Catastrophe: Europe Goes to War 1914. Max Hastings

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       ‘The Superb Spectacle of the World Bursting Into Flames’

       1 MIGRATIONS

      Across continental Europe, for the last time in history proclamations of war were accompanied musically as well as figuratively by a clarion call. In cities such as Freiburg a trumpeter and a police officer toured the city’s main squares in a chugging automobile, halting at each one to rehearse the tidings. Most of the newly warring nations accomplished the transition from peace with doom-laden efficiency. Lt. Col. Gerhard Tappen, Moltke’s chief of operations, admitted to a ‘peculiar feeling’ as he unlocked the office safe and withdrew Germany’s ‘Deployment Plan 1914/15’, but mobilisation represented the greatest professional triumph of the chief of staff’s career. Before war came, Berlin feared that socialist-inspired rail strikes might cause disruptions, but none occurred. There were few absentees among the four million men summoned to the colours.

      Governments’ contingency plans extended well beyond the mechanics of mobilisation. Maurice Hankey, secretary of Britain’s Committee for Imperial Defence, had since 1910 produced annually updated editions of ‘The War Book’. This was a red quarto volume, sub-headed in gold lettering ‘Co-Ordination of departmental action on the OCCURRENCE OF STRAINED RELATIONS and on the OUTBREAK OF WAR’. The latest edition, circulated throughout Whitehall on 30 June 1914, contained 318 grey-blue pages, detailing the responsibilities of every department of state, first in the ‘Precautionary stage’: ‘The Secretary of State [for foreign affairs], foreseeing the danger of this country being involved in war in the near future, decides to warn the Cabinet to this effect.’ The War Book, with gentlemanly circumlocution, stressed the importance of discretion: ‘The Under-Secretary of State specially instructs any member of his staff who may be concerned that the greatest reticence must be observed in regard to the existence of strained relations and all matters relating to precautionary measures.’

      Thereafter, the Book catalogued all manner of necessary practical steps, such as the submission to Parliament of a Bill for the control of aliens, introduction of censorship, seizure of enemy merchant vessels, severance of enemy submarine telegraph cables, embodiment of the Channel Islands militia, and notice to neutral powers of an impending blockade of enemy ports. In addressing the management of telegraph traffic, an appendix stated: ‘In order that the greatest number of telegrams requiring Priority over all others should be indicated, it has been assumed … that the war would be one in which the United Kingdom would find herself immediately opposed by the three countries forming the Triple Alliance.’ The War Office was warned: ‘Certain defensive measures against treacherous or surprise attacks become necessary.’ The Admiralty chief censor’s telegraphic address was to be ‘Scoured, London’. The Home Office was instructed to alert chief constables ‘to pay special attention to the movements of suspicious foreigners’. During the first days of August, all this came to pass.

      Serbs were dismayed that their country had been obliged to mobilise before the harvest was gathered, instead of waiting for autumn, as at the start of the two previous Balkan wars, when the barns were full. Not only the departure of men caused dismay, but also the spectacle of precious carts and oxen being driven away to the army. Nonetheless, Tadija Pejović remarked that everybody around him was singing, ‘because it is a Serb custom to sing when soldiers go to war’. Young and old alike had little notion how long their adventure might last. Uncomprehending children demanded to know why their homes were being broken up.

      Generosity towards the enemy would soon be banished from every belligerent’s public life, but in August vestiges survived. Britain’s National Free Church Council adopted a resolution: ‘The crime and horror of a universal war has fallen upon European civilization. It is useless to seek nicely to apportion blame.’ H.W. Nevinson, Berlin correspondent of the Daily News, wrote of the young Germans whom he had watched march away: ‘finely-built and well-trained fellows they are, of a stock so much like our own at its best’. He applauded the well-tilled countryside, the neat and well-behaved children, and all that Germany had done to advance the world’s progress. In the same spirit, some British academics strove to sustain respect for the country that had now become their mortal enemy. ‘Only ignorance can afford to mock at German culture,’ wrote a Cambridge theologian.

      A thirty-one-year-old schoolteacher living near Graz, who kept a diary in which she signed herself simply as ‘Itha J’, was an impassioned Austrian nationalist. She recoiled in disgust when her friend Martha described the bitterness of some men summoned to the colours. ‘I am sorry,’ Itha interrupted stiffly, ‘but it is incomprehensible that any man should complain. I call it cowardice – it could be nothing else.’ This was an age when classicism was an almost universal expression of literacy. Young Edouard Beer, one of four Belgian brothers who joined his country’s armed forces, quoted Caesar with some complacency: ‘Omnium Gallorum fortissimi sunt Belgae’ – ‘The Belgians are bravest of all Gauls’.

      Writer Sergei Kondurashkin was holidaying with his family in southern Russia, where he glimpsed a microcosm of his nation’s vast mobilisation: ‘The omnipotent state apparatus of names and numbers was able to search out people even in the remote gorges of Caucasian mountains, beneath the Amanaus glaciers. Couriers came galloping with telegrams for doctors, professors and engineers – everyone to the war! Private rail travel stopped, the post became irregular, and for a time private telegrams were rejected. It seemed that the pattern of ordinary life around us, formed over centuries, was coming to a halt, soundlessly breaking up, as war established its own norms.’

      Russia’s mobilised strength was on paper – full potential was never achieved – the largest of any belligerent, but most of those called to the colours had little notion of the cause. One man, Ivan Kuchernigo, described a scene in his village, where a policeman suddenly appeared, knocking on door after door to summon peasants to a meeting. They assembled amid general bewilderment and vain mutual questioning. Suddenly, the village elder called for silence: ‘Here’s what’s afoot boys! An enemy has turned up! He has attacked our Mother Russia – Matushku Rossiiu – and our Father-Tsar needs our help, our enemy for now is Germany.’ A buzz ran through the crowd: ‘It’s the Germans! The Germans.’ The elder shouted for quiet again: ‘OK boys, in order not to lose time messing with lists, whoever feels healthy and able to serve the Fatherland should show up in the office of the District Military Commander in Aleshka, and I advise you to bring with you two pairs of underwear, and they’ll give you anything else there, just do it quick.’ The crowd dispersed to their houses, forgetting work in the fields. Kuchernigo wrote: ‘My God, how many tears were spilled when we had to go.’ His five-year-old daughter sat in his arms, pressing against him and saying, ‘Daddy, why are you going? Why are you leaving us? Who’s going to earn money and get bread for us?’ She embraced and kissed her father, whose own tears were soon flowing. ‘I couldn’t answer her questions, and just answered, “I’ll be home soon, baby.”’

      In France mobilisation СКАЧАТЬ