It was just over three years ago that I decided to get interested in the First World War. I remember the time period because my wife was pregnant with our first child and I was freaking out that my life would be totally upended and I’d never read or see or learn anything new at all, except what came on Sesame Street. I say “decided” because I chose World War I as the “last” topic I’d read about as a free, childless man.
I began systematically enough, with general histories on the whole of the war. I did this to familiarize myself with the basic chronology, characters, and events. Then I reread The Guns of August because – well, because you just have to. At some point, that baby was born and all systems went down. My systematic study became hodgepodge. I read a book on the Somme, on the Marne, on Verdun. I was all over the place. And then a second child arrived. I was all over the place, plus my brain stopped functioning.
(As you can obviously tell, having a child – now two – did not leave me to give up reading. It did leave me to give up traveling, television, movies, a clean house, and vital parts of my sanity).
This summer, the centennial of the war came and went. The momentous date helped clarify my intent and focus my efforts. I began to pick books that focused on the beginning of the war. As I tend to do when left alone on Amazon with big ideas, I purchased a cluster of World War I titles on this narrowed subject.
When I began T.G. Otte’s July Crisis, I felt pretty good about my WWI knowledge. Certainly I’m not as comfortable with the topic as my other historic passions (which I’ve been living with as long as I can remember), but I’d undertaken a decent crash course. Partway through July Crisis, however, I began to feel like Bart Simpson on his visit to New York City (in Season 9, Episode 1, The City of New York vs. Homer Simpson). In that episode, Bart is on the subway, pretending to be blind and legless as he panhandles. He licks a pole, notices that no one is noticing him, and mutters “I’m in over my head.”
As the title promises, Otte’s book covers the tumultuous period from June 28 to August 4, 1914. In other words, it takes you from the assassination in Sarajevo to the beginning of all out war (the battles that followed in August are not covered at all). At 524 pages, it is a lengthy, rather dense, intensely focused look at the international response to the death of Archduke Franz Ferdinand at the hands of pan-Serbian assassins.
If you step back – way, way back – it is possible to understand the overall mechanics of how Europe went to war. Austria-Hungary schemed to use the death of their unloved heir to strengthen their position vis-à-vis Serbia, their troublesome neighbor to the south. It wasn’t entirely illogical for Austria-Hungary to do so, since the Serbs had been an agitating and disruptive presence in the region for the previous decade, precipitating regional wars with nationalist aims.
The trouble came in a series of interlocking alliances. Russia had tied itself to Serbia. France had agreed to fight with Russia if Russia were attacked by Germany. The Germans were drawn into this web because they were connected to Austria-Hungary. Though the Austrians were a dying empire, they also represented Germany’s most important ally.
The mechanical view of the war’s start – how various treaties snapped into place, obligating the participants to go to war – is a helpful scheme for a basic understanding. It is not, however, why – or even how – the war actually began. The treaties were only words on paper. It was the leadership of each individual country involved – the sovereigns, the ministers, the diplomats – who actually made the decisions that led to war. Decisions that were the product of assumptions, misconceptions, and gambles. The endlessly fascinating aspect of this most inhumane and mechanized war is how human and humbly it faltered to a start.
The difficulty in reading this book comes not come from Otte’s inability to express himself using complete sentences. It doesn’t come from poor prose or twisted grammatical syntax. And it doesn’t come from any issues of structure or organization. To the contrary, Otte is a clear (though academically inclined) writer takes a methodical, chronological approach to his subject.
Rather, the difficulty – the sense that I’d gotten in over my head – is the absolute ground-level approach he has taken in relating this story. July Crisis is an excellent example of the difficulty of seeing the forest through the trees. Time and again, I had to reread sections, or consult other sources, because the sheer level of detail blocked my understanding. (A simple timeline would have been an immeasurable help). This isn’t a popular history for general interest readers.
Otte is a professor of diplomatic history, and it shows. This is a diplomatic history more than anything else. All the familiar names are there – Bethmann Hollweg, Conrad von Hotzendorf, Raymond Poincare – but the story is really told through the ambassadors on the ground. Guys like Szápáry von Szápár, Maurice Paleologue, and Aleksandr Izvolsky. There are a lot of names, and no matter how many times I consulted the dramatis personae that Otte includes, I still had a hard time keeping them straight. (And I thought A Song of Ice and Fire was challenging!). In part, this can’t be helped. This is an enormous canvas, with a lot of actors; someone with more background in WWI will probably not have the same issues I did. On the other hand, Otte’s decision to strip these men of most of their personality (and boy, did they have personalities!), tends to make everyone harder to keep straight.
History books love to place blame, especially books about WWI, which is one of the great nothing-fights of all time. Otte does an admirable job remaining equable. He would talk about the Austrians and I’d be like They’re too blame! Then he’d talk about the Serbs and I’d change my mind and say It’s their fault! But in the next section about Russia, or Germany, or France, I’d switch my allegiances again. This is not a matter of indecisiveness, but rather an acceptance of the fact that there’s more than enough culpability to go around.
(It has always been fashionable to lay WWI at the doorstop of the Germans or Austro-Hungarians. Certainly, Austria could have acted with less belligerence, and Germany could’ve put an absolute stop to them at any moment. But the same could be said of every other nation involved in the July Crisis. Russia could have said they weren’t going to tie their fortunes to the unstable hotbed of terrorism that was Serbia; France likewise could have refused to honor commitments to Russia stemming from Russia’s tango with the Serbs. To start the war, it took a whole lot of countries making a whole lot of mistakes. To keep the war from starting, only one party needed back down somewhere along the line. That never happened).
July Crisis is not the most vivid or exciting read. Other recent titles, such as Margaret MacMillan’s The War that Ended Peace, do a better job of injecting personality into the storytelling and are better suited to WWI newcomers. This book is more graduate-level, written for people with a special interest in WWI. It is accessible enough, but definitely written with the expectation that the reader brings a lot of foreknowledge on the topic. If anything, it certainly helped to clarify all the things I have not yet learned.