We drove also to the aviation ground and were shown what the officer in charge had contrived to make of the cannon left by Greeks. Though everything was systematically hacked to pieces, it had been all “put together again” by the Turks with astonishing patience and perseverance.
Naturally proud of his work, and delighted to tell us how it had all been managed, the officer, fortunately, quite forgot I was English. He was telling us that he found a few French 75’s, but that most of the guns were howitzers. Suddenly realising the need for caution, or rather courtesy, he burst out: “Cannon, Lloyd George,” and won from us all the most grateful and laughing applause.
I was further especially pleased with his outspoken pride in the Turkish women aviators, of whom his own wife had been one. All honour to them—from that Jeanne d’Arc of Turkey, Halidé Hanoum, to every woman who had unloaded munitions from the boats and “done her bit” in the factories!
He told us how women had watched for ships bringing munitions as for angels of deliverance. How they toiled at the unloading and bore their burdens with uncomplaining zeal. No man must lift a finger for work that could possibly be undertaken by women. As M. Kemal Pasha says: “The women have done their part in saving the country, they must have their share in governing it.”
It has always been supposed that France supplied most of these munitions. But the Turks paid us £5,000 sterling (at the present rate of exchange) for a load of their own munitions that we had “picked up,” and they bought arms from the English officers in Constantinople. Further supplies, of course, were obtained from Frenchmen, Italians, Russians, and, incredible as it may seem, from the Greeks themselves. Turkey bought arms wherever she could, and set herself the grim task of readjustment.
Meanwhile, the Governor had been telegraphing for us in all directions all day, for news of a train to take us on our way. All the services, of course, were disorganised, and the line cut—a message from Smyrna to Kassaba might take twelve days! We would not worry, or hope!
At about 9.30, we hear of another luggage train! It is not a long journey from Ouchak to Afioun-Karahissar. We are now well supplied with food and candles, a dilapidated deck-chair has been dug out for me, and the cheik’s brilliant conversation will “make history” of the night.
I had managed to have a few words with our host’s wife before we left the house. Her husband translating, she thanked me again and again for my visit, and then, asking me to excuse her going to see an ailing brother, she sailed away with her little babe in her arms. As she turned smiling on us from the big gateway, I could not resist blowing a kiss to the child-like and pathetic figure she made—for all the world like a schoolgirl and her doll!
Towards evening, as we were preparing to leave our host, I caught sight of a few tears rolling down his cheeks. Like an Englishman, he quickly brushed them aside, and turned to me with a smile.