The German military was anything but sanguine. On July 3, Moltke’s deputy, Quartermaster-General Georg von Waldersee, son of the former chief of staff, had suggested to the Saxon military plenipotentiary that peace depended on Russia’s behavior, not Austria’s.68 On July 5 the general staff submitted memoranda to the foreign office on the Russian railway network and on Russia’s expanding military power. The latter report described a Russian army that proposed not only to increase its annual recruit contingent from 455,000 to 585,000 men, but to keep them with the colors three months longer during the spring. In three or four years, 2,300,000 Russians would be under arms during the winter months—a key time for individual training—and 1,800,000 the rest of the year. Three or four new corps were to be raised. The strength of the corps artillery was to be increased from 108 to 144 guns, including heavy howitzers with improved fire-control equipment.
This new-model army would be more than a human steamroller. The tactical training of officers had been greatly improved by war games and staff rides. The number and duration of maneuvers had been increased. In 1914 alone almost a half-million reservists would be recalled to the colors for six weeks of refresher training. Even more than the material improvements, these personnel changes threatened to render obsolete two generations of German military planning and a quarter-century of German diplomacy.69
The general staff’s pessimism encouraged Bethmann to turn his thoughts again and again to Russia. Few accounts of the chancellor’s behavior during this period make direct references to the death of his wife on May 11, after a long and painful illness. The couple had been married for twenty-five years in what was by all accounts a love match, and work had not proved a complete antidote to sorrow. Particularly in moments of letdown or relaxation, Bethmann was more prone than usual to slip into a neiges d’antan melancholy. As early as July 6 he mused to Kurt Riezler that this time things were worse than in the Balkan crisis of 1912. And the key to the crisis was Russia—the Russia that was underwriting Serbia, that was building its military power, that was negotiating a naval convention with England that would expose the north German coast to amphibious assault by Russian troops from British ships.70
Bethmann’s anxiety on the latter point was in part a product of Sir John Fisher’s long-standing enthusiasm for the Baltic Project—the movement of an invasion fleet into the Baltic, where it would embark Russian troops and land them on the German coast for a thrust into the Reich’s presumably unprotected heart. The risks of such a proposal, obvious to cooler heads, had led Britain even before 1914 to abandon an active naval strategy in the area. Given the weakness of Russia’s Baltic fleet, operational cooperation would be difficult to impossible while the German navy still commanded the inner line. From a British perspective, the negotiations were more important for their diplomatic than their military aspects.
The Russian government took the proceedings far more seriously. It was clear in St. Petersburg that a landing in Pomerania had prospects of success only at the victorious end of a war. Exactly that fact made an agreement attractive. It would help bind Britain to the entente to the bitter end—and be correspondingly useful as a means of applying diplomatic pressure on Germany.
In such a context it was scarcely remarkable that two weeks later Bethmann spoke again of Russia’s “growing aspirations and monstrous disruptive power.” In a few years, he said, she would be irresistible, particularly if the current alliance systems remained in existence. That very strength made her a correspondingly desirable ally. A permanent agreement with her was worth far more than even an English alliance, and Sazonov was supposed to have told Berlin banker Robert Mendelssohn that if Germany would drop Austria, Sazonov would promptly drop France. But in Bethmann’s mind, any possibility that Russia still might turn from her allies if they failed to support her in the Serbian crisis was far outweighed by the military build-up and the diplomatic ingenuousness of the tsarist colossus. Bethmann, far more than Holstein had ever done, regarded Russia’s behavior as a reaction to internal tensions. Panslavism was a counterweight to revolution. This, however, made it no less dangerous. Let Russia put her own house in order as need be, but not at her neighbors’ expense.71
Germany’s support and encouragement of Austria’s stand on Serbia was thus ultimately a warning directed at St. Petersburg—a warning the Russian government, at least in German eyes, seemed deliberately to ignore. Austria’s actions against Serbia, up to and including the declaration of war and the subsequent bombardment of Belgrade, had one major point in their favor. They were not directly taken against a great power. The fact is simple enough to be easily overlooked. The Concert of Europe may have been little more than a convenient fable even in its salad days. Yet at least since the Crimea, no major state had gone to war with another in the interests of a lesser power, even an avowed client. Nor had any great power defined its vital interests in the context of a lesser state’s policies. The one arguable exception had been Russia’s support of Rumania and Bulgaria in 1877. And if Austria had now replaced the Ottoman Empire in Russian policy making, this substitution was hardly reassuring in Berlin.
Bethmann’s reiterated argument that Russia was betraying the monarchical principle, supporting revolutionaries and regicides in the company of liberal and republican allies, was more than a simple assertion of conservative principles of social order, and more than a crude effort to split the entente. It was also a reminder that Russia was risking the very basis of international relations for the sake of goals and principles she was either unable to define even to herself, or was camouflaging beneath rhetoric of self-determination for small states—a rhetoric that had never ultimately defined the behavior of great powers.
In 1772, during the course of another significant readjustment of Eastern European boundaries, a cynical Frederick the Great allegedly said of Maria Theresa’s avowed reluctance to participate in the partition of Poland, “She weeps, but she eats.” In 1914, Russia’s tears seemed similarly crocodilian. As early as July 23 Bethmann declared privately that if Russia mobilized, Germany would go to war.72
He was expressing a mood of resignation rather than aggression. Appeasement, for all its negative connotations, remains the most basic measure of diplomacy in the sense of discovering and meeting each others’ desires through negotiation. But if those desires are badly articulated, if they are expressed in vague or contradictory terms, then appeasement, like restraint, becomes an exercise in futility. Far from “unleashing” Austria-Hungary, far from using the Sarajevo incident as an excuse for initiating a long-prepared war of conquest, Germany was reacting to her eastern neighbors in a most un-Bismarckian way. The Second Empire did not slide into war in 1914 by accident or miscalculation. Instead it deliberately resigned the initiative to the game’s other players. This was in sharp contrast to her by now traditional behavior in crisis situations. From San Stefano to Agadir, from Samoa to the Balkans, Germany had held center stage for a quarter-century, pointing with pride or viewing with alarm, demanding, threatening, or blustering—and always ultimately backing down. Suddenly her diplomats were taking a calm, almost fatalistic attitude. Her ambassadors were talking in terms of “if-then” in a way that bewildered their opposite numbers and continues to confuse historians, but made far too much sense to Bethmann-Hollweg.
Bethmann saw Germany as on the low side of a seesaw. Instead of being the fulcrum of European diplomacy, she found herself in a situation where the balance was in danger of being permanently upset in the wrong direction. Writing in later years in the contexts of stalemate and defeat, men with the vastly different political positions of Karl Lichnoswky and Philipp Eulenberg argued for the stupidity of their country’s policy in the summer of 1914. The erstwhile ambassador to England and the one-time imperial favorite agreed that no vital interest justified Germany’s anti-Serbian position, that Russia had made plain her support for Serbia’s integrity, and that it was nonsense to risk a war that offered even the possibility of global involvement.73 Bethma
nn interpreted the situation differently. The Serbian issue was a litmus test. If Russia and her allies took it to the brink successfully, this would be only the beginning. There would be another crisis, and another, in a pattern later generations would describe as salami slicing. In Bethmann’s opinion, if Russia meant to have a war, let it begin now.
By this time Bethmann had little confidence in England’s restraint. He considered the Anglo-Russian naval negotiations, successful or not, as a particular sign that Britain regarded war with Germany as not much more than a question of time and place. Nevertheless, throughout July he continued to urge the island empire to remain neutral. Without her support, he argued, Russia would back down from a position morally untenable and dangerous to Europe’s stability. Should Russia fail to see reason, why should Britain underwrite her folly?
These efforts to limit the conflict did not exclude considerations of how Germany might profit from the victory she expected to win. If Bethmann’s exact goals were relatively vague, his concepts of colonial compensation and enhanced political and economic influence in Europe and the Near East were clear enough.74 Wars, however, are not necessarily fought for their causes; war aims are not a logical indicator of prewar goals. No state in history had fought a war to restore the exact status quo ante helium, if for no better reason than that was the situation generating war in the first place. If the result of present events was a Europe under German hegemony, then that would be a by-product of a series of incorrect decisions—all of them ultimately made outside Berlin.
Nor was Bethmann under massive internal pressure to begin a war. For men so often described as trembling with eagerness for battle, Germany’s senior officers reacted to Franz Ferdinand’s assassination with remarkable insouciance. Moltke, taking a cure at Karlsbad, was told by the chancellor to stay there and saw no reason to challenge his instructions. Lieutenant-Colonel Wilhelm Groener, head of the all-important railway section of the general staff, was visiting Bad Kissingen for his health. In the aftermath of his warning to the Saxon plenipotentiary, Waldersee had been given compassionate leave because of a death in his family. On July 8 Bethmann’s office advised him to spend some additional time on his father-in-law’s estate in Mecklenburg, restoring health shaken by recent surgery. Waldersee would not return to Berlin until July 23, and did little during his holiday to keep himself abreast of the deepening crisis.
Was the absence of so many key officers part of an elaborate plan to lure the rest of Europe into a false security regarding Germany’s intentions? Waldersee’s comment on July 8 that he was “ready to jump” and that the general staff was so well prepared “there is nothing for us to do” deserves interpreting with a grain of salt.75 Given the military’s concern with maintaining its place in Germany’s power structure, a rhetoric of confidence in the presence of civilians was predictable. On the other hand, it is difficult to imagine warmongers so confident that they completely ignore intelligence, if only to ensure that the prospective target remains safely in the dark. But not until July 16 were the intelligence officers of the eastern corps informally instructed to pay more than routine attention to developments in Russia. Not until July 23 were these men officially informed that Berlin had a special interest in keeping abreast of events in the tsar’s empire. And not until July 25 did the head of military intelligence explain to his subordinates that a war was likely, and that their agency was expected to concentrate on finding out whether military preparations were in fact taking place in France and Russia.
To the men on the spot in eastern Germany, Berlin was merely seeking confirmation of what everyone already knew. Since early July, every train passing through Danzig or Königsberg into Russia seemed to bear its quota of officers and their ladies returning ahead of schedule from the watering places of Western Europe. Every contact, personal or official, with Russians of any social standing seemed to be accompanied by a recommendation to stock up on caviar, or a suggestion not to put too much hope in the coming autumn’s hunting season. The men’s handshakes were firmer than usual; the women’s tears more public.
Technology reinforced personal impressions. From the beginning of their alliance both France and Russia had been concerned with the problem of maintaining direct, secure communications during a crisis. Everything from cables to carrier pigeons had been considered, tested, and rejected as too slow, or too random, or too vulnerable. The development of radio appeared to solve the problem. In 1907 and again in 1909 the French pushed for the establishment of radio links. By 1912 the Russians had constructed a major—for the times—communications station in the White Russian town of Bobruisk. From there daily communications were possible to Paris, where the practical French utilized the Eiffel Tower for transmission and reception.
The Germans were reasonably quick to respond. By 1913 the senior intelligence officer of I Corps in Königsberg was utilizing the garrison’s own powerful radios to intercept Russian dispatches. By calling on reserve officers and utilizing civilian professors from the university who were experts in Russian language and culture or skilled mathematicians, he had made significant progress deciphering codes and understanding transmission patterns. The traffic had been growing steadily and ominously heavier when, during the night of July 24/25, Königsberg’s operations picked up a lengthy coded exchange between Bobriusk and the Eiffel Tower. Its import seemed all too clear the next day, with the news of Russia’s projected partial mobilization.76
IV
Sazonov had forty-eight hours’ time between Serbia’s rejection of the ultimatum and Austria’s declaration of war. As the sands ran out he found it easier to continue a long tradition of Habsburg-bashing, easier to accuse Austria of deliberately setting Europe on fire, easier to boast of the Austrian ambassador being “gentle as a lamb” in discussing the crisis than to appraise Russia’s interests and opportunities, much less Serbia’s guilt or Austria’s determination. On July 28, as Austrian warships and artillery opened fire on Belgrade, Sazonov implemented the partial mobilization approved four days earlier.
The foreign minister continued to insist that this mobilization did not mean war, that Russia did not have to attack Austria and had no intention of attacking Germany. But Berlin was not the only European capital where it was legitimate to ask whether the politicians or the generals ruled. Chief of staff N. N. Yanushkevitch informed not merely the four districts Sazonov authorized, but every military district in the empire, that July 30 was to be the first day of a general mobilization.77
Russia’s alleged inability to risk partial mobilization in view of the clumsiness of her military system has by this time been thoroughly exposed as a red herring. Russia was in fact better able than any of the continental powers to call up only part of her huge forces. Her general staff, however, had never taken this alternative seriously. In operational terms Russian generals had no faith in Serbia’s ability to withstand unaided the army of a great power. As early as November, 1912, a conference of chiefs of staff of the military districts had warned of the risks should Russia delay entry into an Austro-Serbian conflict and recommended mobilization as soon as Austria acted. The size of the Russian Empire, its low population density, its inefficient bureaucracy, continued to make mobilization a difficult process even after the recent reforms. It was further complicated by the fact that, unlike circumstances elsewhere in Europe, a large number of the army’s active formations were stationed away from major population centers. Nor could the Russian railway network support the heavy traffic of its French or German counterparts. Individual lines were often lightly built and poorly maintained. Water tanks, fuel supplies, and maintenance facilities were calculated for limited traffic. So were repair gangs and train crews. It was neither insouciance nor warmongering that led the chief of the general staff’s mobilization section to describe a general war as “settled” as early as July 26. From his perspective, anything else was an unconscionable risk.78
On the same day the French military attaché, General Laguiche, informed his war
ministry that Sukhomlinov, while repeating Russia’s intention to avoid overt measures that might be interpreted as directed against Germany, confirmed the mobilization of the four southern districts. At the same time the military districts of Moscow, Kiev, and St. Petersburg—those closest to the German frontier—had been secretly put under orders to prepare for the contingency of war.
The possibility of French intervention to stop the process was diminished by continuing domestic pressure to modify the Three Years’ Law. The government was correspondingly unwilling to weaken its Russian alliance. To get along it seemed desirable to go along. At the prompting of Joffre, War Minister Adolphe Messimy instructed Laguiche on July 27 to urge an invasion of East Prussia as soon as possible. The next day, Joffre and Messimy insisted to the Russian military attaché that France was fully prepared to fulfill her alliance obligations. In St. Petersburg, French Ambassador Maurice Palèologue made the same point to Sazonov, and to anyone else willing to listen. His encouragement was unofficial, but in the current supercharged atmosphere no one was asking awkward questions.79
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