Читать книгу Old Europe's Suicide; or, The Building of a Pyramid of Errors - Christopher Birdwood Baron Thomson - Страница 6

Table of Contents

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 circulating strictly 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 Save told of mountains, of turbulent, oppressed peoples and their hopes and fears; the Danube of plains and rich cities, of old Europe’s last triumph over Islam, of heroes and conquerors, its broad stream carried the echoes of Ulm and Ratisbon, Vienna and Buda Pesth.

Here, at Belgrade, the great river seemed to have found a new task—the task of dividing an ancient empire with immemorial traditions from new States and young peoples, who still retained a bitter memory of the Turkish yoke. Here began a divided allegiance, an unnatural schism between the river’s banks. It was as though the Save had brought down trouble from the mountains; the white line of foam which marked the meeting of the waters was a symbol, a symbol of eternal discord between the past and present.

The door opened and a short, thick-set man in the uniform of a Colonel of the Servian General Staff entered the room; he spoke in German, but with some difficulty, and excused himself for having kept me waiting. Then followed the usual commonplaces, in which he expressed his admiration for the British character and our free institutions, while I assured him of the deep interest taken by all classes at home in the future prosperity and development of Servia.

I asked about the mobilization, and he answered that it had astonished even the most optimistic: 98 per cent. of the reservists had joined the colours, many of them bringing carts and bullocks as free-will offerings. The declaration of war had been received with boundless enthusiasm by the peasants, and volunteers were flocking in from every part of the kingdom. The field army was well equipped. The question of transport had presented many difficulties, but had been solved by ruthlessly cutting down every human requirement to the absolute minimum; this was possible, he explained, because the Servian peasant soldiers could live on very little, but I would see for myself before long. Ammunition? For the first time he hesitated. Yes, there was enough for a short campaign, if the strictest economy were exercised—for six months, perhaps; but it was difficult to estimate expenditure as, except for the Manchurian war, there were no data to go on. I suggested that stocks could be renewed. He flushed a little and replied that most of Servia’s arms and ammunition came from Austria.

Unconsciously, on my part anyhow, we had moved to the window, and while the Colonel was talking I noticed the almost uncanny frequency with which his eyes sought the far bank of the Save. Such restless eyes they were, light grey in colour. One could imagine them blazing with anger, but occasionally one caught a hunted look, as though they had known fear. Colonel G—— P——, like most Servian officers, was of peasant origin. The King himself was the grandson of a swineherd. There had been a time in Servia when every man, who could, had transferred his family and household goods to what is now called Montenegro, so great had been their terror of the Turks. The poorer peasants had remained and had borne the tyrant’s yoke; their descendants, of either sex, retained the furtive, quailing glance of ancestors who had lived in dread. Even the little children had this look of atavistic fear.

The grey eyes softened when he spoke of the peasants, their simplicity, their endurance, and their faith in ultimate victory; his one idea seemed to be to give a fair chance to these peasant soldiers; to avoid political complications at home and abroad and, above all, to get the ammunition up to the front line.

I looked instinctively across the river; the key of the whole situation was there. He must have guessed my thoughts, for the conversation turned at once to more general questions. The Colonel was convinced that the Great Powers would not interfere; their neutrality might even be benevolent. He had just received from the Austrian Military Attaché (the visitor who had kept me waiting) most satisfactory assurances in regard to the supply of ammunition. Belgrade would be entirely denuded of troops, as also the whole northern frontier. This had been rendered possible by the assurance that there was no danger of interference from the North; a Servian force would occupy the Sanjak of Novi Bazar! He noted my surprise, and added quickly, “With the full knowledge of the Austro-Hungarian Government.” The main army would advance on Uskub (he gave the town its Servian name of Skoplje). On its left would be a mixed Serbo-Bulgar army, and on its right the Third Servian Army under one of their best generals. All the three armies would converge on Uskub, near which there would probably be the first big battle. Uskub was the first objective. He insisted that it was a genuine Servian town. The Emperor Dushan had held his Court there in the great days of old Servia. Further south, lay Monastir and Salonika, the real prizes, of these he did not speak, and I refrained from putting inconvenient questions, I had learned so much already.

A chance reference to Servia’s economic and industrial situation provoked an almost passionate outburst from this hitherto self-contained man. Servia needed a port, it was her only means of gaining economic independence. Hitherto, Austria had held Servia by the throat, but with an outlet to the sea his country could work out its own salvation. He reeled off some astounding statistics in regard to the population of the eastern Adriatic seaboard between Trieste and Montenegro. I ventured to suggest that Austria would not lightly relax her hold on such valuable possessions—as Cattaro, for example. He assented, but repeated with vehemence, “Servia’s first economic objective must be an Adriatic port,” Durazzo or San Giovanni di Medua would do—to begin with. When I enquired how it was proposed to deal with the Albanians, an ugly, cruel look crept into his face as he hissed out a German slang expression for extermination. The Albanians were, in his opinion, nothing more nor less than thieves and murderers for whom there was no place in the Peninsula.

I was beginning to understand. The war about to commence was only the first phase; success would give to Servia sufficient territory and economic independence to enable her to prepare for a greater and inevitable struggle with Austria-Hungary. The pitfalls were many. No one realized the difficulties more fully than the man standing with me at that window, who was even anxious to expose them in his eagerness to gain a little sympathy. He knew that wise and wary statesmanship would be required in handling the Bulgarian question. The hot-heads at home would have to be restrained. At all costs peace with Bulgaria would have to be maintained, and this would be difficult. Servia had her megalomaniacs who were impatient and heedless of prudent counsels, whose aspirations in regard to national aggrandizement were boundless, who wanted to do everything at once and brooked no delay.

Almost two hours had passed, and it was nearly noon when I rose to say farewell. While expressing my best wishes for Servia’s success in this first phase of her great adventure, I remarked that, presumably, Belgrade would cease to be the capital after Uskub had been taken and the Albanian coastline reached—a more central and less exposed position seemed desirable for the Royal residence and seat of Government. His answer was emphatic—Belgrade must always remain the capital, the Save was not the northern frontier of old Servia; all that—and he waved his hand towards the north—was Servian territory right up to and beyond Karlovci, which, at one time, had been in the diocese of a Servian bishop.

When I left the Servian War Office that day I had forgotten all about rabbits and pythons; those dauby pictures portrayed the past, the future was the only thing that mattered. A passionate drama would shortly enact itself under the eyes of a cynical, unbelieving Europe; in that drama Servia would play a leading part and, if Colonel G—— P—— was typical of his countrymen, the final act would find another setting than the Balkans. From an open window this man had looked out upon a spacious and inspiring scene, had caught its message, and, no more a mere official speaking a foreign tongue, had found the rugged eloquence of a true soldier-statesman. He might have been a Servian Cromwell; such men are dangerous to their oppressors.

An irresistible craving for quiet and solitude had overcome me. I drove to a place on the outskirts of Belgrade close to the Danube’s bank, and walked down to the river’s edge across flat, waterlogged meadows. At this point, the troubled Save had found peace in the greater stream, a mighty volume of water slid smoothly past the sedges, whispering mysteriously; sometimes the whisper swelled, and weed and wave, stirred by a passing breeze, filled the surrounding space with sighing sounds.