Old Europe's Suicide E-Book

Christopher Birdwood Thomson

• Herausgeber: Christopher Birdwood Thomson
• Kategorie: Wissenschaft und neue Technologien
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2016

Beschreibung

This book is a retrospect covering the period 1912–1919. It begins with the first Balkan War, and ends with the Peace Conference at Paris. Many of the events described have been dealt with by other writers, and the only justification for adding one more volume to an already well-stocked library, is that the author was an eye-witness of all that he relates and enjoyed peculiar opportunities for studying the situation as a whole. To impressions derived from personal contact with many of the principal actors in this world-drama has been added the easy wisdom which comes after the event. With these qualifications a conscientious effort has been made to arrange the subject matter in proper sequence and to establish some connection between cause and effect—not with a view to carping criticism, but rather to stress the more obvious errors of the past and glean from them some guidance for the future.

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Christopher Birdwood Thomson

Old Europe's Suicide

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Table of contents

BRIGADIER-GENERALCHRISTOPHER BIRDWOOD THOMSON

PREFACE

CHAPTER I A Day On The Danube

CHAPTER II Belgrade—October, 1912 A VIEW FROM A WINDOW

CHAPTER III The Battle of Kumanovo

CHAPTER IVMacedonia—1912

CHAPTER V Albania—1912–1913

CHAPTER VI The Second Balkan War and the Treaty of Bucharest

CHAPTER VII Two Men Who Died

CHAPTER VIII “1914” Peace and War

CHAPTER IX The Neutral Balkan States—1915

CHAPTER X Sleeping Waters

CHAPTER XI The Disaster in Rumania—1916

CHAPTER XII The Russian Revolution and the Russo-Rumanian Offensive—1917

CHAPTER XIII A Midnight Mass

CHAPTER XIV “Westerners” and “Easterners”

CHAPTER XV The Peace Conference at Paris—1919

CHAPTER XVI Looking Back and Forward

FOOTNOTES

“For History of Times representeth the magnitude of actions and the public faces and deportments of persons, and passeth over in silence the smaller passages and motions of ‘men and matters.’” —Francis Bacon

BRIGADIER-GENERALCHRISTOPHER BIRDWOOD THOMSON

General Thomson comes of an English family of soldiers. He is about forty-five years old, and has a career of active service behind him, having served as subaltern four years in the Boer War, then having passed the Staff-College, and subsequently having been employed by the War Office in Balkan service.At the very beginning of the Great War he was engaged in Staff work at the French front, and in 1915 to 1917 was the British military representative in the Balkans. In the Palestine campaign he saw active service in the field until the occupation of Jerusalem.When the Supreme War Council was convened at Versailles, Thomson was recalled and was attached as British Military Representative in 1918 remaining until the conclusion of its peace negotiations. In 1919 he retired with rank of Brigadier General—Royal Engineers.He has now entered the field of politics as a member of the Labour Party and is the selected candidate for Parliament, standing for Central Bristol. He was a member of the Labour Party commission which recently visited Ireland; and his services in the intensive campaign work of the Labour Party in Great Britain have occupied the past year.THE PYRAMID OF ERRORS

PREFACE

This book is a retrospect covering the period 1912–1919. It begins with the first Balkan War, and ends with the Peace Conference at Paris. Many of the events described have been dealt with by other writers, and the only justification for adding one more volume to an already well-stocked library, is that the author was an eye-witness of all that he relates and enjoyed peculiar opportunities for studying the situation as a whole. To impressions derived from personal contact with many of the principal actors in this world-drama has been added the easy wisdom which comes after the event. With these qualifications a conscientious effort has been made to arrange the subject matter in proper sequence and to establish some connection between cause and effect—not with a view to carping criticism, but rather to stress the more obvious errors of the past and glean from them some guidance for the future.It would be a rash statement to say that a European conflagration was the inevitable outcome of a little Balkan War, but metaphor will not be strained by comparing that same little war to a spark in close proximity to a heap of combustible material, a spark fanned in secret by ambitious and unscrupulous men, while others stood by, and, either from ignorance or indifference, did nothing to prevent an inevitable and incalculable disaster. That, as the present writer sees it, is the parable of the Balkan Wars. And so in the first part of this book, which deals with the period 1912–1914, the selfish intrigues of the Central Empires are contrasted with the equally vicious proceedings of the Imperial Russian Government, with the ignorance and inertia which characterized Great Britain’s Continental policy and with the vacillations of the Latin States. In later chapters, comments are made on the diplomatic negotiations with the neutral Balkan States in 1915 and 1916, on the conduct of the war and on the Treaty signed June 28, 1919, in the Palace at Versailles.The title refers to the downfall of the Central Empires, which were the last strongholds of the aristocratic traditions of Old Europe, both from a social and a political point of view. It is submitted that these Empires perished prematurely through the suicidal folly of their ruling classes. Under wiser statesmanship, their autocratic governmental system might have survived another century. Germany and Austria-Hungary were prosperous States, and were assured of still greater prosperity if events had pursued their normal course. But pride, ambition, impatience and an overweening confidence in efficiency without idealism destroyed their plans. They put their faith in Force, mere brutal Force, and hoped to achieve more rapidly by conquest a commercial and political predominance which, by waiting a few years, they could have acquired without bloodshed. In the end, the military weapon they had forged became the instrument of their own destruction. Too much was demanded from the warlike German tribes; an industrial age had made war an affair of workshops, and against them were arrayed all the resources of Great Britain and America. Blind to these patent facts, a few reckless militarists who held the reins of power goaded a docile people on to desperate and unavailing efforts, long after all hope of victory had vanished, and thus committed suicide as a despairing warrior does who falls upon his sword.The Prussian military system collapsed in the throes of revolution and the rest of Europe breathed again. Materialism in its most efficient form had failed, and to peoples bearing the intolerable burden imposed by armaments came a new hope. Unfortunately, that hope was vain. With the cessation of hostilities, the suicide of Old Europe was not completely consummated. After the signing of the Armistice, enlightened opinion, though undoubtedly disconcerted by the rapid march of events, expected from the sudden downfall of the Central Empires a swift transition from the old order to the new. The expectation was not unreasonable that four years of wasteful, mad destruction would be a lesson to mankind and, in a figurative sense, would form the apex of a pyramid of errors—a pyramid rising from a broad base of primitive emotions, through secret stages of artifice and intrigue, and culminating in a point on which nothing could be built. A gloomy monument, indeed, and useless—save as a habitation for the dead.In an evil hour for civilization, the delegates who met to make the Peace in Paris preferred the prospect of immediate gain to laying the foundation of a new and better world. They, and the experts who advised them, saw in the pyramid of errors a familiar structure, though incomplete. Its completion demanded neither vision, nor courage, nor originality of thought; precedent was their only guide in framing Treaties which crowned the errors of the past and placed its topmost block.The chickens hatched at Versailles are now coming home to roost. Democracy has been betrayed, our boasted civilization has been exposed as a thin veneer overlaying the most savage instincts. Throughout all Europe a state of moral anarchy prevails, hatred and a lust for vengeance have usurped the place not only of charity and decent conduct but also of statesmanship and common-sense. Peoples mistrust their neighbours and their rulers, rich territories are unproductive for lack of confidence and goodwill.These ills are moral and only moral remedies will cure them. Force was required, and has done its work in successfully resisting aggression by military states now humbled and dismembered. But Force is a weapon with a double edge, and plays no part in human progress.While this book endeavours to draw some lessons from the war and from the even more disastrous peace, at the same time it pleads a cause. That cause is Progress, and an appeal is made to all thinking men and women to give their attention to these urgent international affairs, which affect not only their prosperity, but their honour as citizens of civilized States. The first step in this direction is to inform ourselves. If, in the following pages, a little light is thrown on what was before obscure, the writer will feel that his toil in the execution of an unaccustomed task has been rewarded.C. W. Thomson

CHAPTER I A Day On The Danube

“When the snows melt there will be war in the Balkans,” had become an habitual formula in the Foreign Offices of Europe during the first decade of the twentieth century. Statesmen and diplomats found comfort in this prophecy on their return from cures at different Continental spas, because, the season being autumn, the snow had still to fall, and would not melt for at least six months. This annual breathing space was welcome after the anxieties of spring and summer; the inevitable war could be discussed calmly and dispassionately, preparations for its conduct could be made methodically, and brave words could be bandied freely in autumn in the Balkans. Only an imminent danger inspires fear; hope has no time limit, the most unimaginative person can hope for the impossible twenty years ahead.Without regard either for prophecies or the near approach of winter, Bulgaria, Servia, Greece and Montenegro declared war on Turkey at the beginning of October, 1912. The Balkan Bloc had been formed, and did not include Rumania, a land where plenty had need of peace; King Charles was resolutely opposed to participation in the war, he disdained a mere Balkan alliance as unworthy of the “Sentinel of the Near East.”Bukarest had, for the moment anyhow, lost interest; my work there was completed, and a telegram from London instructed me to proceed to Belgrade. The trains via Budapest being overcrowded, I decided on the Danube route, and left by the night train for Orsova, in company with a number of journalists and business men from all parts of Rumania. We reached the port of the Iron Gate before dawn, and found a Hungarian steamer waiting; soon after daybreak we were heading up stream.Behind us lay the Iron Gate, its gloom as yet unconquered by the sunrise; on our left the mountains of North-Eastern Servia rose like a rampart; on our right the foothills of the Carpathians terminated abruptly at the river’s edge; in front the Danube shimmered with soft and ever-changing lights; a stillness reigned which no one cared to break, even the crew spoke low, like pious travellers before a shrine. War’s alarms seemed infinitely distant from those glistening waters set in an amphitheatre of hills. “How can man, being happy, still keep his happy hour?” The pageant of dawn and river and mountain faded as the sun rose higher; dim outlines became hard and sharp; the Iron Gate, surmounted by eddying wisps of mist, looked like a giant cauldron. The pass broadened with our westward progress revealing the plain of Southern Hungary, low hills replaced the mountains on the Servian bank. A bell rang as we stopped at a small river port, it announced breakfast and reminded us, incidentally, that stuffy smells are inseparable from human activities, even on the Danube, and within sight of the blue mountains of Transylvania.My travelling companions were mainly British and French, with a sprinkling of Austrians and Italians. To all of them the latest development in the Balkan situation was of absorbing interest, and they discussed it incessantly from every point of view. Their attitude, as I learnt later, was typical, not one of them had failed to foresee everything that had happened; in the case of the more mysterious mannered, one had a vague impression that they had planned the whole business, and were awaiting results like rival trainers of racehorses on the eve of a great race. These citizens of the Great Powers were, in their commerce with the Balkan peoples, a curious mixture of patron and partisan. The right to patronize was, in their opinion, conferred by the fact of belonging to a big country; the partisan spirit had been developed after a short residence in the Peninsula. This spirit was perhaps based on genuine good will and sincere sympathy, but it certainly was not wholly disinterested. There was no reason why it should have been. No man can, simultaneously, be a good citizen of two countries; he will nearly always make money in one and spend it in the other. Patriotism is made to cover a multitude of sins, and, where money is being made, the acid test of political professions is their effect on business.Listening to the conversation on the steamer I was astonished by the vivacity with which these self-appointed champions urged and disputed the territorial claims of each Balkan State in turn. Remote historical precedents were dragged in to justify the most extravagant extension of territory, secret treaties were hinted at which would change the nationality of millions of peasants, and whole campaigns were mapped out with a knowledge of geography which, to any one fresh from official circles in London, was amazing.From breakfast on, the babel of voices continued, and it was curious to note how the different nationalities grouped themselves. The British were, almost to a man, pro-Bulgar, they wanted Bulgaria to have the greater part of Macedonia and Thrace, some of them even claimed Constantinople and Salonika for their protégés; they were on the whole optimistic as to the success of the Allies. The French and Italians urged the claims of Servia, Greece and Rumania in Macedonia; in regard to Albania the French were in favour of dividing that country between Servia and Greece, but this latter suggestion provoked vehement protests from the Italians. The three Austrians hardly joined in the discussion at all, one of them remarked that he agreed with the writer of the leading article in the Neue Freie Presse of a few days back, who compared the Balkan Peninsula to a certain suburb of Berlin, where there was one bank too many, and where, as a consequence, all banks suffered. In the Balkan Peninsula, according to this writer, there was one country too many, and a settled state of affairs was impossible until one of them had been eliminated; he didn’t say which.I asked whether a definite partition of the territory to be conquered was not laid down in the Treaty of Alliance. No one knew or, at least, no one cared to say. There seemed to be a general feeling that Treaties didn’t matter. The journalists were in a seventh heaven of satisfaction at the prospect of unlimited copy for several months to come; the business men expected to increase their business if all went well. On that Danube steamer the war of 1912 was popular, the future might be uncertain, but it was full of pleasant possibilities.I thought of London and remembered conversations there three weeks before the declaration of war. The general opinion might have been summarized as follows: The Bulgars were a hardy, frugal race, rather like the Scotch, and, therefore, sympathetic; they were ruled over by a king called Ferdinand, who was too clever to be quite respectable. As for Servia, the British conscience had, of course, been deeply shocked by the murder of the late King, and the Servian Government had been stood in the diplomatic corner for some years, but the crime had been more or less expiated by its dramatic elements and the fact that it had taught everybody a little geography. King Nicholas of Montenegro was a picturesque figure and had an amiable habit of distributing decorations. In regard to Greece, there were dynastic reasons why we should be well disposed towards the descendants of the men who fought at Marathon, not to mention the presence in our midst of financial magnates with unmistakably Greek names. Lastly, the Turks. In London, in 1912, these people enjoyed considerable popularity; they were considered the only gentlemen in the Balkans, the upper-class ones of course. Admittedly Turkish administration was corrupt and the Turks had a distressing habit of cutting down trees everywhere, but their most serious defect was that they were a little sticky about affording facilities for Western enterprise. This latter consideration was considered really important. Matters would improve, it was thought, after some changes had been made in the Consular Service.The war had come at last. Few people in England knew its cause or its objects; many thought and hoped the Turks would win. We had played the part of stern moralists when a debauched and tyrannical youth received summary justice at the hands of his outraged subjects, but we watched lightheartedly the preparations for a struggle which would soak the whole Balkan Peninsula in blood.Night was falling as we passed under the walls of the old fortress of Belgrade. During the last hour the conversation had taken a purely business turn about coal concessions in the Ergene Valley1 and a French company which was being formed to exploit Uskub. Both localities were in Turkish territory, but would change their nationality after the war, if the Balkan Allies were the victors.The steamer ran alongside the jetty; the journey was, for most of us, at an end. Every one was in high spirits; the near prospect of dinner in an hotel had produced a general feeling of optimism in regard to the Near Eastern question. One felt it wouldn’t be the fault of any one on our steamer if things went wrong. Our advice would always be given gladly and ungrudgingly, and we would accept any responsibility except that of putting into execution our own plans. We considered we were playing quite an important part in the Balkan drama, but, belonging as we did to big countries or Great Powers, once the fighting began we were forced to stand aside.Belgrade seemed half asleep already. The city is built on a ridge overlooking the junction of the Save with the Danube. From the quay a long line of white houses was visible, flanked at one end by the Cathedral and a dark mass of trees, at the other by a large, ugly building, behind which stands the Royal Palace. Lights were few and far between, the aspect of the town was cold and inhospitable, it was evidently no busy centre eager to swallow up travellers and take their money. The Servian capital has nothing to offer to pleasure seekers, and sightseers must be content with scenery. Across the river, half a mile away, the lights of the Semlin cast a glare upon the sky, one could even hear faintly the strains of a Hungarian military band.Only three of my fellow travellers remained on the landing stage; they were Austrians. Two of them were going to Semlin in the steamer, the third was, like myself, waiting for his baggage to be disembarked. This man and I were to see a good deal of each other during the months that followed; he was the Austrian Military Attaché at Belgrade.The steamer whistle gave the signal for departure and farewells were exchanged. Just before stepping on board, one of the departing Austrians said, “Well, Otto, when next we meet I suppose the Turks will be here,” to which the military representative of the Dual Monarchy replied, “The sooner the better.” He then got into his cab and drove off to the house where, for three years, he had enjoyed all the privileges due to his diplomatic functions.I had spent the whole day with a crowd of talkative and communicative men, but, as a rickety old cab took me up the hill towards the town, I remembered more distinctly what the comparatively silent Austrians had said than anything else that I had heard. These men seemed to mix up private business and politics less than the others; they gave the impression of thinking on big lines, of representing a policy of some sort.In October, 1912, many people still believed that the British Government had a Balkan policy. The war had been foreseen for so many years, its repercussion on Asia Minor and the whole Mohammedan world could hardly fail to be considerable, while the risk of the conflagration spreading, so as to involve all Europe, was universally recognized. Under such circumstances, it seemed incredible that those responsible for the maintenance of the British Empire would leave anything to chance. Of course, we British had a policy, but personally I hadn’t the faintest idea what it was, nor, for the moment, could I think of any one who had.At last the hotel was reached. A sleepy “concierge” showed me to my room, a vast apartment whose outstanding feature was its painted ceiling. This work of art was oval in shape and consisted of a vault of almost inky blue spangled with stars, round which were cherubs and angels in appropriately exiguous costumes. The subject was perhaps meant to be a celestial choir, but the artist had somehow missed his mark; the faces were neither angelic nor cherubic; they wore an air of mystery not unmingled with self-satisfaction. The figures emerged in stiff, conventional fashion from the edges of the ceiling into the central blue, and, if it hadn’t been for their lack of dress and look of conscious superiority, they might have been a collection of quite ordinary men, gathered round an oval table stained with ink. One of the cherubs bore a strong facial resemblance to a distinguished diplomat of my acquaintance; he was whispering something in his neighbour’s ear, and the latter seemed amused. The neighbour was a cherub, not an angel; he had a queer, wizened face of somewhat Slavonic type.I was tired out, but I did not sleep well. I had been thinking about British policy in the Balkans before I fell asleep, and had strange dreams which were almost nightmares. It was all the fault of the ceiling; that cherub was so exactly like the diplomat and I dreamed he was telling the other one a secret, this explained the whispering, and that it was an important State secret, connected with my visit to Belgrade.Who knows? The artist who had painted that hideous ceiling may have done so in a mood of irony. He may have chosen, as models for his cherubs, some well-known personages engaged in propping up a crazy structure known as “the balance of power in Europe.”

CHAPTER II Belgrade—October, 1912 A VIEW FROM A WINDOW

Mobilization was nearly completed when I paid my first visit to the Servian War Office, an unpretentious building situated half way down a side street leading from the Royal Palace to the River Save. On entering, I congratulated myself that, at last, I was to meet and speak with a real Servian; hitherto I had met nearly every other nationality in the legations, hotels, and other places frequented by visitors to foreign capitals. At the time of my visit, the only society in Belgrade consisted of foreign diplomats; the hotels were managed and staffed by Austrians, Swiss and Italians; the roads were being paved by an Austrian contractor, employing Austrian workmen and, according to current gossip, the country was being ruled by the Russian Minister.Now that hostilities were imminent, I presumed that the Servians would be allowed to do their own fighting. This supposition proved to be correct, the Great Powers had decided not to interfere in what was a purely Balkan struggle, they intended to keep the ring and see fair play.So much I had already learned in Belgrade, from people in a position to know and who seemed to know most things except the authentic Plan of Campaign. Their resentment at not being given this was evident, and when asked the reason, they would reply that they wanted to communicate it to their respective governments and War Offices, in the strictest confidence of course. The Servian General Staff had kept their secret well, far too well for the cosmopolitan band who earned their living by acquiring and circulatingstrictly confidential information. I did not expect to solve the mystery myself, but the prospect of getting to close quarters with its authors gave me some satisfaction. I had begun to admire these men one never met, who didn’t seem to ask for advice, though they often got it, and who were shouldering the responsibility for Servia’s future action.After being conducted to an upstairs room, I was asked to wait, Colonel —— (then followed two names which I didn’t quite catch, but noted mentally as beginning, respectively, with a “G” and a “P”) begged to be excused for keeping me waiting, but would come as soon as he could; an unexpected visitor had arrived whose business was urgent. This information was imparted by a young staff officer, in excellent German, his message given, he left me alone with some straight-backed chairs, a table with a green baize cover, three pictures, and a large bow window facing north.The pictures were poor. One was a portrait of King Peter, whose brilliant uniform recalled a play I had seen just before leaving London. Another represented a battle between Servians and Turks, dagger and axe were being used freely, the ground was strewn with dead and wounded, horsemen were riding over foe and friend alike, some at a dignified walk, others galloping madly, but all seemed equally indifferent to the feelings of the men on the ground. The meeting between Wellington and Blucher after Waterloo, as conceived by a nineteenth-century artist, was child’s play compared to this battlepiece. The third picture portrayed three horsemen in rich attire riding abreast along a woodland glade followed by their retainers. The scene was historical; it was the last ride of the centre horseman, a former reigning prince, whose companions, and incidentally his kinsmen, had assassinated him in that very glade.These pictures were only too typical of Servia’s past history; they explained the worn, anxious expression on the old King’s face and, seen for the first time on the eve of yet another war, gave food for reflection. Human nature seemed unchanging and unchangeable; history was about to repeat itself in battles and murder, hatred and anger, suffering and death. Modern weapons would replace the dagger and the ax and the men on horseback would be provided with motor cars: these would be the only differences.It is usually better to ride than to walk. Philosophers, as a rule, prefer the latter form of progression; perhaps that is why so few of them have been kings and why cities so seldom “rest from their evils.”My sole remaining distraction was the window. It commanded a wide view over the Save and Danube valleys and looked straight down on the great railway bridge which links Servia with Central Europe. At the far end of the bridge a Hungarian sentry was clearly visible, and all along the Save’s Hungarian bank were earthworks and searchlights. Away to the right, and about a mile distant, were the barracks of Semlin; rumour said they were full to overflowing.Austria-Hungary was watching her small Southern neighbour mobilize and taking a few precautionary measures, in order, no doubt, to be in a better position to keep the ring.Standing at the open window in that quiet room, I felt I was learning more about Serbia’s real position than could possibly have been gleaned from all the talk on the Danube steamer. Perhaps it was the instinct of an islander, but, as I looked across the river, I had a feeling of vague uneasiness, amounting almost to physical discomfort; an immensely greater force was there, passive but watchful, and it was so near, within easy range of field artillery.I remembered being taken in my childhood to see the snakes fed at the Zoo. Two monster reptiles lay motionless in a glass case. Some live rabbits were inserted, and at once began to frisk lightheartedly round their new quarters. Suddenly one of the reptiles raised its head; all movement ceased for a brief moment; each rabbit crouched, paralysed by terror; the dry, merciless eyes of the python travelled slowly round the cage, his mate stirred expectantly, and then! The horrid, darting jaws did their work—one by one those poor rabbits disappeared. I recollected having been especially sorry for the last one. In Central Europe, at least one python State lay north of the Danube, and to the south were rabbit States, embarking on a ghastly frolic.Bathed in bright October sunlight, the scene before me was both varied and splendid. The town lay immediately below, beyond it the river and vast spaces framed by mountains, some of them so distant that their presence was suspected rather than perceived. The line of junction between the Save and Danube was clearly defined, the white waters of the former confounding themselves reluctantly with the Danube’s steely blue. Both rivers seemed to tell a story; the Sav [...]