“I will see what can be done,” said the Prefect. “Please leave with me your passport and call again in the morning.”
With considerable trepidation I returned to the Prefecture next morning, and to my delight found my passport marked in Turkish not only with permission to leave, but with actual permission to travel by the military train to Belgrade. The “visieat” (a written permission from the police to leave), which usually takes a few days to obtain, was handed to me at the same time, so I was more favoured than any other traveller. I felt that the stars were indeed fighting for me in their courses. At 11.30 a.m. I arrived at the Railway Station at Stamboul, and soon found myself in a queerly assorted company consisting of men of the German Red Cross Service, German officers, non-commissioned officers and soldiers.
During my journey I made some curious and interesting discoveries, all tending to emphasise German thoroughness and cunning. Probably no one in England realises the wonderful work done by the Germans in repairing the broken railway bridges in Serbia. It is the rapid and substantial rebuilding of these bridges, destroyed by the Serbians in their retreat, that enables the Germans to get to Constantinople in a little over two days. These reconstructions are most likely the greatest engineering feats that the world has ever seen. Tunnels that were blown up have been restored to their original state with marvellous celerity, and as I travelled across the bridges, and at a high rate of speed, the evidences of the Serbians’ tragic retreat were to be seen on every side. Beside the new bridges lay those which the Serbians destroyed. Beside the line were the remains of dead horses, broken-down carts, and the hundred and one things that mark the retreat of an army pursued by its foes. The ever-careful German had removed the hides from the horses, obviously with the object of making up the leather shortage.
In the course of my journey I received another instance of German forethought. I was told that in the event of Greece being invaded by the Bulgars, and the Greeks loathe the Bulgars as the Prussians loathe the English, the invaders were to be dressed in German uniforms in order to deceive the Greeks. Immense quantities of these uniforms, I later discovered, were lying at Nish.[1] Is there anything against which the extraordinary German mind does not provide? This, however, does not convince me that the Germans will attack Salonica. From what I heard, it would appear that they have a very wholesome respect for General Sarrail, whose acquaintance they had already made at Verdun, which they had failed to take owing to his able and stout defence of that stronghold.
The adaptability of the German is nowhere better emphasised than in Turkey and the Balkans. Instinctively he knows that a German in a familiar uniform is not likely to be so obnoxious as a German in a strange uniform; consequently his method is to disguise himself by adopting the military uniform of the country in which he is detailed for duty. This is one of the most important traits in his character. For instance, as I have already said, German flying-men in Turkey are to be seen in Turkish uniforms, and scores of German officers are to be found at the Turkish War Office also wearing the familiar uniform of the Moslem.
The Turks are by no means optimistic about the Salonica Expedition. Frankly they are afraid of it, and for that reason have heavily entrenched themselves to the south of Adrianople. Their fear is that the Allied troops may make an attack on Constantinople from the north-west or may attempt to cut the railway.
It has been suggested that my fortunate meeting with the Kaiser was a matter of luck. In a way it was; but it was more particularly due to my persistent desire to see Belgrade. I had failed to get there during my outward journey to Constantinople, but I was determined not to be baulked. I had no thought of staying at Nish, and it was not until we were approaching the station of that town that a fellow traveller, a German non-commissioned officer, looked out of the window and shouted out so loudly and excitedly that all the travellers in the corridor carriage could hear, “Unser Kaiser ist hier” (our Kaiser is here). I jumped up and looked out of the window and saw the flags and decorations, and felt that indeed Fate had been kind to me.
The magic name of the Kaiser was too much for me. I could not think of letting pass such a magnificent opportunity of seeing the Great War Lord, and I therefore determined to leave the military train at the Serbian town so recently the capital, but now in the hands of the Germans. Nish was under snow. The day of my arrival, January 18th, 1916, was brilliantly clear, just such a day as one finds at Montreal or St. Moritz. I had hoped to get at least a glimpse of the Kaiser, but I was far more fortunate than that, encountering him on several occasions during this to me fateful day. I never for one moment anticipated being present at that curious and historical Royal Banquet at which were made the vain-glorious Latin and German speeches that were telegraphed all over the world.
Just as our train steamed into the station the Kaiser was making his state entry into the Serbian capital, which has now become the headquarters of the German, not as many people think the Austrian, Army in the Balkans. It is a vast arsenal, choked with munitions of war, in particular shells for big guns and also the guns themselves. The town is crammed with Serbian military prisoners, who are allowed their liberty, and roam about freely. They seem comparatively contented with their lot.
My feelings when I ascertained the presence of the Kaiser can only be appreciated or understood by a journalist. I soon gathered together my belongings with the aid of a German soldier I called to help me. I then decided to look around and endeavour to approach as near as possible to the Kaiser himself. As a matter of fact I was not far away from him. King Ferdinand had only a few minutes previously received him on his arrival from the West, and the Royal pair were walking up and down the platform arm in arm, and without ceremony. I noticed a handkerchief in the Kaiser’s hand which he was constantly lifting to his mouth, but the distance was too great for me to hear him coughing.