ENVER AGAIN MOVES FOR PEACE--FAREWELL TO THE SULTAN AND TO TURKEY
My failure to stop the destruction of the Armenians had made Turkey for
me a place of horror, and I found intolerable my further daily
association with men who, however gracious and accommodating and
good-natured they might have been to the American Ambassador, were still
reeking with the blood of nearly a million human beings. Could I have
done anything more, either for Americans, enemy aliens, or the
persecuted peoples of the empire, I would willingly have stayed. The
position of Americans and Europeans, however, had now become secure and,
so far as the subject peoples were concerned, I had reached the end of
my resources. Moreover, an event was approaching in the United States
which, I believed, would inevitably have the greatest influence upon the
future of the world and of democracy--the presidential campaign. I felt
that there was nothing so important in international politics as the
reëlection of President Wilson. I could imagine no greater calamity, for
the United States and the world, than that the American nation should
fail to indorse heartily this great statesman. If I could substantially
assist in Mr. Wilson’s reëlection, I concluded that I could better serve
my country at home at this juncture.
I had another practical reason for returning home, and that was to give
the President and the State Department, by word of mouth, such
first-hand information as I possessed on the European situation. It was
especially important to give them the latest side lights on the subject
of peace. In the latter part of 1915 and the early part of 1916 this was
the uppermost topic in Constantinople. Enver Pasha was constantly asking
me to intercede with the President to end the war. Several times he
intimated that Turkey was war-weary and that its salvation depended on
getting an early peace. I have already described the conditions that
prevailed a few months after the outbreak of the war, but, by the end of
1915, they were infinitely worse. When Turkey decided on the deportation
and massacre of her subject peoples, especially the Armenians and
Greeks, she had signed her own economic death warrant. These were the
people, as I have already said, who controlled her industries and her
finances and developed her agriculture, and the material consequences of
this great national crime now began to be everywhere apparent. The farms
were lying uncultivated and daily thousands of peasants were dying of
starvation. As the Armenians and Greeks were the largest taxpayers,
their annihilation greatly reduced the state revenues, and the fact that
practically all Turkish ports were blockaded had shut off customs
collections. The mere statement that Turkey was barely taking in money
enough to pay the interest on her debt, to say nothing of ordinary
expenses and war expenses, gives a fair idea of her advanced degree of
exhaustion. In these facts Turkey had abundant reasons for desiring a
speedy peace. Besides this, Enver and the ruling party feared a
revolution, unless the war quickly came to an end. As I wrote the State
Department about this time, “These men are willing to do almost anything
to retain their power.”
Still I did not take Enver’s importunities for peace any too seriously.
“Are you speaking for yourself and your party in this matter,” I asked
him, “or do you really speak for Germany also? I cannot submit a
proposition from you unless the Germans are back of you. Have you
consulted them about this?”
“No,” Enver replied, “but I know how they feel.”
“That is not sufficient,” I answered. “You had better communicate with
them directly through the German Embassy. I would not be willing to
submit a proposition that was not indorsed by all the Teutonic Allies.”
Enver thought that it would be almost useless to discuss the matter with
the German Ambassador. He said, however, that he was just leaving for
Orsova, a town on the Hungarian and Rumanian frontier, where he was to
have a conference with Falkenhayn, at that time the German
Chief-of-Staff. Falkenhayn, said Enver, was the important man; he would
take up the question of peace with him.
“Why do you think that it is a good time to discuss peace now?” I asked.
“Because in two weeks we shall have completely annihilated Serbia. We
think that should put the Allies in a frame of mind to discuss peace. My
visit to Falkenhayn is to complete arrangements for the invasion of
Egypt. In a very few days we expect Greece to join us. We are already
preparing tons of provisions and fodder to send to Greece. And when we
get Greece, of course, Rumania will come in. When the Greeks and
Rumanians join us, we shall have a million fresh troops. We shall get
all the guns and ammunition we need from Germany as soon as the direct
railroad is opened. All these things make it an excellent time for us to
take up the matter of peace.”
I asked the Minister of War to talk the matter over with Falkenhayn at
his proposed interview, and report to me when he returned. In some way
this conversation came to the ears of the new German Ambassador, Graf
Wolf-Metternich, who immediately called to discuss the subject. He
apparently wished to impress upon me two things: that Germany would
never surrender Alsace-Lorraine, and that she would insist on the return
of all her colonies. I replied that it was apparently useless to discuss
peace until England first had won some great military victory.
“That may be so,” replied the Graf, “but you can hardly expect that
Germany shall let England win such a victory merely to put her in a
frame of mind to consider peace. But I think that you are wrong. It is a
mistake to say that Great Britain has not already won great victories. I
think that she has several very substantial ones to her credit. Just
consider what she has done. She has established her unquestioned
supremacy of the seas and driven off all German commerce. She has not
only not lost a foot of her own territory, but she has gained enormous
new domains. She has annexed Cyprus and Egypt and has conquered all the
German colonies. She is in possession of a considerable part of
Mesopotamia. How absurd to say that England has gained nothing by the
war!”
On December 1st, Enver came to the American Embassy and reported the
results of his interview with Falkenhayn. The German Chief-of-Staff had
said that Germany would very much like to discuss peace but that Germany
could not state her terms in advance, as such an action would be
generally interpreted as a sign of weakness. But one thing could be
depended on; the Allies could obtain far more favourable terms at that
moment than at any future time. Enver told me that the Germans would be
willing to surrender all the territory they had taken from the French
and practically all of Belgium. But the one thing on which they had
definitely settled was the permanent dismemberment of Serbia. Not an
acre of Macedonia would be returned to Serbia and even parts of old
Serbia would be retained; that is, Serbia would become a much smaller
country than she had been before the Balkan wars, and, in fact, she
would practically disappear as an independent state. The meaning of all
this was apparent, even then. Germany had won the object for which she
had really gone to war; a complete route from Berlin to Constantinople
and the East; part, and a good part, of the Pan-German “Mittel Europa”
had thus become an accomplished military fact. Apparently Germany was
willing to give up the overrun provinces of northern France and Belgium,
provided that the Entente would consent to her retention of these
conquests. The proposal which Falkenhayn made then did not materially
differ from that which Germany had put forward in the latter part of
1914. This Enver-Falkenhayn interview, as reported to me, shows that it
was no suddenly conceived German plan, but that it has been Germany’s
scheme from the first.
In all this I saw no particular promise of an early peace. Yet I thought
that I should lay these facts before the President. I therefore applied
to Washington for a leave of absence, which was granted.
I had my farewell interview with Enver and Talaat on the thirteenth of
January. Both men were in their most delightful mood. Evidently both
were turning over in their minds, as was I, all the momentous events
that had taken place in Turkey, and in the world, since my first meeting
with them two years before. Then Talaat and Enver were merely desperate
adventurers who had reached high position by assassination and intrigue;
their position was insecure, for at any moment another revolution might
plunge them into the obscurity from which they had sprung. But now they
were the unquestioned despots of the Ottoman Empire, the allies of the
then strongest military power in the world, the conquerors--absurdly
enough they so regarded themselves--of the British navy. At this moment
of their great triumph--the Allied expedition to the Dardanelles had
evacuated its positions only two weeks before--both Talaat and Enver
regarded their country again as a world power.
“I hear you are going home to spend a lot of money and reëlect your
President,” said Talaat--this being a jocular reference to the fact that
I was the Chairman of the Finance Committee of the Democratic National
Committee. “That’s very foolish; why don’t you stay here and give it to
Turkey? We need it more than your people do.”
“But we hope you are coming back soon,” he added, in the polite (and
insincere) manner of the oriental. “You and we have really grown up
together; you came here about the same time that we took office and we
don’t know how we could ever get so well acquainted with another man. We
have grown fond of you, too. We have had our differences, and pretty
lively ones at times, but we have always found you fair, and we respect
American policy in Turkey as you have represented it. We don’t like to
see you go, even for a few months.”
I expressed my pleasure at these words.
“It’s very nice to hear you talk that way,” I answered. “Since you
flatter me so much, I know that you will be willing to promise me
certain things. Since I have you both here together this is my chance to
put you on record. Will you treat the people in my charge considerately,
just the same as though I were here?”
“As to the American missionaries and colleges and schools,” said
Talaat--and Enver assented--”we give you an absolute promise. They will
not be molested in the slightest degree, but can go on doing their work
just the same as before. Your mind can rest easy on that score.”
“How about the British and French?” I asked.
“Oh, well,” said Talaat, smiling, “we may have to have a little fun with
them now and then, but don’t worry. We’ll take good care of them.”
And now for the last time I spoke on the subject that had rested so
heavily on my mind for many months. I feared that another appeal would
be useless, but I decided to make it.
“How about the Armenians?”
Talaat’s geniality disappeared in an instant. His face hardened and the
fire of the beast lighted up his eyes once more.
“What’s the use of speaking about them?” he said, waving his hand. “We
are through with them. That’s all over.”
Such was my farewell with Talaat. “That’s all over” were his last words
to me.
The next day I had my farewell audience with the Sultan. He was the same
gracious, kindly old gentleman whom I had first met two years before. He
received me informally, in civilian European clothes, and asked me to
sit down with him. We talked for twenty minutes, and discussed among
other things the pleasant relations that prevailed between America and
Turkey. He thanked me for the interest which I had taken in his country
and hoped that I would soon return. Then he took up the question of war
and peace.
“Every monarch naturally desires peace,” he said. “None of us approves
the shedding of blood. But there are times when war seems unavoidable.
We may wish to settle our disputes amicably, but we cannot always do it.
This seems to be one of them. I told the British Ambassador that we did
not wish to go to war with his country. I tell you the same thing now.
But Turkey had to defend her rights. Russia attacked us; and naturally
we had to defend ourselves. Thus the war was not the result of any
planning on our part; it was an act of Allah--it was fate.”
I expressed the hope that it might soon be over.
“Yes, we wish peace also,” replied His Majesty. “But it must be a peace
that will guarantee the rights of our empire. I am sure that a civilized
and flourishing country like America wants peace, and she should exert
all her efforts to bring about a peace that shall be permanent.”
One of the Sultan’s statements at this interview left a lasting
impression. This was his assertion that “Russia attacked us.” That the
simple-minded old gentleman believed this was apparent; it was also
clear that he knew nothing of the real facts--that Turkish warships,
under German officers, had plunged Turkey into the war by bombarding
Russian seaports. Instead of telling him the truth, the Young Turk
leaders had foisted upon the Sultan this fiction of Russia as the
aggressor. The interview showed precisely to what extent the ostensible
ruler of Turkey was acquainted with the crucial facts in the government
of his own empire.
In our interview Talaat and Enver had not said their final farewells,
telling me that they would meet me at the station. A few minutes before
the train started Bedri came up, rather pale-faced and excited, and
brought me their apologies.
“They cannot come,” he said, “the Crown Prince has just committed
suicide.”
I knew the Crown Prince well and I had expected to have him as a fellow
passenger to Berlin; he had been about to make a trip to Germany, and
his special car was attached to this train. I had seen much of Youssouf
Izzeddin; he had several times invited me to call upon him, and we had
spent many hours talking over the United States and American
institutions, in which subject he had always displayed the keenest
interest. Many times had he told me that he would like to introduce
certain American governmental ideas in Turkey. This morning, when we
were leaving for Berlin, the Crown Prince was found lying on the floor
in his villa, bathed in a pool of blood, with his arteries cut. Youssouf
was the son of Abdul-Aziz, Sultan from 1861 to 1876, who, gruesomely
enough, had ended his days by opening his arteries forty years before.
The circumstances surrounding the death of father and son were thus
precisely the same. The fact that Youssouf was strongly pro-Ally, that
he had opposed Turkey’s participation in the war on Germany’s side, and
that he was extremely antagonistic to the Committee of Union and
Progress gave rise to many suspicions. I know nothing about the stories
that now went from mouth to mouth, and merely record that the official
report on the death was that it was a case of “suicide.”
“_On l’a suicidé!_” (they have suicided him!), remarked a witty
Frenchman, when this verdict was reported.
This tragic announcement naturally cast a gloom over our party, as our
train pulled out of Constantinople, but the journey proved to be full of
interest. I was now on the famous Balkanzug, and this was only the
second trip which it had made to Berlin. My room was No. 13; several
people came to look at it, telling me that, on the outward trip, the
train had been shot at, and a window of my compartment broken.
Soon after we started I discovered that Admiral Usedom was one of my
fellow passengers. Usedom had had a distinguished career in the navy;
among other things he had been captain of the _Hohenzollern_, the
Kaiser’s yacht, and thus was upon friendly terms with His Majesty. The
last time I had seen Usedom was on my visit to the Dardanelles, where he
had been Inspector General of the Ottoman defenses. As soon as we met
again, the admiral began to talk about the abortive Allied attack. He
again made no secret of the fears which he had then entertained that
this attack would succeed.
“Several times,” he said, “we thought that they were on the verge of
getting through. All of us down there were very much distressed and
depressed over the prospect. We owed much to the heroism of the Turks
and their willingness to sacrifice an unlimited number of human lives.
It is all over now--that part of our task is finished.”
The Admiral thought that the British landing party had been badly
prepared, though he spoke admiringly of the skill with which the Allies
had managed their retreat. I also obtained further light on the German
attitude toward the Armenian massacres. Usedom made no attempt to
justify them; neither did he blame the Turks. He discussed the whole
thing calmly, dispassionately, merely as a military problem, and one
would never have guessed from his remarks that the lives of a million
human beings had been involved. He simply said that the Armenians were
in the way, that they were an obstacle to German success, and that it
had therefore been necessary to remove them, just like so much useless
lumber. He spoke about them as detachedly as one would speak about
removing a row of houses in order to bombard a city.
Poor Serbia! As our train sped through her devastated districts I had a
picture of what the war had meant to this brave little country. In the
last two years this nation had stood alone, practically unassisted by
her allies, attempting to stem the rush of Pan-German conquest, just as,
for several centuries, she had stood as a bulwark against the onslaughts
of the Turks. And she had paid the penalty. Many farms we passed were
abandoned, overgrown with weeds and neglected, and the buildings were
frequently roofless and sometimes razed to the ground. Whenever we
crossed a stream we saw the remains of a dynamited bridge; in all cases
the Germans had built new ones to replace those which had been
destroyed. We saw many women and children, looking ragged and half
starved, but significantly we saw very few men, for all had either been
killed or they were in the ranks of Serbia’s still existing and valiant
little army. All this time trains full of German soldiers were passing
us or standing on the switches at the stations where we slowed up, a
sufficient explanation for all the misery and devastation we saw on our
way.