Among the common folk—and I write of them—nobody knew at first how
it happened, or why. An Austrian Archduke had been murdered at some
place with a queer, outlandish name. Very shocking, no doubt; but what
had that to do with John Smith watering his flowers in a suburban
garden, or with Mrs. Smith putting the baby to bed? Still less with
John K. Smithson, of Main Street, U.S.A., winding up his “flivver.”
Servia—where was Servia?—was threatened with an ultimatum by Austria.
Those foreign politics! Russia was taking the matter up. What had it
got to do with Russia? Kings and Emperors were exchanging telegrams;
Germany was intervening, backing up Austria. France was getting
excited. Why? What was it all about? Why did all that stuff, columns
and columns in the newspapers, turn out the sporting news? It was all
very dull and incomprehensible. Russia was “mobilising,” it seemed.
Germany was threatening war with Russia, France with Germany. Why?
In Heaven’s name, why? What did it all mean? In the House of Commons
there were strange speeches; in the newspapers terrible warnings,
that England, too, might be drawn into this conflict of nations.
Preposterous! The Cabinet was sitting late, hour after hour. Sir Edward
Grey—a noble soul—was working for peace, desperately. There was still a
hope. Surely the world had not gone mad! Surely even now the incredible
could not happen. Germany could not do this thing. The German people,
good-hearted, orderly, highly civilised, in some sense our kinsfolk;
surely to God they were not going to plunge the world into ruin for
the sake of an Austrian Archduke! In any case it was nothing to do with
England—nothing at all—until every heart stood still for a second at
dreadful news.
Germany had declared war on Russia and France was threatened. German
troops were moving towards the French frontier and towards the Belgian
frontier. Germany was demanding a right of way through Belgium to
strike at the heart of France. If the demand were resisted, she
threatened to smash her way through. Through Belgium, a little neutral
country, at peace with all the world, incapable of self-defence,
guaranteed by Great Britain and Germany, by a treaty that the German
Ambassador in London desired to treat as a “scrap of paper.” God in
heaven! If that were so, then there was no law in the world, no honour
among nations, no safety for civilised peoples desiring peace. How
could England, with any honour, stand by and see the fields of Belgium
trampled under the feet of an invading army? With any shred of honour
or self-respect? This was more than a threat against Belgium. It was a
slash in the face of civilisation itself, a brutal attack upon all that
code of law and decency by which we had struggled out of barbarism.
So the leading articles said, and there was no denial in the heart of
the people, though at first they had no thrill of passion but only a
stupefaction in their minds. So Great Britain was going into this war?
For honour’s sake and the safety of civilisation? That would mean—who
could tell what it meant? Who knew anything about modern warfare
between the Great Powers with all those armies and navies and piled-up
armaments? It would mean Hell, anyway.
On August 4 the British Government declared war on Germany for the
violation of Belgian territory. On the following day at the mouth of
the Thames the cruiser _Amphion_ sank a German mine-layer, and so
opened the first hostilities between the German and the British nations
since their history began.
England was “in”—all in, with all her wealth, all her manhood, all
her strength, to whatever the end might be, in a struggle for life or
death, in which civilisation itself was at stake.