Adventures in Journalism

by Philip Gibbs

The sea front of Smyrna, with its modern marble-fronted houses, masked an older and more romantic city, as we found in many walks in all its quarters. It masked the Turkish squalor of little streets of wooden shops and booths where crowds of Turkish women, more closely veiled than those in Constantinople, bargained for silks and slippers and household goods. In the old markets at the end of Frank Street, now a heap of cindered ruins, we sauntered through the narrow passages with vaulted roofs where old Turks sat cross-legged in their alcoves, selling carpets from Ouchak and Angora, dried raisins and vegetables, strips of colored silk for Turkish dresses, Sofrali linen, Manissa cotton, German-made hardware, and all manner of rubbish from the East and West, drenched in the aroma of spices, moist sugar, oil, and camels.

I was anxious, as a journalist, to get the latest information about the military situation away to the back of Smyrna, and for that purpose called upon the British Military Mission, represented by a General Hamilton and his staff. A charming and courteous man, he was obviously embarrassed by my visit, not knowing how much to tell me of a situation which was extremely delicate in a political as well as a military way. He decided to tell me nothing, and I did not press him, seeing his trouble.

I obtained all the information I wanted, and even more than I bargained for, from the Greek authorities. The fact that I represented The Daily Chronicle, known for its pro-Greek sympathies and for its official connection with Lloyd George’s Government, gave me an almost embarrassing importance. No sooner had I revealed my journalistic mission than I received a visit from a Greek staff officer—Lieutenant Casimatis—who put the entire city of Smyrna at my feet, as it were, and as one small token of my right to fulfill the slightest wish, sent round a powerful military car with two tall soldiers, under orders to obey my commands. Tony was pleased with this attention and other courtesies that were showered upon us. It was he, rather than myself, who interviewed the Commander-in-Chief of the Greek army, and received the salutes of its soldiers as we drove up magnificently to General Headquarters.

A military band was playing outside—selections from “Patience,” by some strange chance—and in the antechamber of the General’s room Greek staff officers, waisted, highly polished, scented, swaggered in and out. The Commander-in-Chief was a very fat old gentleman, uncomfortable in his tight belt, and perspiring freely on that hot day. The windows of his room were open, and the merry music floated in, and the scent of flowers, and of the warm sea. “He received us most politely,” as poor Fragson used to sing in one of my brother’s plays, and with his fat fingers moving about a big map, explained the military situation. It was excellent, he said. The Greek army was splendid, in training and morale, and longing to advance against the Turk, who was utterly demoralized. Those poor Turkish peasants, forcibly enlisted by Mustapha Kemal, wanted nothing but leave to go home. The Greek advance would be a parade—the Commander-in-Chief, speaking in French, repeated his words with relish and pride—“a parade, sir!” Unfortunately, he said, Greece was hampered by differences among the Allies. The French were certainly intriguing with the Turkish Nationalists of Angora—supplying them with arms and ammunition! The Italians were no better, and very jealous of Greek claims in Asia Minor. Greece had trust, however, in the noble friendship of England, in the sympathy and aid of that great statesman, Mr. Lloyd George.... The Greek army would astonish the world.

So the old gentleman talked, and I listened politely, and asked questions, and kept my doubts to myself. There was not a British officer I had met anywhere, except General Hamilton in Smyrna, who had a good word to say for the fighting qualities of Greek soldiers. There was not one I had met who believed that they could hold Smyrna for more than a year or two, until the Turks reorganized.

It was Lieutenant Casimatis who introduced us to the Commander-in-Chief, and he devoted himself to the task of presenting us to all the people of importance in Smyrna, and taking us to schools, hospitals, museums, and other institutions which would prove to us the benevolence and high culture of Greek rulers in Asia Minor. He was a cheery, stout little man, speaking English, which he had learnt in India, and almost bursting with good nature and the desire to pump us with Greek propaganda.

He took us to the Greek Metropolitan at Smyrna, a black-bearded, broad-shouldered, loud-laughing, excitable Bishop of the Orthodox Church, wearing the high black hat and long black robe of his priestly office, but reminding us of one of those Princes of the Church in the Middle Ages who led their armies to battle and sometimes wielded a battleax in the name of the Lord. “An old ruffian,” I heard him called by an English merchant of Bournabat, whose sympathies, however, were decidedly pro-Turk. A picture representing the martyrdom of St. Polycarp at Smyrna, in the early days of the Christian era, adorned the wall opposite his desk, and he waved his hand toward it and spoke of the martyrdom of the Christian people, not so long ago as that, but only a year or two ago, when they were driven from the coast, as that Armenian girl had told me. “The spirit of St. Polycarp,” he said, in barbarous French, “animates the Greek Christians to-day, and nothing would give me greater joy than to die for the faith as he did.” I have never heard whether this pious wish was fulfilled. It seems to me probable.

For a long time he talked of the sufferings of the Greeks and Armenians, calling upon various men in the room—his secretaries and priests—to bear witness to the truth of his tales. Presently, with some ceremony, servants came round with silver trays laden with glasses of iced water and some little plates containing a white glutinous substance. As the guest of ceremony, it was my privilege to be served first, which did not give me the chance of watching what others might do. I took a spoonful of the white substance, and swallowed it, hoping for the best. But it was the worst that I had done. I discovered afterward that it was a resinous stuff called mastica, something in the nature of chewing gum. The mouthful I had swallowed had a most disturbing effect upon my system, and even the Metropolitan was alarmed. My son Tony, served second, was in the same trouble.

In the Greek schools of Smyrna all the scholars were kept in during the luncheon hour, while we went from class to class inspecting their work and making polite bows and speeches to the teachers. The scholars, ranging from all ages of childhood, did not seem to bear us any grudge for their long wait for lunch, and we were much impressed by their discipline, their pretty manners, their beautiful eyes. Tony felt like the Prince of Wales, and was conscious of the “glad eyes” of the older girls.... When Smyrna was reported to be a city of fire and massacre, I thought with dreadful pity of those little ones.

We touched with our very hands the spirit of this ancient race in the time of its glory, when we went into the museum and handled the pottery, the gods, the household ornaments, the memorials—found by peasants with their picks not far below the soil—of that time when Homer was born (it is claimed) in this city of the Ægean, when the Ionians held it, when Lysimachus made it great and beautiful, until it was one of the most prosperous ports in the world, crowded with Greek and Roman and Syrian ships trading between the West and East.