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 minefields, 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 defence. 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{144} 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 co-operated. 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 ?gean. 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 ten 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 away, 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.

Sedd-ul-Bahr Fortification. [To face p. 144.
Sedd-ul-Bahr Fortification.
[To face p. 144.

Fort Dardanos.
Fort Dardanos.

{145}

“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 defences. 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 precise 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 real 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 defences 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 fortification. My Turkish and German friends looked at these evidences of{146} 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 ?gean 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 minds’ eyes 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 quickness and alertness; 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 sing-song 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 unbelievers, 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{147} 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 householders each 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. This was the general expectation, for no one believed that the Allies, after making this great demonstration, would accept defeat after the loss of only three ships. 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, excepting Enver, believed that the enterprise would succeed, and I............