Grey Wolf-- Mustafa Kemal by H.C. Armstrong

Author:H.C. Armstrong [Armstrong, H.C.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: History, Middle East, Turkey & Ottoman Empire, Social Science, Regional Studies
ISBN: 9781317330257
Google: LY_DCwAAQBAJ
Publisher: Routledge
Published: 2016-03-17T01:44:59+00:00

Chapter XXXVI

THE Sakkaria River twisted through mountain country, range on range of hills broken up and thrown into confusion as the rollers of a sea are broken up and confused by a cross-current.

Into these hills, straight at the Turkish last line of defence where it straddled the road to Ankara, the Greeks attacked with a heavy artillery bombardment at dawn on the 24th August, 1921.

Greeks and Turks alike fought with reckless courage, threw themselves in to the storms of lead in a white madness to get at each other with cold steel. Neither had any moral superiority; both were filled with the venom of a hereditary hatred. The Turks were fighting for their homes. Half the Greek army were local Christians, Turkish subjects, condemned to death as traitors. They too were fighting for their hearths and homes, and with no hope if defeated. A Greek regiment refused to take cover or use trenches: the divisional staff came up into the line with it, and both were wiped out by machine-gun fire. A Turkish battalion wavered: the brigade general ran forward over the open, pulled up the colonel, blew his brains out with his revolver, steadied the battalion, and was himself blown to pieces by Greek riflemen. One division lost three-quarters of its men, another was blotted right out. Seven divisional generals were killed in close fighting.

Day after day, for fourteen consecutive days, under the burning heat of the August sun, their supply services broken down so that there was little water and their ration was at last reduced to a handful of dry maize, the Greeks attacked with reckless fury, and the Turks hung grimly on.

Up in the village of Ala Geuz, behind the Turkish line, Mustafa Kemal paced restlessly up and down in his room in headquarters, his grey cloak slung round his shoulders, his face grey and drawn. He walked with a limp, for his rib still hurt him.

He slept rarely and in his clothes; he snatched a meal now and again. He listened to the continuous stream of reports, pored over his map pinned out on a table, calculated and plotted the latest news.

At night by the light of an acetylene lamp he would review the position, moving the flags and rehearsing aloud all the possibilities; how the Greeks might attack and how he would forestall them. Now and again he would call Arif and cross-question him. Arif knew the ground in detail and many of the commanders. Leaning over Mustafa Kemal's shoulder, his face like that of a twin brother, he would say, 'The village of X . . .? It lies ten kilometres to the north: there are two mounds on the left.'

'The commandant of that regiment? Stupid, but what a soldier, and the men are veterans. No fear of artillery panic there. When they run out of ammunition they will fight with bayonets, commander and all.'

Then once more Mustafa Kemal would pace up and down, still working out aloud every possibility and preparing for it.

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