Original subtitles

Bury the Archduke with an empire's lamentation.

Let us bury the Archduke to the noise of the mourning of a mighty nation,

mourning when their leaders fall.

Warriors carry the warrior's pall, and sorrow darkens Hamlet and Hall.

The assassin's work was done.

The mortal remains of the Archduke, Franz Ferdinand, were returning home for burial.

The world on holiday took only passing note of another Habsburg tragedy.

In that brilliant summer of 1914, it was, for most men, only passing notice.

An Englishman, living in Capri, glanced casually at an Italian newspaper.

There, in the stock press news, was a telegram that the Archduke,

Franz Ferdinand, had been shot as he visited a town called Sarajevo,

of which neither of us had ever heard.

After lunch, we consulted the Times Atlas, and found that Sarajevo was the capital of

Bosnia, which seemed almost equally remote and insignificant.

A few days later, the same man, travelling through Paris back to England,

bought a French paper at the Garde du Nord.

There was an article in it headed Sarajevo.

And for a moment, so faint had been the original

impression, I wondered where I had seen that name before.

Sarajevo, Sunday.

After the crime, reprisals.

Violent anti-Serb demonstrations have taken place.

More than 200 Serb houses have been sacked and their occupants maltreated.

Martial law has been proclaimed.

Even in the countries most affected, Austria-Hungary and neighbouring Serbia,

it would require a little time to understand what Sarajevo might come to mean.

In Austria, as the Archduke's body was brought back

to Vienna, opinion against Serbia steadily hardened.

The German ambassador reported to the Kaiser...

Canberto, the Austro-Hungarian foreign minister, told me today that everything

pointed to the fact that the threads of the conspiracy to

which the Archduke fell a sacrifice ran together at Belgrade.

I frequently hear expressed in Vienna, even among serious people, the wish that

at last a final and fundamental reckoning should be had with the Serbs.

The Kaiser noted in the margin of his copy of the report, now or never.

Four days later, July the 6th, he sent a message to the Austrian Emperor.

The Emperor Franz Josef may rest assured that his majesty will faithfully stand by

Austria-Hungary, as is required by the obligations

of his alliance and of his ancient friendship.

And with that, on that same day, the Kaiser set off in the Imperial yacht

for a summer cruise in Scandinavian waters.

This was a holiday season everywhere, and the sea was calling.

Emperors and princes, soldiers and statesmen, rich men and poor men,

it was holiday time for all.

But while they relaxed with summer pastimes, the logic

of power was moving towards terrible conclusions.

The German ambassador was conveying to Berlin a message

from the Austrian Emperor and his foreign minister.

Count Berthold requested me to express to his majesty their most sincere gratitude

for the position which he has assumed, so clearly in accord

with the compact of alliance and the dictates of friendship.

The compact of alliance and the dictates of friendship.

These were the fatal words, these were the concepts which

would bring Europe's long holiday of peace to a sudden end.

Under the innocent laughter, beneath the internal tensions.

Behind the diplomatic courtesies, a network of compacts

and alliances linked the powers together in misfortune.

In the centre of it all was the triple alliance

of Germany, Austria, Hungary and Italy.

By a secret treaty in 1879, Austria and Germany had been allied against Russia.

Impressed by Germany's growing strength and overcoming her distrust of Austria,

Italy joined the compact in 1882.

So the centre of Europe, with two young nations and one ambitious old one,

became a fortress, waiting for the day to make a sortie.

The implications did not go unnoticed on either side of the fortress.

The Russian Empire was more than a power.

It was the focus of an idea.

Slovaks and Slovenes under Austrian rule, Czechs and Serbs, all looked towards

Russia as the protector of Slavs everywhere.

And Russia, conscious of the menace of the central powers, had found an ally.

In 1891, the apparently impossible happened.

The imperial Russian government, the very symbol of tyranny, signed an

agreement with the Third Republic of France.

So the triple alliance was now faced with a dual alliance.

And the dual alliance was linked to the Balkans, an

unsettled area which could at any moment burst into flame.

None of these arrangements brought security.

On the contrary, tension and anxiety grew.

Both groups looked for new friends.

The central powers towards Turkey, and her

empire stretching down to the Persian Gulf.

France, building her own empire, looked uneasily

across the channel at the heart of an empire in being.

Slowly, and unwillingly, British policy bowed to the pressure of events.

As the imperial German navy, based on its North Sea harbours, grew year by year,

Britain's sense of safety diminished.

Lord Haldane, an admirer of much in Germany, summed the feeling up.

We who live on islands, and are dependent for our food and our raw materials on our

being able to protect their transport, could not permit that protection to be

threatened by the creation of naval forces intended to make it precarious.

Colonial disputes with France became unimportant.

The Entente Cordiale was forged.

In 1906, military discussions began between the two countries.

These completed a process described by Winston Churchill, all that subterranean,

subconscious movement, whereby the vast antagonisms of the Great War were slowly,

remorselessly, inexorably assembled.

Behind the summer pleasure, as an American writer says, the nations of Europe were

like a file of marching prisoners, chained together by their ankles.

Prisoners of national pride, shackled together by treaty obligations.

Britain's Entente with France was followed by an understanding with France's ally,

Russia.

And on July the 20th, 1914, the French President, Monsieur Poincaré, arrived on a

state visit to Russia, designed to strengthen that alliance.

The particular purpose of this visit was to emphasize the military ties between

Russia and France, which were quite precise.

In 1912, the Russian General Staff had agreed that the

Russians would march on the 15th day of mobilization.

That was merely their advance guard, precursor of the

millions who might follow, the Russian steamroller.

36 divisions of cavalry, 114 divisions of infantry, over two and a half million men,

with limitless reserves behind them.

If they could be armed, if they could be equipped, if they could even be mobilized.

Mostly peasants, the vast majority of the Russian soldiers were illiterate,

and many of their officers a little better.

Few of their generals had studied war.

Corruption and inefficiency went hand in hand among their officials.

And at the court, there was strong pro-German feeling, centered around the Tsarina.

She is a cousin of the German Kaiser.

She is deeply religious.

She hates the fashionable world of the court.

She is convinced that all Russia needs is the Tsar, the church, and the people.

Be an autocrat, Nikki, she would say to her husband.

The Tsar himself, the little father, is devoted to his wife and children.

He is industrious, conscientious, generous, even-tempered, fatalistic,

utterly without a will of his own or any understanding

of the realities of international affairs.

Yet the French visit served its purpose, reassuring both powers.

The moment of Poincaré's departure from Russia was being closely watched.

By a careful delay of two hours, the Austrians made sure that the French

party would be at sea before the news broke of Austria's ultimatum to Serbia.

25 days had passed since the Archduke was murdered.

Nine days since work had begun on this document.

It was diligently composed, without compromise, without loopholes,

an ultimatum with a purpose.

The final and fundamental reckoning with the Serbs.

It was delivered at six o'clock in the evening of July the 23rd.

The Austro-Hungarian government expects the reply of the

royal Serbian government at the latest within 48 hours.

The Austrian ultimatum twitched the chain which bound the nations together.

The inevitable reactions followed immediately.

The Serbian regent, Alexander, sent a telegram to the Tsar the next day.

At this critical moment, I echo the feelings of the Serbian people in praying

your majesty to be pleased to interest yourself in the fate of the Kingdom of Serbia.

And so the fuse was lit.

The Kaiser was still yachting in Norway.

I telegraphed repeatedly to the Chancellor and the Foreign

Office that I considered it advisable to return home.

But I was asked each time not to interrupt my journey.

When, however, I learned from the Norwegian newspapers, not from Berlin,

of the Austrian ultimatum to Serbia, I started

upon my return journey without further ado.

The 48 hours of the ultimatum trickled away.

The Serbs gave way on almost everything, and for

the rest appealed to Austrian loyalty and chivalry.

But the Austrian ambassador in Belgrade packed his bags and left.

On July the 28th, Austria-Hungary declared war on Serbia.

The Tsar promised the Serbs his support, and on the 29th,

Russia proclaimed mobilisation along the Austrian frontier.

The German Imperial Chancellor, Bertmann Holweg, instructed the ambassador in St.

Petersburg, Kindly call attention to the fact that further confirmation of

Russia's mobilisation measures would force us to mobilise.

And in that case, a European war could scarcely be prevented.

While the people of Europe amused themselves,

the unseen flame ran swiftly along the fuse.

The moment of mobilisation in each country

was the moment when the war plan took effect.

Nowhere was this clearer than in Germany, for

Germany had become the prisoner of her plan.

The Schlieffen Plan had existed since 1905.

General Field Marshal, Count Alfred von Schlieffen, Chief of Staff for 18 years,

had devoted his mind to one problem.

The danger to Germany created by the Franco-Russian agreement.

War on two fronts, East and West.

He assumed that the Russian giant would move slowly.

The French might move fast.

His answer to the problem was simple.

Smash the French before the Russians entered the field.

So one army, only 250,000 men, would join

the Austrians to contain the Russian threat.

Seven armies, over one and a half million men, would fall on France.

By sheer weight and speed, they would beat her

to her knees in 40 days, and then turn eastward.

The difficulty was how to get at France.

A strong line of well-planned fortresses lay along the frontier.

Von Schlieffen's answer was couched in the grand manner.

He would outflank the French.

He would march through Belgium, trample on neutrality.

Not only that, he would send the bulk of his army through Belgium.

A mere handful would face the French along the frontier, and all the rest,

over a million men, would go for a vast encirclement of the French army.

Through Brussels, south-westwards across the Seine, round Paris itself,

then eastward towards Germany again, to attack the French forces from behind.

Now, Von Schlieffen was dead, but the whole

vast apparatus of his plan was poised to move.

July 29th was the decisive day of crisis.

Many things now became apparent.

The meaning of mobilisation.

The powerlessness of individuals.

The significance of Belgium.

This, above all, was a question for Britain,

bound by treaty to uphold Belgian neutrality.

But Britain had another preoccupation.

Ireland.

Irishmen were drilling, waiting, importing arms.

The Liberal government, backed by over 80 Irish MPs in the House of Commons,

was determined to give home rule to Ireland.

The Conservative opposition, headed by Sir Edward

Carson, supported the resistance of the North.

Ulster Protestants violently opposed a measure

which would subject them to the Catholic South.

In March, the possibility of having to use troops to coerce Ulster, split the army,

like the nation, down the middle.

Civil war seemed imminent.

The crisis continued into July.

The disagreements turned principally upon the boundaries of Fermanagh and Tyrone.

Upon the disposition of these clusters of humble parishes,

turned at that moment the political future of Britain.

On July 24th, the Cabinet was still toiling

around the muddy byways of Fermanagh and Tyrone.

But, says Churchill, an all-sufficient shock was at hand.

The discussion had reached its inconclusive end.

When the quiet grave tones of Sir Edward Grey's voice were heard reading a document

which had just been brought to him from the Foreign Office.

It was the Austrian note to Serbia.

As the reading proceeded, the parishes of Fermanagh and

Tyrone faded back into the mists and squalls of Ireland.

And a strange light began immediately to fall and grow upon the map of Europe.

By the fatal 29th of July, even the man in the street had wind of what was brewing.

On that day, the British Foreign Secretary, Sir Edward

Grey, interviewed the German ambassador in London.

I said the situation was very grave.

While it was restricted to the issues at present actually

involved, we had no thought of interfering in it.

But if Germany became involved in it, and then France, I did not wish him to be

misled by the friendly tone of our conversation

into thinking that we should stand aside.

The question of British action was becoming acute.

Germany entertained a healthy respect for British power.

The Royal Navy's grip on the world's trade, the financial grip and resources of

the city of London, the potential of British industry, the raw materials of the

empire, the actual possession of riches and might for which Germany was still striving.

On July the 29th, Bettmann Holweg told the British ambassador in Berlin.

The imperial government is ready to give every assurance to the British government,

and, provided that Great Britain remained neutral, that Germany aims at no

territorial acquisitions at the expense of metropolitan France.

As regards Belgium, I can state that, provided that Belgium does not take sides

against Germany, her integrity will be respected at the end of the war.

For those who cared to read, the writing was on the wall.

It was noted in the foreign office that Germany practically

admits the intention to violate Belgian neutrality.

Foresight and happy chance now came together.

That month, at Spithead, on July the 18th, the

British fleet had assembled for a royal review.

The Royal Navy was the mistress of the seas.

Two hundred and thirty-two vessels assembled at Spithead.

Forty miles of warships.

Fifty-nine battleships.

Fifty-five cruisers.

Seventy-eight destroyers.

Seventy-thousand men.

It was an impressive display, and the world was suitably impressed.

On July the 29th, the fleet was due to disperse.

The first Lord of the Admiralty, Winston Churchill, decided otherwise.

Admiralty to Commander-in-Chief Home Fleets.

July 28th, 1914.

Sent 5pm.

Tomorrow, Wednesday, the first fleet is to leave Portland for Scarpa Flow.

Destination is to be kept secret.

And so, in secrecy, the last act of July the 29th took place.

The Royal Navy on its way to its war station.

We may now picture this great fleet.

Scores of gigantic castles of steel wending their way across the misty, shining sea.

Like giants bowed in anxious thought.

Eighteen miles of warships, bearing with them into the broad waters of the north,

the safeguard of considerable affairs.

The King's ships were at sea.

With the fleet at Scarpa Flow, the British government could breathe more easily.

The days of France's agony were now beginning.

For in France also, mobilization was part of a plan, and the government of the

Republic was as much a prisoner of its plan, as were Russia and Germany.

On July the 29th, the French Minister of War signed an order for the concentration

of the covering forces behind which the French army would assemble.

France's plan was in motion.

It was very simple.

Relying on the Napoleonic principles of speed and violence, the whole French army

was prepared to hurl itself across the German frontier.

In one vast phalanx, it would sweep towards

the Rhine, catching the Germans off balance.

The object was to defeat them before their own plans could take effect.

It only awaited the word.

The last hours of July were running out, and Europe's last entertainments with them.

British people were still going off for continental holidays.

But the flame on the European fuse had nearly reached the powder.

On July the 31st, Sir Edward Grey sent identical telegrams to Paris and Berlin.

I trust that situation is not irretrievable.

But in view of prospect of mobilisation in Germany, it becomes essential to ask where

the French government is prepared to engage to respect neutrality of Belgium,

so long as no other power violates it.

A similar request is being addressed to the German government.

It is important to have an early answer.

The French government replied at once.

They would respect Belgian neutrality, unless violated by another power.

Germany did not reply directly.

Her mood that day was difficult to analyse.

A British diplomat in Berlin was watching it closely.

The people looked serious, but not in any way depressed.

The song, Deutschland über alles, was continually heard.

Otherwise, there was very little evidence of jingo sentiment.

There was a feeling, difficult to describe, of something like electricity in the air.

In the neighbourhood of Berlin, the stations are surprisingly empty.

In the suburbs, where one ordinarily finds large crowds, the streets are empty.

A serious expression marks the travellers.

Certain acts of the German government heightened the tension.

1.45pm, Germany declares a state of danger of war.

The immediate prelude to full mobilisation.

3.30pm, the German government addresses Russia and France.

Russia is told that unless she demobilises within

12 hours, full mobilisation in Germany will follow.

The German ambassador in Paris is told that mobilisation means war.

France is asked for guarantees of neutrality.

Events were moving rapidly out of the control of monarchs and statesmen.

The spectre of war was no longer an imagination of cranks, but obvious to all,

solid and menacing.

In Paris, sensation followed sensation.

There was the trial of Madame Cayot, wife of the

combative, controversial socialist ex-premier.

In this drama of love and politics, a beautiful woman has shot dead the editor

of Le Figaro, because he had wronged her husband and

published a number of his political and love letters.

The story of an intrigue almost beyond the novelist's

imagination, this trial has magnetised all France.

But on July the 28th, astoundingly, she was acquitted of murder.

Riots broke out in the streets.

Then Jean Jaurès, the socialist leader, was assassinated, and cavalry on their way

to war stations were detained in Paris for fear of revolution.

Thousands gathered outside the banks.

The Bank of France announced that it would pay out no

more than 50 gold francs a fortnight to each depositor.

In Germany, there was a panic run on gold.

All through July, the stock exchanges quivered.

The British Chancellor of the Exchequer, Mr Lloyd George, wrote...

On the 27th, the volume of selling became such that

the foreign exchange market in New York gave way.

From New York, this breakdown spread to other foreign exchanges generally.

It affected Britain to a special degree since

London was the financial centre of the world.

In the last week of July, there was every prospect

of such a crash in London as had never been known.

On July the 31st, as war evidently came nearer, Lloyd George told his friend,

Lord Riddle, All the bankers and commercial people are begging us not to intervene.

The Governor of the Bank of England said to me, with tears in his eyes,

Keep us out of it.

We shall all be ruined if we are dragged in.

On that day, Friday the 31st, the stock exchange closed.

The bank rate went up to 8%.

The Bank of England asked for permission to issue notes instead of gold.

The oppression of imminent catastrophe lay on all men.

During the days that followed, it was as if all the fears and agonies of

France were poured into one man, Paul Conbon, the French ambassador in London.

On August the 1st, Germany declared war on Russia.

General mobilisation was decreed in Germany and France.

No one doubted what this meant.

Paul Conbon bluntly asked Sir Edward Grey, Is England going

to wait until French territory is invaded before intervening?

If so, her help might be very belated.

I said that we could not propose to Parliament at this

moment to send an expeditionary force to the continent.

Such a step had always been regarded here as very dangerous and doubtful,

unless our interests and obligations were deeply and desperately involved.

In Berlin, the Kaiser had persuaded himself that Britain would remain neutral,

and therefore that France would not fight.

He called for Champagne and summoned his chief of staff, von Moltke.

Now we need only wage war against Russia.

So we simply advance with the whole army in the east.

But it was too late.

Schlieffen's plan was in action.

German patrols had already entered neutral Luxembourg.

All eyes now turned on Britain.

And still the Liberal government shrank from accepting the march of events.

In desperation, Paul Conbon turned to the Conservative opposition leaders.

Doesn't England understand what honour means?

Now honour and necessity were hand in hand.

The next day, Germany presented her ultimatum

to Belgium, demanding a passage for her troops.

The Belgians had 12 hours to reply.

It took far less time for them to make up their minds.

King Albert spoke for his people.

Our answer must be no.

Whatever the consequences.

Our duty is to defend our national integrity.

In this we must not fail.

It had been a rainy day in London, damping alike for the great peace rally in

Trafalgar Square, and for the hotheads who wanted to cheer for war.

When the news of the German ultimatum to Belgium arrived,

however, the clouds of uncertainty began to pass away.

Telegrams were sent out calling up army reservists and territorials.

The opposition leaders urged the government to take up arms.

Insensibly, during this Sunday, without any

fresh news, some nameless factor began to work.

The horrors of war might be less insupportable than the horrors of peace.

There were dissentients.

But the majority did not want to argue.

Argument never makes headway against conviction.

And conviction takes no part in argument because it knows.

Knowing was everything.

Knowing the worst and knowing what to do.

On August 3rd, Sir Edward Grey addressed the House of Commons.

I ask the House, from the point of view of British

interests, to consider what may be at stake.

If France is beaten to her knees, if, in a crisis like this, we run away

from obligations of honour and interest as regards the Belgian treaty, we should,

I believe, sacrifice our respect and good name and reputation before the world and

should not escape the most serious and grave economic consequences.

The House of Commons rose to him.

The country united behind him.

It was a moment of distasteful triumph for Grey.

When a foreign office official congratulated him on his speech,

he raised his arms and crashed his fists down on the table.

I hate war.

I hate war.

God grant we may not have a European war thrust upon us.

And for such a stupid reason, too.

No, I don't mean stupid.

But to have to go to war on account of tiresome Serbia, beggar's belief.

But war was now a fact.

The French ambassador in St Petersburg witnessed

the imperial proclamation for the Russian people.

I got to the Winter Palace Square, where an enormous crowd had congregated

with flags, banners, icons and portraits of the Tsar.

The emperor appeared on the balcony.

To those thousands of men on their knees at that moment,

the Tsar really was the autocrat appointed of God.

The military, political and religious leader of his people.

The absolute master of their bodies and souls.

Germany declared war on France on August the 3rd.

The Kaiser had already addressed his people.

This is a dark day and a dark hour.

The crisis which is forced upon us is the result

of an envy which for years has pursued Germany.

The sword is being forced into my hand.

This war will demand of us enormous sacrifice in life and money.

But we shall show our foe what it means to provoke Germany.

The French declaration of war followed at once.

It was a lovely afternoon in Paris.

But what was the matter?

That was the second woman hurrying by who seemed to be crying.

Motors whizzed past, driven by men with strained set faces.

No taxi driver would stop.

They were all returning to the garages.

We turned.

There, on the walls of the Palais Bourbon, still wet from the bill poster's brush and

shining in the sun, was the order for the general mobilization.

It was to be war after all.

Britain's vigil was almost over.

On August the 4th, the Prime Minister wrote in his diary.

We got the news that the Germans had entered Belgium.

This simplifies matters.

So we sent them an ultimatum to expire at midnight,

requesting that they would respect Belgium neutrality.

The whole thing fills me with sadness.

While the hours ran out in London, crowds gathered

in front of the German embassy and along the Mall.

Expectation was in the air, an electrical excitement.

The whole crowd, solid up to the railings of the palace,

was silent, save for a murmur as of bees in a hive.

Then suddenly, away to the right came the singing of the national anthem.

And from away to the left, a roar of cheering.

Like great winds blowing when they listed,

these storms rose and died and broke out afresh.

The hour struck.

The ultimatum ran out.

Standing at a window overlooking St James's Park, watching lamplighters in the

summer dusk, Sir Edward Grey pronounced the obituary of peace.

The lamps are going out all over Europe.

We shall not see them lit again in our lifetime.

... ...