Thus Enver’s elevation to the Ministry of War was virtually a German victory. He immediately instituted a drastic reorganisation. Enver told me himself that he had accepted the post only on condition that he should have a free hand; and this free hand he now proceeded to exercise. The army still contained a large number of officers who inclined to the old régime rather than to the Young Turks—many of whom were partisans of the murdered Nazim. Enver promptly cashiered 268 of these, and put in their places Turks who were known as “U. and P.” men and many Germans. The Enver-Talaat group always feared a revolution that would depose them as they had thrown out their predecessors. Many times did they tell me that their own success as revolutionists had taught them how easily a few determined men could seize control of the country; they did not propose, they said, to have a little group in their army organise such a coup d’état against them. The boldness of Enver’s move alarmed even Talaat, but Enver showed the determination of his character and refused to reconsider his action, though one of the officers removed was Chukri Pasha, who had defended Adrianople in the Balkan war. Enver issued a circular to the Turkish commanders practically telling them that they must look to him for preferment alone, and that they could make no headway by playing politics with any group except that dominated by the Young Turks.

Thus, Enver’s first acts were the beginnings in the Prussiafication of the Turkish Army, but Talaat was not an enthusiastic German like his associate. He had no intention of playing Germany’s game; he was working chiefly for the Committee and for himself. But he could not succeed unless he had control of the army, and therefore he had made Enver, for years his closest associate in “U. and P.” politics, Minister of War. Again, he needed a strong army if he was to have any at all, and therefore he turned to the one source where he could find assistance—to Germany. Wangenheim and Talaat, in the latter part of 1913, had arranged that the Kaiser should send a military mission to reorganise the Turkish Army. Talaat told me that on calling in this mission he was using Germany, though Germany thought that it was using him. That there were definite dangers in the move he well understood. A deputy who discussed this situation with Talaat in January, 1914, has given me a memorandum of a conversation which shows well what was going on in Talaat’s mind.

“Why do you hand the management of the country over to the Germans?” asked this deputy, referring to the German military mission. “Don’t you see that this is part of Germany’s plan to make Turkey a German colony? That we shall become merely another Egypt?”

“We understand perfectly,” replied Talaat, “that that is Germany’s programme. We also know that we cannot put this country on its feet with our own resources. We shall, therefore, take advantage of such technical and material assistance as the Germans can place at our disposal. We shall use Germany to help us reconstruct and defend the country until we are able to govern ourselves with our own strength. When that day comes, we can say good-bye to the Germans within twenty-four hours.”

Certainly the physical condition of the Turkish Army betrayed the need of assistance from some source. The picture it presented, before the Germans arrived, I have always regarded as portraying the condition of the whole Empire. When I issued invitations for my first reception a large number of Turkish officials asked to be permitted to come in evening clothes; they said that they had no uniforms and no money with which to purchase or to hire them. They had not received their salaries for three and a half months. As the Grand Vizier, who regulates the etiquette of such functions, still insisted on full military dress, many of those officials had to absent themselves. About the same time the new German mission asked the Commander of the Second Army Corps to exercise his men, but the Commander replied that he could not do so as his men had no shoes!

Desperate and wicked as Talaat subsequently showed himself to be, I still think that he, at least then, was not a willing tool of Germany. An episode that involved myself bears out this view. In describing the relations of the great Powers to Turkey I have said nothing about the United States. In fact, we had no important business relations at that time. The Turks regarded us as a country of idealists and altruists, and the fact that we spent millions in building wonderful educational institutions in their country purely from philanthropic motives aroused their astonishment and possibly their admiration. They liked Americans and regarded us as about the only disinterested friends whom they had among the nations. But our interest in Turkey was small; the Standard Oil Company did a growing business, the Singer Company sold sewing machines to the Armenians, we bought much of their tobacco, figs, and rugs, and gathered their liquorice root. In addition to these activities, missionaries and educational experts were about our only contacts with the Turkish Empire. The Turks knew that we had no desire to dismember their country or to mingle in Balkan politics. The very fact that my country was so disinterested was perhaps the reason why Talaat discussed Turkish affairs so freely with me. In the course of these conversations I frequently expressed my desire to serve them, and Talaat and some of the other members of the Cabinet got into the habit of consulting me on business matters. Soon after my arrival, I made a speech at the American Chamber of Commerce in Constantinople; Talaat, Djemal, and other important leaders were present. I talked about the backward economic state of Turkey, and admonished them not to be discouraged. I described the condition of the United States after the Civil War, and made the point that our devastated Southern States presented a spectacle not unlike that of Turkey at that present moment. I then related how we had gone to work, realised on our resources, and built up the present thriving nation. My remarks apparently made a deep impression, especially my statement that after the Civil War the United States had become a large borrower in foreign money markets and had invited immigration from all parts of the world.

This speech apparently gave Talaat a new idea. It was not impossible that the United States might furnish him the material support which he had been seeking in Europe. Already I had suggested that an American financial expert should be sent to study Turkish finance, and in this connection I had mentioned Mr. Henry Bruère, of New York—a suggestion which the Turks had favourably received. At that time Turkey’s greatest need was money. France had financed Turkey for many years, and French bankers, in the spring of 1914, were negotiating for another large loan. Though Germany had made some loans, the condition of the Berlin money market at that time did not encourage the Turks to expect much assistance from that source.

In late December, 1913, Bustány Effendi, a Christian Arab, and Minister of Commerce and Agriculture, who spoke English fluently—he had been Turkish commissioner to the Chicago World’s Fair in 1893—called and approached me on the question of an American loan. Bustány asked if there were not American financiers who would take entire charge of the reorganisation of Turkish finance. His plea was really a cry of despair and it touched me deeply. As I wrote in my diary at the time, “They seem to be scraping the box for money.” But I had been in Turkey only six weeks, and obviously I had no information on which I could recommend such a large contract to American bankers. I informed him that my advice would not carry much weight in the United States unless it were based on a complete knowledge of economic conditions in Turkey. Talaat came to me a few days later, suggesting that I make a prolonged tour over the Empire and study the situation at first hand. Meanwhile he asked if I could not arrange a small temporary loan to tide them over the interim. He said there was no money in the Turkish Treasury; if I could only get them $5,000,000, that would satisfy them. I told Talaat that I would try to get this money for them and that I would adopt his suggestion and inspect his Empire with the possible idea of interesting American investors. After obtaining the consent of the State Department I wrote to my nephew and business associate, Mr. Robert E. Simon, asking him to sound certain New York institutions and bankers on making a small short-time collateral loan to Turkey. Mr. Simon’s investigations soon disclosed that a Turkish loan did not seem to be regarded as an attractive business undertaking in New York. Mr. Simon wrote, however, that Mr. C. K. G. Billings had shown much interest in the idea; and that, if I desired, Mr. Billings would come out in his yacht and discuss the matter with the Turkish Cabinet and with me. In a few days Mr. Billings had started for Constantinople.

The news of Mr. Billings’s approach spread with great rapidity all over the Turkish capital; the fact that he was coming in his own private yacht seemed to magnify the importance and the glamour of the event. That a great American millionaire was prepared to reinforce the depleted Turkish Treasury and that this support was merely the preliminary step in the reorganisation of Turkish finances by American capitalists produced a tremendous flutter in the foreign embassies. So rapidly did the information spread, indeed, that I rather suspected that the Turkish Cabinet had taken no particular pains to keep it secret. This suspicion was strengthened by a visit which I received from the Chief Rabbi Nahoum, who informed me that he had come at the request of Talaat. “There is a rumour,” said the Chief Rabbi, “that Americans are about to make a loan to Turkey. Talaat would be greatly pleased if you would not contradict it.” Wangenheim displayed an almost hysterical interest; the idea of America coming to the financial assistance of Turkey did not fall in with his plans at all, for in his eyes Turkey’s poverty was chiefly valuable as a means of forcing the Empire into Germany’s hands. One day I showed Wangenheim a book containing etchings of Mr. Billings’s homes, pictures, and horses; he showed a great interest, not only in the horses—Wangenheim was something of a horseman himself—but in this tangible evidence of great wealth. For the next few days ambassador after ambassador and minister after minister filed into my office, each solemnly asking for a glimpse at this book! As the time approached for Mr. Billings’s arrival Talaat began making elaborate plans for his entertainment; he consulted with me as to whom we should invite to the proposed dinners, lunches, and receptions. As usual, Wangenheim got in ahead of the rest. He could not come to the dinner which we had planned, and asked me to have him for lunch, and in this way he met Mr. Billings several hours before the other diplomats. Mr. Billings frankly told him that he was interested in Turkey and that it was not unlikely that he would make the loan.

In the evening we gave the Billings party a dinner, all the important members of the Turkish Cabinet being present. Before this dinner, Talaat, Mr. Billings, and myself had a long talk about the loan. Talaat informed us that the French bankers had accepted their terms that very day, and that they would, therefore, need no American money at that time. He was exceedingly gracious and grateful to Mr. Billings and profuse in expressing his thanks. Indeed, he might well have been, for Mr. Billings’s arrival enabled Turkey at last to close negotiations with the French bankers. His attempt to express his appreciation had one curious manifestation. Enver, the second man in the Cabinet, was celebrating his wedding when Mr. Billings arrived. The progress which Enver was making in the Turkish world is evidenced from the fact that, although Enver, as I have said, came of the humblest stock, his bride was a daughter of the Turkish Imperial House. Turkish weddings are prolonged affairs, lasting two or three days. The day following the Embassy dinner Talaat gave the Billings party a luncheon at the Cercle d’Orient, and he insisted that Enver should leave his wedding ceremony long enough to attend this function. Enver, therefore, came to the luncheon, sat through all the speeches, and then returned to his bridal party.

I am convinced that Talaat did not regard this Billings episode as closed. As I look back upon this transaction I see clearly that he was seeking to extricate his country, and that the possibility that the United States would assist him in performing the rescue was ever present in his mind. He frequently spoke to me of Mr. “Beelings,” as he called him, and even after Turkey had broken with France and England and was depending on Germany for money, his mind still reverted to Mr. Billings’s visit.

CHAPTER III

“THE PERSONAL REPRESENTATIVE OF THE KAISER”—WANGENHEIM OPPOSES THE SALE OF AMERICAN WARSHIPS IN GREECE

But even in March, 1914, the Germans had pretty well tightened their hold on Turkey. Liman von Sanders, who had arrived in December, had become the predominant influence in the Turkish Army. At first von Sanders’s appointment aroused no particular hostility, for German missions had been called in before to instruct the Turkish Army, notably that of von der Goltz; and an English naval mission, headed by Admiral Limpus, was even then in Turkey attempting the difficult task of reorganising the Turkish Navy. We soon discovered, however, that the Von Sanders military mission was something quite different from those which I have named. Even before Von Sanders’s arrival it had been announced that he was to take command of the First Turkish Army Corps, and that General Broussart von Schnellendorf was to become Chief of Staff. The appointments signified nothing less than that the Kaiser had almost completed his plans to annex the Turkish Army to his own. To show the power which von Sanders’s appointment had given him, it is only necessary to say that the First Army Corps practically controlled Constantinople. These changes clearly showed to what an extent Enver Pasha had become a cog in the Prussian system. Naturally the representations of the Entente Powers could not tolerate such a usurpation by Germany. The British, French, and Russian Ambassadors immediately called upon the Grand Vizier and protested with more warmth than politeness over von Sanders’s elevation. The Turkish Cabinet hummed and hawed in the usual way, protested that the change was not important, but finally withdrew von Sanders’s appointment as head of the First Army Corps, and made him Inspector-General. However, this did not greatly improve the situation, for this post really gave Von Sanders greater power than the one which he had held before. Thus, by January, 1914, seven months before the Great War began, Germany held this position in the Turkish Army: a German general was Chief of Staff; another was Inspector-General; scores of German officers held commands of the first importance, and the Turkish politician who was even then an outspoken champion of Germany, Enver Bey, was Minister of War.

After securing this diplomatic triumph Wangenheim was granted a vacation—he had certainly earned it—and Giers, the Russian Ambassador, went off on a vacation at the same time. Baroness Wangenheim explained to me—I was ignorant at this time of all these subtleties of diplomacy—precisely what these vacations signified. Wangenheim’s leave of absence, she said, meant that the German Foreign Office regarded the von Sanders episode as closed—and closed with a German victory. Giers’s furlough, she explained, meant that Russia declined to accept this point of view, end that, so far as Russia was concerned, the von Sanders affair had not ended. I remember writing to my family that, in this mysterious Balkan diplomacy, the nations talked to each other with acts, not words, and I instanced Baroness Wangenheim’s explanation of these diplomatic vacations as a case in point.

An incident which took place in my own house opened all our eyes to the seriousness with which von Sanders regarded this military mission. On February 18th I gave my first diplomatic dinner; General von Sanders and his two daughters attended, the general sitting next to my daughter Ruth. My daughter, however, did not have a very enjoyable time; this German Field-Marshal, sitting there in his gorgeous uniform, his breast all sparkling with medals, did not say a word throughout the whole meal. He ate his food silently and sulkily, all my daughter’s attempts to enter into conversation evoking only an occasional surly monosyllable. The behaviour of this great military leader was that of a spoiled child.

At the end of the dinner von Mutius, the German chargé d’affaires, came up to me in a high state of excitement. It was some time before he could sufficiently control his agitation to deliver his message.

“You have made a terrible mistake, Mr. Ambassador,” he said.

“What is that?” I asked, naturally taken aback.

“You have greatly offended Field-Marshal von Sanders. You have placed him at the dinner lower in rank than the foreign Ministers. He is the personal representative of the Kaiser, and as such is entitled to equal rank with the Ambassadors. He should have been placed ahead of the Cabinet Ministers and the Foreign Ministers.”

So I had affronted the Emperor himself! This, then, was the explanation of von Sanders’s boorish behaviour. Fortunately, my position was an impregnable one. I had not arranged the seating precedence at this dinner; I had sent the list of my guests to the Marquis Pallavicini, the Austrian Ambassador and dean of the diplomatic corps, and the greatest authority in Constantinople on such delicate points as this. The Marquis had returned the list, marking in red ink against each name the order of precedence—1, 2, 3, 4, 5, etc. I still possess this document, as it came from the Austrian Embassy, and General von Sanders’s name appears with the numerals “13” against it. I must admit, however, that “the thirteenth chair” did bring him pretty well to the foot of the table.

I explained the situation to von Mutius and asked Mr. Panfili, conseiller of the Austrian Embassy, who was a guest at the dinner, to come up and make everything clear to the outraged German diplomat. As the Austrians and Germans were allies, it was quite apparent that the slight, if slight there had been, was unintentional. Panfili said that he had been puzzled over the question of von Sanders’s position, and had submitted the question to the Marquis. The outcome was that the Austrian Ambassador had himself fixed von Sanders’s rank at No. 13. But the German Embassy did not let the matter rest there, for afterward Wangenheim called on Pallavicini, and discussed the matter with considerable liveliness.

“If Liman von Sanders represents the Kaiser, whom do you represent?” Pallavicini asked Wangenheim. The argument was a good one, as the Ambassador is always regarded as the alter ego of his Sovereign.

“It is not customary,” continued the Marquis, “for an Emperor to have two representatives at the same Court.”

As the Marquis was unyielding, Wangenheim carried the question to the Grand Vizier. But Saïd Halim refused to assume responsibility for so momentous a decision and referred the dispute to the Council of Ministers. This body solemnly sat upon the question and rendered this verdict: von Sanders should rank ahead of the Ministers of foreign countries, but below the members of the Turkish Cabinet. Then the foreign Ministers lifted up their voices in protest. Von Sanders not only became exceedingly unpopular for raising this question, but the dictatorial and autocratic way in which he did it aroused general disgust. The Ministers declared that, if von Sanders were ever given precedence at any function of this kind, they would leave the table in a body. The net result was that von Sanders was never again invited to a diplomatic dinner. Sir Louis Mallet, the British Ambassador, took a sardonic interest in the episode. It was lucky, he said, that it had not happened at his Embassy; if it had, the newspapers would have had columns about the strained relations between England and Germany!

After all, this proceeding did have great international importance. Von Sanders’s personal vanity had led him to betray a diplomatic secret; he was not merely a drill master who had been sent to instruct the Turkish Army; he was precisely what he had claimed to be—the personal representative of the Kaiser. The Kaiser had selected him just as he had selected Wangenheim, as an instrument for working his will in Turkey. Afterward von Sanders told me, with all that pride which German aristocrats manifest when speaking of their imperial master, how the Kaiser had talked to him a couple of hours the day he had appointed him to this Constantinople mission, and how, the day that he had started, Wilhelm had spent another hour giving him final instructions. I reported this dinner incident to my Government as indicating Germany’s growing ascendancy in Turkey, and I presume the other Ambassadors likewise reported it to their Governments. The American military attaché, Major John R. M. Taylor, who was present, attributed the utmost significance to it. A month after the occurrence he and Captain McCauley, commanding the Scorpion, the American stationaire at Constantinople, had lunch at Cairo with Lord Kitchener. The luncheon was a small one, only the Americans, Lord Kitchener, his sister, and an aide making up the party. Major Taylor related this incident, and Kitchener displayed much interest.

“What do you think it signifies?” asked Kitchener.

“I think it means,” Major Taylor said, “that when the big war comes, Turkey will probably be the ally of Germany. If she is not in direct alliance, at least I think that she will mobilise on the line of the Caucasus and thus divert three Russian army corps from the European theatre of operations.”

Kitchener thought for a moment and then said, “I agree with you.”

And now for several months we had before our eyes this spectacle of the Turkish Army actually under the control of Germany. German officers drilled the troops daily—all, I am now convinced, in preparation for the approaching war. Just what results had been accomplished appeared when, in July, there was a great military review. The occasion was a splendid and a gala affair. The Sultan attended in state; he sat under a beautifully decorated tent and held a little court, and the Khedive of Egypt, the Crown Prince of Turkey, the Princes of the imperial blood and the entire Cabinet were also on hand. We now saw that, in the preceding six months, the Turkish Army had been completely Prussianised. What in January had been an undisciplined, ragged rabble was now parading with the goose-step; the men were clad in German field-grey, and they even wore a casque-shaped head-covering, which slightly suggested the German pickelhaube. The German officers were immensely proud of the exhibition, and the transformation of the wretched Turkish soldiers of January into these neatly-dressed, smartly-stepping, splendidly manœuvring troops was really a creditable military achievement. When the Sultan invited me to his tent I naturally congratulated him upon the excellent showing of his men. He did not manifest much enthusiasm; he said that he regretted the possibility of war; he was at heart a pacifist. I noticed certain conspicuous absences from this great German fête, for the French, British, Russian, and Italian Ambassadors had kept away. Bompard said that he had received his ten tickets but that he did not regard that as an invitation. Wangenheim told me, with some satisfaction, that the other Ambassadors were jealous, and that they did not care to see the progress which the Turkish Army had made under German tutelage. I did not have the slightest doubt that these Ambassadors refused to attend because they had no desire to grace this German holiday; nor did I blame them.

Meanwhile I had other evidences that Germany was playing her part in Turkish politics. In June the relations between Greece and Turkey reached the breaking-point. The Treaty of London (May 30, 1913) had left Greece in possession of the islands of Chios and Mitylene. A reference to the map discloses the strategic importance of these islands. They stand there in the Ægean Sea like guardians controlling the Bay and the great port of Smyrna, and it is quite apparent that any strong military nation which permanently held these vantage points would ultimately control Smyrna and the whole Ægean coast of Asia Minor. The racial situation made the continued retention of these islands by Greece a constant military danger to Turkey. Their population was Greek and had been Greek since the days of Homer; the coast of Asia Minor itself was also Greek; more than half the population of Smyrna, Turkey’s greatest Mediterranean seaport, was Greek; in its industries, its commerce, and its culture the city was so predominantly Greek that the Turks usually referred to it as giaour Ismir—“infidel Smyrna.” Though this Greek population was nominally Ottoman in nationality, it did not conceal its affection for the Greek fatherland, these Asiatic Greeks even making contributions to the Greek Government. The Ægean islands and the mainland, in fact, constituted Graecia Irredenta, and that Greece was determined to redeem them, precisely as she had recently redeemed Crete, was no diplomatic secret. Should the Greeks ever land an army on this Asia Minor coast, there was little question that the native Greek population would welcome it enthusiastically and co-operate with it.

Since Germany, however, had her own plans for Asia Minor, naturally the Greeks in this region formed a barrier to Pan-German aspirations. As long as this region remained Greek it formed a natural obstacle to Germany’s road to the Persian Gulf, precisely as did Serbia. Anyone who has read even cursorily the literature of Pan-Germania is familiar with the peculiar German method which German publicists have advocated for dealing with populations that stand in Germany’s way. That is, by deportation. The violent shifting of whole peoples from one part of Europe to another, as though they were so many herds of cattle, has for years been part of the Kaiser’s plans for German expansion. This is the treatment which, since the war began, Germany has applied to Belgium, to Poland, to Serbia, and its most hideous manifestation, as I shall show, has been to Armenia. Acting under Germany’s prompting, Turkey now began to apply this principle of deportation to her Greek subjects in Asia Minor. Three years afterwards the German Admiral Usedom, who had been stationed in the Dardanelles during the bombardment, told me that it was the Germans “who urgently made the suggestion that the Greeks be moved from the sea-shore.” The German motive, Admiral Usedom said, was purely military. Whether Talaat and his associates realised that they were playing the German game I am not sure, but there is no doubt that the Germans were constantly instigating them in this congenial task.

The events that followed foreshadowed the policy adopted in the Armenian massacres. The Turkish officials pounced upon the Greeks, herded them in groups and marched them toward the ships. They gave them no time to settle their private affairs, and they took no pains to keep families together. The plan was to transport the Greeks to the wholly Greek islands in the Ægean. Naturally the Greeks rebelled against such treatment, and occasional massacres were the result, especially in Phocaea, where more than fifty people were murdered. The Turks demanded that all foreign establishments in Smyrna dismiss their Greek employés—and replace them with Moslems. Among other American concerns, the Singer Manufacturing Company received such instructions, and though I interceded and obtained sixty days’ delay, ultimately this American concern had to obey the mandate. An official boycott was established against all Christians, not only in Asia Minor, but in Constantinople, but this boycott did not discriminate against the Jews, who have always been more popular with the Turks than have the Christians. The officials particularly requested Jewish merchants to put signs over their doors indicating their nationality and trade—such signs as “Abraham the Jew, tailor,” “Isaac the Jew, shoemaker,” and the like. I looked upon this boycott as illustrating the topsy-turvy national organisation of Turkey, for here we had a nation engaging in a commercial boycott against its own subjects.

This procedure against the Greeks not improperly aroused my indignation. I did not have the slightest suspicion at that time that the Germans had instigated these deportations, but I looked upon them merely as an outburst of Turkish ferocity and chauvinism. By this time I knew Talaat well; I saw him nearly every day and he used to discuss practically every phase of international relations with me. I objected vigorously to his treatment of the Greeks; I told him that it would make the worst possible impression abroad and that it affected American interests. Talaat explained his national policy; these different blocs in the Turkish Empire, he said, had always conspired against Turkey; because of the hostility of these native populations, Turkey had lost province after province—Greece, Serbia, Rumania, Bulgaria, Bosnia, Herzegovina, Egypt, and Tripoli. In this way the Turkish Empire had dwindled almost to the vanishing point. If what was left of Turkey was to survive, added Talaat, he must get rid of these alien peoples. “Turkey for the Turks” was now Talaat’s controlling idea. Therefore he proposed to Turkify Smyrna and the adjoining islands. Already 40,000 Greeks had left, and he asked me again to urge on American business houses to employ only Turks. He said that the accounts of violence and murder had been greatly exaggerated, and suggested that a commission be sent to investigate. “They want a commission to whitewash Turkey,” Sir Louis Mallet, the British Ambassador, told me. True enough, when this commission did bring in its report, it exculpated Turkey.

The Greeks in Turkey had one great advantage over the Armenians, for there was such a thing as a Greek Government, which naturally had a protecting interest in them. The Turks

knew that these deportations would precipitate a war with Greece; in fact, they welcomed such a war and were preparing for it. So enthusiastic were the Turkish people that they had raised money by popular subscription and had purchased a Brazilian dreadnought which was then under construction in England. The Government had ordered also a second dreadnought in England, and several submarines and destroyers in France. The purpose of these naval preparations was no secret in Constantinople. As soon as they obtained these ships, or even the one dreadnought which was nearing completion, Turkey intended to attack Greece and take back the islands. A single modern battleship like the Sultan Osman—this was the name the Turks had given the Brazilian vessel—could easily overpower the whole Greek Navy and control the Ægean Sea. As this powerful vessel would be finished and commissioned in a few months we all expected the Greco-Turkish war to break out in the fall. What could the Greek Navy possibly do in face of this impending danger?

Such was the situation when, early in June, I received a most agitated visitor. This was Djemal Pasha, the Turkish Minister of Marine, and one of the three men who then dominated the Turkish Empire. I have hardly ever seen a man who appeared more utterly worried than was Djemal on this occasion. As he began talking excitedly to my interpreter in French, his whiskers trembling with his emotions and his hands wildly gesticulating, he seemed to be almost beside himself. I knew enough French to understand what he was saying, and the news which he brought—this was the first I had heard of it—sufficiently explained his agitation. The American Government, he said, was negotiating with Greece for the sale of two battleships, the Idaho and the Mississippi. He urged that I should immediately move to prevent any such sale. His attitude was that of a suppliant; he begged, he implored that I should intervene. All along, he said, the Turks regarded the United States as their best friend. I had frequently expressed my desire to help them; well, here was the chance to show our good feeling. The fact that Greece and Turkey were practically on the verge of war, said Djemal, really made the sale of the ships an unneutral act. Still, if the transaction were purely a commercial one, Turkey would like a chance to bid. “We will pay more than Greece,” he added. He ended with a powerful plea that I should at once cable my Government about the matter, and this I promised to do.

Evidently the clever Greeks had turned the tables on their enemy. Turkey had rather too boldly advertised her intention of attacking Greece as soon as she had received her dreadnought. Both the ships for which Greece was now negotiating were immediately available for battle! The Idaho and Mississippi were not indispensable ships for the American Navy; they could not take their place in the first line of battle; they were powerful enough, however, to drive the whole Turkish Navy from the Ægean. Evidently the Greeks did not intend politely to postpone the impending war until the Turkish dreadnought had been finished, but to attack as soon as they received these American ships. Djemal’s legal point, of course, had no validity. However much war might threaten, Turkey and Greece were still actually at peace. Clearly Greece had just as much right to purchase warships in the United States as Turkey had to purchase them in Brazil or England.

But Djemal was not the only statesman who attempted to prevent the sale; the German Ambassador displayed the keenest interest. Several days after Djemal’s visit Wangenheim and I were riding in the hills north of Constantinople. Wangenheim began to talk about the Greeks—to whom he displayed a violent antipathy—about the chances of war, and the projected sale of American warships. He made a long argument about the sale, his reasoning being precisely the same as Djemal’s—a fact which aroused my suspicions that he had himself coached Djemal for his interview with me.

“Just look at the dangerous precedent you are establishing,” said Wangenheim. “It is not unlikely that the United States may some time find itself in a position like Turkey’s to-day. Suppose that you were on the brink of war with Japan; then England could sell a fleet of dreadnoughts to Japan. How would the United States like that?”

And then he made a statement which indicated what really lay back of his protest. I have thought of it many times in the last three years. The scene is indelibly impressed on my mind. There we sat on our horses; the silent, ancient forest of Belgrade lay around us, while in the distance the Black Sea glistened in the afternoon sun. Wangenheim suddenly became quiet and extremely earnest. He looked in my eyes and said:

“I don’t think that the United States realises what a serious matter this is. The sale of these ships might be the cause that would bring on a European war.”

This conversation took place on June 13; this was about six weeks before the conflagration broke out. Wangenheim knew perfectly well that Germany was rushing preparations for this great conflict, and he also knew that the preparations were not yet entirely complete. Like all the German Ambassadors, Wangenheim had received instructions not to let any crisis arise that would precipitate war until all these preparations had been finished. He had no objection to the expulsion of the Greeks, for that in itself was part of these preparations; he was much disturbed, however, over the prospect that the Greeks might succeed in arming themselves and disturbing existing conditions in the Balkans. At that moment the Balkans were a smouldering volcano. Europe had gone through two Balkan wars without becoming generally involved, and Wangenheim knew that another would set the whole continent ablaze. He knew that war was coming, but he did not want it just then. He was simply attempting to influence me at that moment to gain a little more time for Germany.

He went so far as to ask me to cable personally to the President, explain the seriousness of the situation, and to call his attention to the telegrams that had gone to the State Department on the proposed sale of the ships. I regarded his suggestion as an impertinent one and declined to act upon it.

To Djemal and the other Turkish officials who kept pressing me I suggested that their Ambassador in Washington should directly take up the matter with the President. They acted on this advice, but the Greeks again got ahead of them. At two o’clock, June 22nd, the Greek chargé d’affaires at Washington and Commander Tsouklas, of the Greek Navy, called upon the President and arranged the sale. As they left the President’s office the Turkish Ambassador entered—just fifteen minutes too late!

I presume that Mr. Wilson consented to the sale because he knew that Turkey was preparing to attack Greece and believed that the Idaho and Mississippi would prevent such an attack and so preserve peace in the Balkans.

Acting under the authorisation of Congress, the Administration sold these ships on July 8, 1914, to Fred J. Gauntlett for $12,535,276.98. Congress immediately voted the money realised from the sale to the construction of a great modern dreadnought, the California. Mr. Gauntlett transferred the ships to the Greek Government. Rechristened the Kilkis and the Lemnos, these battleships immediately took their places as the most powerful vessels in the Greek Navy, and the enthusiasm of the Greeks in obtaining them was unbounded.

By this time we had moved from the Embassy to our summer home on the Bosphorus. All the summer Embassies were located there, and a more beautiful spot I have never seen. Our house was a three-storey building, something in the Venetian style; behind it the cliff rose abruptly, with several terraced gardens towering one above the other. The building stood so near the shore and the waters of the Bosphorus rushed by so rapidly that when we sat outside, especially on a moonlight night, we had almost a complete illusion that we were sitting on the deck of a fast sailing-ship. In the daytime the Bosphorus, here little more than a mile wide, was alive with gaily-coloured craft. I recall this animated scene with particular vividness because I retain in my mind the contrast it presented a few months afterward, when Turkey’s entrance into the war had the immediate result of closing this strait. Day by day the huge Russian steamships, on their way from Black Sea ports to Smyrna, Alexandria, and other cities, made clear the importance of this little strip of water, and explained the bloody contests of the European nations, extending over a thousand years, for its possession. However, these early summer months were peaceful; all the Ambassadors and Ministers and their families were thrown constantly together; here daily gathered the representatives of all the Powers that for the last three years have been grappling in history’s bloodiest war, all then apparently friends, sitting around the same dining-tables, walking arm-in-arm upon the porches. The Ambassador of one Power would most graciously escort into dinner the wife of another whose country was perhaps the most antagonistic to his own. Little groups would form after dinner; the Grand Vizier would hold an impromptu reception in one corner, Cabinet Ministers would be whispering in another; a group of Ambassadors would discuss the Greek situation out on the porch; the Turkish officials would glance quizzically upon the animated scene and perhaps comment quietly in their own tongue; the Russian Ambassador would glide about the room, pick out someone whom he wished to talk to, lock arms and push him into a corner for a surreptitious tête-à-tête. Meanwhile our sons and daughters, the junior members of the diplomatic corps, and the officers of the several stationaires, dancing and flirting, seemed to think that the whole proceeding had been arranged solely for their amusement. And to realise while all this was going on that neither the Grand Vizier nor any of the other high Turkish officials would leave the house without outriders and bodyguards to protect them from assassination—whatever other emotions such a vibrating atmosphere might arouse, it was certainly alive with interest. I felt also that there was something electric about it all; war was ever the favourite topic of conversation; everyone seemed to realise that this peaceful, frivolous life was transitory, and that at any moment might come the spark that was to set everything aflame.

Yet, when the crisis came, it produced no immediate sensation. On June 29th we heard of the assassination of the Grand Duke of Austria and his consort. Everybody received the news calmly; there was, indeed, a stunned feeling that something momentous had happened, but there was practically no excitement. A day or two after this tragedy I had a long talk with Talaat on diplomatic matters; he made no reference at all to this event. I think now that we were all affected by a kind of emotional paralysis—as we were nearer the centre than most people, we certainly realised the dangers in the situation. In a day or two our tongues seemed to have been loosened, for we began to talk—and to talk war. When I saw von Mutius, the German chargé, and Weitz, the diplomat-correspondent of the Frankfürter Zeitung, they also discussed the impending conflict, and again they gave their forecast a characteristically Germanic touch; when war came, they said, of course the United States would take advantage of it to get all the Mexican and South American trade!

When I called upon Pallavicini to express my condolences over the Grand Duke’s death, he received me with the most stately solemnity. He was conscious that he was representing the imperial family, and his grief seemed to be personal; one would think that he had lost his own son. I expressed my abhorrence and that of my nation for the deed, and our sympathy with the aged Emperor.

“Ja, ja, es ist sehr schrecklich” (Yes, yes, it is very terrible), he answered, almost in a whisper.

“Serbia will be condemned for her conduct,” he added. “She will be compelled to make reparation.”

A few days later, when Pallavicini called upon me, he spoke of the nationalistic societies that Serbia had permitted to exist and of her determination to annex Bosnia and Herzegovina. He said that his Government would insist on the abandonment of these societies and these pretensions, and that probably a punitive expedition into Serbia would be necessary to prevent such outrages as the murder of the Grand Duke. Herein I had my first intimation of the famous ultimatum of July 22nd.

The entire diplomatic corps attended the requiem mass for the Grand Duke and Duchess, celebrated at the Church of Sainte Marie on July 4. The church is located in the Grande Rue de Pera, not far from the Austrian Embassy; to reach it we had to descend a flight of forty stone steps. At the top of these stairs representatives of the Austrian Embassy, dressed in full uniform, with crêpe on the left arm, met us, and escorted us to our seats. All the Ambassadors sat in the front pew; I recall this with strange emotions now, for it was the last time that we ever sat together. The service was dignified and beautiful; I remember it with especial vividness because of the contrasting scene that immediately followed. When the stately, gorgeously-robed priests had finished, we all shook hands with the Austrian Ambassador, returned to our automobiles, and started on our eight-mile ride along the Bosphorus to the American Embassy. For this day was not only the day when we paid our tribute to the murdered heir of this medieval autocracy; it was also the Fourth of July. The very setting of the two scenes symbolised these two national ideals. I always think of this ambassadorial group going down those stone steps to the church to pay their respect to the Grand Duke, and then going up to the gaily-decorated American Embassy to pay their respect to the Declaration of Independence. All the station ships of the foreign countries lay out in the stream, decorated and dressed in honour of our national holiday; and the Ambassadors and Ministers called in full regalia. From the upper gardens we could see the place where Darius crossed from Asia with his Persian hosts 2,500 years before—one of those ancient autocrats the line of which is not yet entirely extinct. There also we could see magnificent Robert College, an institution that represented America’s conception of the way to “penetrate” the Turkish Empire. At night our gardens were illuminated with Chinese lanterns and good old American fireworks, lighting up the surrounding hills and the Bosphorus, and the American flag flying at the front of the house seemed almost to act as a challenge to the plentiful reminders of autocracy and oppression which we had had in the early part of the day. Not more than a mile across the water the dark and gloomy hills of Asia, for ages the birthplace of military despotisms, caught a faint, and, I think, a prophetic, glow from these illuminations.

In glancing at the little ambassadorial group at the church, and later at our reception, I was surprised to note that one familiar figure was missing. Wangenheim, Austria’s ally, was not present. This somewhat puzzled me at the time, but afterward I had the explanation from Wangenheim’s own lips. He had left some days before for Berlin. The Kaiser had summoned him to an Imperial Council, which met on July 5th, and which decided to plunge Europe into war.

CHAPTER IV

GERMANY MOBILISES THE TURKISH ARMY

These wretched marchers little realised what was the power that was dragging them from the four corners of their country. Even we of the diplomatic group had not then clearly grasped the real situation. We learned afterwards that the signal for this mobilisation had not come originally from Enver or Talaat or the Turkish Cabinet, but the General Staff in Berlin and its representatives in Constantinople, Liman von Sanders and Bronsart, were really directing the variegated operation. There were unmistakable signs of German activity. As soon as the German armies crossed the Rhine work was begun on a mammoth wireless station a few miles outside of Constantinople. The materials all came from Germany by way of Rumania, and the mechanics, industriously working from daybreak to sunset, were unmistakably Germans. Of course, the neutrality laws would have prohibited the construction of a wireless station for a belligerent in a neutral country like Turkey; it was therefore officially announced that a German company was building this heaven-pointing structure for the Turkish Government and on the Sultan’s own property. But this story deceived no one. Wangenheim, the German Ambassador, spoke of it freely and constantly as a German enterprise.

“Have you seen our wireless yet?” he would ask me. “Come on, let’s ride up there and look it over.”

He proudly told me that it was the most powerful in the world—powerful enough to catch all messages sent by the Eiffel Tower in Paris! He said that it would put him in constant communication with Berlin. So little did he attempt to conceal its German ownership that several times, when ordinary telegraphic communication was suspended, he offered to let me use it to send my telegrams.

This wireless plant was an outward symbol of the close though unacknowledged association which then existed between Turkey and Berlin. It took some time to finish such an extensive station, and in the interim Wangenheim was using the apparatus on the Corcovado, a German merchant-ship which was lying in the Bosphorus opposite the German Embassy. For practical purposes, Wangenheim had a constant telephone connection with Berlin.

German officers were almost as active as the Turks themselves in this mobilisation. They enjoyed it all immensely; indeed, they gave every sign that they were having the time of their lives. Bronsart, Humann, and Lafferts were constantly at Enver’s elbow, advising and directing the operations. German officers were rushing through the streets every day in huge automobiles, all requisitioned from the civilian population; they filled all the restaurants and amusement places at night and celebrated their joy in the situation by consuming large quantities of champagne—also requisitioned. A particularly spectacular and noisy figure was that of von der Goltz Pasha. He was constantly making a kind of viceregal progress through the streets in a huge and madly-dashing automobile, on both sides of which flaring German eagles were painted. A trumpeter on the front seat would blow loud, defiant blasts as the conveyance rushed along, and woe to anyone, Turk or non-Turk, who happened to get in the way! The Germans made no attempt to conceal their conviction that they owned this town. Just as Wangenheim had established a little Wilhelmstrasse in his Embassy, so had the German military men established a sub-station of the Berlin General Staff. They even brought their wives and families from Germany; I heard Baroness Wangenheim remark that she was holding a little court of her own.

The Germans, however, were about the only people who were enjoying this proceeding. The requisitioning that accompanied the mobilisation really amounted to a wholesale looting of the civilian population. The Turks took all the horses, mules, camels, sheep, cows, and other beasts that they could lay their hands on, Enver telling me that they had gathered in 150,000 animals. They did it most intelligently, making no provision for the continuance of the species; thus they would leave only two cows or two mares in many of the villages. This system of requisitioning, as I shall describe, had the inevitable result of destroying the nation’s agriculture, and ultimately led to the starvation of hundreds of thousands of people. But the Turks, like the Germans, thought that the war was destined to be a very short one, and that they would quickly recuperate from the injuries which their methods of supplying an army were causing their peasant population. The Government showed precisely the same shamelessness and lack of intelligence in the way that they requisitioned materials from merchants and shopmen. These proceedings amounted to little less than conscious highwaymanship. But practically none of these merchants were Moslems; most of them were Christians, though there were a few Jews, and the Turkish officials therefore not only provided the needs of their army, and incidentally lined their own pockets, but they found a religious joy in pillaging the infidel establishments. They would enter a retail shop, take practically all the merchandise on the shelves, and give merely a piece of paper in acknowledgment. As the Government had never paid for the supplies which it had taken in the Italian and Balkan Wars, the merchants hardly expected that they would ever receive anything for these latest requisitions. Afterward, many who understood officialdom, and were politically influential, did recover to the extent of 70 per cent.—what became of the remaining 30 per cent. is not a secret to those who have had experience with Turkish bureaucrats.

Thus, for most of the population, requisitioning simply meant financial ruin. That the process was merely pillaging is shown by many of the materials which the army took, ostensibly for the use of the soldiers. Thus the officers seized all the mohair they could find; on occasion they even carried off women’s silk stockings, corsets, and babies’ slippers, and I heard one case in which they reinforced the Turkish commissary with caviar and other delicacies. They demanded blankets from one merchant who was a dealer in women’s underwear; because he had no such stock, they seized what he had, and he afterward saw his appropriated goods reposing in rival establishments. The Turks did the same thing in many other cases. The prevailing system was to take movable property wherever available and convert it into cash; where the money ultimately went I do not know, but that many private fortunes were made I have little doubt. I told Enver that this ruthless method of mobilising and requisitioning was destroying his country. Misery and starvation soon began to afflict the land. Out of 4,000,000 adult male population more than 1,500,000 were ultimately enlisted, and so about a million families were left without breadwinners, all of them in a condition of extreme destitution. The Turkish Government paid its soldiers 25 cents a month, and gave the families a separation allowance of $1.20 a month. As a result, thousands were dying from lack of food and many more were enfeebled by malnutrition. I believe that the Empire has lost a quarter of its Turkish population since the war started. I asked Enver why he permitted his people to be destroyed in this way. But sufferings like these did not distress him. He was much impressed by his success in raising a large army with practically no money—something, he boasted, which no other nation had ever done before. In order to accomplish this, Enver had issued orders which stigmatised the evasion of military service as desertion, and therefore punishable with the death penalty. He also adopted a scheme by which any Ottoman could obtain exemption by the payment of about $190. Still, Enver regarded his accomplishment as a notable one. It was really his first taste of unlimited power, and he enjoyed the experience greatly.

That the Germans directed this mobilisation is not a matter of opinion but of proof. I need only instance that the Germans were requisitioning materials in their own name for their own use. I have a photographic copy of such a requisition made by Humann, the German naval attaché, for a shipload of oil-cake. This document is dated September 29, 1914. “The lot by the steamship Derindje which you mentioned in your letter of the 26th,” this paper reads, “has been requisitioned by me for the German Government.” This clearly shows that, a month before Turkey had entered the war, Germany was really exercising the powers of sovereignty at Constantinople.

CHAPTER V

WANGENHEIM SMUGGLES THE “GOEBEN” AND THE “BRESLAU” THROUGH THE DARDANELLES

A few hours afterward I happened to meet Wangenheim. When I told him what Mrs. Wertheim had seen, he displayed an agitated interest. Immediately after lunch he called at the American Embassy with Pallavicini, the Austrian Ambassador, and asked for an interview with my daughter. The two Ambassadors solemnly planted themselves in chairs before Mrs. Wertheim and subjected her to a most minute, though very polite, cross-examination. “I never felt so important in my life,” she afterwards told me. They would not permit her to leave out a single detail; they wished to know how many shots had been fired, what direction the German ships had taken, what everybody on board had said, and so on. The visit seemed to give these allied Ambassadors immense relief and satisfaction, for they left the house in an almost jubilant mood, behaving as though a great weight had been taken off their minds. And certainly they had good reason for their elation. My daughter had been the means of giving them the news which they had desired to hear above everything else—that the Goeben and the Breslau had escaped the British fleet and were then steaming rapidly in the direction of the Dardanelles.

For it was those famous German ships, the Goeben and the Breslau, which my daughter had seen engaged in battle with a British scout ship!

The next day official business called me to the German Embassy. But Wangenheim’s animated manner soon disclosed that he had no interest in routine matters. Never had I seen him so nervous and so excited. He could not rest in his chair more than a few minutes at a time; he was constantly jumping up, rushing to the window, and looking anxiously out toward the Bosphorus where his private wireless station, the Corcovado, lay about three-quarters of a mile away. Wangenheim’s face was flushed and his eyes were shining; he would stride up and down the room, speaking now of a recent German victory, now giving me a little forecast of Germany’s plans, and then he would stalk to the window again for another look at the Corcovado.

“Something is seriously distracting you,” I said, rising. “I will go, and come again some other time.”

“No, no!” the Ambassador almost shouted. “I want you to stay right where you are. This will be a great day for Germany! If you will only remain for a few minutes you will hear a great piece of news—something that has the utmost bearing upon Turkey’s relation to the war.”

Then he rushed out on the portico and leaned over the balustrade. At the same moment I saw a little launch put out from the Corcovado toward the Ambassador’s dock. Wangenheim hurried down, seized an envelope from one of the sailors, and a moment afterward burst into the room again.

“We’ve got them!” he shouted to me.

“Got what?” I asked.

“The Goeben and the Breslau have passed through the Dardanelles!”

He was waving the wireless message with all the enthusiasm of a college boy whose football team has won a victory.

Then, momentarily checking his enthusiasm, he came up to me solemnly, humorously shook his forefinger, lifted his eyebrows, and said, “Of course, you understand that we have sold these ships to Turkey!

“And Admiral Souchon,” he added with another wink, “will enter the Sultan’s service!”

Wangenheim had more than patriotic reasons for this exultation; the arrival of these ships was the greatest day in his diplomatic career. It was really the first diplomatic victory which Germany had won. For years the Chancellorship of the Empire had been Wangenheim’s laudable ambition, and he behaved now like a man who saw his prize within his grasp. The voyage of the Goeben and the Breslau was his personal triumph; he had arranged with the Turkish Cabinet for their passage through the Dardanelles, and he had directed their movements by wireless in the Mediterranean. By safely getting the Goeben and the Breslau into Constantinople, Wangenheim had definitely clinched Turkey as Germany’s ally. All his intrigues and plottings for three years had now finally succeeded.

I doubt if any two ships have exercised a greater influence upon history than these two German cruisers. Not all of us at that time fully realised their importance, but subsequent developments have fully justified Wangenheim’s exuberant satisfaction. The Goeben was a powerful battle-cruiser of recent construction, the Breslau was not so large a ship, but she, like the Goeben, had the excessive speed that made her extremely serviceable in those waters. These ships had spent the few months preceding the war cruising in the Mediterranean, and when the declaration finally came they were taking on supplies at Messina. I have always regarded it as more than a coincidence that these two vessels, both of them having a greater speed than any French or English ships in the Mediterranean, should have been lying not far from Turkey when war broke out. The selection of the Goeben was particularly fortunate, as she had twice before visited Constantinople and her officers and men knew the Dardanelles perfectly. The behaviour of these crews, when the news of war was received, indicated the spirit with which the German Navy began hostilities; the men broke out into song and shouting, lifted their admiral upon their shoulders, and held a real German jollification. It is said that Admiral Souchon preserved, as a touching souvenir of this occasion, his white uniform bearing the finger-prints of his grimy sailors! For all their joy at the prospect of battle, the situation of these ships was still a precarious one. They formed no match for the large British and French naval forces which were roaming through the Mediterranean. The Goeben and the Breslau were far from their native bases; with the coaling problem such an acute one, and with England in possession of all important stations, where could they flee for safety? Several Italian destroyers were circling around the German ships at Messina, enforcing neutrality and occasionally reminding them that they could remain in port only twenty-four hours. England had ships stationed at the Gulf of Otranto, the head of the Adriatic, to cut them off in case they sought to escape into the Austrian port of Pola. The British Navy also stood guard at Gibraltar and Suez, the only other exits that apparently offered the possibility of escape. There was only one other place in which the Goeben and the Breslau might find a safe and friendly reception. That was Constantinople. Apparently the British Navy dismissed this as an impossibility. At that time, early in August, international law had not entirely disappeared as the guiding conduct of nations. Turkey was then a neutral country, and, despite the many evidences of German domination, she seemed likely to maintain her neutrality. The Treaty of Paris, which was signed in 1856, as well as the Treaty of London, signed in 1871, provided that warships should not use the Dardanelles except on the special permission of the Sultan, which permission could be granted only in times of peace. In practice the Government had seldom given this permission except for ceremonial occasions. In the existing conditions it would have amounted virtually to an unfriendly act for the Sultan to have removed the ban against war vessels in the Dardanelles, and to permit the Goeben and the Breslau to remain in Turkish waters for more than twenty-four hours would have been nothing less than a declaration of war. It is, perhaps, not surprising that the British in the early days of August, 1914, when Germany had not completely made clear her official opinion that “international law had ceased to exist,” regarded these treaty stipulations as barring the German ships from the Dardanelles and Constantinople. Relying upon the sanctity of these international regulations, the British Navy had shut off every point through which these German ships could have escaped to safety—except the entrance to the Dardanelles. Had England, immediately on the declaration of war, rushed a powerful squadron to this vital spot, how different the history of the last three years might have been!

“His Majesty expects the Goeben and the Breslau to succeed in breaking through!” Such was the wireless that reached these vessels at Messina at five o’clock in the evening of August 4th. The twenty-four hours’ stay permitted by the Italian Government had nearly expired. Outside, in the Strait of Otranto, lay the force of British battle-cruisers, sending false radio messages to the Germans instructing them to rush for Pola. With bands playing and flags flying, the officers and crews having had their spirits fired by speeches and champagne, the two vessels started at full speed head on toward the awaiting British fleet. The little Gloucester, a scout boat, kept in touch, wiring constantly the German movements to the main squadron. Suddenly, when off Cape Spartivento, the Goeben and the Breslau let off into the atmosphere all the discordant vibrations which their wireless could command, jamming the air with such a hullabaloo that the Gloucester was unable to send any intelligible messages. Then the German cruisers turned south and made for the Ægean Sea. The plucky little Gloucester kept close on their heels, and, as my daughter had related, had even once audaciously offered battle. A few hours behind the British squadron pursued, but uselessly, for the German ships, though far less powerful in battle, were much speedier. Even then the British admiral probably thought that he had spoiled the German plans. The German ships might get first to the Dardanelles, but at that point stood international law across the path and barring the entrance!

Meanwhile Wangenheim had accomplished his great diplomatic triumph. From the Corcovado wireless station in the Bosphorus he was sending the most agreeable news to Admiral Souchon. He was telling him to hoist the Turkish flag when he reached the Strait, for Admiral Souchon’s cruisers had suddenly become parts of the Turkish Navy, and, therefore, the usual international prohibitions did not apply! These cruisers were no longer the Goeben and the Breslau, for, like an oriental magician, Wangenheim had suddenly changed them into the Sultan Selim and the Medilli. The fact was that the German Ambassador had cleverly taken advantage of the existing situation to manufacture a “sale.” As I have already told, Turkey had two dreadnoughts under construction in England