MACEDONIA--1912
Macedonia is a tangle of mountains, whose higher levels are often bare
and rocky; the intervening valleys are fertile, and in some cases,
sufficiently extensive to be described as plains. These plains are
the granaries of Macedonia, and contain the larger towns like Skoplje
and Monastir, their population consists of peasants and farmers
representing all the Balkan races, mingled with these, and living by
their toil, are traders of almost every nationality. The scenery is
wild and picturesque by turns, good roads are few and far between, they
link the plains, which lie like oases in a wilderness of mountains,
spaces of white, brown, green or yellow, according to the season.
The victory of the Serbs at Kumanovo had been decisive, it had settled
the fate of Northern Macedonia. Similar success had attended the
operations in Northern Albania, where the Turks had abandoned their
positions and were falling back on Scutari, pursued by the 3rd Servian
Army advancing westward to the Adriatic. After a short delay at
Skoplje, devoted to the reorganization of the 1st and 2nd Armies, the
Serbs continued their offensive towards Southern Macedonia; the bulk of
their available forces, under the command of the Crown Prince, moved
south in the direction of Monastir, while a detachment of all arms
descended the Vardar Valley, its objective being Salonika.
These dispositions were dictated by sound strategy, which, for the
moment, and quite justifiably, overrode all political considerations.
The enemy’s Field Army in Macedonia had to be found and beaten; the
remnants of that army were rallying for the defence of a second Plevna,
covering the richest inland town in Macedonia, situated west of the
Vardar Valley, and joined with Salonika by a railway. At this period,
so far as I could judge, the Serbs were acting as loyal allies. The
fact that no Bulgars were participating in the operations could be
explained on administrative grounds.
I decided to remain with the Crown Prince’s reconstituted army, and
arrived at his headquarters in the middle of November; they were
established at Prilip, a prosperous little town situated at the
northern extremity of the plain of Monastir. Winter had already set in,
rain was falling on the plain and snow lay on the hills.
A lodging had been provided for me in a peasant’s house, whose spotless
cleanliness was most reassuring. In this small dwelling were crowded
the representatives of Great Britain, France, Russia and Italy, with a
Servian officer as guide and interpreter, the owner of the house was
absent with the armies, his wife both cooked and served our meals. I
asked the Servian officer of what race she was. He replied, “Oh, she is
a Bulgar, there are a few Bulgarian farmers in this district.”
At Servian Headquarters the situation was discussed with a frankness
which had been lacking while the Austro-Hungarian Military Attaché was
present. Every one agreed that the task before the Servian Army was one
of unusual difficulty. The Turkish forces were still numerous, they
disposed of excellent communications with Salonika, and the position
they occupied was of great natural strength. The Serbs, on the other
hand, were far from their base, the roads connecting Prilip with the
railway were almost impassable for heavy-wheeled vehicles, and the
train service with Servia was irregular and inefficient. Fortunately,
the inhabitants of Prilip had come to the rescue by supplying the
troops with 30,000 loaves of bread daily.
The spirit of the Servian soldiers was still excellent, they were
flushed with victory and confident of success; but they had slaked
their passion for revenge, their thoughts were with their families and
homes, to which they expected to return so soon as this next and last
battle should have been fought and won.
A change had taken place in the mood of the Russian Military Attaché;
he seemed pre-occupied, and had made himself unpopular at Servian
Headquarters by urging the inclusion of Bulgarian forces for the attack
on Monastir. This suggestion had first been made at Skoplje, and had
met with a flat refusal; it was renewed at Prilip when the inhabitants
agreed to supply the troops with bread. Incensed by a second refusal,
the Russian so far forgot his diplomatic self as to state in public
that such conduct on the part of the Serbs was idiotic, in view of
the fact that the great majority of the population of the town and
district were Bulgars. I asked him to which town he referred, “Monastir
or Prilip,” he replied, “both.” A sidelight was now being cast on the
contents of the “Secret Treaty,” already an inkling could be gained of
the troubles that were to come.
Two roads lead south from Prilip. One traverses the plain throughout
its length, the other skirts its eastern boundary, following the left
bank of the Cerna, a tributary of the Vardar. The Serbs advanced by
both these roads, the main body debouched upon the plain, while a
detachment took the river route, a metalled road built on swampy ground
between the Cerna and a range of lofty mountains. Snow had fallen
during the night preceding this advance, and when day broke billows of
mist obscured the Cerna’s course and blotted out the hills beyond. At
the southern limit of the plain a ridge, covered with new-fallen snow,
screened from our view the town of Monastir; this ridge was the Turkish
position, which faced almost due north with its right flank resting on
the Cerna; the river had overflowed its banks and caused a widespread
inundation. The left flank terminated in a cluster of foothills between
the northern end of Lake Prespa and Monastir; the nature of the country
and the absence of roads protected this flank from a turning movement.
For two days the Serbs wasted their energies in frontal attacks against
this carefully prepared position; each assault broke like a wave on
the barbed-wire entanglements which covered the Turkish trenches. For
the first time the Servian infantry had been checked, and a feeling
akin to dismay was spreading in their ranks; it seemed impossible
to scale that ridge, behind which nestled Monastir, invisible and
unattainable. Success now depended on the action of the detachment on
the Cerna road. Here, the Turks had committed a serious error, the
extensive inundations on their right flank had led them to believe
that it was inaccessible, and they allowed the Serbs to advance,
practically unopposed, along the river as far as Novak, a village on
the left bank, situated due east of Monastir, and connected with it
by a built-up chaussée. The error consisted in under-estimating the
qualities of the peasants and fishermen of Servia, men inured from
their youth to hardships and exposure, to whom few natural obstacles
are insurmountable. Another factor supervened--the factor of morale.
Over their comrades on the plain the troops of Novak had one great
advantage--they could see the town lying behind the snow-clad ridge.
War is a pilgrimage for simple soldiers, long days of marching, longer
nights of vigil; they know not where they go, nor why--until the day
of battle; if then they see the goal they fight with clearer purpose,
and knowledge born of vision casts out their doubts and fears. So it
was with the Serbs that day at Novak; they looked across a waste of
water and saw before them Monastir--the Mecca of their pilgrimage;
the sight inspired these humble pilgrims, they set their faces to the
west, entered the icy flood, crossed it unflinchingly, and by this bold
manœuvre snatched victory from defeat.
By the evening of the third day of battle the right flank of the
Turkish position had been turned, the Turks had abandoned their
positions north of Monastir, and had effected their retreat into the
mountains of Albania. Greek cavalry arrived at Florina (a town on the
Monastir-Salonika railway) during the course of the battle, but took
no part in the fighting. A Bulgarian column, descending the Struma
Valley, had already reached the Rupel Pass, where the mountains merge
into the coastal plain. For all practical purposes the Balkan Allies
were masters of Macedonia; Greek, Bulgarian and Servian forces were
converging on Salonika, whose fall was imminent.
On November 20, two days after the capture of Monastir, the 3rd Servian
Army, in co-operation with the Montenegrins, captured Alessio, and
thus gained access to the Adriatic seaboard. So far as Servia was
concerned little remained to be done, old Servia had been reconquered,
an outlet to the sea had been acquired. Servia, the State, had more
than gained her object; Servia, the Ally, the Member of the Balkan
League, was at the parting of the ways. Under the terms of the Secret
Treaty, Monastir passed into Bulgaria’s sphere of influence. This
Macedonian town, if held as one of the fruits of Servia’s victory, was
bound to become an apple of discord. Every thinking man in Servia knew
it, but knowledge is not always power.
The Prime Minister of Servia in 1912 was M. Pasitch, already a veteran
among Balkan statesmen, and a man of patriarchal mien. The enemies of
M. Pasitch said that his long, white beard had made his reputation as a
statesman; his friends deplored an accent which was not purely Servian,
he had been born at Pirot, on the Bulgarian frontier, where races,
languages and politics were apt to get somewhat mixed. To foreigners
M. Pasitch was a man of mystery, who spoke French badly, German rather
better, and dealt in platitudes. Yet, beyond doubt, he was one of
Servia’s great old men, with or without his beard. King Peter, weighed
down by age and suffering, had left to him the cares of State, and he
had borne the heat and burden of the day unruffled by abuse or calumny.
At times he was pathetic, as, for example, when he said that the worst
enemies of his country and himself were those he tried to rule. These
words conveyed a bitter truth. M. Pasitch was a Servian institution,
a Nestor in the Council, but, like most Balkan politicians, only
retained office by submission to forces independent of the Government.
The foreign policy of Servia was dictated by M. Hartwig, the Russian
Minister, and a diplomat of conspicuous ability; within certain limits
this arrangement worked well, however galling it may have been to
citizens of a sovereign State. Servia’s internal affairs were at the
mercy of factions and secret societies; of these the most influential
was a society known as the “Black Hand,” which included among its
members some of the ablest men in the country, whose patriotism was
beyond dispute, but who had all the vices of their virtues. The very
qualities which had made them fight so well fostered a spirit of
unreasonableness; they mistook moderation for lack of zeal and prudence
for timidity, in their eyes it was statesmanship to give free rein to
the unbridled appetites of ignorant, short-sighted men intoxicated by
success.
In an evil hour for Servia a combination of irresponsible forces
directed Servian policy in regard to Monastir. The attitude of the
Serbs was at least comprehensible, they could urge their sacrifices and
the rights of conquest, that of M. Hartwig was inexplicable. This man
knew the contents of the Secret Treaty, on which was based the Balkan
League, and by which Servia renounced her claims to Monastir. He could
not have ignored Bulgarian sentiment in Macedonia, nor the statistics
of the population; yet he--a chief creator of the Balkan Bloc, an
ardent Slav, a clever, gifted man, steeped in the politics of Central
Europe--connived at denunciation of the Secret Treaty within a few
months of its signature.
Interference by the Great Powers in Balkan affairs has always been
disastrous, because it has been selfish. M. Hartwig may have considered
the Serbs as little brothers, but he used them as an advanced guard of
Pan-Slavism without regard for their real interests or preparedness
for the task. Like the Russian Military Attaché, he thought that the
victories of Kumanovo and Monastir had brought about “la liquidation de
l’Autriche,” and that in future Russia alone would control the Balkan
situation. He was wrong, and his and Servia’s mistaken policy gave
Austria-Hungary her opportunity.
The reaction of policy in strategy soon became manifest. In spite of
the fact that a Turkish Army, led by Djavid Pasha (the best of Turkey’s
generals), was still in being, all active operations were suspended,
and the Serbian forces were distributed throughout the conquered
territory and became an army of occupation. Monastir, renamed Bitolja,
was held by a garrison consisting exclusively of Serbs, the civil
administration was taken over by Serbian officials.
Monastir had become a part of Serbia, and a very unhappy part at that.
The reasons were not far to seek--the population was not Servian,
78[6] per cent. of the inhabitants of the vilayet were Bulgars, and
of the rest only a small proportion were Serbs. Ruthless repression
of every institution or business which did not profess a Servian
origin only served to embitter popular feeling, and reveal the real
facts of the situation. Ignorance of the Servian language was counted
as a crime; publicans and other comparatively innocuous traders were
flogged for infringing decrees published in Servian which they could
not understand. Twelve lashes applied by an athletic gendarme are, no
doubt, a powerful incentive to learning foreign languages, but many
residents so mistrusted their linguistic talents that, rather than
face a second lesson, they left their homes, preferring the lot of
refugees to tyranny and persecution. Monastir was a town in torment,
lamentations resounded in the Consulates of all the Great Powers, the
publicans were not alone in regretting the departure of the backward
but tolerant Turk.
In the army of occupation, although discipline was strictly maintained,
a revulsion of feeling had taken place. The poor in every Balkan State
were suffering, as they always do, on them had fallen the burden of the
war, shorn of its bloody splendour. The misery in Macedonia sickened
the Servian peasants, they feared for their own homes, and deserted in
large numbers. Armies are not machines, they are dynamic bodies whose
health depends on action, kept stationary amid a strife of tongues they
melt away.
The Greeks had won the race for Salonika without much bloodshed, it was
said that the Turkish military governor had sold the town for 300,000
francs. The Bulgars arrived a few hours after the triumphal entry of
the Greek troops. They were received coldly, like unwelcome visitors.
The Serbs were greeted more cordially, but as guests rather than Allies.
At all Ægean ports the sea breezes compete unsuccessfully with
unsavoury odours, resulting from insanitary conditions, dried fish and
garlic; Salonika was no exception to the rule, but at the time of my
arrival the moral atmosphere was even more unwholesome. Greeks, Serbs
and Bulgars jostled each other in the narrow streets, proclaiming
by their presence the downfall of Turkish rule in Macedonia. Yet,
though success was sweet, its aftermath had turned to bitterness.
Something had been smashed, something they had all feared and hated;
and now they were face to face with one another, the broken pieces
in their hands, themselves a prey to envy, greed, and, worst of all,
uncertainty. The Balkan Allies were writhing in the net of an alliance
concluded secretly, its clauses were known only to a chosen few, who
dared not to tell the truth. Each nation had its version of the Treaty,
twisting the facts to suit its special interests. Brawls occurred daily
in the streets between the Allied soldiers, their leaders wrangled in
hotels. Many wealthy Turks had remained, they wore the look of men who,
if not over-honest, still hoped, when the thieves fell out, to come
into their own again.
Greece claimed Salonika on the ground of prior occupation; Bulgaria
demanded that the port and its hinterland should be under the same
administration, or, in other words, her own; Servia had no direct
interest in Salonika, but clung doggedly to Monastir, in spite of the
Treaty.
The Greek and Bulgarian Governments then in power were anxious to
reach a settlement, but neither Government dared abate its claims;
public opinion in both Greece and Bulgaria was supposed to be against
concessions, because some organs of the Press had said it was so.
A curious illusion this, though prevalent in every country. In the
Balkans many important papers were subsidized with foreign money, yet
still were believed to voice the views of peasants who could neither
read nor write.
Colonel G---- P----, while discussing the possibility of obtaining
ammunition from the Western Powers through Salonika, had suggested
that the port should be internationalized. This was, of course, the
only practical solution of the problem; but coming from a Serb it
would have had more weight if it had been accompanied by a promise
to surrender Monastir. Unfortunately, no such surrender, either
immediate or prospective, was within the sphere of practical politics.
M. Gueshoff, the Bulgarian Prime Minister, went so far as to offer
to leave the town and a part of Macedonia to the Serbs until the
Servian aspirations in other directions should have been gratified. An
agreement to this effect was reached during a private meeting with M.
Pasitch, but it came to naught; neither Prime Minister could control
the sinister forces which worked like a poisonous leaven in their
countries, and were rapidly wrecking the Balkan “Bloc.”
By the middle of December, 1912, it had become evident that no peaceful
settlement of the Macedonian question was possible if the Balkan States
were left to their own devices. Collective intervention by the Great
Powers was precluded by the attitude of at least three among them, who
were deliberately exploiting the rivalry of the Balkan Allies, and
hoped to fish in troubled waters.
In the Bay of Salonika a British warship lay at anchor, a symbol of
the Armada whose tentacles were on every sea, but a symbol and nothing
more. To the men on shore, some of whom were looking at the sea for
the first time, this ship was an object of respect and curiosity; they
had heard of Great Britain’s habitual gesture when Abdul Hamid became
obstreperous, and they may have wondered whether Salonika was not
regarded in the same light as Besika Bay;[7] it may even have occurred
to some of them that perhaps the British Government had a policy in
the Ægean, where a new situation had arisen, requiring prompt attention
from the Mistress of the Seas.
It was then, as it is now, my firm conviction that if, at this critical
period, the British and French Governments had sent a Note insisting
on Salonika being made an international port, and that if the Note had
been supported by the dispatch to Salonika of a squadron of warships,
Greece and Bulgaria would have complied. The rulers of the Balkan
States would have welcomed such a method of escape from the dilemma
in which they found themselves; they knew, none better, how devoid of
a comprehensive Macedonian policy they were, how the swift advance
of the armies had outstripped their calculations, and what would be
the consequences if they failed to reach agreement. The Note would
have indicated the course to pursue; the display of force would have
justified compliance in the eyes of their own peoples. Objections to
this course of action might have been raised by the Central Powers, but
they could hardly have made it a _casus belli_, the pretext would have
been too flimsy; further, while the Balkan _Bloc_ was still in being a
prudent policy was imposed. On the other hand, the Russian Government,
partly owing to the advocacy of M. Hartwig, and partly from anxiety in
regard to the Bulgarian advance towards Constantinople, had become the
partisan of Servia, and was not directly interested in Salonika.
No such step was taken, and a great opportunity was lost. The action
of each of the Great Powers was characteristic--the British Government
suggested a conference of Balkan representatives in London; French
agents, working in the interest of Schneider, secured orders from the
Servian Government for guns and ammunition; Italy sent Servia a warning
about the Adriatic; Austria-Hungary began a partial mobilization. If
further proof had been needed, this mobilization should have convinced
the most purblind observers of Austria-Hungary’s underlying motives;
the veriest tyro in geography must have known that Salonika was more
accessible to the fleets than to the armies of the Great Powers; a
display of force in Bosnia and Herzegovina could not effect appeasement
at Salonika, it could only terrorize the Montenegrins and the Serbs,
and at the same time encourage the Turks still left in Europe to
prolong their resistance. Nor did Austro-Hungarian policy overlook the
possibilities presented by Bulgaria; the Bulgars, so far, had gained
little by the war, the Greeks were at Salonika, and the Serbs at
Monastir; they, the Bulgars, had not yet captured Adrianople, and their
hearts were filled with bitterness and resentment. After all, they had
some cause to grumble, and some excuse for listening to the tempter.
The belligerent States accepted the invitation to confer in London.
While the delegates conferred, wearied soldiers, immobilized by frost
and snow, burrowed in holes like hibernating animals.
I returned to Belgrade for Christmas, 1912. The town was full to
overflowing, and, as usual, foreigners, posing as Balkan experts, did
all the talking. The Serbs themselves were feeling the pinch of war,
hunger and cold had brought typhus in their train; the angel of death
was claiming many victims still.
Walking back from dinner with a journalist who enjoyed a European
reputation, I got what my companion called “a peep behind the scenes.”
It was a most unedifying spectacle, and as remote from reality as the
moon, which, sailing high in heaven, lit up that winter night.
In all that concerned the Balkans the Great Powers were in truth _les
Grandes Impuissances_.[8] Blinded by ignorance, greed and prejudice,
they were laying the foundations of a pyramid, whose blocks would be
errors piled on errors through seven succeeding years. The Great Powers
were the master-builders, and the Balkan States their pupils. Apt
pupils these, ready to learn and accustomed to obey. The lessons given
and received were base, unworthy and a negation of all moral sense.
To any one who knew and faced the facts the situation had the elements
of a Greek tragedy. The Balkan experts had played the part of a
Bacchanalian chorus and created a suitable atmosphere. The first act
was completed, its stage a little known, romantic land, to many a land
of promise. One wondered whether the cast was yet complete, and what
new players might be added. Ruthlessly, logically and inevitably the
climax would be reached. But where and how? No one could then foresee.