July 1914: Countdown to War

by Sean McMeekin

  “It has not been possible to secure the peace of Europe,” he began, characteristically using indirect language, but he did not “want to dwell on that.” To allay suspicions that he had secretly committed Britain to fight, Grey stated that he had “given no promise of anything more than diplomatic support” (to whom this promise of diplomatic support had been given, Grey did not say). Grey did share with the House a letter he had written to Ambassador Cambon in November 1912, relating to the disposition of the British and French fleets, but he insisted that, read literally, it did not constitute “an engagement to co-operate in war.” As to the Franco-Russian alliance, Grey insisted that “we are not parties” to it and that “we do not even know the terms of that Alliance.” After a half hour of this aimless, uninformative meandering, members of the House could have been forgiven for wondering why Grey was addressing them at all.

  At last Grey came to the point—or so it seemed. “For many years,” he remarked as if stating an unremarkable fact, “we have had a long-standing friendship with France.” (“And with Germany!” one MP was heard to shout.) As if discouraged by this protest from the back benches, Grey started backing down again. “But how far that friendship entails obligation,” he continued, “let every man look into his own heart, and his own feelings. . . . I construe it myself as I feel it, but I do not wish to urge upon anyone else more than their feelings dictate as to what they should feel about this obligation.”

  Grey then explained his own “feelings” as to what Britain owed France. Because of the concentration of the French fleet in the Mediterranean—a concentration owing, Grey explained as elliptically as possible, to “the feeling of confidence and friendship which has existed between [our] two countries”—“the French coasts are absolutely undefended.” As if stating a hypothetical, Grey explained that his own “feeling is that if a foreign fleet engaged in a war which France had not sought, and in which she had not been the aggressor, came down the English Channel and bombarded and battered the undefended coasts of France, we could not stand aside.” Expanding the hypothetical, Grey offered that if Britain did stand aside, France would be forced to withdraw her fleet from the Mediterranean, which would leave Britain’s weak squadron there exposed to attack from Italy, in case she abandoned her current posture of neutrality and joined the Central Powers. This, he informed the House with something less than great conviction, would disturb “our trade routes in the Mediterranean.” As if to undermine his own argument, Grey now revealed that Germany’s ambassador had assured him that “if we would pledge ourselves to neutrality, [Germany would] agree that its Fleet would not attack the Northern coast of France.” At this stage, Grey’s case for intervention rested on a naval attack on France’s channel coast that the Germans had expressly promised not to carry out if England remained neutral and a far-fetched hypothetical involving an Italian threat to Britain’s Mediterranean shipping interests. Little wonder that Lord Derby, an interventionist Tory, was heard whispering angrily, “By God, they are going to desert Belgium!”

  Just when it seemed that Grey had lost his line of thought, he gathered himself for a final push. He had avoided mentioning Belgium for more than an hour. Now, as if revealing a trump, he did. After reading out France’s positive reply to his question about respecting Belgian neutrality, along with Germany’s evasive one, Grey finally dropped his bombshell: Germany had issued an ultimatum to Brussels the previous night. Even this news, he confessed, was unconfirmed (“I am not yet quite sure how far it has reached me in an accurate form”). “We have great and vital interests,” Grey now stirred himself to declare, “in the independence—and integrity is the least part—of Belgium.” At last finding his voice, Grey channeled Gladstone, the great moralist, who had asked regarding a violation of Belgium by a European power whether Britain “would quietly stand by and witness the perpetration of the direst crime that ever stained the pages of history, and thus become participators in the sin.” True, Gladstone was discussing a hypothetical, but it now appeared that it was about to become real. And if Belgium fell and France were “beaten to her knees,” Grey predicted, “the independence of Holland will follow,” followed by Denmark: before long, Germany would dominate the entire Channel coastline and have England at her mercy. In an ill-judged prophecy, Grey argued that “we are going to suffer, I am afraid, terribly in this war, whether we are in it or whether we stand aside.” If Britain did stand aside, forfeiting her “Belgian Treaty obligations,” then she would “sacrifice our respect and good name and reputation before the world.”

  After listening to Grey in “painful absorption” for nearly an hour and a half, the Commons, one eyewitness recalled, “broke into overwhelming applause, signifying its answer.”8 Grey had carried the day.

  He had not, however, won over everyone. Trevelyan, disappointed, complained that Grey had given “not a single argument why we should support France”—as, indeed, he had not. Nor had there been any mention of Russia’s secret early war preparations, nor of her having been the first power to mobilize—these revelations, of course, had not reached Grey himself, owing to French and Russian deception and his own incuriosity. Strangest of all, considering the aim of his speech, Grey, despite alluding to the German ultimatum to Brussels delivered the previous night, had not noted that Belgium had already refused it and vowed to fight—although this had been confirmed by Britain’s minister to Belgium in a wire received by the Foreign Office at 10:55 AM.* Considering how much was riding on his speech—and that his meandering remarks went on for ninety minutes—it is astonishing how much Grey did not mention. Small wonder that the Labour Party registered dissent with Grey’s case for intervention. Grey’s own party had similar reservations. No less than twenty-eight dissident Liberals met in the lobby to adopt a resolution stating that he had failed to make the case for war.9

  Nor did Grey succeed in convincing Germany that Britain meant war. Not wanting to provide a focal point for the interventionists, Lichnowsky had not attended the Commons. Having digested only the highlights from Grey’s remarks, he reported to Jagow on Monday night that, “although the speech is marked by a deep distrust of our political intentions, one can nevertheless gather from it that the British Government has in all probability no immediate intention of taking part in the conflict or of abandoning the neutrality she has so far observed.” Lichnowsky noted that he had already defused Grey’s concerns about a German attack on France’s channel coastline, and that even regarding Belgium, all that Grey had made clear was that “England would oppose any encroachment on Belgian territory or sovereignty.” Overall, he concluded, “we can regard the speech as satisfactory. . . . I am convinced that the British Government will strive to remain neutral.”10 If Lichnowsky’s optimistic interpretation proved true, it would be welcome news in Berlin. But then one could never really tell with Grey. Until he actually spelled it out clearly, British policy would remain an enigma.

  AFTER RECEIVING TWO DAYS of reports of border violations by French troops—most, though not all of which, were exaggerated or untrue—Bethmann had instructed Baron Schoen to hand Viviani a declaration of war at six PM. In the event, Schoen arrived at the Quai d’Orsay nearly an hour late, owing both to difficulties in deciphering his instructions from Berlin and to his car being attacked en route by two French patriots (whereupon he was provided an escort by the Paris police). At seven PM on Monday, 3 August, Schoen solemnly handed Viviani a note declaring that, in response to various violations of the German border by French troops, “the German Empire considers itself in a state of war with France.”*11 He then asked for his passports and left Paris by train. In Berlin, Jules Cambon was given his passports later Monday night and sent home by way of Denmark (and made, insultingly, to pay the fare of the special train, although the Germans later refunded his money via the Spanish embassy). France and Germany were at war.

  Disputed border incidents aside, the real reason for the timing of Germany’s declaration of war was that German troops were schedul
ed to cross into Belgium first thing Tuesday morning, to secure the rail junction at Liège. It was the latest German blunder, brought about by the rigid structure of Moltke’s mobilization plan, which, as one military historian pointed out, required forcing “more than 600,000 men through the narrow aperture of Liège.”*12 Although France’s own concentration on the frontier was far more advanced than the Germans—the first battles on the Alsatian front would all be fought on German, not French soil—Bethmann had again declared war first. This was hardly the way to impress the British.

  Back in London, despite a general sense that the public was getting behind the war, the outlook was far from clear. Histories generally record that something dramatic was decided by Grey’s Monday speech in the Commons, although it is hard to determine precisely what this was. When Churchill saw Grey after his speech, he asked “what happens now?” Grey told him that an ultimatum would be dispatched to Berlin, warning the Germans not to violate Belgian neutrality (this was something he had conspicuously failed to mention to Parliament).13 To France’s ambassador, Grey gave the same assurance, along with a promise that the British fleet would defend the French coast from German attack. And yet when the cabinet met at six PM, no ultimatum to Berlin was drafted. Nor did Grey summon Lichnowsky to brief him. The only “warning” that the cabinet authorized was a telegram to Sir Edward Goschen, who was to inform Berlin that “His Majesty’s Government are bound to protest against this violation of a treaty to which Germany is a party in common with themselves, and must respect an assurance that the demand made upon Belgium will not be proceeded with, and that her neutrality will be respected by Germany.” Even this toothless protest, containing not even a hint of armed intervention, was sent off only on Tuesday morning.14 If Grey had—supposedly—won over the Commons to belligerence on Monday, he had not yet won over himself.

  Sir Edward Grey had always been more prone to reflection than to action. Having failed all week to exert the slightest influence on events in Europe, he was in no hurry to do so now. He remained lost in his thoughts after he returned to his office in Whitehall. Watching, with his failing eyes, the lamps being lit in St. James Park, Grey was heard to remark that “the lamps are going out all over Europe; we shall not see them again in our lifetime.”15

  * Lord Beauchamp’s homosexuality was an open secret. He is believed to have been the model for Lord Marchmain in Evelyn Waugh’s Brideshead Revisited.

  * In his memoirs, Grey claims that he received the report “after the speech was over.” If so, this suggests appalling incompetence in the Foreign Office. If Grey was making a case for intervention, the latest report from Brussels should have been the keynote of his speech.

  * In Jagow’s instructions, Schoen was to mention that a French pilot had been shot down over Germany, which was true. Owing to transmission difficulties (or to French jamming?), this part did not come through, and the incidents Schoen cited were mostly false.

  * The lightning strike on Liège on M + 3 was Moltke’s own idea. It was meant to clear a path for the right wing and obviate the need to cross Dutch territory, as in Schlieffen’s conception. Considering the consequences, it was arguably Moltke’s single greatest mistake.

  25

  World War: No Going Back

  TUESDAY, 4 AUGUST

  AT 8:02 AM, THE FIRST GERMAN UNITS, in field gray, rolled across the Belgian frontier at Gemmenich. In Berlin, Moltke was still half-hoping the Belgians would mount a token defense for honor and then agree to terms. Instead, as soon as he learned that German troops had crossed the border, King Albert rode his horse to Parliament and opened the historic session at eleven AM, wearing not his regalia but a simple field uniform. He asked the deputies whether they wished “to maintain intact the sacred gift of our forefathers.” The reply was unanimous. Belgium would fight.1 The German force, consisting of six infantry brigades and three cavalry divisions, was tasked with seizing Liège, some fifty kilometers (thirty miles) away, in a lightning assault. Considering that German intelligence had learned as early as Saturday that Liège was mobilized and ready, and that a new estimate prepared on Monday reported that the Belgian army had sent reinforcements to the town, it is surprising that Moltke did not call off the attack. Not unlike Chancellor Bethmann pursuing his fait-accompli policy into diplomatic oblivion, the chief of Army Staff ignored warnings and plunged right in.

  The assault on Liège was a fiasco. Although the Germans’ mobile siege artillery scored hits on the main forts, none surrendered. The Belgians performed all planned demolitions, including those of the Meuse bridges, which the Germans had counted on capturing intact. The Germans, not expecting to meet such resistance, had not brought pontoons to bridge the river, and so they had to turn back. One infantry brigade made it into the town but was forced swiftly to retreat.2 In a kind of strategic hari-kari, Moltke had insisted that—British opinion be damned—the first engagement of the war would be fought in neutral Belgium, two weeks before Germany’s concentration against France would be complete, and the Germans had been routed by the Belgians anyway.

  The wages of Moltke’s folly were brought home almost immediately. Shortly after news of the German violation of Belgium arrived in London, the British cabinet met and had what Asquith called “an interesting session.” We do not know exactly what was said in the Tuesday morning session—curiously, no summary was sent to the king, as was customary—but according to Asquith, the news from Belgium “simplified matters.”3 Everyone agreed to send an ultimatum to Berlin, although it was left up to Grey to formulate its exact terms. Citing the German ultimatum delivered to Brussels on Sunday, the fact that Germany had “declined to give the same assurance respecting Belgium as France gave last week,” and not least the news that “Belgian territory has been violated at Gemmenich,” Grey informed Sir Edward Goschen that he was to give the German government until midnight to reverse course and guarantee Belgian neutrality. Failing a satisfactory reply, Goschen was to ask for his passports. Grey’s ultimatum was wired to Berlin at two PM, which meant that—given time for transmission, decoding, and delivery by Goschen to the Wilhelmstrasse—the Germans would have five or six hours to comply.4

  Meanwhile, the war between France and Germany, although implied by the departures of ambassadors Schoen and Cambon, awaited ratification in both countries’ parliaments. In Paris, Tuesday morning saw the public funeral of Jaurès. Although it was a fellow Frenchman who had felled the great Socialist orator, the memorial service served to rally opinion on the Left behind the government: it was as if Jaurès had been the first victim of the war. Léon Jouhaux, leader of the confederated French trade unions (CGT), spoke for “all the working men” in declaring that “we take the field with the determination to drive back the aggressor.”5

  At three PM, the two houses of France’s parliament met in joint session to debate the war—that is, whether to fund it by voting “war credits.” President Poincaré addressed the deputies first, declaring that “France has been the object of a brutal and premeditated aggression.” This was perhaps not literally true, as Germany’s aggression consisted so far of mere declarations of war on France and Russia and a violation of Luxembourg and Belgium—not of France. Still, the fact that Germany had declared war on Paris first made “self-defense” an easy sell. Viviani, following the president, claimed that the German army had crossed the French border at three points, and he denied German allegations that France had done the same. More helpfully, he informed the deputies that Italy had vowed neutrality, which would free up four French divisions from having to guard her southern borders. This revelation received the biggest ovation of the entire session. Neither Viviani nor Poincaré breathed a word about Russian mobilization or its timing, insisting instead that Russia had continued negotiating up to the last minute. In the end Viviani, seeking to shore up support on the Left, staked out the case in moral terms, as a matter of “right and liberty.” He implored the deputies, and the French people, “to help us in bearing the burden of our heavy
responsibility, the comfort of a clear conscience and the conviction that we have done our duty.”6

  The applause was deafening. Both the Senate and the Chamber of Deputies voted unanimously for war credits—even the Socialists, who thereby abandoned prewar pledges that they would prevent or sabotage a war by staging a general strike (an idea dear to the departed Jaurès). In this way France forged a union sacrée, or sacred union, in which all parties were united behind the war effort. As Poincaré recalled afterwards, “Never has there been a spectacle as magnificent as that in which they have just participated. . . . In the memory of man, there has never been anything more beautiful in France.”7

  The scene at the Reichstag in Berlin was just as dramatic when Bethmann Hollweg mounted the podium at three thirty to ask for war credits.* Waxing more lyrical than his counterparts in Paris, the chancellor declared that “only in defense of a just cause shall our sword fly from its scabbard. . . . Russia has set fire to the building. We are at war with Russia and France—a war that has been forced upon us.” Stating the German case, he said that the aim all along had been localization of the Austro-Serbian conflict, only for Russia to mobilize. Like Viviani and Poincaré, he omitted facts that complicated his case—Austria’s unilateral declaration of war on Serbia, Germany’s insincere forays at mediation until it was too late to force Austria to change course. Still, given the head start Russia had in mobilizing against both Austria and Germany, it was not hard to convince the Reichstag that Russia had “set fire to the building.” Nor, given France’s own (although less dramatic) head start, were the deputies inclined to disagree when Bethmann asked them, “Were we now to wait further in patience until the nations on either side of us chose the moment for their attack?” (At this there were “loud cries of ‘No! No!’ Acclamation.”) To clinch the case for war with France, Bethmann invoked the “ten kilometer” myth, noting that, despite the promise to hold back, French troops, cavalry patrols, and pilots had crossed the German border without declaring war, in a “breach of international law.”