THE ALLIED ARMADA SAILS AWAY, THOUGH ON THE BRINK OF VICTORY
Again getting into the automobile, we rode along the shore, my host
calling my attention to the mine fields, which stretched from Tchanak
southward about seven miles. In this area the Germans and Turks had
scattered nearly 400 mines. They told me with a good deal of gusto that
the Russians had furnished a considerable number of these destructive
engines. Day after day Russian destroyers sowed mines at the Black Sea
entrance to the Bosphorus, hoping that they would float down stream and
fulfil their appointed task. Every morning Turkish and German mine
sweepers would go up, fish out these mines, and place them in the
Dardanelles.
The battery at Erenkeui had also been subjected to a heavy bombardment,
but it had suffered little. Unlike Dardanos, it was situated back of a
hill, completely shut out from view. In order to fortify this spot, I
was told, the Turks had been compelled practically to dismantle the
fortifications of the inner straits--that section of the stream which
extends from Tchanak to Point Nagara. This was the reason why this
latter part of the Dardanelles was now practically unfortified. The guns
that had been moved for this purpose were old-style Krupp pieces of the
model of 1885.
South of Erenkeui, on the hills bordering the road the Germans had
introduced an innovation. They had found several Krupp howitzers left
over from the Bulgarian war and had installed them on concrete
foundations. Each battery had four or five of these emplacements so
that, as I approached them, I found several substantial bases that
apparently had no guns. I was mystified further at the sight of
a herd of buffaloes--I think I counted sixteen engaged in the
operation--hauling one of these howitzers from one emplacement to
another. This, it seems, was part of the plan of defense. As soon as the
dropping shells indicated that the fleet had obtained the range, the
howitzer would be moved, with the aid of buffalo teams, to another
concrete emplacement.
“We have even a better trick than that,” remarked one of the officers.
They called out a sergeant, and recounted his achievement. This soldier
was the custodian of a contraption which, at a distance, looked like a
real gun, but which, when I examined it near at hand, was apparently an
elongated section of sewer pipe. Back of a hill, entirely hidden from
the fleet, was placed the gun with which this sergeant had coöperated.
The two were connected by telephone. When the command came to fire, the
gunner in charge of the howitzer would discharge his shell, while the
man in charge of the sewer pipe would burn several pounds of black
powder and send forth a conspicuous cloud of inky smoke. Not unnaturally
the Englishmen and Frenchmen on the ships would assume that the shells
speeding in their direction came from the visible smoke cloud and would
proceed to centre all their attention upon that spot. The space around
this burlesque gun was pock-marked with shell holes; the sergeant in
charge, I was told, had attracted more than 500 shots, while the real
artillery piece still remained intact and undetected.
From Erenkeui we motored back to General Djevad’s headquarters, where we
had lunch. Djevad took me up to an observation post, and there before my
eyes I had the beautiful blue expanse of the Ægean. I could see the
entrances to the Dardanelles, Sedd-ul-Bahr and Kum Kalé standing like
the guardians of a gateway, with the rippling sunny waters stretching
between. Far out I saw the majestic ships of England and France sailing
across the entrance, and still farther away, I caught a glimpse of the
island of Tenedos, behind which we knew that a still larger fleet lay
concealed. Naturally this prospect brought to mind a thousand historic
and legendary associations, for there is probably no single spot in the
world more crowded with poetry and romance. Evidently my Turkish escort,
General Djevad, felt the spell, for he took a telescope and pointed at a
bleak expanse, perhaps six miles away.
“Look at that spot,” he said, handing me the glass. “Do you know what
that is?”
I looked but could not identify this sandy beach.
“Those are the Plains of Troy,” he said. “And the river that you see
winding in and out,” he added, “we Turks call it the Mendere, but Homer
knew it as the Scamander. Back of us, only a few miles distant, is Mount
Ida.”
Then he turned his glass out to sea, swept the field where the British
ships lay, and again asked me to look at an indicated spot. I
immediately brought within view a magnificent English warship, all
stripped for battle, quietly steaming along like a man walking on
patrol duty.
“That,” said General Djevad, “is the _Agamemnon_”!
“Shall I fire a shot at her?” he asked me.
“Yes, if you’ll promise me not to hit her,” I answered.
We lunched at headquarters, where we were joined by Admiral Usedom,
General Mertens, and General Pomiankowsky, the Austrian Military Attaché
at Constantinople. The chief note in the conversation was one of
absolute confidence in the future. Whatever the diplomats and
politicians in Constantinople may have thought, these men, Turks and
Germans, had no expectation--at least their conversation betrayed
none--that the Allied fleets would pass their defenses. What they seemed
to hope for above everything was that their enemies would make another
attack.
“If we could only get a chance at the _Queen Elizabeth_!” said one eager
German, referring to the greatest ship in the British navy, then lying
off the entrance.
As the Rhein wine began to disappear, their eagerness for the combat
increased.
“If the damn fools would only make a landing!” exclaimed one--I quote
his exact words.
The Turkish and German officers, indeed, seemed to vie with each other
in expressing their readiness for the fray. Probably a good deal of this
was bravado, intended for my consumption--indeed, I had private
information that their exact estimate of the situation was much less
reassuring. Now, however, they declared that the war had presented no
real opportunity for the German and English navies to measure swords,
and for this reason the Germans at the Dardanelles welcomed this chance
to try the issue.
Having visited all the important places on the Anatolian side, we took a
launch and sailed over to the Gallipoli peninsula. We almost had a
disastrous experience on this trip. As we approached the Gallipoli
shore, our helmsman was asked if he knew the location of the minefield,
and if he could steer through the channel. He said “yes” and then
steered directly for the mines! Fortunately the other men noticed the
mistake in time, and so we arrived safely at Kilid-ul-Bahr. The
batteries here were of about the same character as those on the other
side; they formed one of the main defenses of the straits. Here
everything, so far as a layman could judge, was in excellent condition,
barring the fact that the artillery pieces were of old design and the
ammunition not at all plentiful.
The batteries showed signs of a heavy bombardment. None had been
destroyed, but shell holes surrounded the fortifications. My Turkish and
German escorts looked at these evidences of destruction rather seriously
and they were outspoken in their admiration for the accuracy of the
allied fire.
“How do they ever get the range?” This was the question they were asking
each other. What made the shooting so remarkable was the fact that it
came, not from Allied ships in the straits, but from ships stationed in
the Ægean Sea, on the other side of the Gallipoli peninsula. The gunners
had never seen their target, but had had to fire at a distance of nearly
ten miles, over high hills, and yet many of their shells had barely
missed the batteries at Kilid-ul-Bahr.
When I was there, however, the place was quiet, for no fighting was
going on that day. For my particular benefit the officers put one of
their gun crews through a drill, so that I could obtain a perfect
picture of the behaviour of the Turks in action. In their mind’s eye
these artillerists now saw the English ships advancing within range, all
their guns pointed to destroy the followers of the Prophet. The bugleman
blew his horn, and the whole company rushed to their appointed places.
Some were bringing shells, others were opening the breeches, others were
taking the ranges, others were straining at pulleys, and others were
putting the charges into place. Everything was eagerness and activity;
evidently the Germans had been excellent instructors, but there was more
to it than German military precision, for the men’s faces lighted up
with all that fanaticism which supplies the morale of Turkish soldiers.
These gunners momentarily imagined that they were shooting once more at
the infidel English, and the exercise was a congenial one. Above the
shouts of all I could hear the singsong chant of the leader, intoning
the prayer with which the Moslem has rushed to battle for thirteen
centuries.
“Allah is great, there is but one God, and Mohammed is his Prophet!”
When I looked upon these frenzied men, and saw so plainly written in
their faces their uncontrollable hatred of the unbeliever, I called to
mind what the Germans had said in the morning about the wisdom of not
putting Turkish and German soldiers together. I am quite sure that, had
this been done, here at least the “Holy War” would have proved a
success, and that the Turks would have vented their hatred of Christians
on those who happened to be nearest at hand, for the moment overlooking
the fact that they were allies.
I returned to Constantinople that evening, and two days afterward, on
March 18th, the Allied fleet made its greatest attack. As all the world
knows, that attack proved disastrous to the Allies. The outcome was the
sinking of the _Bouvet_, the _Ocean_, and the _Irresistible_ and the
serious crippling of four other vessels. Of the sixteen ships engaged in
this battle of the 18th, seven were thus put temporarily or permanently
out of action. Naturally the Germans and Turks rejoiced over this
victory. The police went around, and ordered each householder to display
a prescribed number of flags in honour of the event. The Turkish people
have so little spontaneous patriotism or enthusiasm of any kind that
they would never decorate their establishments without such definite
orders. As a matter of fact, neither Germans nor Turks regarded this
celebration too seriously, for they were not yet persuaded that they had
really won a victory. Most still believed that the Allied fleets would
succeed in forcing their way through. The only question, they said, was
whether the Entente was ready to sacrifice the necessary number of
ships. Neither Wangenheim nor Pallavicini believed that the disastrous
experience of the 18th would end the naval attack, and for days they
anxiously waited for the fleet to return. The high tension lasted for
days and weeks after the repulse of the 18th. We were still momentarily
expecting the renewal of the attack. But the great armada never
returned.
Should it have come back? Could the Allied ships really have captured
Constantinople? I am constantly asked this question. As a layman my own
opinion can have little value, but I have quoted the opinions of the
German generals and admirals, and of the Turks--practically all of
whom, except Enver, believed that the enterprise would succeed, and I am
half inclined to believe that Enver’s attitude was merely a case of
graveyard whistling. In what I now have to say on this point, therefore,
I wish it understood that I am giving not my own views, but merely those
of the officials then in Turkey who were best qualified to judge.
Enver had told me, in our talk on the deck of the _Yuruk_, that he had
“plenty of guns--plenty of ammunition.” But this statement was not true.
A glimpse at the map will show why Turkey was not receiving munitions
from Germany or Austria at that time. The fact was that Turkey was just
as completely isolated from her allies then as was Russia. There were
two railroad lines leading from Constantinople to Germany. One went by
way of Bulgaria and Serbia. Bulgaria was then not an ally; even though
she had winked at the passage of guns and shells, this line could not
have been used, since Serbia, which controlled the vital link extending
from Nish to Belgrade, was still intact. The other railroad line went
through Rumania, by way of Bucharest. This route was independent of
Serbia, and, had the Rumanian Government consented, it would have formed
a clear route from the Krupps to the Dardanelles. The fact that
munitions could be sent with the connivance of the Rumanian Government
perhaps accounts for the suspicion that guns and shells were going by
that route. Day after day the French and British ministers protested at
Bucharest against this alleged violation of neutrality, only to be met
with angry denials that the Germans were using this line. There is no
doubt now that the Rumanian Government was perfectly honourable in
making these denials. It is not unlikely that the Germans themselves
started all these stories, merely to fool the Allied fleet into the
belief that their supplies were inexhaustible.
Let us suppose that the Allies had returned, say on the morning of the
nineteenth, what would have happened? The one overwhelming fact is that
the fortifications were very short of ammunition. They had almost
reached the limit of their resisting power when the British fleet passed
out on the afternoon of the 18th. I had secured permission for Mr.
George A. Schreiner, the well-known American correspondent of the
Associated Press, to visit the Dardanelles on this occasion. On the
night of the 18th, this correspondent discussed the situation with
General Mertens, who was the chief technical officer at the straits.
General Mertens admitted that the outlook was very discouraging for the
defense.
“We expect that the British will come back early to-morrow morning,” he
said, “and if they do, we may be able to hold out for a few hours.”
General Mertens did not declare in so many words that the ammunition was
practically exhausted, but Mr. Schreiner discovered that such was the
case. The fact was that Fort Hamidié, the most powerful defense on the
Asiatic side, had just seventeen armour-piercing shells left, while at
Kilid-ul-Bahr, which was the main defense on the European side, there
were precisely ten.
“I should advise you to get up at six o’clock to-morrow morning,” said
General Mertens, “and take to the Anatolian hills. That’s what we are
going to do.”
The troops at all the fortifications had their orders to man the guns
until the last shell had been fired and then to abandon the forts.
Once these defenses became helpless, the problem of the Allied fleet
would have been a simple one. The only bar to their progress would have
been the minefield, which stretched from a point about two miles north
of Erenkeui to Kilid-ul-Bahr. But the Allied fleet had plenty of
mine-sweepers, which could have made a channel in a few hours. North of
Tchanak, as I have already explained, there were a few guns, but they
were of the 1878 model, and could not discharge projectiles that could
pierce modern armour plate. North of Point Nagara there were only two
batteries, and both dated from 1835! Thus, once having silenced the
outer straits, there was nothing to bar the passage to Constantinople
except the German and Turkish warships. The _Goeben_ was the only
first-class fighting ship in either fleet, and it would not have lasted
long against the _Queen Elizabeth_. The disproportion in the strength of
the opposing fleets, indeed, was so enormous that it is doubtful whether
there would ever have been an engagement.
Thus the Allied fleet would have appeared before Constantinople on the
morning of the twentieth. What would have happened then? We have heard
much discussion as to whether this purely naval attack was justified.
Enver, in his conversation with me, had laid much stress on the
absurdity of sending a fleet to Constantinople, supported by no adequate
landing force, and much of the criticism since passed upon the
Dardanelles expedition has centred on that point. Yet it is my opinion
that this exclusively naval attack was justified. I base this judgment
purely upon the political situation which then existed in Turkey. Under
ordinary circumstances such an enterprise would probably have been a
foolish one, but the political conditions in Constantinople then were
not ordinary. There was no solidly established government in Turkey at
that time. A political committee, not exceeding forty members, headed by
Talaat, Enver, and Djemal, controlled the Central Government, but their
authority throughout the empire was exceedingly tenuous. As a matter of
fact, the whole Ottoman state, on that eighteenth day of March, 1915,
when the Allied fleet abandoned the attack, was on the brink of
dissolution. All over Turkey ambitious chieftains had arisen, who were
momentarily expecting its fall, and who were looking for the opportunity
to seize their parts of the inheritance. As previously described, Djemal
had already organized practically an independent government in Syria. In
Smyrna Rahmi Bey, the Governor-General, had often disregarded the
authorities at the capital. In Adrianople Hadji Adil, one of the most
courageous Turks of the time, was believed to be plotting to set up his
own government. Arabia had already become practically an independent
nation. Among the subject races the spirit of revolt was rapidly
spreading. The Greeks and the Armenians would also have welcomed an
opportunity to strengthen the hands of the Allies. The existing
financial and industrial conditions seemed to make revolution
inevitable. Many farmers went on strike; they had no seeds and would not
accept them as a free gift from the Government because, they said, as
soon as their crops should be garnered the armies would immediately
requisition them. As for Constantinople, the populace there and the
best elements among the Turks, far from opposing the arrival of the
Allied fleet, would have welcomed it with joy. The Turks themselves were
praying that the British and French would take their city, for this
would relieve them of the controlling gang, emancipate them from the
hated Germans, bring about peace, and end their miseries.
No one understood this better than Talaat. He was taking no chances on
making an expeditious retreat, in case the Allied fleet appeared before
the city. For several months the Turkish leaders had been casting
envious glances at a Minerva automobile that had been reposing in the
Belgian legation ever since Turkey’s declaration of war. Talaat finally
obtained possession of the coveted prize. He had obtained somewhere
another automobile, which he had loaded with extra tires, gasolene, and
all the other essentials of a protracted journey. This was evidently
intended to accompany the more pretentious machine as a kind of “mother
ship.” Talaat stationed these automobiles on the Asiatic side of the
city with chauffeurs constantly at hand. Everything was prepared to
leave for the interior of Asia Minor at a moment’s notice.
But the great Allied armada never returned to the attack.
About a week after this momentous defeat, I happened to drop in at the
German Embassy. Wangenheim had a distinguished visitor whom he asked me
to meet. I went into his private office and there was Von der Goltz
Pasha, recently returned from Belgium, where he had served as governor.
I must admit that, meeting Goltz thus informally, I had difficulty in
reconciling his personality with all the stories that were then coming
out of Belgium. That morning this mild-mannered, spectacled gentleman
seemed sufficiently quiet and harmless. Nor did he look his age--he was
then about seventy-four; his hair was only streaked with gray, and his
face was almost unwrinkled; I should not have taken him for more than
sixty-five. The austerity and brusqueness and ponderous dignity which
are assumed by most highly-placed Germans were not apparent. His voice
was deep, musical, and pleasing, and his manners were altogether
friendly and ingratiating. The only evidence of pomp in his bearing was
his uniform; he was dressed as a field marshal, his chest blazing with
decorations and gold braid. Von der Goltz explained and half apologized
for his regalia by saying that he had just returned from an audience
with the Sultan. He had come to Constantinople to present his majesty a
medal from the Kaiser, and was taking back to Berlin a similar mark of
consideration from the Sultan to the Kaiser, besides an imperial present
of 10,000 cigarettes.
The three of us sat there for some time, drinking coffee, eating German
cakes, and smoking German cigars. I did not do much of the talking, but
the conversation of Von der Goltz and Wangenheim seemed to me to shed
much light upon the German mind, and especially on the trustworthiness
of German military reports. The aspect of the Dardanelles fight that
interested them most at that time was England’s complete frankness in
publishing her losses. That the British Government should issue an
official statement, saying that three ships had been sunk and that four
others had been badly damaged, struck them as most remarkable. In this
announcement I merely saw a manifestation of the usual British desire
to make public the worst--the policy which we Americans also believe to
be the best in war times. But no such obvious explanation could satisfy
these wise and solemn Teutons. No, England had some deep purpose in
telling the truth so unblushingly; what could it be?
“_Es ist ausserordentlich!_” (It is extraordinary) said Von der Goltz,
referring to England’s public acknowledgment of defeat.
“_Es ist unerhört!_” (It is unheard of) declared the equally astonished
Wangenheim.
These master diplomatists canvassed one explanation after another, and
finally reached a conclusion that satisfied the higher strategy.
England, they agreed, really had had no enthusiasm for this attack,
because, in the event of success, she would have had to hand
Constantinople over to Russia--something which England really did not
intend to do. By publishing the losses, England showed Russia the
enormous difficulties of the task; she had demonstrated, indeed, that
the enterprise was impossible. After such losses, England intended
Russia to understand that she had made a sincere attempt to gain this
great prize of war and expected her not to insist on further sacrifices.
The sequel to this great episode in the war came in the winter of
1915-16. By this time Bulgaria had joined the Central Powers, Serbia had
been overwhelmed, and the Germans had obtained a complete, unobstructed
railroad line from Constantinople to Austria and Germany. Huge Krupp
guns now began to come over this line--all destined for the Dardanelles.
Sixteen great batteries, of the latest model, were emplaced near the
entrance, completely controlling Seddul-Bahr. The Germans lent the
Turks 500,000,000 marks, much of which was spent defending this
indispensable highway. The thinly fortified straits through which I
passed in March, 1915, is now as impregnably fortified as Heligoland. It
is doubtful if all the fleets in the world could force the Dardanelles
to-day.