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Canaris, the head of German Military Intelligence who was with him when the news came through, watched as he pounded his fists on a marble table, his face contorted with anger, shouting that he would ‘cook them a stew they’ll choke on’.2 At around noon, Hitler began the speech everyone was waiting for. Wilhelmshaven’s main square had been decked out Nuremberg-style with flags and banners. Reporters in the press area noticed something they had not seen before at such events. Hitler was standing behind a curved glass screen, apparently designed to protect him from an assassin’s bullet.
His speech was long and disjointed, now soft, now hard, swinging between cajolery and bluster. Its main theme, though, was Britain, or ‘England’ as Germans chose to call it. The change of heart in London amounted to a declaration of enmity. Instead of staying on the sidelines as Hitler had hoped, Britain, its army and above all its navy would now have to be counted in the forces arrayed against his plans for European domination.
He started by reopening an old wound. He reminded the crowd that during the last war the British had ‘systematically’ encircled Germany, imposing a ‘hunger blockade’ that had resulted in hundreds of thousands of deaths. Now, by blocking her efforts to reclaim her historic territories, she was seeking to do so again. Germany, he warned, was ‘not going to put up in the long run with a policy of intimidation or … of encirclement’.
The warning was reinforced by a threat aimed at the British navy – which had enforced the wartime blockade. Only four years before, Britain and Germany had agreed a naval pact that limited the size of the German fleet. It had been based, he said, ‘on the fervent desire we all possess never to go to war with England’. He went on: ‘If this wish no longer exists in England, then the practical condition for this agreement is removed.’ The German people would be ‘quite content to put up with this. We are so sure of ourselves because we are so strong and we are strong because we are united.’3
The speech ended in a volley of ‘sieg heils’. Hitler was driven away to board a launch which sped out into the sparkling waters of Jade Bay, carrying him to the battle cruiser Scharnhorst, which had gone into service less than three months before and seemed to embody all the power and vigour of the new order. There he was met by Erich Räder, carrying the baton which marked his promotion that day to the rank of Grossadmiral – the highest pinnacle of the naval hierarchy.
At 2.30 p.m. they sat down to eat flanked by admirals and generals, past and present. The exaltation that flooded through Hitler during great public performances had subsided and he appeared subdued. ‘He arrived, saluted, sat down, spoke to his neighbours and disappeared as he had arrived,’ wrote Ulrich von Hassell* in his diary. ‘He said not a word to any of the old officers, nor did he even look them in the eye.’4
Erich Räder with grossadmiral’s baton
After lunch Hitler was ferried to another ship, the Robert Ley, a large liner that took party loyalists on holiday cruises. He stayed on board throughout Sunday, while the ship tacked back and forth in the waters off Wilhelmshaven, escorted by Scharnhorst and a pair of destroyers. To amuse the Führer, Räder at one point ordered the battle cruiser to steer directly at the liner, only swerving away at the last minute.5
These carefree activities seemed calculated to demonstrate Hitler’s lack of concern at the new international developments. Whether he understood their full import for the navy he was reviewing was open to question. Naval matters played a subordinate role in Hitler’s military calculations, an attitude he did not bother to disguise. He was a soldier not a sailor. Throughout the time at Wilhelmshaven he had worn a brown greatcoat and tunic, the colour of the Flanders mud he had fought in bravely which stood out against the navy blue and gold braid of the attendant admirals. He came from landlocked Austria and was often seasick on his occasional voyages aboard the state yacht Grille.
Grossadmiral Räder, though, was disturbed by the turn that events had taken. He had been born sixty-three years before in Hamburg, the son of a devoutly Christian teacher, and entered the Naval College at Kiel at eighteen. It was the Dreadnought era when great battleships, bristling with guns and laden with armour plating, were the peak of naval power and prestige. He fought the British at Dogger Bank and Jutland and stayed on in the navy, serving the Weimar Republic loyally. In 1928 he was appointed Commander-in-Chief of the Kriegsmarine.
Räder kept his distance from Hitler until he came to power. His first impression of him was favourable. Hitler seemed to him ‘an outstanding personality with a real claim to leadership’.6 He had gained the Führer’s confidence and, once the strategic decisions had been taken, been given a free hand and a generous budget to build up the navy. Hitler had been presented with two choices for his navy. The first proposed a cheap, light, flexible force, centred on submarines and the small but powerfully armed long-range cruisers that the British had nicknamed ‘pocket battleships’. This plan had no pretensions to challenging Britain as a naval power but carried great potential to harm her. The second was to build a big fleet of modern surface ships that would establish Germany as a world maritime force. He had chosen the grandiose option, with Räder’s approval. The result was ‘Plan-Z’, which had been finally agreed by Hitler only two months before. It envisaged a fleet with ten battleships at its core and four aircraft carriers to provide the air power that was becoming a vital adjunct of naval operations. Supporting them would be fifteen pocket battleships, over a hundred cruisers and destroyers and an underwater strength of more than 250 U-boats.
A force of this size would take up to ten years to build. The plan had been designed on the assumption, reinforced by frequent assurances from Hitler, that a war with Britain was still well over the horizon. Only four years before, the two countries had signed the Anglo-German Naval Agreement, mentioned by Hitler in his speech. Germany agreed to limit its surface shipbuilding programme to 35 per cent of the British fleet. In submarines, it was permitted 45 per cent of the Royal Navy’s tonnage, with a clause allowing it to rise to parity in special circumstances. The deal was negotiated in a friendly atmosphere. Historically, both sides had felt respect for one another. When the commander of the British Fleet at Jutland, Lord Jellicoe, died in November 1935, Räder ordered all German warships to fly their flags at half-mast.
A confrontation with the Royal Navy had seemed a distant prospect when Plan Z was being worked out. Now, with Chamberlain’s guarantee to the Poles, it loomed suddenly and alarmingly into view. Räder’s exalted title scarcely reflected the might of his fleet. As he waved his landlubber leader off at the end of his Wilhelmshaven jaunt, he knew very well that he had limited assets with which to face the coming crisis.
The German fleet that spring had only two big ships in service – the battle cruisers Scharnhorst and Gneisenau, both displacing 32,000 tons.* There was a heavy cruiser, the 14,000-ton Admiral Hipper, which would be joined in the coming year by two ships of the same class, the Blücher and the Prinz Eugen. Three pocket battleships were in commission, the Deutschland, Admiral Graf Spee and Admiral Scheer. Despite displacing only 12,000 tons, they packed heavy firepower in their six 11-inch guns. Of the four planned aircraft carriers only one, the Graf Zeppelin, had been laid down, but years of work remained. As for submarines, about fifty would be ready for operations by the end of the summer.
In numerical terms, this was a tiny force when compared with the Royal Navy. It could muster twelve battleships with five more on the way, four battle cruisers, six aircraft carriers with another six building, and twenty-four heavy cruisers. It was only below the waves that numbers were equal.
But strength was not measured in numbers alone. The qualitative difference between the two fleets went a long way towards correcting the quantitative imbalance. The core of the German fleet was modern, whereas many of the British ships dated back to the previous war and only some of them had been updated. The new ships in the pipeline were inferior to their German counterparts. Britain, it would often be lamented in the years to come, had played the game when it came to honouring the various limitations agreements it had entered into in the inter-war