July 1914: Countdown to War

by Sean McMeekin

  As if wishing to surpass the Germans in the “divergency” of his own signals, the tsar, shortly before composing this plea for peace and while still on the phone, had, according to Schilling’s diary, extended “permission to S. D. Sazonov to discuss the question of our mobilization at once with the Minister of War and the Chief of the General Staff.” Sazonov promptly summoned Sukhomlinov and Yanushkevitch to Chorister’s Bridge. The three men met in Yanushkevitch’s office at the ministry, with supporting staff waiting in the next room to carry out urgent orders. Earlier that day, the tsar had signed both partial and general mobilization orders, although neither had yet been made operative. Yanushkevitch had carried both orders around all day in his pocket, although he was personally confident that, the tsar’s hesitation aside, general mobilization was inevitable. In fact, Yanushkevitch had gone so far as to wire Tiflis command to mobilize Russia’s Army of the Caucasus on the basis of “variant 4” of “a war with a coalition,” in which the participation of both Britain and France was assured and in which “Turkey does not at first take part.”25

  Sazonov and Sukhomlinov saw things the same way. Although the three men “examined the situation from all points,” their discussion did not last long. Shortly after nine PM, Sazonov phoned Tsar Nicholas II—less than an hour after the latter had requested that the kaiser submit his Austrian ally to international arbitration at the Hague—to ask his sovereign’s permission to order general mobilization against both Austria-Hungary and Germany (variant 4, as Yanushkevitch had specified). The tsar agreed at once. His decision, quickly relayed to everyone at Chorister’s Bridge, was, according to Schilling, “received with enthusiasm.”26 General Dobrorolskii, chief of the army’s Mobilization Division, headed over to the Central Telegraph Office of St. Petersburg to issue the fateful order. “In my presence,” Dobrorolskii recalled, the switchboard operators proceeded “to click off the telegram on several typewriters in order to send it at the same moment by all the wires which connected St. Petersburg with the principal centers of the Empire. . . . There existed a special instruction for the sending of the mobilization telegram. During the transmission no other telegrams of any sort could be sent.”27

  Even while the mobilization orders were being typed up, however, a dramatic scene was transpiring at the Peterhof. At 9:40 PM, a second “Willy-Nicky” telegram was delivered, replying to the tsar’s first (not his second, about the Hague, which the kaiser had not yet received when he wired this one from Potsdam at 6:30 PM). The tsar, understandably, thought Willy was replying to the telegram he had sent just an hour previously, rather than the one he had sent the night before. “I share your wish,” the kaiser informed Tsar Nicholas II, “that peace should be maintained.” Although he disputed the tsar’s description of Austria’s initiation of hostilities against Serbia as an “ignoble war,” the kaiser agreed on the need for “a direct understanding between your Government and Vienna” and “readily accepted” the tsar’s appeal, on his friendship, that he would act as mediator (there was no mention of the Hague, which should have tipped off the tsar that his second message had not yet been received). The kaiser’s said his role as mediator, however, would be “jeopardized” if Russia continued her military preparations, which might easily “precipitate a calamity we both wish to avoid.”28

  Russia’s sovereign was moved (and also confused: he really did think the kaiser had responded within minutes to his urgent telegram sent off an hour earlier). Calling in the minister of the imperial court, the tsar told his aide, “in extreme agitation,” that “everything possible must be done to save the peace. I will not become responsible for a monstrous slaughter.” The tsar then phoned Chorister’s Bridge and asked that Sukhomlinov be put on the line. Horrified that his nervous sovereign would gum up the works of Russia’s general mobilization, Sukhomlinov tried to dissuade him. “Mobilization,” the war minister argued, “is not a mechanical process which one can arrest at will, as one can a wagon, and then set in motion again.” The tsar then asked for Yanushkevitch, who offered the same opinion. Summoning all his strength, Tsar Nicholas II asserted his sovereign control over the army and demanded that the general mobilization order be rescinded.29

  Back at the telegraph office, Dobrorolskii, still waiting for the typed copies of the general mobilization order to be transmitted throughout the empire, was summoned to the telephone. Yanushkevitch was on the line, telling him to call off the orders because the tsar had changed his mind. At the last possible moment—around ten PM on Wednesday, 29 July—European war was averted.30 For the moment.

  V. A. Sukhomlinov, Russia’s forceful war minister, who pressed for mobilization in November 1912, January 1914, and July 1914. Source: Tsentralnyi gosudarstvennyi fotoarkhiv kinofotofonodokumentov, St. Petersburg, Russia.

  IN BERLIN, BETHMANN’S NERVES were breaking. On Wednesday afternoon, he had been summoned to Potsdam, along with Chief of Staff Moltke, Minister of War Falkenhayn, and Naval Secretary Tirpitz. Everyone, it seemed, agreed on one thing: the chancellor was to blame. The kaiser, Tirpitz recalled, “expressed himself without reserve regarding Bethmann’s incompetence.” Time was running out on a diplomatic solution. If such a solution were impossible, then Germany’s army—and her navy—were running out of time to prepare for war. Still, however inept the chancellor’s policies may have been so far, the military chiefs (but for Falkenhayn) agreed that, so long as the “Halt in Belgrade” initiative endured, it was too soon to proclaim Kriegsgefahrzustand. Desperate to keep Britain out of the European war that stared him in the face, the chancellor “proposed that, in order to keep England neutral, we should sacrifice the German fleet for an agreement with England.” Tirpitz was horrified, although not surprised—Bethmann had mooted the idea of turning over Germany’s entire navy to the British Admiralty in the past, in order to split England apart from the Entente.31 To Tirpitz’s relief, the kaiser, reluctant to sacrifice his beloved high-seas navy, refused. Bethmann was foiled again. After wolfing down dinner in ten minutes, he left the Neues Palais in a serious funk, appearing to witnesses as if he had “completely collapsed.”32

  Reaching the Wilhelmstrasse sometime between seven and eight PM, the chancellor was in for a new series of shocks. A telegram from Pourtalès had been decoded around three PM, reporting Russia’s partial mobilization. Just minutes later a wire had come in from Chelius, the military attaché in Petersburg, stating that, since Austria’s declaration of war on Serbia, “in the tsar’s entourage, a general war was regarded as almost in-evitable.”33 At around four PM, the German General Staff passed on to the Wilhelmstrasse a report of intimidating length on Russian military preparations, citing “troop concentrations near the border of all arms in up to multi-regimental strength, the recall of reservists and the preparation of rail rolling stock.”34 This was accompanied by the disquieting news that Belgium had called up three classes of reservists, strengthened frontier defenses, armed fortresses, and prepared bridges for demolition in case French or German troops came in.35 Meanwhile two telegrams from Lichnowsky painted a disturbing, if ambiguous, picture of British intentions. In the first he reported that British diplomats were certain that Italy would never fight alongside Austria and Germany.36 In the second, Lichnowsky passed on the impression “that there is a firm conviction here . . . that, failing readiness on the part of Austria to enter into a discussion of the Serbian question, world war will be unavoidable.”37

  This new batch of bad news heaped yet more pressure on Bethmann. Because even “partial mobilization” in Russia had grave implications for Germany’s mobilization timetable, the chancellor had to call in the military chiefs, along with foreign minister Jagow, for an urgent meeting at the Wilhelmstrasse. War now looked likelier than ever, which put the question of British neutrality front and center. It was imperative, Bethmann argued, to put the onus of starting the conflict on Russia. Sazonov had claimed, when Pourtalès confronted him, that Russian mobilization “did not mean war.” Whatever the truth of the Russian’s cla
im—Falkenhayn, for one, thought it “a direct lie”—Bethmann wanted to test it out with an eye to British opinion. “England,” he argued, “would not be able to side with Russia if Russia unleashed a general war by an attack on Austria and thus took on her shoulders the guilt for the whole smash-up (Kladderadatsch).” For this reason the chancellor urged that Kriegsgefahrzustand still not be proclaimed, so as to make clear to London that Russia, not Germany, was starting the war. Moltke and Falkenhayn, reluctantly, agreed to wait.38

  Bethmann was staking a great deal on his hope of British neutrality. Having based his foreign policy for years on rapprochement with England, having just told his military chiefs to hold off on war preparations so as not to prejudice English opinion, Bethmann was ready to go all in. Despite the worrying tone of Lichnowsky’s afternoon dispatches, there were some grounds for optimism. At Potsdam, the chancellor had learned of an encouraging declaration made several days earlier by King George V to the kaiser’s brother, Prince Heinrich, that “we shall try all we can to keep out of this, and shall remain neutral.” The prince had arrived in Potsdam on Wednesday afternoon; he assured the kaiser that this statement had “been made in all seriousness” and that England would almost certainly be neutral at the start of the war, with her future attitude depending on the fate of France.39 It was only the secondhand sentiment of a sovereign, but, since the kaiser had refused to allow Bethmann to barter Germany’s fleet for British neutrality, the English king’s vow was all the chancellor had.

  Clinging to this thin reed of hope, Bethmann ventured out on a dangerous limb. At ten thirty Wednesday night, the chancellor called in Britain’s ambassador, Sir Edward Goschen. Bethmann may not have been entirely of sound mind, following an exhausting day during which he had been chastised by his sovereign in front of the military chiefs and then received a depressing litany of bad news,* which had forced him to face the disapproving glares of Falkenhayn and Moltke again. Still, Bethmann’s opening was sensible. Although he “was continuing his efforts to maintain peace,” the chancellor told Goschen that, if Germany was forced to mobilize owing to a “Russian attack on Austria,” it might, “to his great regret, render a European conflagration inevitable.” In this case, Bethmann “hoped Great Britain would remain neutral.” Had he ended his remarks there, Goschen would have had little to object to. How, after all, could England have justified not remaining neutral (that is, declaring war on Germany) if the casus foederis was a Russian attack on Austria? This, indeed, would follow the logic of what Bethmann had just proposed to Falkenhayn and Moltke: that Germany refrain from countermobilizing in order to put the onus of starting the war onto Russia.

  Bethmann did not, however, stop there. Thinking that he needed to offer England something tangible in order to win a genuine, across-the-board neutrality pledge—and unable to give her the German fleet, as he would have wished—the chancellor began doling out inside information. In exchange for British neutrality, he promised Goschen that, “in the event of a victorious war, Germany aimed at no territorial acquisitions at the expense of France.” This pledge, in itself, was harmless, but its very formulation opened Bethmann up to a broad range of questions regarding German intentions. If not France, then what about her colonies? Goschen asked. The chancellor, foolishly, admitted that he was unable to guarantee that Germany would not take them. Holland? Bethmann “said he was . . . ready to assure the British Government that Germany would respect neutrality and integrity of Holland as long as they were respected by Germany’s adversaries.” Now Goschen got to the point: Would Germany respect Belgian neutrality, guaranteed by all the powers since the creation of the state (largely under British auspices) in 1839? “As regards Belgium,” Bethmann blurted out without thinking, he “could not tell to what operations Germany might be forced by the action of France, but he could state that, provided that Belgium did not take sides against Germany, her integrity would be respected after the conclusion of the war.”40

  Here was a diplomatic blunder of the first order. Under the stress of the night, Bethmann had given away the store. Rather than reassure London about Germany’s peaceful intentions, his artless bid for neutrality signaled a desire for war. Having himself opened up a dangerous line of questioning, Bethmann had then tacitly admitted that Germany had imperial designs on France’s colonies (if not on France herself). Worst of all, in his answers to the questions on Holland and Belgium, he had unwittingly betrayed the most sensitive secret of Germany’s war plan: a march through Belgium. Why else had he promised to respect Dutch but not Belgian neutrality? Indeed, as Sir Eyre Crowe, senior clerk at the British Foreign Office, minuted on Goschen’s report, “Germany practically admits the intention to violate Belgian neutrality.” The only comment necessary on these “astounding proposals,” Crowe drily remarked, “is that they reflect discredit on the statesman who makes them.”41 Prime Minister Asquith, when he learned of the proposal, felt almost sorry for Bethmann, noting that “there is something very crude & almost childlike about German diplomacy.”42

  In Bethmann’s defense, he seems to have realized his error almost as soon as he made it. Just minutes after his audience with Goschen concluded, the chancellor was handed a third telegram from Lichnowsky, which showed him just how forlorn his hope of British neutrality had been. After days of confusing feints at mediation, Foreign Minister Grey had finally summoned the courage to issue a real warning to Germany. While still hoping that a four-power conference, including Germany, would mediate between Austria and Serbia, Grey for the first time gave a hint of what England’s policy might look like if this did not happen. If an armed Austro-Russian clash over Serbia drew France and Germany into a European war, Grey told Lichnowsky around six Wednesday evening, “the British Government would be forced into taking rapid decisions. In this case it would not do to stand aside and wait.”43 So King George’s vague reassurance had been hollow. Britain would not remain neutral after all.

  Lichnowsky’s latest telegram dealt Bethmann a crushing blow. But it was also salutary, in that it forced him to abandon the wishful assumption on which he had been basing his policies. Here it must be said that Grey had done almost nothing before 29 July to discourage this assumption. As early as Friday, 24 July, Sir George Buchanan had urged the foreign secretary to make a clear statement at Berlin and Vienna “that if war became general, it would be difficult for England to remain neutral.”44 Had Grey done so over the weekend, or even as late as Monday, 27 July, Bethmann would have been under no illusions about British neutrality. He might then have warned off Austrian foreign minister Berchtold from declaring war on Serbia on Tuesday—or at least passed on, unedited, the kaiser’s more genuine version of the “Halt in Belgrade” proposal, under which Austria would negotiate on the basis of the Serbian reply. Had Grey issued his veiled threat even as late as Wednesday morning (in time for Bethmann to learn of it before his fateful ten thirty PM encounter with Goschen), the chancellor would have spared everyone the embarrassment of his sublimely stupid bid for neutrality. Instead, Grey had consistently maintained a phony posture of disinterestedness, even as Churchill (admittedly without Grey’s knowledge) was priming Britain’s navy for war against Germany and as Russia commenced far-reaching preparations for war without a peep of British disapproval. By leaving the Germans in the dark about British intentions for so long, Grey had fed Bethmann’s illusions, which had encouraged him to urge on Austria’s reckless behavior.

  Sir Edward Grey, of course, was facing his own painful dilemmas. Churchill’s bold preparatory maneuvers were possible only because he had not run them by the cabinet, on the spurious grounds that moving the fleet around was his prerogative as first lord of the Admiralty and did not necessarily signify a policy. As His Majesty’s foreign secretary, Grey’s every utterance was, in essence, a declaration of policy, which is why he was so careful with them. The cabinet was deeply divided, with a thin stratum of Francophile Liberal imperialists—Asquith, Grey, Churchill—running foreign policy even as the domestic officer
s were mostly “Little Englanders” suspicious of all foreign entanglements—particularly those with France and Russia. At a cabinet meeting held earlier on Wednesday, Grey had not dared to speak strongly against Germany, knowing that he and Asquith “faced a clear noninterventionist majority.”45 Churchill himself believed—notwithstanding his own unauthorized maneuvers—that had Grey issued a real ultimatum to Germany, the Liberal cabinet would have “broken up.”46 Conversely, a clear declaration of neutrality that left France in the lurch would have prompted the loud resignations of Liberalimperial interventionists (starting with Churchill). For fear of a cabinet meltdown, it had therefore been Grey’s policy not to have a policy—until he had finally summoned the courage to issue his belated warning to Lichnowsky (even then watering it down enough so as to not stir up cabinet opposition). Sir Edward Grey had, in effect, impaled Bethmann on the horns of the Briton’s own policy dilemma.

  Faced with diplomatic and now military encirclement by the burgeoning Triple Entente, Bethmann at last did what he should have done days (if not weeks) earlier: wire Berchtold in Vienna, demanding “urgently and emphatically” that the Vienna cabinet accept four-power mediation with Serbia, without reservation or qualification. If Germany and Austria did not negotiate based on the “honorable terms” Grey had originally offered, they would be “faced with a conflagration in which England will go against us, Italy and Romania to all appearances will not go with us, and we should be two against four Great Powers.”* At 2:55 AM Thursday morning, Bethmann sent off this historic wire to Vienna.47 Five minutes later, he sent Ambassador Tschirschky another, demanding that Austria resume direct talks with Russia, emphasizing that the Germans were “prepared to fulfill our duties as allies, but must decline to let ourselves be dragged by Vienna, wantonly and without regard to our advice, into a world conflagration. In the Italian question, too, Vienna seems to disregard our advice. Pray speak to Count Berchtold at once with great emphasis and most seriously.”48 In this way Bethmann, on the evening of 29–30 July 1914, at last rescinded the blank check he had foolishly offered Austria three weeks earlier.