ON 4 AUGUST the British Prime Minister, Herbert Asquith, with a heavy heart, declared war on Germany following its invasion of Belgium. His ultimatum to the Kaiser to withdraw his forces from that country had been ignored and now Britain was at war with Germany.
‘How could the assassination of the archduke possibly lead to this?’ Isabella asked.
‘I’m afraid this is exactly as I feared, my dear,’ sighed Frederick. ‘Following his nephew’s death the German Kaiser declared war on Serbia, which has forced Tsar Nicholas to react. So now we have the German army declaring war not only on Russia but also on France. The German invasion of Belgium has left the prime minister no other option but to enter the war. It’s like a contagion spreading across Europe with no way of halting it.’
‘I find all this talk of the Kaiser and the Tsar very complicated,’ she confessed as they took tea together, ‘but I respect the prime minister and his decision to go to the aid of Belgium. Let us hope this war is as they are saying, just a skirmish, and will be over by Christmas.’
Frederick made no reply as he helped himself to a sandwich.
‘You do think it will end quickly?’ she pushed.
‘Two mighty empires at war with each other …’ he said gravely. ‘Let’s hope that you are right, Isabella – that this war will be short, sharp and over before we know it, for otherwise the danger is that Europe will be torn asunder.’
A huge shadow was cast over the seaside town of Greystones as the implications of war began to sink in. They talked about little else as they promenaded along the seafront, as they picnicked on the beach, at afternoon tea parties and at the nightly concerts in the town.
Army barracks in Dublin city and across the countryside emptied as the Irish regiments were immediately ordered to fight on the Western Front. Lord Kitchener began an army recruitment campaign and patriotic young men flocked to join up.
‘The twins are already talking about joining up,’ Frances Heuston told Isabella anxiously as they attended an operetta in Greystones music hall. ‘They say all their friends are eager to play their part.’
‘The boys only want to do their duty for king and country,’ her husband added, ‘but they have no idea about the atrocities of war.’
Isabella worried for their own sons too. Liebert was already deployed in the navy, but she was thankful that Cecil and Ernest were both away.
‘Perhaps we are needlessly worrying and it will blow over quickly,’ murmured Frances hopefully as the band began to play.
But there was no end … no sense to it …
Isabella could hardly bear to look at the newspapers, for the war quickly escalated. Day after day young Irish men joined the Royal Irish Fusiliers and other regiments. Wives, families and sweethearts waved them off at the Dublin docks as they were sent to fight in Flanders and France, where they faced battle in miles of muddy, rat-infested trenches. There were horrific stories of mounted cavalry units and of horses and riders mowed down by pounding machine guns. Mons, the Marne, Ypres – one battlefield after another where so many brave young English, Scottish, Welsh and Irish men died or were injured. She could see fear and anxiety in the faces of their friends and neighbours as they waited for news of their sons.
‘They are fools,’ murmured Nellie angrily.
‘Nellie, I will not have you saying such things about brave Irish men prepared to do their duty and fight for a small nation like Belgium,’ scolded Frederick. ‘These young men all deserve your respect and loyalty for fighting in this great war.’