THE DISASTER IN RUMANIA--1916
During the early months of 1916, Bucharest had been comparatively
neglected by the Foreign Offices of the belligerent States. So far as
could be seen, the Central Empires had abandoned the hope of obtaining
Rumanian co-operation against Russia. Count Czernin[25] had expressed
himself openly to that effect, and his German colleague, though more
discreet, in all probability shared his views. The French and Italian
Ministers were a prey to exasperation and suspicions; to them it seemed
outrageous that a little Latin State should refuse to act on French
advice or to follow Italy’s example; their prejudices warped their
judgment, they lost their sense of dignity, and sank to the level of
mere partisans. Such men could not influence the coldly logical mind
of Bratiano, who treated them with scorn. The British and Russian
Ministers were the buttresses of allied diplomacy in Bucharest. Both
stood for so much; one was the spokesman of a people whose good faith
and love of fair play were still unquestioned, the other was the envoy
of the only Allied Power in direct contact with Rumania, a Power whose
past conduct had justified mistrust but whose size inspired fear.
Through no fault of their own, these two men were unable to exert their
proper influence; neither of them had definite instructions from his
Government, and both had learned, from past experience, that under
such conditions it was better to “wait and see.” To any dispassionate
observer on the spot, this meant--to wait on events and see disaster
come.
The perils of premature intervention, both for the Allies and the
Rumanian people, were only too obvious. While Rumania’s sole link with
the Western Powers was a precarious line of communications through
Russia, her neutrality was preferable to her alliance; the former
was no doubt unsatisfactory, but the latter exposed a reservoir of
food supplies and petrol to invasion from the south and west. Even
if properly equipped and efficiently maintained, the Rumanian Army
would have had no easy task; in the absence of these conditions it was
madness to go to war.
In Paris, the irritation was profound. The French Government had
assumed control of the negotiations with the neutral Balkan States, and
was mastered by an impatience born of intolerance and fear. This frame
of mind had been induced by a total misconception of the real facts
of the case. There was no danger that the Rumanian people, however
tempted, would join the Central Powers. Bratiano surveyed the European
situation through the same telescope as the Allies. He saw their final
triumph clearly, but knew it was not so close as they imagined. His
vision, perhaps, had magnified the distance by looking through the
larger end, but, unlike them, he knew the complexity of the problem to
be dealt with in the East; they viewed it merely as an adjunct to the
slaughter in the West.
The Quai d’Orsay was quite incapable of appreciating the Rumanian
point of view; its self-appointed task was “to bring Rumania in.”
Persuasion, on moral and sentimental grounds, had been unavailing.
Some details of the Italian Treaty had leaked out, and had revealed
a marked absence of the principles of self-sacrifice and abnegation,
in the cause of liberty, on the part of a greater Latin State. It was
clear that Rumania, like Italy, would have to get her price; much would
depend, however, on the way that price was paid.
Rumania claimed Transylvania, together with Bukovina and the Banat,[26]
as her share of the spoil, in the event of Allied victory; she was
eager to fight for these Austro-Hungarian provinces, if given a
fighting chance. Unfortunately for the Allies, no amount of eloquence
could improve the communications through the Russian Empire, and a
second attempt to force the Dardanelles was excluded from their plans.
Arguments based on the presence of Allied troops at Salonika, with
which it was suggested the Rumanian Army might co-operate, were without
effect, and the statement in this connection that the shortest way to
Budapest was via Sofia was regarded as more picturesque than true. The
Rumanian Government had no desire to make war on the south bank of
the Danube, where nothing was to be gained, and the Rumanian General
Staff knew, from experience, the difficulties of a Danube crossing if
seriously opposed. An operation of this nature would have absorbed a
large proportion of the Rumanian forces, leaving an insufficient number
to hold the frontier in the Carpathians, which was longer than the
Allied front in France, while the distance from its nearest point to
Bucharest was less than 100 miles.
The foregoing were some of the obstacles to Rumanian intervention.
To overcome them by fair means demanded considerable efforts from
the Allies as part of a concerted plan. No such plan existed; France
could offer nothing except promises of ammunition, Great Britain could
provide ships and money, Russia alone could give support and, if the
need arose, apply pressure to this neutral State.
The case of Greece was simpler. There, reluctance could be dealt with
and “unnatural” behaviour punished. The Piræus could be reached by sea,
whereas Rumania was land-locked to the Allies. The Russian Empire was
the neighbour and the only highway, and Germany was near.
“All is fair in love and war.” The Allies had passed through the stage
of courtship with Rumania; their blandishments and arguments had
yielded no results. Cajolery of agents behind the back of Bratiano had
also been tried and failed. Now they declared war on her neutrality,
and, through the force of circumstances, let Russia take the lead.
The British Government had, as usual, no policy in the Balkans, and
was amenable to French advice. A series of diplomatic rebuffs at
Athens had confirmed our Foreign Office in its traditional attitude of
disinterestedness, and the general feeling was that Rumania, in common
honesty, should intervene, because she had accepted loans. Some people
think that British gold can purchase anything, including a little
country’s soul. The War Office Staff was absorbed by the operations
in France and Flanders, to the exclusion of all other theatres in
a world-wide war. To the strategists of Whitehall the military
participation of Rumania was just another “side-show,” which they
accepted with some reserves and treated as the lighter side of the war;
they were prepared to endorse any plan which did not involve the use
of British soldiers, and left their own selves free to duplicate the
work of Army Staffs and other exponents of “Grand Tactics” already on
the Western front. Ignorance and indifference made these officers the
echoes of Frenchmen who posed as experts; the protests of Englishmen
who pointed out that the Rumanian Army was, figuratively, “in the air,”
were brushed aside as technical objections, which would have carried
weight in the “main theatre,” but were pretexts, in a “side-show,”
for inaction and delay. These military “Panglosses” had chosen to
forget their own shortsightedness and mismanagement at Gallipoli, the
fate of Servia contained no lesson for them, they urged Rumania to do
what they themselves would not have done, and stilled the voice of
conscience with the hope that all would be for the best in the best of
all possible alliances, if not at once at any rate in the end. What
that end would be or when it would occur, the official mind could not
foresee. It foresaw nothing except a chance of self-advancement, and
that it promptly seized.
In Petrograd there had never been great enthusiasm in regard to
Rumanian intervention. Russian military opinion, as expressed by the
Grand Duke Nicholas in 1915, had been opposed to an extension of the
Eastern front by the Rumanian Army, whose unpreparedness was well known
to the Russian Staff. This reasoning had at the time been eminently
sound, and the fact that in the intervening period Bulgaria had joined
forces with the Central Powers only increased its cogency. Another
factor supervened: the men who ruled Russia at this period had not
forgotten Plevna.[27] Great Powers dislike being under obligations to
little neighbouring States, and are apt to be bad debtors when it comes
to paying debts. Though not over-burdened with scruples, the Russian
Government realized that, on this occasion, a contract entered into
with Rumania might have to be fulfilled. The Pan-Slavist elements in
Petrograd objected to any aggrandizement of the southern neighbour, and
thought Rumania’s price too high; in their eyes, postponement of final
victory was preferable to having, for the second time, so exacting a
partner in success. Hitherto, Russia had worked to keep Rumania out,
while France and Great Britain tried to bring her in.
The Russian character is a strange amalgam; some of its moods are noble
and poetic, others are fierce and ruthless as those of a wild beast.
When the Allies had used persuasion with Rumania, Russia had stood
aside, but when a different note was sounded, when growing irritation
and impatience decided the Government in Paris to force Rumania’s hand,
a ready and willing instrument was found in the Government of the Czar.
Here was a policy which gave full scope to strength and cunning; Great
Britain and France might preach morality and justice, Russia would act
with violence and guile.
From the beginning of June onwards, a veil of secrecy shrouded the
negotiations of the Allies as to the plan of action in Rumania. The
“High Contracting Parties” might well have quoted the hero[28] of a
double murder when he said, “Not easily have we three come to this.”
Though they were only planning murder, it was essential for that
plan’s success to protect it from all criticism until it had done its
work.
Early in July the first overt move was made. It took the form of a
message from Russian General Headquarters, and was sent by General
Alexieff, the Chief of Staff of all the Russian armies, who, of
course, acted in his Imperial master’s name. The general tenor of
this communication was to the effect that a favourable opportunity
had presented itself for Rumania’s intervention, which, if not seized
without delay, might pass irrevocably, since her assistance would
no longer be required and she would not even be permitted to make a
triumphal entry into Transylvania; the concluding words were, “Now
or never.” A statement, a taunt, and a threat made up the Russian
ultimatum, for it was nothing else, and, as was only fitting, it was
communicated by the Russian Military Attaché to the Rumanian Chief
of Staff and to the Prime Minister in his dual capacity of Minister
for War. Within a few days, the British and French Military Attachés
received instructions from their respective War Offices to endorse
the communication made verbally by their Russian colleague. So far,
apparently, the Allied Ministers in Bucharest had had no instructions
in the matter, and two of them, at least, continued to “wait and see.”
After the first shock of disgust, Bratiano was inclined to pay no
attention to proceedings so irregular, as to suggest ignorance of
international usages on the part of certain officers, although they
were Chiefs of Staff. He may have been right about their ignorance, but
the second move must have dispelled any doubts as to their pertinacity
and intentions. It emanated from Paris and from a distinguished
military authority. General Joffre instructed the French Military
Attaché to inform the Rumanian War Office that the Central Empires
_could_ not send more than ten divisions to operate against Rumania;
five of these would be German and five Austro-Hungarian divisions. The
latter were described as being of inferior class. No reference was
made to Bulgarian or Turkish forces, an omission which justified the
inference that those already on the southern frontier could not be
reinforced. The British and Russian Attachés were instructed to confirm
this estimate. The Italian Attaché had standing orders from his War
Office, under all and any circumstances, to agree with the other three.
General Joffre was much respected in Rumania. His opinion on military
matters could not fail to impress a civilian, and that opinion had
been uttered in no uncertain voice. For the first time, Bratiano
wavered. The Rumanian Army consisted of sixteen divisions, of which ten
were fairly well equipped. If Joffre’s estimate of enemy forces were
correct, the invasion of Transylvania could be undertaken with fair
chances of success. Agents reported that Germany was weakening and that
Austro-Hungary was verging on collapse; there might be some truth in
the Russian General’s statement, and perhaps “le moment opportun” had
come.
The Prime Minister was the son of a great Rumanian patriot and
wished to follow in his father’s steps; the father had united two
Principalities in a kingdom, the son had set himself the task of
extending that kingdom beyond the western mountains, and aspired to
be the architect of the Greater Rumania of his father’s prophetic
dreams. Fear of not winning makes men gamble, and this anticipatory
fear pervaded Bratiano’s mind; he in whom courage went with pride now
quailed before prospective self-reproach.
Allied diplomacy was quick to perceive the effect of the first two
moves; these had been, respectively, a threat and an assurance, the
third was a promise: before Rumania intervened, General Sarrail’s[29]
army would make an offensive on a scale large enough to prevent the
dispatch of enemy reinforcements from the Salonika front to the
Dobrudja or the Danube. The strength of the enemy forces in Northern
Bulgaria was variously estimated, but the Rumanian General Staff was
informed that _their_ figures were exaggerated and an emphatic denial
was given as to the presence of Turkish troops. The Allied Intelligence
Service overlooked the fact that Rumania still had her representatives
in Sofia, and among them at least one officer who had both eyes and
ears.
About this time the Bulgarian Government made overtures to the Rumanian
Prime Minister in regard to a separate peace. How far these overtures
were sincere it would be hard to say. Their purpose was to use Rumania
as an intermediary; their effect was to remove the last misgivings
from Bratiano’s mind. He attached no great importance to the Salonika
offensive, except so far as it might strengthen Bulgaria’s desire for
peace.
By the end of July the negotiations for Rumanian intervention were
far advanced. In these, Russia played the leading part; proposals and
counter-proposals passed continually between Russian Headquarters
and the Rumanian War Office, while in Petrograd acquiescence was, at
last, obtained for the full payment of Rumania’s price. On August
16 a Treaty and Military Convention were signed by Bratiano and
the representatives of the four leading Allied States. The Treaty
guaranteed to Rumania, in the event of the Allies being victorious,
all the territory she claimed in Austria-Hungary, including the whole
of the region called the Banat at the confluence of the Danube and the
Theiss. In the Military Convention, the Allies promised, among other
things:
An offensive on the Salonika front, to begin ten days before Rumania’s
first act of war;
A Russian offensive in the Carpathians during Rumania’s mobilization;
The dispatch of Russian forces to the Dobruja, consisting of two
infantry divisions and one cavalry division;
Supplies of ammunition delivered in Rumania at the rate of 300 tons per
day.
Rumania, on her side, undertook to declare war against and attack
_Austria-Hungary_ with all her land and sea forces, at latest, ten days
after the commencement of the Allied offensive on the Salonika front.
The declaration of war was to be made on the first day of mobilization,
when it was agreed the Rumanian frontier troops would attack the
Austro-Hungarian position in the Carpathian passes. The only reference
to any enemy State other than Austria-Hungary concerned Bulgaria; it
was indirect, since it applied to the Russian forces to be sent to the
Dobruja, and laid down that these would co-operate with the Rumanians
against the Bulgars, although the Treaty of Alliance did not, as
regards the latter people, envisage a state of war. In this connection
there had been a difference of opinion between the French and Russians;
the former still hankered after an invasion of Bulgaria, the latter
insisted that Rumania’s main effort should be made in Transylvania.
The Russian point of view had prevailed, owing to the fact that the
Rumanian General Staff refused to undertake any operations against
Bulgaria without reinforcements of at least 150,000 Russian troops.
General Alexieff declared he could not spare this number, and was
reluctant to spare even three divisions for the protection of Rumania
beyond a certain line. That line, as events soon proved, was not in
the Southern Carpathians nor on the Danube; it was the shortest line
between his own left flank and the coast of the Black Sea.
During the night of August 27-28, the first act of war took place;
Rumanian troops stormed and captured the enemy position in the
Carpathians along the whole length of frontier, and on the following
day war was declared formally against Austria-Hungary. The news was
flashed throughout the world and was considered a triumph for the
Allies. The wildest stories circulated; the Rumanian Army was described
as well-equipped and numerous, a host unwearied by the strain of war
and capable of marching through the mountains as far as Budapest. In
Paris, joy bordered on hysteria, self-satisfaction knew no limits, and
the men who had planned this master-stroke were the heroes of the hour.
London and Petrograd were less excited; official appetites were whetted
but not yet satisfied; in the former, Rumanian intervention was still
regarded as a “side-show”; in the latter, some schemers saw the curtain
rising on a new drama in the East. The mass of people in the Allied
States knew nothing about the situation, but, like the “Tommies” in the
trenches, they cheered the long-awaited tidings that Rumania had come
in.
Germany at once made common cause with Austria-Hungary. The German
Minister[30] in Bucharest left the Rumanian capital, under escort,
disgruntled if not surprised. Events had moved too quickly for this
diplomat. The inevitable had happened. He had all along foreseen it;
his annoyance was due to the fact that it had come too soon. He left
behind him tell-tale proofs of the baseness to which his country
could descend in order to win a war; if his departure had not been
so hurried, the means for poisoning a city’s water would either have
been taken with him or put to fearful use. As the train in which he
travelled was crossing the River Sereth,[31] he said to the officer of
the escort, “Here is the future frontier between Austria-Hungary and
Russia.” He may have been merely speculating, as any cynic might, or,
on the other hand, he may have had an inkling of Russia’s secret plans.
This river marked the shortest line between the Russian left in the
Carpathians and the coast of the Black Sea. North of it lay Moldavia,
a pastoral land and poor; south of it lay Wallachia, teeming with corn
and oil. Rumania was a pygmy State and had entered on a war of giants;
to both her greater neighbours it would not have been displeasing
if she were broken on the wheel. In Petrograd, it was rumoured that
certain members of the Government were inclined for a separate peace,
and it was common knowledge that the Central Empires stood in desperate
need of Wallachia’s resources. To an intelligent German diplomat, these
were the elements of a deal.
The details of the campaign in Rumania will form the subject of a
detailed history and, in so far as the conduct of the Rumanian
peasants was concerned, will furnish a record of heroism and endurance
unsurpassed in any theatre of war. From the very outset the Rumanian
General Staff was confronted with the impossible task of undertaking
simultaneously an offensive in a mountainous country and holding two
lengthy frontiers converging in a narrow salient. In most essential
respects the Allies broke their promises, as set forth in the
Convention they had signed. Ten days after the first invasion of
Transylvania, General Sarrail announced that the preparations for his
offensive were “pursuing their normal course,” an offensive which
should have started some twenty days before. The Russians remained
inactive in the Carpathians and, so far from anticipating the forward
movement of the Rumanian Army, failed to co-operate when it had been
made. The supplies of ammunition, so confidently promised, arrived in
driblets; the average quantity received was 80 tons per day.
To the surprise of both Bratiano and the Government in Petrograd,
Bulgaria acted with her Allies. Up to the last moment the Prime
Minister had believed in the sincerity of the peace overtures, and
most Russian officers were convinced that their mere presence in the
Dobruja would have a pacifying effect. In the event, Bulgarian forces
attacked (without a declaration of war) the Rumanian bridgeheads on
the south bank of the Danube and invaded the Dobruja, where they were
reinforced by Turks. A situation had arisen which had not been foreseen
in the Military Convention. The southern frontier was now seriously
threatened, and the Russian detachment was not strong enough, in
co-operation with six weak Rumanian divisions, to hold it throughout
its length.
General Joffre’s estimate of the enemy forces which could be brought
against Rumania, so far from being approximately exact, was eventually
exceeded more than threefold. Fresh troops were continually launched
against the wearied Rumanian soldiers, who, from sheer fatigue, at last
became demoralized. Retreats followed in quick succession on the first
brilliant advance in Transylvania; the Rumanians were forced to abandon
all their conquests, since, at every point of contact, they were
outnumbered and outgunned. Paris and London were not sparing in advice,
but of that Rumania had no need. She needed guns and men; Russia alone
could give them and, for the moment, Russia would not give. A storm of
criticism now arose. The men who had forced Rumania’s hand perceived
that disaster was impending, they sought an explanation for it, and
blamed the Rumanian troops.
War, it is claimed, discovers many virtues. It does not create them but
it does provide an opportunity for their exploitation by men who do not
fight on battlefields. To these latter, war is Jack Horner’s pie; they
pull out all the plums complacently, and sit in safe but not secluded
corners, clinging like limpets to official rank. They mask with mystery
their mediocrity and take the line of least resistance. Success in life
has taught them that responsibility, especially when moral, is one of
the things to shirk. They never are to blame when failure issues from
their plans; that is the fault of other men, who are simple enough to
fight.
While such men retain their present influence, the peoples must prepare
for war. No League of Nations will control them; they will control the
League.
On November 24, a detachment of German troops crossed the Danube 56
miles south-west of Bucharest, under cover of a thick fog. The end
had come. Bucharest was doomed; enemy forces were converging on the
capital from three directions; they were already in possession of the
rich corn lands of Wallachia, and were threatening the oilfields both
from the north and west. The Rumanian General Staff made a last appeal
for Russian reinforcements and some were sent, but their movements
were so slow and their co-operation so half-hearted, that even Russian
representatives at Rumanian Headquarters joined in indignant protests.
As early as September, General Alexieff had advised a retirement to the
Sereth, although he must have realized that such an operation involved
abandoning, without a struggle, the two main objectives of the Central
Empires, viz., the resources of Wallachia and access to the Danube
ports between Galatz and the Iron Gate. If this man was honest, he was
incompetent; no other explanation can be given of such fatal obstinacy
and pride. His advice had not been taken, so he left Wallachia
unsupported and flooded Moldavia with Russian Army Corps. These troops
lived on the country-side like locusts and drained it of supplies, but
they did not make the offensive so long promised, that was indefinitely
postponed.
Despondency and alarm pervaded Bucharest. The civilian elements did
not fear the Germans, but they dreaded the Turks and Bulgars, whose
atrocities in the Dobruja had appalled the stoutest hearts. The seat of
Government had been transferred to Jassy, a few officials had remained,
but their loyalty was more than doubtful to what appeared a losing
cause. The population of the city was like a flock of sheep without
its shepherd and wandered aimlessly about, seeking for information
and encouragement which no honest man could give. Orders had been
posted broadcast, instructing the inhabitants to stay quietly in their
homes. So far, the poorer people had obeyed and watched, with patient
if puzzled resignation, the departure of the rich and privileged in
motor cars and trains. South of the town a battle was in progress, and
bulletins from Presan[32] spoke of a great success; the simple were
hoping for a victory, which would save their hearths and homes.
Throughout the war, a flag had waved over the Royal Palace, and, though
the King and Queen had left, during these first days of Rumania’s
agony, it had remained unfurled, for the palace was a hospital and
under Royal care. To anxious watchers in the street, this flag was a
comfort and a sign; it proved the presence of some occupants, who,
if danger threatened, would surely be removed. One morning, early in
December, the people walking past the palace saw that the flag had gone.
The army in the south had been defeated and was in full retreat.
Hundreds of wounded men and stragglers confirmed the rumours of
disaster; they were its human symbols, their broken and dejected mien
banished all optimistic doubts.
An exodus ensued; an exodus as unpremeditated as it was unreasoning.
The fugitives did not consider why they fled, nor whither they would
go: they were unnerved by months of strain and almost daily bombing:
an uncontrollable impulse forced them to leave the stricken town.
A motley crowd, on foot and horseback, in every sort of vehicle, in
every stage of misery and despair, streamed past the lime trees of the
Chaussée Kisileff and surged up the Great North Road.
The season was far advanced. Out of the north-east came an eager wind
and snow began to fall, large flakes fell softly but persistently
from a surcharged, leaden sky, and lay upon the country-side like
a widespreading shroud; a shroud for many little children, their
innocence had not availed to save them; cunning and selfishness are
better safeguards than youth and innocence in time of war.
I caught up what might be called the rearguard of this lamentable
procession two miles to the south of a little Wallachian town, which
lay close to the frontier of Moldavia and General Alexieff’s shortest
line. Motor cars, country carts and wagons stood four abreast across
the road in a long column stretching northwards, whose immobility
impeded further progress, however slow; the gathering darkness and
exhaustion had set a period to this tragic flight.
On foot, I reached the Headquarters of Count Keller, the commander of
a Russian Cavalry Corps; the General had just finished dinner when I
entered, and, perhaps for this reason, his outlook on the situation was
less gloomy than otherwise it might have been. Count Keller was not
devoid of human feeling, the welter of suffering outside his lodging
would have touched a heart of stone; but, as a soldier, he was filled
with indignation against the Rumanian Government, for having permitted
thousands of civilians to use the only highway in this region, and
thereby to block, for two whole days, the forward movement of his
corps. The obvious retort was that his presence there was useless: he
had arrived two months too late.
On the following day, the refugees from Wallachia crossed the Sereth
into Moldavia, and found security behind a screen composed of Russian
troops. About half a million Russian soldiers had arrived in the
Northern Principality and more were yet to come. Wild, uncouth
Cossacks swarmed in every village, their first thoughts plunder and
the satisfaction of gross appetites; some tried to sell their splendid
horses for alcohol in any form.
The first act of the Rumanian tragedy was drawing to its close. A
little Latin country had yielded to bribes and threats and had entered,
under Russian auspices, into a European war. Now it lay crushed and
broken, the victim of two invasions: one, by the enemy in the south;
the other, by Russians in the north.
The Western Powers were lavish in their sympathy; they had little else
to give and were the helpless witnesses of the evil they had done. In
France, a restless, ignorant optimism had conceived a selfish plan;
Great Britain had endorsed it, and Russia, in the name of Allied
interests, had pursued a traditional Russian policy, which had been
both sinister and obscure.
“He that builds a fair house upon an ill seat, committeth himself
to prison.” In 1912, the Great Powers, of those days, had laid the
foundations of their policy in the Balkans. Ignorance, inertia,
selfishness and greed had characterized their statecraft: an ill seat
this on which to build, but one well fitted for a pyramid of errors.
That pyramid was rising fast and one more block had just been added, an
error as tragic as the rest. Though no fair house, it was to hold its
master builders like a prison; for one among them,--Tsarist Russia, it
was destined to fulfil its proper function--the function of a tomb.