The essence of strategy is the calculating of relationships among ends, means, and will. Let the process of calculation obscure the values of the relationships, and the result is not bad strategy but no strategy.69 Neither the German Empire’s power nor the German Empire’s finesse was sufficient to establish her as the focal point of European diplomacy during the Bülow years. Instead, Germany remained one power of several—at the very time when increasing concern for her military position generated a corresponding policy of Flucht nach vorne. The German army in the years before 1914 became increasingly concerned with processes, methods, and techniques. Arguably, Schlieffen’s essential flaw as a strategist was his acceptance of Germany’s international position as defined by civilian political authority. He responded with a desperation move: a staff college tour de force, but a military myth requiring everything to go impossibly right to have a real chance of succeeding.
“Everything” included political and diplomatic factors, which between 1905 and 1914 became increasingly subordinated to this gambler’s gambit. The Schlieffen Plan, however, had one supreme psychological virtue. It offered hope through diligence. If everyone did his bit and played his part, the Empire might have a chance. The plan’s rapid evolution into dogma owed much to the increasingly narrow perspective of German military thinking. But that development in turn represented in large part a response to a paradox. The Imperial army was given—and accepted—the task of planning for a war which its own calculations suggested might well be so destructive as to be unpredictable, uncontrollable, and ultimately unwinnable. In this context, a withdrawal into procedures, a concentration on mobilization schedules and corps-level tactics, was natural if not exactly inevitable. The Schlieffen Plan was a sophisticated security blanket. Had it not existed its equivalent would almost certainly have been designed.
The climate of anxiety in Germany was reinforced by a new set of public slanging matches with Russia. In the agonizing reappraisals that followed the Peace of Portsmouth, Germany bore the brunt of the blame in St. Petersburg for encouraging Russia’s disastrous Far Eastern policies. Even Witte criticized Berlin for “forcing” Russia to pursue her arms in Manchuria rather than closer to home. Holstein was not being blindly Russophobic when he acidly described “Russia of the Russians, where the ‘inevitable’ war with Germany is discussed in every Zemstvo . . . even if a treaty actually existed between Russia and Germany, the popular prejudices of the Russian people would today probably override it.”70
Russia’s increasing and unexpected postwar rapprochement with Britain generated corresponding despondency in the German foreign office. Both powers had significant reasons for settling their imperial rivalries. Britain was unwilling to maintain the land forces necessary to project her power into the Middle East and central Asia in the face of Russian opposition. Russia for her part needed above all a period of stability in international affairs. These positive factors drew Britain and Russia together independent of anything Germany was able to do. With France as an enthusiastic go-between, the Anglo-Russian entente of 1907 quickly emerged as something more than just another paper agreement.71
Both powers were concerned to reassure Germany that their improved relationship was not aimed at her. In his annual reports for 1906 and 1907 Ambassador Sir Arthur Nicolson was impressed by the “intimate and cordial” relations between Russia and Germany’s courts and governments—relations he ascribed both to the unusual skill with which Germany managed her Russian affairs, and by the absence of direct points of friction between the empires. In the European field, he declared, “there is a desire on the part of the Russian Government to live on the best possible terms with Germany.”72 Nevertheless, no interpretation of the entente as a “warning,” a structure aimed at containing a provocative and insatiable German diplomacy, can deny the objective reality of encirclement. Even Fritz Fischer concedes that Germany after 1907 “lived permanently under the threat of a war on two fronts.” The continued failure to negotiate a naval limitation treaty with Britain set the seal on Germany’s isolation. The Bosnian Crisis of 1908 demonstrated its consequences.73
2
The Center Fails to Hold
I
Russo-Austrian cooperation in the Balkans was always more a matter of interest than principle. When Count Alois Aehrenthal became foreign minister of Austria-Hungary in 1906, he was concerned with what he considered the empire’s negative approach to foreign policy. Austria, Aehrenthal argued, must begin to act instead of reacting—not least to maintain its credibility with her German ally and her Russian collaborator. Aehrenthal even entertained hopes of reviving the Three Emperors’ League, this time with Austria as its pivot. His dreams, however, were fettered by Austria’s economic and military weaknesses. Lacking the resources to back an overt forward policy, Aehrenthal sought instead an opportunity to achieve a triumph through negotiations. The most likely field for such negotiations appeared to involve confronting the Balkan problem, specifically, the increasingly hostile attitude of Serbia. The newly established Russophilic dynasty in Serbia was combining with increasingly vocal Slavic movements in Macedonia and Austria-Hungary itself to generate increasing concern for the Habsburg Empire’s viability.
Russia could not ignore the fate of what had become the principal Slav state, and certainly the noisiest one, in the Balkans. Neoslavism, with its emphasis on creating a league of independent Slavic states under Russian protection, was at the peak of its short-lived influence in Russian liberal circles. Conservatives and patriots were hostile by reflex to anything that might extend Habsburg influence in southeast Europe. Realists were influenced by the fact that Russia’s western and southern frontiers were overwhelmingly populated by non-Russians whose disaffection had been made all too plain in the revolts of 1905. From Finland to the Caucasus, this unstable border correspondingly encouraged the formation of buffer zones and client relationships wherever possible. And the tsar’s new foreign minister, Baron A. P. Izvolsky, also appointed in 1906, was just the man to bring the kettle to a boil.
Izvolsky was a gambler. From his first days in office he favored a policy of diagonals: keeping Russia balanced between the German-Austrian and the Anglo-French ententes. He regarded neither partnership as inherently friendly to Russia’s interests, and was correspondingly suspected of insincerity, if not duplicity, by everyone else. It was scarcely surprising that Izvolsky found attractive the prospects of a knight’s move in the Balkans. It might put relations with Austria on a firmer, more positive basis. It could fix Izvolsky’s place in history. And it would show the rest of Europe that Russia was not to be despised. It was Izvolsky who on July 2, 1908, suggested to Aehmenthal an exchange of favors. Russia would support Austria’s direct annexation of Bosnia and Herzegovina, provinces she had ruled de facto since 1879. Austria would support Russia’s claim to move her warships freely through the Dardanelles. This right, enjoyed by no other nation, would be useful in itself and was a potential stepping stone to further pressures on the Ottoman Empire. Executed over Serbia’s head, the agreement would also demonstrate the will of the great powers most directly involved in the Balkans to control that situation themselves, and not resign it to secondary actprs.
The negotiations incorporated an essential imbalance: territory against a promise, provinces against words. Aehrenthal was able to make the annexation of Bosnia-Herzegovina a fait accompli, while Izvolsky roamed the chanceries of Europe, vainly seeking international consent to a Russian move that had been unacceptable since before the Crimean War. Nor did he find support at home. From left to right, Russian public opinion interpreted the Bosnian annexation as a disaster. Izvolsky’s aim of acquiring free passage through the straits by diplomacy was ridiculed in the newly created Duma by deputies of all political stripes indignant over the apparent betrayal of the racial cause involved in abandoning two Slavic-inhabited provinces to Teuton rule. Professors, editors, and generals seethed with indignation. Students in Moscow and St. Petersburg took to the streets in protes
t—a shock to authorities used to seeing them on the other side. Premier P. A. Stolypin, the man on whose shoulders rested the entire fragile framework of domestic reforms that was tsarism’s response to the disasters of 1905, threatened openly to resign unless Nicholas denounced Izvolsky’s bargain. To make matters worse, Serbia denounced the agreement, spoke openly of war unless somehow compensated for the annexation, and turned to Russia demanding support for this policy.
Much of the domestic criticism of Izvolsky reflected the Aesopian politics characteristic of Russia long after 1917, with parties and pressure groups using questions of foreign policy as lead-ins or stalking horses for the domestic issues that were their real concerns. Nevertheless, particularly in its weakened state, the autocracy could not afford to ignore entirely the legitimations conferred by public opinion. On the other hand, Russia in the aftermath of her defeat by Japan was militarily in no shape to confront anyone—even Austria. Faced with paying lost bets from an empty pocket, the best Izvolsky could do was to try to placate the Serbs on one hand while on the other demanding a European conference to discuss the entire issue.1
Then Germany moved into the driver’s seat. The eruption of the long-quiet Balkans was anything but welcome in the context of her increasing economic and political involvement in southeastern Europe and the Ottoman Empire. Bismarck had been able to present himself as a disinterested mediator with at least some credibility. Wilhelmian Weltpolitik had led to an increasing suspicion of German intentions in the Near East by Austria as well as Russia. Germany was developing a different set of friends and enemies, encouraging an Italian connection Austria found increasingly unpalatable, fostering an arms race that Austria could not sustain, and competing with Austria for economic influence in the Near East. In rejecting Izvolsky’s call for a conference, Aehrenthal was simultaneously challenging the German government’s commitment to its Austrian alliance.2
From Austria’s perspective, the results were positive—almost too positive. Fatalism, an acceptance of what Wolfgang Mommsen calls the topos of inevitable war, was an increasingly important rhetorical flourish among German policymakers. Yet it was less a faith than an attitude, a mixture of Weltschmerz and fin de siècle posturing. It might be fashionable in diaries and drawing rooms. It might be given a retrospective edge through postwar hindsight. But despair hardly dominated the working days of men who remained too completely the children of an age of progress to wait for disaster. Instead they did their best to avert the worst.3
German policy was significantly influenced by Izvolsky’s apparent isolation in his own country. Tsar Nicholas took pains to assure the German military plenipotentiary, navy Captain Paul von Hintze, of his continued desire for good relations. Ferdinand von Monts, German ambassador to Rome, reported his Russian colleague’s insistence that the mood in St. Petersburg was absolutely peaceful. The Russian had sharply criticized Izvolsky’s behavior, even though he was a close relative. From the Petersburg embassy, Friedrich von Pourtalès quoted the Russian war minister: Serbia was completely powerless to start a war; France was too weak to think of anything but the defensive; and Russia wished no war with Germany over Serbia’s pretensions.4
For Bülow this was an opportunity to recover ground lost in 1905. Rejecting encouragement from within his foreign office to mediate directly between Izvolsky and Aehrenthal, he instead instructed Hintze and Pourtales to stress both Germany’s current support for Austria and Russia’s current isolation as the direct consequences of a “demonstrative” Russian rush into England’s embrace. Why, Bülow asked, should not the kaiser be hurt at Russia’s abandonment of a Germany that, under constant threat to her own security and constant pressure from Europe’s radicals, had been such a faithful and unrequited supporter for so many years? And what were the probable results if Aehrenthal released the documents
Europe Summer, 1914
showing Izvolsky’s original encouraging of the annexation? What price then the rhetoric of Slavic unity and European solidarity?5
Aehrenthal had originally begun the annexation adventure to improve relations with Russia, not destroy them. Yet neither was he blind to the implications of Russia’s continued waffling on the Serbian question. Russia, he insisted, must give up her “mad claim” to being Serbia’s protector. Serbia was a local power, unentitled to compensation except as a concession.6
From a German perspective, Aehrenthal’s position did no more than reflect the blind alley in which Russia found herself. The German consul in Moscow, for example, reported that the Russian government could hardly expect popular support for war on Serbia’s behalf. Panslavism was a dead issue in central Russia. Domestic corruption and abuse of police power were far livelier themes. Witte too, in a long conversation with Pourtalès, began by stressing the centuries of tradition and the deep idealism behind the concept of Slavic brotherhood. But when pressed to declare if Russia had a real interest in helping the Serbs, Witte said decisively, “No.”7
As early as December 11 Izvolsky had informed the German ambassador that he wanted war at no price. “What should I do now?” he asked despairingly. When told he needed only to reach an agreement with Austria-Hungary, the Russian foreign minister bristled that it was impossible to negotiate with Aehrenthal. Now, with February giving way to March, Bülow was convinced the crisis had gone on beyond reason or profit for anyone. With neither Russia nor Austria willing to move decisively, the risks of an accidental explosion were growing with each passing week. Sir Arthur Nicolson was among the firmest supporters of close Anglo-Russian cooperation. Yet even he observed the “strange inconsistency” of insisting that a rival “is not to advance beyond a certain point if it be not intended to prevent him doing so at all costs... I fear that Russia may some day find herself in the dilemma of having to decide either to afford material assistance to the victims of Austria ... or to abdicate permanently her position as the great Slav protector and guardian.”8 The situation resembled nothing so much as a tightly covered pot of boiling water. Either the heat must be reduced or a safety valve introduced.
From Bülow’s perspective, Russia’s continued demands for an international conference only invited a repetition of the events of Algeciras: Germany and Austria could expect to be outvoted and humiliated. In a century shaped by two world wars and an ongoing threat of nuclear holocaust, negotiations tend to acquire talismanic significance lacking in earlier and simpler times. Bülow was familiar with the axiom that a diplomatic victory is best completed when the loser is allowed to save as much face as possible. But were Russia’s aims really so innocent? It hardly represents a long-term triumph of statesmanship to talk an adversary initially intent on taking five of one’s fingers into resting content with only two. On February 24, Hintze described the unspoken goal of Russia as being the master of the Balkan Peninsula and the Slavic world. The only thing keeping her from falling on Austria was German support.9 This seemed too extreme to be accepted at full value. On the other hand, Russia had overbet her hand badly enough to make calling it a reasonable option on three levels. This might drive a wedge between Russia and her western partners—who had consistently shown their reluctance to underwrite Izvolsky’s initiative. It might help teach Russia a lesson in great-power responsibility, a lesson recent events suggested was badly needed. Finally, by demonstrating to Aehrenthal and company how crisis management should be concluded, it would re-establish German ascendancy in that relationship.
Bülow’s opportunity came in March, when Aehrenthal finally threatened to publish the documents conceding Austria’s right to annex Bosnia and Herzegovina unless Russia cooperated in muzzling Serbia. A desperate Izvolsky appealed to Berlin. Bülow began by suggesting that Russia was attempting to play cards already beaten on the board. German good offices would depend on Russia’s commitment to one thing: controlling Serbia by any means necessary for the sake of European peace. Otherwise Germany would, with deep regret, allow developments to take their course.
Given Russia’s military weakness,
domestic turmoil, and diplomatic isolation, any moderate response was welcome. Initial reactions in St. Petersburg were favorable. Then Izvolsky once again muddied the waters. Too much of his career was riding on the annexation issue to enable easy acceptance of what amounted to a clear-cut Austrian victory. Nor was he particularly happy about the possible results of pressuring Serbia to drop her protests. Might this not amount to abandoning permanently both Russia’s Balkan position and the southern Slavs to the Dual Alliance? Izvolsky made his official reply opaque, hoping to negotiate better terms. Instead he strained Germany’s already thin patience to the breaking point. William regarded Izvolsky’s tone as insolent. Bülow felt the matter could be dragged out no longer. Nor did further delay seem necessary. On March 20 Hintze reported a conversation with an assistant to the Russian war minister. According to this official, Germany could be assured that Russia would not draw the sword for Serbia under any circumstances. Only liberals and revolutionaries wanted war. The next day Bülow insisted that Russia give an “unequivocal answer—yes or no” to the question of annexation. If no, then Germany would withdraw from the situation and—repeating a phrase used in the earlier dispatch—let developments take their course.10
This communication has been described as everything from a highhanded ultimatum to a courageous attempt at ending a dangerous situation by plain speaking. Interpretations have been complicated by German journalists and politicians who ranted about “Nibelungen loyalty” to Austria and the virtues of mailed-fist diplomacy. Technically, an ultimatum is a final opportunity for the receiving government to accept the stated terms or face direct coercion. This means that both involved parties must have a similar understanding of the diplomatic situation, and both must be aware that the communication has been submitted for the purpose of providing an either/or alternative. The German note did not meet the criteria because it contained no threat of positive actions. Announcing the intention of standing by in a crisis is no more than a statement of proposed behavior. The recipient of the statement remains free to act in his own perceived best interests. Russian finance minister V. N. Kokovtsov supported that position by telling the British ambassador that the German démarche “was not an ultimatum; it might perhaps even be admitted that it did not actually put any direct pressure on the Russian Government.”11
Tannenberg: Clash of Empires, 1914 (Cornerstones of Military History) Page 6
