From other perspectives, however, the distinction seemed irrelevant because Russia was in no position to give a negative answer. Her ministers agreed unanimously to accept the annexation—not least because Izvolsky’s nerve broke and he insisted to all and sundry that failure to comply meant immediate and hopeless war. But “[i]n two, three, or four years,” Stolypin declared privately, Russia “would be able to speak in European affairs with a very different voice from what was now the case.”12
Russian grievances at having her hand thus forced were assiduously nurtured by France and Britain. Neither power, however, was ready to take concrete risks to support Russian aggrandizement in the Middle East. In the context of the intensifying naval race with Germany, the British foreign office in particular wanted a general settlement taking reasonable account of intensifying Balkan nationalisms.13 This last was a significant point. Nationalism in the Balkan Peninsula was by now anything but an imported doctrine. It reflected the emergence of both strong popular elements and correspondingly strong local elites, intellectual and bureaucratic, able and willing to act independently in their own perceived interests, and requiring careful handling by any would-be ally or patron.14 In this context Bülow could and did reasonably claim that he had done Russia a favor, extracting her from an impasse that was as dangerous as it was embarrassing.
The German foreign office spent the rest of 1909 working to diminish the impression of compulsion left by the March note. Six months after the crisis Izvolsky proclaimed Russo-German relations as back to normal. By February, 1910, Pourtalès was describing a renewed stress in conversations on Russia’s “old traditional friendship” with Germany, but warned his government not to be deceived. The ambassador described recent Russian behavior as explainable only by the Slavic qualities of “sentimentality, passion, superficiality and illogic,” which excluded any sober judgment of realities. The press continued to present the German démarche as a series of peremptory threats, and spoke of a “coup de main” and a “diplomatic Tsushima.” Hintze too believed that whatever might be her temporary military weaknesses, Russia had psychological preparations for a war well under way. Even men like former war minister Alexi Kuropatkin, who described Russia as already large enough, needing rest after the revolutions of 1905, and wrong in her policies of reconciliation with Britain, had a way of punctuating their conversations with demands for the Bosporus and the Dardanelles. The best way of countering this attitude, Hintze argued, was to make Germany seem an enemy too formidable to tackle, either alone or in company with allies. Above all, Russia must fear Germany more than Britain.15
As if to confirm Hintze’s position, the Russian army departed from precedent in using real states as “enemies” in its 1910 maneuvers. That year’s mock war was declared against Germany and Sweden. More was involved here than a simple lack of tact. The elder Moltke had always argued that even a great power could prepare and organize for no more than one war. For Russia, that increasingly seemed to be a war with Germany and Austria. The continued strength of Slavic rhetoric in Russian policy making owed much to a sense that Teutonic dismissal of lesser Balkan breeds without the law implied denial of Russia’s place among the truly civilized races. Though, Hintze argued, German policy makers might see no possible gains from a victory over Russia, war with Germany would be not only acceptable but popular in the tsar’s empire.16
What would war with Russia mean in military terms for Germany? Above all it entailed improving her Austrian connection. Helmuth von Moltke “the Younger,” nephew of the victor of 1866 and 1870, had succeeded Schlieffen as chief of the German general staff in 1906. He regarded the Austrian army as strong, its morale sound. But he was disturbed by the primary orientation of Austria’s current strategic plans against Italy and the Balkans rather than Russia. Prudence might temporarily suggest a cautious Russian foreign policy. Nevertheless the state of the Russian army by no means compelled inactivity, particularly should Russia’s entente partners join her in attacking the Central Powers. This seemed by far the most likely contingency, and by no means a pleasant one for a German army feeling itself so overcommitted it could not even provide troops to occupy Denmark should strategic or political decisions make it necessary.17
Even more than the army, the German navy at this period insisted on the necessity of worst-case planning. Its attitude was reinforced by its undeniable inferiority to its designated major opponent, the Royal Navy. Fleet spokesmen did not shrink from reminding the kaiser himself that the principle of seeking decisive battle at the first favorable opportunity must not become an endorsement of suicide against a stronger enemy. It might be desirable if continental states agreed to fight their wars only on land, leaving their fleets in reserve to face the enemy that threatened them all, Perfidious Albion! But since this was a Utopian proposal the navy instead offered in March, 1909, a plan for cooperation with the army in the context of a general war. Its commitments were minimal, and oriented to the British threat. In the eastern theater German cruisers could make appearances in front of Russian ports. They could disrupt attempts to move troops and supplies by sea. They could stage mock landings to pin down Russian formations that would otherwise be available for an invasion of Germany. But even something as systematic as a blockade of the Russian coast was impossible in view of German naval weakness combined with the fact that many ships engaging in the Baltic trade possessed, or could easily obtain, neutral papers.18
The navy did not stand alone in its pessimism. Even more than Schlieffen, Moltke was dubious about prospects of a major German offensive in the east. An increasing weight of intelligence information indicated that faced with such a deployment, Russian war plans provided for withdrawal from the exposed frontier. Even should the Russians prove obliging enough to stand and fight on the border, Moltke regarded a major German offensive against the swampy bottomlands and fortified crossings of the Niemen and Narew Rivers as folly. The Russians could easily compensate for any local defeat by continuing to withdraw eastward while building up their own forces for counterattack. Nor was Moltke’s reasoning based entirely on anxious readings of Caulaincourt. In 1904–05 the Russian army had blundered from disaster to disaster in Manchuria. But, Antaeuslike, it grew stronger with defeat. In terms of numbers and quality the Russians had arguably been more dangerous enemies after Mukden than before the Battle of the Yalu, particularly in the context of Japanese exhaustion. Foreign observers at the front, moreover, generally interpreted Russian deficiencies in terms of tactics, doctrine, and training—flaws that could be remedied with effort, as opposed to being inherent in the tsarist system.
Given the strenuous attempts the Russian army was making to assimilate the lessons of Manchuria, an eastern offensive seemed an increasingly risky option. The British military attaché was convinced that Russia in 1908 was “a most serious antagonist, and that a war against her would entail the greatest sacrifices of men and money.” Particularly on the defensive the Russian army “would render a good account of itself even against a combination of its Western neighbours . . . any material successes gained by the attackers would involve the greatest effort and sacrifices.” His American counterpart expressed similar opinions.19
Logistics problems also influenced German attitudes towards operations in the east. Since the days of Waldersee, staff officers had increasingly doubted the possibility of supporting a major offensive into either Poland or Lithuania. Converting the Russian railways to German gauges would take time even if the task were not complicated by enemy demolitions. Forward of the railheads the standard German horse-drawn supply wagons were heavy enough to make bogging down a constant risk. Replacing them with smaller, lighter vehicles, whether purpose-built or impressed from the countryside, in turn meant increasing the length of the supply columns and absorbing men and horses who might be more profitably utilized in combat units.
Yet the very factors handicapping the German army in a major eastern offensive strengthened Moltke’s belief in the ability of relatively sm
all forces to conduct a successful holding operation until relieved by troops from the western front. In contrast to the situation in Poland and Lithuania, the East Prussian road and railway networks were good enough to enable German units not merely to counter Russian moves, but to maintain the initiative locally. A general staff exercise for 1907 involved the defense of East Prussia in a two-front war by a force initially no stronger than two active corps, three reserve divisions, and some Landwehr brigades. In his evaluation Moltke, like Schlieffen, stressed the need of solving the problem offensively, concentrating first against one Russian army and then the other. Victory in the east, he argued, was possible even against markedly superior numbers. When asked by the admiralty staff whether he expected East Prussia to be cut off by amphibious operations, the chief of staff replied that by the time Russia could accomplish that feat, German operations in the interior would cancel it.20
Placed in the context of German plans and German force structures, the confusing correspondence between Moltke and his Austrian counterpart, Conrad von Hötzendorf, in the first months of 1909 acquires a new dimension. Conrad, a man of strong character, unshakeable will, and limited insight, was determined at any cost to secure the greatest possible initial German commitment against Russia in any future war. He was particularly conscious of the new threats to Austria that he perceived emerging in Italy and the Balkans. What would be the German response should Russia wait until Austria was engaged somewhere in the southeast, then attack her in overwhelming force? To encourage Moltke to pay more attention to the east, Conrad proposed a major Austrian offensive against Russia, directed between the Bug and the Vistula. While mounting this operation depended heavily on Serbian inactivity and Romanian cooperation, Conrad insisted that even if Austria became unexpectedly involved in the Balkans she could have approximately thirty divisions available against Russia within three weeks of mobilization. The heart of Conrad’s argument, however, was his expressed hope for a strong and simultaneous German attack southeast, towards the Narew River. Failing that, Austria’s safest course would be to withdraw her deployment areas behind the San and Dniester rivers, resigning the initiative with all the risks this entailed.
Moltke’s quick response that Germany would not hesitate to support its ally by launching such an offense has puzzled soldiers and scholars ever since. He was certainly influenced by a desire to provide moral support for an Austria in the throes of the Bosnian Crisis. The exact nature of Conrad’s proposed German attack may also have shaped Moltke’s thinking. Neither general staff regarded direct cooperation between their main eastern armies as an immediate practical problem. The Polish salient worked against a united field command, much as the Ardennes salient was to do for the British and Americans in 1944. And instead of a Grosse Ostaufmarsch, the Austrian chief of staff initially suggested that the offensive against the Narew might be launched by as few as ten divisions—a number Moltke generously raised to thirteen. The latter figure was not arbitrary. In the 1907 exercise mentioned above, the Germans received a reinforcement of three active corps on mobilization. They were thus able to concentrate a dozen divisions against the Russians advancing from the Narew. This was hardly a force calculated to stagger the Russian Empire by itself. The most either chief of staff expected was that it would pin down nineteen or twenty enemy divisions. But should Austria respect Conrad’s commitment to a major offensive against Russia, this could be enough—just enough—to spell success in a high-risk environment.21
II
Germany’s military position hardly inspired adventurism in its new chancellor. Theobald von Bethmann-Hollweg, who succeeded Bülow in July, 1909, assumed office in the context of Weltpolitik’s relative failure. Bülow had ultimately been unable to use global diplomacy to enhance Germany’s continental position. Whatever might be the imperial root causes of Britain’s commitments to her entente partners, the Anglo-German naval race had assumed a life of its own, poisoning relations between the two powers at all levels. The annexation crisis had generated increasing awareness that the continent could not any longer be safely neglected for the globe. Not only might future unrest in the Balkans spark a general war; Germany faced that prospect in a state of isolation. Encirclement, Einkreisung, began appearing more and more frequently alike in the public press and in official documents as a description of Germany’s condition.
Bethmann’s appointment marked the beginning of a return to a European approach to foreign policy. Bülow’s hopes of a British alliance had proved illusory. Now, influenced by Britain’s constant assertions that it maintained a “free hand” in European politics, the chancellor sought an exchange. British neutrality in any future continental war would be traded for limits on German naval construction.22 Bethmann constantly encouraged his London representative to stress the openness of German offers in this area and German receptivity to any counterproposals.23 At the same time he proposed to assert Germany’s independence from Austria—not least because of Aehrenthal’s continuing “gentle undertone” that the Habsburg Empire wanted to maintain a free hand in her dealings with Russia.24
Bethmann took particular notice when in September, 1910, Sergei Sazonov succeeded Izvolsky in the Russian foreign office. Sazonov, like his predecessor, was Russocentric, “a Russian of the genuine Moscow breed,” as one German diplomat described him. He had been no happier than Izvolsky over the outcome of the annexation crisis, yet he had no desire to see Russia drawn into a committed anti-German network. For months before his appointment other voices in St. Petersburg had been asking whether Russia’s estrangement from Germany was not a mistake. Had not Russia after all escaped with honor from a dead end in the Bosnian affair by following German advice?25
Sazonov did not have to accept the argument to perceive its utility. At least it offered an opportunity to signal Russia’s entente partners that the tsar’s empire must not be taken for granted. Bethmann for his part had been rapidly stalemated in his approaches to Britain, garnering little more than the overt hostility of domestic moralists and Weltpolitiker. Britain’s hands seemed free only to continue existing relations with France and Russia. Perhaps the way to London might be through St. Petersburg. If Russia broke ranks, Britain in turn might decide that a positive German connection was after all the best guarantee of her position in India and the Middle East.
It is a paradox that many of the same scholars who evaluate the pre-1914 alliance systems in general as poisonous medicine express what amounts to moral outrage at Germany’s alleged efforts to “break” the Triple Entente after 1909. Great-power relations are seldom set in concrete, and in November, 1910, Bethmann and Sazonov successfully bear-led their respective and reluctant emperors through two days of conferences in Potsdam and Berlin. Russia withdrew opposition to Germany’s long-cherished Berlin-to-Bagdad railway project in return for acceptance of a Russian sphere of influence in northern Persia. Closer to home, the two states agreed to pursue a policy of status quo and peaceful development in the Balkans, with Germany acting as mediator of any conflicts that Russia and Austria could not solve by direct negotiations. Bethmann assured Sazonov that Austria had no expansionist designs in that region, and had never asked Germany to support such designs. Sazonov for his part responded that no matter how he might strive for improved relations with Britain, Russia would never become part of a hostile combination directed against Germany.
Initial hopes were high. Aehrenthal said that as long as Russia remained “correct,” the new orientation of her policies could only be greeted with joy. The Russian ambassador in Vienna spoke of new persons and new combinations on the horizon. Yet dreams faded quickly. Germany’s investors were increasingly timid, her bureaucratized bankers unwilling to take risks without gilt-edged government guarantees. Her financial market could not match France in generating the capital still so important for Russia’s economy. Russia’s generals were reluctant to break a generation’s habits in strategic planning. Russia’s foreign office was correspondingly reluctant to commit itself
to anything beyond comfortable generalizations. Bethmann offered drafts of the agreements and declarations, only to be met by the statement that verbal assurances made written ones unnecessary. Did not William trust the word of his imperial cousin?26
Not until August, 1911, was the document signed, and by then it had lost much of its value for a German government increasingly despairing of balancing Russia’s words and Russia’s policies. A paradigm of the confusion was the general staff report of February 21, 1911, on major changes in the Russian army during 1910. The army’s peace strength was ostensibly unchanged, yet its order of battle had been increased by six corps headquarters and seven new divisions, most of them formed by converting reserve cadres and fortress garrisons to field troops. This enhanced immediate readiness for war at some expense to staying power. Several divisions had been also transferred from Russia’s western frontier to the Volga region. This lessened the strain on the mobilization and replacement systems. It also gave Russia a strategic reserve, invulnerable to any threat and able to be deployed quickly against either Germany or Austria along the railway network the empire was steadily in the process of improving. And, a possible straw in the wind, Russian maneuvers were becoming virtually impossible to observe as traditional professional courtesies gave way to systematic suspicion.27
Tannenberg: Clash of Empires, 1914 (Cornerstones of Military History) Page 7