While the uprising in Estonia was considered an unfortunate incident—with blame falling on both sides—the same could not be said for what followed.
The confusion caused by the unrest in Estonia distracted the Latvian government at a crucial moment. Tensions had been rising along Latvia's eastern border for weeks, particularly in regions with a high concentration of ethnic Russians. But with their attention drawn northward, officials in Riga failed to recognise the scale of the threat until it was too late.
News of the eastern uprising was delayed by nearly a full day. When reliable reports reached Riga, it was no longer a riot but a civil war.
President Kārlis Ulmanis moved swiftly. Martial law was declared across the country, and a full military mobilisation was ordered. But the situation was already dire. Much of the nation's heavy equipment and supply depots were located in the east, close to the Russian border—exactly where the uprising had begun. While there was still hope that some bases remained under government control, it was clear that they would soon be surrounded, cut off, and starved of ammunition and provisions.
In desperation, Ulmanis made the difficult decision to seek help from abroad. Leaving Field Marshal Mārtiņš Peniķis in charge of managing the unfolding crisis, he boarded a plane and flew south to the Lithuanian capital, Kaunas.
There, he was greeted personally by President Antanas Smetona, who led him to a secure meeting facility outside the city. Ulmanis wasted no time. Flanked by exhausted aides and carrying hastily compiled intelligence, he laid out the full extent of the crisis before the Lithuanian cabinet and military command.
General Stasys Raštikis, Lithuania's top military officer, immediately grasped the strategic implications. A full collapse of Latvia would not just be a tragedy—it would be a threat to Lithuania's national security. President Smetona, though cautious, understood this clearly. A buffer was better than a border with chaos.
After several hours of intense negotiations, Lithuania agreed to a limited but firm support package. A provisional assistance pact was signed that night, outlining three key measures:
Lithuania would open a humanitarian corridor into southern Latvia, providing safe passage for civilians and limited resupply for loyalist units. A motorised infantry Pataljon and logistics team would be deployed to the border region to assist Latvian loyalists and stabilise rear lines. Lithuanian military advisors would work with Latvian officers to restore coordination and discipline among the fragmented national guard and police forces.
By the next morning, Lithuanian units were already preparing for deployment. Trains loaded with crates of ammunition, food, and medical supplies rolled steadily toward the Daugava frontier. Alongside them, soldiers from the Kaunas Motorised Infantry Pataljon boarded trucks and railcars, heading north in tight formations. Lithuania was not declaring war—but it was no longer standing by.
In Riga, Field Marshal Peniķis received the news with cautious optimism. With the east lost and central command in disarray, every rifle, every canister of fuel, and every trained officer mattered. He immediately began organising defensive positions west of the Daugava, focusing on holding key rail lines and bridges long enough for reinforcements to arrive.
While Lithuanian support was now in motion, President Ulmanis pressed on with his diplomatic mission. By afternoon, he arrived in Tallinn aboard a military aircraft. The Estonian capital, though quiet on the surface, still bore the raw marks of its recent uprising. It had been nearly three days since the rebellion was suppressed, but recovery was slow. In some neighbourhoods, broken windows remained boarded up. In others, dried blood still stained the snowbanks.
At Kadriorg Castle—the official residence of the Estonian president—military presence was heavy. Patrols marched along the frozen boulevards in pairs, and five guards stood stationed at the castle's main entrance, rifles in hand. Ulmanis, travelling with a Latvian security detail, was promptly escorted through the gates and into a reserved waiting room. President Konstantin Päts had been removed from power during the unrest, and now it was President Artur Larka who held office—an officer turned statesman, appointed by the Estonian Assembly in the uprising's aftermath.
After nearly an hour, during which Ulmanis was offered hot tea and a modest meal, an aide entered and beckoned him into the presidential cabinet chamber. There, standing beside a long oak table, was President Larka himself, flanked by General Johan Laidoner, commander-in-chief of the Estonian armed forces.
Ulmanis, despite the exhaustion of recent days, wasted no time. Much as he had done in Kaunas, he laid out the rapidly deteriorating situation in eastern Latvia: maps marked with contested towns, intercepted messages from rebel commanders, and estimates of troop morale. He explained the urgency—how days mattered, how bridges and supply depots might already be lost. And most importantly, he explained what had been agreed upon in Lithuania, and what he hoped Estonia might contribute.
President Larka and General Laidoner listened in silence, exchanging the occasional glance. Estonia had barely returned to stability, and now the prospect of foreign entanglement loomed before them.
When Ulmanis finished, Larka spoke gravely:
"We understand your desperation, President Ulmanis. We have walked through our fire, and we are still feeling the heat. But we also understand what's at stake if Latvia collapses. Estonia cannot look away."
General Laidoner nodded, then added:
"Right now, we can muster a battalion for support—our forces are still demobilised, but because of the uprisings and russian actions, we are starting to remobilise our troops. We will have the first company ready for transfer in two days; they will have enough supplies for around a week after that. We expect you to provide them with food and first aid after that."
Later that evening, a joint communiqué was signed. Estonia would deploy a regular infantry platoon from Pärnu County—the 4th Infantry Company—experienced in civil operations and internal security, and composed of several veterans from the War of Independence and the First World War would be sent as an advanced combat unit to secure important supply lines between Estonia and Riga. Additionally, a team of logistics officers and signal specialists would be sent to assist in coordinating Baltic communication lines.
Though small in number, the Estonian contribution carried symbolic weight. It marked the first time in history that Estonia, Latvia, and Lithuania were acting in concert—not under foreign command, not under a shared empire, but as sovereign states responding to a regional crisis.
As Ulmanis departed Tallinn that night aboard his return flight to Riga, the northern lights shimmered above the Baltic sky. Behind him, the seeds of unity had been sown. Ahead, the battle for Latvia's independence awaited.
One of Lithuania's key proposals, raised during Ulmanis's visit to Kaunas, extended beyond immediate military aid. It was bold, ambitious—and, to some, long overdue.
Dubbed the Baltic Defence Compact, it envisioned more than just cooperation in a single conflict. This proto-alliance aimed to formalise mutual security, standardise military practices, and develop a coordinated foreign policy among the three Baltic republics. Though still in its infancy, the compact was a diplomatic innovation: a shield against external aggression, but also a framework to prevent future internal destabilisation.
President Smetona, backed by senior members of his cabinet, framed it as a necessity in the wake of mounting pressures from both east and west. Latvia's descent into civil war was not seen as an isolated incident—but as a warning. If the Baltics did not stand together, they would fall alone.
As part of this initiative, Lithuania quietly reached out to Estonia. A confidential briefing was delivered directly to General Johan Laidoner, Estonia's Chief of the Army. Still haunted by the bloodshed in Tallinn and the Narva border crisis, Estonia's government was divided. Some within the Assembly feared foreign entanglements, especially so soon after their own internal revolt. Others saw participation as a way to rehabilitate Estonia's image abroad and assert itself as a responsible, stabilising force in the region.
After intense closed-door meetings between diplomats, military commanders, and surviving members of Estonia's transitional government, a consensus emerged.
Estonia would join the Baltic Defence Compact.
The decision was not announced publicly, nor celebrated with pomp. In Tallinn's inner chambers, the conversation was one of caution and careful framing. Estonia's official position would be that of a peacekeeper—a neutral stabiliser acting in defence of regional order. The language used in communiqués and press releases emphasised cooperation, humanitarian support, and shared democratic values. Estonia's role, they insisted, was not conquest or expansion—but recovery and resilience.
This narrative was essential for both internal and external consumption. Domestically, it reassured a wary public. Abroad, it sent a message to potential adversaries—namely the fractured remnants of Russia—that the Baltics were no longer weak, disunited borderlands. They were learning to speak with one voice.
As Estonian troops prepared to join the Lithuanian-led effort in Latvia, flags were lowered to half-mast at several bases—both in mourning for the recent uprising and as a silent vow: never again would Estonian soil bleed unchecked.
The Baltic Defence Compact, though nascent and fragile, was no longer just an idea. It was in motion—built not in peace, but forged in the crucible of shared crisis.
Despite a shared cultural and historical context, operational terminology and command protocols had diverged significantly in the years since independence. Lithuanian units operated under a centralised, semi-Franco-Prussian command model with tightly controlled logistical lines and an emphasis on structured movement formations. Estonian doctrine, by contrast, emphasised flexibility, tactical autonomy, and layered patrol formations inspired by Nordic defence theory.
The absence of interoperable field signals, radio encryption protocols, and even standardised map legends caused further delays in the field. One Estonian detachment reported receiving supply crates labelled in Lithuanian with no translation, leading to the misallocation of medical equipment. In another case, a Lithuanian convoy temporarily blocked an Estonian route of advance due to uncoordinated field schedules. These minor incidents underscored the lack of a unified command language—a critical vulnerability in any multinational defence initiative.
Despite these inefficiencies, the strategic value of the joint deployment was never in doubt. Both sides—aware of the fragile political symbolism involved—committed to resolving doctrinal inconsistencies quickly. Liaison officers were embedded with each other's commands, impromptu interpreters were assigned at every field post, and a unified radio frequency protocol was established within 48 hours. Field maps were reissued with tri-lingual notation. Even more critically, joint tactical briefings began incorporating Baltic-level threat assessments, shifting the operational focus from national defence to regional containment and resilience.
What emerged from these early trials was a functional—if embryonic—Baltic joint operations framework. The cooperation between Estonian and Lithuanian units, though imperfect, sent a clear signal to adversaries both internal and external.
By the time the first joint Latvian–Lithuanian–Estonian forward command post was established outside Jelgava, the symbolic weight of the moment was clear to all involved. Three flags now flew side by side—each battered by internal strife, yet rising together under a new purpose. Officers shared not only maps and field reports, but coffee, cigarettes, and lessons hard-earned in their national struggles. Slowly, the contours of a new Baltic order were taking shape—not dictated by foreign capitals or distant empires, but by the decisions of Riga, Kaunas, and Tallinn.