July 1914: Countdown to War

by Sean McMeekin

  Despite the ominous events of the past twenty-four hours, there were grounds for optimism as the Austrian ambassador arrived at Chorister’s Bridge Sunday afternoon. A curious aspect of the ongoing crisis was that, despite his overheated rhetoric about Austrian perfidy, Sazonov had thus far been on friendlier terms with “docile as a lamb” Szapáry than with Pourtalès. In part this was because of the need to route complaints via a third party so as to avoid direct accusations between Austria and Russia that could ratchet up the Balkan crisis toward war. But Sazonov, despite his misgivings about Austria, also seemed genuinely to like Szapáry, a refined diplomat of the old school. Certainly the foreign minister did not blame this well-mannered Hungarian count for the policies of his government.

  The audience at Chorister’s Bridge went as well as everyone could have hoped. Sazonov received Szapáry “very cordially” and even made a point of apologizing for briefly losing his temper when the Austrian ambassador had presented him the ultimatum Friday morning. More importantly, he actually listened to what Szapáry had to say without interrupting, something Sazonov had conspicuously failed to do in his tense recent audiences with Pourtalès. Austria-Hungary, Szapáry insisted, contrary to the suspicions of Russian nationalists, was quite far from “wishing to push forward into Balkan territory and to begin a march to Salonica or even to Constantinople.” Her aim, rather, was one of “self-preservation and self-defense.” Nevertheless, Szapáry understood that complications might follow from the ultimatum to Serbia. “If a conflict between the Great Powers arose,” he told Sazonov, “the consequences would be fearful, and then the religious, moral, and social order of the world would be at stake. In glaring colors I set forth a notion of what might follow if a European war broke out.” Sazonov, Szapáry reported to Berchtold, “agreed with me thoroughly and seemed uncommonly pleased with the purport of my explanations.”

  Sazonov then spoke with similar frankness. He not only conceded “that in Russia there were old grievances against Austria,” but “admitted that he had them too.” Still, “this belonged to the past” and should not interfere with the current situation. As for Serbia, Sazonov surprised the ambassador by claiming that “he had no sympathy at all for the Balkan Slavs,” who had become “a heavy burden for Russia.” The Russian was even willing to consider the justice of Austria’s case regarding Serbian complicity in the Sarajevo outrage, although, Szapáry reported to Berchtold, the Russian “considered the path we were pursuing to attain it was not the safest way.” Having had several days to study the “note with a time limit,” Sazonov had become convinced that seven out of the ten points could have been accepted by Serbia “without great difficulty.” Point 4, which demanded the firing of certain Serbian officials, could become acceptable with some amending.

  The key sticking point for Sazonov was still points 5 and 6, relating to the collaboration of Habsburg officials inside Serbia. Were Belgrade to accept this, he told Szapáry, “King Peter [of Serbia] would run the risk of being killed at once” (that is, by the Black Hand or extreme nationalist officers). Taking a clever tack, Sazonov threw the “monarchical principle” back in Berchtold’s face, warning Szapáry that another nationalist coup, following the violent upheaval of 1903, would destroy what little legitimacy the Karageorgevitch dynasty still possessed in Serbia, setting up on Austria’s frontier “an anarchistic witches’ cauldron.”

  Getting back to the Serbian ultimatum, Sazonov assured Szapáry that the problem was not substance but “phraseology.” Even in the matter of points 5 and 6, there might be wiggle room—perhaps Austrian involvement could be limited to “consular intervention at legal proceedings”? Or, failing this, would Austria accept outside mediation from Italy or England? At this, Szapáry had to stop. He was not authorized to express an opinion on the text of the ultimatum, much less alter it himself. Besides, he reminded Sazonov, “matters had already begun to move”—not least Serbia’s own mobilization against Austria, begun at three PM on Saturday. He would happily report Sazonov’s remarks and suggestions in detail to Vienna, but he could not promise the Russian anything. On this amicable note the conversation concluded. “Sazonov,” Szapáry reported, “again in the warmest words expressed his pleasure at the explanations which I had given and which had materially calmed him. He would also, he said, make a report of our conversation to Tsar Nicholas, whom he would see the day after tomorrow [Tuesday, 28 July].”6

  Had Sazonov changed his mind since pushing Russia to mobilize on Friday and Saturday? In their initial response to the Russian’s change of tone Sunday, both Szapáry and Pourtalès thought so. “Russian policy,” the Austrian ambassador opined to Berchtold, “has traveled a long distance in two days—from the first rude rejection of our procedure and from the proposition for a judicial investigation of our dossier, making a European question out of the whole affair; and from that point on again to a recognition of the legitimacy to our claims and to a request for mediators.”7 Pourtalès, on hearing Szapáry’s account of the audience, reported to Berlin at once that he “had the impression that Sazonov, perhaps owing to communications from Paris and London, has lost his nerves somewhat and is now looking for a way out.” It was Grey, after all, who had insisted the previous day on direct talks between Vienna and Petersburg. Benckendorff, in London, had rejected the idea, but perhaps Sazonov had thought it over and taken up the idea himself.8 That this might be true is suggested by the fact that Sazonov sent a telegram Sunday evening to Shebeko in Vienna, instructing him to ask Berchtold to authorize Szapáry to discuss, and possibly revise, the ultimatum to Serbia.9 Or, as Sazonov told Paléologue, he had admonished the Austrian ambassador: “Withdraw your ultimatum; modify the wording; and I will guarantee you the result.”10

  It would be natural if Sazonov, a diplomat by training and inclination, was having cold feet now that war was staring him in the face. Still, in trying to interpret the signs at Chorister’s Bridge, Szapáry and Pourtalès had also to consider the reports they were receiving about the onset of some kind of large-scale secret mobilization in Russia. At around three PM, just before Szapáry arrived to debrief him on the promising audience with Sazonov, Pourtalès forwarded to Berlin the following report from Eggeling, the German military attaché: “Can confirm with certainty, that mobilization has been ordered in Kiev and Odessa. Warsaw and Moscow possibly, the other [districts] probably not yet.”11 Hearing similar reports from his own consuls and attachés, Szapáry cautioned Berchtold, at the end of his report on the audience with Sazonov: “We must not overlook the fact that along with this backing-water policy on the part of the diplomats, there is setting in a lively activity on the part of the militarists.”12 Had Pourtalès and Szapáry known that it was Sazonov himself who had set the wheels of Russia’s premobilization in motion, they would have been more disquieted still.

  WHATEVER THEIR ORIGIN AND INTENT, Russia’s military preparations were viewed with understandable alarm in Vienna and Berlin. Reports coming in were still unclear about the details, but by Sunday afternoon there was no doubt that some kind of mobilization was underway. So confident of this were the Germans that, late Sunday afternoon, Ambassador Lichnowsky lodged a formal complaint about hostile Russian mobilization measures near the German frontier with Whitehall. Foreign Secretary Grey was still in the country at Itchen Abbas (although he was able to receive telegrams there), and so the ambassador met with His Majesty’s permanent undersecretary of state, Sir Arthur Nicolson, instead. As Nicolson reported to Grey, “Prince Lichnowsky called this afternoon with an urgent telegram from his Government to say that they had received information that Russia was calling in ‘classes of reserves,’ which meant mobilization.” Trying to make the most favorable case possible for Germany’s protest, the German ambassador even allowed that Germany “would not mind a partial mobilisation say at Odessa or Kieff—but could not view indifferently a mobilisation on the German frontier.” The geographical details therefore mattered greatly. “If this mobilisation took place on the German front
ier,” Lichnowsky continued, “Germany would be compelled to mobilise—and France naturally would follow suit.” A European war would then be at hand. He thus requested that Britain “urge the Russian Government not to mobilise.”

  Nicolson listened politely but dismissed the German’s complaints. “I told Prince Lichnowsky,” he reported to Grey at Itchen Abbas, “that we had no information as to a general mobilisation or indeed of any mobilisation immediately.” In parenthesis, he justified this assertion by alluding to Buchanan’s telegram of the previous evening, which had reported Sazonov’s (in fact misleading) remarks about the decisions made by the Council of Ministers. “The Ukase mobilizing 1,100,000 men,” Nicolson declared to Lichnowsky as if stating a fact, “has not been issued.” While this was literally true, in that Russia’s “partial mobilization” against Austria had not yet been announced, in fact considerably more than 1.1 million men were by now being made mobile—if not officially mobilized—according to the regulations of the Period Preparatory to War.

  After denying that any kind of mobilization was underway in Russia, Nicolson then compounded Lichnowsky’s frustration by telling him that Britain could not tell Petersburg not to mobilize, as doing so would be “difficult and delicate for us . . . when Austria was contemplating such a measure—we [i.e., the British] should not be listened to.” The main thing, Nicolson insisted, was “to prevent, if possible, active military operations.” He then informed Lichnowsky of a new proposal Grey had concocted overnight, that of a “meeting à quatre,” in which the four powers least directly interested in the Balkan imbroglio (Britain, Italy, France, and Germany), would mediate between Russia, Austria, and Serbia, while the latter three countries would “suspend active military operations pending results of Conference” (mobilization, presumably, was another matter).13

  Filling in for the absent Grey, Nicolson had conducted a remarkable—and unfortunate—diplomatic performance. Believing himself to be acting neutrally and with great circumspection, the undersecretary had managed to provoke Germany on no less than four grounds. First, he issued a blanket denial of Russian mobilization measures actually underway, a denial he would have known to be untrue had he or Grey bothered to enquire of Britain’s ambassador in Petersburg. Second, Nicolson refused point-blank to exercise the slightest restraining influence on Russia, despite Britain’s public posture as a neutral, uninterested party in the current crisis. Third, he adopted the extremely biased position that, even if Russia were mobilizing against Germany, this was not a matter of concern for Britain, as only “active military operations” threatened the peace. He made this statement despite Germany’s ambassador having just told him that Germany would have to counter a Russian mobilization on its frontier by mobilizing against Russia, which would lead France to mobilize against Germany. (Nicolson’s astonishing insouciance about the critical mobilization issue reflected Grey’s own ignorance. In fact the foreign secretary, far from discouraging Russia from mobilizing, had told Benckendorff on Saturday, as if in passing, that he fully expected Russia to mobilize against Austria, a matter on which Grey expressed no opinion—this lack of opinion naturally being interpreted by the Russians as tacit approval.)

  Finally, by introducing Grey’s new proposal for a four-power conference to mediate between Russia, Austria, and Serbia equally, Nicolson had unceremoniously scuttled Grey’s proposal for outside mediation in Petersburg (between Austria and Russia alone, not including Serbia) issued just the previous day—a proposal to which the Germans had responded positively—and replaced it with a new initiative inherently biased against the Central Powers. As everyone except Grey and Nicolson seemed to know, Italy, despite being nominally allied to the Central Powers, was fundamentally hostile to Austria. With Britain herself semi-allied to France and Russia—and clearly taking Russia’s side by summarily dismissing Germany’s protest at her mobilization measures—this meant Germany would be outnumbered three to one. Such, it appeared, were the wages of British “neutrality.”

  Lichnowsky was too much of a gentleman to take umbrage at this. Himself possessing no more information on Russian mobilization measures than had been forwarded from Berlin, he was in no position to press the point harder, nor did he really want to. In fact Lichnowsky’s Anglophilia ran so deep that he was willing to go in with Grey’s new four-power conference idea in order to prevent a breach in relations between England and Germany, a prospect he viewed with horror (not least because it would mean that he would have to give up his beloved post in London). “The localization of the conflict hoped for in Berlin,” Lichnowsky reported to Jagow following his audience with Nicolson, “is entirely impossible and must be ruled out as a practical policy.” As soon as Austrian troops crossed the Serbian frontier, he lamented, “all would be lost”—Russia would be forced to mobilize, and Europe would be at war.14 To prevent such a catastrophe, Lichnowsky sent a telegram to Grey at Itchen Abbas announcing—prematurely, as he had not yet received authorization for this from Berlin—that “my government accepts your suggested mediation à quatre.”15

  Lichnowsky’s Anglophilia was not widely shared in Berlin. At the Wilhelmstrasse, where report after report was pouring in Sunday about Russia’s secret mobilization, Nicolson’s brush-off of German protests was both surprising and disturbing. Could the British really not know what was going on in Russia? Or were they deliberately covering for their ally’s warlike maneuvers?

  The signals coming from St. Petersburg were, in any case, mixed. If Sazonov was losing his nerve, as Pourtalès had suggested in his report of the foreign minister’s afternoon audience with Szapáry (a report that arrived in Berlin shortly after midnight), then perhaps localizing the Austro-Serbian conflict was still possible after all. The key for the Germans, as it had been all along, was speed: the Austrians must strike Serbia so rapidly as to make Russian countermeasures irrelevant. As Jagow had instructed Germany’s diplomats in an 18 July circular, “the more boldness Austria displays, the more strongly we support her, the more likely Russia is to keep quiet.” Despite mounting evidence from Petersburg undermining the logic of this claim, Jagow, backed by Bethmann (still summering at Hohenfinow), stuck to this line. In a Saturday afternoon audience with Austria’s ambassador conducted before the ultimatum deadline passed, Jagow had emphasized that the Germans expected and hoped that a Serbian refusal would be followed by an “immediate declaration of war” by Austria-Hungary. “Any delay in the commencement of military operations,” the state secretary warned, “would bring the great danger of intervention by outside powers” (i.e., Russia). Ambassador Szögyény was thus enjoined to urge Vienna, in the strongest possible terms, to declare war now and thereby “present the world with a fait accompli.”16

  Sunday afternoon, Berchtold summoned to the Ballplatz the German ambassador, Tschirschky, along with Chief of Staff Conrad, to discuss Szögyény’s telegram. Tschirschky wholeheartedly endorsed Bethmann’s urging of speed in launching the war against Serbia; indeed he could not have done otherwise, as this was stated German imperial policy. Berchtold, too, agreed. Together, the two diplomats pressed the case with Conrad, fully expecting that the notoriously bellicose chief of staff would give Berlin what it wanted. “When,” Berchtold asked Conrad, “do you want the declaration of war?” Conrad replied that it would be needed “only at the stage when operations can begin at once—say on 12 August.”17

  The Austrians had done it again. After weeks of prevarication, Vienna had finally put the forty-eight-hour ultimatum plan in motion, had received the expected rejection from Belgrade on schedule, and had even received the unexpected gift of unilateral Serbian mobilization before the ultimatum deadline was up. The casus belli was there. Europe was expecting (even if not necessarily approving) an Austrian attack. What was Conrad waiting for?

  He was waiting for Austria’s mobilization to proceed according to its normal schedule. Sensibly, the chief of staff saw no reason to declare war before Austria was ready to fight. Why, indeed, give Russia and her allies a d
iplomatic pretext against the Central Powers by declaring war now, when Austrian troops would not be able to invade Serbia for another two weeks? Curiously, Conrad was the one thinking like a diplomat, while Berchtold had taken on the role of army hothead, warning his chief of staff that Austria could not wait two weeks, as “the diplomatic situation will not hold so long.”18

  Berchtold was almost certainly right that the “diplomatic situation”—that is, the Austro-German desire for localization—would not last until 12 August. Nevertheless, his argument for declaring war immediately made no diplomatic sense, considering that Conrad had told him Austria could not invade Serbia in strength for another two weeks. The Austrian army chief of staff had, in effect, already ruled out a military fait accompli as impossible, which should have invalidated the entire fait-accompli strategy. To admit this, however, would be to disappoint the Germans again. And so Berchtold hedged. Ambassador Tschirschky was informed that Austria was not going to declare war on Serbia yet. Still, Berchtold informed Jagow and Bethmann, she might do so very soon, if Serbia undertook hostile maneuvers on the Bosnian border.19

  Berchtold might have hesitated further had he known of Szapáry’s promising audience with Sazonov, which took place almost simultaneously with his own meeting with Conrad and Tschirschky. But the Petersburg ambassador’s report, filed just after midnight, would not arrive in Vienna until late Monday afternoon. Sazonov’s own report of the encounter, sent to Shebeko Sunday evening, would arrive sooner than this, but Shebeko would not be able to see Berchtold before Monday at the earliest.20 Shebeko’s own Sunday dispatch to Sazonov, meanwhile, was just as ominous as Sazonov’s was reassuring. In it Russia’s ambassador reported on Austria’s own Premobilization measures against Serbia, which had already begun. These measures were broadly similar in outline to Russia’s Period Preparatory to War, involving the immediate promotion of officers, the selective call-up of reserve divisions, the strengthening of border posts, and the onset of a strict military censorship.21 By the time the Ballplatz would learn of Sazonov’s proposal to allow Szapáry to negotiate modifications in the note to Serbia, it would have been made largely moot by events, whether or not Berchtold was interested.