“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 co-operated. The two were connected by telephone. When the command came to fire, the gunner in charge of the howitzer would discharge his shell, while the man in charge of the sewer pipe would burn several pounds of black powder and send forth a conspicuous cloud of inky smoke. Not unnaturally, the Englishmen and Frenchmen on the ships would assume that the shells speeding in their direction came from the visible smoke-cloud, and would proceed to centre all their attention upon that spot. The space around this burlesque gun was pock-marked with shell-holes; the sergeant in charge, I was told, had attracted more than 500 shots, while the real artillery piece still remained intact and undetected.
From Erenkeui we motored back to General Djevad’s headquarters, where we had lunch. Djevad took me up to an observation post, and there before my eyes I had the beautiful blue expanse of the Ægean. I could see the entrances to the Dardanelles, Sedd-ul-Bahr, and Kum Kalé standing like the guardians of a gateway, with the rippling sunny waters stretching between. Far out I saw the majestic ships of England and France sailing across the entrance, and, still farther away, I caught a glimpse of the island of Tenedos, behind which we knew that a still larger fleet lay concealed. Naturally this prospect brought to mind a thousand historic and legendary associations, for there is probably no single spot in the world more crowded with poetry and romance. Evidently my Turkish escort, General Djevad, felt the spell, for he took a telescope and pointed at a bleak expanse, perhaps ten miles away.
“Look at that spot,” he said, handing me the glass. “Do you know what that is?”
I looked, but could not identify this sandy beach.
“Those are the plains of Troy,” he said. “And the river that you see winding in and out,” he added, “we Turks call it the Mendere, but Homer knew it as the Scamander. Back of us, only a few miles away, is Mount Ida.”
Then he turned his glass out to sea, swept the field where the British ships lay, and again asked me to look at an indicated spot; I immediately brought within view a magnificent English warship, all stripped for battle, quietly steaming along like a man walking on patrol duty.
