Fall of Giants

Walter was full of hope; but he knew that the grounds for optimism were slight, and he wanted to play down his excitement. The news he had for Gus was positive, but only just. “The kaiser is writing to the president,” he said.

“Good! What is he going to say?”

“I have seen a draft. I’m afraid the tone is not very conciliatory.”

“What do you mean?”

Walter closed his eyes, remembering, then quoted: “ ‘The most formidable war in history has been raging for two and a half years. In that conflict, Germany and her allies have given proof of our indestructible strength. Our unshakable lines resist ceaseless attacks. Recent events show that continuation of the war cannot break our resisting power…’ There’s a lot more like that.”

“I see why you say it’s not very conciliatory.”

“Eventually it gets to the point.” Walter brought the next part to mind. “ ‘Conscious of our military and economic strength and ready to carry on to the end, if we must, the struggle that is forced upon us, but animated at the same time by the desire to stem the flow of blood and bring the horrors of war to an end’-here comes the important part-‘we propose even now to enter into peace negotiations.’ ”

Gus was elated. “That’s great! He says yes!”

“Quietly, please!” Walter looked around nervously, but it seemed no one had noticed. The sound of the string quartet muffled their conversation.

“Sorry,” Gus said.

“You’re right, though.” Walter smiled, allowing his feeling of sanguinity to show a little. “The tone is arrogant, combative, and scornful-but he proposes peace talks.”

“I can’t tell you how grateful I am.”

Walter held up a warning hand. “Let me tell you something very frankly. Powerful men close to the kaiser who are against peace have supported this proposal cynically, merely to look good in the eyes of your president, feeling sure the Allies will reject it anyway.”

“Let’s hope they’re wrong!”

“Amen to that.”

“When will they send the letter?”

“They’re still arguing about the wording. When that is agreed, the letter will be handed to the American ambassador here in Berlin, with a request that he pass it to the Allied governments.” This diplomatic game of pass-the-parcel was necessary because enemy governments had no official means of communication.

“I’d better go to London,” Gus said. “Perhaps I can do something to prepare for its reception.”

“I thought you might say that. I have a request.”

“After what you’ve done to help me? Anything!”

“It’s strictly personal.”

“No problem.”

“It requires me to let you into a secret.”

Gus smiled. “Intriguing!”

“I would like you to take a letter from me to Lady Maud Fitzherbert.”

“Ah.” Gus looked thoughtful. He knew there could be only one reason for Walter to be writing secretly to Maud. “I see the need for discretion. But that’s okay.”

“If your belongings are searched when you are leaving Germany or entering England, you will have to say that it is a love letter from an American man in Germany to his fiancée in London. The letter gives no names or addresses.”

“All right.”

“Thank you,” Walter said fervently. “I can’t tell you how much it means to me.”

{V}

There was a shooting party at Tŷ Gwyn on Saturday, December 2. Earl Fitzherbert and Princess Bea were delayed in London, so Fitz’s friend Bing Westhampton acted as host, and Lady Maud as hostess.

Before the war, Maud had loved such parties. Women did not shoot, of course, but she liked the house full of guests, the picnic lunch at which the ladies joined the men, and the blazing fires and hearty food they all came home to at night. But she found herself unable to enjoy such pleasure when soldiers were suffering in the trenches. She told herself that one couldn’t spend one’s whole life being miserable, even in wartime; but it did not work. She pasted on her brightest smile, and encouraged everyone to eat and drink heartily, but when she heard the shotguns she could only think of the battlefields. Lavish food was left untouched on her plate, and glasses of Fitz’s priceless old wines were taken away untasted.

She hated to be at leisure, these days, because all she did was think about Walter. Was he alive or dead? The battle of the Somme was over, at last. Fitz said the Germans had lost half a million men. Was Walter one of them? Or was he lying in a hospital somewhere, maimed?

Perhaps he was celebrating victory. The newspapers could not quite conceal the fact that the British army’s major effort for 1916 had gained a paltry seven miles of territory. The Germans might feel entitled to congratulate themselves. Even Fitz was saying, quietly and in private, that Britain’s best hope now was that the Americans might join in. Was Walter lounging in a brothel in Berlin, with a bottle of schnapps in one hand and a pretty blond fräulein in the other? I’d rather he was wounded, she thought, then she felt ashamed of herself.