INTRODUCTION

The war that engulfed Europe in the last months of 1914 had been dreaded for years, but there were many in every country who welcomed its coming. Their reasons for doing so were varied, but the failure of the three great European empires – Germany, Austria-Hungary, and Russia – to anticipate the nature of war in the industrial age ultimately led to their destruction.

Much has been made of the widespread expectation in 1914 of swift victory, but there were many who suspected that however desirable such an outcome might be, reality would be different. German planning evolved from preliminary proposals drawn up by Alfred von Schlieffen, chief of the German general staff from 1891 to 1906, and intended to deliver a killing blow against France within weeks of the onset of hostilities. In the meantime, minimal forces would be able to hold off the Russians before the victorious forces in France moved east to destroy any threat to Germany. It is clear that from an early stage, Helmuth von Moltke – Schlieffen’s successor as chief of the general staff and nephew of the Moltke who had masterminded the German Wars of Unification – doubted that a future war would be either swift or easy to win, but all of his planning appears to have been based upon delivering a quick victory.¹ Nevertheless, he gave Kaiser Wilhelm II a very clear warning in 1905:

It will become a war between peoples which is not to be concluded with a single battle, but which will be a long, weary struggle with a country that will not acknowledge defeat until the whole strength of its people is broken; a war that even if we should be the victors will push our people, too, to the limits of exhaustion.²

The motivation for war in the three empires varied. In all nations, there was a sense that the war would bring some form of spiritual renewal. Writing shortly after the outbreak of the war, Thomas Mann asked:

Is not peace an element of civil corruption, and war a purification, a liberation, an enormous hope?³

He was not alone in such sentiments. Rupert Brooke, the British poet, also welcomed the coming of war:

Now, God be thanked Who has matched us with His hour,

And caught our youth, and wakened us from sleeping,

With hand made sure, clear eye, and sharpened power,

To turn, as swimmers into cleanness leaping,

Glad from a world grown old and cold and weary,

Leave the sick hearts that honour could not move,

And half-men, and their dirty songs and dreary,

And all the little emptiness of love!

Oh! we who have known shame, we have found release there,

Where there’s no ill, no grief, but sleep has mending,

Nought broken save this body, lost but breath;

Nothing to shake the laughing heart’s long peace there

But only agony, and that has ending;

And the worst friend and enemy is but Death.⁴

Similarly, Tsarina Alexandra echoed a widely held view in Russia when she wrote to her husband, Tsar Nicholas II:

I read such a lovely article in an English newspaper – they hold our soldiers in such high regard and say that their deep religious belief and their respect for their peace-loving monarch will help them fight bravely for such a holy cause …

With God’s help, all will go well for us and come to a glorious end. The war has raised spirits, has cleared so many reluctant minds, has brought unity to our feelings and in the moral sense is a ‘good war’. … Such a war must renew the soul.⁵

There were more practical reasons for war. For the Germans, there was the constant threat that France would seek revenge for the defeats of 1871, and in particular would not rest until the lost provinces of Alsace and Lorraine were returned to French rule. There was steadily growing evidence that France was helping Russia rebuild its forces after the disaster of the Russo-Japanese War of 1904–1905, and this led to the widespread belief in Germany that the longer a future European war was delayed, the less the chances of Germany emerging victorious. Consequently, even if Moltke and others believed that any future war carried great risk and may prove to be prolonged, it was essential to bring about this conflict while there remained any chance of victory.

For the Russians, war with Germany was something that was widely feared. The Russian military establishment had respect bordering on awe for the power of the German Army, and there was considerable doubt that Russia would be able to prevail. In 1904, Russia found itself in a war with Japan, and contrary to the expectations of almost everyone apart from the Japanese, was soundly beaten both at sea and on land. The unrest caused by this defeat triggered a wave of revolutionary unrest across Russia, but the root causes of the unrest existed before the disastrous war. Bungled land reforms, aimed at turning Russia’s peasants into a class of landowners, left much of the countryside unable to function efficiently, leading to widespread rural food shortages. This in turn created financial hardship, both at the level of the peasants and the government, which was deprived of millions of roubles of unpaid taxes. Like other European countries, Russia had experienced a considerable population increase in the second half of the 19th century, but although the amount of land under agricultural production had increased, productivity was lower than before.⁶ Matters weren’t much better in urban centres, which had undergone a wave of industrialisation in the closing decade of the old century. This resulted in large slums where factory workers lived in extremely poor conditions, struggling to make ends meet on low incomes. Many of these workers remained closely linked to the rural communities from which they had come, resulting in strong contacts between those who lived in squalor in Russia’s industrialised cities and those who struggled in the countryside.⁷ In addition, there were growing tensions in the non-Russian parts of the tsar’s empire, particularly Finland, the Baltic region, and Poland; heavy-handed attempts to impose Orthodox Christianity in Lithuania, for example, were completely unsuccessful and led to huge resentment. The increase in higher education, too, proved to be a source of unrest, with large numbers of radicalised students from poorer backgrounds – denied access to higher paid jobs because they lacked the appropriate family connections – demanding change in the autocratic state.

The first signs of trouble came as early as 9 January 1905, a day that became known as ‘Bloody Sunday’. Led by a priest, Georgi Gapon, tens of thousands of workers in St Petersburg converged on the Winter Palace with the intention of presenting the tsar – Russia’s ‘Little Father’ and earthly representative of the Great Father in heaven – with a ‘Humble and Loyal Address’, asking for the tsar to intervene on their behalf and to address their grievances about poor housing, low wages and inadequate food supplies. The tone of the petition was respectful and powerful:

Sire. We the workers and inhabitants of St Petersburg, of various estates, our wives, our children, and our aged, helpless parents, come to Thee, O Sire to seek justice and protection. We are impoverished; we are oppressed, overburdened with excessive toil, contemptuously treated … We are suffocating in despotism and lawlessness. O Sire we have no strength left, and our endurance is at an end. We have reached that frightful moment when death is better than the prolongation of our unbearable sufferings …⁸

After reminding Nicholas of his obligations to his people, it concluded with the words:

And if Thou dost not so order and dost not respond to our pleas we will die here in this square before Thy palace.⁹

There was a tradition dating back more than two hundred years for making such requests, but the workers who took part had little doubt that there were considerable risks involved. Father Gapon sent a copy of the petition to the authorities in advance, to leave them in no doubt what to expect. Nicholas was advised by his counsellors to remain in St Petersburg; instead, he left for Tsarskoe Selo, a short distance to the southeast, the day before the expected demonstration.

Carrying icons and other religious items and singing hymns and patriotic songs, including ‘God Save the Tsar’, the workers began to gather outside the Winter Palace before dawn, unaware that the ‘Little Father’ had already left. As other groups attempted to reach Admiralty Square, outside the Winter Palace, troops intervened in an often-haphazard manner. Father Gapon’s group came under fire, leaving 40 dead or wounded.¹⁰ There were incidents elsewhere, leaving dozens more dead, but the worst occurred during the afternoon when workers – many of them unaware of the killings earlier in the day – mingled with passersby along Nevsky Prospekt, the broad avenue leading to the Winter Palace and Admiralty Square. Troops drew up in ranks, and, after the briefest of warnings, opened fire with rifles and even artillery. In total, perhaps a thousand workers and ordinary citizens were killed or wounded during the day. One elderly protester grabbed a shocked youth and shouted at him:

Remember, son, remember and swear to repay the tsar. You saw how much blood he spilled. Did you see? Then swear, son, swear!¹¹

It was a terrible moment, born as much from incompetence and miscalculation as deliberate brutality. The result was an eruption of strikes that spread through Russia as the year progressed. Eventually, the tsar was forced to concede to some of the demands of his opponents, granting a degree of suffrage and the establishment of the Duma as Russia’s parliament, but by the end of the year the country was paralysed by a general strike. Workers took control of large parts of Moscow, and Nicholas resorted to brutal suppression and further violence. By the time that the unrest had been suppressed, an estimated 20,000 people had been killed or wounded in fighting. Another 15,000 had been executed after being arrested, and 45,000 exiled beyond the Russian Empire or sent to Siberia.

The modest political reforms were inadequate to satisfy the critics of the regime and many remained dissatisfied, ensuring that thoughts of revolutionary change continued to circulate. The events of Bloody Sunday created a fatal rift between the ordinary people of Russia and the tsar, and many of those who were arrested during the year of revolution remarked that, even within the government’s prisons, many officials seemed sympathetic and discipline was generally far looser than had been the case in the past.¹² Critically, the survival of the Romanovs as Russia’s rulers was due to the loyalty of most of the army and its commanders; this latter group was dominated by a small number of families, many of them Baltic Germans in origin. In combination with Russia’s aristocracy, the generals rallied around the tsar, aware that their own privileged position depended on the continuation of the status quo. If there were to be any future unrest, Tsar Nicholas would have to retain the support of these men and the soldiers they commanded.

If the officer corps was still dominated by traditionalist senior figures, there was still a growing group of commanders from other walks of life. These were largely men who had come up through the system of military schools established after the Crimean War of 1853–1856, and unlike the aristocrats and other traditionalists they were increasingly vocal and impatient for genuine reform. They deplored the continuing obsession with cavalry, and rightly recognised that the training of the rank and file remained far below the standards of Russia’s potential or likely enemies. For the moment though, they remained unable to exert influence, but the failure of the tsar to address their concerns was the start of a process that would drive a widening wedge between the throne and the army upon which it ultimately depended.

The ordinary soldiers of the army in 1905 were largely drawn from the peasantry, or the new urban poor. They therefore already felt close kinship with those who were now being branded as revolutionaries, and matters were worsened by the fact that, with increasing frequency, the army had been required to help the police restore order in the past few years – over 1,500 times in the preceding two decades.¹³ The shock of the Bloody Sunday killings had spread throughout Russia by the end of the year, and, when ordered to help suppress the ongoing strikes and demonstrations, many soldiers refused, and there were over 400 mutinies.¹⁴ The damage done to internal discipline and morale was immense, and would take years to repair. In times of trouble, the tsars had often turned to the Cossacks to help them deal with dissent, and 1905 was no exception. Raised from Cossack populations who had been granted land on the southern and eastern borders of European Russia, the Cossack formations of the army retained a degree of ethnic distinction from the rest of the troops, but whilst this allowed the Cossacks to be directed against non-Cossack populations with little fear of refusal, it also led to increasing demands by Cossack communities for political concessions in return for their service. The future reliability of the Cossacks would depend on the degree to which the tsar could satisfy the increasing nationalist demands of their home regions.

Calm returned to Russia as the unrest was forcibly crushed, but nothing would ever be the same again. The belief that the tsar, the ‘Little Father’, would always look after his people and would act as the ultimate arbiter in any dispute was destroyed by the violence of Bloody Sunday. All of society grew more polarised. Many landowners and businessmen had been minded to support the calls for reform in 1905, but the violence suffered by some – particularly in the countryside where many buildings were set ablaze by rioting peasants, and some landowners and their families were killed – led to opinions hardening. Previously progressive groups now became increasingly conservative, working almost entirely to protect the property and rights of the landowners, and many of the idealistic students who had joined the revolution with passion and energy turned their backs upon the ordinary people. Their views were summarised neatly by Mikhail Gershenzon, who had edited popular liberally minded journals before and immediately after the revolution. Despite the absurd restrictions that he personally faced under the tsarist regime – as a Jew, he could not be employed in any official academic position, and was forbidden from marrying his Orthodox Christian partner Maria Goldenweizer – he called on fellow intellectuals to support the government:

The intelligentsia should stop dreaming about the liberation of the people – we should fear the people more than all the executions carried out by the government, and hail this government which alone, with its bayonets and its prisons, still protects us from the fury of the masses.¹⁵

Peasants and workers were left increasingly aware that they could not rely on the middle classes to improve their lot in life; any change would have to be forced by themselves, and Lenin particularly took this view – the reactionary shift of the intelligentsia and the liberal bourgeoisie effectively eliminated them as future allies of the Bolsheviks. Nevertheless, the power of the workers and peasantry had shaken the empire to its core, and if the circumstances were right – for example, if the nationalist movements of the western parts of the Russian Empire were to weaken the power of the government – the workers might succeed in a future revolution, even without the help of the intelligentsia. Indeed, such was the sense of betrayal amongst revolutionary groups like the Bolsheviks after the end of the 1905 Revolution that for them, the only way to guarantee success would be to rely upon nobody but themselves. This fitted firmly within the ideology of Marxism, which taught that over time, one section of the bourgeoisie might enlist the support of the proletariat to overthrow those in power – but the outcome was always that, while the rulers and their opponents changed places, the proletariat remained oppressed.

The rearmament programme of the opening years of the 20th century repaired much of the damage suffered by the Russian Army as a result of the Russo-Japanese War and the 1905 Revolution, not least through substantial investment by France, but few believed that the Russian Army would triumph against Germany without considerable help. Nevertheless, if the Germans were forced to commit their forces against France, there would be an opportunity for Russia to strike in the east, and there was optimistic talk of the ‘Russian Steamroller’ crushing East Prussia, and even continuing over the Vistula into Pomerania and thence towards Berlin. But although Germany was regarded as the main enemy of the Franco-Russian Entente, rather more prominent in Russian thinking was the question of the Austro-Hungarian Empire. For over half a century, the Russians had regarded the Habsburg territories as ripe for conquest, particularly in the Balkans, and several developments appear to have featured strongly in Russian thinking.

The first was the legacy of the Romantic Movement that dominated the first half of the 19th century. Growing partly from the German Sturm und Drang (‘Storm and Stress’) movement and partly as a conscious repudiation of the rational values of the Enlightenment and the Industrial Revolution, Romanticism placed great value on traditional culture, resulting in a widespread growth of nationalist sentiment. This led both to the creation of an empire – through Bismarck’s wars of German unification – and to the placing of great strain on some parts of other European empires. Another product of Romanticism was the growth of Pan-Slavism in the second half of the 19th century, with Slavic intellectuals promoting the concept of all Slavs being unified in a single state. Inevitably, Russia – as the largest Slav state – saw itself as the obvious means by which such unity might be achieved, and, with the Austro-Hungarian Empire showing increasing internal divisions, many in Russia perceived opportunities for Russian expansion into the Habsburg Empire’s Slav lands. In this context, the failure of Russia to intervene on behalf of Balkan Slavs in 1908, when the Austro-Hungarian Empire annexed Bosnia-Herzegovina, was widely deplored in Russian society.

The second area of interest for Russia was actually a territory that lay outside the Austro-Hungarian Empire. There had long been a desire in Russia for control of the Bosporus and the gates of the Black Sea, but Russia would be able to gain control of Istanbul from the decaying Ottoman Empire only if the Balkan region were to come under Russian hegemony, if not outright annexation. Bulgaria, Romania and Serbia had broken away from Turkish rule, but these Slav states could surely be brought under the control of the tsar, or at least form part of Russia’s sphere of influence, allowing for the vital Black Sea exit at Istanbul to be occupied. Again, the cultural consequences of Romanticism featured in Russian thinking; much of the region was Orthodox Christian, and, as the largest Orthodox nation on the planet, Russia felt that it had an automatic right to the allegiance of others of similar faiths. However, such an expansion of Russian influence into the Balkans would require a marked weakening of the Austro-Hungarian Empire and, in the opening years of the 20th century, this was regarded in Russia as a major objective in any future war. However, there was also widespread consensus that war should be postponed for the moment. The rearmament and modernisation of the Russian Army would not be complete until 1917, and a conflict before then would leave Russia facing an adverse balance of power on the battlefield. In particular, some were concerned that Russia could find itself committed to a long-drawn-out war that would prove catastrophic. Pyotr Durnovo, an eminent Russian politician, wrote to the tsar in February 1914, warning him in prophetic terms of what was likely to occur. He regarded an Anglo-German conflict as inevitable, and believed that Russia would find itself fighting for the interests of other powers:

The main burden of the war will undoubtedly fall on us, since England is hardly capable of taking a considerable part in a continental war, while France, poor in manpower, will probably adhere to strictly defensive tactics, in view of the enormous losses by which war will be attended under present conditions of military technique. The part of a battering ram, making a breach in the very thickness of the German defence, will be ours, with many factors against us to which we shall have to devote great effort and attention.

… Are we prepared for so stubborn a war as the future war of the European nations will undoubtedly become? This question we must answer, without evasion, in the negative. That much has been done for our defence since the Japanese war, I am the last person to deny, but even so, it is quite inadequate considering the unprecedented scale on which a future war will inevitably be fought.

… In the event of defeat, the possibility of which in a struggle with a foe like Germany cannot be overlooked, social revolution in its most extreme form is inevitable.

As has already been said, the trouble will start with the blaming of the Government for all disasters. In the legislative institutions a bitter campaign against the Government will begin, followed by revolutionary agitations throughout the country … The defeated army, having lost its most dependable men, and carried away by the tide of primitive peasant desire for land, will find itself too demoralised to serve as a bulwark of law and order. The legislative institutions and the intellectual opposition parties, lacking real authority in the eyes of the people, will be powerless to stem the popular tide, aroused by themselves, and Russia will be flung into hopeless anarchy, the issue of which cannot be foreseen.¹⁶

Like tsarist Russia, the Austro-Hungarian Empire was a troubled institution in 1914. Born from the weakened Austrian Empire in 1867, the institution was also known as the Dual Monarchy in recognition of the fact that, in addition to being Emperor of Austria, its ruler was also King of Hungary. This in turn reflected the special status of Hungary within the empire, with its own parliament and electoral rules; its authority excluded military and foreign matters, with the result that there was constant friction between Vienna and Budapest. The former felt that many of the actions of the Hungarian parliament, particularly in obstructing greater military expenditure, went against the spirit of the great compromise of 1867, while the Hungarians constantly sought greater autonomy. This triggered growing resentment in other parts of the empire, which – influenced by the sentiments of Romanticism – felt increasingly strongly about their own ethnic identities and wished for greater self-determination, if not outright independence. To an extent, the empire played upon these tensions for internal reasons. For example, the limited electoral franchise in both Vienna and Budapest was dominated by traditional landowning families, and, in an attempt to prevent the rising power of the urban bourgeoisie from destabilising matters, Eduard von Taaffe, the Austrian prime minister from 1879 to 1893, allowed the Czech language equal status alongside German in Prague. This was intended to create a counterbalance to the German industrialists, but, as was the case with Hungarian devolution, it merely served to stimulate greater demands for autonomy from the Czechs. Prior to this reform, they had expressed their dissent by mass abstention from elections, and, perceiving Taaffe’s move as a sign of weakness, they pressed for further concessions. Other ethnicities also demanded linguistic recognition, with the result that the empire officially recognised a multitude of languages by the end of the 19th century, including German, Hungarian, Czech, Serbo-Croat, Polish, and Ruthenian (Ukrainian).

A direct consequence of the multilingual nature of the Austro-Hungarian Empire was the structure of the k.u.k. (‘kaiserlich und königlich’ or ‘Imperial and Royal’, reflecting the nature of the Dual Monarchy) Army. Its regiments had strong regional backgrounds, and although German was the official language for all military documents and orders, officers were expected to be able to speak the same language as their men. Whilst such an arrangement was possible in peacetime, the system would inevitably come under great strain in any prolonged war, and, in an attempt to address this, a regionally based system of replacements was created. The intention was that each part of the empire would raise ‘march battalions’ that would be sent to the regiments in the front line, preserving internal ethnic coherence, but this broke down almost immediately. Some regiments suffered far higher losses than others, but the march battalion system could not accommodate this, resulting in many regiments accumulating large numbers of battalions while others shrank below their establishment strength. As a result, some of the surplus troops were then assigned from the over-strength regiments to weaker ones, but it was impossible to ensure that this would occur only between regiments of the same ethnicity. In peacetime, officers had gone to great lengths to learn the languages and customs of their men, but few of those brought in as wartime replacements had the time or inclination to do so, and in any case the increasingly jumbled ethnic structure of regiments made this almost impossible.

For the Austro-Hungarian Empire, the outbreak of the war was of course in the context of the Sarajevo assassinations that triggered the conflict. Franz Ferdinand, the recognised heir to the throne, had made no secret of his intention to try to ease the tensions within the empire by extending the privileges granted to Hungary to other regions, such as Bohemia, southern Poland and into the Balkans. However intriguing it might be to speculate how Europe might have developed had he survived, his assassination led to a brief surge of pro-Imperial sentiment throughout the Dual Monarchy. All parts of the empire responded to mobilisation orders and the k.u.k. Army went off to war, confident that it would be able to hold off the Russians whilst simultaneously striking against Serbia. In the same spirit, the Russians mobilised and marched west, expecting to prevail against the Central Powers, while Germany embarked upon the gamble of a huge strike against France before turning east in strength.

By the first winter of the war, all of these hopes and ambitions were in tatters. Despite most of the German Army being deployed in the west, the Russians failed to strike a decisive blow in the east and the great Russian Steamroller, widely predicted to roll irresistibly across East Prussia and the parts of Poland that were in German control, ran out of momentum as a result of the inescapable logic of supply lines; armies in the early 20th century required huge quantities of munitions, food and other supplies, and motorised transport – and the roads on which it depended – was too primitive and unreliable to sustain troops who pushed forward beyond the reach of railway networks. Fearful of a German invasion, the Russians had been reluctant to modernise their western railways too much, as the Germans might have used these to good effect. They now found that the limitations of those lines, and the huge inefficiencies of the Russian railway service, effectively limited their own ability to project power to the west. As 1914 came to an end, the Russians pulled back from the western parts of the old Polish kingdom, unaware that this marked the high-tide mark of their involvement in the war.

The following two years saw further widespread fighting. Russia was driven from Poland and part of the Baltic region, and although its resurgent army shook the Central Powers – particularly Austria-Hungary – in the summer of 1916, success proved to be transient. The Balkan region was brought under the control of Germany and Austria-Hungary, but every attempt to bring the war to a successful conclusion proved to be a mirage. Increasingly exhausted by the conflict, the three great European empires looked to 1917 with little hope.

Given the internal ethnic strains of the Austro-Hungarian Empire, it is little surprise that the Dual Monarchy as a whole, and the k.u.k. Army in particular, were the first to show signs of tension as the war unfolded. The surge in pro-Habsburg feeling brought about by the Sarajevo assassinations proved to be short-lived, and there was increasingly vocal dissent in Prague by the first winter about the war. A small number of Czech units had surrendered en masse to the Russians, resulting in widespread suspicion of other Czech formations, even though the majority fought loyally for the empire. Civilians in Bohemia spoke with increasing confidence about the coming of the Russians as liberators – at the time, the Russian Army was only a short distance to the east of Krakow, about 300 miles (480km) from Prague. This led to a crackdown on dissent, and some Czech activists were executed for treason.¹⁷ The victory that might have welded together the growingly disparate parts of the Austro-Hungarian Empire proved to be a mirage, and, as the next two years of the war progressed, it became increasingly clear to those in high office that, even if the Central Powers were to emerge triumphant at the end of the war, the true winner would be Germany; the Austro-Hungarian Empire would be reduced to little more than a client state.

Tensions were rising elsewhere, too. The Russians had made no preparations for prolonged war, and what plans existed were reliant on buying supplies from other countries. In a world where all of Europe was at war and all nations were scrambling to use the resources of neutral nations like the United States, it was almost impossible to secure timely supplies from overseas, and geography was also against Russia; prior to the war, more than 50 per cent of Russia’s imports had come through its western borders. By the first winter there were severe shortages of everything – ammunition, rifles, clothing, boots, food and medical supplies. New recruits barely saw rifles during training, and were often expected to go into battle unarmed and to pick up the rifles of men killed in preceding attacks. Belatedly, the war ministry discovered that in all of Russia, there was only one large factory that could produce tanning extract for leather, and almost all of its supplies of tannin before the war had come from Germany. Unlike previous wars, this occurred in an age in which, even in Russia with its relatively poor communications and low levels of literacy, many soldiers were able to write home about their misfortunes. During the first winter, families in villages, towns and cities across Russia learned with horror about the appalling conditions in which their men were fighting for the tsar. They also learned of the tendency of officials to try to give Nicholas and other senior figures as rosy an impression as possible, regardless of the reality on the ground:

For the tsar’s inspection [of a regiment in the front line], they prepared one company and collected all the best uniforms from the other regiments for it to wear, leaving the rest of the men in the trenches without boots, knapsacks, bandoliers, trousers, uniforms, hats, or anything else.¹⁸

The unprecedentedly high casualty rate brought changes to all armies. It disjointed the delicate ethnic structure of the k.u.k. Army, and the loss of so many officers from the traditional class backgrounds was greatly disruptive for both the Germans and the Russians. Men from Prussian Junker families, steeped in spartan discipline and a strong sense of duty to their men, the kaiser and Germany, were replaced by men from middle-class backgrounds; this might have been expected to narrow class divides between officers and men, but in many cases it led to widespread unhappiness – the new generation of officers was less likely to place such a high value on the welfare of lower ranks. But while the German Army could fall back upon its pool of highly trained NCOs, the class from which these men were drawn was almost non-existent in Russia. Replacement junior officers in the Russian Army were largely created by promotion of men from the front line, who owed more loyalty to their fellow soldiers than to the military hierarchy above them.

In Germany, the economic pressure of isolation began to take a toll on the civilian population, resulting in food riots that spread to the Austro-Hungarian Empire. In Russia, the pressures that led to the 1905 risings remained as strong as ever, and although they diminished briefly as the tsar’s empire experienced the same wave of patriotic fervour that swept most of Europe in 1914, the ever-growing casualty lists, the rampant mismanagement of the war, and enormous domestic hardships brought matters to a head. By the end of 1916, it was no longer a question of whether Russia would undergo a revolution, merely one of when it would occur.

All three empires entered the war with little understanding about the military realities of prolonged fighting in the industrial age, despite the warnings of those like Durnovo. Although they all managed, with varying degrees of success, to rise to the challenges of maintaining such immense forces in the field for far longer than anyone had imagined would be required, it was at a huge social price. In this respect, their lack of preparedness for the changes that the war brought was even greater than their lack of military preparedness. Just as the war galvanised industrialists and engineers to innovate at a speed that far exceeded the rate of development during peacetime, so the pressures of war stimulated social changes, building on and amplifying the pressures that were already present. By the beginning of 1917, these changes were beginning to break up the internal cohesion of the empires, and would prove to be irresistible pressures that would change the map of Europe forever. The only question was which empire would be the first to collapse.