September 1918. World War I nears its end in Europe, and the Ottoman Empire offers to surrender to the United States. The British, eager to keep the French out of Constantinople and the Straits, urge President Wilson to accept. A month later, a small American force steams into the Golden Horn. At the Versailles Conference, America accepts a League of Nations Mandate over Constantinople and other parts of Turkey. General of the Armies John Pershing commands American forces.
Smedley Butler stood on the upper walk of the Galata Tower, the streets of Constantinople's European district winding down the low hill to the Golden Horn and the Bosporus below him. The iron railing was hot from the late August sun. He stared east across the dark blue water of the Bosporus to the shore of Anatolia. Smoke rose from Üscüdar, the shattered Asian suburbs of the imperial city, where Dwight Eisenhower and his company had died as Turkish Nationalists drove American troops from Asiatic Turkey. He looked south over the narrow flow of the Golden Horn to Stamboul, the ancient center of Constantinople. The minarets and domes of Süleyman's great mosque were bright in the early afternoon sun, as were the slender towers of the other great mosques of the Ottoman sultans.
"Will the Nationalists move more men across, General?" The young marine second lieutenant commanding the observation post shifted nervously.
"No need to. Mustafa Kemal already has an army behind us. Besides, we have the Governor General's yacht to help."
The U.S.S. Arizona rode at anchor half a mile off the Golden Horn, her twelve 14-inch guns aiming beyond Butler to the Thracian Plain and the Nationalist army investing the city. Aft of her rear turret, an awning blazed white in the afternoon sun, shading Governor General Albert B. Fall's reception for the allied ambassadors. Smedley handed the binoculars to the lieutenant and turned to enter the ancient stone tower. Butler's movements revealed a wiry toughness earned from three decades' campaigning as a marine.
Explosions slapped behind him. He spun around as another explosion banged across the water. A white fountain spouted from the far side of the Arizona. Smoke, gray turning black, billowed over the ship. Shock froze Butler for an instant.
"Call Army headquarters. Order Colonel Patton to full alert."
Butler was breathing heavily from his charge down the interior steps of the tower as he jumped into the rear seat of his open staff car. "Customs dock."
Smedley's aide and Army liaison, Major Shaw, asked, "General, what's happened?" Shaw's gaunt face showed his concern.
Butler gripped the top of the door as the car bounced down the cobbled street. "Explosions on Arizona. Can't tell if the Navy blew themselves up or if the Turks are attacking." The blast of the car's horn forced a way though the crowd of European and Turkish pedestrians. The third and fourth stories of the stone and wooden houses loomed over the Rolls Royce as it slid around a sharp corner onto Istiklal Street. The driver swerved, just missing a small red trolley car, and accelerated toward the water.
The explosion twisted the deck of Arizona from under John Pershing, hurling him against the aft turret. He dropped to one knee but refused to fall further. A cloud of oily smoke swept across the battleship's fantail. Pershing pulled out a handkerchief and tied it over his nose and mouth. "Damn little good this will do."
"General Pershing, sir, are you hurt?"
The concerned face of an ensign hovered above the general. "I don't think so, son." Pershing stood slowly, testing his balance, feeling his sixty years. He coughed deeply, trying to clear the smoke from his lungs, but only drawing in more. "How is the ship?" He reached to straighten his hat and found it missing.
"Don't know, sir. Captain Hahn and Admiral Kessler were both forward showing some pasha around. With the general's permission, I must get to my station."
"Go." The ship jerked and listed heavily to starboard. Civilians attending the reception shoved past Pershing to the railing. Pershing saw an Army major who commanded the governor general's honor guard. "Reynolds, organize the evacuation here. The Navy is busy trying to save the ship."
Pershing scanned the deck for Governor General Fall's shock of white hair, seeing him far aft, surrounded by a small cordon of aides. As he neared Fall, Pershing called, "Is your launch near, Governor?"
Fall ignored Pershing, helping an American oilman toward a rope ladder recently tied to a stanchion. He turned to Pershing. "Best hurry, General."
Pershing heard a woman's scream of, "Sally," and turned. An American woman bent to help a girl of about five, who sat on the deck holding her leg and crying. Blood stained the hem of the child's yellow dress. An older girl in a matching outfit clung to the woman, her eyes wide with fear.
Pershing shoved his way back to the small group, and knelt by the youngest girl. "Here, let me see." Pershing gently examined the girl's leg, which had a slight cut. Emptiness gripped him, as he realizing the girl was only a year or two older than Mary Margaret and that the older girl was near Helen or Anne's age, when all had burned to death before the war. He glanced up at the woman, filled by memories of Frankie, dead in the same fire. He forced himself to concentrate on the present, glad that his touch seemed to comfort the girl. "I don't think it's serious, Madam."
The woman looked down, fear fading as she recognized Pershing. "General, is the ship sinking?"
"Not till you're safe." Pershing spotted Reynolds. "Get these people to the launch, Major."
A rumbling explosion—felt through the deck more than heard—shook the massive battleship. Pershing stumbled as Arizona listed further. At the fantail, he helped a wounded sailor climb over the rail, and felt the man slip from his hands into the arms of sailors on a local caique. He glanced at his hands, seeing the blood and blackened skin that had pealed from the sailor's arms. Pershing wiped his hands on his uniform, trying to ignore the charred-lamb stench of burned human flesh.
"General Pershing." A Navy lieutenant, his white uniform covered in grime, saluted. "Sir, the fire's near the forward magazine."
"No water pressure. Please abandon ship, General."
Pershing fought his instinct to stay, to help the wounded, knowing his command was ashore. "I'm sorry, Lieutenant." Pershing turned to the stern and climbed down into the steam launch, crowding onto a deck packed with sailors and a few civilians. Fall and the oil tycoon stood on the far side of the launch.
The boat dropped away from the battleship on the fast current, moving out of the heavy smoke from burning bunker oil. Pershing yelled to the boatswain at the wheel, "Get us around to the bow so we can see the damage."
The launch sliced through the calm water toward the dreadnought's bow. The Arizona's port side appeared undamaged, but the ship's heavy list stabbed her 14-inch guns upward, twelve great barrels silhouetted against the sky. The launch rounded the sharp bow.
The foredeck of Arizona vanished in a ball of flame that billowed above the tall masts. Pershing saw—or imagined, for he was never sure—both forward turrets lift upward before crashing back through the main deck. The shock of the explosion smashed into Pershing, knocking him into the crowd of sailors. Sound roared over him, and he raised his arms in protection against falling debris.
The dreadnought shuddered and rolled. Her tall basket-weave masts dipped into the Bosporus, her guns jutting upward. The screams of crewmen flung into the sea rose above the death rattle within the armored hull. The ship vanished beneath the roiling surface. Oil carried fire across the blue water.
Old Glory and Butler's red flag with his single brigadier's star snapped in the wind as Smedley leapt from his still-moving car. A growing throng of Turks and Europeans crowded the small plaza, voices raised in half a dozen languages Butler recognized, and a dozen he didn't. Black smoke rose from the burning oil marking Arizona's grave. Smedley stared in shock at the flock of small boats circling, seeking survivors. "It only took me ten minutes to get here. Battleships shouldn't die that quickly."
A marine sergeant, a stocky, powerful man with gray hair and a face lined from decades of campaigning, saluted sharply. "The swabbies say Turks floated a mine to her on the current, but nobody knows, General."
"Where's Pershing, Sergeant Cooper?" Butler always felt rapport with Cooper, a relic of the old Marine Corps whom he remembered from the march on Peking and the Panama Battalion.
"With the Governor General, I hope, sir. His launch is picking up survivors."
Butler glanced around the long, narrow promenade, only a few feet above the swiftly moving Bosporus. Four- and five-story stone and brick buildings, mainly occupied by European or local Greek-owned business, crowded the waterfront in a jumble of pastels and stonework. Behind them, buildings climbed the low hill to the medieval gray stones of the Galata Tower with its layer-cake crown of balconies. The crowd grew rapidly, and Butler's hand brushed his holstered .45 at the thought of yet another riot sweeping the city.
Smedley relaxed slightly as two trucks loaded with marines bounced to a stop. "Good timing," Butler said. "Major Shaw, keep the promenade clear, but go easy. The city could go up like a ton of dynamite. Don't light the match."
"I understand, sir." Shaw saluted.
"Sergeant, where's your phone?"
Cooper pointed to a low wooden shack. "Inside, General."
Butler stepped into the small guard post, his boots clicking on the plank floor. He cranked the handle on the phone.
"Headquarters, Lieutenant Zack."
"General Butler here. Is the garrison on alert?"
"No, sir. Not without Colonel Patton's orders. I'm trying to reach him, sir."
"Not quite sure, sir. He's playing a polo match against the wogs, General, over in Stamboul." The answer came with obvious reluctance. "Civilizing them, he said."
Smedley Butler took off his broad-brimmed campaign hat for a moment and wiped sweat from his forehead with his sleeve, brushing his dark hair back, using the gesture to bring his temper under control. "Full alert. Now. Send the Army to reinforce the perimeter."
"Marine riot squads into the streets. If the residents of Stamboul see this as a signal to attack foreigners, the sultan's police won't stop them. Send every vehicle you can spare to move the wounded to hospital."
"Damn Patton!" Butler said in a harsh whisper as he walked from the building. "Aristocratic bastard should be on duty, not playing polo. No wonder the Turks ambushed him in Armenia."
"We finally have some ambulances, sir." Sergeant Cooper saluted. "And the governor general's launch just landed."
Butler glanced at the flock of aides circling Fall as he walked away from his launch. The governor general's shock of white hair was like a flag in the center of the crowd. His voice, loud as always, carried his New Mexico drawl across the plaza.
Butler pushed through the gaggle of sycophants around the governor general. "Governor Fall, was General Pershing injured?"
"Nigger Jack's playing nurse . . ." Recognizing Butler, Fall sputtered to silence, then continued, his voice petulant. His bronzed face, white hair and drooping mustache made him look like a carnival pitchman. His blue eyes were narrow and cold. "Pershing is still on my launch. Bring him to me, General Butler."
Pershing's normally immaculate uniform was covered in soot and dirt. He helped a sailor, whose right leg twisted hideously at the knee, stagger to the dock. Butler took the sailor's other arm and the two generals eased the man to a stretcher.
"Glad you made it ashore, General. We were afraid you'd been caught in the explosion."
"There were children aboard. I could not abandon them to a fire." Pershing's voice broke slightly as he talked.
"I understand, sir," Smedley said.
"General Pershing, we must talk. Now." Albert Fall's drawl cut through the cries of the wounded. He indicated the tall, chunky oilman he had escorted from the sinking Arizona. "You have not met Mister Walters. He landed from the Princess Matoika yesterday to sign a new concession with the sultan's government. We must stop the Nationalists, General. They refuse to honor the sultan's agreements."
"Mister Walters, you will excuse us, sir, as this conversation may involve military matters," Pershing said.
Fall started to object, then followed Pershing and Butler into the nearby guard shack. "General Pershing, the Army has allowed Mustafa Kemal and his followers to become an irritation. Get rid of this bandit."
"Mustafa Kemal and the Turkish Nationalists have just driven a hundred and fifty thousand Greek troops from Anatolia. He has twenty thousand of his men at our backs in European Turkey." John Pershing's tone made his contempt for Fall clear. "We have twenty-five hundred troops holding our perimeter and General Butler's fifteen hundred marines holding the city. If we stay in Constantinople and the Turks attack, we die, Governor. We must evacuate."
"I give you orders, General. You do not order me," Fall nearly shouted.
"I advised President Wilson to reject this mandate. He did not. With Wilson gone, President Harding refuses to send more troops, and yet you block a diplomatic solution with Mustafa Kemal. The American Mandate is over, Governor."
"I am not here to surrender American interests to a wog," Fall said, his New Mexico drawl thicker as his voice rose again. He pulled out a cigar and lit it, not offering one to Pershing or Butler.
"You don't defend American interests, Governor. You defend American companies," Butler said. "You ordered the sultan to revoke European oil concessions and give them to Americans. There is a price for that. The French signed a treaty with Kemal last year. The British are about to. You have isolated us from European help to defend your racket."
"We do not need Europe, General Butler. You didn't run from the Niggers in Haiti. Why do you run from the Turks?" Fall puffed a cloud of cigar smoke into the air.
Butler spun and walked to the far side of the room so as not to strike the politician. Fall's voice rose behind him, "General Pershing, remove this man from his command."
As Fall stalked from the guard shack, Butler stepped back to Pershing. "My apology for losing my temper, sir."
"None needed, General Butler." A smile softened Pershing's expression for an instant. "You have, I hope, informed your father and the Naval Affairs Committee he chairs of developments here?"
"Yes, sir. I am told Harding still loves the man. Mister Fall raised much money for the party."
"Money is power, General, but I too have contacted friends in Washington." Pershing coughed heavily, clearing the tightness from his lungs. "I will not have my men die in this city to save Albert Fall and his cronies a few dollars."
The evening sun burnished the calm surface of the Golden Horn and sparkled from the forest of minarets rising above the Ottoman capital. Jazz flowed from the Pera Palas hotel behind Butler. His fresh uniform and the lack of his .45 increased the peaceful feel of the night, but he knew the feeling was false. Butler turned his back on the city and watched Sergeant Cooper cross the veranda. They exchanged salutes.
"Five men beaten by a mob over in Stamboul, but not seriously hurt. Antiriot squads showed up and the Turks ran."
"It won't be that easy stopping the Turkish army," Butler said, wishing again that America had never accepted the Turkish surrender and been drawn into the politics of colonies and oil.
"General Butler, I talked to a Turk was in the sultan's navy during the war. He saw torpedo tracks in the water."
"On a caique off Arizona's starboard side."
"Could it be a translation error?"
"No, sir. He worked for the British Embassy before the war. Speaks English good enough."
"I want to meet him tomorrow, Sergeant." Butler returned Cooper's salute, and walked slowly into the Pera Palas, tucking his hat under one arm, and passing through paneled hallways to the bar. The room blazed with electric lights.
Straight and trim in a clean uniform, Pershing stared out a window at the brief twilight. Lieutenant Zack stood with several American and British officers a few feet from Pershing.
Zack saluted Butler, who repressed a smile. "I respect your salute, Lieutenant, but I'm uncovered. You've only seen me under arms, when I keep my hat on indoors as you Army boys do all the time."
"That's all right, Lieutenant." Butler moved on to Pershing. "General Pershing . . ."
Pershing held up one hand. "Georgie Patton was killed this afternoon, General."
"How, sir?" Butler felt the shock of the news twist his gut.
"He was playing polo. Shot from the crowd by a sniper. Fifth man this week. As usual, no one was caught." Pershing took two Scotches from a passing waiter and handed one to Butler. "The surgeon said he was killed by a ball from an old musket. Something left over from the days of the Janissaries. Georgie might have liked that." He raised his glass. "Colonel Patton!" He drank deeply.
Butler echoed Pershing's toast, thinking at the same time that not much had been lost with Patton, except a commander who wasted his men in battle. Butler was certain that if Patton hadn't been wounded in Armenia he'd have stayed in command and played Custer. Never would have fought his way back to Trabzon the way Bradley did. Pershing's voice yanked Butler from his thoughts.
"Yes, sir. We found a man who saw torpedo tracks before Arizona exploded."
"Nonsense." A rear admiral Butler recognized as one of the governor general's toadies moved closer. "The Turks don't have a submarine and we'd have seen a surface ship. He saw a school of fish."
"The Turks captured a French boat during the War that we have not recovered. Several German boats are still missing in the Mediterranean." Pershing's voice rose in anger. "You are not doing your job if you don't know that, Admiral Simon. Now that you have replaced Admiral Kessler as chief of my naval forces, you will correct your inattention. General Butler's suggestion is credible."
"Even if the Turks had a submarine, they couldn't run it. And if they could get it away from the dock, they couldn't hit all of Asia with a torpedo." Fall stood in the center of his darkly paneled office, puffing clouds of smoke from his cigar.
"The Turks couldn't stop the British at Gallipoli, either, but Mustafa Kemal did. And he couldn't drive the Greek Army into the sea." Pershing's anger flared at the politician. "Look across the Bosporus to Anatolia. You'll see Mustafa Kemal's army, not King Constantine's."
"The British destroyed themselves at Gallipoli, and the Greeks are little but wogs living in the ruins their fathers left them. American civilians will evacuate on the Princess Matoika, along with your wounded. After they steam, you shall defeat the Turks," Fall said. "We will not surrender our concessions."
Pershing coughed heavily, waiting for his breath to return before talking. "That liner will carry 5,000 men, women, and children. She can not leave the Golden Horn if the Turks have a submarine waiting."
"The Matoika will do as I order, and so shall you, General," Fall said. He turned his back on both generals, dismissing them.
Butler and Pershing stalked down the hall in the Palazzo Corpi, their footsteps echoing in unison through the old American Embassy building. "I'd like to know how much that bastard skimmed from the oil concessions," Butler snapped.
"At least as much as Gulbenkian, according to a cable from Washington," Pershing said.
"Mister Five Percent and his American twin."
"Except that Fall took the money under the table," Pershing said, thinking, Charlie Dawes is a wonder at finance, and that's what it took to get that information. Always good to have the right man in the right place.
Marine guards snapped salutes as the two generals walked quickly down the wide steps set in the building's classical façade. Pershing led the way back toward the Pera Palas. He stood a moment listening to the clear notes of a Dixieland pianist.
"Find that submarine and destroy it, General."
Late morning, and the summer's heat was already building. A pack of wild, raw-boned dogs lazed in the narrow street. Some snapped over scraps of food tossed by passing Turks. Butler and Cooper, both dressed as merchant seamen, instinctively avoided the pack's spoor.
"I suppose the dogs keep the rats under control," Smedley said to Cooper in a near whisper. Butler knew that the two marines stood out, but hoped to draw less attention on foot than in his car. The anger of the city was directed at the American military. Civilians had been relatively safe.
The three- and four-story buildings, their upper floors overhanging the street, dimmed the afternoon sun. The brightly painted houses often had irregular shapes, built to match the turns of the street as it wound up the hill. The Turkish women who came to the Para Palas or the other European buildings north of the Golden Horn often dressed as Europeans. Here in Stamboul, long skirts, headscarves, and thin veils covered most of the women. Some of the men still wore turbans and baggy pants and jackets instead of the fez and European suits.
The street opened into the tree-filled plaza around the mosque of Ahmed I. Six minarets stabbed gracefully into the sky around the massive structure. Ranks of small domes rose as if to support a great central dome. The two marines moved quickly past the low arches surrounding a courtyard attached to the main building, passing the Egyptian and Roman obelisks that had once decorated the Byzantine Hippodrome.
Butler and Cooper skirted a marine antiriot squad that watched the vendors in an open market. The two marines entered a side street that led them away from the gray domes of the Sultanahmed and wound their way through a new pack of curs. The dogs refused to move for mere pedestrians. The street widened at an intersection. A dozen dogs stared at each other in the middle of the plaza, teeth bared and hackles raised, protecting the territories of rival packs. Other dogs slept in the shade.
"There's Süleyman," Cooper said, indicating a tall, powerfully built Turk who waited in a coffee shop across the intersection. The Turk's black suit and dark fez gave him the look of a merchant or bureaucrat. Süleyman stood as the two marines joined him.
"Süleyman, this is General Butler."
"Efendim." The Turk bowed slightly, his voice carrying respect without subservience. "Brave men died when your ship sank, Efendi. May God show them mercy."
The marines accepted cups of strong, sweet coffee from a waiter. "Süleyman Efendi," Butler said, "you saw torpedo wakes?"
"Evet, Efendi. Three or four." Süleyman indicated several Turkish men standing across the street. "The waiter is my cousin, but it is better if we talk in the back where we are not watched." He wiped coffee from his thick, black mustache, and stood, moving his six-foot frame with the ease of an athlete as he led Butler to the rear of the building. Cooper stayed in the coffee shop, watching the street.
The carcass of a recently butchered goat hung by the back door, the metallic scent of its blood filling the small storeroom in which Butler and Süleyman talked.
"Süleyman, why do you help us?"
"From the time Sultan Mehmet captured Constantinople until this day, my family served the Osmanli. If I betray the sultan, I betray my family."
"You support the sultan. Mustafa Kemal does not."
Looking at the man, and judging him, Butler decided to trust the Turk. "Can you find where the Nationalists keep the submarine?"
Süleyman smiled. "Efendi, I do not need to find it. Near Bursa a cove shelters the submarine."
"Mines would sink your ships before they reached the cove, Efendi."
"A march of one hour. I will guide you."
"Allaha ismarladik," Süleyman said, ducking through a rear door.
Butler rejoined Cooper, already selecting his raiding force from the marines he'd brought from France. He finished his coffee, which was now cold.
"We still have men across the street watching close, sir," Cooper said.
Five Turks dressed in European suits stood arguing, but always with one man watching the coffeehouse. A crowd followed the gestures of the men as they pointed to the coffeehouse. One man stepped forward and pointed at Butler and Cooper, shouting, "Amerikalilar!"
The dog packs, roused by the crowd, stirred.
"The mob will catch us before we make the guard post, sir," Cooper said.
"Stay here." Butler ducked into the storeroom and returned with the goat carcass. He dropped an American five-dollar gold piece on the table. "That should buy a new goat. Back to Sultanahmed. Straight through the dog packs. Go."
Cooper shoved several Turks aside, clearing the way for Butler. A tall man grabbed Butler. Smedley slammed the dead goat into the Turk's face. A few steps carried the marines into the intersection. Dogs snarled and scurried aside. Butler turned and hurled the goat back into the center of the square. It landed between the packs as several men started to follow the marines. Dogs from each pack pounced on the meat. Instantly, curs poured from the shadows, filling the street with fifty or sixty fighting dogs. The men fled into a shop door. The din of snarling and barking downed the shouts of the Turkish mob, trapped on the far side of the canine sea.
John Pershing and one aide crossed the veranda of the Pera Palas. Pershing glanced at the distant Golden Horn, seeing the bright lights of the liner Princess Matoika, knowing the ship was already packed with wounded soldiers and marines. He walked quickly through the hotel's garden to a closed limousine.
Pershing and his aide climbed into the back seat. The general's orderly, Frank Lanckton, sat behind the wheel, a Turkish officer in the front seat beside him.
The Turk glanced back at Pershing. "The Ghazi waits."
Pershing nodded, tapped Lanckton on the shoulder, and said softly, "All right, Sergeant, let's get where we're going." The general leaned back in the seat. Fighting the Germans had been easy, he thought, backed by the power of an America enraged to war. The enemy was clear, the mission direct. In Turkey, Pershing's men died one or two at a time in ambushes and probing attacks on his lines, as the Nationalists sought to free their nation. Pershing could not view them as his enemy. Feeling the tightness in his chest left by the heavy smoke, Pershing coughed deeply. He leaned back and closed his eyes as Lanckton swung the car slowly into the empty street and drove toward the docks.
Butler crouched just over the crest of a low hill, feeling rather than seeing the marine scouts around him in the darkness. His attack force had steamed from Constantinople two nights before in an old Turkish ferry, and crept along the European coast of the Sea of Marmara for a day. Nearing the Dardanelles, the marines transferred to a fast Navy patrol boat and dashed east for the Kemalist submarine base near Bursa, landing at night and marching across a headland.
Below him, light seeped from warehouses facing a long dock, illuminating mounds of supplies. A door opened and a flood of light revealed the low conning tower of a submarine. Inland, a dozen huts were crowded together. The camp's perimeter remained in darkness. Smedley shifted his weight, and the Thompson gun slung on his shoulder slipped. He grabbed the submachine gun before it could bang against the tree.
Marine skirmishers edged down the hill. Butler studied the base several more minutes, trying to pick out its defenses, then ducked back across the crest and dropped to kneel beside Cooper and Süleyman. The three squads of Butler's attack force were spread along the hill. Two men in each squad carried packs of explosives.
"BARs are dug in to cover our withdrawal, sir," Cooper said.
"Good." Butler turned to their Turkish guide. "Süleyman, stay here with the gunners."
"Efendim? Hayir. I fight beside you." He held up his Thompson.
"Are you tired of Stamboul, Süleyman, to risk your life?"
"Dawn will find us back in the city, inshalla."
Butler nodded in the darkness, his nerves tightening as he waited. After what seemed hours, he heard a whisper of sound and a Marine private dropped beside him.
"Barbed fence halfway between the base of the hill and the huts. Fifty yards of cleared ground between the fence and guard posts at the edge of the camp. Bunkers every 100 yards. Turks had pickets out at the base of the hill. They don't now."
"Move out, Sergeant. Let's sink that sub."
Ten miles north of Constantinople, John Pershing's launch bumped against a low seawall set between a European-style mansion and the Bosporus. He stepped from the rocking boat onto the landing of the compact, classically styled summer home of a merchant or diplomat from Pera. The front door of the building opened as the engine died. A man's voice, speaking in French, said, "General Pershing, welcome to Anatolia. May we find peace tonight."
Not waiting for his aide, Pershing stepped into the light streaming from the building and answered in the same language, "Thank you, Kemal Pasha. Between us, we shall."
Pershing followed Mustafa Kemal down the entrance hall into a large drawing room. The Turkish leader was a slight man, wearing a gray military tunic and jodhpurs. Unlike his photographs, the Turk's rectangular face was clean-shaven. His steel-gray eyes studied the American as Mustafa Kemal shook hands with Pershing. "I am sorry Governor Fall would not meet with me."
"I come in his place, and with the authority of the United States Government," Pershing said, continuing to speak in French. "Marshal Kemal, please accept my congratulations on your victory over the Greek army."
"I asked the Turkish people to fight for every rock in our country, and they did. We fight now to make the nation modern, to take our place again in the world."
"Meeting you, Kemal Pasha, I know you will accomplish your goal," Pershing said, keeping his gaze on the Turkish leader, feeling the power of the other man's personality. But you won't do it easily if America decides to fight, he thought.
Every sound in the night screamed for Butler's attention. Metal clanged on the dock, followed by an easy call in Turkish and laughter at someone's clumsiness. The weight of spare drum magazines tugged at this equipment belt as Smedley worked his way down the hill.
He concentrated on placing each step, testing gently for firm footing before adding his full weight. Gravel rattled in the darkness as his men moved down the gradual slope, and he silently cursed their carelessness. The skirmishers directed the attackers to breaks they'd cut in the few strands of barbed wire circling the base.
Thirty yards from the first buildings, flame stabbed into the night. A machine gun spat tracers, dashes of light crawling toward Smedley, then whipping past him. Four marines spun backward into darkness.
Smedley fired the Thompson in bursts toward the source of the tracers. He pulled down on the forward grip to keep the gun from climbing. His shells chugged out with a deep roar. The line of marines fired and screamed curses as they ran into the machine-gun fire. Men died and fell.
Butler leapt a low ditch, Süleyman beside him. Both fired into the machine-gun team as they landed. A rifle butt whipped out of the darkness. Butler fired, letting the Thompson rise, spewing shells across the soldier's body.
A Mauser jabbed from an open door. Süleyman fired. The enemy rifleman staggered back as shells slammed into him. Butler sprinted between a series of low sheds, closer to his target with each dash.
He paused in the shelter of the last building as a dozen men, including one of the sappers, caught up with him. A long, narrow dock separated them from the sub, and Smedley saw figures moving behind piles of supplies.
Butler whipped off his campaign hat and held the Thompson at his side. He ran into the open, gesturing wildly behind himself, Süleyman at his side.
A figure on the submarine called, "Kiminiz?"
Süleyman called back in Turkish.
Half a dozen men separated from the shadows ahead of Butler. One shouted, "Dur! Dur!"
Smedley fired, holding the Thompson's barrel down but letting it sweep from right to left across the group. Men fell or spun into the darkness clutching wounds. As the last round spat from Butler's Thompson, an officer in a long gray coat stepped into view.
Butler dropped the submachine gun, feeling the sling's pull on his shoulder, and clawed at his .45. The officer's pistol snapped up and Smedley dove aside. A bullet tugged at his sleeve. Smedley fired as his pistol rose, the upward recoil of the automatic sending his second round into the Turk's gut. Beside him, Süleyman screamed as a Mauser shell slapped into his chest. A burst of Thompson rounds swept Süleyman's killer from the dock.
Smedley ducked behind a stack of cargo and changed drum magazines on his Thompson. He pointed to three marines. "Hold here if the Turks attack."
Butler leapt for the sub, landing heavily on the foredeck. He scrambled up a ladder to the conning tower, firing at a figure in an open hatch, but missing. Smedley reached for the closing hatch. The metal slipped from his fingers as it clanged shut.
Butler dropped back to the foredeck as a marine fired into an open torpedo-loading hatch. Smedley grabbed the hatch cover and nodded to the marine, who pulled a timer and hurled an explosive pack into the depths of the sub. Butler slammed the hatch closed. "Get off! Now!"
The marines jumped to the dock as a deep explosion shook the submarine. Roiling bubbles of air erupted from the ruptured hull. The flash of tracers stabbed toward Smedley again, and he heard the rattle of a German-made machine gun from the warehouses.
The slow thud of Thompsons echoed from the buildings. The Maxim stopped firing. Cooper's voice called from across the dock, "We got this lot, but more are coming."
A marine private stared at the body of a fallen Thompson gunner, who had taken a burst of machine-gun fire in his head. "God, it took off Roland's head."
"Steady, Warren, steady. Carry him out, son."
Butler hoisted Süleyman's body and dashed for the buildings, followed by the surviving marines with the other dead and wounded. At the warehouses, he dodged around a shattered Maxim gun and three dead Turks before letting two of Cooper's men take Süleyman's body.
"The camp is clear, General," Cooper reported. "About twenty dead wogs. The rest took a shine. Judging from the lights, a convoy's coming up the main road, sir."
"All right, back to the boat. Fast." Butler felt sweat, or Süleyman's blood, on the back of his neck.
* * *Γ Γ Γ
Mustafa Kemal walked to a sideboard and picked up a crystal decanter. "Raki, general?" Kemal poured two glasses and handed one to Pershing.
Pershing sipped, the anise-flavored liquor sweeping all other taste from his mouth.
"In the field, I denied myself the pleasure of raki, but we are here as friends." Mustafa Kemal drank again. "General Pershing, give the American people the thanks of my nation. Your occupation saved us from the British and the French."
Pershing saw the trap, and smiled. "I believe our presence has helped the Turkish people."
"Your charitable organizations spared the people of Istanbul much suffering and saved many refugees from starvation. Let us forget your attempt to invade Eastern Anatolia. I am sure you wish to as well."
"No, General Pershing, we discuss only how you leave Turkey: as an enemy driven from our land or as a friend who leaves in peace."
"If you try to drive us out, we'll have a million men here in six months."
"We sank your dreadnought, General. We will sink your fleet as it tries to rescue you, or give you aid."
"Not with the same submarine, Kemal Pasha. We just sank it," Pershing said. If, he thought, Butler is on schedule. "Constantinople remains under the protection of our navy."
"That gives you the guns of your cruisers and destroyers. It does not give you more troops." Mustafa Kemal smiled. "We drove out the Greeks, and will drive you out as well. If your troops stack their arms and board your ships, we shall let you go."
"That would be surrender. Demand surrender and dishonor, and you will call down the wrath of America," Pershing said. "But I do not want to see your men, or my men, die needlessly."
"Our peoples can remain friends." Mustafa Kemal sipped his raki. "If we can find honor for both of us. Will Governor Fall agree?"
"Fall I can deal with, Kemal Pasha. Can you assure me that your army will not attack as we withdraw—with our arms?"
"I guarantee my army. I can not guarantee the people of the city."
The sleek patrol boat carrying Butler and his attack force bumped against Princess Matoika. Smedley knelt beside a wounded marine, adjusting the rough bandage on the man's shattered leg. "They've got a full surgery aboard the Matoika, and you'll be in top shape by they time you steam into New York." Butler stood aside as sailors slid the man onto a litter that was quickly hosted up the liner's white flank.
Butler stared at the row of eight blanket-covered bodies on the small fantail. To Butler's surprise, the captain of the patrol boat had found a red-and-white Ottoman flag, which now covered Süleyman's body. "Eight dead, Sergeant Cooper, and another twelve wounded. That's a high price."
"It will be higher if the Turkish army attacks."
Butler climbed a ladder to the small conning tower, seeking a better view. The Golden Horn flowed west to east, pouring into the Bosporus and dividing the peninsula on which Stamboul, ancient Constantinople, sat from its northern suburbs. The Galata Bridge, the first of two bridges over the waterway, crossed the Horn near its mouth. Smedley scanned Seraglio Point and the mosques of the ancient city. Turks crowded the shore of the Golden Horn, held from the southern end of the bridge by a cordon of troops.
Further east, through the arch of the Galata Bridge, Butler saw the Upper Bridge, also defended by a line of troops confronting a growing crowd. "I think the Turks smell blood. Ours."
Butler slid down the ladder to the deck. Gripping his Thompson, Smedley jumped from the boat to the Galata dock before the waiting sailors had secured the lines. Major Shaw saluted sharply. "Welcome back, General. Did you sink the bastard?"
"Not enough water to sink her, but that hull won't float again." Butler took in a long line of American civilians waiting for passage to the Matoika. Most were minor officials of the mandate government, though he recognized a cluster of American oilmen and their families. An American destroyer was tied to the seawall; the ship's high, knife-edged bow swept back a quarter of the destroyer's length before dropping sharply to a low main deck running aft. "How do we stand, Major?"
"General Pershing ordered withdrawal from Stamboul to the bridgeheads last night. No sign of the Turkish army, sir. Our lines swing north from the Horn and around Galata to the Bosporus north of the Dolmabahce palace."
"We're still protecting the sultan, then."
"Not really, sir. He's gone back to the Topkapi."
"God. The sultans haven't lived in Stamboul for fifty years. What's the old fool up to?"
"Praying before the Relics of the Prophet, or something."
Refusing to yield to his fatigue, John Pershing stood beside his desk as Albert Fall stormed into the office, followed by an Army lieutenant.
"General Pershing, this man damned well ordered me into your presence," Fall said, his Western drawl thickening as his voice rose to a shout.
"My apologies for the offense, Governor Fall. I sent the lieutenant to ensure your safety. And your arrival." Pershing turned to a man standing near a window overlooking the imperial city. "Governor, this is Mister Palmer of the Department of State. He arrived this morning on the destroyer Fanning."
"I saw it dock. I'm glad the Navy sent us another ship to help whip the Turks."
"Not quite." Palmer handed an envelope to Fall. "As you will see, Governor, the State Department and the Senate are investigating the oil concessions the sultan assigned to American firms. There's strong evidence you accepted a rather large bribe, Mister Fall."
"Perhaps, but the Secretary of State finds the charges substantial enough to order you back to Washington. You are suspended from your office."
"You don't have the authority!" Fall ripped open the envelope and stood staring at the official stationary, his mouth opening and closing silently.
"General Pershing." Palmer handed a second envelope to Pershing. "The secretary has appointed you interim governor general, until a new civilian governor is named or until Governor Fall returns to his post. Mister Fall, the Fanning will have refueled by noon, at which time we steam for America. With your permission, General Pershing, I'd like your lieutenant to help me pack Mister Fall's official papers."
"Have a safe voyage, gentlemen." Pershing waited till the door closed before calling for his orderly. "Sergeant Lanckton, they should give Charlie Dawes the Nobel Prize for engineering that bit of work. Maybe make him vice president. Hell, make him president."
Butler, the Thompson still slung over his shoulder, stepped aside as Fall and his escort left Pershing's office. He frowned, then returned a salute from the general's orderly. "Is the general free?"
"Yes, sir. Governor Pershing said to show you right in, General," Lanckton said.
Butler heard the change of title, and smiled. "Where's Fall?"
Lanckton grinned. "Mister Fall is recalled."
Butler entered Pershing's office, and saluted. "Congratulations, Governor."
"Frank stole the pleasure of telling you, I see," Pershing said, then listened to Butler's report of his mission. "Well done. We are a little stronger with that submarine dead. As I'm sure you saw, we have withdrawn from Stamboul."
"A night ago, I met with Mustafa Kemal."
Butler nearly gasped in his surprise. "Sir!"
"The Ghazi realizes that we only came to help the Turkish people until they were ready to assume the burden of self-government." Glancing at a wall map showing the encircling Turkish forces, Pershing added, smiling, "We agreed that they are ready for that burden."
"Secretary Hughes wants us out of Turkey, and with the help your father's given in Congress, Hughes brought along his cabinet colleagues at the War and Navy Departments. Only Fall delayed matters, and he is now gone. The cable arrived this morning with President Harding's orders to withdraw from Turkey, if we can do so without fighting the Nationalist Army and stirring up a full war."
"I'm gone two days, and the world changes," Smedley said, smiling. "The Princess Matoika can't carry all the Americans in the city."
"The charities and missionaries are staying, as are most of the smaller businessmen," Pershing said. "The Henderson brought your marines and can carry them home. I've commandeered the two American merchantmen in port for the Army."
"The Matoika steams in the morning. We start loading troops as soon as she clears the Golden Horn."
"I hear the sultan's at the Topkapi?"
"He's an old man seeing the end of a dynasty that's ruled this city for five hundred years," Pershing said. "I don't know what he'll do."
"Will the Nationalist Army nip our heels when we pull out?"
"Mustafa Kemal Pasha gave his word that his army will not attack, and I believe him. He wants good relations with America."
"But he doesn't control Stamboul."
"Not until his forces enter the city, and he won't do that till we leave."
"We can blow the bridges, General. The walk around the Golden Horn is too far for a mob. Both freighters are in the war harbor. I'd like to move them past the bridges to the Bosporus seawall before we load."
"One moves tonight," Pershing said. "Unfortunately, the second is repairing hull plates damaged when it hit a piling. It'll be ready to steam on time, but only if we load her in place. We can't blow the bridges till the freighter is clear."
Butler stalked the end of the Galata Bridge, his boots thudding with each step. For the first time since he'd been in Constantinople, the bridge was empty, no longer packed by the peoples of Europe and Asia who normally streamed between Stamboul and Galata. The restaurants and shops built under the bridge were empty. The caiques and other boats usually tied to the bridge had been forced away, though many hovered on the flanks, ready to swoop toward the marines, as were the flocks of gulls circling the docks.
Nearly a hundred of Butler's men crouched behind a makeshift barricade of cargo bales. Most held bolt-action Springfield rifles. Every fifth man pointed a Thompson at the crowd milling across the plaza formed by a wide intersection. Three teams with Browning Automatic Rifles used their BARs to stiffen the defenses. East of the Galata Bridge, another marine unit held the Upper Bridge across the Horn.
The mob of several thousand Turks stirred, occasionally pushing toward the marine line. Many in the mob held rifles. At the Galata end of the wide bridge, two belt-fed Browning machine guns waited to sweep death into the mob if the marines retreated.
"General Butler, a wog's coming."
Butler watched a Turk in a dark suite and fez walk slowly toward the marines. He held a white flag high over his head. "Efendim!"
Butler recognized the man as an advisor to the sultan and waved him through the marine line. "Halim Pasha, may I order a car for you?"
"No, Butler Efendi, I come with a letter for you, or General Pershing. From the sultan."
Smedley opened the letter, written in English on stationary carrying the curling Arabic script of the sultan's seal:
Sir, Considering my life in danger in Istanbul, I take refuge with the American Government and request my transfer as soon as possible from Istanbul to another place. Mehmet Vahideddin, Caliph of the Muslims
"That's the end of the Ottoman Empire, then," Butler said, remembering the warmth of Süleyman's blood, shed to save the dynasty. "Where is the sultan?"
"In the Topkapi. At the Baghdad Pavilion. His family is safely at the Dolmabahce. Will you come?"
"Give me a moment." Butler walked across the bridge to the forward communications post. "Get General Pershing."
Sergeant Cooper saluted. "Little action coming, sir?"
"Oh, yes, Sergeant, of that I'm certain. I want twenty-five men ready to move out as soon as I talk to Pershing. Thompsons and Springfields."
"Sir, General Pershing on the line."
"General," Smedley spoke over the static of the jury-rigged landline, "the sultan has asked for refuge. He's trapped at the Topkapi. His family is at the Dolmabahce Palace."
"We've withdrawn south of the palace. I'll send a patrol boat for the sultan's people. Bring him out safely, General Butler. We will not abandon a man who was our friend."
Butler ordered a BAR mounted over the cab of a truck and had the side rails of the bed strengthened with planks. He directed Halim Pasha into the cab before crowding into the back of the truck with his men.
"Major Shaw, hold the bridge as long as you can, but if the crowd threatens to take your position, withdraw and sink this bridge as soon as the freighter exits the inner harbor."
Shaw saluted. "Good luck, sir."
Marines opened a gap in the barricade. Bouncing over the cobblestones and threatening to fling men from the bed at every jolt, the truck shot straight at the crowd. Several men pushed a wagon into the street, clearly hoping to block the Americans. Butler tapped the BAR gunner on the shoulder.
A burst from the BAR slammed into the wagon, scattering the men pushing it. The truck skidded around the wagon and tore along the waterfront toward Seraglio Point, quickly passing the red bricks of the Orient Express railroad station and bouncing across the tracks before angling inland and up the hill toward the palace.
The marines dropped to the ground and spread out. Leaving a squad to guard the trucks, Butler and Halim Pasha led the rest uphill through low hedges and scattered trees that offered little cover. Nearer the gray walls of the Topkapi the trees spread a wide canopy overhead. Two guards in Turkish army uniforms held a post at the stone wall of the ancient palace.
Halim Pasha called in Turkish, and the guards answered, lowering their Mausers and stepping aside. "These men are loyal to the sultan. They say Nationalist troops have occupied the second court of the palace and have started moving into the third court. The sultan's men hold the fourth, just inside this gate."
"Will they fight beside us?" Butler asked.
"The Kemalists are guarding the palace, not looting it," Halim answered. "The sultan has ordered his men to not fire. Turks will not fight Turks today."
Leaving several marines at the gate, Butler led his men through the gate into the palace grounds. The marines spread to the right, slipping off the path through a garden thick with trees and bushes. Ahead, Smedley saw a large, octagonal building. Gray-and-cream marble formed wide arches on the ground floor supporting a main floor with high, arched windows whose white frames held stained glass mosaics. The main floor blended with a terrace running for ten or fifteen yards to a smaller version of the large kiosk and on to the main buildings of the palace.
"The Baghdad Kiosk," Halim said, "built after Murad IV captured that city. The smaller is the Revan . . ."
Butler ignored Halim's nervous chatter. The garden opened to his right. A dozen Turkish soldiers sat around a dry fountain smoking and talking, Mausers resting against the center pedestal. A smaller group stood, rifles ready, glancing toward the closed windows of two-story buildings forming a wall at the front of the garden. A soldier shouted, and rifles snapped toward the Marines. Butler's finger tightened on the trigger of his Thompson.
"Hayir! Hayir! No!" Halim shouted. He spoke rapidly in Turkish, and the soldiers slowly lowered their rifles.
"Tell them to set down their rifles. Now."
Responding to Halim's shouts, and the steady muzzles of the submachine guns, the Turks set their rifles carefully on the grass.
"Down, flat on the ground, hands behind their backs." The Turks followed Halim's orders. Marines hauled the Mausers back to the trees.
"Sergeant Cooper, hold here in the trees. Thompsons cover the wogs by the fountain. Springfields cover those windows. Anybody see a head pop out, put a round into the wall about a foot away from them. If they fire back, kill the bastards."
Halim turned at a question called from the balcony. He answered a tall Turkish officer, and said to Butler, "The commander of the guard. Come."
Halim led the marines across the garden to a door in the base of the Baghdad Kiosk, and quickly up stairs to the main level. Moving into the central room, the marines stared in wonder at the intricate inlays of ivory, tortoise shell, and mother of pearl on the window frames and doors and at the blue and gray tiles forming mosaics of flowering vines and geometric patterns.
Butler gestured, and marines dashed to the far doors, ready to duck through on command. Halim moved ahead of Butler, saying over his shoulder, "The sultan is here."
Smedley cursed under his breath and followed, Thompson ready.
Halim paused, one hand on a marble railing. Twenty yards way, a small platform jutted out from the terrace, shaded by a rectangular bronze baldachin set high on four bronze pillars. A slight man wearing a dark European-style uniform stood looking across the city to the Mosque of Süleyman and the Golden Horn.
Halim approached, bowing and talking in Turkish. Mehmet VI turned slowly, and spoke to Butler as Halim translated. "I came to see my city for the final time. Dolmabahce is beautiful, but I could not feel the past from that modern place." He stepped down to the terrace, and turned again to look over the city, speaking in a voice Butler could scarcely hear as Halim translated:
"The spider is the curtain-holder in the Palace of the Caesars."
The sultan walked toward the Revan Kiosk, saying, "Mehmet the Conqueror recited that poem while standing in the ruins of a Roman palace that sat here. Now, it applies to us."
Butler paused to study the Golden Horn. The Upper Bridge had just closed behind the American freighter as the Galata Bridge opened to free the ship. A ball of flame erupted from several of the pontoons supporting the Upper Bridge, which slowly settled into the water. The mob looked like a black amoeba swarming around the marine line at the Stamboul end of the Galata Bridge. Butler knew he was nearly out of time.
The sultan and several aides stayed in the center of the group as they hurried past a shallow pool to stairs leading down to the garden. Butler and the marines herded the sultan's party out of the palace grounds and began working through the formal gardens outside the wall. Across the mouth of the Golden Horn, Butler saw American ships loading at the waterfront of the Bosporus.
The thud of Thompson guns and the pop of Springfields echoed up the hill. Butler waved his leading squad forward, and called softly to Cooper, "Hold here." Smedley followed the first squad, dodging from hedge to hedge. Rifles snapped again, followed by the Thompsons and the heavier thud of a BAR.
Nearing the truck, Butler saw his guards crouching behind cover, firing at several dozen Turkish police and soldiers. Butler and the marines with him followed a shallow gully downhill in a wide arc.
Butler's team broke from cover on the attackers' flank. Fingers of the mob drifted back and forth in the rail yard below them, slowly edging uphill in support of the group firing on the marines. The Springfields of Butler's group picked off half of the attacking Turks in their first volley.
"At 'em, boys," Smedley shouted, leaping to his feet and charging across the hillside. The remaining Turks broke, fleeing downhill. Men with Springfields dropped to cover and picked off any of the crowd who moved toward them.
Butler ordered the riflemen to fix their long bayonets to the Springfields and circle the truck. The Thompson gunners stood in the truck's bed, and the BAR team again prepared to fire over the cab.
Butler turned to the sultan and spoke as Halim translated. "Your Majesty, I need you and your men to sit in the center of the truck. You will be safer." Mehmet nodded, and accepted help from two marines as he climbed aboard the truck, followed by his party. Halim climbed into the cab beside Cooper, who drove.
"All right, we go through the crowd to the bridge. Bayonets circle the truck, but stay close. Thompson gunners, stand ready to fire over the men on the ground. Aim for the cobblestones in front of the mob. You'll take the first ranks down with ricochets. Seeing the wounded flop around will slow up the rest."
Butler jumped onto the running board next to Cooper. "Slow ahead, sergeant."
The crowd parted reluctantly before the line of bayonets and the threatening muzzles of the BAR and Thompsons. The truck moved as if it were a boat parting a sea of people. A shot slammed into the side of the truck, slashing splinters into a marine's fact and spinning him into the sultan.
A Springfield fired once and a figure fell from the crenellated brick tower at the end of the railroad terminal. The crowd pulled back as Butler's party passed the station. The plaza stretching to the Galata Bridge was empty, except for a dozen bodies. But the mob was thick in the streets feeding toward the bridge, like tributary rivers pouring toward the sea. The truck neared the bridge, blocking the marines manning the barricade from firing. The mob flooded toward Butler's men.
The bursts of gunfire shattered against the cobbles, sending shards of stone and bullets like a scythe into the mob, which shuddered and fell back. Rocks landed amongst the marines on the ground, and a man dropped, clutching his head. Butler handed his Thompson to Cooper and jumped to the ground. He grabbed the fallen Springfield as two marines hoisted the wounded man into the back of the truck.
Major Shaw ran up as the unwounded marines leapt from the truck. "Glad you made it, General. Where's the sultan?"
Butler nodded to the vehicle accelerating toward Galata. Rifle fire thunked into the bails of cargo and the crowd surged forward. "Charges ready?"
The marines dropped back in groups, moving, covering their fellows, moving again. Butler stayed with the last team, thrusting his bayonet into an Ottoman policeman who climbed the barrier. Rounds fired from behind him dropped more of the mob, and Smedley was halfway across the wide bridge. Shots from the crowd smashed one of the elegant street lamps lining the bridge, sending fragments of its crescent moon knifing into a marine, who staggered on to safety.
As Smedley crossed the far end of the bridge, the heavy water-cooled Brownings swept death toward Stamboul. The crowd dissolved an instant before explosions slapped across the water, flame and smoke rising from the center of the bridge.
John Pershing stood on the deck of the cruiser Galveston, watching the sun set behind the city, turning the water of the Horn golden again. A small group of Turkish officers stood on the Galata dock, a Turkish flag flying from a car behind them. Pershing saluted. "Fire a twenty-one-gun salute for the new republic, Captain, and for Mustafa Kemal."