14 DECEMBER, 1918: Politics, Populism… Don’t Panic!

I’ve already mentioned that a general election took place in the UK and Ireland a century ago today.   I’ve outlined the basic political landscape during the brief campaign that preceded the election, which had been called straight after the Armistice, and I’ve touched upon the many factors that made this one special (30 November, 1918: Wh’appen?).  Because what was known as the Khaki or Coupon Election owed much about its shape and outcome to the First World War, and because it offers some (vaguely reassuring) parallels with the political weirdness currently afflicting the British parliament, I think it merits a little more song and dance.

The expansion of the franchise in 1918 was big enough to render electoral precedent redundant.  About 7.7 million citizens had been eligible to vote in the previous British election, in 1910, but the electorate now included most women over thirty, virtually all men over twenty-one and men over nineteen who had served in the War, so that almost 21.4 million voters had the right to their say.  Nobody could be sure how the nation’s new constituents would line up in party terms, with the millions on active service viewed by the political elite as even less predictable than women (seen by many male observers as likely to follow the advice of husbands or other male figures) or workers tempted to the left by the revolutionary flavour of the times.  All informed observers were sure the election would redefine Britain’s political landscape for the post-War era, and the prospect worried a lot of them.

Quite a few of the same informed observers, particularly those with a solid stake in the status quo, spent the campaign complaining that the election had been called too quickly.  The logistic challenge of collecting and counting millions of votes from overseas was cited as one good reason for delay, and another was the ongoing flu epidemic, which was just passing its autumn peak and expected to hobble the hustings.  Influenza did cause the cancellation of many election meetings – which were still an important form of political communication in 1918 – and forced some candidates to stand down, but for many social conservatives the real reason for demanding delay was the hope that more time and a proper dose of conventional campaigning might clarify the state of the parties and dissuade the new electorate from anything too radical.

The two-party system that had dominated mainland British politics for decades needed clarifying.  The biggest party in the House of Commons, the Liberal Party, was split between 145 ‘Coupon’ candidates for the governing coalition led by Lloyd George – known as such because they carried a coupon identifying them as the coalition’s sole candidate in a constituency – and 276 representing party leader Asquith’s anti-coalition bloc.  Andrew Bonar Law’s Conservative Party, which had last formed a government in 1905 but had won only one seat less than the Liberals in 1910, stood solidly behind the ideological shelter of the coalition, fielding 362 of the coalition’s candidates against only 83 non-coalition Tories, but the real fly in the ointment was the relatively new Labour Party.

A surprise choice as Conservative Party leader in 1911, Andrew Bonar Law would survive to serve as prime minister in the early 1920s – but is possibly the least remembered major political figure of the age.

The socialist Second International’s bid for peace in the years before 1914, doomed at the time but looking smart with hindsight; the apparent disillusion with conventional nationalism that accompanied war weariness; the hope for a new world order, nurtured by propaganda promises and by the practical reforms introduced to make total war possible; the belief fostered by revolutions elsewhere, especially in Russia and now in Germany, that no regime was immune to the sudden expression of popular anger… all these factors would, it seemed, conspire to launch the British Labour Party into the forefront of parliamentary politics in 1918.  Only 5 Labour candidates took the Coupon – along with 18 (of a total of 23) candidates from the National Democratic and Labour Party (NDLP), an anti-pacifist, nationalist centre-left splinter group fighting its only election – but nobody had any real idea how far (predominantly urban and military) voters would support the other 361 Labour candidates.

The days before the election passed in a Brexit-like frenzy of anticipation, laden with dramatic predictions of national transformation but, partly because press and politicians regarded much of the new electorate as incapable of sophisticated political thinking, hooked on populism.  The issue  of reparations dominated debate and, broadly speaking, the coalition campaigned on its war-winning record, presenting itself as the ideal group to prosecute the peace and punish Germany for its crimes.  Trade was another axis of dispute, with Lloyd George and the Conservatives promoting the policy of ‘colonial preference’ agreed with the Empire’s ‘white’ dominions, while non-coalition Liberals argued for free trade –but Asquith’s lethargic, underfunded campaign failed to make trade a major popular issue.  Unable to summon a clear programme to compete with the Labour manifesto, which promised radical reform to match the ambitions kindled by wartime social measures, Asquith’s party paid for what historians regard as either weariness or complacency.

Only 36 Asquith Liberals were elected, and he lost his own seat, while 127 coalition Liberals were returned along with 332 coalition and 50 non-coupon Conservatives.  The big story was the Labour Party, which had won 42 seats in the 1910 election and now mustered 57 non-coupon MPs, alongside four Labour and nine NDLP coalition members.  This wasn’t revolution, despite a surge in the Labour vote that saw the party come second on lots of places, but it was steady growth and it did mark a shift in Britain’s basic political dividing line.

Fought to a chorus of ‘Hang the Kaiser!’, the election had produced a victory for the nationalist, patriotic sentiment associated with conservatism, but the immediate triumph of right-wing values masked an underlying shift to the left that has yet to be reversed.  It would force Conservatives to focus on social welfare as never before, see the Liberal Party permanently relegated to the margins of British political life, and establish the Labour Party’s various shades of reformist (rather than revolutionary) socialism as one of the twin pillars of a new two-party system that is only now falling apart.

A simple, populist message for a naive electorate… and it was enough to win the 1918 election.

Given that women and troops did not vote en masse for immediate reform of the political system, or even come out in strong support of one particular party (or gender), it could be argued that the 1918 election, while an important watershed moment, didn’t quite live up to the hype – but only if you ignore Ireland, where the it brought the expedient politics of wartime British rule home to roost.

Ireland accounted for 105 seats in the UK parliament (though the vagaries of double constituencies meant this only produced 101 MPs), but the issues upon which the election was fought had little to do with the preoccupations of mainland voters.  The War had brought to the boil the long, often violent, three-way argument about independence that had dominated Irish politics since the late 19th century.  Supporters of full Irish independence were principally represented by Sinn Fein, while supporters of Home Rule (autonomy within Great Britain, as proposed by the coalition government) were represented by the moderate Irish Parliamentary Party (IPP) and its offshoots.  The IPP and Home Rule had been fatally compromised by British government’s wartime behaviour (25 July, 1917: Green Shoots), and Sinn Fein reaped the benefits of popular disillusion with compromise.

This worked pretty well too…

Fighting its first general election, having taken six seats in wartime by-elections, Sinn Fein took 73 seats in 1918, while the IPP suffered a spectacular collapse, leaving it with only six of the 73 seats it had held in 1910.  The third corner of Ireland’s political triangle, those wishing to remain as a fully integrated part of Great Britain, almost all of them Protestants from Ulster, didn’t budge from its usual position, voting in 22 Ulster Unionist and three Labour Unionist MPs.  Sinn Fein’s landslide victory in the south owed a lot to the first-past-the-post system that stills skews British politics but was still a clear statement of popular opinion, as was Ulster’s rock solid support for the Union.  Irish politics had clearly polarised.  Home Rule was dead, and the status quo was doomed.

Proof of the sea change came almost at once.  Sinn Fein, which refused to take up its seats in Westminster, called Ireland’s 101 elected MPs to an Irish assembly, the Dáil, which met for the first time on 21 January 1919.  Only 27 deputies attended the meeting – most other Sinn Fein MPs were in prison and other parties joined the British government in refusing to recognise the assembly – but they immediately declared an independent Irish Republic with the Dáil as its parliament.  This date, which coincided with the death of two Royal Ulster Constabulary officers during an ambush by members of the Irish Volunteers (a militant organisation soon to change its name to the Irish Republican Army under the aegis of Sinn Fein), is usually taken as the beginning of an Irish war against Great Britain that brought independence in 1921, followed by almost two years of civil war between republicans and unionists.

So the 1918 general election brought a permanent shift in the balance of political power in mainland Britain, and finally released the dancing genie of Irish independence from the imperial bottle.  It marked the true birth of British mass politics as we understand them today, both as the first occasion on which voting wasn’t restricted to male property holders and as the first confrontation between voters and a sophisticated government propaganda machine, bolstered by mass communication and aimed at the emotions of the poorly informed.  As such, the vote was preceded by far and away the noisiest election campaign in British history to that point, brief but awash with hyperbole, and was anticipated with the kind of apocalyptic fervour we’re learning to expect around Brexit electioneering.

For all that, life in mainland Britain was not fundamentally changed by the outcome in December 1918, and the election attracted a very low turnout, at 57.2 percent the lowest of any British general election before or since.  Big storm, big teacup, a little erosion of some longstanding pedestals, and life goes on… something to remember that the next time Britain’s current political crisis freaks you out.

8 DECEMBER, 1918: Britannia’s B Team

From a Western European perspective, orthodox history and current affairs make it very clear that the Mediterranean Sea has always been a hub for international competition.  Some people west of the Rhine are also aware that the Black Sea is, similarly, an arena in which those countries it touches compete for control and resources.  Enclosed seas have that effect, for reasons that are pretty obvious, and the Caspian Sea is no exception – but its geopolitics are a mystery to most modern Westerners, much as they were in 1918.

Given our general ignorance, it would seem hardly surprising that the formative battles being fought in and around the Caspian Sea in the months after the Armistice were largely ignored by the victorious Allies at the time, or that we ignore them now.  Ah, but today is the centenary of a minor battle that left the Royal Navy as undisputed master of the Caspian Sea during the winter of 1918–19, and was the first action of a strange, largely forgotten naval campaign in the region.  I’d best explain, in case no one else does.

The geopolitical melting pot of the Caspian Sea began to boil into chaos after the 1917 revolutions in Russia removed the region from imperial control.  North of Persia, the territories around the west, north and east of the sea could be broadly divided along ethnic lines into Russians, Georgians, Armenians and Azerbaijanis, with the latter category including several related peoples to the north and east.  Along political lines they split between restoration Tsarists, various liberal, left-leaning or socialist groups united only by their opposition to Tsarist rule, and Bolsheviks loyal to the Moscow government.

Good maps of the Caspian Sea are (unsurprisingly) hard to steal, but if you can be bothered to look closely at this 1910 map, it does the business.

By mid-1918, the fluctuating, violent miasma of alliances and rebellions between relatively small armed forces representing all these factions and sub-factions had coalesced, superficially and north of Persia, into three independent republics – Azerbaijan, Armenia and Georgia – each with a fragile anti-Bolshevik regime in place.  If that sounds reasonably clear, it wasn’t.

Azerbaijan as a whole was strongly anti-Bolshevik but its capital, Baku, was under the control of Armenian and Russian Bolsheviks. Further east, in what is now Turkmanistan, resident Turkomans and Russians were largely anti-Bolshevik but the only useful port, Krasnovodsk (now Türkmenbaşy in Turkmanistan), was in Bolshevik hands until July 1918, when a non-Bolshevik socialist rebellion took control.  To the north, Bolshevik control of the of the coast was interrupted by a royalist Cossack enclave in the northeast, and to the south the Persian provinces close to the sea were feral badlands beyond central government control, with tribal warlords, ex-Imperial Russian troops and a small British contingent in tenuous charge of various enclaves.  Bolsheviks meanwhile controlled most remaining naval vessels of the Imperial Caspian Sea flotilla from a base at Astrakhan, about 100km from the sea.

The ill-fated advance into the region by ‘Dunsterforce’, a detachment from the British armies in Mesopotamia, was responsible for bringing the Royal Navy into the Caspian Sea (17 February, 1918: Follow That Figment!).  A small naval element arrived with Dunster’s infantry brigade to set up a base at Enzali and, in theory, work with the ‘Centro-Caspian’ flotilla, a few ex-Imperial gunboats supposedly under the command of the Baku government. The Baku regime had invited the British to intervene, but the soviet actually in charge of the flotilla refused to cooperate, so all the British were able to achieve was the hire of a few local merchant ships, which were fitted with 4-inch guns transported overland from the Mesopotamian Front, some 700 kilometres away.

When General Dunster’s expedition was forced to flee Baku in September 1918, the Royal Navy’s commandeered ships and their Russian or Azerbaijani crews remained at Enzali, charged with preventing Ottoman forces in the Caucasus from establishing a presence on the eastern coast.  By the end of October British flotilla commander Commodore Norris had converted five merchant ships and was awaiting overland transport of ammunition for their guns from Mesopotamia.

Unsatisfied with poor repair facilities at Enzali, Norris crossed to Krasnovodsk in the first ship armed, the small freighter (and subsequent flotilla flagship) SS Kruger, and moved his base there after accepting assurances of support from the social revolutionary local government then in place.  The Armistice changed his mind. Allied warships could now supply the Flotilla through the Black Sea, and on 17 November it steamed into Baku, where it was once again expected to cooperate with the Centro-Caspian flotilla and local ‘White’ ground forces.

Royal Navy forces in the Caspian Sea could have simply gone home after the Armistice – and only a few British personnel were anyway involved, for command, gunnery and radio duties – but imperial thinking kept them in place.  Given help and a modicum of collective organisation, anti-Bolshevik forces seemed to have a good chance of winning control over the region – as they did elsewhere in the former Russian Empire at that stage – and getting rid of Lenin’s regime was a high priority for all the world’s surviving major empires.  At the same time the British Empire was still very interested in securing oil supplies through Baku, and still determined to guard against any hostile exploitation of the Caspian ‘back door’ into India.

The principal duty of the combined RN and Centro-Caspian flotillas was to protect Baku from any attack by Bolsheviks to the north, with particular responsibility for the Bolshevik flotilla at Astrakhan, but it was also required to supply Cossack outposts to the northeast through the port of Guriev (now Atyrau in Kazakhstan).  In early December, while one RN ship performed the latter task another four went on patrol to the north, where the waters south of the Volga Delta were dangerously shallow, largely uncharted and frozen in winter.  The Centro-Caspian flotilla’s vessels again turned out to be allies in name only, and refused to take part.

The region’s rich intermingling of ethnic and political factions made any kind of secret difficult to keep, and the British were aware of Bolshevik plans to establish a warm-water naval base at the small port of Staro-Terechnaya, on the mainland near Chechen Island, at the southernmost limit of the winter freeze.  Two converted British ships, the Zoro-Aster and Alla Verdi, were waiting off Chechen Island when three Bolshevik armed merchantmen and three transports approached Staro-Terechnaya on 8 December.  The Bolshevik ships opened fire, and the British responded.  During the skirmish that followed the Zoro-Aster suffered minor damage and one Bolshevik ship caught fire before the rest withdrew, leaving the British short of ammunition but in undisputed control of ice-free Caspian waters for the winter.

The Bolsheviks made no further attempt to move south before northern waters froze in mid-January, when the RN Flotilla returned to Baku for repairs, leaving one ship to make occasional patrols just south of the ice.  While some very war-weary conscripts were finally sent home, additional British crews were transferred to the theatre from the Mediterranean and Home Fleets, and the facilities at Baku were upgraded.

Evidence that the Centro-Caspian flotilla and elements of the White ‘Volunteer Army’ in the city were (like much of the working population) in contact with Bolsheviks brought the pretence of cooperation to an end in March, when an Indian infantry division transferred from Mesopotamia expelled the Volunteer Army from Baku and Norris seized the Centro-Caspian flotilla.  From that point the RN flotilla underwent a significant growth spurt.

HMS Asia was typical of the local freighters requisitioned for the Caspian Flotilla.

Further British crews were transferred to the region, requisitioned ships were renamed ‘HMS’, the Zoro-Aster was designated a reserve vessel and the slow, unreliable Alla Verdi was paid off.  By late June the flotilla mustered eight frontline armed freighters, 12 coastal motor boats, a motor boat carrier, two seaplane carriers and four supporting transport ships, employing a total of about 1,100 RN officers and men along with more than 300 locally recruited personnel.  The RAF had also established a base on Chechen Island by late April, when the annual thaw enabled patrols to resume in the north.

RAF Airco DH4 bombers on the ground at Petrovosk. Royal Naval Air Service machines until the name change in 1918, they were used to bomb Bolshevik naval bases in and around the Volga Delta.

The Royal Navy would remain an important military presence in the Caspian Sea for much of that summer, and would fight what very nearly amounted to a battle against a much bigger Bolshevik force before its eventual withdrawal in early September.  I’ll give that moment of questionable glory its due when the centenary comes around, but for now this has been a nod to one of Britain’s least remembered military adventures and a reminder that, after all the lessons of the ‘war to end wars’, the British Empire was still acting as if Britannia ruled the waves.

30 NOVEMBER, 1918: Wh’appen?

I can’t help carping on about the worldwide turmoil in progress while the empires of the West were celebrating peace in November 1918, if only because nobody else seems to be mentioning it.  We seem to be living in wild and crazy times today, and no doubt expect them to be remembered as such, but try stripping away the sensationalism built into information overload and comparing modern madness with the everyday news hitting the streets a century ago.  With the grim exception of climate change, our apparently seismic social and political shifts can look pretty tame. Starting from where I left off in Germany, Russia, Belgium and Luxembourg, this is some more of what I mean.

On the day that Allied forces entered Luxembourg, 21 November, the German Navy surrendered to the Allies in the Firth of Forth, just off the Royal Navy base at Rosyth.  The surrender, and that of some 160 U-boats at Harwich (in batches through the second half of the month), put an end to the only threat to Great Britain’s home security since Napoleon, and was a hugely symbolic moment for the British, whose path to war had been mapped by the rapid rise of German sea power.  Given that the Kaiser hanging from a gibbet was off the menu, at least for now, the image of his feared warships tamed was most visible proof of victory available to the British public.  The nation rejoiced, but soon had other things on its collective mind.

HMS Cardiff leads the German High Seas Fleet to surrender in the Firth of Forth, 21 November 1918.  No known photograph can match this for pomp…

The following day saw the publication of election manifestos by the two main contenders in the British general election, the Coalition Liberals led by Lloyd George and Andrew Bonar Law’s Conservative Party.  Called within twenty-four hours of the Armistice and due to take place in mid-December, the election asked a greatly expanded franchise – including some women for the first time, and millions of men serving overseas – to choose a government fit to rebuild the nation and the world while the party political system in Britain was in a state of unprecedented flux.

Most Conservatives and the majority of Liberals committed to continuation of the wartime coalition stood as ‘Coupon’ candidates – because they carried a coupon identifying them as the coalition’s chosen candidate – and were opposed only by those against the coalition.  The latter included a large portion of the new force in British politics, the Labour Party, and a substantial rump of the Liberals, still led by former premier, Herbert Asquith.

Asquith had won the last general election, but that had been back in 1910 and since then his popular stock had fallen a long way, prompting predictions of electoral failure in 1918 from almost everyone but Asquith himself, whose campaign was already being described as complacent and lethargic.  Pundits assumed with equal certainty that the Labour Party, which produced its own manifesto on 27 November, would make substantial gains, not least because of the broader franchise, but how well it would do was anybody’s guess.  With the future shape and prosperity of the Empire manifestly in the balance, and given that I haven’t even mentioned that it was also an obviously pivotal moment for the future of Ireland, this was one of the most extraordinary and eagerly awaited public votes in British history… and I’ll get back to it.

This is William Adamson, the relatively unknown Scots trade unionist who was leader of the Labour Party in 1918, while more famous men like Arthur Henderson and Ramsay MacDonald waited in the wings.

While the British were all agog with triumph and trepidation, other victorious peoples were taking crucial steps towards nationhood or adherence to a chosen nation.  In Zagreb and Belgrade, late November saw urgent attempts to organise a united front of southern Slav peoples in time to make a bloc impact at the forthcoming peace negotiations.  The kingdoms of Serbia and Montenegro had been unified in wartime, with the former far and away the more influential partner, but a separate National Council of Slovenes, Croats and Serbs had been established during the War’s last year at Zagreb, where it had proclaimed a Kingdom of Slovenes, Croats and Serbs in March 1918.  On 23 November, after hasty negotiations in Geneva and elsewhere, the National Council proclaimed full unification of Serbia and Montenegro into a Kingdom of Serbs, Croats and Slovenes (ah, the wording).

A compromise reached under deadline pressure, created by a body that was self-appointed rather than representative, the new Kingdom was headed by the elderly King Peter of Serbia and came into being when his heir Prince Alexander accepted the Council’s declaration on 1 December – but it pleased neither pan-Slavic nor nationalist elements within its constituent nations and was largely ignored by Britain, France and Italy.  Allied troops continued to occupy parts of the territory claimed by the Kingdom (KSCS), occasionally becoming entangled in skirmishes with ragged local defence forces, and although the KSCS went on to send a delegation to Versailles, so did the Kingdom of Serbia.  The Big Four (France, Britain, Italy and the US) chose to negotiate with the latter, though the US eventually recognised the KSCS in February 1919, while Britain and France gave it reluctant recognition at the end of the peace process.  This was the only means of getting the KSCS to sign the treaty, and of passing responsibility for ongoing disputes about its legitimacy back to the Slavs themselves.

The Prince Regent, he say yes… Alexander gives the KSCS his approval, Belgrade, 1 December 1918.

Despite its universal unpopularity and an almost continuous history of instability – including a coup in 1929 by which the then King Alexander established autocratic rule and Serbian dominance of a renamed Yugoslavia – the state would survive until the 1990s, when its tensions would finally explode into bloody civil war, an outcome that was predicted with some confidence by British newspapers and politicians in November 1918.

Meanwhile the disintegration of Germany was unfolding on a daily basis.  A workers’ republic of northern German states, with Hamburg as its capital, was proclaimed on 24 November.  Three days later the newly proclaimed People’s State of Bavaria, a social democrat regime filling a power vacuum since the flight of King Ludwig III on 7 November, severed relations with Berlin, and on 28 November the Kaiser signed the deed that turned his own flight to the Netherlands into a formal abdication.

Further east, the area that would one day be controlled by the USSR was in a state of dramatic, often dangerous flux, as civil war gathered pace in Russia and regions formerly dominated by the Russian, German or Austro-Hungarian Empires sought to establish their political identity and geographical borders.

The Bukovina region announced its intention to join Romania on 24 November, and a week later King Ferdinand reoccupied Bucharest at the head of his army.  In between, on 28 November, Romanian troops retook the much-disputed Dobrudja province from Bulgaria, a move that forced the resignation of liberal Bulgarian premier Malinov.  The new Bulgarian premier, Teodor Teodorov, took power the same day and was tasked with simultaneously making clear Bulgaria’s condemnation of its alliance with the Central Powers (a crucial position in the run-up to peace negotiations), maintaining Tsar Boris III in power and appeasing the demands of both nationalists on the right and revolutionaries on the left (principally the Agrarian Union and the Communist Party).  He would last until the following October, when revolutionary forces would take control of government without overthrowing the Tsar.

In Poland, the personal prestige of independence campaigner Josef Piludski had helped him form a generally accepted and stable government in the immediate aftermath of the Armistice, but it had territorial ambitions.  The first skirmishes of the nine-month Polish-Ukrainian War for control of Galicia’s mixed population were already taking place in November 1918, just as a revolutionary socialist Directorate was taking power in Kiev, while Polish disputes with Lithuania and Russia about the Vilnius region and Belarus would sputter briefly into open warfare before Poland’s Baltic frontiers were set by the 1919 peace treaty.

Lviv, November 1918: the city at the heart of the Polish-Ukrainian war.

Poland also sent forces into the northern Czechoslovakian provinces of Spis and Orava during November, and helped foster uprising to support its claims in Silesia, which was eventually partitioned between Germany, Poland and Czechoslovakia after a plebiscite imposed by the Treaty of Versailles.  Czechoslovakia was meanwhile engaged in border confrontations with Hungary that would spill over into warfare during 1919, and part of the Romanian Army had also entered Hungary in pursuit of territorial claims to Transylvania that culminated in the proclamation of a Romanian-Transylvanian union on 1 December.

This is a map of the situation in 1919, but it puts some shapes and places to the mess in Eastern Europe.

I could go on like this for hours, reeling off crisis reports from all corners of a confused world, and still leave out plenty of big news.  I won’t.  Instead I’ll make the small point that, as mass media commemoration of the Great War issues its last outraged squawks, an explosion of events with far more global significance than trench battles are passing their centenaries on a daily basis.  You won’t be hearing much about them from the mainstream, but they’re worth even this brief, partial examination, both as a perspective on the modern world and as a reassuring reminder that we have survived crazier times than these.