In Turkish Waters Read online

  In Turkish Waters

  Cover

  Title Page

  Epigraph

  Author’s Note

  Prologue to Action

  Prologue

  Book One A Mission is Proposed

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Book Two Death in the Med

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Book Three Into Turkish Waters

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Envoi

  One

  Next in Series

  Copyright

  Cover

  Table of Contents

  Start of Content

  ‘Never trifle with Johnny Turk. He’s a dangerous beast.’

  Winston Churchill, 1915

  Author’s Note

  Ethnic cleansing is the buzz word of the 1990s. Right across the world, from Asia, through the former Soviet Union, right up to Western Europe’s doorstep in Yugoslavia, tribe massacres tribe, creed slaughters creed. Already, in the year in which I write, thousands of innocent men, women and children have been killed or forced ruthlessly out of their homelands.

  But there is nothing new about ethnic cleansing. Over seventy years ago now, with the break-up of the German, Russian and Turkish empires, the same terrible thing was happening. Race murdered race, religion slaughtered religion. Hundreds of thousands of innocents were tortured, starved, forced from their homes at gunpoint. Chaos and cruelty reigned supreme in many parts of Southern Europe and Asia.

  In his diary for February 1922, Lt de Vere Smith, known to the popular press of the time as ‘Common Smith, VC’ noted: ‘“C” [he meant the mysterious head of the British Secret Service] says if we don’t succeed in this new mission, a terrible thing will happen. Thousands of Greek men, women and children will perish! We’ve got to go at it, the whole hog – totus porcus.’

  Common Smith, VC was a typical product of his class and time. He was not given to expressing much emotion, and could even indulge in that awful public schoolboy’s pun – totus porcus for the ‘whole hog’. All the same he carried out his orders to the letter, saving the lives of countless Greek civilians in Turkey that spring.

  Naturally nothing was ever publicised on the matter; it was too hush-hush. Not even the standard histories of the Turco-Greek War of those years mention the Common Smith mission. Even today when both Turkey and Greece are Britain and America’s allies, it is exceedingly difficult to find out the details of that daring mission by a handful of bold young Englishmen – and one Scot – which saved the lives of so many Turkish Greeks.

  But there is one small clue which still reveals the gratitude of those Greeks, whom Smith saved, and their descendants. That Greek shipping line, once owned by a survivor of 1922, a certain Mr Aristotle Onassis, still regularly names one of its ships Common Smith VC. Few today know why. Now for the first time, In Turkish Waters tells the full tale of that daring rescue mission which saved the Greeks and perhaps prevented yet another great war in the Near East.

  C. Whiting, Withernsea, Autumn 1993

  Prologue to Action

  ‘The Greeks must be cleared from Turkey, no matter how! We Turks must prove to the world that we are no longer “the sick man of Europe”.’

  Kemal Ataturk, the Turkish dictator, 1932

  They raped the women prisoners first.

  The Greek women were from the city, not peasants. They wore cotton drawers and the waiting soldiers had to pull them off. They did so, without too much violence. They were peasants from Anatolia and they took even their sexual pleasures stolidly and without apparent enjoyment. On command they began raping the women in the wet mud, standing patiently in line waiting their turn. Their officers watched, smoking moodily. The women were Christian, infidels. They would rather go to the disease-raddled whores in Istanbul than have anything to do with women who ate pork.

  ‘Lutfen?’ the German asked the Turkish colonel, who stood there in the thin bitter rain, smoking and staring at the bodies of the dead Greeks in the mud. He held up his camera so that the Turk would understand what he wanted.

  The Colonel, his swarthy face set and intent, nodded wordlessly.

  The German stepped over a body half buried in mud and focused his camera. He wanted to get the expression on the Greek woman’s face as the Turkish askari, his trousers around his ankles, gave it to her. He didn’t particularly like what was happening. But the Chief wanted this sort of thing and it was his job to provide it.

  The woman’s face was contorted, her spine arched, mouth gaping open as she screamed and screamed. She must have known it was useless to scream, but they always did. She would continue to do so even when the fourth and fifth Turk had had her until she could scream no longer. Then she’d just lie there passively, perhaps crying a little in silence, letting it happen. The German had seen it all before. It was always the same. He wiped the raindrops off the lens and started taking his pictures, trying to get a shot of the cross around the Greek woman’s neck before one of the askaris ripped it off and stole it. The Turkish dictator Ataturk hadn’t paid them for months. This was the only reward they got for the dangerous lives they led; rape and loot.

  After a while they finished with the women. They left them pressed into the mud, the semen trickling down the inside of their thighs, sobbing quietly. Now it was the turn of the men. Suddenly the dark faces of the askaris became animated for the first time. What was to be done now really appealed to them, the German photographer could see that. It was partly the ritual. They had been doing it all the time ever since the Greeks had started retreating down the Karagatch road out of Adrianople as the Greeks called it. He’d got used to the daily rapes, even when the Greek women involved were big with child. But, he told himself, feeling a little sick at the thought of what was to come, he’d never become accustomed to this.

  The first prisoner was brought up. He was a big strapping Evizone, the skirts the elite Greek regiment wore dirty with mud, his white stockings torn and ripped. His face was black and blue with the blows the Turks had rained upon him after capture – one eye was almost closed – but still he was defiant. As he passed the silently smoking Turkish colonel, he spat in the mud at his feet. The Turk affected not to notice. He knew how quickly the Greek infidel’s defiance would vanish in just a moment.

  Five of the askaris got hold of the Greek. One put his foot behind him while another pushed from the front. He went down easily into the mud, helpless with his hands tied behind him. Still his handsome face blazed with defiance. Perhaps, the German told himself, as he raised the big, boxlike camera once again, he was an officer. Greek officers were usually very brave; their men, on the other hand, were normally rabble, who ran at the first sight of a Turk.

  Up the road the guns were barking again. Obviously the Greeks were attempting to make yet another stand. The German told himself they wouldn’t have much luck. Their army, which had set out so confidently to conquer Turkey the year before, had been soundly beaten. Athens was just playing for time in the hope that Britain and France might intervene once again and save them.

  ‘Pull his legs apart,’ the Iman commanded in a thick voice.

  Two of the askaris tugged at the Greek’s legs. Another ripped off his skirt and
stockings. He was naked underneath. Desperately the Greek twisted and turned in the mud, the raindrops beating down on his tortured, contorted face. He knew now what the Turks were going to do with him. To no avail! There were too many of them holding him.

  The Iman, who led the company in prayers, but who was also the company butcher whenever they managed to loot some meat or killed a captured animal, advanced on the writhing Evizone, knife at the ready.

  The German focused the camera, his weather-beaten face suddenly very pale, his stomach churning already with revulsion.

  The Greek tried to kick out. The Iman dodged the kick easily. He bent and took hold of the Greek’s penis with his left hand. There was a look of savage pleasure on his bearded face as he did so. The photographer wondered if he was some kind of pervert. Many of them were; it was common knowledge in the Turkish Army. He laid the sharp edge of the blade against the Greek’s organ.

  The Greek screamed in terror.

  The Iman raised the blade and with one tremendous cut sliced off both penis and testicles. Blood gushed upwards in a scarlet arc, drenching the Iman’s hand. Deliberately the Turk raised his hand to his mouth and tasted the Greek’s blood, while the man writhed and howled on the ground, a great gory scarlet wound where his organ had been.

  The Iman held up the organ for the grinning askaris to see. They clapped their hands with delight like children, their dark eyes sparkling. The Iman gave that cruel smile of his. Contemptuously, he tossed the organ between the spread legs of one of the raped Greek women, saying in Turkish, ‘Cok gusel – pretty eh, whore?’

  The photographer took his shot, as the Greek died before his eyes, the hot bile welling up in the German’s throat as he did so. Next to him, the Turkish commander threw away his cigarette. It hissed and then went out in the wet mud. He raised his cane and slashed down across the thin shoulders of the nearest askari. ‘Enough!’ he cried, raising his voice over the thunder of the guns. ‘You’ve had your fun. Now we march.’ He beckoned down the road with his cane. Tiny figures in white skirts were running across the road, followed by grey puffs of smoke. ‘More Evezoni,’ he snapped. ‘More to be killed.’

  Slowly – the peasants were always slow – the askaris formed up for the attack, kicked and lashed by their officers and NCOs, who knew that the askaris had hides as thick as the oxen they had once used to plough their fields back in their remote homeland.

  While they did so, the German took his photograph. He nodded to the Colonel. This would make his last picture.

  Wearily the Colonel sighed. He drew his big pistol out of its wooden holster and clicked off the ‘safety’. The German raised his camera. The Colonel bent. He said something to the dying Evizone in Greek. The Greek stopped writhing and moaning. It was as if he accepted his fate.

  The Colonel grunted and placed the muzzle of the big Mauser at the Greek’s left temple. The Colonel’s right knuckle whitened as he took first pressure. The German focused on the execution. He could see the Turkish colonel didn’t like doing this. On the ground, the Greek closed his eyes. The raindrops trailed down his cheeks like cold tears.

  A dry click. A sharp bang. A whiff of white smoke. The sudden stink of burnt cordite. Startlingly the top of the Greek’s head flew off. A pool of red jellied gore through which the shattered skull bones gleamed like polished ivory. The Greek women began to wail and shriek.

  With another sigh, the Colonel placed the smoking pistol back in its holster. The German went over to the wet-gleaming bushes, retched horribly and began to vomit. His chief back in Germany had yet another atrocity to stir up the world. But at the moment all he could think of was bringing up the hot rasping vomit.

  Slowly, ponderously, the infantry began ploughing through the mud once more, heading for the sound of the guns. Behind them the dead started to stiffen in the cold…

  Book One

  A Mission is Proposed

  ‘America will send neither ships nor men to help the Greeks. They are on their own and the Turks will show them no mercy… unless we do something.’

  C to Lt Smith, VC

  One

  C’s square hard face flushed hard and the monocle popped out of his left eye. ‘All right, Common Smith, just you look at ’em,’ he snapped in that gruff, no-nonsense manner of his, as if he were still back on the quarterdeck of the dreadnought he had once commanded before the war.

  Common Smith, VC took the first photograph in his hand and looked at it. Next moment he wished he hadn’t. It showed a naked woman – at least the bottom half of her was naked – lying in a field of what appeared to be corn, with a bottle thrust deep into the dark patch between her legs.

  C, the head of the British Secret Service, watched Smith’s face for his reaction as he sat there behind the desk which had once belonged to Nelson. To his right in that rooftop London office which could only be entered by secret staircases and disguised lifts, there was a smaller table. It was littered with maps, models of aeroplanes and a row of bottles and test-tubes, which suggested chemical experiments. The evidence of scientific investigation always seemed to the young officer, studying those horrifying photographs, to heighten the overpowering atmosphere of strangeness and mystery that he always associated with C’s headquarters.

  Reluctantly Smith looked at the second photograph. It showed a grinning Turkish soldier with what appeared to be a naked baby speared at the end of his bayonet – and the baby was still wriggling. Hastily he dropped the photograph and felt he was going to be sick.

  C nodded. ‘Yes, I know,’ he said, ‘the abominable Turk – at his worst, what?’

  ‘But, but,’ the young officer stuttered miserably. ‘What’s going on? Why…’

  ‘Why have I asked you to come here again after eighteen months since I last saw you in this place, eh?’ C’s voice was hard and incisive.

  ‘You mean, sir, you have a show for us?’ Despite his wretched feeling, Common Smith’s voice was suddenly full of hope. He had been on the beach now ever since 1920 and the business with the Poles. He was bored, as was the rest of the crew of his beloved Swordfish. ‘The chaps would find that absolutely ripping, sir. I can assure you of that.’

  C smiled coldly at the young officer’s use of the word ‘ripping’. He told himself that despite his Victoria Cross and a chestful of other decorations for gallantry, Common Smith was really only a boy. The war had forced him to become a man – quickly!

  ‘Ripping isn’t quite the word for it, Smith,’ C said thoughtfully, and tapped the bowl of his pipe on his wooden leg which was his habit when he had something difficult to explain. ‘Now Johnny Turk isn’t all that bad. He’s a damned good soldier as we learned to our cost back in fifteen at Gallipoli, eh.’

  The handsome young soldier with the clear blue eyes nodded his agreement but said nothing.

  ‘At the moment Johnny Turk’s main concern is to get the rest of the Greek Army out of his country. Those photographs are just propaganda, aimed I suppose at stirring up the world against the Turks. Who takes ’em and who sends them to newspapers all over the West, I don’t know. No matter.’ He tapped the pipe against his wooden leg again. It was said that he had amputated the leg himself with a penknife after a bad car crash behind German lines in the recent war. Smith thought it was possible. He could imagine the Empire’s greatest spy-master being capable of anything – and everything. ‘Soon the Turk will have run the Greek Army – it’s a mere rabble now – out of his country. Then, and there can be no doubt of that, Johnny Turk’ll clear all remaining Greek civilians out of Turkey. In his eyes they are infidels, Christian dogs, as I believe the Turks call them in their own language.’

  C rose to his feet and walked across to the big wall map that decorated the back of the office. ‘Come over here and look at this.’

  Obediently Smith followed and looked at the map.

  C poked the stem at the section depicting Turkey. ‘There’s Istanbul. Over there is Smyrna. Now Smyrna has the main concentration of Turkish Greeks in the
whole of the country. They’re mainly engaged in the tobacco and dried fruits trades. Some of them have been there for generations, perhaps hundreds of years, ever since Turkey conquered Greece. Mostly they’re pretty rich and control the country’s main exports. As a result they are very envied by the local populace and detested by the country’s dictator, Ataturk, although he was born in Greece himself.’

  Smith nodded. He had heard of Kemal Ataturk, who had helped depose the Turkish Sultan and was now in process of introducing all sorts of weird and wonderful reforms in that backward country. He had already forced the local women to remove the veil, and the men to shave off their beards and wear cloth caps instead of the fez so that they could not touch their foreheads to the ground when worshipping Allah. It was said he was going to abolish religion altogether soon. All the same he wondered what kind of mission C could have for him and his crew in that remote country.

  ‘Now,’ C continued, ‘it’s pretty common knowledge that once Ataturk has kicked out the rest of the Greek Army, he’ll start on the Greek civvies at Smyrna. They have the money he needs to replenish his empty coffers and the business his chaps want to control. So what will he do?’

  ‘Terrorise them into fleeing the country and return to Greece, sir?’ Smith ventured.

  C shook his head, smiling slightly. ‘I’m afraid you don’t know Johnny Turk, Smith. There’s nothing Johnny Turk loves more than a good massacre. Don’t you know what they did to the Armenians a couple of years back?’

  Smith looked blank.

  ‘Well, I’ll tell you. The Turks slaughtered them by the thousand and hundred thousand – women and children, too. They did the same with their Kurds as well.’ C’s face hardened, and Smith whistled softly. ‘Yes,’ C said, iron in his voice, ‘there’s a massacre in the making, if we don’t do something to stop it.’