July 1914: Countdown to War

by Sean McMeekin

  Whatever the reason for the revisions, Pašić knew that the Austrians would not accept his reply. He seems not to have minded if the Austrians knew, too. By one PM on Saturday—five hours before Giesl was to accept Pašić’s reply—Giesl reported to Vienna that Serbian preparations for war had already begun. “The reserves of the National Bank, along with the archives of the Foreign Ministry,” he informed Berchtold, “are being removed from Belgrade to the interior.” Serbian troops garrisoned in the capital were returning to field bases in the country. Munitions depots near Belgrade were likewise being evacuated. At the train station, “strong military traffic” was observed. At three PM on Saturday, 25 July, Serbian mobilization against Austria-Hungary was ordered (although it was not yet made public). While Giesl did not learn this until later that evening, an informant from the cabinet told him around the same time that the government would not accept Austria’s demands unconditionally. Serbia meant war.15

  When Pašić arrived at the Austrian legation at around 5:55 PM, then, Giesl already knew what to expect. There would be no such melodrama as occurred on the same premises two weeks previously, when Hartwig dropped dead. Pašić handed over the note to Giesl, informing him (in broken German) that “part of your demands we have accepted. . . . For the rest we place our hopes on your loyalty and chivalry as an Austrian general.” Giesl looked over the reply with equal lack of ceremony and promptly decided—whether based on the document itself or on Pašić’s terse remark—that it did not fulfill Berchtold’s conditions of unconditional acceptance within forty-eight hours. He then handed Pašić his own note, informing Serbia’s government that, having not received a satisfactory reply, he would leave Belgrade that evening along with the entire Austro-Hungarian legation.16

  Giesl was not bluffing. With truly Germanic efficiency, his staffers burned the diplomatic codebooks in a matter of minutes. Giesl, his wife, and the entire legation staff evacuated the premises by 6:15 PM, aiming to make the 6:30 train to Vienna. Giesl later reported that en route he “found the streets leading to the station and the station itself occupied by the military.” Serbia’s army did not, however, detain him. Giesl made his train, which crossed the Austrian frontier at 6:40 PM on Saturday, 25 July, thus establishing what the American historian Sidney Fay called “the speed record for the rupture of diplomatic relations.”17

  As per Berchtold’s instructions, Giesl stopped in the border town of Semlin and wired the news immediately, en clair, such that Tisza, in Budapest, learned of Serbia’s rejection even before 7 PM. For good measure, Giesl telephoned Tisza and personally informed him that Serbia had begun mobilizing at 3 PM. Tisza passed on Giesl’s reports to the Ballplatz by telephone at 7:45 PM. At Bad Ischl, Franz Josef I, anxious all afternoon, got the news even sooner than this, via an aide-de-camp at the War Ministry who phoned directly. Berchtold and Krobatin, the war minister, were already at Bad Ischl. Together they convinced the emperor that he must mobilize. The order was dispatched at 9:23 PM.18 Chief of Staff Conrad could not have complained. His timetable was being adhered to almost perfectly.

  Just as the elaborately designed Austrian war plan seemed to be coming together, however, notes of hesitation crept in. In part to appease opinion in England, in the last few days Berchtold had begun insisting publicly that a rejection by Serbia did not necessarily mean war. As he had instructed Giesl on Thursday, “fruitless expiry of time limit will be followed only by breaking off diplomatic relations, not by immediate commencement of state of war. State of war will begin only with declaration of war or Serbian offensive.”19 On Friday, Berchtold had spoken along similar lines with the Russian chargé d’affaires, Prince N. A. Kudashev, insisting that the only immediate result of a rejection would be that “our minister and the legation staff would depart.” The Russian was not convinced. “Then it is war” (Alors c’est la guerre), Kudashev told Berchtold before leaving the Ballplatz. And yet Berchtold, as late as Sunday morning, 26 July, hours after mobilization had been decreed, insisted to Giesl that it “still does not mean war.”20

  Did it? Juridically speaking, Berchtold was right: a state of war would exist only when either war was declared or hostilities were commenced by either side. Even Conrad, despite his haste, framed up his Saturday night directive to the army such that Austria-Hungary’s actual mobilization against Serbia would not begin until Tuesday, 28 July, even though Serbia’s own had begun on Saturday. No one expected the Serbs to attack, and it was not inconceivable that Pašić would change his mind before Austrian mobilization began on Tuesday—although, as Giesl informed Berchtold as soon as he arrived in Vienna, this was unlikely, given the fact that the Serbs had learned they had Russian backing. Unlike Russia’s mobilization Plan 19, Conrad’s own plans did include a realistic “partial” option—plan “B” or Balkans, as against “R” for Russia. In fact the plans were all but mutually exclusive, as the frontiers were located in opposite directions. It was mobilization plan B, against Serbia, that was to begin on Tuesday—unless, of course, Russia mobilized before then, which would make an invocation of only plan B dangerous. For all his bellyaching and hesitating, Berchtold not only had produced a casus belli with his rigid instructions to Giesl but had convinced the emperor to mobilize following Serbia’s rejection. If Austria-Hungary backed down now, Berchtold would be the author of her humiliation.

  AT KRASNOE SELO, the drama of the afternoon had given way to a mood of quiet anxiety at the evening banquet. There had been no official explanation as to why the review had broken off early, although rumors about the onset of some kind of Russian mobilization were rife, not least because of loose-lipped officers such as General Adlerberg, who had told General Chelius, the German aide-de-camp, that he had to “go attend to the mobilization.” With Adlerberg gone, at dinner Chelius sat instead next to his friend Baron Grünwald, the court equestrian officer—another of the German nationals so prominent in the upper-ranks of aristocratic tsarist army regiments, who tended naturally toward Germanophilia. Grünwald, obviously disquieted by the events of the afternoon, told Chelius confidentially that “the situation is very serious; I am not allowed to tell you what was decided earlier today, but you will soon learn of it by your own accord.” In any case, Grünwald continued, Chelius should “assume . . . that the outlook is grave.” The two friends then toasted one another as if in farewell: “hopefully we will meet again in happier times.”21 On the streets of the Russian capital, the first outward signs of Russia’s secret premobilization were already visible. At seven PM, France’s ambassador went over to the Warsaw station to see off Izvolsky, who was returning to his post in Paris “in hot haste” now that war seemed imminent. “There was a great bustle on the platforms,” Paléologue observed. “The trains were packed with officers and men. This looked like mobilization. We rapidly exchanged impressions and came to the same conclusion: ‘It’s war this time.’”22

  In a curious coda to the drama of the day, Sir Edward Grey made his first appearance on the European diplomatic scene in weeks. Despite the flurry of alarming reports from Vienna, Belgrade, and Petersburg, Grey, like everyone else in the British cabinet, had remained preoccupied with Ireland until Austria’s ambassador, Count Albert Mensdorff, presented him the ultimatum Friday morning (and he was distracted even afterwards, as the cabinet convened a long meeting Friday afternoon to discuss the Irish crisis). Upon reading the “note with a time limit,” Grey informed his ambassadors that he thought it “the most formidable document I had ever seen addressed by one State to another that was independent.” Still, he also instructed them that the Austro-Serbian dispute was “not our concern.” What worried Grey was the attitude taken by the other powers—especially that of Russia regarding Austria.23

  To this end, Grey called in France’s ambassador, Paul Cambon, to discuss the crisis and let Cambon know that he would speak next to Lichnowsky, the German ambassador. Viewing the Austro-Serbian conflict as hopeless and anyway none of England’s business, Grey’s initial proposal was for the “outside
powers”—meaning Britain, France, Germany, and also Italy—to mediate at St. Petersburg in case Russia responded with hostility to Austria’s ultimatum, so as to prevent the Balkan conflict from escalating. That is, he proposed mediation between Austria and Russia. Cambon did not like the idea at all. Mediating with Russia would be mostly France’s responsibility, and it was hardly the kind of task a close ally could take up without it seeming like a betrayal. Instead, Cambon proposed that the Germans help mediate at Vienna, between Austria and Serbia. This was not what Grey himself had meant, but he promised to mention Cambon’s idea to Lichnowsky.24

  Germany’s ambassador had his own idea—or rather, that of Bethmann and Jagow—which he presented to Grey Friday afternoon. The German proposal was localization: that is, that everyone simply stay out of the Austro-Serbian dispute. In a sense this was not far from what Grey was himself proposing, although the spirit was considerably different. Grey, seeing the Balkan imbroglio as none of Britain’s business, would have loved for it to remain “localized,” but in view of the sharp tone of the ultimatum, he did not think this was possible. Instead, expecting trouble between Austria and Russia, he wanted the four other great powers to mediate between them. While this was not quite Germany’s own ideal scenario, it was far closer to it than was Cambon’s idea of mediation between Austria and Serbia—a literal negation of localization. So Lichnowsky responded more positively to Grey’s suggestion than did Cambon.25

  On Saturday, Grey proposed his “four-power mediation” idea to Russia’s ambassador, Count Benckendorff, while also sending copies to his ambassadors in Berlin and St. Petersburg. (Cambon, for his part, had returned to Paris overnight to report to Bienvenu-Martin, so he should, in theory, have presented Grey’s proposal personally.) The responses were revealing. Germany’s State Secretary Jagow, in Berlin, declared himself “quite ready to fall in with [Grey’s] suggestion as to the four Powers working in favor of moderation at Vienna and St. Petersburg.”26 By contrast, Russia’s ambassador rejected Grey’s proposal straightaway, on the grounds that four-power mediation in St. Petersburg “would give Germany the impression that France and England were detached from Russia.” Cambon, meanwhile, did not inform anyone in Paris about Grey’s proposal, which had struck him as so repugnant as to be beneath consideration. To Grey’s consternation, no reply of any kind was received in London on Saturday from the Quai d’Orsay, nor from aboard the France.27

  Still, to Grey, there seemed no reason for undue alarm. So long as Austria and Russia refrained from mobilizing against one another, war could still be averted. Even if they did mobilize, meanwhile, the Germans had offered to help mediate between Vienna and St. Petersburg. Buoyed by this reassuring logic, Grey left London Saturday evening for his country estate at Itchen Abbas, where he hoped to clear his mind with a spot of fly-fishing. Churchill, first lord of the Admiralty, also left London, for the beach, where he looked forward to a lazy Sunday morning playing with his children. Once news of the day’s events in Belgrade and Petersburg would reach London, however, neither Grey nor Churchill would be able to relax for long.

  16

  Russia Prepares for War

  SUNDAY, 26 JULY

  IN THE WEE HOURS of Sunday morning, Russia’s Period Preparatory to War took effect. While the measure theoretically applied across “all the lands of the empire,” the focus was on European Russia, where it was expected that hostilities would commence. Contrary to what Sazonov had told Buchanan and Paléologue officially, however, military measures were not limited to the “four military districts” facing Austria. Nor would they begin only after Austrian mobilization against Serbia, as Sazonov had implied to Buchanan. At 1 AM Sunday, the Warsaw military district—that is, Russian Poland, sandwiched in between Austrian Galicia and German East Prussia—was “placed in a state of war,” and “ordered to begin with the works which are indicated in Lists 1 and 2 attached to the Regulation Concerning the Period Preparatory to War.” At 3:26 AM, Chief of Staff Yanushkevitch wired Warsaw command that the Period Preparatory to War was now in force “across the whole territory of European Russia,” comprising six (not four) military districts: Warsaw, Vilnius (i.e., the Baltic area), Kazan, Kiev, Moscow, and Odessa.1

  Phase 1 of the Period Preparatory to War saw the calling up of reservists, a measure that required only the signature of the war minister (Sukhomlinov), not the tsar. “Out of the territorial reserve,” the regulation stipulated, “will be formed troops for securing the frontiers, the lines of communication, the telegraph system, and other objects of military importance.” While not all reservists were called up immediately, a special provision was also made for “call-up of the three youngest classes of reserves in areas threatened by enemy action”—which in the current case meant all Poland west of the Vistula River. The border districts facing Germany and Austria-Hungary thus saw the call-up of reserves immediately.2

  Other measures in Phase 1 concerned the return of naval vessels to harbor and their provisioning for war; the suspension of furloughs (rather as Conrad had wished, but failed, to cut off harvest leave for Austrian troops); the reshoeing of horses; the arrest of espionage suspects; and the removal of “money and valuable securities” from frontier areas to the Russian interior. Crowning Phase 1 was the manning and arming of frontier posts and the instruction of frontline troops “as to the uniforms and probable dispositions of the enemy.”3

  Phase 2 extended the call-up of reservists. Then would begin the mining of Russian harbors; the buying of extra horses and wagons for baggage trains; the transport of officers’ families away from the frontier, to safety; and the commandeering of small-gauge rolling stock (which met the European width of four feet, eight and a half inches, as against the Russian gauge of five feet). All these secondary measures, too, required only Sukhomlinov’s signature. Overlaying the Period Preparatory to War, a strict censorship would descend across Russia, with mention of the ongoing war preparations strictly forbidden in the press.

  Censorship, of course, could never be absolute in practice. If the ultimate aim of Russia’s Period Preparatory to War was to premobilize against Austria and—especially—Germany without them knowing it, then it was a failure from the start. After returning to town Saturday evening, General Chelius had gone over to the German embassy to report the substance of his alarming conversations with Adlerberg and Grünwald to Ambassador Pourtalès. He was accompanied by Germany’s military attaché in Russia, Major Bernhard von Eggeling, who also had witnessed the breaking off of maneuvers at Krasnoe Selo and heard similar rumors of mobilization. Germany’s ambassador thus knew something of the outlines of Russia’s impending premobilization even before it happened.

  Pourtalès might have been more anxious still had he not chanced to run into Sazonov on the railway platform at Tsarskoe Selo Sunday morning.4 A peculiarity of Petersburg diplomacy in summertime was the frequent to-and-froing between the tsar’s summer palace (and the nearby parade ground of Krasnoe Selo) and the capital. Not only Sazonov, but most of the major ambassadors took up summer residence at Tsarskoe Selo, much as the foreign colony in British India escaped the heat of Delhi every summer for the Himalayan hill station of Simla, and the European ambassadors in Constantinople left their grand Pera embassies for their only slightly less grand summer houses up the Bosphorus at Therapia. The difference in Petersburg was that, because the rail connection was so swift and sure, actual diplomatic business was still conducted in town, even as everyone lived at Tsarskoe Selo.

  It was thus a happy accident that Pourtalès and Sazonov met at the station this morning, although not that unusual an occurrence. Their two previous meetings, on Tuesday and Friday, had taken place at Chorister’s Bridge. Both formal audiences had been marked by abnormal tension, as the Russian berated the German over the reckless behavior of his Austrian ally. Now, on Sunday morning, in the open country air on the rail platform, Sazonov was all smiles as he invited Pourtalès to accompany him for the short trip to town.

  The foreign mi
nister’s tone, Pourtalès reported to Berlin after arriving at the embassy, was “far more calm and conciliatory” than previously. Sazonov, he continued, “insisted with great warmth that Russia was as far from possible from wanting a war.” Pourtalès told the Russian that Germany felt the same way, assuring him that Austria, too, had no desire to spark a conflagration over the Balkan affair and would respect Serbia’s sovereignty. Moreover, the German pointed out, if the Austrians were really seeking “a pretext to come to blows with Serbia, we would already be hearing now of military action.” The ultimatum had expired the previous evening, after all; as yet no sign was seen of Austrian military action. Perhaps there was still a way out. Pourtalès urged Sazonov to begin direct talks with Szapáry, the Austrian ambassador, immediately, once the train arrived in Petersburg. The Russian agreed.5