Europe's Last Summer

by David Fromkin

  To wait for conclusive evidence of Serb guilt to surface was no longer an option. Berchtold would have to go forward with the drafting of his ultimatum without the evidence to back him up.

  Yet another delay threatened. Conrad advised that the armed forces would not be ready to invade Serbia until August 12. That would be seven weeks after the assassinations—far too long for launching an attack on Serbia that Europe would excuse as an unthinking reaction.

  What was Berchtold to do? What was he to tell Berlin? He had run out of time.

  What was happening? Berlin inquired. Vienna did not answer because Berchtold had no reply to give.

  CHAPTER 28: THE SECRET IS KEPT

  Berchtold kept the Germans in the dark, in effect maintaining radio silence. He had a plausible excuse: To achieve surprise in his planned assault on Serbia, he had to keep anyone outside the existing circle from knowing what was going on. As communications could be intercepted and deciphered it was best to communicate as little as possible with anyone.

  Keeping the secret proved difficult. The German foreign office passed on to its ambassador in Italy a general sense of Austria's thinking. The ambassador mentioned it casually to Foreign Minister Antonio di San Giuliano. Italians rarely were entrusted with secrets by the Great Powers because of their reputation for indiscretion. Indeed, a historian of the country's foreign policy at the time writes: "Italian diplomats could not even arrange appointments with major European statesmen." Alerted by the German ambassador, San Giuliano passed on whatever he knew to his embassies in Russia, Austria, and Serbia. The Austrians, having broken the Italian code, knew what San Giuliano was telling his diplomats. Historian Samuel Williamson, who relates this story, conjectures that the Russians, with their sophistication in cryptology, might have broken the Italian code too, and might have alerted Serbia.

  The Russians had cracked the Austrian code, had read Berchtold's inquiry as to when the French President and Prime Minister would leave Russia—and could have drawn inferences from this request.

  Such leaks were only to be expected as time went on, and as delay led to further delay. A retired Austrian diplomat dropped a hint that was picked up by a British ambassador, who passed on the rumor to a French colleague.

  On July 16 the British ambassador to Russia alerted his government to the gathering storm: "Austro-Hungarian government are in no mood to parley with Servia [sic], but will insist on immediate unconditional compliance, failing which force will be used. Germany is said to be in complete agreement with this procedure."

  The same day, and in the same city, St. Petersburg, the Italian ambassador told a Russian diplomat "that Austria was capable of taking an irrevocable step with regard to Serbia based on the belief that, although Russia would make a verbal protest, she would not adopt forcible measures for the protection of Serbia against any Austrian attempts."

  A number of European diplomats heard disquieting rumors, but only a handful had hard knowledge. Even in Vienna few actually knew, and in Berlin even fewer.

  In a broader sense, moreover, the secret was kept: the public knew nothing of it. As Volker Berghahn writes of Germany: "only a very small circle of men was involved in the crucial decisions which ended in war," and "when it came to making this decision no more than a dozen people were consulted." The same was true of Austria-Hungary. The plotters went on with their work, silently and hidden from view, while, totally unaware, Europe basked in the sunshine of a lazy summer holiday.

  PART SIX

  CRISIS!

  CHAPTER 29: THE FAIT IS NOT

  ACCOMPLI

  On July 16 the Russian ambassador in Vienna cabled his government: "Information reaches me that the Austro-Hungarian Government at the conclusion of the inquiry intends to make certain demands on Belgrade. . . . It would seem to me desirable that at the present moment, before a final decision on the matter, the Vienna Cabinet should be informed how Russia would react to the fact of Austria's presenting demands to Serbia such as would be unacceptable to the dignity of that state."

  This, and similar intimations of Austrian designs, disturbed Russia's foreign minister. But Vienna's ambassador hastened to reassure. He told the Russian foreign minister that Austria-Hungary wanted peace. So Russia did nothing.

  On July 18, Pasic, the Prime Minister of Serbia, cabled Serbian missions abroad (other than in Vienna) that he was determined not to accept any demands by Austria-Hungary that would infringe on Serbian sovereignty.

  The hidden plot that the Austrian and German leaders were in the process of executing was outlined clearly—but in confidence—for the government of Bavaria at the time. The kingdom of Bavaria was the largest and most populous state in the Prussian-led German Empire. In joining Germany, it had "reserved a larger measure of sovereign independence than any of the other constituent states" including a separate diplomatic service, military administration, and postal, telegraph, and railway services.

  On July 18, Hans Schoen, a Bavarian diplomat who had been briefed by officials in Berlin, explained at length to his Prime Minister, Count Georg Herding, the Dual Monarchy's pretense "of being peacefully inclined" and why an Austrian ultimatum could not be delivered to Belgrade until mid-July. Summarizing the demands that would be made in the ultimatum, Schoen observed: "It is perfectly plain that Serbia can not accept any such demands, which are incompatible with her dignity as a sovereign state. Thus the result would be war." That is, there would be war if Vienna actually went through with the plan. Jagow and Zimmermann, respectively number one and two ranking officials at the German foreign office, had their doubts. They "made the statement that Austria-Hungary, thanks to her indecision and her desultoriness, had really become the Sick Man of Europe as Turkey had once been."

  "A powerful and successful move against Serbia," Zimmermann had continued, would bring the Dual Monarchy back from the brink. Schoen reported that German leaders "are of the opinion . . . that Austria is face to face with an hour of fate." That, they told Schoen, was why on July 5–6 they had given the Austrians a "blank power of full authority" "even at the risk of war with Russia." In their view the Austrians were surprised by such unconditional support, and might have felt more comfortable if they had been told instead to restrain themselves.

  Germany, Schoen made clear, wished that Vienna had not waited so long before doing anything. The Germans were awaiting presentation of the Austrian ultimatum to Serbia. Berlin then would embark upon a diplomatic effort to localize the conflict. All powers should stay out of it, the Germans were going to say, leaving Austria-Hungary and Serbia to work things out for themselves. The Germans were going to claim they knew as little as everyone else of the ultimatum the Austrians would present; they would say it came as a complete surprise—while the Kaiser and others were on vacation.

  Schoen concluded: "The attitude of Russia will, above all else, determine the question whether the attempt to localize the war will succeed." German official opinion, as reported by him, was to the effect that war would not be "acceptable" to either France or England. The Germans, in other words, still believed that Vienna and Berlin could carry through their plot successfully without causing a European war. They thought that they were going to get away with it. This was confirmed by the Berlin representative of Saxony, another of the German states: "one expects a localization of the conflict since England is absolutely peaceable and France as well as Russia likewise do not feel inclined towards war."

  As the great web of deception was being woven to its conclusion, in Vienna and Berlin, the Dual Monarchy's ultimatum was being drafted behind closed doors. The Austro-Hungarian foreign ministry began work on the document on July 10. The Germans were kept informed of its progress. The note was ready to be circulated internally on July 19.

  Since Tisza's change of heart on July 14, there had been no doubt as to the purpose which the note to Serbia was meant to serve. It was being drafted in such a way as to be rejected. The German ambassador in Vienna reported to his government that "the note is
being composed so that the possibility of its being accepted is practically excluded."

  Another official of the German embassy followed up with the report of a conversation with the Austro-Hungarian foreign minister: "Count Berchtold appeared to hope that Serbia would not agree to the Austro-Hungarian demands, as a mere diplomatic victory would put the country here again in a stagnant mood." Hoyos at the Dual Monarchy's foreign office told a German colleague "that the demands were really of such a nature that no nation that still possessed self-respect and dignity could possibly accept them."

  The ultimatum in its final form was submitted to the Council of Ministers—the cabinet—on Sunday afternoon, July 19. In the words of the historian Frederic Morton, the ministers arrived at Berchtold's palatial private residence for their meeting in "taxis and private automobiles. . . . The cars arrived at intervals, avoiding a dramatic convergence. . . . The scene seemed to point to some weekend social gathering. A passer-by, had he cared to notice, would not have spotted a single official limousine." It was no accident: participants had been ordered to arrive in unmarked cars.

  At the meeting, the council ratified the ultimatum to Serbia. The following day a courier brought it to the elderly emperor, Franz Joseph, in his country palace. Franz Joseph read and approved it. At the same time, the text was cabled to the Hapsburg envoy in Belgrade who was scheduled to present it to the Serbian government on the prearranged date.

  On a motion from Berchtold, the council had unanimously agreed "that the note should be presented to the Royal Serbian Government on 2 3 July at five in the afternoon" so that, by its forty-eight-hour terms, the ultimatum would expire July 25 at 5 p.m. In turn, Austro-Hungarian mobilization of the armed forces could be decreed and published overnight Saturday/Sunday, July 25–26.

  Berchtold had told his colleagues that he was opposed to any further delays. For one thing, news of Austria's intentions had leaked in Rome, endangering the element of surprise. Moreover, "Berlin was beginning to get nervous."

  "Nervousness" perhaps understated the case. For Germany's civilian leaders, Bethmann and Jagow, Austria was proving to be a disappointment and indeed was depriving them of a brilliant victory. The Hapsburg Empire was supposed to have crushed Serbia by now, before the rest of Europe had time to react or respond. The assault was supposed to have taken place. The fait was supposed to have been accompli.

  Yet none of that had been done or even was about to be done. As of July 19, the Austrians were starting—for the first time—to draw up a set of demands to be sent to Serbia. The document then had to be delivered and Serbia's response awaited.

  So it was too late now to launch the surprise invasion Bethmann had envisaged. As soon as the countries of Europe saw the sort of ultimatum Berchtold proposed to deliver, they would be alerted. They would know that Serbia was likely to refuse, Austria was likely to go to war, and Germany might well back Austria. The element of surprise would be lost.

  One phase in the Austro-German plan to punish Serbia was over: the invasion plan formulated July 6 and never tried. Until July 19 it had meant that Austria would be allowed to crush Serbia with no interference from the European powers because it would have been accomplished before the powers had time to react. Now—after July 19—it had to be changed because it was too late to carry it out as originally planned. In the original scheme, Austria's invasion was to have been completed before the rest of Europe could do anything but send complaining notes after the fact. In the new conception, Europe would have time to react and respond, but would be persuaded to hold off until it was too late. "Localization" was the key word the Germans would continue to use; it meant that the Great Powers, though fully conscious of what was about to transpire, would choose not to intervene on the grounds that it was none of their business. Germany undertook to persuade them that they should let Austria and Serbia resolve their differences by themselves. Clearly speed was required of the Austrians here too, because the longer they took in crushing their smaller neighbor, the more likely it was that one of Serbia's patrons—Russia or France in particular—might begin to think in terms of stopping the unequal conflict.

  July 19. The Austrian ultimatum to Serbia was put into its final form. The phase of Austrian and German thinking in which all was going to be decided by a swift attack was over. From July 19 on the German-speaking allies would move forward in full view. Germany shifted into phase two: localization, in its new sense. In this phase Germany would let the other European powers know in advance that there would be a war.

  The ultimatum having been formulated, the German government moved immediately to warn the other Great Powers to stay out of the fight that was about to begin while, unconvincingly, disclaiming knowledge of why a fight was about to occur or why the Great Powers might be tempted to intervene in it. Jagow placed a note on July 19 in a quasi-official publication, the North German Gazette, advising the others "that the settlement of differences which may arise between Austria-Hungary and Serbia should remain localized." This was the start of a diplomatic campaign launched by the German government on behalf of its new tactical goal, conscious localization.

  When the French ambassador in Berlin asked Jagow "as to the contents of the Austrian Note," Jagow assured him "that he knew nothing about it." Understandably, the ambassador was "astonished." How could Jagow not know? But of course he did.

  Fuller statements of the German case for localization were sent on July 21 to Russia, Britain, and France. Vienna, for its part, gave its ambassadors to major countries full statements of the Austro-Hungarian position.

  Germany's continued insistence that it knew nothing of what Austria-Hungary planned to do or to demand met with widespread disbelief in Europe's capital cities. Analyzing Jagow's pleas for localization, a British official told Sir Edward Grey: "We do not know the facts. The German government clearly do know. They know what the Austrian government is going to demand . . . and I think we may say with some assurance that they have expressed approval of those demands and promised support should dangerous complications ensue." But the official was confident that "the German government do not believe that there is any real danger of war." According to one source, the official was Sir Horace Rumbold at the Berlin embassy; according to another, Sir Eyre Crowe at the Foreign Office.

  *However, in an interview on September 17, 1916, with American journalist William Bullitt, he admitted that he had seen the ultimatum before it was sent. And Zimmermann, Jagow's number two, told a colleague (August 11, 1917) that "it is true that we received the Serbian ultimatum about twelve hours before it was presented." Zimmermann wrote that it was pointless to keep on lying about it, since it "cannot be kept secret forever."

  The Austrian ambassador in Berlin brought a copy of the ultimatum in final form to Jagow, who later lied and denied having seen it before it went out.* Jagow rechecked calculations and discovered that the Austrians planned to present the ultimatum an hour too soon— while the French leaders were still in Russia. A panicked effort by Hapsburg officialdom, alerted by Jagow, resulted in moving that ultimatum time to an hour later.

  Obeying orders, Germany's military leaders remained ostentatiously on vacation, leaving everything to Chancellor Bethmann Hollweg, and to the chief officials of the foreign office, Jagow and Zimmermann, who outwardly affected, as best they could, an air of unconcern.

  But they awaited events with different hopes, fears, and expectations. Only a month or so before, Moltke, the gloomy and pessimistic chief of the general staff, had asked Jagow to provoke a world war soon, while Germany still could win it. In two or three years, according to Moltke, it would be too late.

  Now Moltke seemingly was prepared to accept the limited but brilliant victory that an Austrian attack would bring—if indeed Vienna would summon up the nerve to proceed with Bethmann's plan and could pull it off. If, however, the German leaders—military and civilian alike—were wrong in their estimate that the war could be localized, and that Russia would stay out, then, unlike the Kaiser and
the civilians, Moltke would be happy—maybe even happier—with that result too.

  Bethmann, whose role was to preside over affairs while the Austrians carried his strategy into execution, was worried from the start. "An action against Serbia can lead to a world war," he told his confidant Kurt Riezler on July 7. He feared that "whatever the outcome" such a war would turn "everything that exists upside down." The risk of bringing about a global conflict with unforeseeable consequences was "a leap in the dark."

  Yet Bethmann felt that Germany had no choice. The portrait that he painted of his country's international position showed a dark and even paranoid vision, with dangers exaggerated. In his own words, it was "a shattering picture." As he saw it, Germany was "completely paralyzed," and its rivals, the allied powers of Russia, France, and Britain, knew it. "The future belongs to Russia which is growing and growing and is becoming an ever-increasing nightmare to us." Even the Dual Monarchy would ally with Russia in order to go with the winner. Germany would be alone and helpless in the world of international politics.

  The Chancellor was unnerved by intelligence reports that had reached him about secret naval talks between Britain and Russia. According to German sources, these might have envisaged an amphibious operation in which British forces brought by sea would land in northeastern Germany.

  In the memoirs of British Foreign Secretary Sir Edward Grey (by then Viscount Grey of Fallodon), written a bit more than a decade later, the talks were inconsequential. They were undertaken at the request of the French in order to reassure the Russians. So talks were held. No joint operations were planned; no commitments made. What did occur, it would seem, was an exchange of information.

  Russia was aware that Britain and France had held naval conversations, in the course of which each had disclosed to the other the dispositions they intended to make of their fleets in the event of war. Each was free to change those planned dispositions. The Russians now wanted to be treated on a par with the other two countries: to be full allies. When Britain held talks with France, Russia wanted to hold such talks too. The Russians told the French of their desire.