Читать книгу Old Europe's Suicide; or, The Building of a Pyramid of Errors - Christopher Birdwood Baron Thomson - Страница 7

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Although the Balkan bloc of 1912 was formed by men whose motives were as various as their interests and personalities, it was based on a correct appreciation of the general situation. It offered a prospect of relieving the intolerable tension which prevailed in the Balkan Peninsula at the expense of the Ottoman Empire, an Empire whose natural frontier was in Turkish Thrace,2 and whose administration in South-Eastern Europe had been both wasteful and tyrannical. A continuance of Turkish sovereignty in Macedonia and Albania had become an anachronism. Justice, however wild, demanded the expulsion of the Turks, and all who knew the history of the Balkans approved the action of the Allied States.

Not only did the creation of this bloc bid fair to provide a solution of purely Balkan questions; while it lasted it could not fail to have a stabilizing influence in the “Balance of Power” in Europe. From a military point of view, the combined forces in Bulgaria, Servia and Greece were a far from negligible factor; they would have served both as a buffer between Slav and Teuton and as a deterrent to the ambitions of Pan-Germans and Pan-Slavs alike. From this combination of the Balkan States the Western European Powers had everything to gain.

In the autumn of 1912 an oligarchy of schemers and mediocrities held the reins of power in Constantinople. Their position was precarious, their inexperience great; to a large extent they were dependent on the goodwill of the Great Powers, from whom they sought advice. The advice given, though inspired by very different motives, had the same effect: it increased the self-satisfaction of the “Young Turks” and gave them a sense of security which was wholly unjustified by the circumstances of the case.

Great Britain and France posed as indulgent friends of the new régime in Constantinople, whose liberal professions seemed to announce a moral convalescence. Loans were to be the solvent of all difficulties. Under their quickening influence regeneration and reform would blossom in a desert air, while interests and ideals would march hand in hand. The policy of the French and British Governments was, in essence, the maintenance of the status quo. Both counselled moderation in all things, with the possible exception of concessions to certain financial groups. The “Young Turks” listened dutifully, as people do who are looking for a loan.

Austro-Hungarian policy aimed at fomenting disorder in Macedonia and Albania, with the object of justifying intervention and eventually annexation. These two Turkish provinces were to share the fate of Bosnia and Herzegovina. Their acquisition would complete the economic encirclement of Servia and reduce that country to the position of a vassal State. Behind Austro-Hungary stood Germany, whose communications with Asia Minor needed a buttress in the Balkans. The final object of the Central Empires was the disintegration of Turkey in Europe. In the autumn of 1912, however, the Turkish plums were not yet ripe for plucking; a few more years of misrule were required. In the meantime, the Austro-Hungarian and German Governments encouraged, secretly, the process known as “Ottomanization” in Macedonia and Albania, with all its attendant ills. The Young Turks listened gladly; such advice appealed to their natural and traditional instincts.

At this period the vision of Italian statesmen hardly extended beyond the Eastern Adriatic seaboard. Moreover, Italy was a member of the Triple Alliance and held a merely watching brief in and around Constantinople.

Alone among the Great Powers, Russia was in close touch with the Balkan situation. For some years Russian diplomats and military agents had possessed preponderating influence in all the Balkan capitals; they had appreciated the scope and intensity of the smouldering passions which, however transitorily, were to force into concerted action the Bulgars, Serbs and Greeks; they alone had estimated correctly the military efficiency of the armies of the Balkan States and, almost alone, they knew the contents of the Secret Treaty, signed in February, 1912, which brought into existence the Balkan bloc. Russian policy was definitely anti-Turk: it aimed at the fulfilment of the testament of Peter the Great, at the expulsion of the Turks from Europe, at the establishment of Russian sovereignty over the Bosphorus and the Golden Horn. It is an old saying that diplomatists are paid to lie abroad for the benefit of their countries; successive Russian ambassadors at Constantinople plied the Sublime Porte with soothing words; all was for the best in the best of all possible Turkeys, while plots matured and hostile armaments were perfected. The Young Turks listened somewhat fearfully; it seemed too good to be true, but still they listened and believed.

False counsel reacting on inertia had an inevitable result; the declaration of war found the Ottoman Empire utterly unprepared. The mobilization of the Balkan armies was completed with unexpected rapidity and was followed by a simultaneous invasion of Turkey in Europe by Bulgarian, Greek and Servian forces. The Bulgars crossed the frontier of Thrace, without encountering serious opposition, and advanced towards the line Adrianople-Kirk-Kilise; the Greeks entered Southern Macedonia, where the Turkish garrisons were weak and scattered; the Serbs invaded the Vilayet of Kossovo and joined hands with the Montenegrins in the Sanjak of Novibazar. At every point the Balkan armies had penetrated into Turkish territory. In Constantinople confusion reigned supreme; disasters were exaggerated, sinister rumours passed from lip to lip, even the shrine dedicated to the “Divine Wisdom”3 was not considered safe.

The Russian Government looked on complacently—its plans were taking shape. In London and Paris curiosity was more in evidence than any emotion which might have been dictated by knowledge or foresight. In Vienna and Berlin the news was received with anger and astonishment; better things had been expected from King Ferdinand of Bulgaria. The stubborn fact remained, however, and called for immediate action. A German military mission had for some years directed the training of the Turkish army; the time had now come for that mission to direct Turkish strategy. Events had moved too quickly for the cynical, realistic policy of the Central Empires, but they could be turned to good account if, at the outset of the campaign, the Serbs were crushed. And so, while yielding ground in Thrace and Southern Macedonia, the Turks massed troops at Uskub, and made their plans for an offensive battle against the Serbs advancing southward into Kossovo.

My lot had been cast with the Serbian forces and, by great good fortune, I was able to join the First Army as it poured through the defiles of the Kara Dagh into the region called “Old Servia.” At Belgrade the talk had been of a war of liberation from economic thraldom, of a conflict between the Crescent and the Cross; with the armies it was otherwise. No thought of policy or secret treaties, or even of religion, confused the minds of Servia’s peasant soldiers; they marched like men called to fulfil their country’s destiny, singing the story of their race, making the mountains echo with their martial songs. There was no need to understand their language to catch the meaning of these singers; they sang of sorrow and tribulation, of centuries of helplessness in oppression, but the note of defiance was never absent; defeat was admitted but never despair. Something unconquerable was in their hearts, stirring their blood and nerving every muscle—the spirit of revenge. Bacon, in his famous essay, says: “The most tolerable sort of revenge is for those wrongs which there is no law to remedy.” The Serbs had five centuries of wrongs to avenge, and the Great Powers had produced no law as a remedy, except the law of force; by force these peasants, in their turn, meant to obtain “a kind of wild justice.”

For them, the plains of Kossovo were sacred; there had been made the last heroic stand against a cruel and implacable foe; there had occurred the dreadful rout, whose few survivors told the tale, at first in frightened whispers, then in songs—long, wailing songs, like dirges. Songs are the chronicles of Slavonic races, they pass into the nation’s ritual and permeate its life. Succeeding generations sang these songs of Kossovo, and so the legend grew, and spread to all the Balkan lands; each humble home, even in far Rumania, had heard of Lazar, a Tsar who led his people and gave his life up for them on a battlefield known as “the Field of Blackbirds.” When princes perish thus, servility conspires with pity to make them martyrs. The dead Tsar led his people still, and far more potently in death than life; his legendary form, looming gigantic through the mists of time, beckoned them, irresistibly, to blood-soaked fields, where, once again, the Turks and Serbs would meet in mortal strife.

The First Servian Army, under the command of the Crown Prince Alexander, had crossed the old Serbo-Turkish frontier near Vranje. After two exhausting marches in enemy territory, the leading units, emerging from the mountains, saw in front of them an undulating plain; in the distance some minarets, surmounting a collection of whitewashed houses, stood out against the sky. The Serbs were in sight of Kumanovo, a town situated 15 miles north-east of Uskub, on the western fringe of a vast stretch of pasture land bearing the local name of “Ovce Polje” or “Sheepfield.” Running across the plain, from east to west, a line of trenches was clearly visible; on the railway track from Salonica many trains were standing, from which men descended and, after forming into groups, moved outwards to the trenches. It required no special military acumen to appreciate the fact that the Turks intended to make a stand at Kumanovo. The battlefield was flanked on the west by a railway and on the east by a small river, an affluent of the Vardar; to the north lay mountains, to the south the plain extended as far as the eye could reach.

Night was falling, in a hurricane of wind and rain, when the Servian advanced guards reached the northern limit of the plain and began to place their outposts. During the day there had been skirmishes with hostile patrols; every one was soaked to the skin, and supplies were a march behind. I must have seen several hundred infantry soldiers take up their appointed positions in a cluster of stony kopjes, which marked the extreme left of the Servian outpost line, and not a murmur of complaint or grumbling reached my ears. Sometimes men passed who muttered to themselves. I asked a Servian staff officer what they were saying; he replied simply, “Their prayers.” And on this note began their vigil.

All through the night the rain-sodden, wearied troops were arriving at their bivouacs. The front taken up was unduly extended and, notably on the extreme left, there were many gaps. The dawn revealed a scene of desolation and considerable disorder. Soon after sunrise the Turks attacked.

Throughout the first day of battle the Turks pursued offensive tactics, attempting repeatedly to turn the Servian left. More than once the situation on this flank became critical. Reinforcements arrived in driblets and in an exhausted condition; they were at once absorbed in the fighting line, without regard for any other consideration except the saving of a local situation. Of higher leading there was little, it was just a soldier’s battle—hard, brutal fighting, stubborn valour in the front line, chaotic confusion behind.

Late in the evening I saw a small party of horsemen moving rapidly from battalion to battalion immediately behind the front line. Riding by himself, a little in advance of the others, was a young man with a thin, sallow face, wearing pince-nez. He stopped frequently and spoke with the officers and men. When he had passed on, they followed him with their eyes and seemed to move more briskly about their business. To these rough men from all parts of Servia this brief visit had a special interest; the young man who rode alone and in front was the Crown Prince Alexander, and most of them were seeing him for the first time.

In more senses than one the Crown Prince was alone that day. His exalted rank had conferred on him the command of an army; his extreme youth made it hard for him to impose his will on a staff of military experts. At the headquarters of the First Servian Army there was the usual percentage of senior officers whose peace training had taken from them any human or imaginative qualities they may ever have possessed; who regarded war as a science, not a drama; men without elasticity of mind, eternally seeking an analogy between their own situation, at any given moment, and some vaguely similar situation in the career of their favourite strategist (usually von Moltke). Since in war, at least, analogies are never perfect, such men lack quick decision and, almost invariably, they take the line of least resistance.

During the afternoon preceding the evening visit of the Crown Prince to his troops, several influential and elderly officers had been advising retreat; they had studied the map carefully, and in their opinion no other course was left to the Commander of the First Army. All the text books confirmed this view, and in these books were embodied the great principles of strategy. They pointed out to Prince Alexander that he owed it to himself and his country to retire, as soon as possible, to a new position and fight again another day. They were absolutely sincere and were convinced that, since the Serbian left was in process of being turned, all the military experts would approve of what might, euphemistically, be termed “a strategic retirement.”

Many great military reputations have been made by the skilful conduct of a retreat and, according to their lights, the advocates of such tactics on this occasion were not far wrong in their reasoning. Only outsiders judge by results; military experts live in a charmed and exclusive international circle, in which method is everything.

The Crown Prince had a great deal at stake. This battle marked a turning point in his life, and with him lay the final decision. He never hesitated. “Stand fast and counter-attack all along the line at the earliest possible moment” was the order issued, and then this descendant of a warrior swineherd mounted his horse and went to see his soldiers. Bad strategy, perhaps, but understandable to the men who were bearing the brunt of the battle on the “Sheepfield” of Northern Macedonia.

At General Headquarters Colonel G—— P—— shared and interpreted the Crown Prince’s views. He knew the almost superhuman powers of endurance of the Servian peasants, and put his faith in them. King Peter upheld his son’s decision; reinforcements and ammunition were sent to the 1st Army, on whose prowess depended the future fate of Servia.

The second day of battle dawned fair, from early morning onwards the Turkish assaults were launched in rapid succession, and without regard for loss of life. It was evident that the Turks were making their great effort in this theatre of operations. By skilful manipulation of the Press the Bulgars had given the impression that every theatre, except their own in Thrace, was secondary; they argued that the Turks would be so terrified by the Bulgarian threat to Constantinople that all available forces would be concentrated for the protection of the Turkish capital, and that a purely defensive attitude would be maintained in Macedonia. The facts were all against these suppositions. The only theatre in which the Turks were acting offensively was Macedonia; in Thrace, after being completely surprised by the Bulgarian advance, they were in full retreat; in Northern Macedonia a plan, dictated by the Central Empires, was being put into execution, and the destruction of the 1st Servian Army was its objective.

From prisoners’ statements the Turks appeared to be certain of success, a large force of cavalry under Ali Mechmet Pasha was being held in reserve south of Kumanovo ready to take up the pursuit.

On the morning of the third day the Servian front was still unbroken. During the preceding night reinforcements had arrived from the general reserve, the gaps in the front line had been filled up, and the heavy artillery moved into position. The Turkish offensive persisted throughout the day, but late in the afternoon the Serbs made several successful local counter-attacks. After dark an unusually large number of priests visited the front line, the men crowded round them eagerly, and listened to their words.

At daybreak, on the fourth day, a large force of Turks was seen moving towards the Servian left flank; the Turkish commander was making a last bid for victory. Advancing in close formation the attacking columns suffered heavy losses from the fire of some batteries of howitzers. On other parts of the front an ominous calm prevailed. Servian soldiers were swarming in the ragged trenches which had been thrown up during the course of the battle. Priests in their flowing black robes were everywhere.

Suddenly, from the centre of the Servian line, a salvo of guns gave a signal! It was the signal for the counter-attack.

Surely, never since Friedland has such a sight been seen.

As though by magic the space between the Turkish trenches and the Servian front was seamed by lines of infantry dashing recklessly forward with bayonets fixed. Their onrush was irresistible, the Turkish front was not pierced—it was swept away.

Within one hour of that amazing charge the battle of Kumanovo was lost and won. The Turkish General’s last hope must have disappeared when a well-aimed refale from a group of Servian howitzers threw the massed squadrons of Ali Mechmet Pasha into hopeless confusion. Hundreds of riderless horses scoured the plain, and through them, ever pressing forward, surged the grey lines of Servia’s indomitable infantry. The Turks were not merely driven back, they were routed, a rabble of unarmed men fled across the plain to Uskub and spread panic in the town; no attempt was made to man the forts, a general sauve qui peut took place; a well-equipped and numerous army melted away in headlong flight.

By noon Uskub had ceased to be a Turkish town, its name was, once more, Skoplje.

During the afternoon I came across some regiments, which had fought on the extreme right, forming up about five miles north of the town. The men grinned with pride and satisfaction as they showed the blood-stains on their bayonets; they had come far for this, but knew no fatigue. Though so fierce in battle and filled with blood-lust, they were curiously gentle in their ways with the wounded of both sides and their prisoners; one felt that one was with a lot of big, strong children who would bear almost anything up to a certain point, but that beyond that point it was most inadvisable to go.

All sorts of wild stories were being circulated. It was said that a man, dressed in white and riding a white horse, had led the charge—many had seen the apparition, and had recognized Czar Lazar.

A strange meeting took place that evening. The Consuls of the Great Powers in Uskub had remained in the panic-stricken town. When the last vestige of Turkish authority had left, they sallied forth in carriages to meet the conquering host, bringing with them the keys of the town. On reaching the Servian outpost line they were forced to alight, and, after being blindfolded, to proceed on foot to the headquarters of the Crown Prince, a distance of 1½ miles. The scene was not without a certain irony. On the one hand, a young Balkan Prince, elated with victory, surrounded by his Staff; on the other, the representatives of Great Britain, France, Russia and Italy blindfolded, muddy and dishevelled by a long tramp in goloshes through black, sticky mud. Fine feathers make fine birds, national prestige has, after all, something to do with gold lace.

The conqueror received these unexpected envoys graciously and accepted the keys, but he slept that night among his soldiers on the ground that they had won.

Few triumphs have found a more appropriate setting. To the south the plain terminated in an arc of hills already dimmed by gathering twilight; spanning the arc the River Vardar shone like a band of silver; between the river and the hills lay Skoplje, the minarets of its numerous mosques served as reminders of the conquered Turk; commanding both the valley and the town a fortress stood, its old grey walls had sheltered Dushan, the greatest of all the Servian Tsars. These were the fruits of victory—and the tokens of revenge.

I rode back to our bivouac with the Russian Military Attaché, and quoted to him the words of Goethe after Valmy; we were indeed entering on a new world in the Balkans. My companion put his thoughts into far more concrete form:4 “C’est la liquidation de l’Autriche” was his comment on the situation. The wish was father to the thought, a frequent source of error in Russian calculations; Servia’s victory was, undoubtedly, a discomfiture for the Ball Platz,5 but the final liquidation of Austria-Hungary was not yet accomplished. That consummation was reserved for a later date, and for a more universal tragedy.

Our road led across the battlefield. On every side were traces of the struggle, corpses of men, dead and dying horses. Near the railway we found a Turkish gun team of which five of the horses had been killed or wounded by a shell, the sixth horse, a big solemn-looking grey, was standing uninjured by his fallen comrades, an image of dumb distress. A Servian soldier, charged with the collection of loose horses, appeared upon the scene, and, after putting the wounded animals out of their pain, turned to the grey, which had been standing quietly watching the man at work. Obviously, the next step was departure, but here a difficulty arose. The solitary survivor of the gun team was loth to leave, and the look in his honest, wistful eyes was infinitely pathetic. A colloquy ensued between the representative of the Russian Empire and the Servian peasant. Both were Slavs, and, in consequence, horse lovers; both agreed that this horse deserved and desired death; there and then an act of extravagance, almost impossible in any other army, was perpetrated, and the gun team was reunited in some equine Nirvana known only to Slavs and Arabs. “Another victim of the war,” I remarked to my companion, as we continued on our road. He evidently considered this observation as typical of my British lack of imagination, and proceeded to recite a poem describing the fall of snowflakes. Russians can witness human suffering with indifference, but are curiously sentimental in regard to nature, animals and flowers; nearly all Slavs possess a dangerous charm, the charm of men with generous impulses uncontrolled by guiding principles; their speech is splendid and inspiring, their actions uncertain, since they are ever at the mercy of lurking passions and events.

Just before darkness fell a number of birds, coming from all directions, settled upon the battlefield, they were black in colour; round Kumanovo spread another “Field of Blackbirds.” But these were not blackbirds in the ordinary sense; they were carrion crows brought by some instinct from their lonely haunts to batten on man’s handiwork littering that death-strewn plain. A raucous cawing made the evening hideous; sometimes a cry, more harsh and guttural than the rest, seemed to propound a question, an answering clamour followed, approving, quarrelling; it might have been a parliament of birds, summoned fortuitously, already passing laws to regulate this unexpected intercourse. Gloating, but not yet satisfied, the stronger birds had made themselves lawgivers, and meant to impose respect for property upon their weaker brethren.

That night the Austrian Military Attaché left Servian Headquarters for Vienna. His Russian colleague explained his sudden departure on the ground that, according to the Austro-Hungarian program, the Turks ought to have won. It may have been unwise for a small Balkan State to cross the wishes of so great a Power; but neither doubts nor fears assailed the Serbs that night; they had gained at Kumanovo the first pitched battle of the war, and it had been a famous victory.