Wray, a gunnery expert, went away disturbed by this answer. Forty-five minutes later, he came back determined to express his opinion. He found Troubridge lying on his bunk in his cabin. The lights were out but the admiral was awake. “I don’t like it, Sir,” said Wray. “Neither do I, but why?” asked Troubridge.
Wray knew that Troubridge had orders not to engage “a superior force,” and he shared Troubridge’s opinion that, at a range greater than 16,000 yards, Goeben was such a force. Wray explained to the admiral how Goeben, using her superior speed, could circle the squadron “at some range outside sixteen thousand yards which her guns would carry and your guns will not. It seems likely to be the suicide of your squadron.”
Troubridge asked whether Wray was certain that the cruisers could not get in close before Goeben opened fire. Wray said that he was convinced of this, but that he would ask for confirmation from his ship’s navigator. Before Wray left to find this officer, Troubridge said, “I cannot turn away now. Think of my pride.” Wray replied, “Has your pride got anything to do with this, Sir? It is your country’s welfare which is at stake.”
When Defence’s navigator appeared, Troubridge asked whether, on its present course and speed, the squadron would have any chance of bringing Goeben within range of the British 9.2-inch guns before daylight. The navigator replied that there was no chance. A few minutes after 4:00 a.m., Troubridge called off the interception. When Wray went back to see him, he said, “Admiral, that’s the bravest thing you have done in your life.” Later, Wray added, “I think he was in tears.”
At 4:05 a.m., Troubridge signaled Milne: “Being only able to meet Goeben outside the range of our guns and inside his, I have abandoned the chase with my squadron. Goeben evidently going to Eastern Mediterranean. I had hoped to meet her before daylight.” He asked for instructions, giving Milne a chance to overrule him and order battle at all costs. For six hours, according to Troubridge, he received no reply. Then Milne signaled, “Why did you not continue to cut off Goeben? She’s only going seventeen knots.” (Milne knew this from Gloucester’s reports.) By then, however, Troubridge had turned back; at 10:00 a.m., he entered the port of Zante to coal his destroyers before returning to watch the Adriatic.
Later that morning in a long message to Milne, Troubridge attempted to explain his decision: “With visibility at the time, I could have been sighted from 20 to 25 miles away and could never have got nearer unless Goeben wished to bring me to action which she could have done under circumstances most advantageous to her. . . . I had hoped to have engaged her at 3.30 in the morning in dim light. . . . In view of the immense importance of victory or defeat at such an early stage of a war, I would consider it a great imprudence to place a squadron in such a position to be picked off at leisure and sunk while unable to effectively reply.”
Meanwhile, unaware that a battle with four British armored cruisers had been in the offing and had been called off, Souchon continued eastward. When the red ball of the sun rose out of the sea—about the time the British cruisers might have opened fire—the blue Ionian Sea was empty. Then, far astern, a column of smoke appeared. It was Gloucester. Souchon, of course, was unaware that the three British battle cruisers, the only antagonists whose speed and power truly menaced his force, were far away to the west; for all he knew they were just behind Gloucester, straining to overtake. Once again, every spare man in Goeben’s crew went below to the coal bunkers and boiler rooms. Inside these steel compartments, where the temperature was 125 degrees Fahrenheit, half-naked men, sweat streaming down their bodies, flung coal into the furnaces. Black coal dust penetrated their noses, clogged their throats, inflamed their eyes. Every two hours, the men were rotated up to the relative paradise of the open deck, where they lay insensible until summoned to return below. As the day progressed, it grew worse. The ship’s boiler tubes began to burst and spouts of steam and boiling water spurted onto bare bodies. Four men were scalded to death.
On his bridge, Souchon paced. He was afraid to turn and engage Gloucester, as, for all he knew, British battle cruisers might be just over the horizon. At the same time, he could not meet his collier and coal with Gloucester in view. Desperate to rid himself of this shadow, he signaled Breslau to scare her away by pretending to lay mines in her path.
On his own bridge, Captain Howard Kelly of the Gloucester was equally anxious to delay Goeben until—as he assumed was imminent—Milne arrived. All day, Kelly had been ignoring Milne’s command to “gradually . . . drop astern to avoid capture.” When Breslau turned back, Kelly decided to attack her and thereby force the battle cruiser also to turn and deal with him. At 1:35 p.m., Gloucester’s forward 6-inch gun opened fire at a range of 11,500 yards. Splashes rose in the sea astern of Breslau. The German light cruiser immediately replied, first with ranging shots, then with rapid, accurate salvos, one grouping landing only thirty yards from the British ship. Kelly responded by increasing speed, closing the range to 10,000 yards, and turning sufficiently to fire his full broadside.
This scuffle finally provoked Souchon. From Gloucester’s bridge, Goeben, a distant smudge in the haze over the bow, was seen to turn. Bright glows marked the flash of her guns; seconds later, tall white columns of water, produced by 11-inch shells, appeared in the sea. Kelly, having achieved his purpose of forcing the battle cruiser to arrest her progress, broke off and fell back. Souchon, who could not afford to spend precious coal chasing a light cruiser, resumed his course. Gloucester resumed shadowing. At 2:45 p.m., Kelly signaled Milne: “Have engaged at long range with Breslau and retreated when Goeben turned. I am now following again.” Gloucester, firing eighteen rounds of 6-inch and fourteen rounds of 4-inch, had hit Breslau at the waterline, but this inflicted no casualties and failed to affect her speed. For another three hours, Kelly trailed his enemies. Then, at 4:40 in the afternoon, when the mountains of Cape Matapan, the central southern promontory of the Peloponnesian Peninsula, appeared on his port bow, with his coal nearly exhausted and with stern orders from Milne forbidding him to go beyond Matapan, Kelly broke off. He had done his best, had hung on tenaciously and only relinquished the chase under explicit orders. Free at last, Goeben and Breslau rounded the cape and entered the Aegean Sea.
Through the long day during which Gloucester with her two 6-inch guns and ten 4-inch guns had pursued Goeben and attacked her consort, Admiral Milne had kept his three battle cruisers with their combined total of twenty-four 12-inch and forty-eight 4-inch guns at Malta. When the Commander-in-Chief finally cleared Valletta harbor at 1:00 a.m. on August 8, he set an easterly course for Cape Matapan, where the German force had last been seen by Gloucester eight hours before. Milne’s speed was a leisurely 12 knots; still convinced that Souchon’s course was an elaborate feint and that eventually Goeben would turn back for the western Mediterranean, the British admiral was saving his coal for battle. At 2:30 the next afternoon, an urgent signal from the Admiralty upset this stately progress: “Commence hostilities at once against Austria.” Milne’s original war orders dictated that in the event of war with Austria, he should concentrate near Malta and keep watch on the Adriatic. Obediently, he turned north to merge his three battle cruisers with Troubridge’s four armored cruisers and to prepare to engage the Austrian fleet. Goeben was forgotten.
In fact, war between Britain and Austria did not come for another four days. The erroneous war telegram was a product of the misplaced initiative of an Admiralty clerk who, discovering a draft of the contingency coded war message lying in a tray on a colleague’s desk and wishing to be helpful, sent it off. Four hours later, the mistake was corrected and Milne was told by an embarrassed Admiralty, “Negative my telegram hostilities against Austria.” Nevertheless, for nearly twenty-four hours, Milne kept his fleet concentrated; then, leaving Troubridge to guard the Adriatic, he again turned to the east. Still in no hurry, still waiting for Goeben to turn, he reduced his speed to 10 knots. Goeben had gone into the Aegean? Splendid! Now to devise a plan to keep her bottled up. If all went as Mil
ne planned, the German battle cruiser would never come near the French transports.
Souchon, at last free of surveillance, still needed coal. He signaled his collier, coming from Piraeus, to meet him at Denusa, a remote, sparsely inhabited island on the far side of the Aegean. Through the daylight hours of August 8, Goeben cruised furtively among the Greek islands and, at dawn on the morning of August 9, slid quietly into the bay of Denusa, which was deserted except for a few fishermen. While the sun rose higher and heat radiated from the sheer rock walls of the surrounding cliffs, Goeben and Breslau coaled simultaneously, one warship made fast to each side of the collier. Both ships were cleared for action and prepared to get under way in thirty minutes. Coaling continued through the night by candlelight; the searchlights normally used to illuminate the decks remained switched off lest beams or glow be seen far out to sea. Day and night, lookouts posted on the summit of a cliff swept their binoculars across the horizon. The first signs of danger, however, were reported from Goeben’s wireless room: beginning at nine on the evening of the ninth, the ship’s radio operators began picking up signals from British warships. The signals grew louder. At 3:00 a.m. on August 10, Milne and three battle cruisers entered the Aegean.
While his men shoveled coal, Souchon thought about what he should do. It was essential to communicate with Constantinople; despite his earlier bravado, he had come to believe that an attempt to enter the Dardanelles without Turkish permission risked naval and diplomatic disaster. To avoid revealing his whereabouts by using Goeben’s radio, he sent the liner General, now in the Aegean operating under his orders, to the island of Smyrna to forward a message to the German embassy in Constantinople: “Indispensable military necessity requires attack on enemy in the Black Sea. Go to any lengths to arrange for me to pass through the Straits at once with permission of Turkish government if possible; without formal approval if necessary.” The hours passed and Souchon waited for an answer. The sun set and the moon rose, but there was no reply. At 3:00 a.m. on August 10, learning that the British had entered the Aegean, he decided that, with an answer or without one, he must leave at dawn for the Dardanelles; there he would enter or fight whoever he had to: British or Turkish. Finally, he received an ambiguous message forwarded from Constantinople by General: “Enter. Demand surrender of forts.” Souchon did not know whether he was being told to force his way into the passage or was being requested to save face for the Turks by staging a charade of battle. Not knowing, he still had to sail.
At first light on August 10, clouds of black smoke poured from Goeben’s funnels, anchor chains rattled in, and Goeben followed by Breslau glided out of the harbor. Across a flat, silvery sea, the two ships steamed north at 18 knots toward the Dardanelles. By noon, stifling heat crushed down from a white sky; the only animation came from blue water foaming back from the ships’ bows and washing along the gray steel sides. At five that afternoon, when the sun was lower and the western sky blazed in fiery splendor, watchers on Goeben’s bridge could see the island of Imbros and the plains of ancient Troy. Coming closer, they observed the coast of Asia Minor dividing itself from the narrow tongue of the Gallipoli peninsula with the gleaming water of the Dardanelles, the fabled Hellespont, in between. Off Cape Helles at the mouth of the Dardanelles, Goeben and Breslau halted. The German officers stared at the the water flowing smoothly out of the Narrows and looked up at the brown heights on both sides of the entrance. They could see clearly the outer forts of Kum Kale on the Asiatic side and those of Sedd el Bahr on the European side. Behind, farther up the historic passageway, lay the massive fortress of Chanak with its heavy guns. Over all of these fortifications, the green crescent flag waved in the evening breeze. Motionless, the two ships lay before the entrance. An uncanny hush filled the air. Then came the signal “Action Stations.” Slowly, Goeben’s turrets swung around until the muzzles of the 11-inch guns were trained on the forts. The 5.9-inch guns in their casements also swiveled into position. There was a responding movement in the forts, and the long, menacing barrels of the coastal guns were trained on the two German ships.
Souchon had to make a decision. Should he attempt to fight his way through? He knew that the British were coming up behind; already his lookouts reported distant columns of smoke behind him on the horizon. From the signal bridge, he signaled Cape Helles: “Request pilot.” Two dark shapes emerged from the small harbor at Cape Helles; they were Turkish destroyers coming at full speed. Uncertain of their mission, Goeben’s secondary guns trained on the approaching ships. Then the Turkish leader hoisted flags signaling, “Please follow me.” The delay had been caused by uncertainty in Constantinople. The commander of the Chanak fortress had reported that the German warships had requested permission to enter the Straits. Enver Pasha, the Ottoman war minister, who controlled the forts and the minefields, pondered the risks to Turkey and to himself and then declared, “They are to allow them to enter.” Asked whether the British warships following the Germans should be fired on, Enver paused and then said, “Yes.”
Goeben and Breslau moved slowly into the Narrows, passing a shoreline, now hilly, now flat, lined with villages and vineyards. Along the way, the Germans could see numerous fortifications, many of them obsolete, lying half concealed beneath the heights. Twilight came as they glided past Chanak, the old, rust-colored fortified castle, and turned into a little creek where they anchored peacefully. Supper arrived with the crews still standing by the guns. Later that night, Souchon was told, a British warship had appeared off the entrance to the Dardanelles and had been refused permission to enter.
For three days, Goeben lay quietly at anchor. Then the battle cruiser and her consort steamed out into the Sea of Marmara, with the green coastline shimmering in the distance across a light blue sea. A few hours later, the German sailors saw at last the imperial city of Constantinople glittering in the sunlight. Before their eyes lay its chain of hills, its giant domes and soaring minarets, the ancient castles, the white palaces and villas, the massive, crumbling city walls, the rows of dark cypresses, the flowering gardens along the water. Their voyage was over.
Ironically, the Goeben’s arrival at the Dardanelles brought great satisfaction in Britain. Goeben, apparently so quickly hounded out of the Mediterranean into what seemed ignominious internment, was depicted as a hunted animal scurrying for cover; her escape became part of a glorious “sweeping of the seas” by the Royal Navy. Asquith wrote to Venetia Stanley that the news was “interesting,” but that “as we shall insist that the Goeben should be manned by a Turkish instead of a German crew, it doesn’t matter much. . . . The Turkish sailors cannot navigate her—except onto rocks or mines.”
The Turks were unsure whether to be pleased or frightened by this turn of events. A nervous proposal that the Germans disarm Goeben and Breslau, “temporarily and superficially only,” was scornfully rejected by Souchon. No one knew what to do next, until the German ambassador suggested that perhaps the ships could be “sold” to Turkey. This would not only solve the immediate problem but also serve as retribution on the British for their “requisition” of the two Turkish battleships. The idea was quickly accepted by both countries. On August 16, a solemn ceremony took place off the Golden Horn. The crews were mustered on deck and informed that their ships had been bought by Turkey. The German flag was lowered, the crescent was raised, and the Turkish naval minister officially received the Jawus Sultan Selim (the former Goeben) and the Midilli (the former Breslau) into the Ottoman navy. The following morning, fezzes were brought out to the ships and distributed to the men. The day of worship aboard the two ships was advanced from Sunday to Friday. At about this time, the pro-Allied Turkish minister of finance met a distinguished Belgian to inform him sadly that the Germans had captured Brussels. The Belgian pointed to Goeben lying at anchor off the Golden Horn and said, “I have even more terrible news for you. The Germans have captured Turkey.”
When the British ambassador protested what had happened, he was informed that Goeben and Breslau were now
Turkish ships. If so, the ambassador contended, the German crews should immediately disembark and be repatriated to Germany. Ah! but they were no longer Germans, Enver told him; they were Turks: they wore fezzes and worshiped on Fridays. In any case, Enver pointed out, the best native Turkish sailors were still in England, waiting to man the two British-built dreadnoughts; nothing could be done until these men returned. Churchill, who had explained the confiscation of the Turkish battleships by saying, “We could not afford to do without these two fine ships,” now rumbled that Turkey’s behavior in the acquisition of the Goeben and Breslau was “insolent,” “defiant,” and “openly fraudulent.”
On September 23, Admiral Souchon was appointed Commander-in-Chief of the Ottoman navy, but Turkey remained at peace. She did not close the Dardanelles to Russian trade or take any other action violating her own neutrality. In the German embassy and in Berlin, consternation grew; it began to seem that the Ottoman empire might never actually enter the war as an ally. From Turkey’s perspective, there seemed to be no need to go to war: no one had attacked her; no one, neither the Russians nor the British, even posed a serious threat. Indeed, the unexpected entry into the war of Great Britain, whose fleet and diplomacy had always been a buttress of Ottoman power, raised serious doubts and hesitations in Constantinople. While trying to sort out the situation and calculate who might win this war, Turkey’s ministers smiled and prevaricated.
This state of affairs continued for ten weeks. Ultimately, Admiral Souchon saw his duty: it was to precipitate war. On October 27, with Enver’s collaboration, he took his fleet—Goeben, Breslau, a Turkish cruiser, and four Turkish destroyers—into the Black Sea for “maneuvers.” Once at sea, he steamed to the Russian coast and, on the morning of October 29, with no declaration of war and no warning, bombarded Odessa, Sevastopol, and Novorossisk. Russian civilians were killed, oil tanks were set on fire, and a Russian gunboat, a minelayer, and six merchant ships were sunk. “I have thrown the Turks into the powder keg and kindled war between Russia and Turkey,” Souchon wrote to his wife.
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