A couple of miles won by us here gives England wheat and Russia rifles; gives us the whip hand in the Balkans plus security in a couple of Continents. A couple of miles lost by us here leaves the German with a strengthened grip upon all the real world objectives for which he went to war: it leaves us with a ruined prestige in Asia. But what is all that to Joffre to whom, as a good Frenchman, the Balkans; the bracing up of the Russian Army; all the Odessa corn; Asia and Africa thrown in, do not count against one departement of la Patrie.
(2) If the push in the West is indecisive then our push is only to be postponed. Postponed! The word is like a knell. To write it gives me a feeling of sick despair. Only postponed! As well cable at once, only ruined!!
(3) But there is a third eventuality not mentioned by Lord K. How if our attack upon the main strength of the entrenched Germans is beaten off? To Joffre France comes first and the rest nowhere—every time: that is natural. But our Higher Direction are not Frenchmen—not yet! Armageddon is actually being fought here, at the Dardanelles, and the British outlook is focused on France. We are to sit here and rot away with cholera, and see the winter gales approach, until the big push has been made in the West where men can afford to wait—where they are healthy—where time is all on their side. And this push in the West is against the whole German Empire linked to all its own vast resources by a few miles of the best railways in the world. We can attack here with more men and more munitions than the enemy the very moment we care to accept the principle that, at this moment, Constantinople and the heartening up of Russia and ascendency amongst the Balkan States are not only the true positive objectives of our strategy, but are the sole strategical stunts upon the board. We can do so because of our sea power. We can borrow enough howitzers, aeroplanes, munitions and drafts from the West; apply them here and then, if necessary, return them. We are not exploiting our own special characteristics, mobility and sea power!
Easy to preach patience to a nation in agony? Yes, for the whole agony of the whole world is more important even than the agonies of France. We've got to win the war and win it quick. There's only one way to do that. The resources of the Entente are not equal to carrying on two offensives at the same moment. If our Army in the West will just sit tight awhile, we here will beat the Turks, and snip the last economic lien binding the Central Powers to the outside world.
Once more, our game is to defend in the West until the attack in the East has borne economic fruit in the shape of ships and corn: political fruit in the sentiment of the Balkans: military fruit in the fillip given to the whole force of the Entente by actual tactical contact between the British soldiers and the rank and file of the Ruskies. The collapse of the Central Powers,—eclipsed in full view of all Asia and Africa by the smoke from the funnels of the British Fleet at anchor in the Golden Horn is what we are after here. Even if French and Joffre do drive the German main hordes back to the Rhine the scope of their scoop would be far less than ours, for we by getting to Constantinople can starve those main armies stiff.
How few of our people know anything of the Russians. At least, I have been attached for eight months to the Armies which fought against them in the field; have visited Russia and Siberia and have done two peace manœuvres as their guest. To send superior officers to Russia only produces jealousy; to send supplies only breeds dishonesty. But with 50,000 British soldiers as yeast we could leaven 5,000,000 Muscovites; we could fire their inert masses with our ardour; this is the best of all uses to which 50,000 British soldiers could at present be put.
From the early days when he told me the New Army should go to Salonika, K. had an intuition at the back of his big mind that victory would dawn in the East. But he is no longer the K. of K., the old K. of Khartoum and Pretoria. He still has his moments of God-sent intuition. First, he had absolute knowledge that the Germans would come through Belgium: I repeat this. The assumption was not uncommon perhaps, but he knew the fact! Secondly, when everyone else spoke of a six weeks' war; when every other soldier I can think of except Douglas Haig believed he'd be back before the grouse shooting was over; K. went nap on a three years' war. Pray heaven he was wrong; but, right or wrong, he has already proved himself to have been nearer the mark than anyone else. Thirdly, he had a call (by heavenly telepathy, I suppose) that his New Armies must go out to the East. There is no more question about this than there is about Belgium and the three years' duration. He has told me so; time and again.
Why then does he not act accordingly if he's in the Almighty know? Because he can't. With the one exception of the Battle of Paardeberg, he never in his palmiest days pretended to be a man of action. But now he has lost his faculty of forcing others to act. He makes a spurt but he can't stay the distance. He has met Millerand, French and Joffre in Council and allowed the searchlights of his genius to be snuffed out! That is what surprises me:—He, who once could deflect Joe Chamberlain and Milner from their orbits; who twisted stiff-necked Boers round his little finger; who bore down Asquith, Winston, Prince Louis and Beatty in Valetta Harbour—East versus West—Mediterranean versus North Sea—who, from 8 p.m. to 2 a.m., withstood, wrestled with and overthrew Haldane's arguments in favour of his taking up the succession to the Duke of Connaught, and that although he had one arm tied to his side by having taken the King's shilling. What a marvel he was and now—
Ichabod!
There is something so tragical in what home letters let us guess that the pity of it almost makes me forget our own stillborn projects.