July 1914: Countdown to War

by Sean McMeekin

  18

  “You Have Got Me into a Fine Mess”

  TUESDAY, 28 JULY

  THE KAISER ROSE AT DAWN in the Neues Palais on Tuesday morning, 28 July. At seven thirty AM, he went for a ride with his adjutant, General Plessen. Neither man was aware of the previous evening’s critical dispatches to and from Vienna. There was thus little to disturb the pleasant early morning exercise. “H[is] M[ajesty],” Plessen recorded in his diary, “tells me England thinks the Serbian answer to the Austrian ultimatum such that in essence all the demands are conceded and therewith all reason for war is gone.” While Plessen saw no reason to disagree, he did tell his sovereign that he “thought Austria must at least lay hands on some gauge which should serve as a guarantee for the carrying out of [Serbia’s] concessions.” The kaiser thought that Austria had missed her chance for a punitive war, but this was by no means a bad thing, if a diplomatic triumph over Serbia was still on offer.1

  It was in this state of mind that Wilhelm sat down, at long last, to read the Serbian reply to Austria’s ultimatum after he returned to the palace shortly after nine. Delivered from the Wilhelmstrasse by courier, the decrypted French-language text had arrived in Potsdam shortly before midnight, long after the kaiser had turned in. While he already suspected that the tone of the reply would be reasonably conciliatory, Wilhelm was floored when he read it. “A brilliant achievement in a time limit of only forty-eight hours!” he scribbled, declaring Serbia’s near-total compliance “more than one could have expected!” and “a great moral success for Vienna.” With Prime Minister Pašić’s reply, he deduced, “all reason for war is gone, and Giesl ought to have quietly stayed on in Belgrade!” Receiving such a reply, he wrote, “I should never have ordered mobilization.”2

  The kaiser often responded impulsively when he scribbled marginalia, but this time he meant what he said. By ten AM, he had composed a formal memorandum to Foreign Minister Jagow, requesting that Germany ask the Austrians to use the Serbian reply as a basis for negotiation—precisely as Grey had suggested to Ambassador Lichnowsky on Monday. “The few reservations made by Serbia on single points,” he wrote, “can in my opinion well be cleared up by negotiation. But capitulation of the most humble type is there proclaimed urbi et orbi and thereby all reason for war falls to the ground.” It was true, Wilhelm conceded, that the reply was “a mere scrap of paper,” the text of which meant little unless it was “translated into deeds.” After all, as the kaiser argued, “the Serbs are Orientals, therefore liars, deceitful, and master hands at temporizing.” To turn their “fine promises” into “truth and fact,” he proposed that Austria carry out a temporary occupation of Belgrade, “as security for the enforcement and execution of the promises and remaining there until the demands are actually carried out.” This solution would also satisfy honor for the Austrian army, which had once again, just as during the Balkan Wars, “been mobilized to no purpose.” On the basis of this temporary occupation plan, the kaiser declared himself “ready to mediate for peace in Austria.”3

  In light of this dramatic reaction, it is interesting to reflect on what might have happened had Germany’s sovereign been shown Serbia’s reply to Austria during the Potsdam council on Monday afternoon or even on Monday evening, before he went to bed. Had the kaiser come up with his mediation-in-Vienna plan on Monday—a plan very close to what Grey was demanding, aside from the part about a temporary occupation of Belgrade to save Austrian face—Chancellor Bethmann and Jagow would have been forced to promote Grey’s plan seriously to Vienna, even if in the kaiser’s modified form, rather than signaling that they wanted Vienna to reject it. More important, with the kaiser now favoring negotiation, they could never have approved Foreign Minister Berchtold’s plan to declare war on Tuesday. They would have been forced, at the least, to inform Wilhelm of Austria’s impending declaration of war, of which they learned early Monday evening, and this would have occasioned the kaiser’s furious objection. Matters would then have come to a head on Monday night, quite possibly with a confrontation between Bethmann and his sovereign. The chancellor would almost certainly have backed down, as he always did when the kaiser rebuked him. Without authorization from Berlin, Austria-Hungary would then not have declared war on Serbia on Tuesday. Some kind of negotiations over modifying Serbia’s reply would have begun, whether the initiative was taken by Grey, the kaiser, or even Russian foreign minister Sazonov. Berchtold would have been crushed, of course, but, absent Germany’s backing, he would have had to go along.

  But the kaiser did not read Serbia’s reply before going to bed on Monday night, almost certainly because Bethmann and Jagow, knowing how he would react, had instructed their courier not to wake him. Still, had Wilhelm’s letter reached Jagow on Tuesday morning, it still might have been in time to call off the Austrians, who planned to declare war on Serbia at noon. Had the kaiser read the reply immediately on rising—rather than going riding with his adjutant—his response might have reached the Wilhelmstrasse, and through it the Ballplatz, with an hour or two to spare. Even composed at ten, as it was, it might have had effect had Wilhelm sent it off with instructions that the text be wired immediately to Vienna. But the kaiser, not having any idea that Austria was about to declare war, and not someone accustomed to the telephone, sent the message to Berlin by courier, such that Jagow could not have received it before eleven or eleven thirty AM at the earliest.4 On top of this, Wilhelm stipulated that, because of its sensitive nature, he wanted his proposal forwarded to Vienna by private courier. So, even had Jagow received the letter before noon, there was no chance the Austrians would have gotten the message in time.

  Rendering this drama moot, at 11:10 AM Tuesday morning, Austria-Hungary formally declared war on Serbia (the telegram was deciphered by the Serbs at 12:30 PM). “The Royal Serbian Government not having answered in a satisfactory manner the note of July 23, 1914, presented by the Austro-Hungarian Minister at Belgrade,” the note declared, “the Imperial and Royal Government are themselves compelled to see to the safeguarding of their rights and interests, and, with this object, to have recourse to force of arms. Austria-Hungary consequently considers herself henceforward in a state of war with Serbia.”5

  It was Berchtold’s final fait accompli. It was he who had decided on Monday, against Chief of Staff Conrad’s advice and contrary to German expectations, to declare war immediately. It was Berchtold who had, on Tuesday morning, made a final pitch to Franz Josef I at Bad Ischl, convincing the emperor that only prompt action could stave off the threat of Entente intervention (for added measure, citing specious evidence, Berchtold had told Franz Josef that Serbian troops had fired on Austrian positions on the Danube). It was Berchtold who had written and signed the French-language text sent to Serbia—a novel act in itself, as the Italian journalist Luigi Albertini observed: “for the first time in history a declaration of war was made by telegram.” Finally, and strangest of all, Berchtold’s telegram was unaccompanied by any military action, which appears to have left the Serbians in doubt as to its veracity. Pašić, indeed, thought it was a hoax, not least because the direct telegraphic line to Austria had been cut off and he was not sure how the telegram had reached Serbian territory. Serbia’s prime minister went so far as to wire to Petersburg, Paris, and London to inform friendly powers “of the strange telegram he had received and to ask whether it was true that Austria had declared war on Serbia.”6

  Berchtold had logical reasons for proceeding in this way, but this did not make them sound ones. Just as he had informed the Germans on Monday, his goal in declaring war on Serbia was not so much to actually begin a war—Conrad had said this would not happen until 12 August—as to obviate further mediation efforts. By Monday evening, Berchtold had learned from both Russian ambassador Shebeko and Vienna’s ambassador in Petersburg, Szapáry, of Sazonov’s proposal for direct talks between Austria and Russia, as well as of Grey’s proposal for a four-power conference. Later that night, he received the messages from Berlin reporting on Grey’s newer ide
a for German mediation on the basis of the Serbian note. Europe’s diplomats were clearly gearing up for action to stave off a Balkan war. In a kind of perverse antidiplomacy, Berchtold wanted to start the Balkan war (on paper, at least) before they could stop it. When more mediation offers came in on Tuesday, as he knew they would, Berchtold now had his answer ready: they were no longer relevant, as Austria and Serbia were already at war, even if there was no actual fighting between them.

  It is hard to think of a policy more inept than this. The original Austro-German plan was for a military first strike against Serbia so quick and decisive that the powers would be unable to react. Berchtold’s final version, a kind of fait accompli ad absurdum, now offered the world a rapid-fire declaration of war—but without the actual war, which would only come two weeks later. As diplomacy for the Central Powers, it was suicidal; as strategy, it was nonsensical. The only advantage of any kind that it offered was to allow Berchtold to ignore the entreaties of European diplomats—in effect, not to have to answer his phone. The Germans, forced to defend the reckless behavior of their ally in order to fend off diplomatic encirclement, would not be so lucky.

  Berchtold’s upside-down diplomacy played right into Sazonov’s hands. With Austria speaking loudly and brandishing a soft stick, the Russians could offer carrots all around—while accelerating their secret preparations for war.

  By Tuesday, 28 July, Russia’s preliminary mobilization was so far advanced that only the willfully ignorant, like Britain’s ambassador Sir George Buchanan, failed to notice it. On Monday, Chief of Staff Yanushkevitch had wired Tiflis command that the Period Preparatory to War was now also in force for the military districts of Omsk, Irkutsk, Turkestan, and the Caucasus, expanding the scope of Russia’s premobilization across nearly the entire Russian Empire, from central Europe to Siberia, from the Arctic Circle to the Persian border.7 By Tuesday, dispatches reporting these alarming developments were pouring into Vienna and Berlin. In Odessa, the German consul observed the call-up of reserves.8 Warsaw’s train station, Consul Brück reported, was a beehive of activity, with troop trains setting off in all directions—including toward the German border.9 The intelligence summary of the German General Staff that day concluded that the Russians were “apparently conducting at least a partial mobilization” and that the Period Preparatory to War had “probably” been declared in all of Russia.10 The gist of these German reports was confirmed by an Entente observer. As Serbia’s military attaché in Berlin recalled,

  On July 28, in company with several Serbian officers, I arrived at Warsaw [from Berlin]. As far as the German frontier, not the slightest indication was seen of military measures. But immediately after crossing the frontier [into Russian Poland], we noticed mobilization steps being undertaken on a grand scale (assembly of freight cars in several stations, military occupation of the railway stations, massing of troops in several cities, transport of troops, mobilization signaling). When we arrived at Brest-Litovsk, July 28, the state of siege had already been proclaimed.11

  As against such energetic and detailed reporting, as late as eight thirty PM on Tuesday, 28 July, Buchanan had picked up only a single vague rumor of “forces of infantry leaving Warsaw for frontier”—without explaining which forces or which frontier.12

  Only Buchanan himself knew whether it was laziness or malice that produced dispatches that so signally failed to inform London about what was going on in Russia. The Briton’s obliviousness was perfectly captured in a series of conversations he had with Sazonov and French ambassador Paléologue at Chorister’s Bridge on Tuesday afternoon. Buchanan met with Russia’s foreign minister around three PM, before either man had learned of Austria’s declaration of war on Serbia. Still entertaining hopes that he could mediate between Austria and Russia as Grey desired, Buchanan asked Sazonov what he thought of Austria’s public pledge to respect “Serbia’s independence and integrity.” “His Excellency,” Buchanan reported to Grey, “replied at once that no engagement that Austria might take on these two points would satisfy Russia.”13 With the clear intention to mislead, Sazonov then promised Britain’s ambassador that “the order for [Russian] mobilization against Austria would be given on the day that the Austrian army crossed the Serbian frontier,” implying that Russia would not even so much as “partially mobilize” for days, if not weeks. So far from suspecting the Russian of deceiving him, Buchanan instead earnestly “urged him to refrain from any military measures which might be construed as a challenge by Germany.”14 Such measures had, unbeknownst to Buchanan, been underway for three full days already.

  On his way out of Sazonov’s office, Buchanan ran into Paléologue in the antechamber. “I have just been begging Sazonov,” he informed his French counterpart, “not to consent to any military measure which Germany could call provocative. The German Government must be saddled with all the responsibility and all the initiative. English opinion will accept the idea of intervening in the present war only if Germany is indisputably the aggressor. . . . Please talk to Sazonov to that effect.” France’s ambassador, stifling any urge to relieve Buchanan’s ignorance, cleverly responded: “That’s what I’m always telling him.”15 It does not seem to have occurred to Buchanan, either then or later, that Paléologue and Sazonov were deliberately deceiving him about Russia’s “provocative” military measures, precisely in order to manipulate “English opinion” into supporting the Franco-Russian side in the European war that now seemed imminent.

  Imminent, but not quite inevitable. At the time of these exchanges, the die for war was not yet firmly cast. Far-reaching as Russia’s Period Preparatory to War was, threatening as it appeared to the Germans and the Austrians alike, on 28 July it still fell short of actual mobilization. The red placards announcing general mobilization had not been posted, not even in the four districts that were to be “partially mobilized” against Austria. The Germans could protest all they liked, but until those placards went up, Sazonov still had plausible deniability that Russia had “mobilized”—especially in Britain, where he was protected by further layers of ignorance and incuriosity. Moreover, although Austria and Serbia had both been mobilizing for several days, until hostilities commenced between them, there was still an outside chance that the powers could intervene in Vienna. It was, indeed, expressly to cut off this possibility that Berchtold had composed his “strange telegram” announcing that Austria was at war with Serbia. In doing so he not only cut the legs out from his own diplomatic position but also gave Russia a clear-cut casus belli against Austria (if not also against Germany), handing Sazonov a priceless diplomatic gift.

  In response to Berchtold’s toothless declaration of war, which he learned of around four PM on Tuesday afternoon, Sazonov at last admitted that Russia had inaugurated “partial mobilization” of four military districts against Austria-Hungary (Odessa, Kiev, Moscow, and Kazan)—notwithstanding the fact that Russia’s preliminary mobilization had long since expanded well beyond those districts to encompass all of European Russia plus Siberia and the Caucasus, the Baltic and Black Seas, and Russian Poland. Even this disingenuous announcement, meanwhile, was passed on not in a public declaration à la Berchtold, but in a secret dispatch to Russian diplomats abroad.16 Sazonov even took special care not to report this news to Sir George Buchanan, or even to his own ambassador in London, Count Benckendorff, who was informed only that “in consequence of the Austrian declaration of war on Serbia, direct discussions on my part with the Austrian ambassador are obviously useless.”17 Whereas Berchtold seemed resolved to paint the worst possible picture of Austro-German intentions in London by declaring war on Serbia two weeks before Austria would be ready to fight, Sazonov perceived that the key diplomatic question in July 1914 was British belligerence or neutrality. Grey, the cabinet, and above all the British public still had no idea that Russia was mobilizing against the Central Powers, and Russia’s foreign minister saw no reason to disabuse them of their ignorance.

  IN LONDON, AS SAZONOV MUST HAVE KNOWN, Ireland was still d
ominating the news cycle. On Sunday, following the arrival of a shipment of Mauser rifles in Dublin harbor, a melee had developed that saw British troops fire into a “crowd of stone-throwing Dubliners”; the clash had left three dead and thirty-six wounded. This was far bigger news on Fleet Street than the unfolding Balkan crisis or murky events in distant Russia, about which even Britain’s government remained unaware. As the Times reported on Monday, “there can no longer be the slightest doubt that the country is now confronted with one of the greatest crises in the history of the British race”—the possibility of a civil war over Home Rule, that is, not a European war breaking out. To the extent that Prime Minister Asquith gave thought to the Balkan crisis at all, he saw it as possibly “a good thing,” as it had the potential to distract the public from Ireland. He seems first to have suspected that it might not be a good thing on Tuesday evening, 28 July, when he was told by officials from the House of Rothschild that the French government was dumping her London securities. While he found the news “ominous,” Asquith apparently did not bother to enquire about why France’s government was doing this.18 Sir Edward Grey, in charge of foreign policy, was of course following the crisis as closely as he could, but it was still not closely enough. As late as four PM on Tuesday, he instructed Sir Edward Goschen, his ambassador in Berlin, to promote “the direct exchange of views between Austria and Russia,” not realizing, because of the sloth of his diplomats, that (1) Austria was already at war with Serbia, and (2) Russia had begun premobilizing secretly against both Austria-Hungary and Germany three days previously and would begin at least “partial” mobilization as soon as Petersburg learned that Austria was at war with Serbia. Five hours after a Balkan war had begun, Grey was still telling Goschen that “as long as there is a prospect of that [peaceful mediation] taking place, I would suspend every other suggestion.”19 Goschen was not enjoined to exert any pressure on the Germans to restrain Austria (nor, it goes almost without saying, did Grey expect Buchanan to restrain the Russians). Grey would learn only around eight PM on Tuesday evening that Austria had declared war on Serbia, and he would remain in the dark about Russia’s ongoing mobilization measures through the night. Another day had come and gone, this one the most decisive yet—and Grey’s dawdling diplomacy had left Britain impotent to influence events.