Paradise Lost: Smyrna 1922 - The Destruction of Islam's City of Tolerance (47 page)

A little later that morning, she was talking to a young Greek girl when a peculiar noise arose from the mass of refugees. ‘There was a strange murmur of many voices rising and falling along the waterfront,’ she wrote. ‘The sound was mournful, like the moaning of the sea, increasing in volume as the darkness deepened. The language was unfamiliar, the tone minor and the effect weird and indescribably uncanny. “What are they doing?” I asked this girl. “Praying” she answered simply. “Praying for ships.”’

Jennings joined them in their prayers that relief would soon be at hand, but the hoped-for vessels never arrived. Whilst the Allied ships already in the harbour took away as many refugees as possible, they never returned for more. George Horton had met the captain of one of these vessels, the
Winona
, in Piraeus and begged him to return to Smyrna. The captain refused. ‘By the time I get there,’ he said, ‘all the thousands standing on the quay will be dead of thirst and hunger.’

On the morning of 20 September, Jennings suddenly awoke to the reality that there would be no more ships. Neither America, nor the other Allied powers, had any intention of lifting a finger to save the masses trapped between the Turks and the sea. If nothing was done – and done soon – they would either die of disease or be deported into the interior of Anatolia, no doubt to an almost-certain death. Jennings later described how he was seized with ‘an uncontrollable urge’ to do something. He had made up his mind to risk his life for those who needed help.

There was still a number of vessels in the bay and Jennings decided to visit each one in turn in order to persuade the captain to take a cargo of refugees to the nearby Greek island of Mytilene. After being granted permission to borrow the
Edsall
’s launch, he rowed across to the French vessel,
Pierre Loti
. But when he asked the captain to take refugees, he was met with a blank refusal. The captain said that he was bound by his government’s neutrality. He would not save the life of a single refugee.

Next, Jennings rowed over to an Italian cargo ship, the
Constantinapoli
, and talked to its captain. He, too, refused to join the relief effort. He said that he was under strict orders not to help those on the quayside.

Jennings challenged the man, asking whether the Italian consul could overrule such an order. The captain admitted that this was indeed the case, at which point Jennings offered the man 6,000 lire if he agreed to take 2,000 refugees to Mytilene. He then returned ashore and confronted the Italian consul, pleading with such conviction that the official was shamed into agreeing. Jennings next approached the Turkish authorities and – after introducing himself as head of the American Relief Operation – told them of what he intended to do. The Turks were disarmed by this strange man, who was tiny of stature yet spoke with such authority. They granted him permission to take away women and children, but said that he was forbidden from embarking men of military age.

The boarding began on the following morning, Thursday, 21 September, and was overseen by Jennings himself. He assembled 2,000 of the refugees in one of his quayside houses and then led them down to the jetty. The whole operation was carried out under the watchful eye of the Turkish military, who were on the lookout for men who had disguised themselves as women in the hope of getting away.

‘It was heart-breaking to see the grief of loved ones when these ruses were discovered and soldiers pulled the men back from the ships,’ wrote Jennings, but he was powerless to intervene. ‘It was either play the game as the Turks said or not play it at all.’

By late afternoon on Thursday, the agreed number of refugees were all aboard the
Constantinapoli
. Jennings joined them, for he intended to accompany the captain to Mytilene in order to ensure that he fulfilled his part of the deal. No sooner had the ship weighed anchor than the refugees, charged with emotion after their long days on the quayside, began crowding around Jennings in order to show their gratitude. ‘They kissed my hands and my clothing and many actually grabbed me and fell at my feet and kissed my shoes. This was too much for me.’ Jennings hid himself in his cabin and did not emerge until the vessel arrived at its destination.

It was dark by the time the
Constantinapoli
entered the harbour, yet the lights of the town revealed the silhouettes of no fewer than twenty-five empty Greek passenger ships – part of the fleet that had been used to evacuate the defeated Greek army from its Asia Minor adventure. Jennings suddenly saw his opportunity: he went ashore and summoned a conference of all the Greek naval commanders, along with the British consul and other prominent citizens. He announced that he wanted permission to use these vessels to evacuate the refugees from Smyrna.

The most senior official in Mytilene was General Frankos, commander of the vanquished Sixth Army, who was effectively in charge of the fleet at anchor in the bay. The general listened to what Jennings had to say and agreed in principle to the loan of six ships, but he wanted a written guarantee to the effect that they would be protected by the American military. He also wanted an assurance that the Turkish authorities would allow the ships to return to Mytilene.

Jennings hurried back to Smyrna and managed to secure a written agreement of sorts from Commander Halsley Powell. The American commander offered to ‘escort the ships in and out of the harbour’, although he stopped short of offering to protect them if they were to come under attack. General Frankos was not reassured by the American offer; he could not afford to take the risk of losing his ships to the Turks.

Jennings, realising that he would get no further with the Greek general, decided to take a different approach, contacting the captain of a Greek ship,
Kilkis
– an old destroyer that had formerly been in the service of the American navy – and pleading for his support. ‘Somehow,’ wrote Jennings, ‘I had the strange confidence that through her I could get help.’

He was right. The captain of the
Kilkis
welcomed Jennings on board and agreed to his suggestion that they send a telegram to the authorities in Athens. ‘In the name of humanity,’ read their message, ‘send twenty ships now idle here to evacuate starving Greek refugees from Smyrna without delay.’ The telegram was signed ‘Asa Jennings, American citizen’.

An answer was received just minutes later. The Athens authorities wanted to know more about Asa Jennings. Who was he? And on whose behalf was he acting?

‘I identified myself as Chairman of the American Relief Committee in Mytilene,’ Jennings later recalled. ‘I didn’t bother to explain that I held the position solely by virtue of the fact that I was the only American there.’

Although he did not know it at the time, Jennings’ telegram had acted as a wake-up call for a Greek government that was caught in complete paralysis in the wake of its army’s defeat in Anatolia. The prime minister called a crisis meeting of his cabinet in order to decide whether or not they should intervene in the humanitarian crisis, even though this carried the risk of renewed fighting with the Turks. Everyone at the meeting agreed to the principle of sending ships, but, like General Frankos, they wanted an American guarantee that the vessels would be protected if the Turks attempted to seize them. This was something that Jennings could not promise. ‘No time to discuss details of exactly how ships will be protected,’ was his response to the ministers. ‘Stated guarantees should be entirely satisfactory.’

These ‘guarantees’ did nothing to reassure the Greek cabinet, who continued to vacillate for much of the day. Ministers feared not merely a renewed confrontation with the Turks; they were also alarmed at the prospect of having to cope with the influx to Greece of half a million refugees. By mid-afternoon on Saturday, Jennings had still received no answer and so he decided to play his final card.

To his astonishment, his bluff worked. Less than two hours later, he received an answer. ‘All ships in the Aegean placed under your command to remove refugees from Smyrna.’ Asa Jennings had been appointed an admiral of the Greek navy.

He could scarcely believe his ears and would later smile at the sheer ludicrousness of the situation. ‘All I knew about ships,’ he said, ‘was to be sick in them.’ But he was brought swiftly back to reality when the captain of the
Kilkis
asked for orders from his new admiral.

Jennings’ appointment was met with rather less enthusiasm by the captains of the other ships in Mytilene harbour. None of them had any desire to sail to Smyrna and one by one they reported that their vessels were not seaworthy. Jennings, refusing to allow a few lily-livered Greek captains to scupper his rescue mission, informed them that he would be sending naval engineers aboard every vessel that reported itself unseaworthy. If this was found not to be the case, there would be a court-martial of the captain that very night, followed by a possible execution in the morning.

Jennings’ bluff once again had the desired effect. By midnight on Saturday, 23 September, all the ships in the bay were reported with steam up and ready to sail. Admiral Jennings took his position on the bridge of the
Propondis
, which he had chosen as his flagship, a decision that had caused the captain much amusement. ‘He was tickled to death to think that his ship had been selected,’ said Jennings. ‘At twelve o’clock I was ready and, ordering the Greek flag run down, an American flag flown in its stead and a signal flag that meant “follow me” run up aft. I mounted the bridge and ordered full steam ahead.’

When the flotilla was met by the USS
Lawrence
, which was on route from Mytilene to Smyrna, the captain of the American vessel wired Jennings to ask whether he would prefer to come aboard the destroyer. Jennings hesitated but felt duty bound to remain on his flagship. ‘[I] saw my nine ships following in good order and, remembering my promise to the Greek cabinet that I would go with the first ship, declined with thanks and remained on the bridge.’

The little convoy pushed on through the night, slowly chugging its way towards Smyrna. It was dawn by the time the
Propondis
slipped into the harbour, followed by the other vessels of Jennings’ fleet.

Jennings had been in the city throughout the crisis and had witnessed terrible scenes of death and destruction, yet the human misery that greeted him on that Sunday morning still shocked him to the core:

While Jennings had been arranging the fleet of rescue ships, Esther Lovejoy had been trying to work out how to get all of the refugees away from Smyrna. The logistics were frightening. More than a third of a million people needed to be evacuated in the space of six days. That meant boarding some 50,000 people each day. Whilst the Turkish authorities had at long last agreed to allow women and children off the quayside – along with men who were not of military age – it quickly became apparent that they intended to put every possible obstruction in the way. Jennings’ ships were allowed to dock only at the end of the railroad pier – a narrow walkway that was not designed to cope with large crowds. The walkway was enclosed by metal fences and divided into three long sections, each of which had its own narrow gate. These gates were guarded by a double line of Turkish soldiers, while at the entrance to the pier there was a large crowd of senior officers.

‘The purpose of these fences was to force the refugees to pass through the narrow gates,’ wrote Lovejoy, ‘where they could be carefully scrutinised and all men who appeared to be of military age detained for “deportation to the interior.”’

The sight of Asa Jennings’ fleet sailing into the harbour triggered a mixture of exhilaration and dread among the refugees. There was elation at the thought that they might finally be rescued but absolute terror that they might be left behind. As soon as the first vessel docked, the crowd struggled to its feet and, in one great wave, pushed forwards towards the walkway. ‘The description of that frantic rush to reach the ships is beyond the possibility of language,’ wrote Lovejoy. ‘Pain, anguish, fear, fright, despair and that dumb endurance beyond despair, cannot be expressed in words.’

When she later came to relive these events – and set them down on paper – she was struck by the dogged determination of the human spirit. It seemed to her extraordinary how men, women and children who had experienced unspeakable atrocities nevertheless clung to life with hope and conviction for the future:

The Turkish military permitted a handful of British and American marines to come ashore in order to help supervise the evacuation, but the sheer numbers of displaced people meant that order and discipline quickly broke down as the crowds surged forwards.