Salonica and After

Chapter I.
Getting There.

" Whoever would have dreamed of coming to Salonica?" sighed a melancholy and homesick young captain from up the line. We were sitting in the famous cafe of Floca—famous not for any startling merits on the part of Floca Freres, but just because it was our premier cafe, and the rendezvous of everybody in general—and the world must have a rendezvous, even in Salonica. Outside, through the newly glazed windows, we looked upon the charred skeletons of the buildings destroyed in the great fire—a conflagration which should really be referred to as the Great Fire, and will always so be thought of by those who saw it.

And inside the flies were buzzing merrily—or fiercely—for the heat had come early, and they were in the first flush of their spring ardour. They settled on our hands, heads and faces, tickling, biting and enraging us. They buzzed round in clouds exploring milk jugs, beer pots, sticky cakes on plates (gateaux mouches, as somebody wittily called them) and generally behaving as all flies in the Near East do, as if to make up by their extravagance of vigour for the natural indolence of the inhabitants. And the flies were merely the sauce piquante, so to speak, to the general boredom and weariness of men who had been living for years without leave in a distressing country which they heartily disliked. The captain from up the line—like many others—had not seen home for over two and a half years. He was weary of Macedonia, and his heart longed fiercely for home—"Blighty" on a wet evening if you like, with the lights turned low and all the theatres showing their "House Full" boards, but "Blighty" under any conditions if the impossible could only happen. And the sigh that welled up from him de Profundis, "Whoever would have dreamed of coming to Salonica?" spoke volumes.

But to pass from his melancholy, which was a very common symptom in Macedonia, whoever would have dreamed of coming to Salonica ? True it is now a household name, like " Plugstreet," Mesopotamia, and many other blessed words. But before the war who could have taken his atlas and, putting down his finger, said triumphantly, "There is Salonica!" True, we knew it existed somewhere, like Syracuse or Antananarivo. But very few people in our world knew anything more of it than its bare existence. St. Paul, we might remember, once wrote an epistle to the Thessalonians. But very few people, again, ever dreamed of connecting, however distantly, " certain lewd fellows of the baser sort" with the people of the modern city where Jew meets Greek in a perpetual tug of war. England, in short, never had any business with Salonica, and never expected to have any. It was as far removed from our ken as any place on the map could be. Belgium had been swallowed up; Paris had been menaced and saved; the battle of Loos had been fought and lost; Gallipoli had flared up with heroic glory and died down into a smoulder of forlorn hopes, and some people were already talking of " war weariness "—and still we had not heard of Salonica. And then there came a sudden and unexpected turn in the wheel of war. A new name appeared in the newspaper headlines—Salonica—and the convenient maps that accompanied the news of our men landing there showed exactly where it lay. The military critics told us exactly what the new expedition meant, and all it was going to do. Torres Vedras was mentioned, and what Wellington did. The public was much excited and waited eagerly for the glad news that history had repeated itself. (It came indeed, but after how many delays and doubts and grumblings ?) The amateur strategist played joyfully with the latest idea, and trotted happily up and down a new country which looked delightfully small and easy on the map. The first exchange of shots was opened which developed into the long-drawn battle between Easterners and Westerners. The immediate doom of the Turk was announced. People said, "By the way, is it Saloneeka or Salonika or Salonyker?" And so the new word—in various disguises—passed into the language.

And there it will remain. The many thousands of men of the British Armies who passed through it into Macedonia, and carried the Old Flag into lands where it had never been seen before; or who trod its uneven cobbles on very occasional leave; or lay weak with fever or wounds in the great hospitals that ringed it round, will see to that. They may have loathed Salonica as they loathed, in earlier days, the six o'clock hooter on a Monday morning. But in their minds it stands for Victory. And they will not let it be forgotten. When to-morrow's children are listening to stories of Ypres and Cambrai and Neuve Chapelle a great many others will be listening to what happened in Salonica and beyond.

The new name had not yet lost its first flush of popularity at home when the writer received an intimation that his humble services might be useful to the British Army . . .

 

 

 

Chapter IV.
A Day in Town.

Everything in this life, or presumably any other, is relative. The soldier whose lot it was, pleasant or otherwise, to work in Salonica thought of leave only as a journey home to England. But the soldier up the line had a different point of view. Leave for Home was a thing hardly to be dreamed of. But for the officer there was always the possibility of leave to Salonica, although it was not until late in the campaign that it was possible to bring parties of men down, and some of these saw their first town for two and a half years.

The man who lived in Salonica might sometimes wonder why on earth anybody should ever want to get leave to visit it. But the man up-country had no doubts on the point. On a number of occasions, after an absence of a week or ten days up-country, I have myself been pleasantly excited to enter the town again, and see people once more, and tramcars and shops. And it was therefore easy to imagine the joy of officers up-country who, after four or six months in the wilderness, with perhaps a squalid little village as the highest mark of civilisation, came down to town with three days' leave.

They made the very most of it, like schoolboys in the first flush of a holiday. And yet their trip to town always had its duties and responsibilities. Each officer so favoured always came down with a long list of commissions to be executed for his battalion, so that the last two of his three days in town were generally filled up with tramping up and down the uneven cobbles in quest of things for others. And it was remarkable how faithfully and painstakingly this sort of thing was always done.

For long the weekly journals at home, humorous and otherwise, were filled with little articles describing the joys or trials of our officers and men coming home to England for a few days' leave. The story always began at Armentieres, or "The Salient," or some equally famous spot, and finished up at Victoria. Exactly the same incidents were common to the life of our men out in Macedonia, with only local differences, but Bairnsfather has not limned them nor have contributors to "Punch" let their fancy play on them. France overshadowed all, and for the average reader at home "Leave" meant a trip across the Channel in the Boulogne boat. They could not imagine that large numbers of their countrymen sat on barren hills just short of Doiran, or in the malarial plain of the Struma, and looked with much longing towards a higgledy-piggledy city of the Aegean, some fifty miles away. Victoria did not enter their thoughts. It was out of the question— reserved only for those lucky people who campaigned in France. Salonica represented all that there was to hand of civilisation and, if you like, joie de vivre. It was a poor enough substitute, but the very most was made of it on the rare occasions when those of the frontline could visit it.

Out in Macedonia the first throb of excitement came, say, on Tortue Hill, just below the sinister Grand Couronne, or at some outpost of ours on the plain facing the Rupel Pass. In the one case it meant a long ride to the railway, and then a tedious all-night journey in the train; in the other, a ride to the 70th Kilometre . . .

Chapter VIII.
The Fire.

Saturday, August 18th, 1917, is a day that will be long remembered by many thousands of members of the Salonica Force. They may not always be able to recall the date itself, but they will never forget the fire that occurred on it, when nearly a square mile of the city was burned down in a few hours.

In those days I lived in a very pleasant and roomy apartment above one of the town's big shops. It was a very hot day, and the local Sirocco—a hot wind from the direction of the Vardar — was blowing half a gale, and had been doing so for two or three days. I was sitting at tea, clad as lightly as the conveyances would allow, when Christina, the Greek maid from Constantinople, came in with some more hot water.

" You know there is a big fire," she said. " They say half the town is burning."

One accepted this as mere exaggeration, and so it was at the moment. But a little later I went up on to the flat roof to look. From here one had a view of practically the whole of the city and its surroundings. And sure enough, away up the hill in the north-western corner of Turkish Town, there was a big blaze in progress. Through glasses I could see a sailor standing on a roof semaphoring with his arms. It looked as though a considerable area was alight, and the hot wind was blowing strongly and steadily down towards our part of the city. Then I became aware that dozens of the springless, rattling carts that make life hideous, were dashing over the cobbles and up the hill, presumably having been engaged for salvage work. But big as the fire looked it seemed a very remote thing, having no concern with one's own existence. Naturally a lot of these half-wooden houses would be burnt' down, and Turks and Jews would be homeless ! But life is sometimes hard and one must expect these things ! I went down again and began to make preparations for a journey up Monastir way.

Perhaps rather less than an hour later I went up to have another look. Jove, but the fire had made progress ! In the foreground people were standing on roofs, free from concern and enjoying the spectacle. But it began to look ugly, with that dry, hot wind like a forced draught blowing continuously. I went down to the street, where the car was waiting.

" Mason," I said, " I don't think we shall go up-country to-day. It looks to me as though there won't be any Salonica left to-night."

" Very good, sir," said Mason. " I heard there was a fire somewhere."

Mason, who was a corn merchant in a comfortable way of business at home, was always like that.

At the office I found that people were becoming slightly concerned, although there was no sense of impending trouble. The natives of the city were convinced that it would not spread far. They too felt, although they did not say it in so many words, that although the fire might destroy the native quarters, it would not have the bad taste to come down into the more or less civilised parts of the city.

I decided to go up and have a look at the scene of the conflagration. Egnatia Street was jammed, and we met the first refugees carrying bits of furniture, pushing through the press. A little way up one of the side streets, that climbs the hill northwards, we had to leave the car. Turks and Jews, with wild eyes, were hurrying down, carrying all sort's of things. A little further and we were on the edge of the burning quarter; and the tide of distracted, homeless people was flowing all around us.

It was an extraordinary sight, and one which but for the sewing machines and smashed wardrobe mirrors which littered the narrow streets and alleys, might have been plucked straight from Biblical times. This was the heart of the Salonica Ghetto, where a great proportion of the population still preserved their ancient costumes. Here were to be seen, in scores, white-bearded patriarchs wearing fezzes and their old-time gaberdine costume known as the intari, rushing about frenzied] y in spite of the skirts that clung round their slippered feet. Their women-kind rushed about with them, holding their children by the hand and sobbing, shouting and imploring. It was an amazing and a sad scene; the wailing families, the crash of falling houses as the flames tore along, swept by the wind; and in the narrow streets a slow-moving mass of pack donkeys, loaded carts, hamate carrying enormous loads; Greek boy scouts (who were doing excellent work); soldiers of all nations, as yet unorganised to do anything definite; ancient wooden fire-engines that creaked pathetically as they spat out ineffectual trickles of water; and people carrying beds (hundreds of flock and feather beds), wardrobes, mirrors, pots and pans, sewing machines (every family made a desperate endeavour to save its sewing machine) and a general collection of ponderous rubbish. The evacuation of each street came in a panic rush as its inhabitants realised that their homes also were doomed. This attitude of only believing at the very last moment that there was any danger for their own homes or business establishments, marked the whole progress of the fire until the moment when it had reached the edge of the sea and was blazing along nearly a mile of front. The inhabitants of every separate line or section of streets were convinced that the conflagration was going to pass them by. A quarter of an hour later they were fleeing for their lives, bearing all sorts of absurd household goods snapped up in panic moments. As it was the Jewish Sabbath many of the big shops were closed, and jewellers and others did not appear to try and save their stocks until a late hour. At ten o'clock that night, people in hotels on the water front did not think their sleeping arrangements would be disturbed—and were bolting with their hand luggage at eleven.

Amid the medley and the uproar of the fire up in the Ghetto I found the P.M. It was a difficult situation for any administrative officer to face. The local means for fighting a fire were nil, or next to it. It was not easy to say in whose hands lay the material and moral responsibility for tackling the fire, and here was a case in which a mixed command presented difficulties. Moreover, the fire had attained its alarming proportions with such a sudden rush that everybody was taken off their guard. And the " native" quarter seemed a place off everybody's beat. The Allies only visited it for a stroll or from curiosity. It was, in a vague way, nobody's business—until suddenly, like a thunder-clap, it became apparent that it was everybody's business. At about this time a company of the Dur-hams arrived from the garrison battalion down in Beshtchinar Gardens, to form a cordon. But that did not help to put out the fire, and there were still no fire-engines, and little water to go through them . . .

Chapter XVI.
The Allied Operations.

Though during the long three-years campaign in the Balkans there were many periods of enforced comparative inactivity during which only the regular growling of the artillery and the work of the patrols and the Allied aviators kept up the offensive spirit, there was far more fighting in the aggregate than most people in the outside world realised, and amongst them the various Allies—Serbians, French, British, Italians, even Russians, and, finally, the Greeks—laid down many thousands of lives on the barren mountains that mark the frontiers of Serbia, Greece and Bulgaria.

The Allied move out of the " Birdcage " in the spring and early summer months of 1916 to take up positions along the Greek frontier where the enemy—Bulgars, Germans, Austrians and Turks—had now entrenched themselves on most formidable positions, was followed by a long period during which change, re-arrangement, marching and counter-marching seemed to go on interminably. This was due to various causes; to " bluff " on both sides; to a proposed Allied Offensive along the Vardar, which had to be abandoned because the Bulgars got in first with their own attack on the left of the Allied line, against the Serbs; and also because of the fact that at first, owing to a number of reasons, British and French Divisions were mixed up in rather higgledy-piggledy fashion. The troops, who knew nothing of any of the reasons dictating these changes, found themselves committed to a good deal of hard and exasperating marching and counter-marching in exhausting heat, which seemed to lead to nothing in particular. Then the Italians who in September took up a twenty-five mile line on the Krusha-Balkan sector, between Lake Doiran and the Struma Valley, came as another dividing wedge between the two wings of the British front. It was not until towards the end of 1916 that the British finally settled down on the line running from the Vardar to Doiran, round the elbow made by the Krusha-Balkan range and so down the long Struma Valley to the sea—a distance of about ninety miles. This very extended front was held for two and a half years. Along its whole length we were dominated by enemy positions which were always markedly superior in strength—and height—and as a rule immensely superior. It was a crazy front, like the whole of the Balkan front, and zig-zagged up and down steep hills, in and out of ravines, ran along the tops of high ridges and finally brought us up on the Struma with its odd mixture of open and position warfare. To hold this very long front, always against superior forces, we had as a maximum four Divisions, much weakened by sickness and casualties. The 10th Division, after its gallantry and hardships in the retreat down from the Bulgarian frontier in 1915, took part in some stiff and successful fighting in the Struma Valley in 1916, and went to Palestine in September, 1917, there to win fresh laurels. The 60th Division, which only arrived in the Balkans in December, 1916, also went to Palestine in June, 1917, and saw comparatively little service in the Balkans, although it was to see plenty under General Allenby later on and to play a big part in his victories. At about the same time the 7th and 8th Mounted Brigades also went to Palestine . . .