I knew the Crown Prince well and I had expected to have him as a fellow passenger to Berlin; he had been about to make a trip to Germany, and his special car was attached to this train. I had seen much of Youssouf Izzeddin; he had several times invited me to call upon him, and we had spent many hours talking over the United States and American institutions, in which subject he had always displayed the keenest interest. Many times had he told me that he would like to introduce certain American governmental ideas in Turkey. This morning, when we were leaving for Berlin, the Crown Prince was found lying on the floor in his villa, bathed in a pool of blood, with his arteries cut. Youssouf was the son of Abdul-Aziz, Sultan from 1861 to 1876, who, gruesomely enough, had ended his days by opening his arteries forty years before. The circumstances surrounding the death of father and son were thus precisely the same. The fact that Youssouf was strongly pro-Ally, that he had opposed Turkey’s participation in the war on Germany’s side, and that he was extremely antagonistic to the Committee of Union and Progress gave rise to many suspicions. I know nothing about the stories that now went from mouth to mouth, and merely record that the official report on the death was that it was a case of “suicide.”

“On l’a suicidé!” (they have suicided him!), remarked a witty Frenchman, when this verdict was reported.

This tragic announcement naturally cast a gloom over our party, as our train pulled out of Constantinople, but the journey proved to be full of interest. I was now on the famous Balkanzug, and this was only the second trip which it had made to Berlin. My room was No. 13; several people came to look at it, telling me that, on the outward trip, the train had been shot at, and a window of my compartment broken.

Soon after we started I discovered that Admiral Usedom was one of my fellow passengers. Usedom had had a distinguished career in the navy; among other things he had been captain of the Hohenzollern, the Kaiser’s yacht, and thus was upon friendly terms with His Majesty. The last time I had seen Usedom was on my visit to the Dardanelles, where he had been Inspector General of the Ottoman defenses. As soon as we met again, the admiral began to talk about the abortive Allied attack. He again made no secret of the fears which he had then entertained that this attack would succeed.

“Several times,” he said, “we thought that they were on the verge of getting through. All of us down there were very much distressed and depressed over the prospect. We owed much to the heroism of the Turks and their willingness to sacrifice an unlimited number of human lives. It is all over now—that part of our task is finished.”

The Admiral thought that the British landing party had been badly prepared, though he spoke admiringly of the skill with which the Allies had managed their retreat. I also obtained further light on the German attitude toward the Armenian massacres. Usedom made no attempt to justify them; neither did he blame the Turks. He discussed the whole thing calmly, dispassionately, merely as a military problem, and one would never have guessed from his remarks that the lives of a million human beings had been involved. He simply said that the Armenians were in the way, that they were an obstacle to German success, and that it had therefore been necessary to remove them, just like so much useless lumber. He spoke about them as detachedly as one would speak about removing a row of houses in order to bombard a city.

Poor Serbia! As our train sped through her devastated districts I had a picture of what the war had meant to this brave little country. In the last two years this nation had stood alone, practically unassisted by her allies, attempting to stem the rush of Pan-German conquest, just as, for several centuries, she had stood as a bulwark against the onslaughts of the Turks. And she had paid the penalty. Many farms we passed were abandoned, overgrown with weeds and neglected, and the buildings were frequently roofless and sometimes razed to the ground. Whenever we crossed a stream we saw the remains of a dynamited bridge; in all cases the Germans had built new ones to replace those which had been destroyed. We saw many women and children, looking ragged and half starved, but significantly we saw very few men, for all had either been killed or they were in the ranks of Serbia’s still existing and valiant little army. All this time trains full of German soldiers were passing us or standing on the switches at the stations where we slowed up, a sufficient explanation for all the misery and devastation we saw on our way.

CHAPTER XXIX
VON JAGOW, ZIMMERMANN, AND GERMAN-AMERICANS

OUR train drew into the Berlin station on the evening of February 2, 1916. The date is worth mentioning, for that marked an important crisis in German-American relations. Almost the first man I met was my old friend and colleague, Ambassador James W. Gerard. Mr. Gerard told me that he was packing up and expected to leave Berlin at any moment, for he believed that a break between Germany and the United States was a matter only of days, perhaps of hours. At that time Germany and the United States were discussing the settlement of the Lusitania outrage. The negotiations had reached a point where the Imperial Government had expressed a willingness to express her regrets, pay an indemnity, and promise not to do it again. But the President and Mr. Lansing insisted that Germany should declare that the sinking of the Lusitania had been an illegal act. This meant that Germany at no time in the future could resume submarine warfare without stultifying herself and doing something which her own government had denounced as contrary to international law. But our government would accept nothing less and the two nations were, therefore, at loggerheads.

“I can do nothing more,” said Mr. Gerard. “I want to have you talk with Zimmermann and Von Jagow, and perhaps you can give them a new point of view.”