All language subtitles for 1964-The Great War(BBC)-EP02-For such a Stupid Reason too-E

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.

... ...