BELGRADE--OCTOBER, 1912
A VIEW FROM A WINDOW
Mobilization was nearly completed when I paid my first visit to the
Servian War Office, an unpretentious building situated half way down
a side street leading from the Royal Palace to the River Save. On
entering, I congratulated myself that, at last, I was to meet and speak
with a real Servian; hitherto I had met nearly every other nationality
in the legations, hotels, and other places frequented by visitors to
foreign capitals. At the time of my visit, the only society in Belgrade
consisted of foreign diplomats; the hotels were managed and staffed
by Austrians, Swiss and Italians; the roads were being paved by an
Austrian contractor, employing Austrian workmen and, according to
current gossip, the country was being ruled by the Russian Minister.
Now that hostilities were imminent, I presumed that the Servians would
be allowed to do their own fighting. This supposition proved to be
correct, the Great Powers had decided not to interfere in what was a
purely Balkan struggle, they intended to keep the ring and see fair
play.
So much I had already learned in Belgrade, from people in a position to
know and who seemed to know most things except the authentic Plan of
Campaign. Their resentment at not being given this was evident, and
when asked the reason, they would reply that they wanted to communicate
it to their respective governments and War Offices, in the strictest
confidence of course. The Servian General Staff had kept their secret
well, far too well for the cosmopolitan band who earned their living by
acquiring and 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.