MY SECRET SERVICE

BY THE MAN WHO DINED
WITH THE KAISER

MY SECRET
SERVICE

VIENNA, SOPHIA, CONSTANTINOPLE,
NISH, BELGRADE, ASIA MINOR, Etc.

BY

THE MAN WHO DINED
WITH THE KAISER

NEW YORK
GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY

Copyright, 1916,
By George H. Doran Company

PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

TO
LORD NORTHCLIFFE
IN GRATEFUL RECOLLECTION
OF THE KEEN INTEREST HE
HAS SHOWN IN THESE
ADVENTURES, THIS VOLUME IS
DEDICATED BY THE AUTHOR

CONTENTS

ILLUSTRATIONS

MY SECRET SERVICE

CHAPTER I

INTRODUCTORY

“Were You Afraid?”—About Myself—War Finds Me in England—The German War-Machine—My Travels—The German Spy System—My Three Journeys—I Become a Workman at Krupp’s—I Travel in Chocolate—My Most Important Trip—The Risks—Proofs—My Reception in England.

I am not a spy, that I wish to make abundantly clear; I am a journalist, and I love my profession. Equally well I love adventure and sport, the greatest sport in the world, in which the stake is the player’s life.

“Were you ever afraid?” a young and charming English girl recently asked me.

“Afraid!” I replied. “Listen! Imagine yourself with two maps next to your skin, each marked with German submarine bases, military works, and the like. Then you are interrogated by half-a-dozen German Secret Service officers. The least hesitation, the slightest faltering in a reply and, at a motion of the hand two German soldiers take you into an adjoining room, strip you, and—ten minutes later you are dead.”

The girl blushed: in my earnestness I had forgotten. Yes! I have been afraid many times; yet, with the gambler’s instinct, I have continued the game which, sooner or later, will probably end in a little episode in which the protagonists will be myself and a firing party—somewhere in the enemy country.

I am a citizen of a neutral country. Those in high places whom it concerns know all about me, have seen my passports, examined what remains of my ticket on the Balkan Express with its perforation “18—1—16,” and can testify from the chain of documents I possess, from which not a link is missing, that I have actually been where I say I have.

When war broke out I found myself in England, and I immediately saw in the terrible struggle great possibilities for myself. I am twenty-six years of age and speak, besides my native tongue, English, German, French and Flemish. I had lived in England before the war broke out, and have learned to love it second only to my own country. I was anxious to help in the great struggle, and I determined to try and find out as much as I could about the great German War-Machine. For twelve months I have been engaged upon this interesting task, visiting Frankfurt, Hanau, Neuwied, Essen (and other cities in Germany), Vienna, Buda Pesth, Bucharest, Sofia, Constantinople, Brasso, Rustchouk, Adrianople, Nish, Belgrade, Konia (Asia Minor), etc. Incidentally, I have proved that the German spy system is not so perfect as it is considered by many in this country.

In all I have paid three visits to the enemy countries, each time using the same name, but following a different trade or profession. First I was a workman, and crossed the frontier in shamelessly shabby clothes and with very little impedimenta in the way of luggage. I professed to be a steel-driller, having had a very slight experience in that occupation, obtained for the purpose of my visit. In this guise I penetrated the German Holy of Holies, the famous Krupp factories at Essen. Here for some days I worked, until it was discovered what an execrably bad workman I was. Summary and ignominious dismissal followed, but never did a man take his dismissal less to heart than I. I had gathered some interesting and valuable information, and had seen many remarkable things. This was in March, 1915, although the account was not published until February, 1916, as the Censor prohibited my story appearing in the press, no doubt for very good reasons.

My next journey was to Constantinople as a commercial traveller representing a chocolate firm in a neutral country. On this occasion I interviewed Captain von Hersing, and heard from his own lips the account of his wonderful journey in a German submarine (U51) from Wilhelmshaven to Constantinople. I also obtained a great deal of information which was published at the time. This trip was made in June, 1915.

My third trip was by far the most successful. This I made as a journalist, ostensibly on behalf of a leading neutral paper, but in reality for The Daily Mail. It will be readily understood that these journeys required most careful forethought. It sounds so easy on paper, but in point of fact it requires much energy, and most careful and cunning preparation. One mistake, one careless word, and there is suspicion with, in all probability, a fatal result. I began to understand what must be the feelings of a soldier going into battle. When he enlists he thinks of all the dangers in a detached sort of way, and regrets leaving his dear ones behind, but as soon as he is in the thick of the fight he forgets all else but the clash of battle; so it was with me.

On my third journey I knew that at any moment I might be recognised by one of the countless German spies that seem to spring up everywhere. I was, however, determined to see the thing through and, once in the enemy country, my nervousness seemed to vanish.

It must be remembered that no one could undertake such journeys as mine in war-time without the assistance of prominent and influential men abroad, and I desire to make what are very inadequate acknowledgments to many distinguished diplomatists in neutral countries, without whose invaluable help I could not have crossed the border into Austria, or, what is far more important, have returned to England.

I quite anticipated that my adventures would be challenged, for they must seem so extraordinary when read in a country where the German Secret Service is regarded as absolutely infallible. So far from this being the case, I have received letters from all sorts of people congratulating me on my return, and not a word of doubt has been raised in any quarter. I was prepared to meet scepticism with documents that no one could refute.

It has also been a source of great gratification to me to know that my discoveries and the information I have accumulated have been of assistance to the Allies, with whom I am in entire sympathy. I have also had the satisfaction of reading in neutral as well as English newspapers that some of the Kaiser’s most trusted and efficient Secret Service Agents have been dismissed and aides-de-camp suspended.

I have received at the hands of many distinguished and notable Englishmen nothing but kindness. They have examined my proofs, not with suspicion but with the keenest possible interest, and they have embarrassed me with their congratulations. My invariable reply to these touching tributes has been that I owe to England much; she has given to me many friends and shown me great hospitality, and if anything that I have done can help her in the least degree, I shall always regard myself as a privileged person.

CHAPTER II

VIENNA IN WAR TIME

I Set Out for the Enemy Country—The German Official Mind—Turned Back at the Frontier—Arrival at Vienna—The Kindly Hofrat—Hatred of the English—A Subdued City—Hardships—The Hidden Scourge—The Toll of War—Austria’s Terrible Casualties—The Tragic 28th Regiment—“Mr. Wu” in Vienna—Interned Englishmen.

It was during the early days of November, 1915, that I conceived the idea of making another journey to Turkey. From various sources I had heard that the Germans, in conjunction with the Turks, were preparing for their great and much-advertised attack upon Egypt. I determined to find out if they were seriously planning this adventure, or if it were merely “bluff” for political purposes. My arrangements were carefully made, because the whole result of an expedition such as this depends upon the precautions taken at the outset. I first went to a neutral country where, some years previously, I had worked as a journalist. I did not find much difficulty in obtaining from the newspaper with which I had been connected papers and credentials in which it was set forth that I was acting as the special correspondent of that journal.

After careful consideration, I decided upon the shortest route to Turkey, which would take me through Germany, Austria, Roumania, and Bulgaria, and I made my plans accordingly. I failed, however, in my object. At the town of Emmerich, on the German border, I was informed by the officials that my papers were unsatisfactory. At first I was somewhat puzzled, knowing the care that I had taken to procure everything necessary, but I soon discovered what the trouble really was. On my passport my name was spelt with an “i,” whereas on my special correspondent’s card it was spelt with a “y.” I verily believe that the meticulous mind of the German officials would refuse to admit the bearer of a passport in which a comma appeared in place of a colon.

I did my utmost to convince the officers that the mistake was trifling, and that I was a bona fide journalist. After much discussion and excited expostulation on my part, I was permitted to travel to Munich; but my papers were taken from me, and I was told that I must apply for them in that city at the Kommandantur.

Convinced that everything was now satisfactorily arranged, I resumed my journey. When we reached Düsseldorf I became aware that my name was being loudly called from the platform. For a moment I was thrilled with a sudden fear that my association with an English newspaper had been discovered and that trouble was brewing; but I quickly recovered myself. When the station-master, a lieutenant, and two soldiers—nothing less than this imposing display of force would satisfy the German official mind—presented themselves at the door of my compartment, I confessed to my identity, and was promptly told that I must leave the train, and furthermore, that I should not be allowed to proceed upon my journey until my papers were perfectly in order. The upshot of this incident was that I was forced to return to the frontier, all on account of a careless consulate clerk using an “i” for a “y.”

I considered it far too risky to have the correction made and start again. I had acquired some knowledge of German official psychology. Knowing that the Austrian authorities are less difficult than the German, I decided to return to England and journey through France and Switzerland into Austria. In Switzerland I obtained a new passport, and was soon on my way to the Austrian frontier.

On the journey I had some unpleasant meditations. The Austrian authorities might have been informed of my unsuccessful endeavour to cross the German border, and as some eight months previously I had already entered Austria by that same route I now proposed to take, I found myself hesitating as to the advisability of continuing the adventure. “Perhaps,” I argued with myself, “it would be advisable to return to safety.” I soon, however, overcame this trepidation by the simple process of telling myself that hundreds of thousands of men in the trenches were facing what I should soon be facing—death. I was a soldier, I told myself, as indeed I am holding a commission in my own country as a Reserve officer. Finally, by the time I reached Feldkirch, I was prepared to face the Austrian officials with a stout heart and a grim determination to get through at all costs.

With my fellow travellers I was conducted to a large hall where soldiers, with fixed bayonets, were on guard. To understand my feelings as I stood there awaiting my turn to be taken before the officers for interrogation, one must have been in a similar position oneself.

One by one my companions were admitted to the adjoining room, and when at last my own turn came, I found myself confronting five Austrian officers, all of whom seemed to have developed that inquisitive state of mind which seems to exist only in war-time. In Switzerland I had obtained from the Austrian Ambassador, Baron Gayer, a laissez passer, which was of the greatest possible value to me. After an unpleasant ten minutes I found that I had passed with honours, having not only satisfied the officers’ demands for information, but earned their goodwill to the extent of being wished good luck and a pleasant journey. An hour later the train left for Vienna, twenty-four hours distant, through the beautiful Austrian Tyrol. I was, however, too tired and travel-weary to be much concerned with the beauties of nature. There was no sleeping accommodation upon the train, and what rest I had was snatched sitting in an upright position.

On the evening of December 8th, 1915, I arrived in Vienna, where I decided to stay at the Park Hotel in preference to one of the more fashionable hotels in the gayer part of the city. I did this with a deliberate purpose, as the Park Hotel is situated close to the two railway stations, Sud Bahnhof and Ost Bahnhof. From my point of vantage I hoped to be able to watch the movements of troops marching to the stations.

I planned to stay only a short time in Vienna, my real objective being Turkey, but I particularly wanted to see Belgrade, which possessed for me a great interest on account of the recent desperate fighting that had taken place there. I had secured an introduction to a distinguished official in the Austrian Foreign Office (Ministerium des Aussern) upon whom it was my first object to call. This important personage, a Hofrat (the German equivalent, I believe, of the English Privy Councillor), received me courteously, and without that suspicion that seems to be the inevitable attribute of the German, listened to my explanation as to the object of my journey, and very kindly promising me all the facilities that he had it in his power to grant.

He gave me an introduction to the War Office (K.U.K. Kriegsministerium) Press Bureau. His letter stated that I was well known to the Foreign Office, and that all possible facilities should be granted to me on my journey to the Near East. This letter eventually produced a document which was of the utmost assistance to me in my subsequent journeyings, and which I still have in my possession.

As he handed to me the introduction to the Kriegsministerium Pressbureau, which was to prove for me my open sesame into Turkey, he remarked: “I am always very careful of giving introductions to the War Office; you yourself, for instance, might be the biggest spy (grosze spion) in the world.” I smiled inwardly as I thanked him for his kindness, and congratulated myself that I had been so fortunate as to impress favourably a man who possessed so much authority. When I asked him to furnish me with a passport, enabling me to travel through to Belgrade, he replied that it was not in his power to do so, but that he would do what he could to assist me, and that I should hear from him in due course.

In the meantime I determined to look about the city to discover what changes had taken place during the eight months that had elapsed since my previous visit. The first thing I noticed was the increased hostility on the part of the Viennese towards the English. For this there were two very obvious reasons: first, the pinch of hunger, “stomach pressure” as it has been called, the work of the British Navy; second, the intervention of Italy, the work of British diplomatists. The Austrian is not so dramatic in his hatreds as the German; but there is a bitter and burning feeling in his heart against a nation that has robbed him of most of the luxuries and many of the necessaries of life, and, in addition, has precipitated him into another war at a time when his hands were already over full.

Unlike London, Paris, and Constantinople, Vienna is brightly lit at night; but the atmosphere of gaiety of this gayest of cities no longer exists. Now it is dull; cafés, which in peace time remained open all night, are forced to close at 11 p.m.; some, but very few, have obtained permission to remain open until midnight. There in Vienna, as everywhere else in the Teutonic war zone, the all-absorbing topic of conversation was the question of food-supply.

There is a humorous side to the situation; humorous, that is, to the Allies. The people of Turkey confidently anticipate obtaining supplies from the Central Powers; whereas the Central Powers are equally optimistic about Turkey’s ability to supply them with foodstuffs. The Berlin Press is responsible for the Teutonic error, on account of its bombastic articles on the advantage of opening up Turkey and Asia Minor with their vast resources. For one thing this was to produce butter for Berlin. In Vienna they do not grumble so much as in Berlin about the shortage of butter; but they bitterly resent the absence of cream. One of the chief delights of the city is the famous Vienna coffee, with its foaming crest of whipped cream extending half way down the glass. During my previous visit this had been easily obtainable, but eight months of war had resulted in the prohibition of the sale of milk and cream save for infants, all the rest being used in the manufacture of explosives. When I learned that I should be forced to drink black coffee, I felt a momentary grievance against the Allies.

Of the 1,600 taxis that in peace time whirled gay parties about Vienna, only forty remained, and these are extremely shabby, their tyres having a very decrepit appearance. With the exception of these forty taxis all vehicular traffic stops at 11 p.m., and the Viennese ladies, famed for embonpoint, will long remember the war if only for the amount of walking that they have had to do.

There is also a great scarcity of petrol, tyres, and glycerine, all having been requisitioned by the Government. Lard and other fatty substances used in the preparation of food are of a very inferior quality. I have good cause to remember this as, for four days, I was extremely ill on account of the odious stuff used in the cooking of some food I had eaten.

Curiously enough, I found the bread of a much better quality than during my previous visit; but there was very little of it, for the reign of the bread-ticket was not yet over. Meat was scarce and very expensive. As a rule, I dined at the Restaurant Hartmann, in peace time a well-known place for good dinners. I found, however, that it had greatly deteriorated, that the food was far from good and ridiculously expensive. For a meal consisting of soup, meat and vegetables, with some fruit, I had to pay eight kronen (a kronen being 10d.), double the peace price. Some idea of the scarcity of meat may be obtained from the fact that a single portion of roast beef costs about four kronen (3s. 4d.). I should explain that Hartmann’s is not a place like the Ritz Hotel, but a middle-class restaurant where in time of peace the prices are extremely moderate.

That terrible scourge, which seems to follow in the footsteps of civilisation, has increased alarmingly in Vienna since the outbreak of war. Soldiers go to the vilest part of the city deliberately inviting contagion so that they may not be sent to the front. The eyes of the military authorities have been opened to the seriousness of the situation, and the men are very seriously punished.

A Vienna Bread-Ticket

Vienna is full of wounded; in fact, I have never seen a city in which there were so many. I tried to find out as much as I could about the number of Austrian wounded throughout the country, but it was extremely difficult to glean information. In order that the public shall not be unduly depressed, the wounded are carefully scattered about in different towns and villages, particularly in Bohemia. Germans have told me that they have heard the same thing in regard to England, where hundreds of little Red Cross hospitals were to be found in provincial towns and villages all over the country!

The German method is also to keep the wounded away from the big towns as much as possible. The smaller villages are used for Red Cross stations. When in Frankfurt on one of my former trips I one day remarked to an old woman, a farmer’s wife with whom I got into conversation, that I could not understand why there were so few wounded in a large town such as Frankfurt. “Come and have a look at our village,” she answered, “we have them in our houses.” I accordingly went to Andernach, which was the name of the village. She gave me coffee and war bread, and treated me very kindly. There were six wounded soldiers in her house, and I learned that there was hardly a village on the slopes of the Rhine where wounded soldiers were not billeted to benefit by the invigorating air of the Rhineland hills, having first been treated in the hospitals. I was told by one of the wounded soldiers that in a hospital about half-an-hour’s run from Cologne 180 soldiers were lying disabled.

The Austrian authorities have their own particular methods; they arrange, for instance, that only a third of the convalescent soldiers shall be allowed out at the same time. Thus, if there are three hundred wounded in a hospital who are able to walk, only one hundred are permitted out at the same time for fresh air and exercise.

The number of blind soldiers is amazing. It was one of the most terrible sights I saw. Before Italy participated in the war the total number of Austrian soldiers who had lost their sight was 10,000, now it is 80,000. I was informed of this by Dr. Robert Otto Steiner, the head of the largest hospital in Vienna, probably the largest in the world, the Wiener Allgemeines Krankenhaus, which has 8,000 beds, and 3,000 being occupied by men who have lost their sight.

The reason for this terrible number of blind soldiers is that in the mountains the troops cannot dig adequate trenches, and the Italian shells burst against the mountains and send showers of rock-fragments in all directions. It was with a mournful expression that Dr. Steiner told me of the 70,000 Austrians blinded within six months. I asked him what was to happen to these poor fellows after the war, and he confessed that they presented a problem which seemed beyond the power of any Government to solve. Whether or not a monument be erected to the Kaiser in the Sieges-Allée, there will be throughout Europe thousands of living monuments to his “greatness” in the shape of the blind, the mad, and the paralysed, who will breathe curses upon the name German Militarism that has robbed them of nearly all save life itself.

In the course of my wanderings about the city I heard an amusing story about recruiting in England. It was told me by some Austrian officers, who were convinced that recruiting in this country had been a success. Their explanation was that the aristocracy had obtained from the Government an assurance that they would be retained for home service, whereas the poor would be sent to the front. Nothing that I heard showed a greater ignorance of the sporting instinct of the English gentleman than this grotesque statement, and that in spite of the ubiquitous Wolff and his wireless war news. Speaking of Wolff reminds me of a saying among the supporters of the Allies in Constantinople which runs: “There are lies, there are damned lies, and there are Wolff’s wireless messages.”

One night I had an interesting conversation with a captain in the Austrian Polish Legion, whose name is in my possession, but which in his own interest I refrain from printing. He told me several things which showed clearly the difficulties which the Germans are experiencing in combining their vastly varied forces. “I am with the Austrians now,” he said, “fighting the Russians because of the comparatively good treatment we Poles received from Austria. After the war we are promised a Polish Republic. If, however,” he added, “it comes to fighting for Prussia against the Russians, I for one shall desert and join Russia.”

It has been known in this country for some months that something had gone wrong with regard to the Austrian 28th Regiment of the line, the Prague Regiment, which consists entirely of Bohemians principally drawn from Prague, who being Slavs hate the Germans. From this officer I heard the story of the tragic 28th. In the National Museum in Vienna there are several flags draped in black—they are those of this ill-fated regiment of Bohemians.

It was the intention of the whole of the regiment to desert to the Russians, the plot including officers as well as rank and file. One day, seeing before them what they took to be Russian regiments, the soldiers threw down their arms and held up their hands in token of surrender. But the “Russians” were Prussians! The Bohemians were unaware that the round cap of Russia is practically the same as that worn in the Prussian armies. The Prussian officers immediately grasped the situation, and turned machine-guns on the defenceless men, massacring hundreds of them. The remainder were taken prisoners, and eventually one out of every five was shot, and of the officers one in every three was executed. The men who remained were sent to the most dangerous part of the front, and there are now very few left to tell the terrible story. The flags in the National Museum are a record of the disgrace of a regiment whose name no longer appears in the Austrian Army List.

One thing that struck me in particular was that the most popular play in Vienna should be the English success, “Mr. Wu.” It was advertised all over the city, beneath the title in smaller letters appearing the words “Der Mandarin.” The original title being in heavy letters, whilst the German title is added in smaller type, it being evidently considered that the words “Mr. Wu” required some explanation for Austrian eyes. I was at a loss to account for this anomaly. I remembered having seen the play several times in London, but this did not supply any information as to its popularity in an enemy city.

One evening I went to the Neues Wiener Stadtheater, a handsome building erected since the outbreak of war. The audience was mostly composed of women, less than a fourth being men. The play was admirably staged, but I missed Matheson Lang. I soon discovered the reason for its popularity. An English business man is shown to great disadvantage beside a Chinaman, and this seemed greatly to please the audience. At the end of every act the curtain was raised time after time and the performers loudly applauded.

To me the real tragedy of Vienna is that of the Englishmen of military age who cannot leave the city. They are well-treated and allowed their liberty so long as they do not leave the city, which shows how much milder is the Austrian as compared with the German rule. They are, however, expected to be within doors by 8 o’clock at night. Notices have appeared in the papers to the effect that subjects of belligerent countries are to be freely allowed to use their own language in public places as long as they do so in a way that is not offensive. The poor fellows are hungry for news. The last English paper they had seen was The Times of September 3rd. They speak feelingly of the hated war bread, but they admit the great improvement in its quality during the last two months. They spoke well of the Austrian treatment, but for all this their position is far from enviable. They are in the midst of a hostile population, knowing nothing of what is actually happening to their country, and eager to be in the trenches beside their fellow countrymen.

There was much talk about the Baghdad and Egyptian campaigns, and also about the depreciation in the value of the kroner, the Austrian standard coin, which is now worth only half its original value. Far-seeing men among the Viennese regard this as significant.

Great precautions are taken with regard to people arriving in Vienna from Hungary. For some time past cholera and the Plague have been raging in some parts of that country, although very little information leaks out on account of the severity of the censorship. Occasionally, however, news comes through that proves the situation to be far from favourable. For months previously Hungary was the scene of the great concentration of the German and Austrian armies for the fighting in the Balkans. The massing of these troops in a comparatively small area inevitably results in the spread of disease.

CHAPTER III

IN THE BALKANS

I Leave Vienna—Gay Bucharest—The Bandmaster’s Indiscretion—“À bas les allemands!”—Roumania Eager for War—German Devices—An English Cigarette—A Terrible Journey—The Spoils of War—The Wily German—Bulgarian Poverty Under the Germans—Austrian Satisfaction over the Serbian Victories—Compulsion in England—Bulgarian Anxiety about the Attitude of Greece—The German Language in Bulgaria.

At the end of about a fortnight I left Vienna, having received my passport. I had become convinced of the uselessness of endeavouring to travel over Serbia to Turkey, and therefore decided to go round by way of Roumania. As a matter of fact, this was the only course open to me. By way of Buda Pesth, where the Austrian State Railway ends, and that of Hungary begins, I went to Brasso, the last station on Hungarian territory. On my previous journey the frontier station had been Pre-deal, but this being on Roumanian territory the Austrians found that they had no power to act in the event of catching spies, consequently they removed to Brasso. I arrived at Brasso at 5 a.m., after a thirty hours’ journey. As the train for Bucharest did not leave until noon, I had time to look round the delightful little town, nestling among the Carpathian mountains.

Although small, Brasso is of considerable importance at the present moment, owing to its being the headquarters of the Austrian army destined to act against Roumania should difficulties arise. The place was full of soldiers, foot, horse and artillery, with guns of every kind and calibre. The civil population seemed to have disappeared entirely. On the surrounding mountains military manœvres were everywhere in operation. I was told that there were 80,000 troops concentrated at Brasso.

It was at Brasso railway station that I first discovered the great value of the War Office passport I had obtained in Vienna. Without looking at my luggage, and scarcely glancing at my papers, the officials allowed me to pass, and I blessed my good friend the Hofrat. A more miserable journey I have never experienced than that to Bucharest. All the blinds in the carriages were lowered as a military precaution, although Roumania is not at war. This circumstance, however, testifies to the precautions being taken by the Roumanians against the invasion of their territory. A Roumanian gentleman travelling in the same carriage assured me that everywhere trenches and field-works were in course of construction.

The difference between Vienna and Bucharest, “Little Paris,” as it is called, where I arrived at seven in the evening, is most striking. The Roumanian capital, always noted for its gaiety, is the Mecca of pleasure lovers, and so far from the war having diminished this spirit it seems greatly to have increased it. The population has been considerably augmented, money is spent and wasted everywhere, cafés and theatres do a thriving trade, and the number of motor cars and pair-horse carriages is astonishing considering the smallness of the city. Now that the export of wheat from Russia to the Central Empires is no longer possible, Roumania has become the wheat market of the Balkans. I was told that the third crop of the year had just been harvested, and every quarter of cereals that can be produced is readily sold. The result is that money flows everywhere like water.

I look back upon my stay in Bucharest as an oasis of peace in a desert of danger. The Roumanians are a delightful people, and the Allies should appreciate how much they owe to the strictly neutral attitude of Roumania in regard to the war. The Roumanian Government prevented food, coal, or other necessities from reaching either Austria or Turkey. Owing to the new Balkan Express, the Roumanian preventive measures do not now possess its former significance.

The Bulgarian attitude towards the Entente Powers was always a little difficult to determine; the mass of the Bulgarian people is by no means cordial to either Germany or Turkey. The politicians most likely became nervous, and German gold did the rest. Nevertheless, I failed to find any evidence of Bulgarian affection for Great Britain. The people in general know hardly anything about this country. There is a vague remembrance of Gladstone in the minds of the better-educated. About Germany, however, every Bulgarian knows, thanks to the indefatigable newspaper work, the German schools, the ubiquitous German kinematograph exhibition, and the “peaceful penetration” by German bagmen, German music, and other elements of German Kultur propaganda.

Little Roumania occupies an extraordinary position in the war. Surrounded by the warring nations, she herself is at peace. There is no doubt as to her friendly feelings towards the Quadruple Entente.

In Bucharest I stayed at the Hotel Frascati, where I spent four delightful days entirely free from all anxiety. It was on the second day of my visit that I received the first evidence of Roumania’s attitude. In the evening I went to the Casino de Paris, where the audience formed quite a cosmopolitan crowd. When the band played the Marseillaise a party of Germans, who had evidently been dining well rather than judiciously, expressed their feelings by whistling loudly and making other noises. The audience, however, loudly applauded the band, and the incident terminated.

Shortly afterwards one of the thick-skinned Teutons offered the bandmaster a 20 mark note (£1) to play Die Wacht am Rhein. The bandmaster was willing to take the 20 marks, but expressed some doubt as to whether the musicians would play the required air. Furthermore he expressed himself as very doubtful as to the effect of the melody upon the people assembled in the Casino. He eventually overcame alike the compunction of his band and his own misgivings, but the orchestra had hardly started before pandemonium broke out. “À bas les Allemands!” and other cries were shouted on every side, with an occasional “À bas les bosches!” and the band came to a sudden stop. The Germans left the Casino in some haste, to the accompaniment of the hisses of the audience.

Roumania is all for the Entente Powers, and in particular she is pro-French. Her especial hatred is for Austria, and in a superlative degree for Hungary. One evening I went to a kinematograph exhibition entitled “Under the Yoke of Austria-Hungary,” which depicted the sufferings of Roumanians living under Austrian rule. At one particular incident the audience rose to their feet and shrieked “Down with Austria! Down with Hungary!” These demonstrations are by no means rare, and they show very clearly the general trend of Roumanian public opinion.

The whole Roumanian army is eager for war. I reveal no secret in stating this, for Roumania is overrun with German spies. During my short stay I came in contact with many Roumanian officers, who expressed themselves as very dissatisfied with the slowness of the Entente operations. They are, however, firm believers in the eventual victory of the Allies, and they assured me that no influence, no pressure, political or otherwise, could induce them to join with Germany. They do not appreciate quite all the difficulties with which the Allies have to deal. Germany has been preparing for this war for more than a generation; the Triple Entente Powers were taken by surprise and have been greatly handicapped. This I strove to point out to my Roumanian acquaintances, urging them to “wait and see.”

I hesitate to offer advice to the British Government; but I wish in the interests of itself and its Allies that it could be persuaded as to the necessity—no milder word is suitable—of making known in Roumania the magnificent work of the British Army and Navy. The instinctive sympathy of the Roumanians is with the French and Italians; for it must be remembered that they are a Latin people. Their newspapers publish a great deal about the French and Italian armies. The Germans have their own newspapers, printed in the Roumanian tongue. German propaganda and German gold are to be encountered everywhere, the chief object being to keep Roumania neutral.

A favourite device with the Germans is to exaggerate every mishap to the Allies, magnify every success of their own into a great victory, and above all to point out to Roumania the magnitude of the task that the Entente Powers have undertaken. When I was in Bucharest the chief theme of the German newspapers was the Dardanelles. Long accounts of English defeats appeared in their journals, all lavishly illustrated. The Roumanian is not devoid of intelligence, and he can fairly well appraise Prussian character, and he would rather fight to the last man than share the fate of Belgium, Serbia, or Montenegro; still he cannot be entirely indifferent to the clever German propaganda.

From the plenty, the music, and the white bread of Bucharest I set out for Sofia. At Giugiu, the Roumanian frontier-station on the Danube, I took the ferry across to Rustchouk, in Bulgarian territory. Here I had to spend a day and night waiting for the train. Rustchouk is a terrible little place, ankle-deep in mud, and I looked forward with dismay to the dreary hours I should have to spend in this awful hole. But all things have their compensations, and I was able to glean some very interesting information.

On the Danube I noticed four Austrian monitors, which were there, I was told, to protect the Austrian and Bulgarian cities on the river bank against Russian attack. I also noticed with the keenest interest huge quantities of light railway material, mostly rails and sleepers, which were being brought down by boat and landed at the Bulgarian port on their way to Turkey. All this material, I was told, is destined for the campaign against Egypt.

I found the Bulgarian authorities much more difficult than the Austrian; this I remembered from my previous trip, and I had taken the precaution of obtaining a special passport at the Bulgarian Legation in Vienna. Even with this invaluable document in my possession I experienced considerable difficulty, and was subjected to much questioning before I was allowed to pass. These unpleasant and nerve-racking interrogations were dreadful ordeals, to which I never seemed to be able to accustom myself. Perhaps I was too imaginative, but the consequences of a possible slip were always before me.

During my first visit to Vienna in war time I had a very unpleasant experience, showing the necessity for constant care. One day I encountered in the streets of Vienna a young Englishman I had known in London, who had not been interned. He gave me a cigarette, and subsequently came to my hotel. I was promptly challenged for smoking an English cigarette, which, coupled with the fact that I had some acquaintance with an Englishman, resulted in my arrest, and I spent an unpleasant day in an Austrian prison. This little incident, which involved endless mental strain, shows how necessary it was for me to be for ever watchful. It must be remembered that my journey occupied some seven weeks.

As I slopped through the abominably muddy streets of Rustchouk, I noticed German soldiers and non-commissioned officers everywhere; they seemed to be in charge of everything, including the port works and all the military buildings. I discovered that there was a serious shortage of sugar, and I had to drink my tea and coffee without it. Milk likewise was unobtainable, and if there is one thing in life above all others that is necessary to me it is milk and cream. Some one once told me that I must have been intended for a kitten.

I was obliged to stay in a very dirty hotel that rejoiced in the name of the Hotel Bristol, where the available accommodation was of the most primitive description. The bed was so dirty that I gave it up as a bad job, and slept in two arm-chairs. The next day I left for Sofia, a journey which occupied twenty hours, largely owing to the shortage of coal. I have never had a more monotonous train journey. The windows were painted white, as the suspicious Bulgars are determined that no one shall learn any military secrets by looking out of the train. Imagine the monotony of sitting for twenty hours in a small compartment without a chance of glancing out at the countryside. I had no newspapers, no cigarettes, and no food. Nothing but the opposite side of the carriage at which to gaze, or the whited panes of glass with which to occupy myself, for nearly a day and a night. I passed most of the time by sleeping in fitful snatches.

At every little station where the train stopped I got out and endeavoured to purchase food. At one place, to my great joy, I succeeded in obtaining some stale bread and a piece of chocolate of obviously pre-war manufacture. I did not dare to drink water for fear of cholera, and when I eventually arrived in Sofia I was in a state of collapse and was thankful to get to the “Splendid” Hotel, which lies in the heart of the city.

There was none of the gaiety of Bucharest about Sofia. For four days I had forgotten war, but here it was brought once more vividly to my mind. Swaggering German officers were everywhere; for the German occupation is firmly established, and nearly as complete as at Constantinople. There seemed to be no social life, dulness reigning supreme, and I longed for the brightness and plenty of Bucharest. Curiously enough, the most striking thing about Sofia is the Turkish Baths, which have their place in a wonderful new building; they are considered the finest Turkish Baths in the world.

It was in Sofia that I heard another instance of German thoroughness and subtilty. When, through the medium of Turkey the Germans were bribing Arab chiefs to fight against the British, the gifts consisted not only of money, jewellery and horses, but of Circassian beauties from the Turkish harems. I had not the pleasure of seeing these ladies who had the honour of cementing international alliances. In dealing with the Bulgar the German is equally wily, and magnanimously hands over to him all the tragic booty dragged from the poor Serbian homes. Guns, munitions, rifles, household furniture and jewellery, and loot of every possible description, from little Serbia, was to be found everywhere in Sofia.

Nor has this system of bribery been without its marked effect, for I saw everywhere German and Bulgarian officers mixing together and having a good time, and a good deal of sweethearting was going on between German soldiers and Bulgarian girls.

In Sofia only black bread is obtainable. Sugar was absolutely unprocurable, coal was short, but prices were not so high as in Constantinople. The Bulgarian people, however, are suffering the lot which seems to follow inevitably in the wake of the German wherever he goes—shortage of food and other supplies.

I wish that I could have had with me one or two British Cabinet Ministers; not that they might suffer any harm, or endanger their valuable lives, but that they might have learned to appreciate the value of the weapon which they have not yet learned how to use—the British Navy. One of the most certain ways of shortening the war is to bring about dissensions, not only in Germany, but among the population of her subjugated allies—Austria-Hungary, Bulgaria and Turkey—and this can best be done by what the Germans call “Stomach Pressure.”

There seems to be still a small amount of silver in circulation in Sofia, but the Bulgars, who have always been poor, are now realising an unprecedented degree of poverty under their German masters. If properly emphasised this must, in my opinion, bring about eventual trouble with the Prussian Bully, who is at present cajoling them with gifts, but principally with promises.

The conquest of Serbia has unquestionably greatly heartened the Austrians, who are more anti-Serbian than anti-Russian. Since the war broke out there have been periods when the Berlin taskmasters found themselves in some difficulty as to how to maintain the enthusiasm of their Austrian allies. Upon this I am absolutely convinced, there is no such difficulty now. It is so many years since unhappy Austria has had cause to celebrate a victory that the novelty of the sensation has had a remarkably stimulating effect upon the whole country. Their history has been a story of retreat and defeat. Prussia crushed them in a few weeks in 1866, now they begin to regard themselves as the equals of their overlords. In addition to their new port of Antivari on the Adriatic, they confidently anticipate securing Venice and Northern Serbia. For the moment they are intoxicated with victory which they fondly imagine to be their own, but underneath there is the same hatred of the Prussian that existed before the war.

The compulsion campaign in England has aroused great interest in Austria, and has been the cause of innumerable heated arguments in the thousands of cafés throughout the land. The popular idea that Englishmen fight only when they are paid to do so, with extra for battles, has been so assiduously fostered by Berlin propagandists that it has become almost an article of Austrian faith. It is practically impossible for them to understand the spirit of the new British armies, to which men have flocked from all parts of the Empire. In Vienna, as in other places, I was solemnly assured that the rich would stay at home and play football, or live in their castles, hunting and enjoying themselves. Not even eighteen months of war have dispelled the Austrian belief in English “sportkrankheit” (sport disease).

The day after I arrived in Sofia, I had an interesting talk with two Bulgarian officers who were staying in the same hotel. They told me of the retreat of the Franco-British forces from Serbian territory into Greece. The Bulgarian soldiers liked very much to fight the English, for the reason that when they defeated them the booty they find is so considerable. For instance, many of those Bulgarian farmers had never seen or eaten chocolate in their lives, and were delighted to find, when the English had to evacuate the camp, that they left behind them considerable quantities of chocolate and marmalade.

In particular, these Bulgarian officers were keen to know something of the situation in Greece. As I came from a foreign country they thought I should be able to tell them much about what Greece was going to do. After talking with them for a little while I got the impression that they seemed to fear the participation of Greece in the war. They do not like the Greeks; in fact, they hate them. There have always been quarrels between these two countries; but, at the same time, these Bulgarians were not particularly keen to fight the Greeks just then. When I asked the reason why, they told me that a great part of the army had to be ready for eventualities against Roumania and Russia, and that the rest would not be sufficient to meet the Grecian army with any chance of success, reinforced as it could be by a large Franco-British army. I thought to myself, if only the leading Greek statesmen with their pro-German king could hear this, what a fine opportunity it would be for Greece to settle her old quarrels with Bulgaria.

One thing struck me very much, that wherever the Germans go a shortage of food and other things seems to follow on their heels. When I had visited Bulgaria eight months previously, there was not what one would call an abundance of food, but there was enough to keep people going. As soon as the Germans got the Bulgarians to march with them the scarcity of food began. The first Sugar Ticket had just been issued when I entered Bulgaria, and I dare say other tickets will soon follow. People, particularly women, were worrying the officials as to where these tickets were available, and shouts of all kinds showed abundantly that the people were very little pleased with the new regulations. The financial situation as well seems to be hopeless. There is paper money everywhere. Of silver there is very little, and gold of course is unknown.

It is a remarkable thing that of all the Balkan countries Bulgaria is the only one where the German language is known to any extent. They call themselves proudly “Little Germany,” but to the honour of the Bulgarians I must say there is a marked difference between the Bulgarian and the German. He is not brutal, very simple, and extremely polite, three things of which no German can be accused. The officers go about with the soldiers in the same way as the French. They are very simple and unassuming. I saw in the train a Bulgarian captain produce from his pocket a piece of sausage and start eating it sitting before us, a thing a German officer would never do.

In most schools previous to the war French was the first language taught; now they all start with German. All the same, fifty per cent. of the Bulgarian officers I saw and spoke with completely ignored the German language, and the only language in which we could make each other understood was French.

CHAPTER IV

CONSTANTINOPLE

I Leave Sofia—A Valuable Document—The Change in Adrianople—The Bulgars in Possession—The Turk Determined to Fight—I Adopt the Fez—War Pressure—The Fate of Enemy Subjects—A Way They Have in Turkey—The Financial Situation—Enver Goes to Berlin—A Turkish Girl Clerk—A Quick Change—A City of Darkness.

I stayed only a few days in Sofia, and soon continued my journey to Constantinople. The train left about two in the morning, but as we were told on the afternoon previous that the train would leave at 11 p.m. that night, we, my fellow passengers and I, were all there at the railway station at 10 o’clock, and had to wait four hours in a nasty, dirty-looking waiting room, filled with German soldiers and Bulgarian soldiers and officers. It was uncomfortably warm in the room. Most of the Germans were playing cards, and I was longing to get out into the fresh air, but no one was allowed on to the platform.

My laissez passer from the Bulgarian Minister at Vienna again proved invaluable, and I found out to my great satisfaction that this paper would serve me in many ways. As soon as I showed it to the Bulgarian Commandant I was allowed on the platform. There I found myself, the special correspondent of an English newspaper, allowed more privileges than even German civil travellers—a thing that made me smile. Most of the German soldiers were on the way to Constantinople and Asia Minor, and some of them told me that they had not seen their homes since the beginning of the war. They were not complaining, however, as they seemed to be convinced that the victory would be theirs. They were well-clothed, and looked well-fed also, and I did not notice any old Landsturm men. We in this country are too often inclined to believe that the German man supply is exhausted. The men they send to the Balkans, however, have by no means the appearance of being the last of the bunch; in fact, no one could wish for better soldiers, every one of them being of excellent physique.

When I eventually left Sofia I was faced with a journey of twenty-four hours, once more with carriage windows painted white; but this time I had the good fortune to secure sleeping-car accommodation, and I promptly turned in; there was nothing else to do. We were four in a sleeping-car compartment. The man opposite to me was a German merchant on his way to Asia Minor to buy wool, which, as is well known, is one of the great products of Turkey. He seemed very tired, and did not respond at all well to my efforts to engage him in conversation. Soon he was snoring with such earnestness that I had considerable difficulty in getting to sleep myself.

The next morning we arrived at Adrianople. What a change from the Adrianople I had seen eight months before! There were no Turkish soldiers, no Turkish flags, no Turkish lettering at the station. Bulgarian soldiers were guarding the line, Bulgarian flags were flying from the railway station, and Bulgarian letters indicated the name of the place.

During the last few years the Holy City of the Turks has experienced many vicissitudes. In the first Balkan War it was captured by the Bulgars, aided by the Serbs. When difficulties arose between the various members of the Balkan League, owing to the treacherous conduct of Bulgaria, the Turks retook the town, but their reign was short, and now they have surrendered it once more to the Bulgars. There was not a single Turkish soldier to be seen at the railway station, and, to add to the irony of the situation, the Turks have almost completed a fine new railway station, which I suppose the Bulgars will presently take over, allowing a minimum sum as compensation.

As soon as my train drew up at Adrianople, German soldiers rushed into the different carriages to ask for German newspapers. While I was in Constantinople I found that the only paper printed in English that was allowed to be sold was The Continental Times, a German propagandist journal with a very obvious purpose.

It should interest English readers to know that everywhere the Turks regard themselves as fighting for their very existence. Such being the case, the Allies must not deceive themselves as to the desperate character of the resistance which the Turks will continue to offer. All are convinced that war with the Allies was inevitable, for the reason that Constantinople had been promised to Russia. A Turkish deputy “friend” of mine was never tired of harping on this note.

At Lule Burgas there were further interrogations, and once more I had to go through the ordeal of cross-examination, but thanks to the personal letter I carried from the Turkish Ambassador in Vienna to Halil Bey, the Turkish Minister for Foreign Affairs, my difficulties were soon over. In fact, the officials were very polite, and wished me a good journey.

Not only has Adrianople become merged in Bulgarian territory, but Lule Burgas, the station beyond, has also passed into the possession of the Bulgars. It was not until I was past Lule Burgas that I met the first Turkish soldiers.

The impression I got of Turkey in Europe was that of a poor and monotonous country; nowhere did I discover anyone cultivating the soil, and, with the exception of the miserable little villages that we passed, it was quite possible to imagine oneself in an uninhabited country.

It was one o’clock in the morning when I reached Stamboul, the Turkish part of Constantinople. I went direct to the Pera Palace Hotel, being conveyed in an old carriage, the only one I found available. Not a light of any description was to be seen, the town being in utter darkness. The Pera Palace Hotel is well known to many Englishmen as being the only good hotel in the place. It is now more than ever expensive, prices having been greatly increased. I could live cheaper at the Ritz Hotel in London than in the Pera Palace Hotel in Constantinople. After a few hours’ sleep, I set out upon an exploration of the city, which I knew from my previous visit. What a change!

My first precaution was to adopt the fez as a head covering. When in Rome do as Rome does, is an excellent maxim, more particularly so in war time. Over and over again I had noticed that some sort of uniform is the best means of facilitating travel in a country occupied by soldiery. In Constantinople the fez is almost an introduction. But of the changes I noticed: bad food, bread-tickets, or rather bread-books, the bread itself practically uneatable, the hotel swarming with German officers grumbling bitterly at the fare, and all talking bombastically of Egypt.

In Constantinople one realises the war pressure better than in any other of the great capitals in the war zone that I have visited. The dearth of the necessaries of life has become alarming. None the less the Germans who swarm the streets, the Government offices, and the railway trains see to it that they themselves are well fed and well provided with every requisite. The more I saw of the German side of the war, the more I realised that the care and attention of the entire German people is being concentrated on the Army, that, while all the other Government offices in Constantinople were shabby, as they have always been, while electric light and gas light exist no longer, the German-controlled War Office had been entirely redecorated inside and out, and looks as spick and span as if it were in reality Prussian.

The defenceless subjects of the nations at present fighting the Turks who are still in Constantinople have to suffer many indignities. It is disheartening to describe. To my great satisfaction I found that nearly all the English colony had left before hostilities broke out, but many French and Belgians remained, also a number of Russians, who for some reason or other stayed behind. They are in a deplorable condition. Many of these people before the war belonged to the wealthy classes, but at present they are poor and dependent. One Belgian with whom I had become acquainted on my first visit, a very reliable and honest business man, told me many interesting things.

When war broke out he was living with his wife and three children on the Asia Minor coast, the other side of the Bosphorus, which must be considered a suburb of Constantinople. Nearly every business man has only his office in Constantinople, ninety per cent. of them living on the Asia Minor coast, which is far more healthy, clean, and agreeable. This Belgian possessed, besides the house in which he was living, four other houses, and a farm some 20 miles inland. He was the owner of a motor car, three carriages, two motor boats, and a number of cows and horses. The houses he owned were requisitioned by the Turkish Government for hospital purposes, and they used them for the worst cases, such as cholera, the Plague, and other dreadful diseases.

My Belgian friend was compelled to leave the house in which he was living, and seek refuge in a hotel in Constantinople. His own house was stripped, everything being taken away; his beautiful collection of rifles, pistols, pictures and furniture was stolen by the soldiers. His horses, cows, and in fact everything he had was taken away, and not even a requisition-bond handed to him. The Turks even appropriated his balance at the bank.

In stripping a man of his possessions, the Turk shows a thoroughness that would make a German green with envy. The Belgian has become a poor man who can hardly find food for his children. If it were not for some subjects of neutral countries, who had known him before the war, he and his family would be actually starving. The American Ambassador, Mr. Morgenthau, to whom was entrusted the care of these people, does not seem to be able to render them much assistance. Not only the Belgian of whom I have just spoken, but many others, complained to me that whenever they went to the American Embassy when something had been stolen from them by the Turks, they were put off with the assurance that nothing could possibly be done for them.

In all probability the French and British warship commanders were unaware of the Turkish method of dealing with the question of compensating the Faithful whose property had been damaged by bombardment. Whenever a house belonging to a Turk had been demolished by the French or British shells the property of one of the subjects of the enemy countries then living in Turkey was confiscated, and the owner with his family sent to the interior of Asia Minor. All his belongings were handed over to the Turk whose property had suffered through the bombardment.

The financial situation in Turkey is of an alarming nature, I found to my great delight. I myself had never been a real enemy of the Turks. I considered them a simple, good-hearted race, and in many ways superior to the inhabitants of the surrounding countries. What I found out during my last visit has, however, entirely changed my opinion. In many desirable ways they can claim the honour of equalling their German masters, but in cruelty, barbarism, and utter unscrupulousness they now excel even the Germans. No! I am no longer a friend of the Turks. Especially am I no friend of their Government.

When eight months previously I was in Turkey, I was astonished at the amount of gold that was in circulation. I had always heard that Turkey was such a poor country, and I was greatly surprised, when I entered a bank for the purpose of changing Austrian bank-notes, to find that I could get as much gold in exchange as I wanted, and I was puzzled, especially as that gold looked suspiciously new. I afterwards found that it was part of the gold that Germany had lent, or given, to her Turkish friend to get her to participate in the war. Gold had also been given for the purpose of paying requisitions, which were many, for the Turks as a result of the Balkan War had exhausted nearly all their war material. I found out that many of those requisitions had, however, not been paid. In fact, of the new war requisitions not one had been paid, most of the gold having been peculated by the Turkish officials in high places. The result was a bitter quarrel with the Germans, which, however, had been kept secret.

For obvious reasons the Germans refused to send any more gold—they had none themselves. Some months ago Enver Pasha went to Berlin to try and settle the affair, and his mission seems to have been successful.

On this visit to Constantinople I found the financial situation was critical. All the gold had disappeared, and, what is even more significant, silver was hardly to be obtained either. This is due to the fact that the new Treasury bonds recently issued by the Turkish Government are refused in the interior of Turkey, which is where the farms are situated. The Anatolian farmers promptly refused to accept paper money in exchange for their products, and the Turkish merchants, in order to purchase the harvest, etc., were compelled to pay the farmers in silver money. The result is that there is hardly any silver left in Constantinople, but there is any amount of it circulating in the interior of Asia Minor.

The shortage of currency has paralysed the Turkish trade, and therefore the Government had to think of something. Just a few days before I left Constantinople I witnessed the appearance of the funniest paper money I have ever seen. Just imagine the situation. In Turkey, on £1 notes (the original value of a £1 note is about 17s. or 18s.), even at the Government offices or State Railways, one has to lose about ten per cent. in exchange. To meet the shortage of currency the Turks decided it would be legal to cut a £1 note in half, so when I took my meal one day in the Tokatlian Restaurant, in the Pera Street, I received my change in this new fashion. It was a very odd sight to see a man get his knife out of his pocket and cut the bank-note in half.

It has always been my desire to see a Turkish woman face to face, unveiled, of course. They seem so mysterious with their covered faces, and one imagines them much nicer than they really are, on account of the mysterious way in which they go about. On my previous visit I had not succeeded in seeing one; this time I was more lucky. One day I entered the post-office in Stamboul, where no Europeans live, and went to the Poste Restante box to find if there were any letters for me. A young girl was answering my questions, and she was a pretty Oriental-looking creature. At first I took her for one of the innumerable Jewish or Grecian girls who are to be found in Constantinople. She spoke the French language very well, and after I had spoken for a few minutes I asked her if she were Grecian or Armenian. She answered me at once, “No, I am a Mussulman girl.” “What!” I exclaimed, “are you Turkish, real Turkish?” “Yes, I am,” she said, and then went on to tell me that during the last fortnight a few Mahommedan young girls had entered the Government service, and she told me that others were to follow. If all Turkish women are as charming as she was, then a harem must be far more interesting than I thought it could be.

Several times I had noticed black Turkish troops passing me in the streets, men of the typical African negro type, and I could not understand from what part of Turkey they had come. I soon found out, however, that they were not Turks at all, but French native soldiers who had been taken prisoners during the Gallipoli campaign. These soldiers, being Mahommedans, were soon turned into Turkish soldiers. The Turks treated them well, put them into Turkish uniforms, and now they fight against the French!

Tall and well-dressed German soldiers were on duty everywhere. A lot has been written about old men, belonging to the Landsturm, and boys, being taken prisoners on the Western front, but the Germans are not sending this class of men to the Near East. Their army in Constantinople consists of really first-class troops. It has been stated by the Salonika correspondent of The Times that there are 50,000 troops in Constantinople. That number may have passed through the city. In my opinion, arrived at after careful calculation, the number of German soldiers actually in Constantinople may be put down at about 10,000.

When I was in Constantinople eight months previously there was comparative gaiety in the city. It is extraordinary to see the difference that has been made by the absence of electricity and gas. It has at once closed theatres, cafés, kinemas, and all other places of amusement. Nearly all the shops are closed. With the cutting off of the coal supply the whole life of the city has thus been destroyed. In London there is at least some light, but in Constantinople the only means of getting about at night is by the aid of electric torches, the very smallest of which cost me 8s.

The condition of affairs in the city approached famine; the electric tramway service, as far as the public is concerned, has practically come to a standstill. I took careful note of the prices of necessaries; sugar is 5s. a pound, coffee 6s. a pound, and cigarettes have been advanced by 40 per cent. Anyone who knows Turkey will understand what this means for a people that smokes practically all day long. Matches are 3d. a box. The stock of paraffin oil has been exhausted, likewise that of chocolate, and all cheese, save the horrible Turkish variety, is no longer procurable. Mutton has advanced 40 per cent. in price and beef is not to be had. The small Turkish eggs, which used to cost one farthing each eight months ago, are now twopence each. Soap is ridiculously expensive, but the Turk does not suffer much in consequence! There is very little rice, but fish, of course, is as plentiful as ever, thanks to the unique situation of Constantinople.

Despite all these difficulties and inconveniences, the German War-Machine seems to move with its customary precision. If the Turkish citizen goes short of food the German private soldier gets his full ration every day. This is as it should be, according to the German view.

CHAPTER V

I INTERVIEW ENVER PASHA

Germanising the Turkish War Office—Halil Bey—Wireless Disguised as a Circus—Enver Pasha Receives Me—The Turkish Napoleon—Something of a Dandy—“If the English Had Only Had the Courage”—“To Egypt!”—Turkey’s Debt to Great Britain—Affairs Before Manners—A German Tribute to British Troops—Their Designs in the Suez Canal—German War Plans—Where to Kill Germans—The Baghdad Expedition—German Officers in Mufti.

The principal object of my visit to Constantinople was to find out from the Turks what were the German plans. I determined to take the bull by the horns, and accordingly called at the Turkish Foreign office to see Halil Bey, the Foreign Minister. It must be remembered that I was in possession of a personal introduction to him from the Turkish Ambassador in Vienna. After four unsuccessful attempts, I succeeded in seeing him by reason of my credentials, which have enabled me to gather so much valuable information. The Foreign Office, like every other Government department, is infested with Germans. Halil Bey, who received me courteously, is a prosperous-looking Turk, who might be described as fat. He was frankly pro-German.

“What we Turks need,” he remarked, “is German business initiative. We do not possess it yet. Look what Germany did for Roumania; she has reorganised her and set her on her feet. Roumania is now rich and prosperous, and full of enterprise. The Germans are with us only for the duration of the war,” he added, “and they will help Turkey to become a wealthy nation. See what they are doing for us in Anatolia. There we have 200 German non-commissioned officers teaching the people modern farming.”

I decided that Halil Bey was an optimist, and a very poor student of history. Also an equally bad judge of German character.

My object in seeking out Halil Bey, however, was not so much to obtain his own opinions, as to get an introduction to Enver Pasha. I pressed the Foreign Minister very hard.

“It is my desire,” I said, “to have a few words with the Napoleon of the Balkans.”

“That,” he replied, “is very difficult. Twenty or thirty Austrian and German journalists have been here, but the Minister of War has been so occupied that he has been unable to see any of them; but I will try,” he added, and taking up the telephone he called up the War Minister, and had some laughing conversation with him in Turkish, the nature of which I did not understand. So far as I was concerned, it was obviously satisfactory, and I was told to go to the War Office on the following morning, when Enver Pasha would grant me an audience.

The Turkish War Office stands on the top of a hill in the very heart of Stamboul, the native quarter of the city. It is a huge squat building surrounded by a railing some five yards high. The hill commands a magnificent view of Stamboul and the Sea of Marmora; but to a poor and over-tired journalist, unable to procure a carriage, who has for half-an-hour toiled laboriously up the hill to reach his goal, the glories of nature are somewhat discounted.

During my previous visit to Constantinople I had made the acquaintance of the War Office, then sadly dirty and neglected and typically Turkish in appearance. Now everything was so changed as to be scarcely recognisable. Inside and out it had been redecorated. It was obviously the intention of the Germans that, however neglected the other Turkish Government buildings might be, the War Office was to be a place that would impress itself upon the imagination.

Again I was struck by the number of German officers to be seen, albeit in Turkish uniforms for the most part. They were to be seen everywhere, and clearly the entire direction of affairs was in their hands.

On my arrival I was ushered into an anteroom, where I spent a few minutes in conversation with Enver’s German aide-de-camp.

As we sat chatting together I recalled an incident that occurred during my previous visit to the Turkish War Office in May, 1915. Through one of the windows I had noticed a huge mast belonging to the great wireless station of Osmanli.

“What do you think of it?” inquired a German lieutenant with whom I had been conversing. “With that wireless station we can communicate with Berlin.”

I doubted this at the time, but I have since discovered that the statement was quite correct. I inquired if it were the wireless from the Goeben, deliberately assuming innocence in order to stimulate the German to further disclosure.

“Oh, no,” was the reply, “ships do not carry masts of that size. This one came from Germany.”

“From Germany!” I exclaimed. “But surely Roumania would not allow to pass a wireless apparatus. That would be a violation of neutrality.”

The officer smiled, a German smile, a smile of superior knowledge. “Well,” he replied, “as a matter of fact it was not passed as a wireless apparatus, but I will explain to you the little device that we used to get it there. We had to think out some plan, as we badly needed a strong apparatus, so we got it here as a circus!”

I laughed outright, but my companion did not appear to see anything funny in the incident. It seemed to strike him as clever rather than humorous—he was a typical German. Humour does not exist where the needs of the Fatherland are concerned.

Presently an electric bell rang, summoning the aide-de-camp, who conducted me into the War Minister’s presence. My first impression of Enver Pasha was that he was on very good terms with himself. He is a small man, standing perhaps some five feet five inches, with coal-black eyes, black moustache, and generally rather handsome features. He is about thirty-five years of age, but looks younger, and has obviously taken great care of himself. On his face was a pleased, contented expression that never for one moment left it. I could not say whether this was habitual or whether it was assumed for my special benefit. He was well-dressed and well-groomed, with something of the dandy about him; low down on the left breast he wore the Iron Cross of the First Class. He spoke German perfectly, Halil speaks only French.

Enver smiled as he shook hands with me, not only at my fez, but at my card which was printed in Turkish characters. There was a merry twinkle in his eye, and he had an extremely easy manner. It is said that he models himself, not upon the Great War Lord but upon Napoleon, even to the extent of riding a white charger. The general impression in Constantinople was that he has no little conceit of himself. Never for one moment did he allow me to forget that he was graciously giving me some of his valuable time. His first act was to produce a big gold cigarette case, from which he invited me to take a cigarette, having first carefully selected one himself. He then leaned back comfortably in his arm-chair and awaited my questions.

To make him talk I asked whether it was true that Great Britain was prepared to make a separate peace with Turkey, and, if so, what would be the result of such overtures.

“It is too late,” he replied, smiling. “They may have had that design, and it might have succeeded; but we learn that the Entente”—or as he called them jocularly the mal-Entente—“Powers have designs to hand over Constantinople to Russia, and that compelled us to remain with the Central Powers.”

Referring to the Gallipoli campaign, he said: “If the English had only had the courage to rush more ships through the Dardanelles they would have got to Constantinople, but their delay enabled us thoroughly to fortify the Peninsula, and in six weeks’ time we had taken down there over two hundred Austrian Skoda guns.

“But,” he continued, “even had the British ships got to Constantinople it would not have availed them very much. Our plan was to retire our army to the surrounding hills and to Asia Minor and leave the city at their mercy. They would not have destroyed it, and the result would have been simply an impasse. With the Germans we can strike at the British Empire through the Suez Canal. Our motto is, ‘To Egypt!’”

I told him that in my country we found it extremely difficult to realise that Turkey was actually at war with England and France, seeing that but for the efforts of these two countries Turkey would long since have ceased to exist as a separate kingdom in Europe.

“That is quite correct (sie haben recht),” he replied without pausing to think. But in the same breath he murmured, “Whatever England did for Turkey was not dictated out of love, but rather from consideration for her own interests. England feared the competition of Russia in the Mediterranean.”

I was a little suspicious of Enver’s complacent attitude, but I believe he was sincere in what he said to me. I watched him very carefully when he told me that the sacrifice of a few more ships would have got the English to Constantinople, and I am convinced that this is his firm opinion. I could not help thinking of the pity of it all, and that 200,000 casualties might have been saved by a little more enterprise. I learned that this opinion was general in Constantinople, even in high diplomatic quarters.

At the end of ten minutes Enver rose and remarked: “You must excuse me now, I am busy.” He shook hands with me and abruptly left the room. I was a little surprised at this, but concluded that in his many responsibilities he had never had the leisure in which to study manners, and the courtesy due even to a journalist. Had I been English I could better have understood his attitude; for, some years ago, he visited England, where he did not receive the attention he expected. The result was that he returned to Constantinople strongly anti-British.

Enver’s view as to the possibility of Great Britain forcing the Dardanelles, had they shown a little more vigour and indifference to the loss of a few ships, I found echoed by the German officers whom I met both at the Pera Palace and the Continental Hotel, where I stayed on my return from Asia Minor, only in their case it was more vehemently expressed. The Turks have no real dislike for the English and none for the French, although all French words have been removed from the shop-signs in Constantinople.

German officers, however, were very free in expressing their loathing of the British, though full of admiration for the fighting capacity of their soldiers. On every hand I heard the remark that they wished they had British, Australian and Canadian Tommies to command. The general view expressed in Constantinople is to the effect that the united German-Turkish army will destroy the Suez Canal from one end to the other, if necessary, filling it up with its ancient sand and thus render it impassable.

“But if you do that,” I remarked to more than one of them, “the British will merely return to their old route to India via the Cape of Good Hope.”

Never once did they vouchsafe an answer to this. The German has an extraordinary capacity for seeing no further than his particular goal. He is a creature of cries “To Paris!” “To Calais!” “To Warsaw!” “To Egypt!”; and when he finds himself baulked he forgets his object, just as a child forgets a toy when something more interesting presents itself.

One and all, however, admitted that there was no chance of the Germans getting to Paris. Their contention was—and it must be remembered that many of them had been fighting in the West—that they had effectually walled off the English and French armies and rendered them to all intents and purposes impotent, thus enabling themselves together with their allies—Austrian, Turkish, Bulgarian, and Arabian—to operate freely on the Eastern front.

As I have said, my instructions were to find out what were the German plans in the East. With this object I mingled freely with as many Germans and Turks as possible. I lost no opportunity of entering into conversation with anyone who showed the least inclination to converse. Fortunately I speak French perfectly, and German almost as well. French enabled me to talk to the Turks, and my German permitted me to “get close,” as the Americans say, not only to the German soldiers, but to officers and civilians, who are stationed at, or are passing through, Constantinople on their way to Asia Minor.

It appears to be part of the German economic plan to turn Turkey into a great German dependency, and to force the Turk to cultivate the soil, which in some places is the richest in the world. The true humour of the situation will develop when the Turk discovers what he has let himself in for. As to the German military plans, they are, so far as I could gather, three in number. My own view is that they will attempt the whole three simultaneously, and then allow them to develop as fortune may decide. These plans are (1) the Baghdad-Persia-India plan; (2) the Caucasus plan, with which to tackle the Russians; (3) Egypt and the Suez Canal plan.

One afternoon a German said to me, “If the English and French only knew, the proper place to kill Germans is between Nieuport in Belgium and Mülhausen in Alsace; but owing to their inferior staff work, lack of munitions, fear of our guns, gas, mines, and machine-guns, they leave us comparatively quiet in the Western theatre, and enable us to menace the line of communication to India and the ridiculous Townshend Expedition, which will never get to Baghdad.”

There is among the German officers a general contempt for the English and French, particularly the English, staff work. At the Sachim Pasha Hotel in Stamboul I encountered a pleasant old Turk who spoke French extremely well. He was the Vali of Baghdad (a sort of Justice of the Peace, I believe), who had come to report to the Germans the condition of the English and Turkish forces. What he said was practically a repetition of what Enver had said to me a few days previously about Gallipoli: “We were very alarmed when we heard they were coming,” he remarked, “for our defences were in a bad condition, and we had nothing but a few old guns. Our spies, however told us that General Townshend’s force was a small one, and we therefore took courage and held the English in check until we could get our reinforcements; now, thanks to Allah, they will never reach our holy city, their relief force is too late.”

It is not for me to offer advice to the British Government. As I have said, I love the country just as I hate the Germans, but I wish the British Ministers could appreciate how often the term “too late,” in connection with the operations of the Allies, has cropped up during this journey of mine.

The German authorities in Constantinople were urged by the people at Baghdad to send every available man there, whereas the immediate wish of the Turks is to get to the Suez Canal and so regain their fair province of Egypt and the Nile. Turkish sentiment combined with German hatred of England may probably precipitate the immediate advance on the Canal. I have been told frequently since my return to England that this is impossible, that it is only “bluff.” I remember the same things being said when Enver Pasha announced, months ago, that the Germans were coming to relieve Constantinople. My own opinion—which, of course, may be worth nothing, but it is formed as the result of talking to scores of Turks and Germans in Constantinople and Asia Minor—is that unless there be great combined efforts in France by the British and French, and in the Caucasus by the Russians, the Germans and Turks may achieve one—at least one—of their three objects, possibly two, perhaps all three even. The determining factors are the pressure by the hated British Navy and greater activity in France, Belgium, and Russia.

At four o’clock every afternoon the German officers, who are constantly arriving from Berlin at the Pera Palace Hotel to receive their instructions, remove their military clothes and appear in mufti. Here again we have evidence of German subtlety. No man in the world loves his uniform as does the German officer, but, as one waggish Bavarian lieutenant said to me, “We must not give the Turks the impression that we are a flight of German locusts. We do not want the Galata Bridge to look like Unter den Linden all the time, so as soon as we have finished our duty we go about as civilians.” They are wise. Constantinople already looks quite German enough; that is, to Turkish eyes. There are German newspapers printed in the city, there are the crews of the Goeben and Breslau wearing the Turkish fez, and of the submarines, and swarms of miscellaneous Germans, all with their particular object in view. These facts in themselves are enough to cause misgiving in the heart of the most pronouncedly pro-German Turk. My own impression is that whatever may be the result of the war the Germans are getting such a hold on the Near East that it will be next to impossible to drive them out. Money is scarce in Germany, but the Germans seem to have plenty to spend in Turkey and Asia Minor.

CHAPTER VI

I VISIT ASIA MINOR

A Remarkable Railway Station—I Leave for Konia—The Anatolian Railway—How to Get to Baghdad—Elaborate Instructions—Necessity for Caution—English and French Prisoners—Instructing the Turk in the Arts of Peace—A Noisy Sleeper—Hamburg’s Hatred of Great Britain—Sops to Austria and Turkey—Field-Marshal Von der Goltz—I Return to Constantinople.

After I had been nine days in Constantinople I determined to undertake what I clearly saw would be the most dangerous portion of my journey. At that time I did not anticipate encountering the Kaiser and his detective bodyguard at Nish.

I knew that for ordinary civil travellers the Anatolian Railway is closed, because the whole of Asia Minor is what we call here in “the War Zone.” After my interview with Enver Pasha, however, I thought it would not be so difficult to get permission to travel into the interior of Turkey, and in fact, after two days’ ceaseless effort and many hours spent in ante-rooms, I was lucky enough to secure the so much-desired permission. It was stated on my passport in Turkish characters, under the stamp of the Turkish War Office, that I was to be allowed to travel in the military zone—in other words, that I could go into Asia Minor.

I took the ferry boat across the Bosphorus to the Haidar Pasha railway station, a palatial edifice, the starting place for all the great German ventures in the East. It has been built quite recently by a German company, and stands there as a monument of the enterprise and ability of that astonishing nation. Haidar Pasha itself is a mere village on the Sea of Marmora, and the station stands out in one of the most beautiful positions of its kind in the world. The heart of every patriotic Teuton thrills as he struts about the great hall, and reads the various notices in his native tongue.

The rest of the world has a good deal to learn from the German railway station, and this one at Haidar Pasha is an object-lesson in cleanliness to the Turks. The surrounding country looks poor, all the houses are small and ill-kept, and the more one looks at the beautiful station the more obvious is its contrast with its surroundings. It must be remembered that every Turkish or German soldier going to the Caucasus, Mesopotamian, or Egyptian front will have to pass through the station of Haidar Pasha, the terminus of the Anatolian, and in fact all the Turkish railways in Asia.

My dark complexion, coupled with my habitual wearing of the fez, caused me to attract less attention than would otherwise have been the case. I had fortunately struck up a slight acquaintance with Enver Pasha’s German aide-de-camp, and he most kindly obliged me with official directions of how to get to Baghdad, where to stop, what to pay at the so-called hotels, and so forth. I can only hope, for his own peace of mind, that he never reads this book.

This list of instructions is a typical example of German thoroughness, and is printed in French because, although Germans now swarm in Turkey and Asia Minor, the only language possible for a visiting traveller in out of the way places is French—that is, provided he does not know Turkish.

I regard the document as of such interest that I reproduce it below, together with a translation.

Bulletin des renseignements

sur le voyage de Haidar-Pacha à Rees-el-Ain.

1. Départ de Haidar-Pacha, arrivée le soir à Eski-Chehir; Hôtel Tadia (Mme. Tadia).

2. Départ d’Eski-Chehir, arrivée à Konia; Hôtel de la Gare construit par la Société (Mme. Soulié).

3. Départ de Konia, arrivée à Bozanti. Il n’y a à Bozanti qu’un simple han.

4. Trajet en voiture de Bozanti à Tarsus, 70 kilom. en 10 à 12 heures sur bonne chaussée. Les voitures doivent être commandées d’avance au Handji de Bozanti ou à Tarsus, si l’on veut poursuivre le voyage sans arrêt à Bozanti. Prix des voitures, de Ltqs 2 à 5 suivant les circonstances. Entre Bozanti et Tarsus il y a plusieurs Khans où l’on peut à la rigueur passer la nuit: Sary Cheih, Mezarolouk, Yéni-Han. Il se recommande d’emmener son lit de camp et de se pourvoir d’approvisionnements et de boissons suffisants.

5. Tarsus, environ ¾ d’heure avant d’y arriver on traverse la ligne du M.T.A. à la Halte de Kulek-Bognaz; à Tarsus 3 hôtels: Sérai Hotelli, Osmanli, et Stamboul (10 p. par lit), en outre restaurant “Bélédie.”

6. Départ de Tarsus, arrivée à Mamouré. Mamouré n’est qu’une station d’étape militaire. Aucun hôtel ni han. Les voyageurs qui n’ont pas de tente à leur disposition peuvent passer la nuit chez de simples cafedjis, où ils trouvent quelques vivres, mais où ils ne peuvent obtenir de lits. Il est donc préférable pour les voyageurs non munis de tente et de lit de camp de s’arrêter à Osmanié pour y passer la nuit. Hôtels: Ismyr et Ahmed (5 p. par lit). Les tenanciers de ces hôtels procurent les voitures nécessaires pour le voyage à Radjou. Prix des voitures 2 à 5 Ltqs. suivant les circonstances.

7. Trajet en voiture d’Osmanié à Radjou. Environ 110 kil. en 2 jours sur route carrossable, qui est une pendant la bonne saison: ler jour; par Hassan bey et le col de l’Amanus à Entilli (environ 50 kil.); à Entilli point d’hôtels, rien que de simples cafedjis. Les voyageurs peuvent aussi passer la première nuit à Islahié à environ 12 kilom. d’Entilli; à Entilli, siège d’un caza, bureau d’étape militaire, plusieurs Hans avec des lits (10 p. per lit.) 2ème jour: de Entilli resp. Islahié à Radjou (6O resp. 48 kil.); à Radjoué ni hôtel ni hans; rien que des cafedjis.

8. De Radjou à Halep: le même jour (différents hôtels).

9. De Halep à Rees-el-Ain (le même jour). Siège d’un caza. Quelques Hans sans lits; rien que des cafedjis.

10. De Rees-el-Ain à Bagdad. Trajet qui s’offectue en 10 à 12 jours.

Recommandations spéciales: Lit de camp ou matelas indispensable. Il se recommande d’emmener aussi une tente. Malles doivent être de construction très solide et ne doivent pas excéder le poids de 60 kilogrs. par pièce. Au lieu de malles on peut prendre des valises ou des sacs de voyage. Le transport usuel se fait par voiture “Yaili,” qui est toujours préférable au voyage par cheval. Se munir de vêtements chauds pour la nuit et d’approvisionnements et de boissons suffisants. Ne pas oublier une petite pharmacie de campagne. L’eau qu’on trouve en cours de route est souvent nuisible à la santé.

[Translation.]

Directions

For the journey from Haidar Pasha to Ras-el-Ain.

1. Leave Haidar Pasha, arrive in evening at Eskishehr; Hotel Tadia, Mme. Tadia.

2. Leave Eskishehr, arrive Konia; Station Hotel built by the company, Mme. Sulieh.

3. Leave Konia, arrive Bozanti; only a simple inn.

4. By carriage or car, Bozanti to Tarsus, 44 miles in ten or twelve hours on good road. Vehicles should be ordered beforehand from Handji of Bozanti or at Tarsus if you wish to avoid delay at Bozanti. Fare £T2 to £T5 (£T1 nominally 17s. 6d. to 18s.), according to circumstances. Between Bozanti and Tarsus several inns to sleep at in emergency; Sary Cheih, Mezarolukl, Yeni-Han. Better take a camp bed and enough food and drink.

5. Tarsus, about three-quarters of an hour before arrival, cross the Tarsus-Aleppo line at the Halt Kulek-Boghaz. Three hotels at Tarsus: Serai, Osmanli, and Stambul, 10 piastres (1s. 8d.) a bed. Also a restaurant Beledieh.

6. Leave Tarsus, arrive Mamureh. This only a military post. No hotel or inn. Travellers without a tent may pass the night in the cafés, where they can get food, but no beds. Better if you have no tent or bed to stop at Osmanieh. Hotels Ismyr, Ahmed, 5 piastres (10d.) a bed. The hotel proprietors can get vehicles for the journey to Radju. Fares, £T2 to £T5, according to circumstances.

7. Journey by car or carriage, Osmanieh to Radju, about 70 miles in two days on a drivable road, which is good in the good season.

1st day: Hassan Bey and Pass of Amanus to Entilli, about 32 miles. At Entilli no hotels, only simple cafés. You can pass the first night at Islahieh, about 7½ miles from Entilli. Entilli district headquarters, military post, several inns with beds; 10 piastres a bed.

2nd day: Entilli (or Islahieh) to Radju, 38 (or 31½) miles. Radju, no hotels or inns, only cafés.

8. Radju to Aleppo same day. Various hotels.

9. Aleppo to Ras-el-Ain same day. District headquarters. Several inns without beds, only cafés.

10. Ras-el-Ain to Baghdad. Journey can be done in 10 to 12 days.

Special advice: Camp bed or mattress indispensable. Advisable to take a tent. Trunks ought to be strongly made and weigh not over 120 lbs. each. Instead of trunks you may take bags or suit cases. The usual way is by the vehicle Yaili, always preferable to horseback. Get warm clothes for night and enough food and drink. Don’t forget a little medicine chest. It is often risky to drink the water found on the way.

There is naturally far less danger of Secret Service officers in a crowded city than in small towns. In Constantinople I was but one of thousands of strangers passing to and fro, and that at a time of great change in the history of the Turkish capital. The arrival, however, of a stranger in a village sets every local busybody talking and speculating as to where he has come from and why he has come. And this brings him into conflict with, or at least under the suspicion of, some blundering minor official. Quite possibly this person, zealous in his desire to show his authority and his patriotism, may, by virtue of his blundering, stumble across something that his superiors have quite overlooked. Such a thing had happened to me already on a previous occasion.

I therefore determined to be more than ever careful, and to leave nothing whatever to chance. I was desirous of getting as far as possible along the Baghdad Railway, not only to examine the line itself, but to talk to the passengers en route. People of strange countries become companionable, and I have often found that there is more to be learned in a railway carriage during a comparatively short journey, than from a long stay in a city. There is a bond of sympathy between travellers, just as there is between smokers, that causes them after a few hours, sometimes even after only a few minutes, to become communicative. I wanted to get to Aleppo, but I came to the conclusion that I should probably never return if I penetrated too far on the road to Baghdad.

The train for Eski-Shehr, which is the junction for the Caucasian Railway, via Angora, left at four in the afternoon. Turkish soldiers on their way to the Caucasian front to fight the Russians go by rail only as far as Angora, the rest of the journey being made on foot. The roads are terribly bad, but the Turkish soldier philosophically overcomes all the difficulties he encounters, for he is justly famous for his stout heart and his capacity to endure hardships of every description.

In Angora, I believe, the English prisoners are confined. I have no evidence of this beyond a chance remark I heard whilst waiting for the train at Eski-Shehr. I know for a fact that French prisoners are in Angora. Later, at Konia, I saw some 300 French prisoners, deplorably neglected, I regret to say, with little food, and dying like flies. The insanitary condition of that camp was beyond description. The Turks are perhaps not naturally cruel, or, at least, they confine their atrocities to Armenia. They have their own particular views as regards prisoners in general. Turkish prisoners in Turkish prisons are not well treated. After all, a prisoner is not a very important factor in the Turkish mind, and it should be remembered that the food shortage extends throughout the whole area of German operations, always excepting the German soldier himself. Even at the beautiful station of Haidar Pasha I could not get a mouthful of bread or even a biscuit. The only refreshment obtainable was unlimited German beer, produced by a local German brewery.

The journey to Eski-Shehr was pleasant, although the trains were slow and stopped for a considerable time at each station. There are no express trains on the Baghdad Railway. There was, however, no paint on the windows of the carriages, for which I was devoutly thankful, and the carriages themselves were quite comfortable. As we sped along I was much struck by the number of German non-commissioned officers that I saw working and cultivating the land, which between Constantinople and Konia is for the most part fertile, in co-operation with the Turkish farmers. It was explained to me that more than 200 of these non-commissioned officers had been sent to Turkey with the sole purpose of teaching the Turkish farmers how to cultivate their ground. This, again, is typical of German methods, but it has another significance. If Berlin did not believe in the good faith of the Turks, and were not convinced that Germany will remain the unofficial masters of Turkey, all this trouble would certainly not be taken to instruct the people of Asia Minor in the art of agriculture. There is nothing philanthropic about the Germans.

All along the route until Konia was reached I saw these German non-commissioned officers, and whenever the train stopped some of them rushed up to the carriages asking for German newspapers, believing that all the passengers came from the Fatherland, as, indeed, some of them had.

My fellow-passengers were typical of the German invasion of the East. There were among them two merchants from Hamburg, going to bring back Persian products. They talked particularly about copper. At the hotel in Konia I had to sleep in the same room with one of them, and I was desperately afraid lest I might talk in my sleep, and, indeed, when a Turk came to awaken me in the morning I inadvertently called out, “Come in.” The good Hamburger was lying flat on his back, sleeping noisily, and I thanked the good luck that seemed to protect me for sending me as a companion one who was so hearty a sleeper. That Hamburger impressed upon me in no uncertain manner the meaning of sea power. The British are not actually popular in Berlin, as is well known; but the feelings of Berliners are mild and gentle in comparison with those of the inhabitants of the desolated port of Hamburg.

I have seen it stated in the English newspapers that supplies are getting into Germany in spite of the British Fleet, and there are many evidences of this fact in Germany. On the other hand, however, these supplies have to meet the consumptive power of some seventy millions of people. A little, too, is doled out now and then to the Austrians, as if to keep them quiet, but it is very little, and I suppose that even the Turkish officials get a small percentage for the same purpose. The balance goes to the German Army, for that must never be short of anything. It is obvious that if you must be a German, the wisest thing is to be a German soldier.

I have seen it stated that von Mackensen will take charge of the Turkish-German forces at Aleppo, the place from which the expedition to the Suez Canal will start. At present Djamil Pasha, formerly Turkish Minister of Marine, is in command. Travellers who had come from Aleppo told me that the combined German and Turkish forces there numbered 80,000, but I am not in a position to guarantee the accuracy of these figures. What I do know is that there is everywhere an air of general activity and preparation. Long trains full of new railway and telegraph material, rails, small bridges, and numbers of locomotives are to be encountered everywhere. The plodding, persistent Prussian is prodding his Turkish slaves into such action as has never before been known to them. It is incredible that those in high places among the Turks can conceive it possible that they will ever be able to shake off the German yoke. There is to be seen en route a great amount of light railway rolling stock, and I was assured that it was intended for the construction of the railway that will cross the desert to bring the Turkish-German armies face to face with the British on the Canal.

Field-Marshal von der Goltz is at Baghdad. He is one of the oldest German generals with one of the youngest German staffs. At Constantinople they say that the old man is merely a figure head, but he is extremely popular with the young men about him.

At Konia, for reasons that I cannot explain, I thought it advisable to run no further risk, and so I returned to Constantinople. It was very fortunate for me that I did so, otherwise I might have missed the Banquet at Nish, and I should not have earned the name of “The Man who Dined With the Kaiser.”

CHAPTER VII

CONSTANTINOPLE FROM WITHIN

A City of Maimed and Wounded—I See the Sultan—Enver’s Popularity—Talaat Bey the Real Administrator—Gallipoli Day—Constantinople “Mafficks”—The Return of the Ten Thousand—How the Goeben and Breslau Escaped—Their Fateful Arrival at Constantinople—German Privileges—Mendacities of the Turkish Press—The Egyptian Situation—A German Camel Corps—The Turks a Formidable Factor.

To me Constantinople seemed to be a city of maimed and wounded. One morning I strolled out of my hotel, intending to take a carriage to Stamboul, one of those strange vehicles drawn by two lean but vigorous horses that still remain on the streets for hire. From twenty-five to thirty carriages passed me as I stood vainly endeavouring to persuade one of the drivers to pull up. They took not the slightest notice of my gesticulations, but continued precipitately on their way. I was curious to know the reason for this, and on my return to the hotel I inquired of the porter. He informed me that the carriages were going to the Bosphorus to take up the wounded arriving from different battlefields. “After what you have told me,” I remarked, “I shall be afraid of using a carriage in Constantinople.” But shaking his head, the porter replied dispassionately, “Do not be afraid. By order of the Germans, every one of these carriages must be disinfected after use.” “The East is the East and the West is the West,” I meditated as I passed into the hotel. It would be interesting to have the frank opinion of the highly-placed Turk upon the “thoroughness” of their German allies.

I very soon discovered that every big building in the city had been turned into a hospital, one of the biggest being the Lyceum. All the beautiful houses belonging to the wealthy English and French residents, which overlook the Bosphorus, have been commandeered for the Red Crescent, the occupants being obliged under Turkish war regulations to live in hotels.

The Sultan is a mere figure-head, as is well known. One Friday I saw him walking from his palace to a mosque a little distance away—he has given up taking the longer journey to the Aya Sofia for fear of assassination—and his fat, heavy appearance suggested to me that the Turks knew their business when they removed all power from his hands. In the old days a Sultan could not make his appearance in the streets without its being the occasion for a great demonstration. That was yesterday; now popular enthusiasm was for Enver Pasha when he accompanied the Commander of the Faithful. The potentate himself might be persuaded that the acclamations were for his holy person, but everyone else knew better. I was told that the Sultan leaves everything to Talaat Bey and to Enver Pasha. To me the Sultan looked like an unidealised copy of one of Rembrandt’s Rabbis.

Enver may claim to be the power behind the throne, but the real ruler of Turkey is that shrewd statesman Talaat Bey, who, although a great Germanophile, is credited with the belief in the ultimate victory of the Entente Powers. This conviction on the part of Talaat may account for some of the rumours circulated in the Balkans to the effect that he would be not unwilling to conclude a separate peace.

I was in Constantinople when the evacuation of Gallipoli was announced. The town was gay with flags, mobs passed up and down the streets shouting. Notices in Turkish and German were exhibited everywhere. Special newspaper bulletins were being rushed hither and thither by ragged boys. The Turks, who are never over-prodigal of truth, announced the evacuation as a great victory for their soldiers, which had resulted in the English being driven into the sea. Although I had no other news than that supplied by the official proclamation, I was not in the least disturbed, knowing full well the Turkish character. Had there been a great victory there would have been prisoners, and the German knows too well the advantages of clever stage management not to produce these for the edification of the cheering crowd.

Three days later, when Constantinople had to some extent recovered from its mafficking, there passed through the streets about 10,000 of the weariest soldiers it has ever been my lot to see, a long bedraggled line, most of them stumbling along as if scarcely able to stand for fatigue. The people did not know where they had come from. Had they been aware that these poor wretches were some of the stout defenders of Gallipoli they might have given them a warmer cheer. As it was, I saw little or no enthusiasm, although here and there people ran out to give the men cigarettes.

The sight of these utterly worn-out soldiers lingered with me all day. Some of them were so exhausted that they could proceed no further, and had to be lifted up and half carried, half dragged along by their more stalwart comrades. They carried neither rifles nor knapsacks, these following behind in carts. It was interesting to note to what an extent the German officering of the Turkish forces has been carried. For every Turkish officer that passed by in that brown and miserable procession that smacked so little of victory, there were two German officers. The Turks may be entitled to all the satisfaction that the British evacuation of Gallipoli has given them, but I am sure that if the Anzac heroes, for instance, had been present with me the morning I stood watching the long war-worn line, they would have been comforted by the knowledge that however great the hardships and privations they themselves had suffered, those of the foe had been as bad, if not worse. It was obvious that some time would elapse before these men were sufficiently rested to be fit for active service once more, and this in spite of the fact that the Turkish soldier is famous for his remarkable recuperative powers.

I have seen it stated in the newspapers (February 13th, 1916), that large reinforcements of Turkish troops are being sent to Mesopotamia. This seems to confirm my view that several weeks’ rest would be necessary before the men who fought so well at Gallipoli would be ready for active service again. Even these must be picked men, for it is a long and tedious march from Aleppo to Baghdad over roads that the word “wretched” utterly fails to describe.

At Stenia, in the Bosphorus, I saw both of those mystery ships, the Goeben and the Breslau, lying at anchor; probably there were never two ships in all the world about which so much that is inaccurate has been written. The Goeben was in a bad state, and kept afloat only by means of the crudest contrivances, shell-holes being filled in with cement. It is obvious that the authorities, be they Turkish or German, do not regard her as likely to be of much further assistance to them, for several of her big guns have been removed for use on land. The Breslau, on the other hand, is in good condition, and as I saw her riding at anchor she looked very spick and span, having recently received a new coat of grey paint. She is a finely-built ship, and looks capable of rendering a very good account of herself.

The stories of how the Goeben and Breslau evaded the Allied fleets are legion. A Turkish deputy gave me one account which I relate for what it is worth. According to him it would appear that the two ships had taken refuge in Messina, and that outside the three-mile limit there waited 24 Allied ships of war, like hounds ready to pounce upon their prey. The prospect of escape seemed hopeless, so hopeless in fact that the commander of the Breslau proposed exceeding his time allowance in a neutral port so that his ship might be interned. The commander of the Goeben, however, was determined to make an effort to get away, and being the senior officer his less courageous comrade had no choice but to acquiesce. They waited until night, and then steamed away, keeping as near to the coast as possible, and were never overhauled. It was their arrival in the Dardanelles, the Turkish deputy assured me, that finally induced Turkey to join the Central Powers, the Turks believing that with the addition of these two fine ships to their navy they would be more than a match for the Russian Fleet in the Black Sea.

One day I made a curious discovery, not without its significance. In crossing the Galata Bridge a toll of one penny is demanded, which all the Faithful must pay, and likewise the Infidels. An exception, however, was made in the case of the Germans, who are exempt, and for this very interesting reason. When the bridge was damaged by the torpedo of a British submarine some time ago, the Turks were in a quandary to know how to repair it, having no engineers of their own capable of undertaking such work. In their difficulties they turned, as usual, to their German friends, who readily agreed to undertake the work, and the damage was accordingly made good. When the bill was presented from Berlin, however, the Turks wrung their hands, and with tears in their eyes expostulated that, although they had the best intentions in the world, they had no money.

The result was that the Germans had to allow the bill to remain owing, but by way of getting some acknowledgment for their trouble and the expense that they had incurred, they made it a condition that all German subjects should be allowed to cross the bridge free of charge. This I was able to prove by a very simple test, for on presenting myself to the tollkeepers and speaking German, I was immediately allowed to pass without any demand of the customary penny. It amused me to think that the real inhabitants of Constantinople should have to pay for the privilege that was accorded free to those who had usurped their authority.

The attitude of the Turks in regard to truth is too well known to require comment, but the lying qualities with which their press seems to be inspired are worthy of the word inspiration. To believe anything seen in a Turkish newspaper postulates a simplicity and credulity which, charming enough in themselves, are scarcely calculated to help its possessor in the struggle for existence. For instance, in Has Keiul, on the Golden Horn, a big powder factory was destroyed by a tremendous explosion; the Turkish newspapers charmingly described how three persons had been killed and six wounded, and that only two houses in addition to the factory had been destroyed. I determined to test this statement, and I found on visiting what is the Jewish quarter, that the whole neighbourhood was in ruins. Two thousand people at least had been killed, and, although my visit was not made until a fortnight after the explosion, search-parties were still digging dead bodies out of the ruins. The Turk himself is not entirely devoid of thoroughness.

Just as I was preparing to leave Constantinople rumours of the big Russian offensive in the Caucasus were coming through. Almost the last thing I saw were five battalions of Turks, splendidly equipped and with 1916 rifles, leaving for the Caucasus front.

I wish I were able to persuade the British public of the seriousness of the Egyptian situation. What most surprised me on my return to this country was the incredulity of the general public with regard to the German threat against Egypt and India. I am a neutral with no axe to grind, but I have a great respect and affection for a country where I have received nothing but kindness, and I view with alarm this dangerous and apathetic frame of mind. All that I saw in Constantinople, as in Asia Minor, convinces me that the Turks are serious in their intended invasions, and as the whole affair will be under German management it will, after the manner of the Germans, be done thoroughly. I feel that I shall have achieved something if any words of mine can dispel the illusion on the subject which seems to prevail everywhere.

Nothing is to be left to chance, and the Germans have taken the precaution, as a preparation for the Egyptian Expedition, of training 4,000 German soldiers to ride camels, the instruction being given at Hagenbeck’s Menagerie at Hamburg. All those who know Egypt will appreciate the value of a body of 4,000 camelry. Aleppo is to be the starting point, and a glance at the map of Syria will show its importance. I shall be greatly surprised if within the next few months something is not heard of Djemal Pasha, who is in command there. When I was in Constantinople the name of the redoubtable von Mackensen was freely mentioned in connection with the leadership of this expedition, but other work will most likely be found for him.

The Turks are still a very formidable factor in the situation, and have to be seriously reckoned with. Their losses may be, and undoubtedly have been, very great, but there are plenty of men still available. As a matter of fact, all able-bodied men are being called to the colours. That alone should give Great Britain an indication of the magnitude of the task that lies before the Allies. Turkey may be one of the weaker members against the combination of the Entente Powers, but she is nevertheless very strong, and hourly growing stronger under the masterful domination of the German military mind.

The language difficulty in Turkey is rather amusing. Germany has done its best to implant its own tongue upon its unfortunate allies, but with very poor success. It was a constant source of amusement to me to hear German officers ordering their dinners in French. Everywhere in Constantinople French is spoken; even the tramway tickets are printed in French and Turkish. Waiters, shopkeepers, officers, sometimes even the man in the street speaks French as well as his own language. Frequently I would go to the rescue of German soldiers and sailors in shops who could not make themselves understood.

The German opinion of the Turks is very well shown by the following little episode. I was in conversation one day with two A.B.’s of the famous cruiser Emden. As a souvenir one of them gave me the ribbon from his cap with the Emden scroll upon it. He informed me that it was his original intention to give it to his mother, but he was now convinced that he would never return to the Fatherland alive, consequently I received it as a compliment in return for the beer and cigars I had given him. This sailor was communicative to the extent of saying, “We have lost nearly all our Colonies, and I am sure that we shall lose the last one, but we are going to make Turkey our newest and best colony.” I heard similar remarks from other Germans.

CHAPTER VIII

THE “UNTERSEE” GERMAN

My Kiel Acquaintance—Submarines by Rail—German Submarines at Constantinople—My Voyage of Discovery—The Exploit of U51—Captain von Hersing—German Hero-worship—A Daring Feat—A Modest German!—Von Hersing in England—The German Naval Officer—His Opinion of the British Navy—A Regrettable Incident—Dr. Ledera Imprisoned—I Encounter an Austrian Spy—He Confides to me his Methods—The Carelessness of British Consuls.

An axiom, and a very valuable one, for a man employed in secret service work for a newspaper should be to stay always at the best hotel in any city at which he is making investigations. For one thing, big fish swim in large lakes; for another, the visitors at large hotels are less noticed and less likely to be suspected than those at smaller places.

At the Pera Palace Hotel I had many interesting conversations with German officers, for whom I had to swallow my dislike for reasons of policy. They complained to me bitterly of the absence of amusement, for all the theatres and picture palaces were closed, and there was no distraction whatever for the apostles of “Frightfulness.” I was always ready with sympathy, and we got on very well together.

The officer of the Polish Legion at Vienna who told me about the terrible fate of the 28th Regiment, had introduced me to a German foreman-constructor of submarines, who had come from the famous Germania Shipyard at Kiel. He was a typical German of the boasting type, and as the result of a little judicious handling, some beer, and a great deal of flattery, of which any traveller in Germany has to take with him an unlimited supply, I soon discovered a great deal as to the mystery of the German submarines in the Sea of Marmora. Of the small type there are, I believe, not more than four; very likely the number has been increased since I left Turkey, as I will explain.

A little more than a year ago the English newspapers were engaged in discussing the possibility of Germans carrying submarines by rail. Whilst this was in progress the Germans had already solved the problem, and had conclusively proved that submarines of the smaller type can easily be manufactured in one place in sections and carried hundreds of miles by rail to another, where, with the aid of experts, they can be fitted together. As my new acquaintance informed me, Germany had already done this most successfully.

I proved the accuracy of the man’s statement when I was at Constantinople, as I saw no less than four German U boats, Nos. U4, U18, and U25. I could not detect the number of the fourth craft. They were of a uniform size and U18 had painted on the conning-tower a huge Iron Cross, showing that it had achieved some great distinction—great, at least, to the German mind.

Hiring a rowing boat, and wearing my fez, I discovered the base of the submarines on the afternoon of January 15th. It was cleverly hidden behind two big German liners in the Golden Horn, between the Marine Arsenal and Has Keiul, the little village that had been entirely destroyed by the powder explosion. By this time, if my informant were correct—and I have no reason to doubt the accuracy of his statements, for, like so many Germans, he told me a good deal more than he ought—the number of submarines has been increased to six; he himself had been concerned in putting them together at Trieste. As a matter of fact, soon after my arrival in England I read in different neutral as well as English newspapers that two more German submarines of small size had arrived in Constantinople from an Austrian port in the Adriatic.

The German submarine officers and crews to be met with in Constantinople are not at all of the swaggering Prussian type. They wear the usual German uniform, whereas their fellows of the Goeben and Breslau, which fly the Turkish flag, wear the fez. The so-called Turkish submarines do not exist save in the imagination of certain people whose interest it is to write about them. They are in reality German submarines flying the German naval flag. I have reason to believe also that there are very few Turkish aeroplanes or flying-men. An American newspaper suggested that it was possibly a Turkish submarine that sunk the Persia; but as there are no Turkish submarines, one of them could not possibly have been guilty of this crime against civilisation.

These smaller submarines must not be confused with U51, which, as the German newspapers have proudly described, made the great voyage from Kiel to Constantinople, either through the English Channel or by the northern passage round Scotland. This took place in the spring of 1915.

The U51 is a huge craft, painted a dark grey, its appearance being very suggestive of its sinister purpose. It has a big gun mounted on the forepart. The size of the craft astonished me when I saw it some days after its arrival at Constantinople, on my first visit, and I think it must be one of the largest afloat. Unfortunately, I was not allowed on board: there were limitations to the privileges that my papers were able to secure for me. Beside this leviathan the U4 and her sisters would look mere pigmies; but they are vicious little craft, hornets with sharp and painful stings.

Now that Weddigen has been killed, Captain von Hersing is the popular hero of the German submarine navy. He is the type of man that possesses a strong appeal for the English sportsman. He is of the Max Horton order, and it was he who sank the Triumph and the Majestic.

In Germany heroes are made on the slightest possible provocation and for very indifferent achievements; but Captain von Hersing certainly deserves his fame. He is modest, a rather rare quality in the present-day German.

The story of his feat, which he narrated to me during my first visit to Constantinople, has already been told time after time. As quietly as any Englishman would have done he described to me that wonderful voyage; how he picked up petrol in the Bay of Biscay at an exactly appointed time and place; how he passed by Gibraltar in broad daylight on the surface of the water; the agonies he suffered during the imprisonment of his boat for two hours in a British submarine net off Lemnos; how he eventually escaped with a damaged propeller, and arrived at Constantinople in the early days of May.

During the whole recital of his achievements the nearest thing to self-glorification that I was able to detect in his manner was a momentary flashing of the eye, which no one would deny even to Admiral Beatty himself. He was disinclined to discuss the war, and I remember that at the time I thought how correct this attitude was in an officer, and how different from many of his fellows of the land service, who will discuss nothing else.

He told me that he had spent a considerable time in England, and that he liked the English. The promptness with which he denied that it was his boat that had sunk the Lusitania left me in no doubt as to his view of that colossal outrage. In fact, I have heard from many sources that the German Navy regards this discreditable exploit as a blot upon its name. I talked to him many times at the Pera Club, where there were comparatively few Germans and plenty of food, the one fact probably explaining the other.

If all Germans were of the same type as the German naval officers and men, the word “Hun” would probably never have been applied; it certainly would not so aptly fit. In their franker moments these naval officers and men confess that they hate the horrible work they are obliged to do; but that they have no alternative but to carry out the orders received from Berlin. There are brutes among them, no doubt, but such German naval officers as I have met compare very favourably with their swaggering colleagues of the land service. German sailors are under no misapprehension as to the might and efficiency of the British Navy. It is not they who spread the tale of the British Fleet hiding in ports while German ships proudly sail the North Sea. It is not they who ask plaintively, “Will the British Fleet never come out?” They are practical men, and for the most part honest men, and they know that Germany has it in her own hands to bring out the British Fleet in no uncertain manner.

The Germans are annoyed because the valuable ships of the British Navy do not parade up and down in the neighbourhood of Heligoland and Wilhelmshaven and allow themselves to be torpedoed by German submarines. The German idea of naval warfare is sometimes childish, but it belongs to the layman and not to the expert. “Our people started the war ten years too soon,” was the remark that one German officer made to me.

It is not difficult to see that there is very little love lost between the German Army and the German Navy, which is scarcely to be wondered at. A very casual observer has only to contrast the characters of the two classes of men, as I saw them at the Pera Palace Hotel; the one swaggering and strutting about, grumbling at the lack of amusement, growling if the Liebesgabe (parcel) from Berlin, with its sausage (leberwurst) and the like, cigars, and pâté de fois gras, is a day late; the other quiet, well-mannered, accustomed to great hardship and danger from childhood, self-respecting and respecting others—the nearest approach to an English gentleman that the Germans are capable of producing. Not many naval officers hail from the Hun country of Prussia.

It is beyond question true that the sinking of the Lusitania is terribly unpopular in the German Navy, although the German people went hysterical with joy about it, and still regard it as one of the great German feats of the war.

The presence of German submarines at Constantinople is not altogether relished by the Turks. Each of the four submarines I saw had a gun on the forepart of the vessel; not a powerful weapon, it is true, but quite sufficient to instil terror into the inhabitants of the city, should they not behave themselves according to German ideas.

There is still some antagonism shown in Turkey towards the Germans, but, unfortunately, very little. The German sway is almost supreme, but for all that they take no risks. They are conscious of an undercurrent of distrust, and they never allow the Turk too much ammunition, lest it may be used against themselves. It is notorious that the shortage of ammunition in Gallipoli was due not entirely to German inability to convey it there, but rather to the fact that the master did not trust the servant. A well-munitioned Turkey would be a danger, and ill-munitioned Turkey is a safeguard.

A little incident which came to my knowledge shows that even now the Germans have to exercise tact in dealing with the Turks. At the Hotel Tokatlian, in Pera, there was a daily foregathering of all the German and Austrian newspaper representatives in the city. One day I heard them discussing the fate of one of their number, Dr. Ledera, of the Berliner Tageblatt. I gathered that he had offended the Turks by describing how, owing to the state of the Goeben and their own shortage of big guns, they had removed two of the largest from that vessel and taken them down for use against the English at Gallipoli. This information, which I brought to this country as early as last June, officially stated in so important a newspaper, intimated to the Russians and the British that the Goeben was practically out of action. The Turks were greatly incensed, and promptly arrested Dr. Ledera. He was sent to an internment-camp in a distant part of Anatolia, where the conditions were far from luxurious. The German Ambassador, the late Baron von Wangenheim, had to exert the utmost possible pressure to secure the release of his indiscreet compatriot. After six weeks’ imprisonment the erring correspondent was brought back to Constantinople, escorted over the frontier, and ordered never to return to Turkey. In spite of this, each day leaves the Turk more hopelessly under the yoke of his German master.

I have always had my own views about the German spy system in England. Of one thing I am certain, that it is thorough; but, as I have previously pointed out, it is not so perfect as so many people in this country are inclined to believe. The first essential for a travelling German or Austrian spy is to obtain by fair means or by foul a passport from a neutral country. Only with this can he hope to enter England, and return in safety. I encountered one of these spies, and the conversation I had with him is of considerable interest as throwing light on German methods. He was an Austrian, and we got into conversation during my journey from Vienna to the Swiss border. As we approached the frontier he made obvious efforts to discover my views and sympathies. I allowed him first to express his own, which were violently pro-German. Nevertheless, he said, “I have been among those Schweinhunden twice in the last six months.” (The “Schweinhunden,” by the way, were the English.) “Fortunately, I did not allow the grass to grow under my feet during my seven years’ residence there, and I flatter myself I can speak English as an Englishman. Do you know any English?” he asked.

“A little,” I replied, in order to draw him out. He then began to converse with me in that tongue, and he undoubtedly was justified in his boast that he could speak English perfectly. Furthermore, he looked a very excellent and presentable specimen of the Anglo-Saxon race, such as one sees any morning during the London season, before the war, of course, in Bond Street, Pall Mall or Piccadilly.

In order to obtain a false passport the travelling spy must get first a false birth certificate. This, of course, involves forgery, but it can be obtained with no very great difficulty and at a reasonable price by those who know where to seek it. In the early days of the war there was a regular trade in passports in several neutral countries, where they could be purchased for between £10 and £12. Those days are now passed, for the English Government has awakened to the grave danger arising from this commerce.

With a birth certificate, in conjunction with a letter from some commercial firm to the effect that the bearer or person referred to wishes to proceed to England on certain business, the obtaining of a passport is not so difficult as it might appear. The documents are presented at the Passport Office of a neutral country and the necessary passport obtained. The next step is to get it visé’d by the British Consul, who is not as often English as he should be. When he is of English nationality he is frequently too old to be alert and on the lookout for spies. Once the passport is visé’d the travelling spy of German or Austrian birth or interests arrives at Folkestone, Tilbury, Southampton, or some other port where there is no lack of strict scrutiny. Lately the investigations have been especially severe, but of what avail is this if the passports and business letters that accompany it are based upon a forged birth certificate?

Arrived in England, the travelling spy communicates with the resident spy, cautiously lest the resident spy is being watched. In all probability they meet at a large hotel, or at a railway station, nothing is written. If an appointment has to be made it is done over the telephone or by a message through a third party.