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World War I Centennial: Schlieffen Is Dead, but His Plan Lives On

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The First World War was an unprecedented catastrophe that killed millions and set the continent of Europe on the path to further calamity two decades later. But it didn’t come out of nowhere. With the centennial of the outbreak of hostilities coming up in 2014, Erik Sass will be looking back at the lead-up to the war, when seemingly minor moments of friction accumulated until the situation was ready to explode. He’ll be covering those events 100 years after they occurred. This is the 51st installment in the series. (See all entries here .)

January 4, 1913: Schlieffen Is Dead, but His Plan Lives On

On January 4, 1913, Count Alfred von Schlieffen, the architect of Germany’s plan of attack on France, died in bed of natural causes at the age of 79—thus missing, by just 19 months, the flawed implementation of his flawed plan, and the ensuing failure of the German offensive in the west. Born to the wife of a Prussian general on February 28, 1833, Schlieffen joined the Prussian army in 1854 and served for 51 years, including service in the wars that unified Germany in 1866 and 1870. Considered a brilliant strategist and military theorist, he was appointed chief of the German general staff in 1891, and immediately began work on the Schlieffen Plan, which would be the object of obsessive, single-minded effort for the rest of his life, continuing through his “retirement” in 1905 until his death; his last revisions were completed on December 28, 1912. The Schlieffen Plan was essentially a surprise attack on northern France through Belgium, which would allow the Germans to do an end run around the impregnable line of fortresses built by the French along the Franco-German border after their defeat in 1870 (including Verdun, Toul, Epinal and Belfort). In Schlieffen’s vision, seven armies containing almost 1.5 million troops would be divided into two wings of uneven strength. While the smaller southern (left) wing defended Germany’s border with France, the larger northern (right) wing would advance through Belgium and Luxembourg into France along a broadening front, wheeling southwest towards Paris, with the westernmost army skirting the English Channel and encompassing Chartres. With any luck, the French would concentrate their troops along the Franco-German border and engage the German left wing with an eye to regaining the former French provinces of Alsace-Lorraine, lost to Germany in 1871; as the French were busy with the left wing, the right wing would pivot through northern France to complete a massive encirclement, closing the trap behind them. Schlieffen modeled his strategy on Hannibal’s destruction of the Roman armies at Cannae: “The enemy’s front is not the objective. The essential thing is to crush the enemy’s flanks … and complete the annihilation by attack upon his rear.” The whole thing would be over in six weeks—just enough time for Germany to redeploy its troops to the east to fight France’s main ally, Russia, which would probably take longer to mobilize its forces. The plan obviously disregarded the neutrality of Belgium and Luxembourg (and the Netherlands, in an early version), raising the possibility of intervention by Britain, which had guaranteed Belgian neutrality in 1839. But Schlieffen dismissed the small British army as a negligible quantity, and was confident that in any event Germany could defeat France before the British arrived. The most important thing was to avoid the nightmare scenario of a war on two fronts, and this meant finishing off France before Russia could mobilize, which in turn meant violating Belgian neutrality. The Schlieffen Plan reflected the scientific rationalization of warfare over the course of the 19th century, with a special focus on rail transportation, which played a central role in getting troops to the combat zone; indeed, strategy was based to a large degree on railway timetables, including how long it took to board troops, move them a certain distance, disembark them, and then send the train back to get another load—with thousands of trains operating simultaneously and hopefully avoiding traffic jams. Once armies were in the field, the speed of attack depended on how many (old-fashioned) roads were available to accommodate marching columns of troops, as well as how wide these roads were, the presence of bottlenecks, and so on. A large part of Schlieffen’s task, pursued obsessively over two decades, was simply mastering these myriad logistical issues. Although Schlieffen was venerated by many German officers, his plan also had its critics. Friedrich von Bernhardi, commander of the XVII Army Corps, criticized it as “mechanistic,” and Sigismund von Schlichting, the retired commander of the XIV Army Corps, called it “formalistic and schematic.” Both criticisms reflected the resentment of field commanders who stood to lose much of their freedom of action in Schlieffen’s excruciatingly detailed plan. Meanwhile, Count Gottlieb von Haeseler, commanding general of the XVI Army Corps, warned that the plan was too ambitious: “You cannot carry away the armed strength of a Great Power like a cat in a sack.” In fact, Schlieffen had his own doubts about the plan. For one thing, he was never actually able to make it work: after all the train scheduling, road analyzing, and related number crunching were done, he still foresaw “considerably weakened” German forces facing “more numerous” French forces, probably occupying strong defensive positions along the Marne River east of Paris. To surmount this final obstacle he figured he needed another eight army corps, around 200,000 men, in the westernmost armies—but there wasn’t any room for these troops on the trains and roads between Germany and France, already filled to capacity in his plan. In his “Great Memorandum” setting forth his plan in 1905, Schlieffen admitted that there was no solution to this dilemma: “Make these preparations how we may, we shall reach the conclusion that we are too weak to continue operations in this direction. We shall find the experience of all earlier conquerors confirmed, that a war of aggression calls for much strength and also consumes much, that this strength dwindles constantly as the defender’s increases, and all this particularly so in a country which bristles with fortresses.” In other words, the German offensive would probably peter out somewhere in the vicinity of Paris—which is exactly what happened in 1914. Incredibly, the German general staff seems to have simply ignored this all-important caveat. To make matters worse, Schlieffen’s successor as chief of the general staff, Helmuth von Moltke (“the Younger”) wasn’t convinced of the need for such an overwhelming concentration of German strength in the right wing, and also feared a French victory over the weak left wing. Whereas Schlieffen’s original plan called for a ratio of 7:3 in the relative strengths of the right wing and left wing, in Moltke’s modified version of the plan the ratio was reduced to 5:3, with 580,000 men in the right wing’s First and Second Armies, and 345,000 in the left wing’s Sixth and Seventh Armies. Thus Schlieffen’s final words to Moltke on his deathbed—“Keep the right wing strong”—were in vain. See all installments of the WWI Centennial series here.
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Wikipedia/Public Domain
Civilian Researchers Discover Wreckage of the USS Indianapolis
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Wikipedia/Public Domain

On July 30, 1945, the cruiser USS Indianapolis sank in the Pacific Ocean after it was torpedoed by the Imperial Japanese Navy submarine I-58. More than 70 years after the historic naval tragedy— which claimed the lives of nearly 900 crew—The New York Times reports that the ship’s mysterious final resting place has been found.

The discovery came courtesy of a team of civilian researchers, led by Microsoft co-founder Paul Allen. His state-of-the-art research vessel, Petrel, located the wreck 18,000 feet below the Pacific’s surface, the team announced on Saturday, August 19.

"To be able to honor the brave men of the USS Indianapolis and their families through the discovery of a ship that played such a significant role in ending World War II is truly humbling,” Allen said in a statement. “As Americans, we all owe a debt of gratitude to the crew for their courage, persistence, and sacrifice in the face of horrendous circumstances."

Before it sank, the USS Indianapolis had just completed a top-secret mission to a naval base on the Northern Mariana island of Tinian. After delivering enriched uranium and components for Little Boy— the atomic bomb that the U.S. would drop on the Japanese city of Hiroshima about a week later—the cruiser forged ahead to Guam, and then to the Philippines. It was supposed to meet the battleship USS Idaho at Leyte Gulf in the Philippines to prepare to attack Japan.

The USS Indianapolis never made it to Leyte Gulf. Shortly after midnight on July 30, the Japanese submarine I-58 spotted the cruiser and fired six torpedoes. The USS Indianapolis—which was hit twice—sank within 12 minutes. Around 300 to 400 sailors and Marines were killed in the attack; the rest were stranded in the Pacific Ocean for several days.

Many of these survivors would ultimately lose their lives to sharks, a grisly scene that would be famously (albeit semi-accurately) recounted in the 1975 movie Jaws. Others died from drowning, heat stroke, thirst, burns and injuries, swallowing salt water or fuel oil, and suicide. More than 300 crew members were rescued after a bomber pilot accidently sighted the imperiled men while on a routine antisubmarine patrol.

The mass tragedy—which wouldn’t be announced to the public until August 15, 1945—sparked controversy: Charles B. McVay III, captain of the USS Indianapolis, was found guilty in a court martial of failing to steer the ship on a “zigzag” course to elude Japanese submarines. A Japanese submarine captain testified that this precautionary measure wouldn’t have thwarted the enemy, but McVay was charged nonetheless. The captain died by suicide in 1968, and wouldn’t be officially exonerated by the Navy until 2001.

For decades, the remains of the USS Indianapolis were lost to the ravages of time and nature. But in 2016, naval historian Richard Hulver found a historic ship log that mentioned a sighting of the USS Indianapolis. Allen’s search team used this information to locate the ship, which was west of where experts assumed it had gone down.

Allen’s crew took pictures of the wreckage, including a piece of its hull, and will search for more of the ship. They plan to keep the exact location of the USS Indianapolis a secret, however, to honor the sunken ship as a war grave.

"While our search for the rest of the wreckage will continue, I hope everyone connected to this historic ship will feel some measure of closure at this discovery so long in coming,” Allen said.

[h/t The New York Times]

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The Time That Dean Martin and Jerry Lewis Opened Competing Restaurants on the Sunset Strip
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Getty Images

From 1946 to 1956, Dean Martin and Jerry Lewis were show business supernovas. With an act that combined singing, slapstick, and spontaneous hijinks, the duo sold out nightclubs coast to coast, then went on to conquer radio, television, and film. Long before Elvis and The Beatles came along, Dean and Jerry  were rock stars of comedy.

Offstage, there was a cordial but cool friendship between the laidback Martin and the more neurotic Lewis. But as the pressures of their success increased, so did the tensions between them. Martin grew tired of playing the bland romantic straight man to Lewis’s manic monkey boy. And when Lewis started to grab more headlines and write himself bigger parts in their movies, Martin decided to quit the act. In an angry moment, he told Lewis that he was “nothing to me but a f**king dollar sign.”

After the split, both men went on with their individual careers, though it took Martin a few years before he regained his footing. One of his ventures during that transitional period was a Hollywood eatery called Dino’s Lodge.


In the summer of 1958, Martin and his business partner, Maury Samuels, bought a controlling interest in a restaurant called The Alpine Lodge, at 8524 Sunset Boulevard. They hired Dean’s brother Bill to manage the place, and renamed it Dino’s Lodge.

Outside they put up a large neon sign, a likeness of Dean’s face. The sign turned into a national symbol of hip and cool, thanks to appearances on TV shows like Dragnet, The Andy Griffith Show, and most prominently, in the opening credits of 77 Sunset Strip.

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Dino’s Lodge was popular from the get-go, serving home-style Italian food and steaks in an intimate, candlelit, wood-paneled room meant to replicate Martin’s own den. In the first year, Dean himself frequented the place, signing autographs and posing for photos with starstruck diners. He also occasionally brought along famous friends like Frank Sinatra and Shirley MacLaine. To promote the idea of the swingin’ lifestyle that Martin often sang about, Dino’s served “an early morning breakfast from 1 to 5 a.m.” The restaurant also had a lounge that featured singers, though only females. Dean apparently didn’t want any male vocalists encroaching on his turf.

But as with many a celebrity venture into the food business, this one soon turned sour. And most of that was due to the jealousy of Jerry Lewis.


In late 1961, Lewis wooed Martin’s business partner Maury Samuels away, ponied up some $350,000, and opened his own copycat restaurant three blocks down Sunset. It was called Jerry’s. To make it clear he was out for top billing, Lewis had his own likeness rendered in neon, then mounted it on a revolving pole 100 feet above his restaurant. In contrast to Dino’s Italian-based menu, Jerry’s would serve “American and Hebrew viands.” Lewis didn’t stop there. Within a few months, he’d hired away Dino’s top two chefs, his maître d', and half his waitstaff.

Wire Photo, eBay, Public Domain, Wikimedia Commons

When Lewis was in Los Angeles, he made of point of table-hopping and schmoozing with his guests at his restaurant, and he occasionally brought in a few of his celebrity friends, like Peggy Lee and Steve McQueen.


By the following year, a disgusted Dean Martin was fed up with the restaurant business and cut ties with Dino’s Lodge. Much to his aggravation, he lost a motion in court to have his likeness and name removed from the sign. So the new owners carried on as Dino’s Lodge, with the big neon head staring down on Sunset for another decade before the place finally went bust.

Jerry’s lost steam long before that, folding in the mid-1960s.

For the rest of the 1960s and the early 1970s, Martin and Lewis avoided each other. “Jerry’s trying hard to be a director,” Dean once told a reporter. “He couldn’t even direct traffic.”

In 1976, Frank Sinatra famously engineered an onstage reunion of the pair during The Jerry Lewis Telethon. While the audience roared their approval, Sinatra said, “I think it’s about time, don’t you?” And to Sinatra, Lewis said under his breath, “You son of a bitch.”

What followed was an awkward few moments of shtick between the former partners. Reportedly, Martin was drunk and Lewis was doped up on painkillers. There was a quick embrace, Martin sang with Sinatra, then blew Lewis a kiss and disappeared from his life for good. Martin died in 1995. Lewis passed away today, at the age of 91.


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