In modern history, and especially during the era of total war, the papacy has been seen as suffering a decline of influence. Perhaps this was put most starkly in Stalin's infamous quip, “How many divisions does the Pope have?” During the Great War, the papacy certainly did not have the military force it had possessed in earlier eras; however, its moral force was still strong. Indeed, after the loss of the papal states with the formation of Italy in 1870, the Church gained influence as a more impartial spiritual institution, even as it lost political territory.

Presiding during a world war, the pope elected in the conclave of 1914, Benedict XV, remains one of the twentieth century's lesser-known popes in historiography, an “unknown pope” in the words of his most prominent biographer. Often dismissed as a mere steward during a troubled period, Benedict demonstrated the power of religious tradition as an adaptive, not static or reactionary, phenomenon. On the one hand, his diplomatic efforts were aimed toward a preservation of a pre-war sense of order, an international status quo ante bellum, culminating in his famous Peace Note of August 1, 1917. On the other, however, while Benedict kept the pre-war ideal in mind, both his thoughts and his actions reflected his adjustment to the new circumstances. During the war, the Church became a non-partisan diplomatic actor, devoted its material resources to soothing the afflicted, refocused its organizational structure with a new Code of Canon Law, and began to confront new social movements that emerged because of the war, most famously fascism and communism. Thus, unlike previous papacies, Benedict engaged with the modernity of the Great War. Far from reactionary retreat or idle indifference, it was a period that set the tone for the Church's vigorous grappling with modernity during the twentieth century. In many ways, the Great War allowed for growth and consolidation within the Church; it was not a time of senseless and futile waste.

Breaking onto the scene momentarily appeared more difficult than Gneisenau had imagined due to the backlash in the Silesian Army caused by the unveiling of the plan to march north. Although it had long been contemplated, the staff had kept this idea so secret that its announcement caused incalculable surprise in every quarter. The boldness of the plan did not receive general approval. General Dideric Jacob Teyl van Seraskerken, the Dutch-born Russian war commissar attached to Blücher’s staff, provided surprising, vehement protest. Having emigrated to Münster after the 1794 French conquest of the Netherlands, Teyl had become close friends with Blücher, even being a house and table companion for years. For this reason, Tsar Alexander selected Teyl for the post on Blücher’s staff. In August, Blücher received him as an old friend. Müffling described him as “a brave man, but cautious in the extreme.” After Blücher issued orders at 7:00 P.M. on 25 September for the march down the Elbe, Teyl argued that the operation would violate the principles of the Reichenbach Plan and selfishly jeopardize the results of the entire campaign thus far. “He availed himself of his grandes entrées to the general,” maintained Müffling, “to make the most urgent remonstrance against allowing himself to be carried away by Gneisenau and me into such hazardous undertakings. Blücher answered: ‘Be quiet, old friend; everything has been maturely considered’.” Teyl continued his protest, insisting that Blücher solicit the opinion of the army’s generals. Blücher looked at him in astonishment. “I do not hold councils of war,” roared the hoary Prussian. “Colonel, the tsar, your master, sent you here to report to him, for which purpose I furnish you with all the necessary materials with the greatest readiness. When you protest against my published orders, you depart altogether from your instructions; you are not my appointed advisor! Therefore, I will not listen to you and I take my leave.” With that, Blücher walked out of the room.

The theological story of the twentieth century has focused on Protestant Christianity, with 1914 as an epic marker of divide. The newest, most radical developments in Protestant theology in Central Europe articulated a fundamental break with the war years. Most famously, the Dialectical Theology of Karl Barth reacted against the October 1914 declaration of nintey-three prominent German intellectuals supporting Germany's cause, who included Adolf von Harnack and Wilhelm Herrmann, Barth's former teachers. For Barth, an entire tradition of theology culminating in idealistic liberal Protestantism died in the early days of the Great War, poisoned by the jingoistic “Spirit of 1914.” One could also point to the theology of Paul Tillich, who served as a German army chaplain and quickly became disillusioned, as another Protestant repudiation of the Great War.

Catholic theology, however, took a completely different course during and after the war, a delayed modernity that would only flourish in the post-1945 era, indeed during the Second Vatican Council of 1962–65. Instead of a radical break with the events of 1914–18, Catholic thought either bypassed the war years by continuing pre-war developments or articulated new theologies that did not repudiate the war. Previous histories of Catholic theology in Central Europe have focused on the aggressive war theology of the elite clerics, foremost among them the bishops, often showing much blend between Protestants and Catholics in loyal service to the aims of state. In contrast to what Friedrich Wilhelm Graf has termed a “war generation” of Protestant university theologians, Catholic theology showed much more continuity with the war, relativizing and minimizing the war's newness.

Viewed transnationally and comparatively at the episcopal level, this chapter shows that Catholic theology did not fit standard frames of disillusionment associated with a fundamental break of thought in 1914. The chapter develops lines of episcopal thought beyond the war years, sketching transnational lines of Central and Eastern European theological development beyond German-speaking regions.

Austria’s declaration against France, on 12 August 1813, changed the dynamics of the war by transferring the Coalition’s center of gravity from Russia to Austria. Aside from liberating the garrisons of the Vistula fortresses and perhaps rallying the Poles, the appearance of an imperial army and even Napoleon himself on the banks of the Vistula would not have had the same impact on the Allies in the Fall Campaign as during the Spring Campaign. Russian lines of communication could be rerouted through Austria. The provinces of the Prussian heartland would have been lost but the bulk of the Prussian regular army – I and II Corps and the Guard – would not have been affected. In fact, the main challenge for the Allies would not have been Napoleon’s presence at the Vistula, but navigating the shock waves caused by the loss of the Army of North Germany, which had to be eliminated or driven into the Oder fortresses before any French force could reach the Vistula. Napoleon recognized that Austria’s accession to the Coalition rendered unconditional victory through eccentric maneuvering unlikely. Instead, he had to defeat the Austrians, which meant decisively crushing the Bohemian Army. To accomplish this task, he planned to utilize his central position and operate from his base at Dresden.

Austria had certainly come a long way since the French emperor’s 1809 proclamation that “the House of Lorraine has ceased to exist,” in large part thanks to Napoleon’s intransigence. Metternich’s usurpation of the Coalition’s diplomatic and military leadership provided by far the most decisive development of the armistice. In the former category, Metternich seized the reins of the Coalition. While a worthy adversary in his own right, Tsar Alexander simply could not outmaneuver Metternich in the ensuing diplomatic chess match for control of the Coalition. Determined to conduct a cabinet war for the equilibrium of Europe rather than a people’s war of liberation, Metternich resolved to direct the struggle so that any peace would serve Austrian national security objectives. Emerging as the Coalition’s prime minister, he aimed to wage war to restore Habsburg preponderance over Central Europe while limiting Prussian and Russian gains. Napoleon’s fate became a secondary concern; Metternich did not aspire to remove Bonaparte from the French throne, believing that only a strong Napoleonic France could counter Russia.

After losing 500,000 soldiers in Russia between June and December 1812, Napoleon started rebuilding his army in early 1813 to stop the Russians in Germany. At the end of 1812, Tsar Alexander I of Russia made the momentous decision to continue his war with Napoleon and drive the French from Central Europe. The destruction of the Grande Armée of 1812 provided Alexander with an opportunity to build a Russian-dominated coalition to liberate Europe. Russian pressure forced the French to fall back from the Vistula (Wisła) River and then across the Oder (Odra) River to Berlin by mid February 1813. Hoping to stop the pursuing Russians before they could step foot onto German soil, Napoleon looked to his ally, King Frederick William III of Prussia, for assistance. As Eugène de Beauharnais, the viceroy of Italy and commander of imperial forces on the eastern front, surrendered land for time, direct negotiations between the Russians and Prussians commenced.

With two-thirds of Prussia occupied by Napoleon’s forces, Frederick William made the bold decision to break the French alliance and join the Russians to form the Sixth Coalition. Negotiations culminated on 28 February 1813 with the signing of the Treaty of Kalisch: the much-anticipated Russo-Prussian military alliance. The Prussians agreed to field an army of 80,000 men to assist a Russian contingent of 150,000; both states pledged not to make a separate peace with Napoleon. The British did their part to bolster the new coalition by promptly dispatching arms and ammunition to the Baltic for use by the Russians and Prussians. Alexander also hoped for an Austrian alliance in early 1813 but Austria’s foreign minister, the adroit Klemens von Metternich, feared Russian success would be accompanied by Russian territorial expansion. With Alexander’s armies approaching Central Europe, the Austrians declared neutrality.

Bertrand’s 8:00 P.M. report to Ney on 3 October stated that the Army of Silesia led by “Blücher, Yorck, and Prince Karl” had attacked him “vigorously” and “with numerous forces” that day, turning his right, and forcing him to retreat in the direction of Bad Düben. Based on this sketchy information, Ney planned to withdrawten miles south from Pötnitz to Raguhn on the Mulde with VII Corps the next day. He requested that Marmont strongly occupy the point of passage across the Mulde at Bad Düben some twenty miles upstream of Raguhn. Noting that Bertrand had directed his retreat on Bad Düben, Ney emphasized to Marmont “that it is thus indispensable that you move all the forces that you have at your disposal to this point” and to notify him “the moment you commence your movement.” In a postscript, he added that some units of Bertrand’s corps had retreated south to Pretzsch on the Elbe and others southwest toward Bad Düben on the Mulde. On the morning of the 4th, Marmont marched from Leipzig to Eilenburg with one division of his corps and I Cavalry Corps; a second division of VI Corps that already stood at Eilenburg had moved eleven miles downstream to Bad Düben (see Map 5).

Like Napoleon, the Russians and Prussians entered the armistice committed to continuing the war on 20 July 1813. Yet what hope did they have for victory? During the Spring Campaign, the French emperor had driven their army more than 200 miles from the Saale to the Oder in one month’s time. Two major battles had been fought and lost. Who among the Russians and Prussians could challenge Napoleon? Although they had ejected the French from their motherland in 1812, the Russians did not achieve a decisive victory over Napoleon himself during that entire campaign. Forsaking the Prussians and returning home remained an option after the failures of the Spring Campaign, yet leaving Central Europe under Napoleon’s control offered Russia little long-term security. As for the Prussians, zeal and hatred on their own failed to liberate their state in the first six months of 1813. By breaking his alliance with Napoleon, Frederick William jeopardized his very crown. To avoid the same fate that had befallen the previous five coalitions that had waged war against France, the military and political leaders of both states understood that they needed more than the unprecedented cooperation that had characterized their operations during the Spring Campaign. With the stakes so high, they realized that only an unconventional strategic plan would allow them to again challenge French dominance in Central Europe.

Through a sketch of pre-1914 developments of Catholicism in Germany and Austria-Hungary, one can properly assess the continuities and changes that the war represented. Religious mentalities were absolutely essential to people's worldviews on the eve of the Great War. Religious belief and practice helped form an essential part of everyday life, particularly in peasant and rural regions. These religious traditions would adapt to the upheavals of war, demonstrating resilence and comfort in the face of potentially atomizing chaos.

This chapter proceeds in a hierarchical fashion that respects the power of different institutional politics at the elite level but also recognizes cultures of everyday life for the majority of rural inhabitants in the empires. Although much of the religious history of Central European Catholics is a story of shared overlap in peasant regions, important imperial differences remain. The methodology of the chapter highlights certain structural features based on their historiographical significance to the respective empire. For example, the “nationalities” question is treated in the section about Austria-Hungary and ultramontanism remains in the context of the Kulturkampf in Germany. One could also speak about the “Polish” or “Alsatian” members of the Hohenzollern monarchy and the rise of ultramontanism after the post-1855 Concordat in the Habsburg monarchy. Thus, examining these issues as placed is not a claim of imperial exclusivity but rather a matter of historiographical prominence. Nevertheless, the historiography gives an idea of the disparate political contours of the empires. As the chapter proceeds to discuss matters of everyday life for Catholics, irrespective of political frameworks, it becomes much more of an “entangled history” of a common Catholic way of life in Central Europe.

The chapter begins by examining the socio-political scene in comparative frameworks. Catholics in Austria-Hungary were a favored majority religion and part of the throne-and-altar alliance. In Germany, by contrast, Catholics were a suspect minority religion newly integrated into a Protestant-dominated German Empire largely controlled by Prussia.

For 11 September, Blücher again planned to push forward only the vanguards. In fact, he remained quite wary, writing to Yorck over the “extreme” necessity of being able to withdraw through the defiles in the region of Bernstadt auf dem Eigen and Herrnhut “in the case that a rapid advance by a superior enemy forces a retreat toward the Neiße.” The reports that arrived early on the 11th indicated that Macdonald’s army remained on the hills both east and west of Bautzen. Before daybreak, Katzler crept as close as possible to the imperial outposts. At first light, he estimated having some 20,000 men in sight. Prisoners confirmed that the troops in front of the Silesian Army belonged to XI, III, and V Corps in addition to Poniatowski’s VIII Corps. Based on these statements, Katzler estimated the total size of Macdonald’s force to be 50,000 men. North of Katzler, Vasilchikov planned to lead Sacken’s vanguard from Wurschen through Litten toward Bautzen in an attempt to move around Macdonald’s left. However, he halted at Litten after observing that Borozdin had not led St.-Priest’s vanguard from Hochkirch toward Bautzen.

Blücher’s commitment to the kleinen Krieg ended in less than thirty-six hours. He changed his mind after receiving several reports including many dispatches found on one of Poniatowski’s captured adjutants claiming that Napoleon had resumed the offensive against Schwarzenberg; Gneisenau agreed. Around 10:30 A.M. on the 11th, Army Headquarters issued new orders. “According to reports,” stated Blücher’s cover letter, “the enemy has turned against the Bohemian Army with his main force. My intention is to drive what stands before me away from Dresden. I know from an intercepted letter that Poniatowski wants to take a position at Neustadt in Sachsen to cover Macdonald’s flank. He must be attacked quickly and destroyed so that the army can turn right and drive the enemy northwest from Bautzen toward Kamenz. With this intent … each commanding officer will proceed and attack the enemy where he finds him.”

On August 20, 1914, the invading German Army entered Brussels, marching through Belgium and into northern France. Also on that day, Pope Saint Pius X, the declared anti-modernist “peasant pope,” died suddenly after a short illness. Soon after, in the midst of unfolding war, cardinals from across Europe gathered in Rome to elect the new supreme pontiff, and the mood was anxious. At the conclave in the corridors of the Vatican, Cardinal Felix von Hartmann of Germany greeted his colleague Cardinal DésiréMercier of Belgium, saying, “I hope that we shall not speak of war.” Mercier responded, “And I hope that we shall not speak of peace.” The national rancor between bishops would escalate as the war dragged on, and episcopal enmity and clerical nationalism have become cultural shorthand for the religious experience of the Great War. However, the sound and fury of the bishops has helped to conceal the experiences of ordinary religious believers.

This book argues that, seen through the religious experiences of every-day Catholics from the losing powers, the Catholic story of the Great War challenges standard interpretations of the war's disillusioning legacy. In particular, the study of lived religion for people from the losing powers provides counter-narratives to stories of secularization and artistic modernism. Specifically Catholic forms of belief and practice allowed Catholics in the losing powers to cope with the war's devastation remarkably better than standard cultural histories of secularization and literary modernism would have readers believe. This Catholic spirituality included intercession, sacramentality, dolorous cyclical history in the long term, and worship of female spirituality. These modes of faith provided relief and comfort in extreme situations of distress. Catholic spirituality, both liturgically and theologically, provided traditional means of understanding tremendous upheaval, allowing the Great War's devastating new horrors to be relativized as one episode in the story of human existence. Catholicism portrayed war as necessary suffering, diminished belief in divine-right nationalism, and created a nostalgic vision of idyllic domesticity.

This seven-year project has been greatly assisted by many dear friends and colleagues who gave limitless support, shared their research, and focused early drafts. Alexander Mikaberidze is a friend like no other: for years he has not merely graciously provided me with Russian sources, but he also translates them; I am deeply indebted to Alex. His help in canvassing Russia’s archival collection as well as his insight have greatly improved this work. Other dear friends such as Rick Schneid, Huw Davies, Jack Gill, Dennis Showalter, Jeremy Black, Chuck White, and Peter Hofschröer have provided endless support, inspiration, and assistance. I must also convey my deepest appreciation to Peter Harrington of the Anne S. K. Brown Military Collection at Brown University for providing all the artwork that accompanies the text on the shortest notice. At Cambridge University Press, I wish to thank Hew Strachan for his support, Michael Watson for his patience and understanding, and especially for granting me the opportunity to present the 1813 campaign in two volumes, Rosalyn Scott and Rachel Cox for seeing the manuscript through production, and Karen Anderson Howes for being the superb copy-editor for both volumes on 1813. At the University of North Texas, I am indebted to the Department of History, the Military History Center, and the College of Arts and Sciences for their generous financial support. Behind all three is my chairman, colleague, and friend, Rick McCaslin, who has been a steady source of support and encouragement. I am fortunate to work with two of the foremost military historians in the world: Geoff Wawro and Rob Citino. Both set the standard extremely high but their steadfast advice and encouragement are boundless. I especially want to thank Geoff for his friendship, confidence, and support. Last but not least, I thank my graduate students for their patience when they found the door to my office closed: Jon Abel, Chad Tomaselli, Jordan Hayworth, Nate Jarrett, Casey Baker, and Eric Smith.

The wide lowland through which the Elster and the Pleiße Rivers flowed in a northern direction gradually curved westward from the walls of Leipzig toward the valley of the Saale. Between both rivers sprawled a wooded marsh that formed an eastward projecting salient in front of which stood Leipzig. North of the city, the course of the Parthe ran northeast while the Elster flowed northwest, giving the terrain sector between these two water courses the appearance of a broad funnel into which the great highways from Halle, Magdeburg, Dessau, Wittenberg, and Torgau merged. These arteries ran through gentle inclines and over shallow hills, which at most rose no more than twenty to thirty yards above the lowlands of the Elster and the meadows of the Parthe. Steady rains in August and September had rendered the clay soil very soft; low-lying farmlands and meadows hindered the movement of close-ordered troop units. Due to the wet summer and autumn, the marshes of the Elster, Parthe, and Pleiße could be crossed only by way of the existing roads; the rivers themselves formed obstacles because of their depth and could not be crossed without preparation.

From every direction roads converged on Leipzig like the radii of a circle. The Allies controlled the two running west to Naumburg and Merseburg on the Saale; Napoleon commanded all the opposite roads leading east and northeast to Wurzen, Eilenburg, and Bad Düben on the Mulde as well as the roads to Torgau and Wittenberg on the Elbe. In between lay three roads that ran north and three that ran south; the ensuing battle would determine which side controlled these six avenues. With the possession of Leipzig, Napoleon held the hub of all the roads. Simultaneously, he flanked the Bohemian Army by the road to Wurzen and the Silesian Army by the highway to Bad Düben; his forces separated the two Allied armies like a wedge between them. For the 16th, Allied Headquarters wanted to drive through this wedge and take Leipzig.

The war on the Western Front ground to a halt with the Armistice of November 11, 1918. That day was also the Feast Day of Saint Martin of Tours, a notable patron saint of soldiers, who was especially worshipped not for his military prowess but rather for his peacemaking and social devotion to the needy. Sixteen centuries after his death, the stories of Saint Martin had powerful resonance in the aftermath of the First World War as Europe tried to heal itself. Due to his associations with both France and Hungary, and his travels through Central Europe, he became a pan-European figure of veneration during the Middle Ages. In the after- math of the First World War, his stature gained new currency due to this coincidence with the Armistice on the Western Front.

Traditional religious imagery played a key role in helping European society make sense of the war. Religion, along with classical and romantic tropes, allowed communities of bereaved to mourn the loss of loved ones. This occurred on a mass scale, as more people simply had to deal with violent death and destruction, approaching what Jay Winter has termed a “universality of bereavement” as European society attempted to assuage its grief. Traditional imagery and languages of mourning thus played a fundamentally healing role, strengthening social bonds and emotional ties. Hence, as Winter noted in his classic study, war memorials after 1918 involved dual motifs: “war as both noble and uplifting and tragic and unendurably sad.” War memorialization involved this duality in an ever-shifting process of balance between the two interests. It was only after the Second World War, not the First, that European society changed its attitudes toward war memorialization, invoking more abstract imagery and universal values.

The religious aspects of commemoration have often been subsumed under the heading of “nationalism,” especially in Germany a vengeful nationalism, dedicated to redeeming the political loss of the First World War.