The dream of a pacified continent secured forever under the American nuclear umbrella is fraying fast. As the war in Ukraine drags into its fourth year and in the context of a second Trump presidency, Europe’s old reliance on the United States is being quietly rethought.

Across the continent, a string of new defence compacts, bilateral treaties, and multilateral frameworks are being stitched together—not in Washington or at NATO’s sprawling headquarters in Brussels, but in capitals from London to Warsaw. Far from idle symbolism, this shifting web of alliances signals a cold recognition: Europe must relearn how to defend itself.

At the centre of this reorientation stands an unlikely axis—London and Berlin. Earlier this month, Germany and the United Kingdom signed what is now being dubbed the “Kensington Treaty”, the first major bilateral defence pact between the two countries since the end of the Second World War. Its scope is sweeping: joint development of missile systems, shared production of drones, integrated logistics planning, and deeper intelligence cooperation.

Even five years ago, such a move would have been unthinkable. Britain, adrift in the aftermath of Brexit, had been dismissed as a marginal player by many on the Continent. Germany, meanwhile, seemed content to underfund its military and appease Moscow with gas deals and grandstanding diplomacy. But war has a habit of burning away illusions.

Now, pragmatism reigns. Germany, stung by its catastrophic underpreparedness after the Russian invasion of Ukraine, is pushing through defence reforms at record speed. And Britain, unencumbered by EU bureaucracy, has rediscovered its role as a maritime and military power in Europe. Together, they are building something the EU could never quite manage: a defence arrangement based on trust, capability, and hard interest.

Nor is this alignment occurring in a vacuum. Poland, long the Cassandra of Eastern Europe, has launched its “East Shield” project—a €2.5 billion fortification of its eastern frontier designed to deter Russian and Belarusian adventurism. The plan involves drone surveillance, sensor networks, AI-driven threat detection, and traditional physical barriers. Warsaw is also rearming at a pace unmatched in post-Cold War Europe, snapping up Korean tanks, American HIMARS, and Turkish drones with unapologetic urgency.

Further west, the European Sky Shield Initiative (ESSI), led by Germany and backed by over 20 European countries, is taking form as a continent-wide missile defence network. While France remains sceptical—objecting to the use of Israeli and American technology—the momentum is unmistakable. Air defences, once a NATO responsibility, are now being shaped by European capitals acting in concert but without centralised command from Washington.

What unites these efforts is not merely military ambition but strategic clarity. Europe is awakening, finally, to the dangers of its own complacency. For decades, European security was outsourced to the United States. Even after the Cold War ended, the continent could not bring itself to stand alone. NATO endured, not just as a military alliance, but as a psychological crutch.

But faith in American constancy is ebbing. Donald Trump’s return to the White House has already triggered contingency planning across European ministries. His public musings about pulling the US out of NATO and letting Russia “do whatever it wants” to allies who don’t pay up have been dismissed as rhetorical bluster by some—but treated as gospel by officials in Tallinn, Vilnius, and Bucharest. They know the cost of underestimating belligerent egos.

What’s notable about the UK-Germany pact and its sister projects is that they bypass Brussels almost entirely. The EU has long dreamed of a common defence policy, but its efforts have produced more declarations than deployments. Multilateralism works best when decisions must be made slowly. Security, however, demands speed, secrecy, and sometimes, stealth. Hence the return of bilateralism and minilateral coalitions—the “coalitions of the willing” that act when institutions stall.

It would be a mistake, however, to see this realignment as a death knell for NATO. Rather, it is an adaptation to a more dangerous world. Europe is not seeking to discard the Atlantic alliance but to insure itself against its possible demise. A more robust, self-reliant Europe could, paradoxically, make NATO stronger—no longer a forum for American grievance, but a coalition of equal contributors.

Still, the stakes are high. Europe’s history is littered with failed alliances and broken pacts. The challenge today is not only to build new structures, but to make them last—and to ensure they are grounded in genuine capability, not mere symbolism. A treaty is only as strong as the will behind it.

If the twentieth century taught Europe anything, it is that security can never be assumed. The current realignment may not be driven by idealism, but in that lies its strength. These new alliances are born of necessity—and necessity, more than treaty text or televised summits, is the mother of strategy.