AMBASSADOR MORGENTHAU'S STORY
CHAPTER XVIII
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 cooperated. 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 Aegean. I could see the entrances to the
Dardanelles, Sedd-ul-Bahr and Kum Kale 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 Romer 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 Aegean 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 !or the defense.
"We expect that the British will come back early tomorrow 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 tomorrow 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
Sedd-ul-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.
Continue >
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TABLE OF CONTENTS  Introduction
Chapter I
Chapter II
Chapter III
Chapter IV
Chapter V
Chapter VI
Chapter VII
Chapter VIII
Chapter IX
Chapter X
Chapter XI
Chapter XII
Chapter XIII
Chapter XIV
Chapter XV
Chapter XVI
Chapter XVII
Chapter XVIII
Chapter XIX
Chapter XX
Chapter XXI
Chapter XXII
Chapter XXIII
Chapter XXIV
Chapter XXV
Chapter XXVI
Chapter XXVII
Chapter XXVIII
Chapter XXIX
PLACE YOUR ORDER
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