by Ann Bridge
“Orhan makes me anxious, also,” she said. “He is so tired; often too tired even to eat properly! I wish you could persuade him to take a little more rest. Sometimes after supper he falls asleep at the table, over his papers—one night he upset the lamp! But if I speak to him, he only says that the work must be done.”
Ahmet had noticed for himself Orhan’s drawn expression and red-rimmed eyes, from constantly working in a bad light, his increased restlessness, and bursts of sharp impatience; and that night, when the women had gone to bed, he spoke to him about his health. “Could you not lessen the pressure at all? Or take short leave? I get the impression that you are really quite exhausted.”
The young man stretched out his arms with a gigantic yawn.
“Oh Heaven yes!—you are right; there are days when I am almost finished. The worst is when I cannot sleep; that is often the case nowadays.” He looked oddly, half-shyly at his brother-in-law for a moment, and then went on—“But here is an extraordinary thing: I may be quite worn out, extenuated, but if he comes and puts a hand on my shoulder, and says, Well done; that is well done!’—all my fatigue seems to leave me; strength returns, I can do anything! And do you know, that lasts for several days.” Again he gave Ahmet that side-long look. “Does that sound foolish to you?”
“But, not at all! It has been the same with me, at the front,” the young officer said. “And on the men his effect is something quite phenomenal—really it is as if an electric current were passed into them! I have seen them, not once but over and over again, hungry, parched with thirst, and so exhausted with marching that they could hardly lift a rifle to their shoulders: and he has but to come among them, and speak, and especially to turn his eyes on them, and they will hoist on their packs and pass to the attack, or march another twenty kilometres, singing!”
“Yes; well, that is how it is with me,” Orhan said. “I have heard that it is so with the troops, but then to them he is a legend. He is not a legend to me,” he said laughing; “I am practically his valet de chambre! But it is a most extraordinary circumstance. I hardly liked to tell you—I thought you might laugh at me,” the young man said candidly. He had an enormous respect for this slightly older brother-in-law of his, with his directness, simplicity, and courage, though intellectually he was much the abler of the two.
“No, I should not think of laughing at you—we all recognise it in the Army, this power of Kemal Pasha’s,” Ahmet said. “But what it is, and how he does what he does to others is a mystery. It puzzles me,” he added thoughtfully, “for he is not in the least a man of strict life. You know how he drinks; he swears with such profanity that the men themselves are sometimes shocked by his language; and he does associate sometimes with—well, with rather loose women,” said Ahmet, with elegant understatement, and an air of distaste which made Orhan smile. “And you know he can be utterly remorseless, especially to those who oppose him. He is not really at all one’s idea of a good man.” He paused. “And yet we would all die for him,” he ended abruptly.
“I know.” In spite of his smile, Orhan answered in all seriousness. “He has these defects—I realise them even better than you do. People accuse him of being ambitious, too, and of vanity. Well, he has a sort of simple vanity—like a child’s, really, about being well-dressed and so on.” He paused, thinking.
“Is he ambitious?” Ahmet asked—“I often wonder.”
“Personally ambitious, I do not believe he is in the least For Turkey, for our country, he has ambitions—proper ones: she must be freed from the foreigner, and our people must be given the possibility of developing their energies and talents—an opportunity which has always been denied them up till now by the despotism under which we have lived.” He paused again, still considering. “Naturally he sees clearly enough— for he sees everything!—that he can do for our nation what no one else can. Enfin, can you suggest someone to put in his place?” he asked.
“Of course not,” Ahmet said. “He has no equal among us.”
“Very well—there you are. Then it is not surprising that he sweeps out of his way, annihilates, those who oppose him, blind and ignorant as they usually are! He does that ruthlessly, actually without scruple, I admit. But he is never mean—I do not think he knows what meanness is, any more than he knows what fear is.”
“Ah, that! Yes, his courage is fantastic—and of course that is a thing the soldiers worship.”
“Yes, my friend—but there have been brave generals before him, who yet could not do what he can do: destroy fatigue, pour new life into an exhausted body, and send half-dead men singing into battle! And you see this happen on the battle-field, in the excitement of combat; but I see it—feel it—in cold blood, sitting at a desk, poring over papers! And I tell you that his touch then is like the touch of some heavenly power.”
Ahmet stared at his brother-in-law at those words, which were spoken with a strange intensity. “You mean, then,” he asked after a moment, “that he is really good, after all?”
Orhan shook himself impatiently.
“My dear Ahmet! Good—bad—what do we know of them? He leads a life, often, that men call bad; and he displays qualities, powers, that we associate with holy men—and not with so many of them! I cannot read the riddle for you! I know that he has absolute integrity, which is rare; I do not think power will ever go to his head—it has not done so yet, anyhow, and his power now is practically absolute. One cannot over-simplify about such a being. What I know, that I tell you—that when I am three-parts dead, his commendation raises me to life. I ask no more! This seems to me of greater import than keeping the lefter of the Koran, or abstaining from alcohol, or pilgrimaging to Mecca! And I will tell you this: he has one sole aim—the welfare of the Turkish people, our people.”
“I wish I could put things into words as you can,” Ahmet said enviously.
“Oh, words! You do things, which is really better. Sometimes I come to hate words—especially on paper,” he said, indicating the litter on the table. He swept them together, “Come on—let us go to bed.”
. . . . . .
The long winter came to an end at last, and one evening towards the end of March, when even the keen air of the plateau held a hint of the softness of spring, Orhan came home with the news that the Entente Powers had made proposals for an armistice. Any sign from the outside world that the Ankara Government and Kemal Pasha were recognised as a force to be reckoned with filled all Turks with a triumphant pleasure, and Orhan was jubilant.
“And shall we accept?” Féridé asked.
“Ah, that depends on the terms! We shall see. The Ghazi will do whatever is wisest.”
The meeting to discuss the terms took place in Paris; it ended in a deadlock. The Allies proposed that the Greeks should evacuate Asia Minor after the armistice. The Greeks, who were fully aware that they had really been abandoned both by America and the Entente Powers, and whose army and nation alike were suffering from the disabling effects of inactivity and suspense, agreed to an armistice, but were silent as to the terms; the Turks refused even to consider one till after the Greeks had left Anatolia. Mustafa Kemal knew as well as any Greek captain in the field what the sense of isolation, the lack of the small comforts like tea, sugar and tobacco—on which soldiers more than all men depend—and the incessant preying and prowling of his own guerillas were doing to the enemy’s morale. He could afford to wait, and he waited, forcing his restless ignorant Assembly to wait too. In fact a sort of truce did obtain along the front itself; behind it, one must regretfully admit, the Turks spent the months of May and June in methodically exterminating such Greek settlements in Anatolia as were in reach.
In July the Greek Government made one last desperate attempt to retrieve their wretched situation. They withdrew two divisions from Asia and despatched them to Thrace, where they commanded the European approaches to Istanbul in overwhelming strength; thereupon they demanded from the Entente Powers permission to occupy the city. This astute move did thoroughly disconcert M
ustafa Kemal; had it taken place it would probably have reduced his intransigeance and brought him to terms, as well as avoiding the horrors that lay ahead. But the Allies—divided by the French defection, and bored and irritated by everything to do with the Greece of King Constantine—abruptly refused permission, and actually ordered their own Occupation Forces to stand to arms to prevent a Greek entry into the capital. Once again, justice was indubitably a fugitive from the camp of the conquerors.
And now Kemal’s long months of patient waiting came to an end. The diversion of the two divisions to Thrace had rendered his forces fully equal to those of the Greeks in Anatolia; thanks to the French and Russians, and to the labours of his smiths on the rails of the Taurus Line, he was better equipped than ever before; in the air, again thanks to the French, he even had a slight superiority. The moment to strike had come, and he struck.
Ankara society, such as it was, was all agog during that last fortnight in August over a big reception which the Ghazi, as they had begun to call him, was giving up at Çankaya on the 26th. It was the first entertainment of the kind to be given in the new capital, and there was much excitement and anticipation. All the deputies were invited, the diplomatic corps—so far represented only by the French and the Russians, who now had envoys of a sort in Ankara—and the journalists, of whom quite a number had already made their way to Anatolia. Very few of these last had actually seen the great Kemal Pasha face to face as yet, and they were gloating over the opportunity. Orhan was in a great fuss over all the arrangements—the drinks, the tables, the flowers; but Féridé thought she noticed a hint of sly amusement, a sparkle of suppressed excitement about him which puzzled her.
“Really, Orhan, will it not be rather dull, after all, this party?” she said. “Who comes? These not very interesting deputies, the men from newspapers, the Frenchmen and Bolsheviks! I cannot imagine why you are so excited over it.”
He exploded with laughter.
“Oh, Light of my Eyes, perhaps you are right! Yes, indeed I think it may end by being a very dull party—really a flop.” And he laughed again, leaving her more puzzled and suspicious than ever.
But on the day itself the party was suddenly put off. No explanation was given, save that owing to unforeseen circumstances the Ghazi was unavoidably prevented from being at Çankaya that day. This of course created a tremendous sensation—to announce a party on such a scale, and then to cancel it—what could it mean? Féridé guessed, when she woke that morning and found a note on her pillow—“My heart’s love, I must leave you. Expect me only when you see me. Not a word, even to Nilüfer.-Orhan.”
But by the time the public in general learned what it meant, the party had achieved its purpose—of securing an element of complete surprise for the stroke of the Turkish army; most important of all, those inquisitive people the journalists had been kept safely smoking and drinking in Ankara while the battle was set in train.
Mustafa Kemal had in fact gone off in deepest secrecy to the Army Headquarters at Aksehir on the 20th. From there he despatched a fair-sized force to threaten Broussa, so drawing some Greek troops away to the north; a cavalry sweep lured others to the south. Then, at 5:30 a.m., on the very morning of his party, he flung three Army Corps against the enemy’s main positions on a fifteen-mile front from behind Eski-sehir southwards to Afion-Karahissar. His immediate staff, including Orhan, left Ankara before dawn in fast cars, and arrived at Headquarters in time to see the opening of the action.
For the first twenty-four hours the fighting was bitter. Behind a tremendous artillery bombardment the Turkish troops surged forward to the attack, over much the same ground as that across which they had been forced to retreat almost exacdy a year before—in the same savage heat, the same choking dust, their water and ammunition brought up after them by the same undaunted sun-blackened women. But in other respects this year was very different. The extra guns made a real artillery preparation possible; ammunition was abundant, and numerically the Turks were equal to their foes. Above all, this time they had bayonets.
The Greeks, in their desperation, fought well; savagely even. The rumour had long run among their unhappy ranks that they would have to leave Anatolia anyhow, win or lose; but their age-long hatred for the Turk made them determined to sell their lives and their positions as dearly as possible; there were even some quite fierce small-scale counterattacks. And in one of these Ahmet was involved.
He was on Ismet Pasha s Staff, and should not properly have been in the fighting-line at all; but about noon, from the rocky hill-top of Kocatepé, where Fevzi, Ismet, and Mustafa Kemal in his riding-breeches and high boots, a cigarette between his fingers, were directing operations, the three Commanders saw that one Turkish group was in danger of being overcome. The ground here was very broken, all hills arid ridges, from which the Turks were emerging and pushing the Greeks back onto the rather lower and more level ground near the road; the threatened position was on a low crest near the entrance of a gully up which supplies from the rear were coming all the time by a side track. A Greek battery had got its range and was shelling it, while some Greek machine-gunners had worked their way into a situation on another crest from which they were pouring a stream of bullets onto the defenders; in front, in a dry stream-bed, a concentration of enemy infantry was evidently preparing to rush the position.
“You must get some more men up there,” Kemal said brusquely to Fevzi Pasha. ‘We mustn’t lose command of that gully. And put some guns onto that battery.” He went on peering through his powerful field-glasses. “I don’t see any officers; you had better send someone to take over—that will stiffen them. There’s no time to lose.”
Fevzi was already giving rapid orders about batteries and a shift of men; at this last command of his leader’s he said, rather gloomily—“We have not so many officers to spare; i do not know where to lay my hand on one, at this moment.”
“Send a Staff Officer,” Kemal snapped. “They can fight too!”
Ahmet, who was standing close behind the three men—Kemal, Fevzi and Ismet—stepped forward and touched Ismet’s arm. “Could I not go, Sir? Do you need me here?”
Before Ismet Pasha could answer, Kemal wheeled round.
“Ah, Ahmet! Yes, go my son—go quickly,” he added, as he turned his field-glasses onto the small tepé again.
The prudent way to reach the threatened position would have been to come at it from behind, down the gully, where the files of ammunition-carriers were sheltered from everything but shells lobbed over from in front. But Ahmet was in a hurry—had not Kemal said “Go quickly”? He ran back downhill to where the horses belonging to the Headquarters Staff stood in a dismal group, their clever heads drooping in the heat, seized his own charger, a lively chestnut stallion, sprang on its back, and rode off at a gallop. The most direct way to the mouth of the gully lay on a slant across under the hilly ground from which the Turkish troops were pushing out, firing as they went; Greeks on the flatter ground below were firing back at them from their trenches, and when driven out of these, from such cover as they could get. It was the usual rather confused scene of a modern battle-field—a haze of dust, puffs of acrid smoke and dark fountains of earth and stones where shells burst, and now and again little figures running, to disappear behind some rocks as one side or the other advanced or retreated, all in the blaze of the noonday light. Now along that rough open space, through the whine of shells and the clatter of machine-gun fire, a horse and rider appeared, galloping headlong.
“Allah’s mercy! What is he doing?” Kemal ejaculated—then he turned and thumped Ismet on his frail back. “What a boy you have there! But why does he do such a crazy thing?”
“You told him to hurry, Sir,” said Orhan, who was also standing close behind the three Commanders—“And he is going the quickest way.” After his long months of working in close contact with Mustafa Kemal, and knowing himself much liked, the young man had given up all the customary Turkish flattery of the great—which in any case was contrary to hi
s nature—and spoke his mind as he chose; he noticed the slight start of surprise which his words produced in Ismet and Fevzi. As for Kemal, he burst into laughter.
“Quite right, my son!—I did,” he said, his glasses still to his eyes, “But I did not mean him to kill himself—he is too valuable.” All four men stood watching this crazy ride. Miraculously, Ahmet got safely through; they saw him dismount behind the crest, throw his reins to an ammunition-carrier, and run up to the summit. There he re-formed the disorganised men, and made a charge away to the right to rush the machine-gun posts which had been decimating them. It succeeded; the Greeks broke and fled as the bright bayonets flashed among them in the sun-but some of their machine-gunners fired to the last, and the watchers up on Kocatepé saw a score or more of Turks fall.
A messenger came up at this moment with a report from the commander towards the centre of the front, further north. The Greeks were showing signs of yielding there, in positions which had been strongly fortified for a whole year; could a little more artillery support be given, and a few reserves thrown in? If so, it might be possible to punch a hole in the middle of the enemy line.
This was a major operation, and Kemal bent his whole attention onto the pencilled message. But he lifted his head from the scrawled paper to say to Orhan—“My child, go and find out if Ahmet is all right. And take a reasonable route to that tepé!” he added, with one of his grins which were like a grimace, as he turned to concentrate again on the tactical problem.