Historical Mix-Ups That Really Got Out of Hand (Or Almost Did)

Liquor is legendary for causing stupid fights, but the Karansebes Battle has got to be one of the stupidest of all time. On the night of September 19, 1788, a group of Austrian cavalrymen were scouting for enemy Turkish forces near Karansebes, a small town in modern Romania. But instead of violent resistance, the men found a band of gypsies. And promptly bought out their entire supply of schnapps.

A few hours later (an eternity in drunk time), a separate group of Austrian foot soldiers came along and wanted to join the booze-fest. But the cavalrymen refused to share. Then they built an ill-advised, makeshift wall around their liquor. Naturally, things got heated. Fighting broke out between the groups. To fool the cavalry in retreating, soldiers said they saw Turkish soldiers. But the move backfired superbly as everyone - soldier and cavalry alike - turned the violent stampede back towards camp.

Austrian officers tried to ease the pandemonium, but the army’s mixed forces of Italians, Slovaks, and Hungarians didn’t speak German very well. And the cries to “Halt!” were mistaken for “Allah!” only intensifying the brutal, confused madness.

Meanwhile, the rest of the camp of some 100,000 men woke to the sound of battle and assumed they were under attack by Ottoman forces. They jumped into combat and things got so out of hand, the army literally brought out the big guns. Eventually, the mixed up regiments were so terrified (of themselves, mind you) they abandoned Karansebes altogether. The troops razed and pillaged towns for nearly 30 miles 10 leagues before the army recollected itself under new leadership.

Two days after the battle, the Ottomans arrived at Karansebes to find 10,000 dead and wounded Austrian soldiers. After presumably laughing at their foolish enemies, they executed the survivors, and took the city without a fight. 

People love bacon. But do they love it enough to go to war over it? Judging by an incident in 1859: maybe.

On June 15, 1846 the United States and Great Britain signed the Oregon Treaty. The treaty resolved one boundary dispute between the US and Canada, but unintentionally created a completely new mix-up in a cluster of islands near Vancouver. Due to some vague wording, the US and Britain had different ideas about who got what in this area. Specifically, San Juan Island was claimed by citizens from both countries. But things were peaceful enough.

That is, until June 15, 1859, when an American farmer shot and killed a pig that was eating potatoes in his garden. Turns out, that pig was owned by a British fur trader who tattled on him to the local British authorities. In response, the British authorities threatened to arrest the shooter and kick every other American off the island for good measure. So the Americans turned to General William S. Harney, a well-known (British-hating) US commander. 

In a major case of “that escalated quickly,” Harney launched a military force of 64 men to the island. In response, the Governor of British Columbia sent three warships of his own. Both sides continued sending forces to the standoff until someone with an actual brain intervened. Admiral Lambert Baynes, a British commander, arrived on the scene and immediately told the governor that he would not “involve two great nations in a war over a squabble about a pig.”

News reached Washington and London about the swine standoff, which now involved as many as three warships, 84 guns and over 2,600 men. Both capital cities jumped straight into damage control mode. The whole dispute wasn’t resolved until May 21, 1871 when an international commission reinterpreted the original Oregon Treaty and gave the island to the United States.

Fortunately, America’s relationship with Canada (and its bacon) has come a long way since.

Language is tough. And sometimes a bad translation can lead to an embarrassing mishap. In this case, though, the consequence was very, very deadly. In the summer of 1945, World War II was winding down in Europe. Germany had surrendered in May, and Allied leaders including Harry Truman, Winston Churchill, and Joseph Stalin met at a conference in Potsdam, Germany to sort out the rest.

But the war in the Pacific was still ongoing. So on July 26, 1945, they issued the Potsdam Declaration to Japan, threatening “prompt and utter destruction” if Japan didn’t surrender. After the declaration was issued, reporters in Tokyo looked to Japanese Prime Minister Kantaro Suzuki for Japan’s response. Like a pro, Suzuki fell back on the good ol’ politician standby: “no comment.” 

And yet, here’s where we get mixed up. Suzuki used the Japanese word "mokusatsu," a word that can mean “to withhold comment,” “to ignore,” or “to treat with silent contempt,” depending on the context. Quite a range, huh? Well, instead of indicating that the government was withholding comment on the surrender terms, a translator sent the message over the wire as, “The cabinet ignores the demand to surrender.”

Insulted, the Allies held true to their threat. Within 10 days, the atomic bomb was dropped on Hiroshima, followed by a second attack on Nagasaki on August 9. Two of the most devastating attacks the world has ever seen came to fruition, all because of one word taken in the wrong context.

In October 1962, stuff was going down. It was the height of the Cuban Missile Crisis. Russia was supplying the communists with nuclear arms and President Kennedy gave the order to blockade Cuba. The same week the blockade was announced, a squad of four Russian submarines arrived in Cuban waters. Unknown to the US, each carried a nuclear missile and could authorize an attack without the okay of central command. One of these vessels was a B-59 submarine captained by Valentin Savitsky.

As part of the blockade, the US announced it would use underwater explosions as warning shots - a way to communicate for Russian vessels to surface and identify themselves. However, in a mix-up of nuclear proportions, nobody bothered to tell the en-route-to-Cuba Russian submarine commanders this development.

So it’s no surprise that when Savitsky’s sub encountered US depth charges on October 27, 1962, he assumed it was the real deal. Explosions rocked the vessel. Temperatures on board climbed above 100°F. Two radio antennas on the vessel were damaged, hindering its ability to receive communications, and the decision to dive deeper dampened communications even further. 

Low on air and under extreme stress, Savitsky ordered the officer assigned to the nuclear torpedo to ready the weapon. Launching required the agreement of three senior officers on board, and fortunately for all of planet Earth, Vasili Arkhipov was one of those officers. Some accounts state Savitsky’s second in command also approved launching the torpedo. So the captain only needed one more thumbs-up to launch World War III. But Arkhipov, a fleet commander equal in rank, refused. Keeping his cool in crazy conditions, he argued the noisy, off target detonations were an effort to communicate and convinced Savitsky to await instructions from Moscow before going full nuclear Rambo. 

Ultimately, the captain listened to Arkhipov. The submarine surfaced and met with a US Destroyer without issue, before turning tail back to Russia. And the Cuban Missile Crisis ended on October 28, 1962. 

We’ve all said some terrible things when we’re mad. Luckily, most of us don’t have knights willing to kill on our behalf. But the King of England did - at least back in 1170.

When the Archbishop of Canterbury died in 1161, one of the most important positions in the Church of England was up for grabs. King Henry II helped his friend and chancellor, Thomas Becket, win the position. But Becket wasn’t the yes-man Henry expected. He resigned his chancellor role, donned the Archbishop title, and became a major pain in Henry’s royal behind from that day forward. Things came to a head between the two on the issue of special religious courts.

Becket supported the current order, which gave clergymen accused of crimes their own courts with more lenient sentences. As king, Henry passed laws so his courts could punish these sketchy holy men. Henry pushed Becket and his bishops to accept the laws on behalf of the church. And they did.

But Becket also publicly repented for the decision. In October 1164, Henry condemned him on some crazy charges about a land dispute and threw in a count of embezzlement for fun. So Becket fled to France. After six years of petty arguments from afar, Henry’s son was crowned by Becket’s rival, the Archbishop of York. This was a huge disrespect to Becket’s authority. So he met with Henry and the two came to a compromise that allowed Becket to come back to England and re-crown Henry’s son in another ceremony.

But when he got back, Becket excommunicated all his old enemies from the church, including the jerk who crowned Henry’s son the first time. When Henry got the news, he ranted and raved. There are variations of his exact words, but he’s commonly quoted as shouting, “Will no one rid me of this troublesome priest?”

Hearing this, four of Henry’s knights slipped off to Canterbury. Led by Reginald fitz Urse, they tried to drag Becket out of his cathedral on December 29, 1170. But Becket resisted and got a nasty blow to the head. Smelling blood in the water, the four knights drew their swords and killed Becket in the cathedral. Instantly making him a martyr and leaving Henry looking like a major jerk

Then, in 1173 Pope Alexander III canonized Becket making him St. Thomas. His shrine was one of the most famous in Europe for almost four centuries, presumably until a trendier martyr hit the scene.

The Great Depression sucked. When President Franklin Delano Roosevelt took office in March 1933, almost 25% of the workforce was unemployed, the stock market was in the toilet, and World War I veterans were desperate for military bonuses that weren’t coming for another 12 years. 

Roosevelt spent his first 100 days passing legislation designed to regulate Wall Street and get people back on their feet. But not everyone loved his ideas. Some powerful people actually felt the best way forward for America was a dictatorship. And rather than ranting about it, they decided to do something.

Armed with $3 million and a stockpile of weapons, a group of wealthy businessmen came up with a plot, now known as the Wall Street Putsch. They would play up public sympathy for the president’s health and relieve him of the “burdens” of the presidency. Assembling a force of about half a million World War I veterans behind them, they’d put someone more militaristic in Roosevelt’s place while he remained a cutesy little figurehead of the government.

But who would head the new “superorganization,” inspire the veterans, and ensure the leadership change? Well, the conspirators must’ve gotten their intel mixed up, because they approached possibly the worst person to talk treason with. Retired Marine General Smedley Butler had two Medals of Honor, was decorated for his service at least 20 times, and was known for his honesty and integrity. 

Not surprisingly, Butler blew the whistle on the whole thing. Hearings were held with the McCormack-Dickstein Committee in November 1934, who verified Butler’s story to the House of Representatives in February 1935. But there’s no doubt had they approached someone other than Butler, things could have gotten seriously out of hand.

Word to the wise: next time you plan a coup for the US presidency, don’t tell Captain America.