Dead Wake (43 page)

Moreover, Schwieger had overestimated the ship’s speed. He calculated 22 knots when in fact the ship was moving at only 18. Had he gauged the speed correctly and timed his shot accordingly, the torpedo would have struck the hull farther back, amidships, possibly with less catastrophic effect and certainly with the result that the many crew members killed instantly in the luggage room would have survived to assist in launching the lifeboats. The steam line might not have failed. If Turner had been able to keep the ship under power, he might have made it to Queenstown, or succeeded in beaching the ship, or even leveraged its extraordinary agility to turn and ram U-20.

However, it also seems likely that if the
Lusitania
had not been so visibly crippled Schwieger might have come back for a second shot.

Really the only good piece of luck that Friday was the weather. The water was preternaturally calm, the day sunny and warm. Even a modest sea would have swept survivors from their floating oars and boxes and planks of wood, and likely swamped overloaded lifeboats. At one point, survivor Ogden Hammond’s boat had seventy-five people aboard; its gunnels were only 6 inches above the water. The benign conditions of the day saved scores of lives, if not hundreds.

F
OR SEVERAL DAYS AFTER THE SINKING
, W
ILSON SAID
nothing about it in public. He stuck to his routines. He golfed on the Saturday morning after the attack, took a drive that afternoon, went to church on Sunday morning. During a conversation in his study, Wilson told his secretary, Joe Tumulty, that he understood his cool response might trouble some people. “
If I pondered over those tragic items that daily appear in the newspapers about the
Lusitania
, I should see red in everything and I am afraid that when I am called upon to act with reference to this situation I could not be just to anyone. I dare not act unjustly and cannot indulge my own passionate feelings.”

Sensing that Tumulty did not agree, Wilson said, “I suppose you think I am cold and indifferent and little less than human, but my dear fellow, you are mistaken, for I have spent many sleepless hours thinking about this tragedy. It has hung over me like a terrible nightmare. In God’s name, how could any nation calling itself civilized purpose so horrible a thing.”

Wilson believed that if he went then to Congress to ask for a declaration of war, he would likely get it. But he did not think the nation was truly ready for that kind of commitment. He told Tumulty, “Were I to advise radical action now, we should have nothing, I am afraid, but regrets and heartbreaks.”

In fact, apart from a noisy pro-war faction led by former
president Teddy Roosevelt, much of America seemed to share Wilson’s reluctance. There was anger, yes, but no clear call to war, not even from such historically pugnacious newspapers as the
Louisville Courier-Journal
and
Chicago Tribune
. In Indiana, newspapers serving smaller communities urged restraint and support for the president, according to one historian’s study of Indiana’s reaction to the disaster. The state’s “six- and eight-page dailies and the weekly journals were practically of one mind in their hope for peace.” Petitions arrived at the White House counseling caution. The Tennessee State Assembly voted a resolution expressing confidence in Wilson and urging the state’s residents “to refrain from any intemperate acts or utterances.” The Louisiana Legislature voted its support as well and warned that the crisis at hand “calls for coolness, deliberation, firmness and precision of mind on the part of those entrusted with the power of administration.” The students of Rush Medical College in Chicago weighed in, all signing a petition expressing “confidence in the sagacity and patience of our President” and urging him to continue his policy of neutrality. Dental students at the University of Illinois took time out to do likewise.

German popular reaction to the sinking of the
Lusitania
was exultant. A Berlin newspaper declared May 7 “
the day which marked the end of the epoch of English supremacy of the seas” and proclaimed: “The English can no longer protect trade and transport in their own coastal waters; its largest, prettiest and fastest liner has been sunk.” Germany’s military attaché in Washington told reporters that the deaths of the Americans aboard would at last show the nation the true nature of the war. “
America does not know what conditions are,” he said. “You read of thousands [of] Russians or Germans being killed and pass it over without qualm. This will bring it home to you.”

W
ILSON KEPT SILENT
until Monday evening, May 10, when he traveled to Philadelphia to give a previously scheduled speech before four thousand newly minted citizens. He had seen Edith
that afternoon, and by the time he reached Philadelphia was still roiled in the emotional after-sea of that encounter. In his speech he talked of the importance of America as a force for instilling peace in the world and of the need for the nation to stand firm even in the face of the
Lusitania
tragedy. He used an outline, not a fixed text, and improvised as he went along, not the best approach given his emotional state. “
There is such a thing as a man being too proud to fight,” he told his audience. “There is such a thing as a nation being so right that it does not need to convince others by force that it is right.”

These were lofty sentiments, but that phrase “too proud to fight” struck a dull chord. America did not want to go to war, but being too proud to fight had nothing to do with it. A pro-war Republican, Sen. Henry Cabot Lodge, called it “
probably the most unfortunate phrase that [Wilson] had ever coined.”

Wilson told Edith he had spoken while in an emotional haze caused by his love for her. In a letter composed Tuesday morning, he wrote, “
I do not know just what I said at Philadelphia (as I rode along the street in the dusk I found myself a little confused as to whether I was in Philadelphia or New York!) because my heart was in such a whirl from that wonderful interview of yesterday and the poignant appeal and sweetness of the little note you left with me; but many other things have grown clear in my mind.”

All that Tuesday, Wilson worked on a protest he planned to send to Germany about the
Lusitania
. Typing on his Hammond portable, he sought to find the right tone—firm and direct, but not bellicose. By Wednesday evening, he was done. He wrote to Edith, “
I have just put the final touches on our note to Germany and now turn—with what joy!—to talk to you. I am sure you have been by my side all evening, for a strange sense of peace and love has been on me as I worked.”

Wilson sent the note over the objection of Secretary of State Bryan, who felt that to be truly fair and neutral, the United States should also send a protest to Britain, condemning its interference in trade. Wilson declined to do so. In his note he mentioned not just the
Lusitania
but also the
Falaba
and the death of Leon
Thrasher, the bombing of the
Cushing
, and the attack on the
Gulflight
. Citing what he called “
the sacred freedom of the seas,” he described how submarines, when used against merchant vessels, were by their nature weapons that violated “many sacred principles of justice and humanity.” He asked Germany to disavow the attacks, to make necessary reparations, and to take steps to ensure that such things did not happen in the future. But he was careful also to note the “special ties of friendship” that had long existed between America and Germany.

Wilson’s protest—the so-called First
Lusitania
Note—was the initial salvo in what would become a two-year war of paper, filled with U.S. protests and German replies, made against a backdrop of new attacks against neutral ships and revelations that German spies were at work in America. Wilson did all he could to keep America neutral in action and in spirit, but Secretary Bryan did not think he tried hard enough, and resigned on June 8, 1915. His resignation brought universal condemnation, with editors comparing him to Judas Iscariot and Benedict Arnold. The Goshen, Indiana,
News-Times
said, “
The Kaiser has awarded the Iron Cross for less valuable service than that rendered by Mr. Bryan.” In a letter to Edith Galt,
Wilson himself described Bryan as a “traitor.” He replaced him with the department’s number two man, Undersecretary Robert Lansing, who by this time had come to long for war.

Wilson had cause for cheer, however. In a letter dated June 29, 1915, Edith at last agreed to marry him. They wed on December 18, 1915, in a simple ceremony at the White House. Late that night the couple set out on their honeymoon, traveling by private railcar to Hot Springs, Virginia. They had chicken salad for a late supper. As the train pulled into the station early the next morning, Wilson’s Secret Service man Edmund Starling happened to look into the railcar’s sitting room and, as Starling later wrote, saw “
a figure in top hat, tailcoat, and gray morning trousers, standing with his back to me, hands in his pockets, happily dancing a jig.”

As Starling watched, Wilson, still oblivious to his presence,
clicked his heels in the air, and sang, “Oh, you beautiful doll! You great big beautiful doll!”

G
ERMANY
’
S
U-
BOAT
campaign waxed and waned, in step with the rising and falling influence of factions within its government that favored and opposed submarine warfare against merchant ships. Kaiser Wilhelm himself expressed a certain repugnance for attacks on passenger liners. In February 1916, he told fleet commander Admiral Scheer, “
Were I the Captain of a U-boat I would never torpedo a ship if I knew that women and children were aboard.” The next month, Germany’s most senior advocate of unrestricted warfare, State Secretary Alfred von Tirpitz, resigned, in frustration. This brought a sympathy note from an odd quarter—Britain’s former First Sea Lord, Jacky Fisher. “
Dear Old Tirps,” he wrote. He urged Tirpitz to “cheer up” and told him, “You’re the one German sailor who understands War! Kill your enemy without being killed yourself.
I don’t blame you for the submarine business
. I’d have done the same myself, only our idiots in England wouldn’t believe it when I told ’em. Well! So long!”

He signed off with his usual closing, “Yours till hell freezes, Fisher.”

That June, 1916, the Kaiser issued an order forbidding attacks against all large passenger ships, even those that were obviously British. He went on to order so many restrictions on how and when U-boat commanders could attack ships that the German navy, in protest, suspended all operations against merchant vessels in British waters.

But the
Lusitania
remained a point of conflict. President Wilson’s protests failed to generate a response he deemed satisfactory—much to the delight of Britain’s director of naval intelligence, Blinker Hall, who argued that any delay in resolving the
Lusitania
situation was “
advantageous to the Allied cause.”

Kapitänleutnant Schwieger did his part to worsen relations between America and Germany. On September 4, 1915, in the midst
of a patrol during which he sank ten steamships and one four-masted bark, he torpedoed the passenger liner
Hesperian
, killing thirty-two passengers and crew.

The
Hesperian
was clearly outbound, on its way to New York, and thus unlikely to be carrying munitions or other contraband. Among its cargo was the corpse of a
Lusitania
victim, Frances Stephens, a wealthy Canadian at last being transported home to Montreal.

W
ILSON WON
reelection in 1916. He played golf nearly every day, often with the new Mrs. Wilson. They even played in snow: Secret Service man Starling painted the golf balls red to improve visibility. They routinely took drives through the countryside, a pastime Wilson adored. Marriage buoyed his spirits and eased his loneliness. Like the previous Mrs. Wilson, Edith became a trusted counselor, who listened to drafts of his speeches, critiqued his various notes to Germany, and now and then offered advice.

Outside the White House, Wilson’s many notes to Germany and their replies became the target of wry humor, as when one editor wrote: “
Dear Kaiser: In spite of previous correspondence on the subject another ship with American citizens on board has been sunk. Under the circumstances we feel constrained to inform you, in a spirit of utmost friendliness, that a repetition of the incident will of necessity require the dispatch of another note to your majesty’s most estimable and peace-loving government.”

As late as December 1916, Wilson believed he could still keep America neutral and, further, that he might himself be able to serve as a mediator to bring about a peace accord. He was heartened, therefore, when that winter Germany stated it might consider seeking peace with Britain, under certain conditions. Britain dismissed the overture out of hand, describing it as a German attempt to declare victory, but to Wilson it offered at least the hope that future negotiations could take place. Germany’s ambassador to America, Count Johann-Heinrich von Bernstorff, reinforced Wilson’s optimism,
signaling that Germany was indeed willing to engage in discussions toward peace.

But Bernstorff tended to be more optimistic than facts warranted and possessed only a limited grasp of a new and dramatic change in his own government’s thinking.

I
N
G
ERMANY
, a paradoxical shift was under way. Even as its leaders seemed to be maneuvering toward peace, the camp within the government that favored all-out submarine warfare gained ground. These were military officials who now sought authority to sink
all
merchant ships entering the war zone, neutral or otherwise—even American vessels. The shift was driven in part by the enthusiasm of the German public, who, dismayed by the carnage of the trenches, had come to see the U-boat as a miracle weapon—a
Wunderwaffe
—that if deployed for total war would quickly force Britain to her knees. This coincided with a fundamental change in German naval thinking, in which Schwieger and U-20 played an important role.