
complimentary smile. "No one knows quite so well."
"I ought to," replied the premier. "That was the purpose of the
semi-official _communiqué_ about Bodlapoo, which, of course, we can
repudiate later, if need be. I saw that the brilliant forced march of
our commander had excited popular enthusiasm. It does not matter if he
were in the wrong. Will race feeling rise to the pitch of war from this
touchstone with the proper urging? Of course, the impulse must come from
the people themselves. We must seem to resist it, the better to arouse
it." He bent the paper-knife into a bow with fingers that were rigid.
"Times are hard, factions are bitter, our cabinet is in danger, with
economic and political chaos from overpopulation in sight," he
continued. "We hunger for land, for fresh opportunities for development.
An outburst of patriotism, concentrating every thought of the nation on
war!--is that the way out?"
Westerling had only answered questions so far. Here was his cue for
argument.
"We were never so ready," he said. "War must come some time. We should
choose the moment, not leave it to chance. The nation needs war as a
stimulant, as a corrective, as a physician. We grow stale; we think of
our domestic troubles. The old racial passions are weakening and with
them our virility. Victory will make room for millions in the place of
the thousands who fall. The indemnity will bring prosperity. Because we
have had no war, because the long peace has been abnormal, is the reason
you have all this agitation and all these strikes. They will be at an
end. Those who are fit to rule will be in power."
"And you are sure--sure we can win?" the premier asked with a long,
tense look at Westerling, who was steady under the scrutiny.
"Absolutely!" he answered. "Five millions against three! It's
mathematics, or our courage and skill are not equal to theirs
Absolutely! We have the power, why not use it? We do not live in a dream
age!"
The premier sank deeper in his chair. He was silent, thinking. He who
had carried off so many great coups with rare ease was on the threshold
of one that made them all seem petty. He had heard random talk that some
of the officers of the staff considered Westerling to be lath painted to
look like steel. There was a reported remark by Turcas, his assistant,
implying that the ability to achieve a position did not mean the ability
to fill it. Jealousy, no doubt; the jealousy of rivals! The premier
himself was used to having members of his own cabinet ever on the watch
for the vulnerable spot in his back, which he had never allowed them to
find. Yet, there was the case of Louis Napoleon. He had the ability to
achieve a position; he had been the lath painted to look like steel. He
had all the externals which the layman associates with victory until he
went to the supreme test, which ripped him into slivers of rotten wood.
The little Napoleon had been one of the premier's favorite bugaboo
examples of stage realism tried out in real life. But it was ridiculous
to compare him with the stalwart figure sitting across the table, who
had spoken the language of materialism without illusion.
Westerling's ambition on edge communicated itself to the premier, whose
soft hands, long since divorced from any labor except official
hand-shaking and the exercise of authority, were bending the paper-knife
with unconscious vigor.
"All the achievements of power form only a dull background for victory
in war to a people's imagination!" he exclaimed. "Your name and mine to
symbolize an age! What power for us! What power for the nation!"
From a sudden, unwitting exertion of his strength the knife which had
been the recipient of his emotions snapped in two. Rather carefully he
laid the pieces on the table before he rose and turned to Westerling,
his decision made.
"If the people respond with the war fever, then it is war!" he said. "I
take you at your word that you will win!"
Westerling's chair creaked with the tense drawing of his muscles in the
impulse of delight. He had gained the great purpose; but there was
another and vital one on his programme.
"A condition!" he announced. "From the moment war begins the army is
master of all intelligence, all communication, all resources. Everything
we require goes into the crucible!"
"And the press--the mischievous, greedy, but very useful press?" asked
the premier.
"It also shall serve; also obey. No lists of killed and wounded shall be
given out until I am ready. The public must know nothing except what I
choose to tell. I act for the people and the nation."
"That is agreed," said the premier. "For these terrible weeks every
nerve and muscle of the nation is at your service to win for the nation.
In three or four days I shall know if the public rises to the call. If
not--" He shook his head.
"While all the information given out is provocative to our people, you
will declare your hope that war may be averted," Westerling continued.
"This will screen our purpose. Finally, on top of public enthusiasm will
come the word that the Browns have fired the first shot--as they must
when we cross the frontier--that they have been killing our soldiers.
This will make the racial spirit of every man respond. Having decided
for war, every plan is worthy that helps to victory."
"It seems fiendish!" exclaimed the premier in answer to a thought
eddying in the powerful current of his brain. "Fiendish with
calculation, but merciful, as you say."
"A fast, terrific campaign! A ready machine taking the road!"
Westerling declared. "Less suffering than if we went to war carelessly
for a long campaign--than if we allowed sentiment to interfere with
intellect."
"I like your energy, your will!" said the premier admiringly. "And about
the declaration of war? We shall time that to your purpose."
"Declarations of war before striking, by nations taking the aggressive,
are a disadvantage," Westerling explained. "They are going out of
practice. Witness the examples of Japan against Russia and the Balkan
allies against Turkey. In these days declarations are not necessary as a
warning of what is going to happen. They belong to the etiquette of
fencers."
"Yes, exactly. The declaration of war and the ambassador's passports
will be prepared and the wire that fighting has begun will release
them," agreed the premier. "Another thing," he added, "there is the
question of the opinion of the world as represented by The Hague and the
peace societies. This government has always expressed sympathy with
their ideas."
"Naturally," Westerling put in. "We shall use hand-grenades, explosives
from dirigibles, every known power of destruction. So will the Browns,
you may be sure. In such a cataclysm we shall have no time for niceties.
The peace societies will have hardly formulated their protests to The
Hague before the war is over. Our answer will be our victory--the power
that goes with the prestige of unconquerable force. Victory, nothing but
victory counts!"
Westerling was speaking by the book, expressing the ideas that he had
again and again rehearsed as a part of the preparation, the eternal
preparation for the sudden emergency of war, which is the duty of the
staff. So letter-perfect was he in his lines that a layman might have
scouted his realization of the enormousness of his responsibility.
"Yet if we did lose! If when I had given you all you ask your plans
went wrong! If our army were broken to pieces on the frontier and then
the nation, kept in ignorance of events, learned the truth"--the premier
enunciated slowly and pointedly while he locked glances with
Westerling--"that is the end for us both. You would hardly want to
return to the capital to face public wrath!"
"We must win though we lose a million men!" he answered. "I stake my
life!" he cried hoarsely, striking his fist on the table.
"You stake your life!" repeated the premier with slow emphasis.
"Bravado hardly becomes a chief of staff. His place is not under fire,"
Westerling explained. "However, I mean to make my headquarters at La
Tir, immediately we have taken it, for the effect of having the leader
of the army promptly established on conquered territory."
"I understand that," replied the premier. "But still you stake your
life? That is the greatest thing a man has to stake. You stake your life
on victory?" he demanded fiercely.
"I do!" said Westerling. "Yes, my life. We cannot fail!"
"Then it will be war, if the people want it!" said the premier. "I shall
not resist their desire!" he added in his official manner, at peace with
his conscience.