Troy a Battlefield.

Observer, Volume XXXV, Issue 48, 7 August 1915, Page 15

Troy a Battlefield.

[By George Renwick, in London " Chronicle."]

THIS war, with all its stupendous episodes, oa-n. have presented to the eye of an onlooker few more stupendous and fascinating pictures than that vision which I have been privileged to have every day of late from a mountain-top on the island of Imbros. To have a, bird's eye view of great and important military and naval operations combined under modern conditions is >a new experience for the war correspondent; the working together of an army and a fleet of such dimensions as those employed in the battering down of Turkey's last defences will stand out as a unique feature of a world-wide struggle.

Imagine the picture. From my point of view, a great part of the Galitopoli Peninsula, just that section over which the operations range, lies spread, out before me like a giant relief map. In front stretches the radiant "wine-red sea" of which Homer sang, a glorious ocean, dotted with, rocky islands, which appear to be steeped generally in a marvellous purple haze. Down u,pon these shining waters look the gaunt, yellow, rouigh-hewn heights, clothed but irregularly in green, of the Gallipoli Peniimsuia. It is a rugged, grim, unlovely land, lonely looking. Mountain and rock, river and valley make it a region as well fitted for defence ats our own North-West Indian Frontier. Gaunt cliffs face tUie spa; huge precipices are cut out of the yellow sandstone •of the mountain sides; sandy ridges run in all! directions. But this forbidding lavd 1 has a curious moment •of picturesqueness in its day.

That is when the rays of the westering sun drive away its monotone and light up its features strangely, almost into beauty; when the still, thin, curiously-stirred clouds of late afternoon flame with all tlie gorgeous colouring which has made the Mediterranean and its , sister, the iEgean, so famous for evening beauty. The yellow precipices of the; peninsula are brilliantly gilded!; the texture of its rugged spaces is made clear, and they stand out boldly against the freshened" green of trees and herbage. Its pathetic little villages glitter brightly for a little—their windows and white walls almost like so many heliographs—before the quickly advancing shadows of the peaks of far-off islands curtain them.

But it is only for a few minutes that the peninsula lies co beautifully clear against the piled-up dark background , of the mountains of Asia Minor, heights toned doAvn to dark grey by tJhe haze of distance and of battle. In between the brightness of the peninsula landscape and the dulness of the classic mountains, which saw Troy's warfare, is threaded the famous* waterway, the Dardanelles, now in sight, a, ribbon of deepest blue, now hidden behind those ridges of doom and victory. Such is the landscape in this particular region of our world-war. But one scarcely notices its evening beauty or takes any interest in > its features as a landscape. There is a fleet and an army in the picture. The bright light before the sunset is utilised to pick out the positions and moves in a fierce struggle against the desperate iremnant of a fated empire. Right round the most southern part of the peninsiila, up the stradts, and down the Asiatic coast, warships are spurting forth fire and smoke, battering thunderously away at the land 1 with great and deadly shells. The landscape is disfigured with huge pillars of dust and fumes —the tremendous devastation caused where the shells strike.

High overhead aeroplanes skim noisily; a baby dirigible, directing the warships' fire, makes a splash of gold against the light blue of the gunny sky.

On the sea- submarines leave a thin thread of white; torpedo-boats dash along in all directions —how they must enjoy "the game"!—at highspeed. Trans-ports, ships of hope and hospital ships, with their load of suffering, come and go. At times the blue of ocean is disturbed by tall, white pillars; these mark the spot where the enemy's shells fall into the sea. Answering gums flare and smoke.

Beyond the sea the land battlearea is strangely fascinating. Tiny clouds, born in a flash of orange light, are sprinkled about in the upper air; from them the deadly shrap-

nel has rained fiercely down. Faint tracks, which are roads, are to be seen, and occasionally a cloud of dust can be observed moving alongone of them. That denotes the flight or the advance of artillery. A battleship notices the movement, and, if the guns belong to> the enemy, it spits death from miles away into that dust-cloud.

Within: a minute of time column after cohimn of whitish smoke, dirtied l with earth, springs round the spot. The battery is broaight to a halt and) its retreat is cut off. For a few minutes the thick smoke-clouds obscure everything; under them a tragedy is quickly played out; one can imagine t/he wreckage and deathhorror lying hiddien there. Then, the smoke clears 1 away. There is no sign of movement ;the enemy has one mobile battery the less , . Yonder 1/ies a thin, scarcely discernible white line; it is where the infantry lies entrenched, battling hard, the assisting shell screaming loudly overhead. The faint rattle of their musketry and their maxim-

guns, is just heard across the waters. Such is the impression: to be obtained from Inubiros heights of the stubborn warfare on the peninsula where the men of four continents are deciding the fate of an empire. Day after day the struggle goes on with varying vigour; the darkness is luridly illuminated! by the searchlights' great white fingers and by the flaming of scores of guns. Sometimes whole valleys become like rivers of fire, so fierce is the land cannonade. The air of the huge night trembles and the very earth at times seem® to shake and reel.

But it is when one directs one's gaze farther south, to the mountainous region lying beyond the entrance to the Dardanelles, that the struggle takes on an added interest and a peculiar fascination. For that part of the great battle-racked region, is perhaps the most interesting classic ground.' in the worldl. It is strange, indeed, to watch what is being done at that particular spot, to look

Out across Tremendous blue towards the very

hill Which once was Troy's

and to think that, where Hector and

Achilles fought, what extraordinarily different warfare is now being waged.

One afternoon, as I watched, looking at the rugged headlands not far from Yeni Sliehir, the Segeum of those diim days of a romantic past, I could see the ground around 1 the spot where tradition has in these, days of such grim reality how believable tradition is!—the dust of Achilles lies toeinig churned up by the guns of a warship bearing the name of that fighter's ally—Agamemnon ! The ship was standing off Erenkeui Bay, hammering away at those very rocks which heard the tumult of the warfare waged by Hector and Achilles, and upon which the ■fair Helen looked dbwn. There, right in front of its -blazing guns and darkened by their smoke, is the low coastline mean- which once in that epic age rode the thousand proud ships of Greece bringing Agamemnon himself. Beyond the Yeni Shehir ridge, where village and tomb have their sites, and withm view of our sailors on their ships, lies the famous Plain

of Troy. Through it flows the Scamander River of old, in present days the Menderes. On the right flows the Simois River, its branches circling lazily ixnind Hissarlick Hill, where stand Troy's ruins, city piled on city. In those classic times the Simois joined its waters with those of the S'camander, but, like the Nile, time has seen it change its channel, and now it rolls separately and slowly into Erenkeui Bay's wide stretch of waters.

Often tfhe Turks race iJheir mobile batteries down the road running by the Menderes River, and, under cover of dark or mist, endeavour to get within range of the ships near the entrance to the straits. But the ships are keen and "many eyed," and soon, Troy's Plain is pillared with shell-bursts, taller and more fantastic forms than ever her bold builders reared or dreamed of. The silence of centuries fallen over that ancient battlefield of the Iliad' is broken, at last, and l broken so strangely and so terribly. Sacred Ilium is searched a,nd scarred with shell and shrapnel, and tlhe thunder of it rolls rumblingly baok to one's ears, echoed from the ruined, crumbling walls of Ilion! The Scsean Gate must tremble with the trembling air, as horses and men and guns are wiped out with the hideous shook of raining shells. I should like to have hiadl my Homer in hand while the ships make history once moire near by Dardanian Troy, to have read the legend of old in full view of the grim reality of to-day. But one thought rises above all others as one watches the glorious ships at work, dimly descries the trenches where hot battle is being bravely waged. It is that out there deeds of heroism are _ every moment being performed l which far outshine those of Trojan and Achaean, and which will make_ one day a more stirring and inspiring epic than the Iliad. There something more than what Hector and Achilles waged wai for is at stake. The freedom for which men have striven all down the ageis is once more the prize we war for in this later day. Behind those lines of war lies a doomed empire which, &ince it reached to the gates of Vienna, has achieved no progress, stood for no liberty, represented: nothing great in art or letters, in government or ideals. Three years ago I heard from within doom threatening at I'le very gates of its capital, threaten and go again. Now it will i !m»;itim ami with certainty close the long, costly and ghastly Bcore. So the struggle goes on, ever bringing the end nearer, hastening the day when it will be said that

"Only lesendl proves* 'Once in the lands of Hellas Turkey was.' "