July 1914: Countdown to War

by Sean McMeekin

  Moltke might have taken solace if he had stuck around for the next twist. A second telegram from Lichnowsky was delivered just minutes after the chief of staff left, this one even more astonishing than the first. Sir William Tyrrell had come by the embassy early on Saturday afternoon, ostensibly to report on the cabinet meeting, and informed the German ambassador that “Sir E. Grey has made an offer this afternoon for the neutrality of England, even in the case that we make war with Russia as well as with France.” Hearing this, the kaiser ordered champagne for everyone. Britain would remain neutral no matter what Germany did!43

  Of course, there were still France and Russia to worry about. At eight forty-five PM, Jagow wired Schoen in Paris, passing on Grey’s offer, “whereby England would guarantee France’s neutrality, if we do not attack France.” Jagow promised that “from our side no hostile action against France was in view, aside from mobilization,” and asked that Schoen give this assurance to Viviani in order to “keep the French quiet for the time being.”44

  The situation with Russia was stranger still. After the twelve-hour ultimatum deadline had expired, Germany’s declaration of war had been sent to Pourtalès at 12:52 PM, although his instructions were not to deliver it until 5 PM Central European time (6:30 PM in Petersburg). So a state of war between Germany and Russia almost certainly existed when Grey’s neutrality offers were being digested in Charlottenburg—although, failing any new report from Pourtalès, no one could be quite sure of this. The most recent news from Russia was the latest “Nicky-Willy” telegram, which had been received in Berlin just after 2 PM. In it, the tsar had said that he understood the kaiser was “obliged to mobilize,” but asked for “the same guarantee from you as I gave you, that these measures do not mean war and that we shall continue nego[t]iating.”45 Germany’s sovereign had, in effect, already answered this question in the negative by having a declaration of war sent to Petersburg, although he was not sure it had been delivered. Seeking to cover all possible bases, Bethmann had a reply written up in the kaiser’s name, which was wired to Pourtalès at 9:45 PM.

  “Although I requested an answer by noon today,” Willy’s note began, “no telegram from my ambassador conveying an answer from your government has reached me as yet. I therefore have been obliged to mobilise my army.” Failing receipt of a satisfactory answer as to Russian demobilization, he was “unable to discuss the subject of your telegram” (i.e., whether German mobilization meant war). “Immediate affirmative clear and unmistakable answer from your government,” Willy concluded, “is the only way to avoid endless misery.”46

  It was an awkward and unnecessary communication. As Bethmann must have known, by the time it reached Petersburg just before midnight, the question of peace or war would already have been resolved by Germany’s own ambassador. Although it took several hours for his orders from Berlin to be transmitted and deciphered, Pourtalès had the declaration of war in hand by 5:45 PM Russian time, and he headed over to Chorister’s Bridge about an hour later, only fifteen minutes behind schedule. Sazonov received him at 7 PM (5:30 PM German time), about the same time that Moltke and Falkenhayn were being called back to the palace owing to the bombshell from London. Knowing nothing of this, Pourtalès calmly asked, one more time, whether “the Imperial Government was agreeable to giving him a favorable reply to his note of yesterday” (i.e., the twelve-hour ultimatum asking Russia to demobilize). Sazonov said no, he was unable to comply with Germany’s request. Pourtalès drew the declaration of war out of his pocket and repeated his question a second time, emphasizing the “serious consequences” that would attend a refusal. Sazonov confirmed his refusal. “With increasing emotion,” Pourtalès repeated his question a third time. Sazonov, as if to relieve the German’s agony, confessed, “I have no other reply to give you.” The ambassador, “deeply moved and drawing a deep breath,” presented the declaration of war, “with trembling hands,” to Sazonov. The two men, both overcome with emotion, then embraced (although their accounts differ as to who embraced whom).47

  According to Pourtalès, a brief exchange followed in which the men tried to fix blame on the other country for starting the war. Sazonov fingered Tschirschky, Germany’s ambassador in Vienna, for urging on Austrian aggression against Serbia. Pourtalès retorted that the men responsible were “those who had encouraged the Tsar to mobilize against us.” To this accusation, Sazonov replied with a question: “What could I as Minister of Foreign Affairs have done, when the War Minister [Sukhomlinov] explained to the Tsar, that the mobilization was necessary?” Pourtalès replied that it was precisely Sazonov’s job, as foreign minister, “knowing from [our] previous negotiations what would necessarily be the consequences of this mobilization . . . to restrain the Tsar from this fateful step.” Had Pourtalès known that it was Sazonov himself who—deputized by Sukhomlinov and Yanushkevitch—had convinced the tsar to mobilize, he would have been angrier still.

  However the historic exchange at Chorister’s Bridge really ended, Pourtalès asked for his passports as soon as it was finished. He was to leave Petersburg at eight AM.48 Sazonov wired the news of the declaration of war immediately to his ambassadors and then went to dine with Buchanan and Paléologue. Once everyone knew that Germany had declared war, the kaiser’s last telegram could only appear to be a deliberate provocation. Bethmann had handed France and Russia another diplomatic gift.

  BACK IN CHARLOTTENBURG, oblivious to what was happening in Petersburg, Kaiser Wilhelm was in a euphoric mood. After relaxing for a bit with his family in the garden, he retired to bed. Scarcely had the kaiser nodded off when he was awakened with an urgent telegram from King George V (although Grey was its real author). “In answer to your telegram just received,” it read,

  I THINK THERE MUST BE SOME MISUNDERSTANDING AS TO A SUGGESTION THAT PASSED IN FRIENDLY CONVERSATION BETWEEN PRINCE LICHNOWSKY AND SIR EDWARD GREY THIS AFTERNOON WHEN THEY WERE DISCUSSING HOW ACTUAL FIGHTING BETWEEN GERMAN AND FRENCH ARMIES MIGHT BE AVOIDED WHILE THERE IS STILL A CHANCE OF SOME AGREEMENT BETWEEN AUSTRIA AND RUSSIA.49

  Misunderstanding there certainly had been—but not on Lichnowsky’s part. Sir Edward Grey had indeed made both neutrality offers during the day. Remarkably, he had even told the French ambassador, Paul Cambon, of his first one, and forwarded it to Sir Francis Bertie in Paris, where the suggestion that (as Bertie interpreted Grey’s proposal on reading it through carefully) Britain would “remain neutral so long as German troops remain on defensive and do not cross French frontier, and French abstain from crossing German frontier” was received with even more astonishment than in Berlin (although it was not happy astonishment).50 Grey himself was astonished when, summoned to Buckingham Palace at eight PM, he read the kaiser’s cable from Berlin. He had not really thought through what it meant to “guarantee the passivity of France”—namely, to pledge the British army and navy to uphold French neutrality, even while Germany went to war with France’s closest ally. “There must have been some misunderstanding” was Grey’s way of disclaiming his own proposals once he realized how foolish they were.*

  The kaiser’s heart was broken by this terse telegram from his cousin. The longed-for British olive branch had been withdrawn. Although rousing himself to send the summons to Moltke, he had not dressed but simply thrown a coat over his pajamas. It was in this disheveled state that the all-highest warlord received his chief of staff shortly after eleven PM. Moltke, expecting to be given another impossible, halt-the-mobilization order, was instead handed the telegram from Buckingham Palace. “Now you can do what you want” was all the kaiser could say. Moltke, relieved, “drove home at once and telegraphed to the Sixteenth Division that the invasion of Luxembourg was to proceed.”51 Germany had declared war on Russia first, but it was her war against France that would now begin.

  * The old Conservative (Tory) and Liberal Unionist Parties, which had first formed a coalition in opposition to Gladstone’s Liberals over Home Rule in 1886, had merged in 1912 to form the “Conservative and Unionist Party,” a sin
gle political party with two names. For purposes of economy I will refer to them as Conservatives and Unionists interchangeably.

  * Viviani told Messimy that he had just had a second meeting with the German ambassador, which “gave a gleam of hope of an arrangement.” But this cannot be true, as he did not meet Schoen again until five thirty PM. It is possible that Messimy misremembered the time of this meeting—that it took place on Saturday evening, not just before four PM. This seems unlikely, however, as Joffre and Messimy had told Viviani repeatedly that the mobilization order would go out at four PM. By nightfall, he would have known that the order was irreversible.

  * Lichnowsky, who was close to Sir Edward Grey, later defended his friend’s reputation by playing along with the idea that he had misunderstood him. But Grey’s two dispatches to Sir Francis Bertie in Paris, both dated 1 August 1914, give the lie to both men. Grey may not have been in his right mind Saturday, but he did say what he said.

  23

  Britain Wakes Up to the Danger

  SUNDAY, 2 AUGUST

  AFTER THE KAISER WENT TO BED, his advisers huddled to discuss what to do next. In the evening drama over Grey’s neutrality offer, Russia had nearly been forgotten. Pourtalès had been instructed to deliver Germany’s declaration of war at five PM. Nine hours later, no news had been received from Petersburg. Was Germany at war with Russia, or not? No one knew. And as Bethmann argued, the strange thing was that if she were not at war with Russia, she could hardly justify going to war with France. Falkenhayn dismissed this as twaddle, arguing that “the war was there after all and the question of a declaration of war on France was of no account.” Moltke agreed: “The war was there, and that was that.” Still, Bethmann would not budge. He would not allow Germany’s war with France to proceed, declared or otherwise, until he had “some confirmation under international law” that she was at war with Russia.

  At this Moltke grew angry. The Russians had mobilized first, he reminded Bethmann; shots had been fired on the East Prussian border; there was obviously a war, whether or not Germany had declared it. A “violent scene” ensued, Tirpitz recalled, “followed by mutual apologies for loss of temper.” The chancellor finally conceded that, if the Russians had indeed fired first, then the case was “clear, that means the Russians have been the first to start and I shall have the declaration of war [on Russia] handed over the frontier by the nearest General.” One might think this was unnecessary, considering that a declaration of war had already been sent to St. Petersburg. Yet Bethmann did not know whether Pourtalès had handed it to Sazonov. He needed legal proof.1

  The argument, arcane on the surface, was fundamental. With impeccable German logic, Bethmann insisted that war could not begin until a declaration was made. After all, it said so in the Geneva Convention of 1907. France or Russia might sneakily start a war without declaring one, but Germany was too honest for that. Moltke and Falkenhayn, by contrast, worried only about getting the war underway as smoothly as possible. War was war; declarations were superfluous and possibly counterproductive. It did not occur to any of the three men that the diplomatic-strategic question of the hour—and of subsequent history—was: Which side appeared to be starting the war?

  The only man thinking clearly was Tirpitz. This owed a great deal to the nature of his job. Moltke and Falkenhayn thought of England as a country capable of sending a small handful of divisions to France—barely enough to slow down the German armies. The chief of Naval Staff, by contrast, was obsessed with the question of British belligerence, because the British fleet was his principal strategic adversary. Even now that it was too late, Tirpitz objected that he did not understand “why the declaration of war on Russia had been published before [German] mobilization.” He could also “see no use in launching the declaration of war on France before we actually marched into France.” Above all, he did not understand why the war plan required the German army to march through neutral Belgium. Moltke replied “that there was no other way open, we must go through with it.” In that case, Tirpitz informed everyone, “we must at once reckon on war with England.” At least, he pleaded, Germany must postpone the declaration of war on Belgium so as to delay British mobilization.

  By this point, Bethmann seemed to have lost the plot. Tirpitz, who was listening to the proceedings with mounting concern, recalled a scene bordering on farce. Herr Kriege, head of the legal department of the Foreign Office, was furiously raising objections to the invasion of Belgium, only to be “sharply snubbed” by Moltke. Bethmann seemed barely to be listening anymore; it appeared to Tirpitz that the “reins have slipped entirely out of the Imperial Chancellor’s hands.” Bethmann, Tirpitz surmised from the look on the chancellor’s face, must either have had “no previous knowledge about the march through Belgium, or had tried [but failed] to prevent it.”* Someone then pointed out, as if in passing, that Austria had still not promised to “take the field with us against Russia”—rather a large oversight. Nor had Italy, a military ally since 1882, been informed that Germany had declared war on Russia. Nor had Romania, another country with which Germany had a mutual defense alliance. When they learned this, Moltke and Falkenhayn were “horrified.” Tirpitz’s lasting impression from this historic night was that Germany’s “political leadership has completely lost its head.”2

  In one area, at least, the Germans were thinking ahead. After learning from reports at four AM and six AM that Russian troops had crossed the border into East Prussia, Bethmann was able to confirm to the kaiser, the German public (via a press communiqué), Vienna, and Rome that “an actual state of war” existed with Russia. Getting Austria to back Germany by declaring war should not have been difficult (although, owing to Conrad’s unwillingness to abandon Plan B focused on Serbia, Austria did not do so for another four days). No one in Berlin knew it yet, but Italy was a lost cause even before Bethmann and Jagow had given her leeway to wiggle out by declaring war on Russia first. Romania, too, was not likely to join in.

  With Ottoman Turkey, at least, there were grounds for hope. Back on 22 July, just before Austria’s ultimatum had been delivered in Belgrade, Enver Pasha, the Ottoman war minister, had proposed an outright military alliance to the German ambassador, Hans von Wangenheim—only for Wangenheim to turn down the idea. Kaiser Wilhelm II, on learning this, had thoroughly rebuked Wangenheim and ordered alliance talks to be resumed. By Friday night, 31 July, negotiations had proceeded to the point where Bethmann asked Wangenheim whether Turkey was prepared to “undertake some action worthy of the name against Russia.” On Saturday at two thirty PM, after Russia’s ultimatum to demobilize had expired, Bethmann, desperate, had given up his last reservations about taking on Turkey, wiring Wangenheim that he was authorized to sign an alliance treaty so long as Germany’s military attaché, Liman von Sanders, assured him that the Turkish army was battle-ready.3 Wangenheim was also thinking along these lines, proposing at the same time—in a wire that crossed with the chancellor’s—that Germany send her one Mediterranean dreadnought, the SMS Goeben, to Constantinople. Once through the Straits, he informed Bethmann, it might protect both Bulgaria and the Bosphorus from Russian amphibious operations, while securing the underwater cable line linking Germany and Austria to Constantinople (by way of Romania) against Russian sabotage. It might also help push Turkey into the war.4

  Now that the war with Russia was on, Germany needed all the help she could get, and Turkey—sharing borders with both Russia and British Egypt—was ideally placed to give it. At four PM on Sunday, 2 August, Wangenheim and the Ottoman grand vizier, Said Halim Pasha, signed a secret alliance treaty valid until the end of 1918, under which Germany pledged to defend Ottoman territory in exchange for a Turkish engagement to declare war on Russia if she attacked Germany, according to the same casus foederis that applied to Austria-Hungary. It was not as great a coup as British neutrality would have been, but it was something.*

  MEANWHILE THE GEARS of Germany’s mobilization were cranking methodically into motion. Shortly after midnight on
Sunday, 2 August, German troops had entered Luxembourg over the bridges at Wasserbillig and Remich. They proceeded to secure the principal rail lines, which were, by treaty, under German management. No resistance was offered, although Prime Minister Paul Eyschen of Luxembourg wired a formal protest to Berlin at eight AM Sunday. A series of telegrams was now dispatched from the Wilhelmstrasse to Paris, London, and the Hague, explaining the action as a precautionary measure “to secure the railways under our management from French attack.” To Eyschen, the Germans further claimed that they had reports of hostile French maneuvers on Luxembourg’s soil (he swiftly denied that this was true, as it was not). Berlin even requested that France’s minister to Luxembourg be expelled. Eyschen complied, although clearly under duress.5

  On the French-German frontier between Strasbourg and Metz, the situation remained murky. Both Joffre and Moltke, with an eye on London, had issued orders that troops were not to cross the frontier or fire first, but rumors were running rife about border incidents. The French embassy in London, for example, protested to Grey that “20,000 German troops have invaded France near Nancy.”6 The Germans, for their part, reported that French aircraft were bombing “the environs of Nuremberg,” that a French cavalry patrol had crossed the frontier, that two French saboteurs had been caught trying to blow up a tunnel, and that a French pilot had been shot down on German territory.7 Almost none of these reports was true.