CHAPTER II THE OUTBREAK OF WAR

When war came, it came suddenly. A man who had happened to fall sick of a fever on St. Swithin's day 1914, but was so far on the way to convalescence four weeks later as to desire news of the outside world, must have been altogether incredulous of the tidings which first greeted his ears.

When he fell ill the nations were at peace. The townspeople of Europe were in a holiday humour, packing their trunks and portmanteaus for 'land travel or sea-faring.' The country people were getting in their harvest or looking forward hopefully to the vintage. Business was prosperous. Credit was good. Money, in banking phraseology, was 'cheap.' The horror of the Serajevo assassinations had already faded almost into oblivion. At the worst this sensational event was only an affair of police. Such real anxiety as existed in the United Kingdom had reference to Ireland.

We can imagine the invalid's first feeble question on public affairs:—'What has happened in Ulster?'—The answer, 'Nothing has happened in Ulster.'—The sigh of relief with which he sinks back on his pillows.

When, however, they proceed to tell him what has happened, elsewhere than in Ulster, during the {14} four weeks while they have been watching by his bedside, will he not fancy that his supposed recovery is only an illusion, and that he is still struggling with the phantoms of his delirium?

For what will they have to report? That the greater part of the world which professes Christianity has called out its armies; that more than half Europe has already joined battle; that England, France, Russia, Belgium, Servia, and Montenegro on the one side are ranged against Germany and Austria on the other. Japan, they will tell him, is upon the point of declaring war. The Turk is wondering if, and when, he may venture to come in; while the Italian, the Roumanian, the Bulgar, the Greek, the Dutchman, the Dane, and the Swede are reckoning no less anxiously for how short or long a period it may still be safe for them to stand out. Three millions of men, or thereabouts—a British Army included—are advancing against one another along the mountain barriers of Luxemburg, Lorraine, and Alsace. Another three millions are engaged in similar evolutions among the lakes of East Prussia, along the river-banks of Poland, and under the shadow of the Carpathians. A large part of Belgium is already devastated, her villages are in ashes or flames, her eastern fortresses invested, her capital threatened by the invader.

Nine-tenths or more of the navies of the world are cleared for action, and are either scouring the seas in pursuit, or are withdrawn under the shelter of land-batteries watching their opportunity for a stroke. Air-craft circle by day and night over the cities, dropping bombs, with a careless and impartial aim, upon buildings both private and public, both sacred and profane, upon churches, palaces, hospitals, {15} and arsenals. The North Sea and the Baltic are sown with mines. The trade of the greater part of industrial Europe is at a standstill; the rest is disorganised; while the credit and finances, not merely of Europe, but of every continent, are temporarily in a state either of chaos or paralysis.

A NIGHTMARE

To the bewildered convalescent all this may well have seemed incredible. It is hardly to be wondered at if he concluded that the fumes of his fever were not yet dispersed, and that this frightful phantasmagoria had been produced, not by external realities, but by the disorders of his own brain.

How long it might have taken to convince him of the truth and substance of these events we may judge from our own recent experience. How long was it after war broke out, before even we, who had watched the trouble brewing through all its stages, ceased to be haunted, even in broad daylight, by the feeling that we were asleep, and that the whole thing was a nightmare which must vanish when we awoke? We were faced (so at least it seemed at frequent moments) not by facts, but by a spectre, and one by no means unfamiliar—the spectre of Europe at war, so long dreaded by some, so scornfully derided by others, so often driven away, of late years so persistently reappearing. But this time the thing refused to be driven away. It sat, hunched up, with its head resting on its hands, as pitiless and inhuman as one of the gargoyles on a Gothic cathedral, staring through us, as if we were merely vapour, at something beyond.


So late as Wednesday, July 29—the day on which Austria declared war on Servia—there was {16} probably not one Englishman in a hundred who believed it possible that, within a week, his own country would be at war; still less, that a few days later the British Army would be crossing the Channel to assist France and Belgium in repelling a German invasion. To the ordinary man—and not merely to the ordinary man, but equally to the press, and the great majority of politicians—such things were unthinkable until they occurred. Unfortunately, the inability to think a thing is no more a protection against its occurrence than the inability to see a thing gives security to the ostrich.

The sequence of events which led up to the final disaster is of great importance, although very far from being in itself a full explanation of the causes.

On June 28, 1914, the heir to the throne of Austria-Hungary, together with his consort, was murdered by a young Bosnian at Serajevo, not far distant from the southern frontier. The Imperial authorities instituted a secret enquiry into the circumstances of the plot, as a result of which they professed to have discovered that it had been hatched at Belgrade, that Government officials were implicated in it, and that so far from being reprobated, it was approved by Servian public opinion.[1]

On Thursday, July 23—a month after the tragedy—Austria suddenly delivered an ultimatum to Servia, and demanded an acceptance of its terms within forty-eight hours. The demands put forward were {17} harsh, humiliating, and unconscionable. They were such as could not have been accepted, as they stood, by any nation which desired to preserve a shred of its independence. They had been framed with the deliberate intention, either of provoking a refusal which might afford a pretext for war, or of procuring an acceptance which would at once reduce the Servian Kingdom to the position of a vassal. Even in Berlin it was admitted[2] that this ultimatum asked more than it was reasonable to expect Servia to yield. But none the less, there can be but little doubt that the German ambassador at Vienna saw and approved the document before it was despatched, and it seems more than likely that he had a hand in drafting it. It also rests on good authority that the German Kaiser was informed beforehand of the contents, and that he did not demur to its presentation.[3]

THE SERVIAN REPLY

On the evening of Saturday, July 25, the Servian Government, as required, handed in its answer. The purport of this, when it became known to the world, excited surprise by the humility of its tone and the substance of its submission. Almost everything that {18} Austria had demanded was agreed to. What remained outstanding was clearly not worth quarrelling about, unless a quarrel were the object of the ultimatum. The refusal, such as it was, did not close the door, but, on the contrary, contained an offer to submit the subjects of difference to the Hague Convention.[4]

The document was a lengthy one. The Austrian minister at Belgrade nevertheless found time to read it through, to weigh it carefully, to find it wanting, to ask for his passports, and to catch his train, all within a period not exceeding three-quarters of an hour from the time at which it was put into his hands.[5]

When these occurrences became known, the English Foreign Minister immediately made proposals for a conference between representatives of Germany, France, Italy, and Great Britain, with the object of discovering some means of peaceful settlement.[6] France and Italy promptly accepted his invitation.[7] Germany, while professing to desire mediation, did not accept it.[8] Consequently Sir Edward Grey's effort failed; and before he was able to renew it in any more acceptable form, Austria, acting with a promptitude almost unique in her annals, declared war upon Servia, and hostilities began.

It is unnecessary to enter here into an examination of the feverish and fruitless attempts to preserve peace, which were made in various quarters during the next four and twenty hours. They present a {19} most pathetic appearance, like the efforts of a crew, sitting with oars unshipped, arguing, exhorting, and imploring, while their boat drifts on to the smooth lip of the cataract.


MOBILIZATION

Russia ordered the mobilisation of her Southern armies, alleging that she could not stand by while a Slav nation was being crushed out of existence, despite the fact that it had made an abject submission for an unproved offence.[9]

Subsequently, on Friday, July 31, Russia—having, as she considered, reasons for believing that Germany was secretly mobilising her whole forces—proceeded to do likewise.[10]

Germany simultaneously declared 'a state of war' within her own territories, and a veil instantly fell upon all her internal proceedings. She demanded that Russia should cease her mobilisation, and as no answer which satisfied her was forthcoming, but only an interchange of telegrams between the two sovereigns—disingenuous on the one side and not unreasonably suspicious on the other—Germany declared war on Russia on Saturday, August 1.

On Saturday and Sunday, war on a grand scale being by this time certain, the chief interest centred in questions of neutrality. Germany enquired of France whether she would undertake to stand aside—knowing full well beforehand that the terms of the Dual Alliance compelled the Republic to lend assistance if Russia were attacked by more than one power. {20} Sir Edward Grey enquired of France and Germany if they would undertake to respect the integrity of Belgium. France replied in the affirmative. Germany declined to commit herself, and this was rightly construed as a refusal.[11]

While this matter was still the subject of diplomatic discussion the German Army advanced into the Grand Duchy of Luxemburg, and was correctly reported as having entered Belgian territory near Liège and French territory near Cirey.

On the evening of Sunday, August 2, the German Government presented an ultimatum to Belgium[12] demanding free passage for its troops, thereby putting its intentions beyond all doubt.

On the same day Italy issued a declaration of neutrality, making it clear that, although a member of the Triple Alliance, she did not consider herself bound to support her allies in a war of aggression.[13]

Meanwhile Germany had been making enquiries as to the attitude of England, and, startled to discover that this country might not be willing tamely to submit to the violation of Belgium and invasion of France, proceeded to state, under cross-examination, the price she was prepared to pay, or at any rate to promise, for the sake of securing British neutrality.[14]

ENGLAND DECLARES WAR

On Tuesday, August 4, the British Ambassador at Berlin presented an ultimatum which demanded an assurance, before midnight, that the integrity of Belgium would not be violated. The answer was given informally at a much earlier hour by the {21} bombardment of Liège; and shortly before midnight England declared war on Germany.[15]

Two days later Austria declared herself to be at war with Russia, and within a week from that date Great Britain and France issued a similar declaration against Austria.


[1] There is perhaps as much reason, certainly no more, for believing that an official clique at Belgrade plotted the Serajevo murders, as that an official clique at Vienna connived at them, by deliberately withdrawing police protection from the unfortunate and unpopular Archduke on the occasion of his visit to a notorious hotbed of sedition.

[2] Herr von Jagow "also admitted that the Servian Government could not swallow certain of the Austro-Hungarian demands.... He repeated very earnestly that, though he had been accused of knowing all the contents of that note, he had in fact no such knowledge."—Sir H. Rumbold at Berlin to Sir Edward Grey (White Paper, No. 18).

[3] "Although I am unable to verify it, I have private information that the German Ambassador (i.e. at Vienna) knew the text of the Austrian ultimatum to Servia before it was despatched and telegraphed it to the German Emperor. I know from the German Ambassador himself that he endorses every line of it."—British Ambassador at Vienna to Sir Edward Grey (White Paper, No. 95). (Cf. also White Book, Nos. 95 and 141; French Yellow Book, No. 87; Russian Orange Book, No. 41.)

"The German Ambassador (i.e. in London) read me a telegram from the German Foreign Office saying that his Government had not known beforehand, and had no more than other Powers to do with the stiff terms of the Austrian note to Servia."—Sir Edward Grey to the British Ambassador in Berlin (White Paper, No. 25). (Cf. also French Yellow Book, Nos. 17, 30, 36, 41, 57, and 94.)

[4] Last paragraph of Reply of Servian Government to Austro-Hungarian note.

[5] White Paper, Nos. 20 and 23.

[6] White Paper, No. 36.

[7] White Paper, Nos. 35, 42, and 52.

[8] White Paper, Nos. 43 and 71. Cf. also German White Book, Nos. 12 and 15.

[9] White Paper, No. 113; Russian Orange Book, No. 77; French Yellow Book, No. 95.

[10] These suspicions were well founded. German mobilisation began at least two days earlier (White Paper, No. 113; French Yellow Book, Nos. 60, 88, 89, and 106).

[11] White Paper, Nos. 114, 122, 123, and 125.

[12] Belgian Grey Book, No. 20; French Yellow Book, No. 141.

[13] White Paper, No. 152; French Yellow Book, No. 124.

[14] White Paper, Nos. 85 and 123.

[15] "I found the Chancellor very agitated. His Excellency at once began a harangue which lasted for about twenty minutes. He said that the step taken by His Majesty's Government was terrible to a degree: just for a word—'neutrality,' a word which in war time had so often been disregarded—just for a scrap of paper Great Britain was going to make war on a kindred nation, who desired nothing better than to be friends with her."—British Ambassador at Berlin to Sir Edward Grey (White Paper, No. 160).